Work Text:
00.
April 1945. The Elbe River.
The water lapped at the muddy banks, carrying away the smell of scorched earth. The U.S. First Army was stationed on the western shore; the Soviet Fifth Guards Army on the eastern. Campfires stretched along both banks, illuminating two armies reaching across to shake hands.
Accordion music drifted over the water. Soldiers embraced, speaking languages neither understood, filling the gaps with laughter. Tears and vodka spilled together, weaving the war's most tender night.
America sat straddling a boulder by the riverbank, clutching a bottle of captured German gin, drunk beyond coherence.
His uniform hung open, revealing a sweat-dampened shirt beneath. His blue eyes were hazy as fog-shrouded seas, reflecting the dancing flames across the river and the sparse stars overhead.
"You Russians can really hold your liquor, huh?" He hiccupped, slurring. "I think my liver's about to go on strike."
Soviet sat down beside him, took the bottle from his hand, and let the liquor burn down his throat, kindling warmth in his stomach. "You've got a long way to go. Russian children could drink this like water."
"Fuck off." America laughed, coughing until his eyes watered. "Your kids are monsters."
"We're just stronger than you."
"Bullshit." America bumped his shoulder. "You're just better at pretending. I saw your soldiers puking behind trees, thinking no one noticed."
Soviet chuckled. "You caught us."
They passed the bottle back and forth, watching the campfires across the river. Soldiers were singing, some were dancing, most were dead drunk, calling out names equally far away.
"It's over. It's really over. Now I don't know what to do." America set the bottle on his knee, pensive. "During the war, everything was simple. The enemy was there, the objective was there—just charge forward. But now..."
Soviet was silent for a moment.
"We rebuild the world. What war destroyed, we rebuild. Cities, homes, order—and trust."
"We?"
"We." Soviet took his hand.
Firelight pooled in their palms. America's fingers tightened, knuckles fitting together seamlessly.
"You really mean that?"
"America and the Soviet Union. You and me. Together."
"Then promise me—no more war." The alcohol cleared the haze from America's eyes, revealing crystalline blue beneath. "We build a peaceful world together, so those kids never have to fear bombs and bullets again."
Soviet looked at the outstretched pinky, at America's face—so earnest it bordered on stubborn. "You're drunk."
"Am not!" America insisted, waggling his little finger in the air. "This is important! Soviet, more important than any treaty or agreement. This is a promise between us. Do you dare?"
Moonlight turned those blue eyes transparent, sincere beyond refusal.
Soviet extended his pinky and hooked it with America's.
"Alright," he said. "I promise."
Then America leaned in and kissed him.
America's lips were dry and warm, clumsily colliding with the corner of Soviet's mouth. Soviet cupped the back of his neck, feeling America's warmth and heartbeat, pressing hard enough to almost melt them together.
When their lips parted, America was even drunker. He slumped against Soviet's shoulder, rambling—about how the cherry blossoms in Washington bloomed into pink clouds in spring, how he missed the days without war, how he was actually afraid of the dark but couldn't tell anyone... all nonsense. But Soviet couldn't bear to interrupt a single word.
Then America suddenly sat up and pulled a flat metal flask from his pocket.
"For you." He pressed it into Soviet's hands. "Engrave what you want me to remember."
Soviet drew his military knife from his belt and began carving, stroke by stroke.
America's breath tickled his ear. "What are you writing?"
"Wait until I'm done."
"Tell me now."
"...За мир и дружбу."
"What does that mean?"
"For peace and friendship."
"Liar. You're obviously writing 'I love you.'"
"Do you want a fight?"
"Yeah." America grinned, the corners of his eyes crinkling beautifully. "But I can't beat you right now—I'm drunk, it's not fair. I'll fight you when I'm sober."
"Then shut up."
"No." America leaned closer, nuzzling his cheek with his nose. "Unless you kiss me again."
Soviet pinched the bridge of his nose, smiled helplessly, and pressed a lingering kiss to America's lips.
When he finished carving the last letter, Soviet held up the flask. The Cyrillic letters gleamed on the metal surface.
