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He walked into the UN headquarters. It was Monday, and the weather was particularly ugly. The fog didn't help with awakening him, but he didn't like how bitter coffee was so he wouldn't go out seeking it. America needed to pound some sort of energy drink. But they usually didn't have them in the office. They said it was "too sugary" and "no way it's good for your heart to drink that much caffeine, America, seriously".
Bunch of pansies.
Ugh, his headache was fucking killing him.
See, there was a bit of a rager the previous day. Yes, on a work night. Celebrating VE day, America believed. Well, he was the one that organized the party, in his own New York house, but it was seriously slipping his mind. There was so much fucking alcohol.
Beating Nazi ass always warranted a party. Even if it was a very European celebration.
But... America may have indulged a little too much in his alcohol consumption. The last thing he remembered was pounding a whole keg of German beer. And this morning, he had awoken next to his pool with no pants on and with vomit around his mouth.
America was pretty sure no one had even tried to get him out of there. That was the thanks he got for arranging such a good time for the lot of them. He would have asked Canada, the only country that had stuck around, but the redhead was firmly passed out on his couch. And the few seconds he seemed to awake, he was speaking in French.
French was never America's strong suit.
Although his head was really clouded, America couldn't help but notice a couple of giggles coming from behind him.
He turned his head and saw that it was West Germany and Italy. They hadn't been allowed in the party, given they were minors, but America wouldn't be surprised if they had slipped in unnoticed. They were always doing stupid shit like that.
America waved to the two boys, but upon noticing that he had noticed them, they scampered off.
Huh.
He wondered what that was about.
That same situation happened a couple of more times.
Brazil and Argentina. Mexico. Greece. Netherlands and Austria.
It started seriously freaking him out. What were they laughing at? At some point, he stopped in a bathroom to check himself in the mirror. But everything was in its proper place. His fly wasn’t even down or anything.
So...
What was wrong?
America stole an empty file from a random table so that he could obscure his face. He didn't know what the fuck was going on, but whatever it was, he didn't wanna see any more countries laughing at him.
It was like he was a kid aaaaaall over again.
He felt a massive amount of relief when he finally reached the UN Security Council meeting room. It was in the deep ass crack of the building. You'd think that for such an important group of countries, there would be a more dignified space.
America swung the door open but stiffened in place when he saw inside. Oh, fucking great. Just what he needed.
The only country there was that fucking commie bastard. Not China, the other communist asshole. Soviet.
Fuck, if America thought things were bad now, then seeing Soviet's face dropped a fucking nuke on his mood.
He closed the door and sat opposite the Eastern European nuisance. Who on his own was... Avoiding eye contact... And stealing furtive glances at him.
What?
Soviet always did that murderous continuous long stare whenever he saw America. But now... It seemed he was bothered by his mere presence. And not in the usual way.
- Hello, Russkie.
And Soviet just… Nodded awkwardly. That was so very unlike him. Whenever America called him that, he always immediately spat “Yankee” back. Or called him a capitalist, imperialist, whateverlist bastard. What the hell! Who shoved a cactus up his ass?
- So… - America crossed his arms. - Where is everyone?
- China is going to run late today. - Soviet said, still not meeting his eye. - I don’t know about the other two. They're your friends.
Hm…
Suspicious.
Very suspicious.
This reeked of a mystery. America liked those.
He leaned forward, putting his crossed arms on the table.
- You seem out of your game. What's up?
- I drank a lot yesterday.
Oh, right. Soviet was there too. He had sort of, kinda helped win the war, after all. Only a little. Everyone knows America was the real differentiator. (Just like WW1, baby). But that still didn't mean much. America knew that even though he was good at it, between the two of them, Soviet could hold a lot of liquor a lot better.
And America hadn't bought that much alcohol to really mess with the Russkie.
No, there was definitely something up.
Soviet, seeing that America shot him a suspicious glance, added.
- I drank more when I went back to the hotel.
- Right.
There was a pause. Almost as if Soviet realized how shit his excuse had been.
He was definitely hiding something.
America supported his head with one hand.
- You drank, even though you’re here with your kids? - He smirked. - That’s oddly irresponsible for a guy like you.
Soviet’s eyebrows furrowed.
Haha, he fucking got him now. The easiest way to appeal to the commie’s emotions was to mention his kids. For such a big guy, he could be very easily manipulated. America couldn’t imagine what the man’s relationship with his government was.
- Russia and Ukraine had their separate room.
- Yeah, but isn’t Byelorussia a boy?
