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Yalta Conference, 1945
The year was 1945. The U.S’s heavy boots and spurs clashed against the porcelain floors as he entered the Livida palace. Today was meant to be the last day of the Yalta Conference and was just meant as a formality really. As far as America knew they would just be going over the timeline of the Soviet Union's plan to attack Japan and making sure they were ready and equipped with all the necessary materials. Even though America was glad that this long agreement was finally over with and that he could get back to aiding other countries, he was a bit sad to be leaving such a beautiful palace and even more so a certain someone.
America roamed the halls of the palace, even though he’d been here many times before he still got a little lost when it came to finding the conference room that the countries were supposed to meet in. After all, they all looked so similar. After roaming for some time he turned a corner and thought he saw a familiar face. How could he not recognize him? The Soviet Union was standing a decent distance away from him.. He wore a long black coat which in any other setting would have made him blend in with the crowd but since in here it was customary to take your coats off it made him stick out like a sore thumb. He had his back to America and from what America could see he looked like he was on the phone. America didn’t want to disturb him so he just peaked at him from around the corner.
“I just don’t know what to do.” America over heard. “Yes, I know it is very risky considering our ulterior motives.”
He paused to let the person on the other end of the phone talk. “No, of course I haven’t told them.” What on earth was he talking about? America thought. Was the Soviet Union planning something behind his back? His thoughts paused as the Soviet Union spoke.
“I’ll just have to figure it out on my own I suppose . . . Alright.” He hung up the phone, then swiftly turned around to see America cramping their head from around the wall.
“He- Hello?” he said unsurely.
America quickly stood up so that he could see him in full view. “Hey,” he said, trying to sound cheerful. An awkward moment of silence followed.
“So”, America started. “Are you ready to close out the deal?” It took a moment before the Soviet Union could respond.
“Yes, Germany should be taken care of in no time. Especially with Soviet resources.”
“Well if you ever need any help the U.S is glad to lend a helping hand.”
“I appreciate the offer but I’m sure we’ll be just fine. Now that we have some influence communism shall spread in no time.”
“Hmm”, America pondered.
“Excuse me”, the Soviet Union inquired.
“I just don’t know if communism will appeal to the public.”
“Oh please, after Adolf the people will gravitate toward anything just to feel sure of themselves again.”
“What do you mean? I mean, will people really feel safe working where every job is owned by the same person and everyone makes the same income? Isn’t that just designed to get people upset?”
The Soviet Union's tall figure nearly towered over America as he got closer to him. Walking in long strides until he was directly looking down at him.
“I don’t mean to be rude, America, but you have something that I like to call a “small town charm.” People feel comfortable with you because you identify with them; it even says so on your constitution. “We the people,” – you see, your image depends on you not being above or below the people, as far as they're concerned, you're the same.”
He looked America directly in the eyes. “Now, what happens when your government has to get involved? Suddenly the people realize who is really controlling them and that is where your system falters. With Communism at least people know what they're getting into. They might make the same income or work for the same company, but at least they will know that. Remember the Depression? At least my people will have steady jobs.”
America stumbled, the heel of his boot slipped against the wall. He hadn’t realized that he had been slowly backing up as the Soviet Union walked forward. Now America was backed up against the hall, nearly slipping before restabilizing himself. The Soviet Union looked into America's eyes, America saw the Soviet Union's light gray eyes that seemed like such a contrast to his menacing energy. America could feel his face turning red.
“I see you’ve done your research.” America said slowly.
The Soviet Union took a step back, and America could breathe again.
“As any country should do. As any country would do, knowing you.” The Soviet Union took a deep breath. “Now, I believe we have a conference to get to.”
The Soviet Union reached out and gripped America’s tie. “Keep an eye out in the future, America. I believe we will be seeing each other very soon.”
With a breath, the USSR dropped the tie, and turned on his heel. America pulled off the wall, and watched the other leave.
