Work Text:
Anyways, when I posted this on tumblr, I DIDN'T REALIZE IT DIDN'T HAVE A TITLE? Anyway, the working title of this fic is "RUSSIA CARES IN HIS OWN CREEPY WAY" and I know the current title is pretty bad but please bear with me. There was a phase wherein I use the lyrics of Regina Spektor's songs in my stories and I'm still not out of that phase. Speaking of which, go check her out! Her songs are so amazingly emotional and I totally feel her. My favorites are Genius Next Door and Oedipus.
ANYWAYS THIS FANFIC WAS A GIFT FOR a senpai writer rexlover180. For the rusamess15 yay! Anyways, go check this person out they run a multifandom blog but mostly Hetalia yay! And if they are the same person who uses the same penname in Fanfiction, they write a lot of good stories so check them out too! Yep, yep check them out. Honest.
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What a fucking mess.
Everything is a fucking mess. His bed is unmade for weeks already, the clothes were haphazardly thrown inside of his closet, and all of his paper works are sprawled all over the bed, floor and the desk. Joining the floor are either scraps from takeaway and clothes that smelled so badly.
Holy shit, he hasn’t done laundry in weeks.
If his brother or even Arthur would see him right now, they wouldn’t be proud. But what can he do?
“My life is a fucking mess,” he mutters darkly. He wants to clean this place up, but he doesn’t have the time to. But God knows this place needs to be cleaned up and aired out. It reeks of booze and coffee, the booze he drinks when he’s fucking stressed and the coffee he drinks when he pulls all-nighters for paper works due tomorrow.
He needs to clean soon. Really soon.
But first, he needs to drag his ass to the shower and take a bath. And maybe find some presentable clothes and edible food in his fridge.
Crap, he can’t remember the last time he ordered a delivery. Last Tuesday, he ordered a pizza. Maybe he still had frozen pizza from the fridge. That will suffice as breakfast. He can’t afford to be picky now, he should have gotten something better but he just didn’t have the time to.
He always had no time for anything.
Shit the water was cold, should have had the heater repaired. Why is it even cold?
RING! RING! RING!
America ignores this as he continues to shower, having no intention to get up and answer the phone. He already knows who is on the other side; it’s his former brother, England who is probably asking for paper works so early in the morning.
Arrogant bastard.
RING! RING! RING!
The incessant ringing won’t stop and he grows irritated at this. Won’t Iggy just leave a message already? It’s too fucking early to deal with his scolding and other shit. His head is aching, and his body is still screaming for the bed.
He finally relaxes when the ringing stops, but no message is heard, which is weird because England never passes up the chance to berate him, shout at him over the receiver. But Alfred is not complaining, he can finally continue to shower in peace.
A few minutes later, he emerges out of his room looking like an average adult with wrinkled clothes. This doesn’t concern him though; he doesn’t plan to go out unless it’s to buy food from the closest fast food chain from his apartment. Last time he did that it was last week; he went grocery shopping and picked up a few takeaways. He accidentally bought the wrong flavour of Cheetos because he was sending emails to his boss the whole time. (His boss wanted to get everything done before this week ends, is he going on a vacation?)
He has all the paper works under his arm; all collected from his mess he calls his room. He’s ready to work on the paper works before England can call again and scold him.
And Alfred promptly notices the man sitting on his couch near his work desk. Who wouldn’t notice the huge frame? The man’s pale blond hair is sparkling from the sunlight spilling from his window, eyes gleaming as he observes everything around him, including America himself. The scarf is slightly damp, and his coat is discarded at hanger somewhere. The lips are curled into a small yet intimidating smile, which moves a bit to greet him.
“Privyet, Amerika. It is nice to see you today.”
Russia.
America frowns a bit, “What are ya doing here, commie bastard? Have you forgotten that we hate each other and I can kill you right now?” he snarls sharply. Who does the bastard thinks he is? Barging into his apartment with a smile, did he think he can do whatever he wants?
America is not acting like himself today; maybe it’s all the stress catching up to him. Yeah. Usually, he’s all about neglecting work and playing videogames with Kiku and going on drunken escapades, but he’s never seen anyone outside work in a while.
Russia’s smile widens, “You are the one who hates me, Amerika. We are enemies, da, but I do not hate you. The truth is, I want you to be my friend and become one with me. And you cannot kill me, Fredka. You may be a superpower, but you are forgetting that I am a superpower too.”
Alfred rolls his eyes, of course Russia is right, he had no match against him. Russia is bigger country, after all. Smug asshole. But Alfred could probably take him on if he wanted. He is still the only one who could stand against this smiling giant.
“What do you want?” he asks, snide in his voice just because he doesn’t need to be polite with this bastard.
Russia gives him a nod, “I just wanted to see how you are doing, Amerika. Your place is… very nice.”
Alfred snorts, he can’t help it. “Bullshit.”
Russia stands, looking around. America is suddenly reminded that the man is towering over him. The man takes a couple of steps around the living room, noting the surroundings.
“Indeed… I find your place very repulsive. It stinks of booze and filthy fast food. Very fitting… for a capitalist pig.”