"Read it to me," America said.
"Za mir i druzhbu."
"Say it again, slower."
Soviet slowed his pace. America repeated after him, but his stumbling pronunciation was absurd, the rolled r's a complete disaster.
"Wrong." Soviet frowned. "Curl your tongue up."
"I did!"
"That's your tongue having a seizure."
America swung a fist at him in frustration. Soviet caught it easily, pulled it to his lips, and pressed a kiss to his knuckles.
"Focus." Soviet's expression didn't change, but his silver eyes danced with amusement.
"You—you just—"
"I didn't do anything. Say it."
"...Za mir i druzhbu."
"Curl your tongue more."
"I've already twisted it into a pretzel!"
"Not enough." Soviet covered the back of his neck, thumb stroking the sensitive skin there. "Listen: druzhbu."
His hand brushing America's skin sent a faint shiver through him.
"Can you be serious for one second—"
"I'm being perfectly serious. You're the one getting distracted."
America glared at him, though without much conviction. "Whose fault is that!"
Soviet had no choice but to correct him over and over, until he could repeat it completely.
"Za mir i druzhbu." America finished at last, chin lifted proudly. "I learned it."
"Mm." Soviet placed the flask back in his hands. "Keep it safe. It's yours."
"You're mine too." America leaned in for another kiss. "One more."
"Greedy."
"You're just figuring that out?"
The river wind swept past them, carrying the first light of a peaceful dawn.
01.
December 31, 1948. Berlin.
Fresh snow blanketed the ruins at the end of Friedrichstraße. Searchlights from Tempelhof sliced through the sky. Every ninety seconds, the roar of a C-54 transport plane rolled across the night, shaking snow loose from crumbling walls.
Soviet stood beneath a surviving archway, counting those steel birds.
Engines tore through darkness, jet exhaust tracing brief trails of light.
Ninety seconds. Another one.
Days ago, a C-47 had fallen from this same sky. The burning wreckage had straddled the blockade line, crashed to earth, its flames dyeing the snow the color of hellfire, the blast wave whipping up a blizzard.
He could still see America's face: knees sunk in blackened slush, eyes red, voice raw with fury—
The one who said he wanted peace by the Elbe—where did you bury him?
Soviet closed his eyes, letting wind and snow pour into his collar. Ice crystals slid down his neck, melting into stinging rivulets that snaked down his spine. He wanted this cold to freeze something—memory, or conscience.
"Here to watch the show?" America's voice emerged from the darkness.
Soviet turned. The searchlight's sweep caught him—that thin jacket, absurd in the subzero wind, its collar failing to hide the unnatural flush of cold on his face.
"I'm counting your planes," Soviet exhaled a cloud of white.
"Get a good count?"
"Ninety seconds per aircraft. Fifteen seconds faster than last month. Your efficiency keeps improving."
"Thanks to your blockade." America picked his way around a pile of rubble and stopped across from Soviet.
Three meters between them.
And the abyss of the Cold War.
"What day is it?" America asked.
"December 31st. New Year's Eve."
America pulled out a flat metal flask, unscrewed the cap, and tilted his head back to drink. The smell of hard liquor spread through the frozen air, sharp and pungent.
He spoke to himself: "Three years ago, this time of night—what were we doing?"
"Oh, right. We were in Moscow." America's laugh was mocking. "Your big New Year's ball. I wore a Soviet uniform that didn't fit, and you insisted on teaching me to waltz."
"Enough."
"You said I danced like a bear that stepped on a landmine." America went on as if he hadn't heard, his voice trembling. "Then we drank a whole bottle of vodka, and I threw up in the Kremlin hallway, and we laughed like two idiots—"
"I said enough, America."
That name landed like a bucket of ice water.
America fell silent. The remaining light in his blue eyes dimmed and hardened into fragile ice crystals. Under Soviet's gaze, those crystals fractured and sank, exposing the fathomless desolation beneath.
"America..." he repeated, tasting rust on his tongue. "That's what you call me now."