——
White House, 1950
The U.S. flopped into his chair, leaning back he laid his boots on the pristine desk. Crossing his legs, the country stared disinterestedly at his endless pile of letters. It had been a long, headache-inducing day, and America did not have the energy or care to look at (let alone respond to) the numerous requests, reports and complaints that filled his office. He was about to take a much needed nap when a letter near the top of the pile caught his eye. It wasn’t fancy paper with expensive lining like all the other letters, but looked… cheap, and a little crumpled. The country sighed, what has that idiot done now? Snatching the paper up he noticed it wasn’t even stamped closed. Rolling his eyes he took out the coarse paper which read:
“To the United States,
As of now, our Moscow Conference 1945 agreement is terminated.
Soviet Union”
…
that bitch.
The U.S. toppled his mountain of papers and grabbed every report he could find on Korea. In a flash America was crashing out the door, only bothering to grab his sunglasses before getting on a flight to the UN conference room.
——
UN Conference Room, 1950
“That bastard can’t get away with this! We had a deal! He broke it. It’s darn obvious that the USSR is behind this whole attack, and he needs to be punished for it!”
“America, we all agree that North Korea’s invasion of its counterpart is a threat we need to take seriously – but attacking the Soviet Union directly? That’s taking it too far! We don’t even know how involved he is in this ordeal.” Britain says, stirring honey into his tea.
Sounds of agreement echo throughout the conference room, yet China looks conflicted.
“Hon hon, I agree! Although, America, I do understand your passion. I know the language of love, and your desperation to face your enemy is blinding you.”
America gives France a pointed look.
“God almighty, FINE. Since y’all don’t know him like I do, I’ll let it slide for now. But don’t come crying to me when the USSR comes knocking on your door.” The U.S. huffs.
“Alright alright you don’t have to have a tantrum. We do need to stop North Korea, so I, Great Britain, propose we declare that the North Korean forces must return to their homeland.”
The U.S. grins. “And I second that proposition wholeheartedly.”
A vote is taken, and with the Soviet Union’s absence, the proposition passes.
——
Pusan Peninsula, 1951
Waiting for North Korea and the Soviet Union to make their move after the declaration was agonizing. The U.S. was eager to show the communist countries that he wouldn’t take their BS without a fight. But the problem was, they simply hadn’t taken notice. North Korea kept attacking and worst of all, the Soviet Union was ignoring him! He hadn’t gotten a single letter from the country since the termination! After an eternity (two days) of waiting, the U.S. decided enough was enough. If the USSR wasn’t going to talk to him he would just have to force him to. He was on his way to South Korea.
Although the U.S. was one of the most powerful countries in the world, it was still very scary to be back on the battlefield. In World War 2 he’d at least been fighting near the end of the war when the opposing forces had been worn down. Here the enemy was only getting started. The guns boomed from outside the base, taking down his people left and right. He adjusted his sunglasses and peered outside, holding his rifle steadily. Preparing to take a shot he paused.
That tank looked familiar.
A T-34-85, one of the world’s most powerful. He knew almost everything about them, having studied them during…World War 2…You’ve got to be kidding me. He knew it! He knew the Soviet Union was behind all this! Red filled his vision. Those other countries didn’t understand, they never understood. The USSR was a goddamn force to be reckoned with and all those stuck-ups couldn’t look past their noses to see it! But if that’s how it would be then fine. He would defeat the communist country himself, and he would enjoy it. He could imagine that cold glare melting away into something desperate. The prideful bastard finally giving in, begging for the U.S. to stop an advance. The USSR, admitting defeat, confessing, “Oh America! You’re the better country! You’re so cool and handsome!” And- right. He's on a battlefield.
—–
The Space Race, 1955
America was giddy, he had been for quite sometime now. He found himself daydreaming while sitting at his desk in the presidential office. Suddenly he was interrupted when someone came bursting through the door.
“America!” they yelled.
“Britain?” America sprung up, scrambling around his desk trying to seem like he was doing something important. “What are you doing here?”
“Nevermind that, turn on the news.” He said rapidly.
“But-”
“Turn on the News!” Britain yelled.
“Okay, okay.”
America quickly turned the dial on the television and quickly flipped to the international news channel as soon as the tv turned on. The Soviet Union stood on a podium in front of all their citizens and supporters.
