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The year was 1934 in Hartford County, Connecticut.
Alfred F. Jones stood in his kitchen, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, staring at the bottle on the table as if it were a minor miracle.
American vodka. His hands hovered above it reverently, fingers tapping the glass. Crystal clear, catching the winter sunlight, promising something new. Something homegrown. Something exciting.
“…He’s gonna love this,” Alfred told himself with a grin - then immediately winced.
Or hate it. He might hate it.
Russia was… particular. And understandably so - vodka was practically part of his bloodstream. Stealing his thunder with an American-made version? Yeah, that was gonna be a delicate conversation.
But Alfred wanted to share this. He wanted to celebrate the end of Prohibition properly - not just with his own people, but with the guy who cared about vodka more than anyone alive. And maybe, Alfred admitted to himself, he wanted to show Russia that America could create something worth admiring too. Something that might leave the older nation impressed, even proud.
He took a breath, reached for the phone, and dialed the long string of numbers that would connect him to Moscow.
It rang. And rang. And rang.
Alfred began to wonder if it was too late to hang up and pretend this had never-
A click.
A silence.
A breath on the other end.
“…Да?” came the soft, unmistakable voice.
Alfred jolted upright, suddenly nervous. “Hey! Ivan! Buddy!”
He winced the moment the words left him. Too enthusiastic. Too fast. Too Alfred.
There was a slow pause, the sound of something heavy being set down. “America,” Russia finally acknowledged. “I assume this is not a mistake.”
“Right, yeah, of course!” Alfred paced quickly, phone cord wrapping around his arm. “So, listen. I’ve got some big news. Like, historically big. Culturally big. Spiritually big. Well, maybe ‘spirit’ big-”
Russia exhaled, long and weary. “Alfred.”
“Okay, okay.” He stopped pacing. “So guess what America just started producing?”
Silence stretched like an elastic band about to snap.
“Please,” Russia said slowly, “do not tell me it is vodka.”
Alfred puffed up. “Ding ding ding! We have a winner!”
There was a strained sound on the other end that could have been laughter… or a choke. “You cannot be serious.”
“Oh, I’m serious, dude. Like 100-proof serious.”
A rustle, as if Russia was shifting in his chair. “And you think this is… a thing to celebrate.”
“You bet I do!” Alfred said brightly. “It’s top quality, promise. Clear as mountain air and cold as a New England winter!”
Russia made a noise that sounded skeptical. “My vodka is made from centuries of tradition. From the chill of my soil, the labor of my people. You believe you can simply… craft such a thing in a few months and call it real?”
“Well, it’s not like your folks are still-” Alfred stopped himself hard. Bad topic. Very bad topic. “Look, man. I know you’re kinda upset things have… changed. But I thought maybe we could share something. Together. One bottle, just us, trying something new.”
The quiet that followed felt colder than the Connecticut snowstorm brewing outside.
Alfred’s enthusiasm dimmed into something gentler.
“Hey…” he said, leaning his elbows on the countertop. “I didn’t call to rub salt in the wound. I called because I figured - you’d want to see what the world is doing with something you love. And I want you to be the first I share it with.”
Russia didn’t answer right away.
Alfred could practically picture him now - tall and looming in his heavy wool coat, scarf wrapped around his neck like a shield, expression unreadable behind violet eyes. Eyes that were more exhausted lately than Alfred liked to admit.
He swallowed. “We’re friends, right?”
Another pause. Longer.
He could hear Russia breathing, slow and uncertain.
“Да,” Russia said, voice rougher. “Yes. We… try to be.”
Alfred smiled, his heart loosening. “Then come over to my place. I’ve got a fire going. Snow’s bad here, too, but I’ll pick you up if you want. We’ll sit together, warm and comfortable. And I’ll pour you a glass of this new American vodka. You can judge it all you want.”
Russia scoffed lightly. “I do that anyway.”
“Exactly! And you can tell me to my face how terrible it is.”
Alfred leaned forward eagerly. “But maybe - maybe - just maybe, you’ll like it.”
Russia’s breath issued in something like bewilderment. “You are hopeful.”
“Yeah. I kinda have to be.” He grinned. “It’s my thing.”
There was a shift, a soft clearing of a throat. Russia tried - and failed - to sound indifferent.
“You said your home… in Connecticut?”
“That’s right. Warm house. Hot cocoa if you want it. And a bottle of history waiting for you.”