"That's your name."
"I have another name." America took a step forward, his boot cracking thin ice. "You used to call me Ame.”
"That was before." Soviet cut him off.
America's smile was uglier than tears. He took another swig and hurled the flask at Soviet. Soviet caught it; the metal's chill seeped through his gloves.
"Drink," America said. "It's the last time anyway."
Soviet looked down at the flask in his hands. Scratched and worn, but the letters were still clear. He recognized them—
За мир и дружбу.
For peace and friendship.
His throat seized—searing, swelling, crushing the breath from him.
Those glass-shard memories drove into his chest, cutting deeper with every breath.
"You still have this."
"I still have a lot of things. The military cap you gave me. The photo we took by the Elbe. The words I secretly wrote down when you were drunk and talking about building a peaceful world together—I kept all of it, Soviet. Everything. Locked in the bottom drawer of my office in Washington, the key on my body, never once leaving me. Every time a meeting made me want to scream, every time the politicians' bickering gave me a splitting headache, I'd open that drawer and look. Just one look. Tell myself—we said it would be alright."
He stepped closer, wind and snow swirling between them in white eddies. "But you? Did you burn them? Tear them up? Throw them in the Neva? Lock them in the archives as classified shame?"
"I didn't."
"Then what did I do wrong? That night on the Elbe, you held me and said so many tender things—the next year you were installing puppet regimes across Eastern Europe! In Berlin's ruins you held German orphans and said 'never again war'—now you've surrounded this city with tanks and two million people are starving!"
He seized Soviet's collar and shoved him backward. Soviet's back slammed into a crumbling wall; bricks crumbled from above, showering his shoulders.
"Tell me, Soviet. Was I just too stupid to believe your bullshit? Or were you acting the whole time?"
Soviet's pupils contracted sharply.
The next instant, his fist connected with America's cheekbone.
02.
America staggered back, heel catching on debris, nearly falling. He wiped the blood from the corner of his mouth, murmuring, "Ha. That's more like it."
His knee drove toward Soviet's abdomen; Soviet sidestepped and grabbed his wrist, trying to throw him, but America's other fist was already slamming into his ribs. Pain exploded, forcing a grunt from Soviet, his grip loosening for a split second. America broke free, elbow striking toward his jaw. Soviet dodged, seized his collar, and wrenched him sideways—
America's shoulder blades crashed into the ruined wall. Leather tore, the crack of bone meeting brick, rubble and snow scattering in a dusty haze. The wall shuddered; more bricks rained down, punching craters around them. Soviet pressed in, forearm barred across America's throat, pinning him.
"So you actually have the guts to hit me." Soviet's breath was ragged, strands of red hair fallen across his forehead, blood seeping from his lip.
"What made you think I wouldn't." America panted, wiping blood from his brow. Snowflakes mixed with red smeared across the back of his hand like death-blooms on white snow.
His hand shot up to clamp around Soviet's throat, fingers digging into flesh, their breaths tangling—close enough for Soviet to see the fine ice-blue fractures in his irises.
Blood dripped from Soviet's lip onto America's collar, spreading dark red across the khaki fabric. "You're shaking."
"I'm cold."
"Liar." Soviet surged forward, slamming America against the wall again. America's skull cracked against brick; white light exploded across his vision. But his grip only tightened. His foot hooked Soviet's ankle, throwing off his balance, and they tumbled into the snow again.
Rolling, grappling, knees striking rubble, elbows driving into drifts. America straddled Soviet, one hand fisting his collar, hauling him up only to slam him back down.
"Your pilot," Soviet's silver eyes reflected America's face, twisted with rage. "You're using him to mock me."
America's fist grazed past Soviet's ear and struck the frozen ground. Shards of ice and stone sliced Soviet's ear. Blood beaded and bloomed into tiny red flowers, instantly buried by fresh snow.
"Shut up."
"You think you're standing on moral high ground?" Soviet wrenched himself over, using momentum to pin America beneath him. "Your airlift was never humanitarian—your C-47s carried flour, yes, but also intelligence, weapons, and plans to build military bases on my borders. Don't dress yourself up as a saint, America."