“Hello fellow comrades, we gather you all here today to announce to you the Soviet Union's victory in being the first nation to send a satellite into space. As of now Sputnik is making its way around earth's orbit.”
The new station cuts to footage of Sputnik's launch that apparently occurred earlier that day.
“How did we not know about this?” America demanded.
“They must have been planning this in secret.” Britain said. “It has to have taken them at least 4 - 5 years of planning.”
America's mind flashed back to that fateful day in 1951. As the realization that this was planned from that day. America was fuming but he wasn’t sure if it was because he was upset or from the fact that he liked it that the Soviet Union was finally giving him some sort of response. America’s eyes laid focused on the screen. At that moment he swore that the Soviet Union's eyes stared directly into his own through the screen. As if he knew that America was watching him, clinging on to his every word. Those gray eyes returned just the same as they were before, on the inside he knew they were soft but right now they looked out for blood.
“We are all very proud of our advancement in the science industry. We are aware that this victory for us might be a loss for others. However if anyone dares to try to take our spot at number one, trust me when I say . . . we’ll be waiting.”
America looked the Soviet Union dead in the eyes, even though they were miles apart the Soviet Union still felt so close and the threat so personal. He traced the Soviet Union's face on the screen of the small pixelated television with the tip of his index finger. America whispered to himself “Oh, it’s on.”
——
Roscosmos, Russia, 1958
The Soviet Union stood in front of the consoles at Roscosmos. He quietly looked over all his men at work, trying to find answers to space’s greatest wonders. However he was soon taken out of his gaze when he was called over by an associate from a nearby desk. He treaded lightly over towards him, he didn’t respond but the man took this as a sign to just go over his message.
“Sir, we’ve just received word that America intends to launch their first Satellite into space tomorrow.”
The Soviet Union flinched as soon as he heard America’s name but still kept his composure. He pondered before responding. “What did they name it?”
The man looked puzzled by the unexpected question, he stuttered. “Ex- Explorer 1”.
How American, the Soviet Union thought. America always had such optimistic ideals. He chuckled to himself. “May I send a message to the United States?”
“Yes Sir, what do you wish to send?”
“Tell them it took them long enough.”
——
Roscosmos, Russia, 1961
The Soviet Union put his hands on the desk in front of him and gripped the edge with the tip of his finger nails. He was stressed to say the least, he hadn’t expected the arms race to have gone on for this long. The Union was stable in terms of its economic state however the Soviet Union knew it would be surprising if the funds last them another few years. Not to mention the fact that they were still getting complaints about that damn dog they had sent into space in 57’. However this stress was soon interrupted.
“Sir, America is on the phone, they have requested to speak with you.”
The Soviet Union wiped the sweat off his forehead that he was only now aware of before turning around, his coat flickered behind him. Without saying a word he started to walk to the phone on the wall that was kept for easy access.
“Sir”, the man interrupted. The Soviet Union turned to face him. “America has requested you speak privately.”
The Soviet Union gave him a puzzled look. “What line?”
“Line 2.”
He closed the door to his designated office. The Soviet Union sat in the brown leather chair which he hardly ever used with his legs crossed. He took a deep breath before hitting the line 2 button and picking up the phone.“Hello.”
“Hello, USSR.” The Soviet Union almost cringed as he didn’t like it when people referred to him as his short name, but it didn’t feel so bad when it came from America’s westernized voice.
“How are you?” America said.
“E-Excuse me?” the Soviet Union stuttered, he was surprised at how casual America was being.
“Well, I hope you're doing lovely. I just called to let you know that we plan to launch our own living organism into space tomorrow. You should tune in, it'll be all over the news.”
“What are you launching? An eagle? To replenish your American pride?” He mocked.
“Nope! We’re sending an ape.”
“An ape?” The USSR laughed. “Oh America, you just made my day.”
“You're not exactly in a position to mock, USSR when we are right on your tail.”
“I can’t tell if you’re dense or just that ignorant. Look around America, we are still here and we have no intention of being eradicated by a country who sends pre-historic versions of humans to space.”