Alfred could almost feel Russia debating. The longing was there - Russia loved vodka too deeply to deny curiosity. But beyond that… nations didn't often get invitations just to spend time. Not without politics surrounding every word.
America was offering him a chair by the fire. A glass filled because they were comrades, not pawns.
That mattered.
“…I will come,” Russia said quietly. “For the sake of friendship.”
Then, more reluctantly: “And because I must see what foolishness you have bottled.”
Alfred laughed in pure relief. “That’s the spirit!”
“What time?” Russia asked.
“Whenever you can get here. I’ll be waiting.”
Silence returned - but it wasn’t tense anymore. It was full of something like anticipation.
“I will see you soon, America,” Russia said. The words carried a softness beneath the iron.
“See you soon, Russia,” Alfred replied. “And hey - thanks.”
A click. The line went dead.
Alfred stared at the receiver for a moment, then set it down gently. His pulse fluttered with excitement - and nerves.
Russia was coming. To his house.
To drink his vodka.
He looked again at the bottle gleaming in the weak afternoon sun.
“Well,” he whispered to it, “you better not taste like rubbing alcohol.”
Russia arrived just after twilight.
Alfred heard the crunch of boots outside before there was even a knock. He rushed to the door, nearly slipping on the rug in his haste. When he flung it open, the blast of cold air that rushed in seemed to bite straight through his sweater.
Russia stood there, bundled in a thick coat the color of deep winter shadows, snowflakes clinging to his scarf and eyelashes. His presence filled the doorway, tall and imposing - but his cheeks were dusted faintly pink from the chill, making him less intimidating and more… human.
“Welcome to Connecticut!” Alfred declared with a grin.
Russia blinked slowly, then stepped inside. “It is… smaller than I imagined.”
“It’s just the entryway,” Alfred laughed. “The rest is bigger.”
Russia gave a polite nod, though skepticism flickered in his eyes. Always evaluating. Always bracing for disappointment.
Alfred shut the door behind him and helped dust snow from Russia’s coat. “You made good time. Roads okay?”
“Terrible,” Russia replied bluntly, unbuttoning layers with gloved fingers.
Alfred rolled his eyes. “Yeah, alright. Lemme take your coat.”
Russia hesitated before relinquishing the heavy garment. Underneath, he wore a thick cream sweater - hand-knit, by the looks of it - making him appear softer, rounder. Alfred tried not to stare too long.
Instead, he stepped aside and motioned toward the living room. “This way. I’ve got the fire going.”
Russia followed with careful, deliberate steps. Even without his boots, there was weight to him - a presence that made the small home feel suddenly narrow.
When they reached the living room, the fire crackled warmly in the hearth, casting gold light across the walls. A bearskin rug lay before it, and two armchairs waited, angled as if anticipating conversation.
But Russia’s gaze locked immediately on the bottle sitting on the side table.
He approached slowly, like one might approach a suspicious animal.
“So,” he murmured. “This is your… creation.”
“The nation’s creation,” Alfred corrected. “But I bought it special for you.”
Russia’s gloved hand hovered above the bottle - not touching, merely feeling the cold radiating from the glass. “It is very clear.”
“I told you - quality stuff!”
Russia made a sound that could have been agreement… or a warning.
Alfred swallowed softly, his excitement warring with nerves.
“Let me pour us some, yeah?” he asked.
Russia gave a tiny, noncommittal nod, sinking carefully into one of the armchairs. He watched every movement as Alfred retrieved the glasses - exquisite crystal, etched with stars.
“You honor the drink,” Russia said quietly. “At least that is correct.”
“I figured if I’m gonna do this, I’m doing it right,” Alfred replied.
His hands were surprisingly steady as he opened the bottle. The seal cracked with a sharp snap. A faint, crisp aroma escaped - clean and cold, with a whisper of grain.
Russia leaned forward, nostrils flaring slightly. If he disapproved, he kept it to himself.
Two glasses were filled - not too much, not too little.
Alfred set one before Russia.
For a moment, neither touched their glass. The fire popped. Snow tapped the windows.
This felt… bigger than booze.
Alfred’s voice had to cut through the hush. “I’m glad you came.”
Russia exhaled, long and slow, his breath almost visible in the tension. “You asked nicely.”
“And that’s all it takes?” Alfred teased.
A ghost of a smile touched Russia’s lips. “Sometimes.”
They finally lifted their glasses.
Alfred held the air in his lungs, waiting for Russia’s cue.
