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-~-
Alfred is completely alone. He's been completely alone, for a while now.
He stares up at his ceiling as the sound of his heart in his chest fills his ears. What's the point of having a heartbeat anyway, he wonders, of having a heart, if he'll never use it? It barely matters much. The steady thumping will surely stop soon, anyway.
His boss called him in earlier that day. It wasn't a meeting, like Alfred first thought. Instead, the president called him in to personally apologize to his nation should anything in Cuba go wrong. In better words, he was saying sorry for the possible end of the world. And if Alfred had a working heart, he might've burst onto tears right on the spot.
But he didn't-- he went back to his house in Virginia, and stared at the ceiling. That's where he still lied, hours later.
Alfred doesn't exactly expect to still be alive when he wakes up, hours from now. The bombs will drop, surely, and it's his fault. Which is why he's sulking instead of watching Russia-- Ivan's face being decimated to shreds by the many bombs. Alfred turns over to face the wall as he shakes the mental image out of his head. Was Ivan filled with as much dread and guilt for the end of the world as he was? Or was he welcoming it with open arms, happy to have been able to live the rest of his days with Yao. His...'lover', or whatever. Alfred feels his gut twist with shame. His unusable heart is beating faster and faster as his arms and legs and torso and everything starts to uncontrollably ache. He hopes Ivan feels like this. He hopes Ivan has been feeling like this for the past fifty years.
Bringing a burning hand up to wipe the ghost tears that grace his cheeks, he thinks about Ivan. How Ivan would've seen him now and tilted his chin up and kissed his forehead, how Ivan's hands would've frozen his tears to ice right on his face and flicked them away, how Ivan's smile would've kissed him and healed him and whispered in his ear.
"Живы бу́дем, не помрём," he would say, and Alfred would've believed him for just a moment.
But there was none of that now. Alfred was completely alone, staring at his wall, trying with everything he had just to cry. But his tears never came, and neither did Ivan's hands to caress down his face and whisper comfort into his ear. Obviously it didn't. He was probably with Yao, laughing over mature things and making mature gestures and acting just so mature. Alfred could just never pail in comparison. Not for Ivan.
His eyes blinked slowly open as his high, empty ceiling welcomed itself into his vision. He felt his limbs start aching again, forcing a tear to jerk out of his eye. He caught his breath as his chest heaved up and down. His quiet coughs quickly turned into sobs, consuming him as he reeled over and felt his airways close. He wanted, he needed someone to just grab at his arms and shake him up and down while screaming at him to get his act together. The world was about to end, and all he was doing was crying about some teenage 'situationship' that hasn't even been a thing for a hundred years.
But no one cared what he was doing during the end of the world, because no one really cared about him. Even Matthew hated him. Not Canada, no. Canada was in full support of whatever hell they were soon unleashing. No, it was Matthew Williams who really wanted him dead.
"You're destroying...everything!" Matthew had cried to his face the week prior, with tears flooding his eyes, "All because you and Russia have to always have more! Nothing is ever enough for you, is it? You-" And Alfred had just stood there, taking his shouts and pointed fury, because he knew all of it was true. Nothing was ever enough. But Matthew could never understand him, truly. "Don't you care about anyone? Don't you have a heart!?"
No, he didn't think Matthew could understand him. And now Alfred was ending the world, so he'd never even get the chance to.
Alfred blinks again as more silent tears flooded down his cheeks. He could call Arthur, or Francis, or even Kiku, but he had a sinking feeling that none of them wanted to get an apology from their killer, either. There was really only one person who he could call that wouldn't blame him for ending the world, because they had just as big of a part in it.
But he knows Ivan would never want to hear from him in a million years. He was probably with Yao, too, even after their formal government's split. A quiet part of him just wished that wasn't the case.
But the world was literally about to blow up, and what other chance would he have? He can't stand the thought of dying while Ivan and Yao were kissing and being happy while he sits in his room and cries. He'll crash their wedding if it comes to it.