America grits his teeth, but he keeps his composure.
“I have work to do, Braginski. I would appreciate it if you take your leave, NOW.” He tells him, raising his armful of paperwork and gesturing towards the door. Russia smiles, emanating creepy aura before replying with his childish voice of his, “Nyet, Fredka. My business in this place is not done yet. Da?”
America notes that making the commie bastard leave his apartment will be harder than he earlier expected.
So he proceeds to sit at his desk and starts to work through the documents. He half-ignores the Russian going around his apartment and half-keeps an eye on him so that he’ll catch him if he tries to do anything suspicious.
So far, the man has cleaned up his bedroom and made his bed, and Alfred tries not to show that he is somewhat grateful for the Russian. What is he up to?
As of now, the man is folding all the clothes in his closet after putting all the dirty clothes –even the ones sprawled all over his floor –in the laundry. The man is humming a song, which oddly sounds like carols for Christmas.
Of course, it’s almost Christmas.
He tries to turn is focus back to the documents, which are half-way done, by the way. He keeps on working for a while, until he heard Ivan speak from fridge. Since when did the man get to his fridge?
“Fredka. You are calling this unhealthy garbage a proper meal? I cannot imagine how you are so healthy when all you eat are fast food, like this slice of pizza. The monstrosity you call fast food is not recommendable for daily diet.”
America gives him a weak glare and a finger, “Stop insulting my food, commie. Fast food is better than your food.”
Ivan raises an eyebrow at the remark. His eyes glint with something Alfred cannot name, and the man smiles before he could comment on it.
“We will see, Fredka.”
The man swiftly leaves the apartment, and Alfred is thankful that he didn’t have to deal with the man anymore. Curious thoughts about the man’s actions linger in his head as he finishes up the documents, before sending them all to Ludwig. Germany thanks him for his hardwork, and does not show his surprise that America submitted the documents on time –earlier, even. Well, the guy seemed to be on a hurry.
With his documents for the world meeting done and submitted, he thinks if he should start raving on the documents for the UN, and later decides against it to go out and buy something for lunch.
Shit. He has forgotten to eat breakfast. Oh well. Maybe he just has to eat more for lunch to make up for the meal he had lost. It is lunchtime already, no more taking back what he had already lost.
The door suddenly opens and for a quick moment, Russia is inside his apartment once more. He is carrying two grocery bags, with ingredients for food inside.
Ah. So this is what the bastard is planning.
“Homemade meal, huh?” he comments, nodding at the grocery bag. Russia gives him a smile, “You are correct, Amerika. I will show you homemade food from Russia. May I use your kitchen?”
Aren’t they enemies?
“Go ahead.”
They make small talk as Russia work in the kitchen. He is chopping eggs and cucumbers on the counter, moving with small effort as he chopped the ingredients with ease.
“You have never tasted homemade food before? Is your stomach filled with nothing but fast food?” the Russian inquires, the tone of his voice is curious and child-like. He picks up a piece of egg from the chopping board with his gloved hand and puts it in his mouth. America is watching, mesmerized.
“My states used bring me homemade meals, but we’re all too busy these years and they serve fine meals at the world meetings.” He replies, eyes darting away from the Russian to the document on his desk.
“That is very unfortunate. Have you tasted Russian cuisine before? It is very fulfilling.” Ivan replies, showing him the red beets from the grocery bag. America makes a face, “Disgusting.” He comments.
“You will like it, I am assuring you.” The Russian swears, giggling.
Alfred snorts, “I don’t particularly eat commie food.” Although the sentence is an insult, he doesn’t make it sound like one. He’s eaten Russian food several times before, and it didn’t taste that bad.
Since when did he insult him playfully?
Ivan smiles. “You are so prejudiced, Fredka. Will you not give it a try? I assure you, it is really good. And they are healthy for you, compared to that fast food garbage.” He crinkles his nose as his says this, as if disgusted. He is stirring something, but Alfred could not see from his large, bulky frame.
“Just make sure it’s not poisoned, bastard.” He replies, looking away. Why did he even agree to this? But he can’t shake the feeling of relief that he’s going to be able to eat decent food in ages.
Russia gives him a heart-warming smile.
“You will not be disappointed, Fredka.”
Later, the Russian places a bowl of soup on his table. He takes a seat next to him, placing a bowl of soup of his own. America stares at the soup in half-horror and half-disgust.
“This looks suspicious, dude.” He stares at the appalling color of the soup before promptly pushing it away.
“It is not poison, Fredka. It is Holodnik, a cold soup. The reason why that is with a weird color is because of the beets. I’m sure you will change your mind after you taste it, da?” Ivan’s smile is growing scarier with each passing second as he pushes the bowl back to Alfred.
Alfred gulps. “H-heroes… can handle this!” he immediately takes a spoonful and swallows it. He experiments the taste of it on his mouth, before settling into a comfortable posture.
“This is actually kinda good. I didn’t know you could cook, Russia.” He tells the other man, who is still looking at him with a creepy smile.
