Work Text:
Morning came to him in a sleepy haze. He treasured it, the rare moments where he could sink into that warm haze of sleep; could lean into the feeling of true, fulfilling rest in a time of constant wariness, bordering paranoia. The state of the world was so exhausting, that in this state, he could almost ignore it. Ignore the world as he lay in bed, soaking in the last vestiges of a restful night’s sleep.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t ignore the shiver that danced through him as the wind blew into the house from the window he’d accidentally left open when he’d crashed last night. His oversized t-shirt and boxers, as comfy pajamas as they might’ve been down at his warm DC townhome, were not nearly warm enough in the chill of his backwoodsy country estate. So, with great consternation, he pulled himself out of his great nest of blankets and pushed aside the pillows he’d been cuddling in order to force himself out of bed.
Admittedly, the cold slap that hit his skin the moment the blankets came free had quite the opposite effect, but he forced himself to ignore it. He’d light the fireplace downstairs once he’d eaten breakfast, and soak in that liquid warmth for a few hours later on, but for now, he just grabbed the sweatshirt that was hanging on the bedpost and made his way down the stairs to start on breakfast.
The sizzling of bacon and the soft hiss of butter melting in the pan where the eggs would go filled the kitchen with sound. The soft whistle of the wind and rustling of the forebodingly overcast clouds in the near distance echoed gently, and Alfred hummed idly as he went through the motions of fixing his breakfast. The smell of coffee abruptly joined in as the first drips of coffee appeared.
It was only once he’d gotten breakfast to the table, that he noticed what he’d left abandoned there the night before. What was, in fact, the reason for his spontaneous relocation to the middle-of-nowhere estate his government didn’t quite know about.
The Letter.
Ivan’s letter.
He stared at the catalyst for looming chaos in the near future and pointedly set his plate down on the other side of the counter.
He took his time - for once - in eating breakfast. He methodically chewed his eggs, savoured his bacon, and evenly buttered his toast. He sipped on hot coffee and just soaked in the peaceful atmosphere his upstate country estate was immersed in. He tried to ignore the pointed reminder sitting across the counter from him.
Not that it worked.
The letter’s pointed presence seeped into him like an undercurrent of electricity thrumming just out of range, but still very noticeable.
When the coffee ran out, and his hands twitched as his nerves ratched up another knot of tension, he sighed. And set the dishes to the side, to snatch the piece of paper that lay resting atop the untouched letter.
The note sat crumpled up, folded and smoothed out over and over again, to give Alfred’s hands something to do while he contemplated a decision that shouldn’t be this hard.
“I wish to discuss with you a matter that pertains to our truest selves,” the note had read, “Read as Alfred, not as the United States, and the meaning will become clear to you. Or, if you choose not to read it, we will resume our polite civility, and I will never make mention to you of the letter, nor its contents.”
It was a simple enough note, obvious, at least, to the two of them. The letter, whatever may be written inside of it, had answers.
What if you love me, too?
Whether he wanted those answers or not, was a much harder question to answer.
He picked up the letter, fingers brushing against the thick, heavy envelope, with the familiar seal. The elegant curl of his name written in a familiar handwriting sat crisply, a stark blue against the pale cream backing. Alfred. Not America.
It was so familiar that it had his heart in his throat.
Then the indecision dropped it straight into his stomach.
Finally fed up with his own spiralling thought process, he dropped the letter down on the counter and stormed off. He stomped into his boots, and stormed off, through the patio and out into the fields and forests at the back of his property. He stalked through the tall grasses, weaving through the trees, heedless of how the sky rumbled ominously above him, an overcast darkness deepening as his emotions roared in contrary symphony within him.
It was only when he’d reached the clearing nearby - when, in better times and weather, he would nap for hours, only to wake with half the forest’s residents camped out around him - that he let himself think. That he let himself hold still, under the rumbling sky and ominous gleams of brightness flashing nearby, and consider…
What if you love me, too?
What had happened?
He missed the man who’d stood guard as his people ripped him in two. He missed how they’d lingered together at European balls and galas, fending off the sharks that circled them. He missed his friend, who loved science and space and spoke of childhood memories watching the stars so far away, centuries before he’d been born. He’d missed the nation who’d looked at him, at his beginning, and seen that spark of potential the way no one else had. Who’d seen opportunity and friendship in that first meeting, in the halls of the Winter Palace, before he’d been anything more than a rebellious colony in the eyes of the world. He missed the man he’d grown to know, the one whom he’d bonded with so easily. The one who’d become his friend, and who’d slowly grown to become more….
So much more.
He missed the way they’d climb to the top of their Alaska cabin. He missed the way Ivan would wrap him in his jacket and hug him tightly when he’d shiver in the too-chill wind the other man knew all too well. He missed the way they would count the stars in the endless sky above them, fingers tangling together seamlessly. He missed watching Ivan’s face light up under the brilliance of the aurora that danced around them, even though it was something the man had seen for centuries. He just - he just -
His face crumpled. God, he missed that man. He missed him so much.
God, how could he do this? Why did life have to do this to him? Why must he be pulled in two different directions - his heart and his people, warring against each other. His love for Ivan, and his people’s distrust, their paranoia sinking deep into his psyche, their fear and terror rooted in everything that Ivan represented. A choice he had to make: what was more important to him? Alfred’s heart or America’s purpose. How could he even think of choosing?
“You can be both, you know,” a warm voice said, oddly gentle, shaking Alfred out of his musings. He looked over to Gilbert, as he leaned against the doorway, watching him.
“What do you mean?” he asked, curious, despite the headache that was already brewing at just the thought of his current dilemma.