So, he forces himself to sit up, ignoring the wet pool beneath his face, and turns to his nightstand. He flicks on the lamp and weakly shimmies off his bed. Alfred's legs feel like melted gelatin, but he shuffles out of his room anyway. His professional phone sits on a table in his parlor, lying unused for the past decade or so. With a shaking hand, he weakly dials the wanted number as the shrieking of the phone ringing fills up the empty air.
He waits a few tragic seconds before an anxious-sounding operator answers.
"Привет, это-"
"Мне нужно поговорить с Иваном Брагинским. С вашей страной. Это крайне срочно," he interrupted, gripping the phone with sweating palms. He hopes the operator can't hear his desperate, ragged breaths over the phone.
"I- Alfred F. Jones? America?" the phone buzzes, "That is not possible. I apologize."
"This is urgent," he stresses, praying something would go across, "Just- can you put in a word for him for me?"
Alfred can hear shuffling on the phone, followed by hushed whispers in Russian and a cough. The woman finally breathes up against the phone, "...He will be on shortly."
Alfred feels his lungs deflate as a relieved breath flew out of his lips. He was going to speak to Ivan after all.
His heart seems to skip a beat as the scratchy sound of breath fills his ears again.
"...Федя?"
Alfred's eyes widen-- he'd actually picked up. And not only that, he'd called Alfred by his name. His real name, and not America, or Fat Imperialist Pig, or америкoс. "I-Ivan," he breaths, "I, we can't talk here. Diomede. Yeah, Diomede," he coughs out. The phone goes silent again. "Ivan? Ваня?"
A shaky breath scratches at Alfred's ear as Ivan spoke up again. "...I will meet you there in thirty minutes."
Alfred could almost feel his heart start to beat.
-~-
Ivan's nailbeds were nearly bitten down to their roots as he sat in the freezing cold at the door of Alfred's nearly abandoned house on Little Diomede. He'd been to the house many times, unbelievevly, so he knew his way well enough. Now all he had to do was wait for Alfred.
Why had he called the meeting in the first place? Ivan knew the world was close to ruin, and it was the both of their faults. Was he going to try and kill Ivan in the final hours they had left? Apologize to him? Convince him to take back all his missiles in Cuba and go home?
Ivan hadn't a fragment of an idea why Alfred needed him at this hour of the morning, but he did know he was desperate enough to go along with it. Before Alfred had called, Ivan was sitting on his balcony as the snow and rain blinded his sights. His cigarette had even frozen in his hand. Ivan would do anything for even a semblance of warmth.
So he sits, still freezing to death on a rusted porch in the middle of the Arctic. And for what? To hear Alfred spit in his ear and rub in how much better his country was doing?
...Yes, actually.
He looks up confusedly as the wind seems to speed up around him. There, with the snow whipping his face, was none other than Alfred F. Jones, clad in nothing but pants and a fur jacket. He looks up, making quick eye contact with Ivan before he immediately pauses in his tracks.
Ivan could see him mouth something, but whatever it was was lost in translation. Instead, Ivan stood up himself, trudging through the snow to close the distance between the two of them. For a sharp moment, when he looks down into vulnerable Alfred's eyes, he sees him as he once was: just a desperate child fighting to be recognized. That world seems so far away from their modern perils of bombs and nukes and spies.
They stare for a while, with eyes of awe and fear. Though a voice in the back of Ivan's head tells him to pull out his pistol and shoot, his hands won't do it. A part of him felt glad they don't ever listen. Alfred's wary eyes flit up and down Ivan's stature as he subconsciously feels himself leaning closer. Soon, they're nearly nose-to-nose, their warm breaths mixing and blowing the snow off each other's cheeks. Alfred is so warm. This is exactly the warmth Ivan's been burning for, his entire life, he thinks.
"Ivan, I-" Alfred exhales into his face. His breath smells like bonfire smoke and sugar cookies and salt, and Ivan wants to inhale it all and hold it in his lungs forever.
"Come. Sit," he interrupts, stepping backwards towards the cabin but not wanting to turn his back completely on the other man. Alfred nods fervently, almost eliciting a laugh out of Ivan. Almost.