Russia’s focus sharpened like a blade. His fingers curled around the glass with familiarity - reverence. The liquid inside reflected the firelight, clear as ice.
Then - he drank.
Small sip. Controlled. Analytical.
Alfred followed a heartbeat later.
The vodka hit his tongue smooth and cold - cleaner than he expected, not harsh at all. It burned only a little, fading into a warm flush spreading through his chest.
Not bad. Actually… really good.
He set his glass down carefully. Russia hadn’t moved.
The older nation stared into his own drink, thoughtful, unreadable. He took a second sip - this one slightly larger, lingering over the taste.
Alfred’s foot tapped anxiously against the rug. “Well?”
Russia closed his eyes briefly.
When he opened them, his expression had softened - only by degrees, but enough for Alfred to notice.
“It is…” Russia began, pausing as if searching for the least embarrassing phrase. “Not offensive.”
Alfred’s jaw dropped. “Not- dude! That’s like a top-tier compliment from you!”
Russia’s lips curved - the subtlest smile, gone almost instantly. “Do not let it go to your head.”
“So you like it,” Alfred pressed, leaning forward.
Russia’s gaze softened, distant for a moment. “It reminds me… of something from long ago. Before industries swallowed all craft.” His fingers traced the glass’s rim. “It tastes like someone tried. Hard.”
Alfred’s breath caught - not from the drink, but from the warmth that swelled behind Russia’s tone.
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “We’re trying.”
Russia looked up, eyes unexpectedly gentle. “You have always been trying. Even when you trip over your own feet.”
“Oh, come on,” Alfred groaned.
Russia chuckled - a rare and low sound that melted into the crackling fire.
They both relaxed a little.
Alfred raised his glass again in a playful toast. “To trying?”
Russia clinked his glass against Alfred’s - precise, delicate. “To friendship,” he corrected.
Heat rushed up Alfred’s neck, hotter than any liquor.
“To friendship,” he echoed.
The fire had burned down to a bed of glowing coals, crackling lazily like it too had relaxed into the evening. Snow still drifted silently outside, but inside the warmth had taken deeper hold - helped considerably by the empty bottle on the coffee table.
America stared at it in faint disbelief. “I-I can’t believe you drank… most of that.”
Russia blinked at him, cheeks rosy and eyes glossy with a merriment Alfred had never seen in those amethyst depths. “I am Russia,” he announced grandly, gesturing with a sweep that nearly tipped him out of his chair. “This is… nothing.”
“‘Nothing,’ he says,” Alfred snorted, pointing blearily at the bottle. “You polished off like… eighty percent of it! Straight!”
“You mixed yours,” Russia pointed out accusingly, poking Alfred’s shoulder with surprising strength. “With juice.”
“Hey, hey,” Alfred protested, pressing a hand to his chest. “Cranberry is classy.”
Russia stared at him. Then, slowly - slowly - grinned. “Very classy,” he agreed, voice thick with amusement.
Alfred giggled. Actually giggled. It just burst out of him. Everything felt bubbly and bright and so much less heavy than usual.
“So I thought…” he managed between hiccups of laughter, “you’d be one of those… brooding, poetic drunks. You know? ‘Life is suffering. The motherland weeps.’ That kinda vibe.”
Russia blinked owlishly. Then he laughed - full-bodied, breathless, warm. “I think too much all the time already,” he said with surprising honesty. “When I drink… I want to stop.”
Alfred’s grin softened into something gentler. Maybe it was his vodka. Maybe it was just the company.
Or maybe tonight, Russia finally felt safe enough to let go.
A record player sat near the fireplace, an untouched stack of vinyl waiting beside it.
Alfred pushed himself onto wobbly legs. “Music.”
Russia looked up at him, curious. “Music?”
“Yes. We need some.” He lurched over to the player, squinting as he picked out a record - something jazzy, upbeat, brimming with life. The needle found the groove with a soft crackle.
A brass line burst through the speakers, swinging and playful.
Russia blinked. “This is… happy.”
“It’s fun,” Alfred corrected, and then he offered his hand with theatrical gallantry. “C’mon, big guy. Dance with me.”
Russia stared at the hand. At Alfred’s swaying enthusiasm. At the room spinning behind him.
“…I do not dance like this,” he said.
“Sure you do,” Alfred grinned. “You just don’t know it yet.”
He tugged - lightly - and Russia allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, enormous and solid, towering over the younger nation.
“I lead,” Alfred declared.
Russia snorted. “You are very small to lead.”
