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✎...⭐➥@://[𝟔𝐭𝐡 𝐉𝐮𝐥𝐲, 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟖, 𝟏𝟏:𝟏𝟐 𝐩.𝐦]❛❜༆#🗽
—Alright, —he began his final speech as he abruptly stood up from his seat in that boardroom— I don't know why the hell you ask me to come to these meetings if you aren't gonna take my word into account.
The rest of the executives present, annoyed and beyond furious, remained silent as they watched the blond man approach the exit. Everyone felt like responding aggressively, but no one dared, since he was a figure of respect. At the same time, no one could conceive the idea of answering him respectfully after all the thing he had said, so no one spoke. No one... except one person, who stopped him just as he grabbed the doorknob.
—America, don't be like that, —the imposing voice of his president, Reagan, finally filled the room—. It's just that... uh, don't take this the wrong way, but what you're suggesting just isn't viable in any way.
The American slowly turned around; first, he glanced at everyone in the boardroom behind his dark glasses until he stopped his eyes at Reagan, at which point he frowned.
—It isn't viable, yeah: for you all. That's what you mean, isn't it? —he let go of the doorknob— Look, I've been pretty damn permissive with you. I've always agreed with most of your plans, but surprise! —he flashed a smile that lacked even the slightest trace of friendliness. And waving his hands around frantically, he blurted his next words— Not today. And y'know what? —He pointed at them— Do whatever the hell you want. I'm outta here.
His last word was his cue to leave the meeting room, slamming the door shut behind him with violent force. He had his mind quite clear that he wanted to end his day right there — he was so sick with his overall life situation that all he wanted was to rot in his bed and sleep for an entire day or two, maybe even a whole week, just to see if anything somehow fixed itself in the meantime. But little did he know, his journey was far from ending right there.
The blond-haired American stamped his feet sharply on the Pentagon floor as he headed for the exit. He didn't speak to anyone there, nor did he want to — in fact, he made that clear by putting on his most thunder-like face and muttering all sorts of furious complaints. This proved effective against the curious onlookers who wanted to approach him, as his gestures said it all: the United States, their representative, was fed up with everything and everyone, and most likely his current goal was neither eradicating communism nor colonizing Mars, but rather going the hell home and not hearing a damn thing from anybody else again.
—Sorry for being a good representative for the first fucking time... —was the last thing he muttered before noticing the Pentagon exit on the horizon. That made him stop cursing under his breath, for now all he had in mind was getting out quickly. So he walked and walked as fast as he could, even losing his breath in the process.
And this would be where the story ended: with this yankee actually arriving home and locking himself in his room with a bottle of expensive whiskey, as he usually did. However, as mentioned before, his journey was far from ending right there. He was just a few meters from the exit when a small detail, caught from the corner of his eye, made him stop dead in his tracks. Ignoring the puzzled looks he received from the executives around him, the blond representative turned his head toward that detail which, unbeknownst to him, would change the course of his night and prevent him from crossing that exit door for quite some time.
It was a "simple" hallway that caught the attention of that ambitious American. But it wasn't just any hallway, like the many others in the Pentagon; it was one that led him directly to his imaginary Zen garden. In an instant, the United States changed its plans by turning its entire body around and walking towards that hallway like a moth flies to a flame.
He disguised his true intentions by meticulously adjusting his suit, pretending he was headed somewhere extremely important to conduct formal state matters — and although what America was about to do was indeed important to him, it certainly was anything but a formal matter of state.
His steps, almost automatic, led him to turn right and find an office like any other, where an employee like any other at the Pentagon worked. The blond man made his way in and stood before the desk, maintaining his serious expression before his employee, who, perplexed by the sudden appearance of his representative, managed to rise from his chair, standing perfectly upright yet trembling slightly.
—Mister USA... —he managed to stammer before his superior showed him the palm of his hand, thus preventing the employee from speaking further.
The man of fifty stars pointed with his head toward the only object that made that office actually interesting: a red telephone sitting atop a cabinet.
—Does it work? —upon receiving a nervous nod from the worker, the representative let out a small smile— That's good. I'll make a call to Moscow. Make sure that everything's checks out and monitor any phone calls connected to the same line as the one on the other side. You know the drill, Roger. Oh, and come back here when I've hung up.
The man nodded again, more enthusiastically now. He practically ran out of the office, leaving America alone...
