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America’s blabbering about the infrastructure’s ‘flexible funding’ had seemed like a cheap dig, but standing under it now, Russia agreed on its impressiveness.
Russia was given a map, and from a helicopter, it photographed like a white pomegranate, with its structured skin trapping the scattered innards. The buildings were all different but followed a slight star shape leading to the center. Nice to look at from above, difficult to navigate at skyline view.
After entering through the main walkway, Russia wandered the halls, noticing the blindly pristine of the whole inside building. Did cleaners come by every day? Or if, upon his visit, America scrounged a phone number from his date book for some odd landscaper. Russia smiled at being able to cause his former enemy a slight inconvenience with his surprise meeting, but it was a national building, so he probably had no effect on the cleaning schedule. Speedily dialing someone to clean 2,000 feet of concrete seemed silly, but losing money to clean it daily seemed expensive.
Hauling opened the metal door, panicking when he couldn't enter the second door to a large obviously formal meeting room, and turning his head to see the small, dingy office with a little silhouette inside.
He noticed the uncharacteristic informal setting, sparsely decorated with a conversational, minimalistic style. In the middle, an oak table with wood like a stiff tree and two hard metal chairs on either side; the seat closer to the window was taken, like a principal about to scold some ruffian students for spitballing a teacher or passing an explicit note during class.
The sunny side had a notepad and bald eagle pen; the other had nothing.
Ever since the start of the war, America has made it a point to bring his own tacky paraphernalia to every gathering. Some notable ones: a President Andrew Jackson bobblehead with one broken leg and one broken finger (America said he had it since Jackson’s Presidency.), a Babe Ruth poster with his signature at the bottom (It was rolled up like a scroll so Russia never got to see the signature.), a bomb (He was ushered out for indecency, and came back an hour later with a permanent pout.), gun paper clips (Size of actual guns, and because of the bomb incident, he informed Germany about prior to and was allowed to bring.), and apple pie thumb tacks (Russia’s mouth drooled on the table.).
If he could, America would color the ocean red, white, and blue, probably put all fifty stars on it too. Russia wanted to rip his throat out (Not really, mostly punch him.). Only one untouched place remained: the man across from him, whom he most certainly wanted to spit on. (Russia made a point to get stricter import controls, but the western smuggling business remained strong all through Stalin to Gorbachev. His people could not snub their love for the US, apparently.)
America insisted it take place here, on the ‘pure soils’ of dead natives. (Russia pretended, he did not know about the nights’ America spent awake, tossing about what horse had taken him here. Which had been betted to win the race? In the end, Russia supposed it didn't matter; none of them did.)
Before the last conference, exasperatingly, America screamed at an especially prickly England, “What if he put poison in the air? What if the walls have rats waiting to pop out and eat me alive?” England responded to his petulant childlessness with a groan, headache getting exponentially worse.
Their was protest from the other meeting’s half. Russia argued that since he suggested, it should be on his land, despite not being able to stand his home much anymore. (America did not need to know that. Let America believe Russia enjoyed the cold, dead streets of Moscow, or buildings in Siberia made with carved bones from Stalin's graves.) But America was aware, as his fingers dipped into the sticky red puddle left on the lone table, that Russia was in no place to argue about, frankly, anything. Russia did not remember who had taken him back to his hotel after he passed out in the hallway, but he sincerely hoped it wasn’t America. (No one else would come near him. They were all to afraid.)
The Cold War was over. Many would say he had lost. Russia preferred tied. He was still a superpower. Everyone would come back eventually. (He just had to be patient.)
“Hello, America,” he tried to sound cordial, "how are you?”
Once, America would warmly shake the Russian's hand for an informal outing, smiling out to show all his teeth.
“I’m good.” America didn’t seem in the mood to chat, or, more likely, he wasn’t in the mood to chat with Stalin’s former subordinate. “Why did you schedule this?”
America bit at his cuticle as Russia spoke, “I just wanted to talk to you.”
“You know how… close our leaders have gotten recently. I figured we should as well.”
Destrained, detensionalized, de-Bay Of Pigs, were better descriptors for the recent loosening of almost warring nations. America checked his nails before returning them back to his mouth.
When America was only two revolutions old, Russia had a dream. He was on top of a mountain made of stained snow, and looking out through a blizzard, he had thought of it as America's striped flag, white over red. The sky was a proud, glittering blue, and the air seemed to blow in from the Bahamas. The sun's eyelashes fluttered against his cheek. No brightness looked at him now, its lips were firmly pressed into a line.
Years later, he had the same dream. Russia could not take his eyes off the bloody pile to feel the sun.
“Listen, if you’re upset, you could just say so. I’ll take up your complaint. Though, I doubt the prez will really give a shit because of your-" His voice softened “-recent fall in geopolitical relevance.”
Russia hated it. America did not need to treat him with such care when disgusssing his fall. Many who left were expected, from Poland to East Germany. They did not belong to him. He knew they would leave eventually, and he was fine with that. (His head fell into his lap, cheek burning from where Germany had punched him and shirt messy from Poland’s final shove as he ran out the door. It was still open. He couldn’t close it. He was exhausted. His eyes couldn’t be more wet.)
“I am not- ” Russia tried to say, but the American cut him off. “I sent Poland some money. I get being upset, dude. I don’t blame you, but don’t take it out on me.”
Shamefully, Russia begged Lithuania to stay. He was left staring at a slammed door. (At least he had closed it. The Baltics were polite, that’s why Russia had always liked them the most. Russia went to America's house and banged on his door, leaving in tears with no injuries. The house he built for everyone but himself, remained vacant in some nowhere town. He almost considered giving it to China, but he needed it when they would all be back.)
“America, I am not upset. I just…” Russia looked down, "I wish to speak with you.” Russia looked down eyeing his hands, suddenly wishing he was laying face down in snow.
Now, America was interested. Russia, bashful? No way in a million cracked eggs.
All open ears, same dead eyes. Russia didn’t want to say anything at all.
“I don’t know what to do.”
America sat dumbfounded. Russia rounded his shoulders, “I am no longer the USSR or the Russian Empire. I am just Russia. I am very confused on how to be a democratic nation state, and I would like your help.” They were now at an impasse, neither knowing how to proceed. Until America laughed.
It was the kind of laugh that you heard the joke in, where the corners of your mouth went up and the little indents got slightly deeper.
Russia stilled, like bacteria on a Petri dish without a microscope, and deflated as Americans laughed. The cold nation’s face was extremely red, and for the first time, heat reached through the frigidity and seeped directly into his bones.
Uncomfortably sweaty and embarrassed, in the midst of America's continuing guffaws, with shame curtling like milk, “Russia,” The fifty states tried to pause his laugh, but it was too late. Unable to bear it, Russia stood up, leaving the lightless half of his side to the comfortable retreat of stale AC hallway air.
The laughter stopped.
“Wait,”Only a voice and an empty cup of air opposite America remained inside the room.
America looked up at the sun, it was blocked by the clouds.