“That one is kind of easy to make. Next time, I will cook meat for you.” The Russian replies, starting to eat the soup as well with a small hint of glee on his face.
America chokes on his water, almost slamming it on the table. “N-next time?!”
“Da, did America not hear me? Next time.”
He sputters, standing up and crossing his arms, “What could you possibly gain from this? Why are you doing this?”
Russia looks up at him, smiling. “It may have slipped your mind, Fredka.” He pauses, but Alfred could see that he wanted to say something more and he would, if it weren’t for the phone ringing again.
RING! RING! RING!
They stare at each other for a short while, and America quickly escapes the conversation by going over the phone and answering it. “Hello?” he asks, wondering who it is. He’s pretty sure he’s done most of his job, so he shouldn’t be hearing any complaints.
The person on the other side coughs, and from the sound of it, Alfred guesses it’s England. He braces himself for the shout that will come after. At the corner of his eye, he notices Russia standing up and gathering the used plates. He silently places them on the sink and after that, his vision falls back on him.
“Alfred! You idiot, why did you drop the call earlier?” the man shouts, and Alfred doesn’t even bother holding the phone away from him,
Alfred doesn’t remember dropping the call.
“Anyways, don’t think about this too hard, but it’s almost, later. You realize? Ahem. Happy Christmas, Alfred. Enjoy your day.” The Briton says and suddenly puts the receiver down, ending the call. Alfred stares at the phone, flabbergasted.
“Has it not really crossed your mind, Amerika?” Russia asks from the sink, calm. And it hits him, oh. He’s known all along.
He looks at Russia, a thousand realizations going over in his head. “You fucking asshole! You dropped the call from England!” he shouts, pointing a finger at him. He kinda feels a little bit stupid that out of all the things he realized today, that’s what he’s concerned with? Stupid.
“Da, I did. I thought he was going to disturb you with work on a Christmas eve –“ Russia says, explaining himself, but Alfred cuts him off, “YOU DON’T EVEN CELEBRATE CHRISTMAS!” he accuses, and the other man blinks at him. It’s true, they don’t celebrate Christmas. They celebrate something about a creepy weirdo who can make dolls come to life. It’s like a Halloween version of Christmas.
“I am not a fool, da? I wanted to celebrate Christmas with you. I didn’t realize that you don’t know that today is a holiday. You don’t have to work today, Fredka. I thought you just didn’t want to spend time with me.” Russia admits, playing with his scarf.
Alfred is silent. Russia looks at him with worry, at loss because the American didn’t react.
“Alfred?” he asks warily.
Then America bursts into laughter, like loud laughing fits, there were tears on his eyes and he wouldn’t stop laughing and he’s bending over, falling on the floor. It’s like a dam that has been opened.
He raises a hand to wipe the tears and to cover his mouth.
“You little piece of, hahaha, shit! Hahahaha. I could kiss you, but, ahah, you’re still a, ahaha. Bastard!” he says through his laughter, tears falling from his cheeks.
His laughter slowly dies down, but he lets his arm rest over his eyes.
Russia hums above him, the same Christmas carol that he’s been humming the whole morning.
Deck the halls with boughs of holly, Fa la la la la la la la!
'Tis the season to be jolly, Fa la la la la la la la!
Don we now our gay apparel, Fa la la la la la la la!
Troll the ancient Yuletide carol, Fa la la la la la la la!
Alfred grins at him ruefully, standing up. “Well, if it’s a holiday, I’ll go to sleep now, because I can. Fuck Christmas, we can celebrate later.” He says, shrugging and heading to his room. Russia follows behind him, nodding his head. “Da, sounds good. I hoped you liked my Christmas present, Fredka.”
“Hm? What’s your Christmas present?” he asks absent-mindedly, dropping himself on the bed.
Russia smirks at him, “Must I do everything? The Christmas present is pulling you out of your foolish routine.”
Later that evening, the states surprise him by banging on his door and ringing his doorbell. They stumble in, with packs of homemade meals in their wake. He could smell the food wafting through the keyhole, so he let them in. He eagerly takes one and feasts on it, while Ivan took to entertaining a bunch of hyperactive and eccentric children.
They brought presents, but were surprised (annoyed, angry, suspicious) that Ivan was there. They apologized for not getting him a gift, and promptly proceeded to trash his apartment with booze and food and confetti.
Amidst the chaos, Matthew and Japan arrive, joining the celebration. There were enough leftover meals that could probably last him a month or so. It depends on the taller man’s appetite, to be honest.
The next day, packages and presents from the other nations arrive in his mail. He sorts through them, feeling a little bit more like himself with each present. He is thankful that they even managed to surprise him, or remember to send packages. He’s pretty sure that Matthew used to work harder than he does but people seem to forget him not just in Christmas.
Speaking of gifts, he hasn’t bought a single gift for any nation or friends he has. Better do some shopping after the commotion dies down, which is of course, after Christmas day.
All in all, it was a good Christmas, albeit not being a great one.
He greatly looks forward to Russia cooking for him. The taller nation pokes him with a spatula as if reading his mind, and says, “Fredka should learn to cook his own food, lazy capitalist pig.”
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