Just him and the red phone. That phone that had witnessed many of the best nights of his life a few years ago. But what was so special about that device? Perhaps it was the fact that it didn't reveal the location of the other phones in the building, since United States himself had had it configured in such a way that it had a completely independent line from the rest of the Pentagon’s telephones. Or perhaps it was the fact that this red phone was a spying weapon capable of intercepting calls — something that had helped him obtain some interesting information, though not crucial, given that his country had better ways of spying on the enemy. Nevertheless, if he wanted to be honest, that telephone held a special place in his heart because it was his little secret. No one knew about that phone except Roger and himself... It was better to leave things that way, because more than using it to spy, he used it to taste some of that happiness which, outside of his calls, was nothing more than a fragile remnant of what it used to be.
America reflected on that for some time until Roger returned to confirm that everything checked out. Without further ado, the blond yankee locked himself inside the office and grabbed the red telephone, placing it on the desk. Eagerly, America settled into the chair, picked up the receiver, pressed it firmly against the side of his head, and... Despite a fleeting moment of hesitation, his emotions won out. He sighed before pressing several buttons on the base of the device, the sequence of which he remembered by heart; finally, he heard the dial tone.
And then... The minutes that passed felt like hours, as he heard nothing but the waiting beeps. The longer it went on, the more he succumbed to the idea that everything he was doing was simply insane and foolish. And then he thought that the perpetual waiting was the perfect excuse to abandon his plan.
He pursed his lips in defeat, then sighed wearily, picked up the receiver, and held it to the base to hang up.
However, the ten uninterrupted minutes of pure waiting suddenly came to an end, rewarding the American for his extraordinary patience: just centimeters from placing the receiver back in the base, the beeping stopped.
—Секретариат Большого Кремлевского Дворца, по какому поводу Ваш звонок? (Secretariat of the Grand Kremlin Palace, what is the purpose of your call?) —a female voice was the one that broke the waiting tone. Upon hearing just the first word, the American pressed the receiver back on his ear in the blink of an eye.
However, that was the moment when he realized something horrifying: he hadn't really thought through what he was going to say. Ever since he saw the hallway, his actions had been entirely driven by instinct.
—Да, привет, eh... (Yes, hello, uh...) —he tried to reactivate his brain cells as quickly as he could, letting out a few filler words in the process. The woman on the other end tried to ask him something, but America anticipated— Я... хочу поговорить с вашим представителем. Господин СССР здесь? (I... would like to speak with your representative. Is Mister USSR there?) —he inquired with great speed. So he said it. There was no turning back.
He managed to hear a couple of stutters on the other end of the phone, as if the question had thrown her off.
—...Конечно, господин СССР здесь. Почему вы хотите с ним связаться? (…Of course, Mister USSR is here. Why do you wish to contact him?)
Cornered, and because -according to himself- he didn't have a very serious reason for making the call, he was forced to answer with the first thing that came to mind so as not to sound suspicious.
—Eh... чтобы... обсудить важные вопросы... внешней политики? (Eh... to... discuss important matters of... foreign policy?)
And apparently, the woman believed him, for she did not question that clearly suspicious response. She simply said "mhm..." before asking more.
—Подождите, я перенаправлю вас на линию господина СССР. С кем я разговариваю, простите? (Please wait, I will redirect you to Mister USSR’s line. Who am I speaking with, if you don't mind me asking?)
Surprised that she didn't recognize his voice at that point, the American took the opportunity to hide his identity and spare himself future trouble.
—Да, ну, вы знаете, я Китай, (Yes, well, you know, I'm China,) —he attempted to imitate the Asian representative's voice, smiling mockingly and rolling his eyes. The situation amused him slightly.
—Но конечно! Как я не заметил? Ваш русский значительно улучшился, господин Китай. Хорошо, я перенаправлю, увидимся позже! (Of course! How could I not have noticed? Your Russian has improved a lot, Mister China. Alright then, I'll redirect you, see you later!)
—Oh, arigatō, увидимся позже! (¡hasta luego!) —and right after, the waiting beeps returned. He took the chance to laugh for a while, because to the serious America shown on television and radio, saying a Japanese word right after pretending to be China was absolutely hilarious. He did know it was very stupid, and even rude, but at that moment he couldn't care less about that. Sometimes he could pretend to be an ordinary person, even if he was far from being one... just like the man who, he hoped, would interrupt that hold tone.
America was so amused that he even slapped the desk in front of him a couple of times... And he got so carried away that he almost had a heart attack when someone answered quickly on the other side. The shock was huge enough to turn his laughter into a coughing fit.
—Товарищ Китай, что случилось? (Comrade China, what happened?)