Alfred skips ahead of him and sits himself down on the front porch of the cabin. The snow has slowed down slightly, but October in the Arctic circle is no summer vacation. The American huffs, encasing his legs into his chest as Ivan sits down next to him. They're quiet for a moment, before Alfred finally lets out a bitter chuckle.
"So, I guess this is it, huh?" he chuckles, staring up at the sky, "I mean, I guess a part of me always knew this was going to end. I just didn't think it would be so...soon."
Ivan smiles, pulling a small flask out of his jacket pocket and taking a swig. He coughs before wiping his mouth. "Fedya, even in your last moments are you this naive. I've been waiting for the end of the world since- God knows how many years. I am shocked we have even lasted this long."
He nearly regrets letting those words leave his mouth immediately after he hears sniffling coming from the man next to him. Alfred's head is buried in his arms, and his chest is heaving up and down like he's trying to hold in a sob. "Ah-" Ivan struggles, reaching out to touch Alfred's back before pulling his hand back. "...I- I'm sorry. I did not mean for you to hurt." Alfred doesn't respond, so he takes it as a sign to continue talking. He pauses for a second; in what other world would the U.S.S.R. be apologizing to the United States of America for a petty comment? "...Fedya, truth be told, I admire your naivety. No- I won't call it that. I admire your hopefulness. I always have. Do you...do you remember the Russo-Japanese war? 1905, was it?" he tries.
Alfred lifts his head slowly, smiling dumbly as he tragically wiped his tears away, "Yeah, I do. You were real fried then, weren't ya? Japan really got to ya."
Ivan feels a small smile bend onto his face in response to Alfred's. "Да, and I had a revolution happening, too. I believed my country was in ruins, and then you and your president came and negotiated and managed to keep Russia from losing anymore land than it already had. It was not much, but the fact you did something, I respect," he attempts a real convincing grin down at Alfred, who is just staring at Ivan like he'd just proposed to him. Finally, he just beams up at Ivan and laughs, and Ivan feels like he just saved the planet. With the way Alfred is laughing and smiling, he might as well have.
Ivan just continues beaming down at him as a warm flush blooms on Alfred's cheeks, either from the cold or embarrassment, Ivan doesn't care.
"I- I mean, I respect you a lot too, I guess. Sorry," Alfred mumbles before turning away quickly, as if he'd just spilt government secrets.
"No, it is alright," Ivan hums. "We have only so many hours left. Holding things in has no use now." Ivan had been 'holding things in' since before he could even remember. He could never imagine a time where he'd be the one lecturing Alfred about letting things go.
Alfred stutters, "Right, yeah, 'course. Letting things go," he looks down to his feet before absentmindedly twirling his shoelaces in his fingers, like a little kid. And Ivan is laughing quietly at him, like a little kid.
"Well..." the American hums in contemplation, his eyes trained to his feet, "I created light. I put people in the sky, Vanya, only a hundred and fifty years after I was founded. I created the telephone. I can make deaf people hear. I created vaccines that let people walk. I- I've done good, haven't I?" Ivan didn't respond for a while. Obviously, they were still nations. 'Doing good' comes with tens, if not hundreds, if not thousands of lives destroyed. America was even currently boots down in multiple places-- Russia in more. 'Doing good' wasn't an existing concept for nations as powerful as the United States and the U.S.S.R. But Alfred? Alfred, who was always warm, and who always smelt like summer rain and cookout smoke and cherry pie. Alfred, who could keep his head up and smile even when the world was coming to ruins around them. Alfred, who likes baseball and Hollywood movies and unhealthy food. Alfred, who Ivan believed he was in love with. Alfred had done nothing but good.
"Vanya. Please tell me I've done good," Alfred speaks up after a while, his voice cracking in a way that snaps Ivan's heart in two in one beat. Ivan turns his head around and smiles.
Yes, Alfred has done good. Much better than Ivan could ever dream of. "...Yes, Fedya- моя любовь," , you have done well." he trails off, glancing at the sky, "...I don't believe there is anything left to accomplish. We have done it all."
Alfred smiles bittersweetly at him, almost to mask the tears still forming in the corners of his beautiful eyes. He's not wearing his glasses, Ivan notes as Alfred sniffles once before taking a deep breath and looking back down.