America struggled, veins standing out on his neck. "He was twenty years old! From Cincinnati, Ohio. His mother knitted him Christmas socks—he showed me the day before he shipped out, laughing—did he deserve to burn to ash, to not even have a body to bury? Those socks are still locked in his footlocker. How the fuck am I supposed to send them back to Cincinnati and tell his mother her son died on Christmas Eve!"
Soviet's face went pale for an instant.
But he continued: "Your bombers sit a thousand kilometers from Moscow, ready to scramble at any moment. Do you know how my people died? How many never reached twenty? Twenty-seven million, America. Twenty-seven million bodies—stacked higher than all your skyscrapers combined. And you sat safe across the ocean watching us bleed, waiting for the war to end so you could carve up the spoils."
America headbutted his nose, flipping him over. Their positions reversed; America's hands locked Soviet against the frozen ground, looking down at him from above.
"You think that makes me forgive you?!" America leaned in, his eyes dark and despairing. "You think you say 'I have my reasons' and I'll nod and say 'Oh, I understand, it's fine, we're still friends'? We're nation-spirits, Soviet! Not buddies who can duck into a bar and make up over drinks! The people behind us need to survive—they need a future—they need us to choose!"
"You think I wanted this? Wanted to watch children starve? Wanted to scream at you in the UN, turn Berlin into an airtight prison?"
America didn't let him finish. He stopped his mouth with his teeth.
He was driving the knife into the other's heart and twisting it, to see if hot blood still ran.
Soviet's lip split open. The taste of blood exploded between them—metallic, scalding, molten iron poured on the tongue. America couldn't tell if it was Soviet's blood or his own.
He didn't care.
He wanted to excavate an answer. The truth. Any trace proving the man from the Elbe was still alive.
Respond to me. Push me away or kiss me back. Hate me or want me. Hit me, curse me, kill me—anything. Just don't fucking play dead.
Soviet kissed him back.
Just as savage. Just as merciless.
Tongues clashed like crossed swords, teeth collided like artillery fire, saliva and blood mingling as they tore at each other in the most primal way, staking claims.
America's hand slid from the back of Soviet's neck to his throat, knuckles pressing against the thrumming artery.
He could kill him. Right here, right now, in these ruins no one would ever know about—he could crush Soviet's windpipe and end everything. The Cold War, the blockade, the standoff—all of it would be over. History would remember this moment: the United States of America strangled his enemy with his own hands.
His fingers tightened an inch.
Soviet was eerily calm, almost resigned—as if saying: If you want to, do it. I won't run.
America couldn't.
His hand loosened, fell to his side, fingers trembling.
Compared to the hollow ache being carved out of his chest, the physical pain meant nothing. His eyes burned red, tears threatening to spill, but he refused—stubbornly—to let them fall.
He would not cry in front of Soviet.
"Fuck." The word scraped raw from his throat.
Soviet's lips still held the warmth and the taste of blood. "...What are you doing?"
"Being pathetic. Humiliating myself."
Those blue eyes burned with hellfire—willing to incinerate himself and the other together if it came to that.
"I just want to fucking know. When you kissed me—was it Soviet, or Sov?”
Answer me, America screamed inside.
Tell me when you kissed me, you were thinking of me. Even for a single moment—you forgot the geopolitics and all that ideological bullshit, and there was only me.
The frozen rivers in Soviet's eyes broke through the ice, murky and churning. "If I don't do this, tomorrow your bombers will be on my border. The day after, your warheads will be aimed at Moscow. America—you've already shown the world you're willing to press that button."
America's heart plummeted.
Deflection.
Whenever they touched something that truly mattered, Soviet raised that ideological shield and hid behind cold rationality.
"Did I have a better choice? Say 'please, let American planes fly freely through the Soviet zone'? Do you know what the Kremlin would do to me?"
"My people just crawled out of a war. If I show any weakness, they'll die all over again tomorrow."