“Shut up,” Alfred laughed, positioning Russia’s hand on his shoulder. “It’s swing! Just trust me!”
Russia, surprisingly obedient, tried to mimic the steps Alfred showed him - though they both swayed too much, bumping into each other and occasionally the furniture. Alfred was tipsy, silly, delighted - and Russia was laughing so hard his shoulders shook, a sound barely recognizable as his own.
“This is ridiculous,” Russia gasped.
“That’s the point!”
Alfred twirled him - twirled Russia - and the world spun with them, music gliding around their shoulders like a party only they were invited to.
When the song ended, Russia held onto Alfred’s sleeve to steady himself, eyes bright and cheeks warm.
“I think,” Russia said slowly, catching his breath, “it is my turn.”
“Oh yeah?” Alfred challenged, eyebrows shooting up.
“If you show me jazz,” Russia said proudly, “I show you something from home.”
He shuffled over to the records - listing like a ship caught in a strong wind - and began thumbing carefully through them.
He froze.
“Shostakovich,” he whispered.
Alfred blinked. “Huh?”
Russia held up a record with reverence, fingers tracing the name. A softness crept into his voice. “Dmitri Shostakovich. Jazz Suite No. 1.”
Alfred shrugged. “Well, duh. He’s awesome. Of course I’d have one of his records.”
Russia’s face changed - his smile turning quieter, fuller, almost fragile. “I did not know you listened to music from my home.”
“I like good music,” Alfred said simply. “Doesn’t matter where it comes from.”
Russia had to look away, swallowing against something that tightened in his throat. “Thank you,” he murmured.
He set the record and lowered the needle tenderly. The first movement - a waltz - began, whimsical and oddly sentimental.
Russia turned to Alfred with his hand extended. “Now I lead.”
Alfred grinned and tipped an imaginary hat. “As you wish.”
Russia guided him - gently, surprisingly gracefully - moving in elegant circles. Their steps weren’t perfect, but Russia hummed softly with the music, eyes soft with something. Alfred let himself be led, letting the moment wrap around them, warm and sweet.
When the first movement ended and the second burst to life with lively percussion, Russia clapped his hands.
“Now,” he declared, “a proper dance. Cossack style.”
Alfred raised both brows. “The knee-bend, kicky one??”
“Yes,” Russia nodded proudly. “Ukraine taught me when I was very small. Before…” He paused. Alcohol nudged him away from dark roads. “Before everything became… complicated.”
Alfred didn’t push. He just stepped closer, curious and encouraging. “Show me.”
Russia planted his feet apart. “You squat. Like this.”
He lowered into position and immediately wobbled.
Alfred tried to copy him - and instantly fell flat on his butt.
“HA!” Russia pointed at him, laughter exploding out of him like champagne. “You look like newborn foal!”
“Oh yeah?” Alfred snorted, cracking up. “How about- OW!” He tried again and collapsed sideways.
Russia was laughing hard now - so hard he lost his balance and toppled backward onto the rug, legs kicking helplessly.
The ridiculousness of it - the fancy music, the half-empty glasses still glittering on the table, the firelight dancing across Russia’s sweater - it all blended into pure joy.
Alfred crawled over, breathless from laughter. “We are terrible at this.”
Russia wiped a tear from his eye, hiccuping. “We will blame the vodka.”
“Absolutely the vodka,” Alfred agreed solemnly.
They lay there for a moment - sprawled on the floor like fallen giants of history - struggling to catch their breath between bursts of giggles.
“Hey, Ivan?” Alfred said softly.
Russia turned his head, cheeks flushed, eyes warm. “Да, Alfred?”
“You’re fun,” Alfred admitted. “I… I like this version of you.”
Russia blinked - then smiled. Small. True.
“Maybe,” he said, voice low and hopeful, “you help me find him more often.”
Alfred’s heart stuttered.
He grinned - not his usual loud one, but one that fit the quiet space between them.
“I’d like that.”
Morning arrived too bright, too loud, and far too soon.
Russia awoke face-down on Alfred’s living room rug - a bearskin that suddenly felt like the mangled carcass of some vengeful beast trying to swallow him whole. Each heartbeat echoed like artillery fire inside his skull.
He groaned into the fur.
“Kill me,” he muttered.
“No can do,” came a chipper voice above him.
Russia winced. Of course America was already awake. And cheerful. And alive. And talking.