That caused Soviet to move in his chair. Sure, the two girls then reasonably wouldn’t have been there to watch as Soviet presumably indulged in a couple more drinks. But Byelorussia was sure to be staying in the same room as his papa. Soviet wouldn’t stick the kid in a room by himself.
Ohohoh, he had him backed in a corner.
Soviet scratched the back of his head, shoulders tense.
- What is with this impromptu interrogation, America? - He changed the discussion topic. - Isn’t the UN supposed to be for peaceful coexistence? Seems a little out of your jurisdiction.
- No interrogation here, Russkie. - America shrugged. - It’s simply a chat between friends.
- … Friends, huh?
- I’m only worried about your well-being.
Soviet let out a disdainful snort. He seemed to loosen up a little. They were falling back on their little arguing routine. That was something he could work with. The commie crossed his legs, leaning back on his chair.
- Alright then, comrade. - Soviet quirked an eyebrow. - If it’s like that, I simply must ask if you’re alright as well.
- Why would I not be? - America chuckled dryly. Getting called comrade made him grit his teeth.
- Because last I saw you yesterday, you were in your underwear, passed out on your own vomit.
Shit.
- I’m fine, really.
- Are you sure? I had to go and check your pulse. - Soviet had a mocking smile on his face. - Who knows, you might have choked.
Oh, the piece of shit went to check if he was alive, but couldn’t get him out of that compromising position? Like, sure, America was on the heavier side of things, but Soviet wasn’t exactly Miss Skin and Bones himself. He could’ve at the very least tried to wake him up.
- Well, I drank a little more than I should have, I’ll admit it. - America fake smiled. - Apparently just like you.
They were at an impasse.
Soviet stared at him, and he returned the favor.
He was trying to cover for something, and America would get to the bottom of it.
But he had to be subtle. Lest he was too hasty and made Soviet completely shut down on him.
- You noticed the other countries acting odd today, Russkie?
- In what sense, Yankee?
Ah, there he was! Now America smiled for real. He shrugged and did a circular gesture.
- Oh, I don't know. Hm… - He said. - Did you notice them laughing at seemingly nothing?
- They must still be in high spirits after yesterday. You threw one hell of a party.
- Thanks. But I don't believe that’s the case, you see. It seemed to me that they weren’t laughing amongst themselves.
Soviet laughed.
- Aw, poor America. - He intertwined his fingers, faking pity. - I’m sorry that they were cracking up as you walked through.
America balled his fists. Shit, he was also good. Going right for his open wounds. Rub salt and piss on it too, why won’t you!
- Haha, no. No, I’m pretty sure it’s not that.
- Well, you asked for my thoughts.
Hm, that he did.
- And what about me do you think they were giggling about, commie?
Ok, that one was less because of investigative interest. He was just genuinely interested. Maybe he didn't catch something in the mirror.
He noticed that Soviet stiffened. He remained tense for a couple more seconds.
Interesting.
- Because you’re fat. - He stammered.
Unusually low blow for Soviet. He never went for the weight jokes. The commie knew that not only were they trite, but they were also unnecessary. It was more common for him to mock and target more ridicule-worthy parts of his personality. Such as the apparent “endless greed” that came with being a capitalist. Besides, that was one type of insult that America was fully immune against. When you get told the same type of joke over and over again for hundreds of years, they get old.
- Charming. But I’ve been fat for my entire life, I think they're all used to it at this point. - America answered.
Soviet bit his lip and looked away.
It was getting ridiculous.
America decided to lay it down as it was. The other man was taking potshots for a reason, and he was getting a little tired of beating around the bush.
- You don’t make this type of commentary against me, Soviet. You’re more original than that.
Silence from the other.
- What are you hiding?
Soviet grimaced. And... His cheeks went red.
Well…
That was new.
- I would rather not be the one to tell you this, America.
- Tell me what, Soviet? - America scoffed. - Does it have to do with the countries laughing at me? If yes, then I think I deserve a little explanation. Because clearly, I’m the only idiot who isn’t getting it.
- You are an idiot.
He felt offended. But he didn't have time to say anything, as Soviet immediately cut him off. The man still didn’t look at him in the eyes, but he leaned forward in his chair.
- Do you not… Remember last night?
- I do.
He paused.
- Eh… Well, until I drank that entire keg. - America admitted. - Then, it all gets blurry. Why?
Soviet grumbled lightly, looking like he was bracing for impact.
It was making America really unnerved.
- I see. - Soviet clicked his tongue.
He snapped his jaw shut. Fuck, he wanted to tell the man to hurry the fuck up. America was getting little anxiety tingles on his chest, for fucks sake!