“Oh and you're so much better by sending dogs into the stratosphere. Jesus, you probably killed them.”
“Laika is fine!” The Soviet Union yelled before running his fingers through his hair. He could hear the U.S laughing on the other side of the line. The Soviet Union's face flushed lightly with embarrassment even though no one else was in the room.
“Sorry, it's just funny to hear you all worked up, oh what I wouldn’t do to see your face.”The Soviet Union didn’t know how to respond.
“Well I’m sad to say it but I must be going now. Take care of yourself . . . and the dog.” America hung up the phone.
As soon as the USSR heard the mind-numbing dial tone of the phone he tossed the phone onto the desk and leaned back frustrated in his chair, he thought of America. The way they talked, the way they were so silly and ignorant but so cunning and witty when they wanted to be. The Soviet Union put his hands in his hair, gripping it tightly. Without thinking he screamed, “That damn patriot!”
——
Houston, Texas, 1975
Houston. Houston, by god, what a success. Seeing him up there, with that flag, with that all-American pride, was wonderful. They’d done it. After years and years – decades even – they’d done it! America’d reached the moon. The world was in his hand, all the best scientists, the best engineers and the best specimens, in his hand. Right in his hand, rolling in his palm, and best of all? The USSR couldn’t do anything about it.
“I think…” America hopped down the stairs of the control room, “I need a beer.” There were rooms lining the hallways, filled with festivity and commotion. From one, cheers of “we did it!” and from another, chants of “we beat those Russians!” By the lord’s name, America loved his people. There was a break room further down the hall, which – if America was correct – would have a full keg.
……
America had been right! A full, untapped keg was waiting within the room. And, now, America had a good idea of a final hurrah. A beautiful, pretty idea that’d put a cherry on top of the sundae.
I am going to go and remind the USSR of his failure.
A sinful smile warmed America’s cheeks, and off he went.
——
Ministry General Machines Building, Moscow, 1975
The road to Russia wasn’t a long one, really. You’d think it was, and from Houston, definitely – but considering Antarctica, the two were closer than you’d think. An hour of travel, maybe, and America was standing before the Ministry General Machines Building hq, and contemplating.
What to say. Vile, cruel words? Words that match the vitriol of the USSR some thirty years ago at the Yalta conference? Or, sweet, mocking ones? Make the USSR unable to fire back with hate, because your pity is so so sweet.
Hm.
America pushed the doors open. To hell with planning, he figured. It’s gloating – I’m an expert at that.
The halls of the Ministry General Machines Building matched those of Houston, which really shouldn’t have been a surprise. Spacecraft required space, and tech, and wide walkways to shuttle things through. America was impressed, to be honest. The USSR always seemed to struggle with… well, things like walls, and housing, and living conditions…
America shook his head. The point of gloating was not to wave genuine shortcomings over the USSR’s head. The point was to make the USSR realize that they were the inferior nation, petty and silly and unworthy. But not too directly. If America started an all-out war, Britain would have his ass. And maybe France would, too. That would be less than ideal. So… the strategy. Be obnoxious, right? A little crude. Yeah, that’s good.
America found a set of doors, a little more ornate than the others, and pushed through them. In front of him, there was a large screen. Unpowered. The room was set up like a lecture hall, with pencil holders embedded into tables and chairs lined up row after row. This must’ve been their launch room – not as nice as Houston.
“Not as nice as Houston, USSR.” America swung his head to the side, glancing at the USSR in the corner.
“USA.” A far gruffer, colder voice called. “How nice of you to come. Here to gloat the victory?”
“Hmm.” A Cheshire smile growing on his face. “Maybe. Maybe I just wanted to pity you.” America began to pace down the row the Soviet Union was sitting down.
“Pity?” The USSR stood, glaring at the other from the end of the row.
“Yeah. Pity. Y’know, it’s pretty embarrassing.” America giggled to himself, putting a pitying hand on the USSR’s shoulder, “You sent how many dogs up’ta space? How many of ‘em died?”
The USSR huffed. Turning to face the screen, batting’s America’s hand back. “The dogs were a necessity. Just like chimp.”