Something transparent gathered in those silver eyes—and spilled over.
"...Sov?"
He froze.
Soviet laughed bitterly. "He's not dead, America. Every night he asks me what the hell I'm doing. Every time I see a starving child, he asks if any of this is worth it. He hates me."
Before the words finished, America's body betrayed his will. He released Soviet's collar, his knees buckled, and he pitched forward. Everything crashed over him at once, shattering him, ears ringing with white noise.
Soviet caught him instinctively.
America's weight collapsed against him. Only then did Soviet realize the jacket was soaked through—sweat, blood, snowmelt, all of it clinging to skin, body temperature dangerously high. America had dragged himself here half-dead.
The golden head drooped against his shoulder, breathing ragged and erratic. The overloaded engine had finally stalled. This rising empire, the existence everyone looked up to and feared—now lay broken in his arms, like a bird lost in a blizzard.
From the day he appeared, America had been brash, blazing, unrestrained—never hiding his emotions, never learning the ancient nations' hypocrisy and scheming. He could tear out his own heart and offer it in his palm, blood dripping, and joke, "This is me"—then wait for you to drive the knife in and ask if it felt good, as if pain were his gift to the world.
He was like the sun—blindingly bright, burningly warm. His radiance fell on friend and foe alike, illuminating everything, scorching everything. And the sun never cared whom it burned, just as it never rose or set for anyone.
From the first time Soviet met him, he knew he could never escape this fate.
It was at some international conference, during a break. America had sauntered up to him, grinning: "Hey, you're the Soviet Union, right? I heard your vodka's legendary—want to see who can drink more?" So reckless, so oblivious. Yet like warm sunlight, he'd pierced Soviet's hardened defenses. The crack deepened and spread until the glacier collapsed entirely.
Soviet had thought then: He'll either be devoured by the world, or he'll set it on fire.
He'd done the latter. And left Soviet trapped.
He was too dazzling—so dazzling that Soviet couldn't help wanting to become him, or destroy him. To be bathed in his brilliance, yet aching to snuff it out with his own hands. To stand beside him forever, yet yearning to watch him fall. Madness. Dangerous beyond measure.
This was the hatred and longing of the polar night for the endless day.
And now, this invincible sun was slowly dying in his arms.
Soviet suddenly found it absurd. He had imagined this scene in the dead of night: the United States of America kneeling before him, admitting defeat, begging for mercy. Red flags planted across the globe, Soviet ideals illuminating all humanity's future.
But with America truly broken and fallen, all he felt was barren silence.
He could shove him away, let him lie in the snow—West Berlin's people would find him soon enough. Or summon Soviet soldiers to detain him, manufacture an international incident. This was the perfect opportunity; they'd fought and clashed for so long, and now his enemy lay helpless in his arms.
Instead, he half-dragged, half-carried America to the remnant of a wall and propped him against the broken brick. America's head lolled to one side, golden hair limp and plastered to his forehead, hiding his eyes.
He should have grown up carefree on his own continent, basking in sunlight and sea wind on that God-blessed land, staying the bright-smiled young nation, squandering his singular innocence and passion. Not here in Berlin's blizzard, tearing each other apart, shredding their hearts to ribbons, cutting each other open.
Soviet crouched before him, studying that face.
Three years ago, on that New Year's Eve, this face had still worn a smile. They'd bumped into each other at the Kremlin ball; America had stepped on his foot, Soviet had pretended to be angry, and America had apologized while laughing. Later, drunk, they'd leaned by a window watching Moscow's fireworks. America had said, Once everything settles down, let's go see the Northern Lights together. Soviet had asked, Where? America had said, Alaska, or Murmansk—doesn't matter, it's all the same.
Back then, Soviet had already started planning—once postwar reconstruction was complete, once the international situation stabilized, he'd take America to Murmansk. The most spectacular aurora borealis in the world.
Even if those plans had all turned to wastepaper.
“Ame.”
He hadn't called him that in so long. When was the last time? In those days when they still believed the Cold War was just a temporary disagreement, something they'd soon mend? Or when they could embrace and kiss without consequence, make promises they'd never keep?
