Chapter Text
Moscow, 1987
In the grand scheme of their ideological conflict, the small line that America’s president had uttered during a speech shouldn’t have concerned Russia as much as it had. It hadn’t gotten much media attention, and, more than its irrelevancy, it had been far from the worst that one of their leaders had said during their war. More than that, the man who delivered it, previous to ascending to the presidency, had been an actor. Similar to his country, what came out of Ronald Reagan’s mouth could not be trusted. In fact, most everything that pair said should be discarded.
But then America had taken his president’s words and, at the end of a tense meeting, muttered, “You can’t do anything, can you? Can’t take a meeting seriously, can’t tear down a wall.”
Airheaded America and his airheaded actor-president. America hadn’t gotten the reactions he’d wanted from Russia, so he resorted to juvenile quips to make a point. Russia knew how America operated and wouldn’t play into his expectations, especially because America couldn’t have been that upset that Russia was distracted. America didn’t pay attention during most events, so if he cared that Russia’s attention had wandered a few times, then he was a hypocrite. Which wouldn’t be an issue if America ever bothered to address his contradictions, but that wouldn’t happen. Even at his best, America had always been adverse to self-reflection. This was not America at his best.
In fact, this was not even America’s best attempt at instigating. America had offered him better insults before, and Russia wouldn’t reward such lackluster effort. He shouldn’t.
But America’s face contorted into an expression that looked too much like disdain, and Russia could not stand to look at it any longer. So he kicked the table over. America backed away before it could hit him, and his disdain contorted into anger, and Russia liked that. Preferred it, even, so much so that ending their fight with a few cuts and bruises didn’t seem like much of a hardship.
America left in a flurry of rage, slamming the door behind him. Russia watched him go. He righted his chair, which had fallen during the fight, and slumped onto it, sipping from the flask he always kept in the pocket of his coat. Russia had seen America leave so many times that Russia had memorized the angles and lines of his back. Russia knew by heart how different styles of clothes draped on him, had seen him in everything from a soldier’s uniform to a pressed suit to the soldier’s uniform again. He didn’t know why he thought about that now, nor did he care to find out. Russia didn’t want to see America again, and he didn’t want to see his government. He didn’t want to see anyone. He was tired.
Russia drank.
It didn’t help much. In fact, it made Russia remember more; he couldn’t stop thinking about his sister screaming at him, the burns from Chernobyl still tender and fresh, and he couldn’t help but recall how so many of his friends kept staring at the door to his home, drifting closer to it until their fingers brushed the knob. They wanted to leave, and Russia didn’t have the heart to make them stay. He could, but he wouldn’t. For perestroika.
With Gorbachev’s new policies, there had been a thaw in some of his foreign relations. China let him establish a consulate in Shanghai, and he had let the PRC establish one in Leningrad. Together, in their last, brief meeting, they had reminisced about the past, recalling one of the stretches of time when they could have been considered friends. The war had strained things, of course; war tended to do that. But maybe … Russia inhaled the scent of vodka, then drank the rest. Maybe they could share meals like before. He didn’t have many people who he could share meals with.
Then there was America. Gorbachev wanted improved an improved relationship with the West, so here Russia was, trying to improve relations with the nation he had almost destroyed the world with. Russia did not know what to do with America when America wasn’t angry and threatening nuclear warfare. Russia didn’t think America knew what to do, either. They couldn’t go back to before, and they had no choice but to go forward, so they attended awkward meetings that neither nation seemed to be invested in. At least, they were meetings that neither nation knew how to approach.
Knowing that did not make Russia feel any better when he sat in a destroyed meeting room alone.
Russia tucked the empty flask into his coat and stood. Not even vodka could make him feel much anymore; all drinking did was kill time. And he had so much time.
Russia lumbered out of the meeting room. By now, America was probably hurrying home. America had never dealt well with the cold, so Russia could almost imagine him taking hurried steps, pulling his coat around him. Over the years, America’s small habits never seemed to change; Russia could not say the same for his sisters, who, over the years, became more and more unfamiliar to him. At times, he felt unfamiliar to himself.
Russia exit the building and started the lonely trek home. He had requested a meeting on the outskirts of Moscow, so it would be a short walk to his home—not that America knew that, America didn’t know where he lived anymore, and he hadn’t had that priviledge since prior to the Great War.
Russia started walking, then stopped and stared at the sheet of snow covering the ground. In the snow, Russia saw America’s footprints leaving from the entrance toward the road, but another smaller set of footprints trailed behind before the smaller footprints veered off from America’s path, ending up by the bushes. They were not the footprints of a child, necessarily—a teenager’s, surely, but Russia knew by shape and size that they did not belong to America, even if he could never remember whether America was still nineteen or whether he’d already turned twenty.
