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December 28th, 1922; Thursday, 11:23pm.
Gay panic.
Or rather, bi panic. But this is a gay situation, isn’t it? America barely hears the rest of the words that Russia is saying… or that Alfred hears Ivan say. They’re at a Christmas party for nations who celebrate it, but it’s in a semi-public area, so they have to refer to each other by their human personas.
The beginning of the party was fine. White tie party, lots of wine that Alfred couldn’t drink (at least without sneaking some), and a good amount of food. He could see that Ivan was there, but really, he didn’t pay much mind to him other than complimenting the other nation on his nice suit. Ivan had the gall to blush and stutter back a ‘you too’ but Alfred didn’t think much of it.
But now, of course, as he relay the events in his head, he should have seen this coming. Ivan was acting strange all night. The compliments, the stares, everything. Alfred never thought about what Ivan was going to say when the Russian man lead him out into the garden, into the snow, which didn’t seem to bother him like it bothered Alfred. The cold air puffing out of their mouths as Ivan grabbed Alfred’s hands and looked into his eyes. In that moment, Alfred knew that it wasn’t national matters that brought them both out here.
“Alfred, I regret to inform you that… uh… I may have. Developed…” A deep breath, then a brief moment where Ivan’s gaze went up to the cold stars, then back to Alfred. “I may have developed a slight ‘crush’ on you… possibly.” He keeps talking but Alfred can’t hear him.
Cue the gay panic now.
Of course, it didn’t particularly bother Alfred that it was another man saying this. He was partial to both men and women. But rather, it was who said it that bothered the American. The thing was, Alfred had a crush on Ivan too. Barely a crush, but a crush nonetheless. After all the guy was huge. Seven feet tall and buff (or a bit chubby, one couldn’t really tell), that was Alfred’s type of guy. So he found himself naturally drawn to the other man.
He never expected to get anything out of it. And really he didn’t know if he knew what to do now, as he stared up at Ivan with wide eyes. The bigger man was clearly nervous, face looking a bit pink in the evening air. Whether it was because of the cold or not, it was hard to tell. But the long silence was making Ivan anxious, so he has to cough something up, doesn’t he?
“Okay.”
Okay? Okay is the only thing that Alfred can come up with?! His face starts to heat up, and he pushes past Ivan to get back inside. He needs to breathe, but he’s already outside, so he goes back inside instead, leaving the other man in the garden.
He feels guilty for doing that. After all, how would he like it if someone walked– well, ran– away from him after he confessed? But he can’t think straight. Everything is too hot despite the blanket of snow outside. Colour is creeping up his neck and once he reaches another, empty room, he pulls off his pale green bowtie. His breathing is fast and he tries to calm it, heart racing.
Brushing his hands through his hair, he tries to think what he should say about everything. Of course he likes Ivan back. But… like… he was so unprepared for this? What is he supposed to do about it? He realizes with a jolt that he probably sounded like he rejected the other man. And that’s not what he wants. A sharp tug on his heartstrings forces him to think. He wants a relationship with Ivan. He didn’t notice it before. But there’s a yearning in his heart that wants to be loved by the Russian man.
It’s all too confusing, too fast for the young nation to think about. His thoughts are all scattered and unorderly, like the remaining dead leaves of Autumn past. He didn’t even notice he was running back out in the gardens again, looking around for Ivan, who doesn’t even seem to be at the party anymore.
It seems like Alfred is going to have to leave the party, too, because all the other nations seem to be finishing up their dancing and such and heading home. England– Arthur, rather– is bidding others goodbye. Alfred wonders if Ivan is gone. But he’s shaken out of his thoughts by a large hand on his shoulder. “Alfred?”
He turns around to Ivan, who looks a bit red in the eyes and the cheeks. Did he really hurt him that much?
“I accept your feelings,” Alfred says quickly, without much thought. But it’s true. “I return them. I’m sorry for running.”
Ivan looks a bit startled himself. “Y-you do?”
Alfred nods quickly. He barely notices that his hand is on Ivan’s, which is still on his shoulder. He also can’t tell what Ivan’s expression is. It looks relieved, but also scared, but also mad… and a whole ton of other emotions. He really doesn’t know what’s going on inside the bigger man’s brain, until he’s pulled into a hug.
“Woah there, big guy!” Alfred laughs, unexpectedly enjoying the hug. It’s the size difference that throws him off a bit, but he doesn’t mind it. It’s sort of nice to be lifted up for once, instead of getting lifted all the time.
His face heats up when he feels a very light kiss on his forehead. It’s barely brushing him, but it’s still something. He doesn’t think he would be able to handle a full on kiss, really. It’s just enough there.
After a while, they really do have to go separate ways. It’s the holidays and they each have their own things to do. England, Arthur, rushes them out a bit. At least, on the thirtieth, there’s a world meeting; they can see each other then. Ivan smiles broadly, the biggest smile Alfred has seen on the man, and waves before being carted off back to his own country. Alfred can’t wait to see him again. Maybe, when they do see each other again, they can figure out how to uphold their relationship and actually… date a bit.
But that’s the last time Alfred sees Ivan. The real Ivan. Because when they see each other two days later, it’s different. He’s different. Ivan is no longer the smiley, cheerful man. He’s dark, brooding, and there are fresh scars on his face. His eyes are tired, smudged with purple. He no longer the Russian Empire. He calls himself the Soviet Union. USSR. It’s not Ivan, either. Sure, they look similar, but this… thing doesn’t sound like him. Or act like them. His movements are almost mechanical; his voice is unsettling, robotic, and he never stutters. Almost as if he’s being controlled, or programmed, or something. Alfred can’t place it and it stings, because Ivan doesn’t seem to remember him.
There’s something, a longing, a feeling that Alfred can’t place. He wants to kiss and hug Ivan and have the old Ivan back again. But there was never really that sort of thing between them, there was simply the idea. He was just imagining it. But that doesn’t change anything, he still feels that way, even after reasoning with himself. It doesn’t just sting.
It hurts.