"...I never got to go to the moon."
Ivan turns his head the opposite direction, not wanting to face the look of shame and regret furrowing Alfred's eyes. He'd forgotten about the promise his president had made to the American just a month prior. And now, they had only a few hours, days at most, before the entire world gets torn to bits.
"Hush- Fedya," he whispers, taking the initiative to finally lift his arms around Alfred's shaking shoulders and pulling him into a cautious hug. The Soviet Union hugging the United states while they cry about not being able to go to the Moon. And what could he say? That going to the moon isn't a big deal, and that they should die proud of themselves anyway. Even someone as blindly optimistic as Alfred knows that isn't true. So Ivan just keeps his arms secured around Alfred's shoulder, secretly grateful for the other's warmth. He imagines another life, one where he could've relished in this warmth forever had he just made better decisions. Not thrown Alfred out too many times. Not been born a 'nation'. Not followed society's rules as strictly as he did. He could've done those things, but he didn't. And now the world was ending.
"No- I-" Alfred stutters, nearly shaking himself out of Ivan's grasp, "I wanted to go so badly. I- going to the moon was the only thing I've had to look forward to since the war ended. He promised, Vanya, an- and now I'll never get to," he turns away as if not wanting Ivan to see the crystal tears sliding down his cheeks. "I could've gone. I- I just need a few more years, please- I just need more time, and- and I can be so great." He nearly whispers, looking up to the sky to beg to God himself. More time. More money. More power. There is really never enough of it, is there?
Ivan just stays silent for a moment. He feels he can never say enough to convince Alfred otherwise. "...I wanted to live happily with my sisters again. I- I don't think I've done that in...two hundred years, at least." Alfred looks up at him with eyes full of sympathy. "But, there is never enough time, is there? I don't think a single human, on my shores or yours, has accomplished everything they set out to do."
Alfred nods absentmindedly but stays quiet. His eyes are set on the surrounding terrain as the wind blows his hair softly. He looks away, though subconsciously leaning backwards into Ivan's touch. The Russian reciprocates, carefully draping his arms around Alfred's shoulders and trying not to breath too hard down his warm neck.
"...Ivan?" he heard Alfred mumble a few moments later. He raised his eyebrows and loosened his grip on Alfred's shoulders as the American lifted his head up, "Do you miss China? Would you rather be with him right now?"
What? Yao? "Hm? Why would I?" he hums in reply, tilting his head slightly. Had Alfred been thinking about this for a while? "Sure, we are...friends, but he has not had quite the impact in my life as you have." A part of him wishes that last part weren't true. A part that believes he would've been better off without ever letting Alfred give him real hope for the first time.
Alfred mumbles childishly to himself and turns his head away again. "Then why haven't you even talked to me in a decade? I know you hate America, but there was no need to just...ignore me. Ivan, I- I think I might've loved you, for a good long while," he coughs out, voice cracking slightly, "An, and I know you loved me back. Or else I've been a fool for two hundred years."
Ivan's eyes widen slightly as Alfred continues starting at him with a pointed glare. He breathes out slowly and glances down, "...Fedya, I- I'm sorry." Taking a long swig from the discarded flask at his feet, Ivan nearly scowls at the sting. He was going to need a lot more if he was to open up his worm can like this. "...You scared me, if I'm being truthful."
Alfred jolts slightly out of his grasp with a bit of a frustrated expression on his face, "I scared you? I mean- I always really knew that, but I didn't think you'd ever say that out loud with a gun pointed at your head!" An idle, bittersweet chuckle escaped Ivan before Alfred settled back into his embrace.
“Да, you scared me because, before, you did everything in your power to have my heart. And when you started to hate, I could only imagine the things you would do to have my head," he pauses, relishing momentarily in the conflicted mug forming on Alfred's face. Continuing, "But I- realizing now, I don't think either of us had ever had what it takes to kill each other."
"Yeah..." Alfred mumbles, a look of pride flashing onto his face for less than a second before he focuses in again, "...And yet here we are. Killing each other anyway."
