Work Text:
1921.
America was sitting on a dark wooden bench, cold winter air meeting his face, biting into every bit of exposed skin. It sent a wave of shivers down his spine, although not the pleasant kind. His eyes glanced at the open window next to him, where the freezing breeze was coming from, while he curled and uncurled his fingers to make sure they were still fully functioning. Much to his surprise, they were.
After making sure they were really OK, he shoved them back inside the pockets of his coat. If left out in that cold for any longer, they most likely would’ve turned into a bunch of popsicles.
Sighing softly, his mind started to wander.
He thought about Soviet, who was making tea in the meantime, who didn’t seem to be bothered by the cold— probably because he had dressed more appropriately, or due to the fact he was more used to harsh winters than he was.
It wasn’t even February yet, but the weather was already becoming unbearable.
The American really wanted to ask Soviet to close the window; however, he was afraid he’d start a rant about how crucial it was to keep it open in order to let the fresh air in and blah blah…
‘I’m shivering, I don’t give a fuck! Close the goddamn window, or else I’ll let your kids starve to fucking death.’ He silently glared at the wall, as Soviet was still in the kitchen.
The USSR came back not too long after and sat down in front of him. He poured himself some warm tea and offered the other some, who politely declined, not being too fond of ‘pissy water’, as he liked to call it. Instead, he pulled out his flask and took a sip from it, savoring the far superior taste of Whiskey.
Soviet, seemingly confused, raised an eyebrow.
“What? You think I can't handle my liquor?” The American smirked and drank some more.
Being a lightweight, it didn’t take him long to get drunk, so he had to be careful… But a bit of whisky never hurt anyone. At least, that’s what he used to tell himself in order to justify his alcohol overconsumption.
It’s not like he was an alchie; that was for losers. He was simply a country of good taste. Who didn’t enjoy a good ol’ glass of Bourbon from time to time?
He downed the rest of the contents of his flask and put it away. Cold air still managed to get through the gaps between his jacket and shirt. However, it was slowly, but surely becoming more tolerable.
“That’s not what I was thinking. I meant to say that alcohol only gives you the illusion of warmth. When, in reality, it lowers your body temperature. I wouldn’t want my guest dying of hypothermia now, will I?” The USSR replied calmly, sipping from his comically small teacup.
America shrugged nonchalantly and looked outside the window again.
Soviet sighed and leaned his back against the wall. He crossed his arms across his chest and let out a loud huff.
“Why are you here anyway?”
“I wanted to talk to you. I noticed what’s going on.”
In response, he gave the capitalist a look which made him shudder.
“What do you know?”
America stayed quiet, letting him figure it out for himself. Of course he knew about the terrible situation; almost everybody did by then. The problem had already begun long ago, and slowly escalated until then.
Soviet was silent for a few seconds, contemplating, not sure where the capitalist was getting at. Hell, you could almost hear the rusty wheels in his head finally starting to spin after so many years of being still.
Then, with a huff, he gently set his cup on the table.
“So you must be here to mock me.” He lowered his gaze, avoiding the American’s.
The United States internally sighed in relief. So that was it? He wasn’t angry at him— no, he was ashamed, fearful, even.
“That’s not the reason why.”
“Then why? I don’t need your pity.”
“I want to offer you my help.”
The USSR looked incredibly confused.
America could only wonder whether the communist was either a lot dumber than he’d assumed, or if he just thought really poorly of him.
“I’ll send you supplies. I’ll give you everything you need. Food, money, you name it.”
He raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “And what makes you think I'm going to accept your help?” Skeptical, the union didn’t trust a word coming out of his mouth. How could he know what his true intentions were?
“So you’re saying you’d rather let your beloved children starve to death than accept a hand from me?”
He was right. It was either taking in the offer, or letting the famine plague RSFSR, wiping out most of the population.
“That is not what I meant, and you know that.”
“—The Republic could finally recover. I’m not asking for anything back, I swear. I may not be the most honest country out here, but you have to believe me when I tell you that I don’t have any bad intentions.”
“I…” Soviet looked defeated. “…okay.”
Of course, he was never the type of person to thank someone; he rarely ever did so. But that was fine with the capitalist, because he knew that, deep down, the other was very grateful for this. Even if it probably damaged his fragile ego a bit.
“Good!” States stood up, clasping his hands together with a loud clap. “Deal’s settled. You’ll receive the supplies soon.”
Then, he fixed the sunglasses on his nose, as they’d fallen down a bit with his sudden movement. “You won’t regret this, Soviet.” A smirk replaced his previously serious expression.
“I sure hope I won’t…”