“Chimp? You mean Enos? It’s poor manners to insult me, you know. Makes you look like a poor loser.” America’s grinned stayed, “Poor, poor USSR! A little loser! So much gloating, and pride, and oooh, watch out USA! We will get you. Maybe some Gorillas in space? Make me laugh. We have men, in space. They have orbited. Look at me baby! I made it!” America laughed, gesturing to himself. “I effin’ did it! And I did it with no goddamn sweat! Look at me, Mary!”
“You-” The USSR turned, a scowl darker than night. There was that murderous look in his eyes– the “blood does not look so different from borscht,” look. He grabbed America’s tie, pulling it tight enough to choke. “America, you come to brag and call me the sore loser?! How! I am… mourning! Mourning this victory!”
“Mourning your victory? USSR, be real with me! You were never going to win! You might’ve had Gagarin up before us, but our schools have always been better! All we needed were some of our top students and we beat. You. Out!”
“Mourning my victory! Yes! This victory was… it was my perfect symphony! I, the conductor, my people, the musicians! This win was mine! The score all written- all ready to be played– if you hadn’t ripped the sheet music from my hands!” the USSR growled, standing taller, wrapping his hand in the U.S.’ lapel, pulling him close.
America smiled, “Oh? This was your perfect symphony? If that’s the case… perhaps, you should’ve left composing to Tahcikovsky?” He pressed himself against the USSR, smiling teeth mere inches away from the snarling ones in the other’s mouth.
“Hey, USSR. Tell me… How does losing taste?”
The USSR growled, lurching forward and…
Oh?
The USSR’s entire demeanor was… cruel. He wore the Ushanka to protect from the cold, that large coat to combat harsh freezes – he was draped in dark, heavy, fur. Always growling, always animalistic… he was best described as vile, and from a sympathetic view, perhaps in over his head. But… wow. The only thing that combated that image… that cruel, stark, harrowing image… was his soft, slightly chapped, lips. They pressed into America’s, the corners caressing the patriot’s mouth.
The USSR pulled away, panting, and wiped his mouth. “We… are far from equals, America.” He stepped around the other, reaching the door, and turning. “One day you will see the superior country. And when that day comes? It will be most triumphant.”
America stared, watching as the other left. “до свидания, America.”
America raised a hand to his lips, wiping away blood from his bitten lip, and closed his eyes. Goodbye’s… definitely right.
——
Kremlin, Moscow, 1981
The USSR had been waiting. Waiting for anything, really. Since 1975 there hadn’t been much action from America, the other just… moving on. Doing his elections, his press… the economy — working on culture, the USSR supposed. After ‘75, there was an expectation of something. He’d gone and kissed the man, for christ's sake. He’d made the biggest, most foolish move of his entire life, and there was nothing but radio static in return? It didn’t make sense.
Not to say that the kiss was done for provocation. Never to say that.
It's embarrassing. If any of the tsars from the past could see him now, they’d laugh. Pity, pity the USSR — a fool whose heart always fell for the enemy. Last time, he hadn’t even thought of them as an enemy. Not until they stormed his woods, guns in hand. Thinking of the war was still rough.
That’s the past, the USSR turned his chair to the window behind him. There was no use dwelling on impertinent information. But what else was there to do? Feeding his people never was a priority, and housing could wait — there was so little… passion. Not like before, not like back in the old days, when there might’ve… been too much, actually. Shaking hands, shouting voices, a button spelling doom beneath his hand…
“I’ll fucking do it, USSR! I’ll fucking do it!” America’s screech echoed through the room from the small receiver. “Don’t test me!”
USSR’s hand twitched over the glass case surrounding the button. One press— one miniscule, tiny movement and… boom.
“America. America, you’re not the only one who’ll go down. Think about this.” The button glowed red.
“I know, damned Soviet! The problem is that you’re not!” America shouted into his end, “You think I want to lose everyone? You’re the only person I’d do this for USSR. You’re enough of a… a monster I’d kill everything just to get to you.”
The USSR growled, cramping his hand on the glass case, “If I’m a monster, then the hell are you?”