- America, after I saw you drinking that entire keg, I'll admit I was pretty impressed.
- Thanks.
Soviet gave him a stare, as if to tell him to shut up. America muttered an apology.
- I was already pretty sloshed, and thought it was a good idea to go talk to you. - He pressed on. - So I did. We started talking. And I think the alcohol made us get along a lot better than when we’re sober. Because… Uhm. Ok… Shit. Look, America…
The man stammered for a little longer. America was really confused as to what the man was even talking about. He… Really didn’t remember that Soviet had been in the party at all, much less that they had a conversation. Them getting along seemed like a really impossible concept for someone who didn’t remember their conversation at all.
America’s hands were getting clammy. Gross.
Soviet drew in a sharp breath.
- We kissed.
…
…
…
- Excuse me, what? I don’t think I caught that.
- We kissed, America.
…
America blinked, in confusion. He shook his head. It was mostly to himself.
Soviet looked like admitting to that physically hurt him.
His mind cleared. One path out of this situation came to his mind.
- Oh, har har, very funny, Soviet. That’s a good one. I didn’t peg you as the type that would make that kind of joke.
…
America was laughing by himself.
A really bad feeling sinked down his stomach.
He didn't have any words for a couple of seconds. Only one question popped up on his head.
- H… How?
Soviet bit his lip, momentarily shutting his eyes tightly.
- Socialist Fraternal Kiss.
America felt the anger rising up on his throat.
He slammed his hands down on the table, getting up.
- YOU KISSED ME FIRST?
Soviet’s entire face went red, and his eyes widened. Oh, so it really was his fault. Soviet’s mouth hung open for some seconds, not being able to form a sentence. But then, he slammed a fist down on the table. It was rather gentle, not intimidating at all.
- I was drunk, America.
- DOES THAT EXCUSE YOU PUTTING YOUR FILTHY COMMUNIST MOUTH ON ME?
Soviet looked around alarmed. He shushed. America knew he was being loud, but he didn’t give a shit. If everyone knew of the kiss anyway, what was the fucking issue? God fucking damnit, he was so angry.
He was trembling, and his face burned up as well.
- DON’T YOU FUCKING SHUSH ME YOU RED ASSHOLE! - America screeched. - WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU!
- Damnit America! - Soviet growled. - I was being fucking friendly!
- BY FRENCHING ME IN FRONT OF A CROWD?
His phrase seemed to trigger the Russkie. Whatever of discretion and shame that Soviet was holding onto melted away, and his face twisted in fury. He shot up, leaning over the table and pointing at America.
- Oh, no, no, no. Don’t you get it fucking twisted you self-fellatioing imperialist! - Soviet said through gritted teeth. - You were the one that shoved your tongue down my throat! Ask anyone!
- I WILL NOT FUCKING DO THAT!
But still, America flinched back. He… Really didn’t remember any of this. He couldn’t prove that Soviet was wrong.
So, he moved on the defensive, lowering his voice.
- What the fuck were you expecting me to do, commie? - He said. - You were the one who kissed me first. What was I supposed to interpret out of that?
- Don’t pretend to be naïve, Yankee! You knew fucking well what a Socialist Fraternal kiss was!
- So just because you like to make out with your friends in public, I was supposed to assume you considered me that? We’re enemies!
- A socialist kiss is close mouthed you dumb fuck! - Soviet spoke, then tilted his head mockingly. - Besides, if you’re so constantly aware of our mutual hatred, why the fuck was your first instinct to start tonguing me?
America stuttered.
Shit, he didn’t have an answer for that.
- I... Uhm... Ah. - America crossed his arms. - I was drunk.
- If it’s not an excuse for me, then it’s not an excuse for you either.
Silence fell on the room.
Soviet sat back down in his chair. He pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand.
America felt like he was cycling through the stages of grief. He fell back on his seat as well, eyes glued to the floor.
Oh, shit.
Right then and there America swore off alcohol. If it was so bad that it would make him think making out with the commie was a good idea… Then he should never, EVER drink again. Fuck, he cursed his drunk self out.
See, the thing was that… Well, it sounded horrible. But the problem wasn’t really with kissing Soviet. Admittedly, America had done far worse things with people he hated before. The real issue was that they did that in full view of other countries. Ones that, even if they wouldn’t laugh at his face about it, wouldn’t really forget what had happened either. It must’ve truly been a sight to behold.
God, he would get made fun of so fucking hard during the next NATO meeting.
But… Eh…
He hated himself for thinking it but…
He supposed that… Soviet wasn’t that unattractive of a guy. America would be able to explain himself, wouldn’t he? They would understand.
