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The happy babbling sound drifting down the stairs sounded like mischief.
Commie lowered his book to glance at Nazi, who returned the look with a raised brow. The two were sitting in the living room in front of the fire, Commie reclined in his usual armchair, Nazi cross-legged on the floor, polishing his jackboots.
“I’m not getting up again,” Commie said decidedly, crossing his feet and flipping the page of his favourite WW2 biography.
“Oh what, dying to see how it ends? Eat shit. He’s probably just playing.”
Commie smirked, hiding behind the book. Nazi returned to buffing the leather contentedly.
A loud crashing noise rang out from upstairs, and the two authoritarians rolled their eyes. Nazi placed his boots down carefully and made for the stairs. He paused in the doorway, turning back to his lover.
“You know, that kind of sounded like your bust of Lenin.”
Commie shot up out of his chair to race him upstairs.
Confirming that the crash had indeed come from their bedroom, the two men hovered outside the door, listening.
“Oh no, oh no, oh no,” came the small voice.
They peered through the crack in the door and exchanged a look - Nazi suppressing a laugh, Commie’s brow knitting in anger.
There stood little Nazbol, dressed up in his dads’ clothes, hands anxiously hiding his face as he looked over the smashed marble, Lenin’s great bald head shattered into a hundred pieces. After dithering a moment, the boy knelt down and reached out to pick up some of the sharp pieces.
"нет нет нет—"
"Nein, nein, nein—"
Both men fretted as they shoved open the door, startling the boy with their sudden volume. He shrank back against the dresser as his dads hurried towards him, shame flushing his little cheeks deep burgundy.
“You foolish boy, what are you doing in here?” Commie boomed, kneeling to carefully scoop the pieces into a pile. “Watch your feet, do not hurt yourself.”
Nazbol cowered into the dresser and hid his face. He hated it when his papa shouted, he was so big and loud. Would he be that big some day? He had pulled on his woolly red socks, long enough to reach his knees, and they were gathering around his skinny calves. He shuffled his toes back so that his father could pick up the little shards. The communist stood up, ignoring him, and stormed back downstairs to fetch a brush.
Nazi folded his arms, taking in the sight of their guilty son. He had clearly been playing dress up, with Nazi’s shirt buttoned up incorrectly, and his papa’s ushanka falling in his eyes. Judging by the Iron Cross in his hand, and the Hero of the Soviet Union Star pinned crudely on his shirt, he had been climbing up on their dresser to explore their medal collections when he smashed the bust. It was undeniably adorable.
“Nazbol…did you knock over your papa’s statue?”
Nazbol slowly nodded, unable to make eye contact, his eyes filling with tears.
“Priceless antique,” Commie grumbled as he returned with a brush and pan. He swept up the clinking shards, then dumped them into the trash, furious.
“Commie,” Nazi said calmly.
The Soviet looked up, and seeing Nazi’s disapproving expression, turned to look at his son, who was now quietly sobbing, hiding his eyes behind his dad’s long navy sleeves. Commie sighed, and knelt down beside him.
“Look at me,” he said, still a little stern.
Nazbol sniffed, and forced his gaze up to meet his papa’s.
“You are not allowed in our bedroom, young man - you know this. You are certainly not allowed to rifle through mine or your vati’s belongings.”
Nazbol’s lip trembled through his scolding, flinching as Commie reached out, but his papa simply adjusted his ushanka so that it framed his sweet face. His big hands gently tucked his curls out of his round, purple eyes.
“I’m…I’m sorry, папочка. I’m sorry, vati.”
Nazi came and knelt beside them, putting his hand on Nazbol’s shoulder.
“If you want to play dress up, you will ask us first, alright? Medals go on your left side, Kindchen.”
“Ja, vati,” Nazbol gave a shy nod.
Nazi turned him around to face the mirror, then corrected the buttons on Nazbol’s shirt, making his son giggle timidly as he closed the top one. Commie sat down in front of him, long legs splayed out, unpinning the big gold star on his chest to reposition it, then pinned the silver cross beside it.
“There. Now you are most decorated soldier in family.”
Commie admired his son, whose little smile returned as he gave his dad a salute. Anger dissipated as pride took over. His baby just wanted to feel brave and strong like his dads. Nazbol leaned forward to hug his papa, and whispered in his ear.
“I’m sorry I smashed uncle Lenin, papa, I didn’t mean it.”
Commie wrapped his great arms around him and gave him a squeeze, looking up at Nazi’s expectant gaze.
“It is alright, малыш, I forgive you.”
“I love you, papa.”
The communist’s cold exterior melted, all misbehaviour forgotten. How Nazi loved to watch him soften.
“I love you too, Nazbol,” the communist smirked at Nazi, “Perhaps we destroy something of your vati’s next to even things out.”
Nazbol shared a sneaky chuckle with one dad, smiling at the other in the mirror, happy to be playing again. He began to jump in his papa’s arms excitedly.
“Can I hold a gun pleeeeeeeeease?”
“What an idea!” Nazi’s face lit up as he beckoned for Nazbol to follow him into the study, where he kept his museum of firearms, winking at his husband as he left the room.
“Let daddy show you the wonders of German engineering.”
“Pew, pew, pew! Kill the j—”
“—Bourgeoisie!” Commie shouted over him, shaking his head as he watched his little boy tug up his socks and bounce down the hall.
It would be two contradictory retellings of Stalingrad for a bedtime story once again.
Not to worry, he smiled to himself, glancing at their bed - they would establish the victor once their boy was sound asleep.