No other person had been in that building. Russia had made sure of it. Unless … Russia furrowed his brow, following the trail. Would America have tried to sneak someone into the meeting? He had never tried before, and Russia couldn’t see what the purpose was. Besides, if they had been America’s companion, they should have left with him, not hidden in the bushes, which it seemed like the culprit was doing.
“Who are you?” Russia called. He received no answer. “You are not supposed to be here. Come out now and explain yourself, or you will receive the appropriate punishment—”
The uninvited guest threw themselves from the bushes and at Russia. At first, Russia thought it was an attack—a poorly planned and executed attack—but as the seconds ticked by and no attack was forthcoming, Russia tried to process the situation as best as he could: a hug. He was being hugged.
Russia looked down, but the youth who hugged him had also buried his head into Russia’s stomach, making it impossible to make out his features. Awkwardly, Russia settled his hands on the youth’s shoulders—they were rather small, as if the youth was in poor health—and asked, “Are you alright?”
“Ivan!” a burst of English warbled from the stranger, and Russia stared, dumbfounded, as he looked into the face of an America that was some years younger than the one he had just seen leave. A younger America clung to his coat, shivering. Russia’s grip tightened on his shoulders. “I’m so glad to have found you—I was shooting, but the Rebs were running me down—they’d almost had me when a blue light whisked me from the battlefield into a wintry wonderland! I knew it was not my home—but I could not have imagined that it was yours!”
America beamed at him, dimples forming on his cheeks. Russia blinked, dizzied by the experience of being greeted with actual happiness by America again. Rebs. A war, past waged. But which one?
Russia took a step back, trying to get a better view. America followed, still clinging, slumping against him. America’s hands trembled against his back. He crumbled.
Russia caught him before he could fall, settling America on the ground. America reached for him, and only as Russia caught his hand did Russia see the blood staining America’s fingertips. Blood which leaked from his chest, staining a blue uniform that Russia hadn’t seen in over a century.
“Amerika,” Russia said, his throat dry, “you should not be here.”
America gave him a confused, uncertain smile. Russia noticed his face was a few hues too pale, and that his breaths were deep and ragged. The blood continued to spread.
Russia cursed and started unbuttoning the uniform. He couldn’t find the bullet wound. But there had to be because the blood kept spreading, oozing, coating his gloves and the snow—
“Ivan!” America grabbed his hands, stopping him from searching. Russia tore his hands away. It was easier than it should have been, because this America was weak— “Ivan, it’s not what you think. Leave it alone.”
“You are bleeding,” Russia said, his voice gruff. America rolled his eyes and dropped his head into the snow, lowering his hands. Russia finished unbuttoning. Beneath the dirt-stained uniform, America already had bandages wrapped around his torso. The blood had seeped through. Russia pressed down, and America winced. This was absurd. He needed medical attention immediately. “I am taking you to the hospital.”
“You’re not taking me there to die!” America said, scandalized. He pushed off Russia and scrambled back, fumbling with the buttons as he tried to cover the wound. Russia let him try. It wasn’t as if America was very effective at it, anyway; his fingers were too slick with his blood. “Besides, they can’t do anything for me. Tennessee seceded last month and made it worse. Nothing stops the bleeding.”
“Seceded,” Russia repeated numbly. “You are waging your Civil War.”
“Shouldn’t you know that?” America narrowed his eyes. Russia noticed he didn’t wear his glasses. Without them, there was nothing to distract from how young America looked, nor how ill. “You came to visit not a month ago. You know.”
Russia could not find the words to respond. America’s laugh had an edge to it, and he staggered to his feet, trudging to the bushes where he’d once lain. After picking up his musket, America turned toward him again. “I was in Virginia,” America said, sounding lost. “This … this is not Virginia.”
America looked up, taking in the city. A plane flew overhead; America watched it, stunned, as it crossed the sky. He kept looking up after the plane had flown from sight. “And this is no world I know,” America said, a tinge of awe entering his voice. “And you are not my Ivan. Are my suspicions correct?”
“You are correct,” Russia said, standing.
Snow started to fall. America met his gaze, steely-eyed. It was an expression Russia would come to see many times over the years. “Where am I?” America asked.
“You are over one hundred years in the future and now stand in the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics.” Russia uncapped his flask and started raising it before he remembered it was empty. He tucked the flask under his coat with a sigh. “You have traveled a long way.”
“Union of Soviet Socialist Republics,” America repeated. The blood continued to spread. Russia could not bring himself to look away. “But this is your city. I recognize it. It has changed, but this is Moscow.”
“Many things can change over the course of a century, Amerika.” Russia started walking home. After a few moments, Russia heard America start to follow. “But you must go back to your time. Now come. Once you are presentable, we can begin discussing how to get you back home.”