“Good morning, sunshine!” Alfred knelt beside him, infuriatingly fresh-faced, wearing a red plaid robe and holding a glass of water. His hair stuck up in every direction like he’d wrestled the wind and won.
Russia covered his head with his hands. “Too loud.”
“I didn’t even say anything loud!”
“Your existence is loud.”
Alfred tried to hide a laugh. Emphasis on tried.
Russia rolled onto his back with great effort - which immediately turned out to be a mistake. The whole room plunged into a slow, nauseating spin.
He squeezed his eyes shut and groaned louder. “Vodka is a traitor.”
“It’s not vodka’s fault you drank the whole bottle,” Alfred pointed out. “You basically inhaled it.”
Russia cracked one eye open, glaring weakly. “It is its fault. American vodka is defective. Poison.”
“Oh, c’mon,” Alfred snorted. “So if you were drinking Russian vodka you’d be peachy right now?”
“Да,” Russia insisted stubbornly. “My vodka loves me. It would never do this.”
He tried to sit fully upright and instantly regretted it - his stomach lurched violently.
Alfred recognized the look. He set the glass aside. “Bathroom is this way - c’mon, big guy.”
Russia didn’t argue. Pride died quickly under the threat of imminent vomiting. Alfred hauled him to his feet like a drunken mastiff and half-guided, half-dragged him down the hall.
They made it just in time.
Russia collapsed over the toilet, retching miserably.
Alfred crouched beside him, holding his hair back with one hand and patting his back with the other.
“Jesus, Ivan,” he winced sympathetically. “I didn’t even know you could get hungover.”
Russia sputtered between heaves, voice muffled by porcelain. “Only because your vodka is cheap American copy.”
“Oh sure,” Alfred rolled his eyes, “blame the vodka, not the dude who drank a whole country’s worth of it.”
Russia glared weakly into the bowl, face pale. “Hate.”
“You don’t hate me,” Alfred said, far too confident.
“Right now? Hate.”
“Uh-huh,” Alfred hummed. “You were dancing with me last night. You definitely don’t hate me.”
Russia went briefly silent, then groaned like he wished the floor would swallow him.
After another painful wave, Alfred helped him slump to the floor, leaning his back against the cool tile wall. Russia draped an arm over his eyes, breathing unevenly.
Alfred took a washcloth, ran it under cold water, and pressed it gently to Russia’s forehead. “Here. Might help.”
Russia accepted the cloth wordlessly, letting out the faintest grateful hum.
“You want some water?” Alfred asked.
Russia cracked his eyes open. “Does water hate me also?”
“No,” Alfred chuckled.
Russia stared at him blankly. Then, with the smallest nod, accepted the glass Alfred held out. It took immense effort, but he sipped it carefully.
“Good,” Alfred said softly. “Just little bits at a time.”
Russia squinted at him through the hangover haze. “Why are you so chipper?”
“Oh, that’s easy!” Alfred beamed. “I drank what a normal person would drink. I didn’t chug straight vodka like it was fucking water.”
Russia closed his eyes again, too tired to respond with the scathing retort he wished he could muster.
Alfred sat beside him a while, letting the silence settle.
Russia sighed long and deep. His voice, when it came, was faint. “It was a good night.”
Alfred’s playful expression softened. “Yeah. Yeah, it really was.”
He stood, brushing off his pants. “Okay, come on. Let’s get you comfy.”
Getting Russia to his feet again required an unreasonable amount of effort - alcohol had turned the once intimidating superpower into a saggy sack of potatoes. Alfred guided him back to the living room couch, where blankets had been thrown loosely over the cushions.
“Here,” Alfred said, helping him down gently. “Lie back. Try not to die.”
Russia collapsed dramatically. “If I die, bury me in my motherland.”
“Dude, I’m not shipping your giant corpse across the ocean,” Alfred snorted.
Russia weakly kicked his shin. “Disrespectful.”
“You’re fine,” Alfred said, tucking a blanket around him. “Just hungover. And grumpy. And dramatic.”
Russia allowed it - which said everything about his condition.
Alfred headed to the kitchen. “Breakfast coming right up. You stay put and moan like a haunted house if you need anything.”
Russia groaned loudly to demonstrate.
Alfred laughed.
He moved expertly around the kitchen, cracking eggs, frying bacon, popping bread in the toaster. Butter hissed on the skillet, filling the house with delicious smells.
To Russia’s stomach, however…
…those delicious smells were an act of war.
He groaned more desperately and pulled a pillow over his face.
Alfred called out cheerfully, “Almost done!”