America gulped. “We need to- talk. About this. Think of everything you’d lose. Are you willing to die at my hand? Do you really want that?”
The USSR lifted, very slowly, the glass case. It clinked. “And you’d die to me. America, what’s this war for if not total destruction? I have nothing to lose.”
America's breath stopped short, “Put that GODDAMN case down. You don’t- what about your territories? This- you’re a power hungry psycho! You’d lose it all for me? I never pegged you for a fool!”
The Soviet Union’s hand trembled above the button, acutely aware that he could end it all with the slightest movement of his hand. His eyes were locked onto the glowing red, mesmerized by it in horror. One press – that’s all it’d take.
“USSR! Are you- listen to me! We need to-”
Another, smaller comm buzzed, announcing, “Abort launch, abort launch. Enemy ships are not attacking. Deactivating missiles.” And with that, the once burning red button rendered to a dull garnet.
It was over. The button was off.
The Soviet Union slammed his fist into the control board. His vision went static to the world, all his adrenaline leaving his body. “You were really going to do it weren’t you?” America said shakily. “Fucking psycho.”
The USSR sighed. Too much passion. Far too much. The tundras of his territory would freeze him over, wouldn’t they? Make him realize that that kiss was worth nothing. Maybe their entire relationship was… meant to be like this. Meaningless passion and heartache, for the sake of communism. Or, in America’s case, for the sake of capitalism.
The USSR stood, grabbing the side of the table to push himself up. America didn’t need to take up headspace anymore. The USSR would only reach out if America did. See how little he cares?
——
Kuntsevo Dacha, Moscow, 1991
The door into Kuntsevo Dacha whined as America pushed it open. The building was old; it’d been out of use for decades. The only reason America was even here was because it was his last bet. The Kremlin had been void of the USSR, filled with a very angry Poland looking for a fight. America, for some reason, had directed Poland to Siberia. The USSR would never go out to Siberia, obviously – so why send Poland out there? Their people were anti-communist, for all America could tell – but, he supposes, he wanted to speak to the USSR first. What had Britain meant, “The USSR has been pulling back,” what did that even mean?
The USSR always fights, America reasoned, walking through the halls of the Dacha. This place used to be special, and remains mostly off-limits, and walking through it felt wrong. He remembers the layout from what Britain had told him, and if he knew the USSR well enough, he’d be in his old office. America’s boots clicked across the tile of the cloakroom, going to the door on the left. This door, too, creaked as America slipped through.
The large, curtained windows let in filtered moonlight. There was a grand desk in the middle, a solid wall behind the chair, with a dark patch of wood. The portrait had been taken down. In the chair, the USSR sat. That chair was a commander’s chair; tall, large, grand – a statement of power. Back in the war, Britain mentioned how it felt like a promise. A chair, so large and shocking and tall, had domination written on it. The small, almost frail figure sitting in it felt wrong.
“USSR! Howdy.” America walked to the table, standing above the man in the chair. “It’s been a minute, eh? Surprised you’re here…” He trailed off, reaching out to touch the few bobbles on the desk.
“Why wouldn’t I be here?” The USSR asked. “This is my home, no? The real question is why you are here. Shouldn’t you be fighting in Kuwait? Israel… Iraq… the Persian gulf. Isn’t that what you’ve been doing?”
“Ah, USSR, I have time for other things. Besides… that ended months ago. You… knew that, right?” America stuffed his hands in his pockets. The moonlight, only broken up by the trees outside, was lighting the USSR from behind. Only the edges of his Ushanaka could be seen, the fur casting a crinkly shadow on the desk.
The USSR continued to stare at the desk. “Of course I didn’t. Why would I keep up with your capitalist policies? With your life? What would the point of it be?” The USSR pressed his hands against the table, pushing himself up, before – nothing. A sigh. “America. What is your purpose here?”
America’s brows fell into a scowl. “USSR, what’re you on about? Jesus an’ Mary, can I not check up on my pal?”
The USSR clenched his hands. “America, do not gloat at me. You know what is going on – I heard from Poland that you are helping them! You saw them at the Kremlin today, did you not?”