He reached out, wanting to brush the hair from America's forehead—
"...Don't."
America's voice was raw. Soviet's hand froze in midair.
"Don't... say my name."
His lashes trembled harder, each word seemingly wrung from his chest with all the strength he had left:
"You don't have the right... to say my name."
Soviet's hand withdrew.
"You call me America in front of everyone—at Yalta, Potsdam, every time we faced off, you called me America... You think if you use the other name now, I'll just... If you're going to call me something, stick with America. Don't switch back and forth. I can't fucking take it."
He curled in on himself, every breath pulling at fractured ribs.
It hurt. Everything hurt. His lips, the back of his skull, his chest most of all.
But hearing that name hurt worst.
It made him remember too much of a past he could never return to.
"Before you touch me, figure out who you are." America forced his eyes open, blue irises shot through with red, staring straight at Soviet's face. "Are you Soviet... or Sov. Don't look at me with those fucking eyes."
What kind of eyes were they? Soviet wondered. Heartbroken? Guilty? Love? Hate? The contradiction he only dared admit in midnight dreams—wanting to hold him close and push him off a cliff at the same time?
He couldn't say.
Maybe all of the above. Maybe none.
Soviet knelt in the snow, holding America's gaze:
"I don't know. America."
"The Kremlin needs Soviet. Moscow needs Soviet. My country needs Soviet. And the person from the Elbe..."
Wind and snow howled through the ruins, swallowing the rest of his words.
America's split lip cracked further, but he still spoke.
"Then don't say my name. Don't make me think—"
The tide receded, taking anger and sorrow with it, leaving only an exhausted shell.
In the distance, bells began to toll.
Through the blockade and the blizzard, through everything between them that couldn't be said, heralding the new year's arrival.
Soviet rose slowly. He took off his military greatcoat and draped it over America. The heavy wool still held his body heat, covering the thin, laughable jacket and the shivering body beneath.
He pulled the coat's collar higher, then placed the flask beside America's hand.
"Happy New Year."
03.
America woke because of the cold.
He opened his eyes. He was still slumped against the broken wall. The sky had lightened to a dull gray, leaden clouds bleeding pale dawn light, casting the ruins in shades of death.
The snow had stopped, but the chill had seeped into the deepest corners of his heart—places he refused to touch.
He looked down.
A military coat covered him. Soviet-issue. The epaulettes caught the morning light with a muted gleam.
He went still.
That bastard. That hypocritical, cold-blooded, two-faced bastard. Beat him black and blue, pushed him to collapse—and then what? America didn't need Soviet's charity.
The flask lay quietly in the snow. In 1945, when Soviet had pressed it into his hands, he'd taught him to pronounce the inscription letter by letter.
America had complained the pronunciation was too hard, and Soviet had worn that indulgent expression as he coached him, until he could repeat it perfectly.
After that, Soviet had kissed him. Fierce enough to burn, sweet enough to break his heart.
He gripped the flask.
From the direction of West Berlin came the growl of a jeep engine—his people were looking for him.
America stood. The greatcoat slid from his shoulders, pooling in the snow. He stared at it for a long time.
He should leave it here. Let it rot in the ruins, just like all those shattered promises between them. Let the blizzard bury it, let time corrode it, until it became a heap of unclaimed rags.
That was what the United States of America should do.
But he bent down, picked it up, folded it, and tucked it inside his jacket.
"...Idiot."
He didn't know if he was cursing Soviet, or himself.
Dead Reckoning: A navigation term referring to the method of calculating one's current position based solely on a previously known position, heading, and speed—without external references like stars, landmarks, or GPS. Here it implies that both have lost their "reference points"—the vows by the Elbe, the promise of peace, the trust they once shared—and can only grope forward blindly, guided by fragmentary memory (the last known position) and the political inertia of their nations (heading and speed), with no idea where they're actually headed. After all, dead reckoning has a fatal flaw: errors accumulate. The farther you travel, the greater the deviation from your true position.