Ivan frowns as his grip on Alfred's shoulders instinctively tightens. But Alfred is right, isn't he? Even though it seems so impossible and far away that the same hands gently rubbing his back up and down were the ones pressing the Big Red Button at the exact moment. But he knew he was halfway to blame, as well. There is no United States without its Soviet Union. No blue without its red. No hate without its fear.
Alfred leans into his shoulder and hums up against his neck. Goosebumps run up along Ivan's back as he feels Alfred breath against his collarbone. "...Vanya?"
He tilts his head, resting it gently against Alfred's soft hair and inhaling the scent of his roots. This is the closest he's been to a living, breathing person in what feels like centuries. Shivers erupt all along his spine, but he holds them down as to not disturb Alfred, who's still breathing up his neck. They fit together like an old puzzle with half of its pieces missing, but not too many that you couldn't recognize the image it creates. "Yes?"
His voice lowers to a whisper as he turns his head slightly away, flushing embarrassingly, like a child. For another moment, Ivan sees a younger version of himself, too, in the American's eyes.
"...I think I- I think I might be in love with you," he whispers, quiet enough to where he can blame the howling wind should Ivan ask.
Ivan beams. He isn't all too shocked; one can't do all these things and not expect a love confession to come with it. It's the end of the world, after all. If they don't get everything out now, love will join the glowing moon by their deathbed, asking why they couldn't have done more to act on them and bring them to life.
He reaches his arm out, gripping onto Alfred's shoulder before turning them around and instinctively placing a chaste kiss on his forehead. It means nothing in comparison to the guns, the bombs, the words that have been thrown between each other before. A kiss won't forgive anything. But maybe, Ivan somewhat guiltily hopes, it will be a place to start.
"Мне кажется, я тоже в тебя влюбляюсь."
-~-
"Vanya! Vanya, oh, guess what!"
Ivan turns his head around, nearly gasping in surprise as he comes face to face with Alfred charging straight at him, his straw hat nearly flying off as he ran barefoot through the long grass. Ivan trips backwards, letting Alfred tumble onto him while laughing loudly. "Что? Что это?!" he huffs as Alfred just giggles and rolles off of him onto the dirt besides him.
"Vanya, guess what!? I've decided I'm going to be a country, like you!" he beams, smiling so wide his missing two front teeth are on full display. Ivan laughs with him, impressed by his childish naivety. A silly thing like that is impossible under a nation as powerful as the Great British Empire, and Ivan knows that, but he doesn't have it in him to douse Alfred's sun.
"And how will you manage that, Fedya?" he hums and turns his face to the side to face Alfred, who replied with a roll of his eyes. They were lying under a recently bloomed tree, waiting for Ivan's ship captain to come pick him up after they finished dropping off their cargo. He felt quite proud of himself, having snuck right under England's nose to build trade routes between the colonies and Russia. Though he felt slightly embarrassed to admit it, he'd escaped duty just to visit Alfred across the world more times than legally allowed. How could he not? The land was so beautiful, and being around the other boy just made him feel so...warm.
Alfred groans mockingly, "You always act so much more mature than me because you think you being a country makes you better than everybody!" Ivan can tell he was trying to act seriously upset, but the dopey smile sneaking onto the corners of his lips gave him away. "You're only like, a hundred years older than me, anyway!"
Ivan chuckles amusedly and shakes his head, "I'm afraid I have been alive since Kievan Rus. I believe that was nearly a thousand years ago, now," he tsked. Alfred's eyebrows fly upwards in shock as his mouth drops slightly before he coughs and tries obviously playing it off.
"Well, of course I knew that. But I've been around for a long time, too! Well, not me, me, but I have cousins all around here! And I bet you've never even been out west, have you? Well, it's beautiful, let me tell you, but all the other nations out there think I'm some kind of ghost, because I'm kind of pale, but it's really not my fault! England keeps feeding me, like, European food, and I think it's making me turn more European! Maybe that's why you're so pale, right? You probably eat a lot of European food. Not in a rude way- You kind of remind me of a giant snowball, in a way, you know? Oh, wait, forgive me, I've gone-"
"Fedya!" Ivan interrupts with an amused laugh. Alfred stares in a bit of admirable shock at first before coughing to laugh along with him. "I am still very clearly older and much more mature, so we can end this discussion now," he pokes, enjoying the competitive gleam in Alfred's eyes.