“No,” Russia croaked. “No more smells.”
“Hey, I made breakfast to help you feel better!”
“Breakfast made me feel worse.”
Alfred rolled his eyes, plated everything, and brought the feast over to the coffee table. “Okay, okay. I’ll be nice.” He slid a single slice of toast closer. “Just eat a little of this first.”
Russia peeked out like a wounded animal. He accepted the toast and nibbled tentatively.
It was manageable. Dry. Not aggressively fragrant.
“Good job,” Alfred said, patting his knee like he was feeding a skittish horse. “Proud of you.”
Russia glared. “Do not baby me.”
“You literally just whimpered at bacon.”
Russia scowled harder, but another tiny nibble of toast followed.
Alfred munched happily on eggs and bacon, swinging his feet. He was the picture of cheerful smugness.
Russia narrowed his eyes. “Why are you not in pain?”
“Because I’m awesome,” Alfred said immediately.
Russia looked unconvinced.
“And because I learned my lesson after that one time with England’s whiskey.”
Russia took another breath and regretted it- too much scent from the bacon. “England’s whiskey is…ergh.”
“You said it,” Alfred agreed.
Russia stared into space, groggy and miserable. “Never trust English alcohol. Never trust American alcohol. Only trust vodka of Motherland.”
“Wow,” Alfred said, popping a crispy strip of bacon into his mouth. “It’s like you’re blaming me for your life choices.”
Russia didn’t dignify that with an answer.
He continued nibbling toast in slow, miserable increments while Alfred devoured his breakfast, blissfully unaffected.
Eventually, the worst of the nausea passed. Russia’s pallor eased to something less cadaverous. The pounding in his head, while still present, no longer felt like a demolition team inside his skull.
By early afternoon, he was sitting upright- stiffly - blanket still draped around him like a disgruntled shawl.
Alfred cleared the dishes, humming along to a soft tune from the radio.
Russia watched him for a quiet moment.
“You helped me,” he said finally.
Alfred paused mid-hum. Turned. “Of course I did.”
Russia looked down at his hands. “Not many do, when I am…” He gestured vaguely. “Weak.”
“You weren’t weak,” Alfred said gently, walking back over. “You were hungover. And drunk. And kinda hilarious.”
Russia’s lips twitched. “You enjoyed this too much.”
“Maybe just a little,” Alfred admitted, grinning.
Russia stood then, testing his balance. He didn’t sway much. Progress.
“I must go,” he said, adjusting his scarf. “I have duties.”
“You sure you’re okay to travel?” Alfred asked, brows knitting.
Russia took a deep breath - slow and carefully measured. “Да. I will manage.”
He stepped closer - unexpectedly close. Alfred looked up, startled by the sudden proximity.
Russia hesitated.
Then, awkwardly, he opened his arms.
Alfred’s brain short-circuited for a moment.
“Hug,” Russia clarified, cheeks flushing slightly beneath the hangover pallor. “Is custom, yes? After a good evening.”
Alfred blinked. “Oh! Yeah. Yeah, definitely.”
He stepped into Russia’s embrace - firm, immense, all-encompassing. Russia smelled like cold air and lingering spirits. The warmth spreading through Alfred’s chest startled him — too bright, too quick.
Russia squeezed once - brief but tight - then slowly released him.
“Thank you,” he said. Sincerely. “For… last night. And for this morning.”
“It was fun,” Alfred said, trying to keep his voice casual despite the thudding in his heart. “And, uh, I’m glad you came.”
Russia nodded. “Perhaps… again. Sometime.”
Alfred’s grin softened into something real. “Yeah. Anytime.”
Russia gathered his coat, steady now, and made his way to the door. Before stepping out into the cold afternoon, he glanced back.
“American vodka…” he said, voice thoughtful.
Alfred perked up. “Yeah?”
“…was not terrible.” A tiny smile.
Then he stepped out, closing the door behind him.
Alfred stood there a moment - heart warm, lips curled into a lingering smile.
He looked toward the empty bottle still resting on the table.
“Well,” he murmured, hands on his hips. “Guess I’ll have to buy another one.”
The house felt quieter without Russia’s presence, but the warmth lingered - like laughter still echoed in the walls, like the fire hadn’t truly gone out.
Outside, Russia’s footprints trailed through the snow - leading back to duty, to politics, to the weight of the world.
But for one night - and one morning - they had just been two friends sharing a drink.
And Alfred couldn't wait for the next bottle.