“Fuck if I did! I didn’t… the only place I’ve been helping is Germany! You know that, man! This… I mean, this ‘ole war, it’s…” America stepped forward to the table.
“Ugly, ugly words! This war is what, United?” Finally, the USSR threw himself up. His leg banged against the table, sending it forward. The screech of the legs on the floor sent America stumbling back, avoiding the tabletop that was aimed for his thighs. The USSR stumbled forward, clutching the wall. “Tell me!”
“I- USSR, calm it! This war is- Nothin’ much is all! We’re”, he sighed “I mean, we’re not doing anything, really! Since the Berlin wall fell, an’ I was hardly even there, you’ve been doing squat! The last thing I did for this was… when everything fell apart. Y’know the whole,” America waved his hand, “able archer, thing! I-I wanted to see if you. I…” America stepped against the door, mind flying back to 75. “I wanted to talk to you.”
“About? Spit it out, da? I do not have the time.” The USSR navigated around the table, stumbling to the far right wall. “If you are here to make amends, go to the Kremlin. Russia will be there within the year.”
“Russia? USSR, I’m not here for Russia. I’m here for you… the… I’m here to talk to the Union, to the Soviet I know you are. I’ve been thinking about ‘75. I want to work it out.” America walked over to the USSR, reaching out a hand to rest on his shoulder.
USSR sighed. He bit his tongue, and stood. “What about the Soviet Union do you want to talk about? What could you possibly have to say to me?” He took a shaking step forward, grabbing America’s frozen hand and puz. shing it down. “This war is over. Can’t you see it? You… you bastard. You wanted to watch me die, didn’t you?”
…what? America froze in place. This war had lasted longer than any he’d been in before, he’d done so much for it. He’d changed his pledge, put up more flags, made new bills. This… obsession. It’d been what America was focused on for decades and…. It had taken over more than just his mind. The reason America came down here, to Kuntsevo Dacha, was for one reason. To confess. To finally let the USSR know that ‘75 wasn’t a dream, or a one-off, or anything of the sort. It was… passion, a buildup, an obsession. Something deep within America needed the USSR with him, needed a red to his blue, needed a communist state to his capitalism. The USSR was linked to America, and… he was…
“You’re dying?” America’s voice was void.
The USSR looked up, and for the first time, America saw him. Really saw him. His eye was sunken and his cheeks thin, sallow skin clung to bones and there was a slight tremble up his entire body. That eye, that eye he had seen 46 years ago at the Yalta conference, was so hollow. The fiery anger that the USSR always carried was gone. And soon, so would the USSR.
“What did you expect, America?” The USSR sighed. “Tell me, really, why you came. I have nothing for you here. You won.”
“USSR… wait- you can’t be serious.” America gripped the other’s shoulders, “You’re going to be alright. You got past Germany, you’ve- you’ve gotten away from hundreds, thousands, millions of casualties, you can’t be…”
“America, look at me. Do you see a man long for life?”
“USSR. I… I need you.” America pulled the man to look at him.
“...if that’s the truth, know that I’ve been waiting.” America’s tear-filled eyes glanced into the USSR’s. “And know that you’re far, far too late.”
The USSR collapsed, falling into America’s arms. Like a marionette without strings, he laid helpless. America noticed it, then – there was a bloody pool on the floor. Seeping from the USSR's stomach. America lifted his shirt, revealing a long, deep, infected wound. White puss with red blood and blue, blue veins were a twisting sight he’d never forget. Not the colors he so proudly wore – not like this.
“You intrigued me from the start, America.” A wet, scornful chuckle. “The wound was there, always… If you would have bothered, you would have seen it. So caught up in your paranoid capitalist ways. Never- never in a world, would there have been a chance for us, I think.”
America shook his head, feeling a tremble in his arms. Soft, desperate “no’s” fell from his mouth.
“Go back to Britain. Go back to… playing silly games with countries below you… this war ends here. America, I hope you know, I would have enjoyed loving you.”
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Somewhere, back in Moscow, a pair of shiny, new, polished loafers walked onto the floors of the Presidential Executive Office.