“You can have emotions and opinions that differ from what people would expect of you,” he clarified, startling Alfred, “We are nations, yes. But we are human, too.”
Alfred eyed him consideringly, “You don’t even know what I’m thinking about.”
Gilbert smirked, leaning back as Alfred straightened, “You’re wondering if it’s alright to be upset that you won. Because of what it means for you , personally, not just your people.”
Alfred stared at him, wide eyed, “I’m not upset,” he denied, heart racing. How could he even say such a thing? He’d fought for years to see this fight - this fight that the rest of the world had laughed about, had made jokes about, had taken so lightly - won, and now, it had finally happened. And…
His mind went back to his father, on his knees in the grass, rain pouring down to disguise the tears he’d shed as he cried. Rain that disguised the tears in Alfred’s eyes as he turned away….
“I’m not upset,” he said, insistent.
But he was. And Gil, it seemed, knew.
Gilbert’s face softened at the almost stricken look Alfred somehow knew was on his face, and came to sit next to him, his expression almost unbearably gentle from the normally disciplined general, and rowdy man. “It’s okay if you are, you know?” he said, “Ye Olde Black Sheep is your dad. It’s okay to miss him. It’s okay to want to reconcile.”
“Gil, I -,” he choked. The words didn’t come.
“Hey, it’s okay,” Gil ruffled his hair, like the older brother he sometimes acted as, “You’re a nation, and you’re human. Having divergent opinions is normal, Al.”
“I am happy, Gil,” he finally managed to say. And Gilbert nodded.
“For your people,” the elder nation nodded, “of course you are. For yourself, too, because you’ve done what you told us you would, and you proved the rest of the world wrong.” There was a pause. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t be upset.”
“They’re celebrating in the streets,” Alfred said, and they should be, really. They all deserved it, after the last few years. But…, “It’s wrong , they’re all so happy - how can I be upset in the face of all of that?” In the face of everything they’d sacrificed to give him this - to give him his freedom .
God, why did he want to cry, just thinking about it? He’d fought for this!
“Because you’re losing something, too,” Gil said, quietly. “And it’s normal to be upset about that. No matter what your people think.”
“But -,”
“No,” Gil cut him off. “The government will do whatever it will. The people will lean you one way and then another. Don’t ever let them tell you how to feel, Al,” he warned, “because that is all up to you. Always.”
Something wet and cold hit his face and he jerked, blinking out of his thoughts, and tipped his head back to look up.
Just as a curtain of rain dropped on top of him.
He gasped at the sudden smack of rain, nearly stumbling with the force of the rain’s fury. The wind pushed at him, the rain soaked him, and he coughed to try and rid himself of the water that he’d swallowed.
And then, he heard laughter.
His head jerked around, and he stared. It was like looking through a window, decades gone.
“No, don’t!” he laughed, darting away from Ivan’s grab, yelping as he skidded when his foot hit a newly forming mud puddle in the grass. Ivan snatched at him, using the moment’s vulnerability to grab him around his waist and hoist him into the air with a bark of laughter, “We’re going to get soaked!”
“You mean you’re going to get soaked,” Ivan said, amusement thick in his voice, “since I am still wet from that prank you pulled at the meeting.”
“You weren’t supposed to get caught in it,” he insisted, “it was for the old man, honestly!” Arthur deserved a bit of payback from those snide comments he’d been sending his way all week. Getting Ivan and half of Europe with the same trick had been icing on top of the sweet, sweet cake, especially when most of the American continent began snickering along with him. Seeing their former colonizers sliding across the floor as they tried to stand up, composure gone, and shouting at each other? Hilarious.
He groaned when he could feel the spring rain soaking his shirt; could feel the way his jacket abruptly felt heavier as it was exposed to the forceful downpour. His boss was going to give him a look when he got back tonight.
“Put me doooown,” he whined, not expecting Ivan to actually shift his stance and set him down. He stared at the Russian nation suspiciously, before turning to storm off and try and make it back to the Embassy before his boss. Maybe he’d be able to change -
Arms grabbed him from behind and hoisted him back into the air, almost like a shield, and spluttering only got himself a mouthful of rainwater.
Alfred shrieked.
“Ivan!”
Lightning crashed.
Alfred blinked back into awareness staring at a curtain of rain, as it besieged him. Thunder roared in his ears as his eyes slid closed and he tipped his head back to let the water cascade down his body.
And he just felt all that tension, all that indecision, just drain away.
Ultimately, it didn’t matter what thoughts plagued him, or where duty lay. He just… he had to know…
What if you love me, too?
Thunder thrummed across the sky, another loud warning call humming in his veins, and he smiled against the deluge, and started making his way back.
After picking his way through rain soaked grounds, he stared in mild dismay at his patio doors, which he’d flung open carelessly and left that way, forgetting to shut them entirely in the towering temper he’d found himself in. He stepped inside wide-open patio doors, still sopping wet, and shut them hastily, eyeing the partially flooded entryway with no small degree of exasperation. He’d have to remember to get some towels and the fan from the guest room to dry out the flooring. But right now… he had something else he needed to do.
Kicking off his boots and waterlogged socks, ditching them, along with the soaked sweatshirt, he exchanged his dripping pajamas for a pair of fresh, warm ones and a towel from the laundry room. And then, when he made sure he was sufficiently dry, he made his way into the kitchen, where a certain unopened letter was still waiting for him.
His hands shook slightly when he picked up the crisp stationary, breaking the seal with ease and unfolding it. He swallowed down his anxiety, staring down at painfully familiar cyrilic cursive, as he perched on the barstool, and began to read.
He had to know...
.
My Darling , it started.
I love you , it said.
Stay with me? It asked.
.
I love you. What if you love me, too?
I do.