… Right?
America shook his head. He needed to clear his mind. It was going to very bad places. He looked ahead to Soviet. Who looked about as ashamed and humiliated as he did.
- Russkie… - He called, his tone really quiet. - It was just one kiss, right? It’s… Not that bad, in the great scheme of things.
Soviet winced, and America started laughing nervously. Great.
- You… Uh… - Soviet cleared his throat. - Got… Uh. Well. Why do you think you had no pants on, America?
- Wuh! I… NO! What! You’re fucking with me!
America was really fucking freaking out now. He hadn’t made a fool of himself while drunk that badly and scandalously since the prohibition era! He didn't even want to remember that, it was so bad.
Oh, God. He got up from his seat and started pacing around.
- I’m really sorry, America.
At the very least the commie sounded sincere.
- Why the fuck did I try taking off my pants?
He had really more asked himself, but Soviet answered.
- You got… Hard. Your drunk brain just made the connection.
- I… WHAT! - America yelled.
- I tried to stop you! - Soviet defended himself. - But you were very adamant!
- You were drunk enough to kiss me but sober enough to try to stop me from flashing my underwear to a crowd of people…
America was laughing.
It wasn’t funny.
- Well… At least I wasn’t the only one… Right?
Soviet’s shoulders tensed.
- I can’t get hard when I drink too much. - He said awkwardly.
Ok, to fucking recap. He got drunk, gave his enemy the old frenchie, was the only one to get excited from it and then tried to take off his own pants. And then, presumably when he got rejected, went off to vomit and passed out. No one fucking helped him. Plus he now had the mental image of Soviet’s dick and it’s drunken effects in his head, a thing that wouldn’t help in any future argument ever.
Amazing.
Fantastic.
Super duper.
America nodded, baffled, and feeling the urge to smash his head against the fucking table. Maybe he’d forget everything he just learned.
But instead, he settled for hiding his face with his hands. His cheeks were burning.
Oh my God he was so fucking embarrassed. America was never leaving this stupid fucking meeting room ever again. How could he? Knowing what other countries were laughing about… And not being able to defend himself. Because about more than half of it was his fault. He wouldn’t be able to face anyone!
Another idea popped in his head.
- Fuck… Soviet, what am I gonna tell my government? No way they haven’t figured out yet.
- At least they already know. You only have to explain yourself. - Soviet sounded bitter. - I’ll have to write all this out on an official report.
America uncovered his face.
- Well… You are pretty fucked in that aspect. - He admitted. - But you get to say you rejected my advances. I have to explain why… I made them…
Soviet looked like he felt bad.
- I was the one that kissed first, you know. - Soviet said. - That’s got to count for something.
- Well, yeah, but I was the one that got all hot and bothered about it.
America crossed his arms once more.
- Eh… Well… Ehm… If it makes you feel better…
Soviet looked embarrassed.
- It really was just the alcohol that made me limp.
It made America laugh.
- Do you usually get hard thinking about me, commie? - He teased.
The Russkie’s face flushed and his eyes widened.
- NO! - He spat. - Damnit, this is why I don’t ever say nice things about you, America!
Although the other got frustrated, America had to say that he did get flattered.
- For what it counts, it did make me feel better.
Soviet settled down, looking away.
Heh.
Dumbass.
He was easy to set off.
America didn’t know where the urge to say the next thing came from.
- You know, you’re not that bad yourself, Soviet. - He noted.
Maybe he was still woozy from the night before.
His headache had dissipated, and he was actually feeling better, his freak out over.
But yeah, really. He hadn’t made out with the commie for nothing. Although America was still pretty pissed at himself, he had to admit… Drunk America hadn’t really been that wrong.
- I… Uh… T… Thank you. - Soviet stammered.
- You’re welcome.
They both went silent.
…
His mind was conjuring up a not so great idea.
He looked at Soviet.
Well, would he risk saying it?
As he said, Soviet was easy to set off.
And for the man that he was, he was actually pretty skittish.
Hm.
Well, why the hell not?
After everything he learned about himself, it was not like America had any more shame.
If he failed, he’d pass it off for a joke.
Soviet might not have been the type to joke around like that, but he was, so it wouldn’t be too weird.
…
- You know, since you’re already going to be in hot waters with your government anyway, why not do something for them to be actually angry about?
Soviet was surprised at the implication of that suggestion. He opened his mouth and closed it again for a couple of times. America thought it was really funny. The Russkie seemed to take a couple more moments of consideration.
But then, to his surprise, Soviet nodded.
- Great. You already know where my house is.