He scoffed, the habit clearly inhabited from England, and chuckled, "Well, sure. I will still become a country, and perhaps after that I will even make ships out of iron!"
"Ships out of iron?" Ivan hummed curiously before Alfred seemed to beam even brighter at the thought.
He waved his hands to the sky, "Yes! The ships will be completely undefeatable, and they'll be able to sail on even the worst storms! And there will be hundreds- no, thousands of iron ships, and maybe I will create ones that can go on land, and fly, too!"
Letting out another laugh at Alfred's ridiculous antics, Ivan paused quietly before sighing, "Do you really believe you can create iron ships that go on land, and can fly without England stopping you?"
Alfred huffed with a roll of his eyes, "Well, by then, I will surely be my own nation again. Oh, I hate this feeling-- hate it!-- of not being able to do whatever I want and go wherever I want! And I'll let you still be friends with me, when I'm a country," he grins.
"Will you?" Ivan just smiles in amusement as Alfred suddenly points to the sky and gasps.
"Hey, Vanya? What's that thing up there called? The umpsquoth?" he shakes Ivan's shoulder gently, "In English, I mean? How do you say the umpsquoth in English?"
Ivan's eyebrows furrow confusedly as he tries to wrap his head around whatever the other boy is pointing at. Alfred seems to notice his confusion, because he ends up sitting up frustratedly and pointing at the sky once more.
"The...the white thing in the sky that shows up at night, and sometimes you can see it in the day-- but it's much less bright in the day, I suppose-- and it's right there!" he furthers, shaking Ivan's shoulder.
He squints his eyes a bit more, seeing a faint trace of the moon above the horizon line. Though it was near midday, Ivan supposed the moon hadn't fully wrapped around the earth yet to disappear. "The...moon?" he hums, turning to an excited Alfred as he points and beams with a hopeful look in his eyes.
"Yes- yes, the moon! I'm going to get my ships on the moon, too!" he laughs, falling backwards onto the grass, "I'm going to go to the moon, Vanya, and you can come with me! Oh, will you come with me? Can we go to the moon together?"
Ivan feels his face heat up as Alfred grabs onto his arm and drags him onto the ground as well. He nearly topples onto Alfred, feeling the soft cotton of his shirt brush his nose. He tries getting up for a moment before Alfred's arm instinctively hooks him back down until he's laying on Alfred's chest and staring at the trees above them. The moon? Alfred couldn't really believe a human could go to the moon, could he?
But Ivan laughs anyway, because being around Alfred makes him believe that, even for the smallest second, even things as impossible as freedom; flying, iron ships (and even going to the moon), all seem possible. Maybe he was just going mad, but the certain smile on Alfred's warm lips could convince anyone.
Maybe they would go to the moon together, after all.
-~-
Alfred's quiet breath slows as he feels his heartbeat slow to fall in tandem with Ivan's. They're close, close enough to feel the steady thrum of each other's pulse in their ears.
"Vanya?"
"Hm?"
"Do you...think I have a heart?"
Alfred feels Ivan's pulse quicken slightly as he attempts to readjust under the other man. After a few quiet moments, Ivan finally speaks up again. "...Yes, I do."
Oh. Alfred can feel his mind start to fight back, trying to find any way to unpick Ivan's words and prove him wrong so Alfred could feel right. But his mind starts to stall when Ivan reaches a gentle hand up and wring his cold fingers into Alfred's hair. Ivan's humming some old folk song, too, one Alfred could barely recognize, but somehow knew anyway. It fills his ears, joining Ivan's steady heartbeat in a gentle chorus.
Maybe Alfred didn't get to do everything he wanted. Maybe the moon was meant to stay in the sky forever, always at a fingertips length but never close enough to grab. Like a lot of things in his life.
But, until he has to open his eyes and watch the sky turn to red fire, he's glad he just gets to lay in Ivan's arms when the world ends.
-~-