A deep, strong voice resonated perfectly in the blond man's ear, like one of those melodies he never wanted to forget. That harmonious blend of phonemes left him speechless and breathless; and by the time the Soviet had finished speaking, United States knew why he had been mesmerized by that "common corridor": this was the path that led him directly to USSR. And suddenly, he had forgotten his fury upon leaving the boardroom, and all the bad things that had happened since the last time he spoke with him — because yes, the Soviet's voice always felt like an antidote to his countless problems.
He already knew all this, but did he want to admit it aloud? No way. Not now. Especially not at this point in history. So he decided to lie to himself by thinking that it simply made him happy to talk to someone he liked a little, despite the rivalry.
—...Товарищ Китай? (...Comrade China?) —the unmistakable voice questioned with confusion, since he had received no response to his first question other than silence. This brought the yankee back to reality, and he cleared his throat before revealing himself.
—Hi, Sovi —he replied with absolutely no trace of seriousness, making it clear that the reason for his call was definitely not to discuss important matters of foreign policy—. Did ya miss me?
—Ah, Америка (America) —he sounded anything but surprised, eliciting a laugh from the yankee—. This is becoming a habit of yours. You called me four times last month... Пока. (Goodbye) —USSR declared, clearly intending to hang up, which this time startled the American.
—¡No, no! Come back here, commie! —the blond exclaimed loudly, pressing the microphone close to his mouth—. Don’t hang up! Or do you want the calls to double this month? —he jokingly threatened, causing a fleeting chuckle to find its way out of the Slavic man.
And surprisingly, the threat worked.
—Don’t even think about it. You’ll end up calling me every day in a couple of months. —he added, now with a hint of amusement in his deep voice. United States couldn’t help but smile at the thought of talking with him daily.
—Aw, come on! That’s what you want, —he teased in that mocking tone he always used, though there was some truth behind his words.
—No. —he tried to sound convincing, though he did not succeed much either—. Anyway, why did you call this time?
He hoped he wouldn't ask that, because that was a question he had no answer to. Not even he could come up with a new excuse to call him at that hour of the morning in Moscow and at that hour of the night in Arlington.
—Ah... uh, well, my truly dear USSR, the answer is simple... —he tried to disguise his lack of answers with humor, but decided he didn't want to keep making excuses, especially now that he'd found him in a good mood, which allowed him to open up more. So he told him the truth: sometimes these kinds of impulses just came naturally to him—. I just wanted to know how you were doing. So tell me, how's it going? It must be past six there, right? Did you sleep?"
Not even the slightest sound could be heard from the red phone for several seconds. And that short time was enough for chaos to erupt in his head: wasn't it extremely strange to suddenly act so attentive? What if it made him uncomfortable? Why was he worried about what the Soviet man thought or felt?
—This isn't another one of your tactics to spy on us, is it? —this amount of words were the only thing America needed to stop the turmoil in his head, at the cost of making him nervous. Luckily, USA was that kind of man that knew how to hide his emotions well.
—Pfft —he laughed—. I have better methods for spying on you Soviets than making a simple phone call. Relax, —he expressed “calmly,” which ended up mildly convincing the Soviet—. So?
After sighing with slight suspicion, the Soviet opened up a little more.
—Well... I'm... fine? And this time I did sleep. —The doubt in his voice reflected that he wasn't very used to these seemingly simple questions. He had heard them everywhere, but rarely from the mouth of someone talking to him—. So, uh. What about you? —he tried in exchange— It's pretty late there.
America couldn't help but feel pleased with such a docile answer. It was perhaps the first time he'd heard him so receptive—and without realizing it, that made him start fiddling with the telephone cord.
—Congratulations on sleeping! As for me, I'm tired. But I have no intention of sleeping yet.
—...Do you even sleep? —URSS asked, genuine doubt in his voice.
—Uh... Kinda —he replied, trying to evade the question. Immediately afterward, the American glanced at himself in a small mirror in the office, at which point he decided to remove his sunglasses, revealing noticeable baggy eyes on his face, the result of countless nights when he couldn't (or didn't want to) sleep for whatever reason. Seeing himself in that state, he made a displeased grimace and preferred to place all his attention back on the Soviet’s voice instead.
—Uh-huh. —he heard the Soviet man’s decidedly unconvinced reply—. The first time you called me was at two in the morning there, wherever you are — you said you weren’t sleeping because the UN sent you to fill out some paperwork as punishment. The third time you called, you said you weren’t sleeping because of work. The last time you called from your house, and you weren’t sleeping because your dog got sick and you stayed up late to take care of her. So why aren’t you sleeping now?
America felt himself enter a slight state of shock at the intense attention he was receiving from him.
—Wow, you remember all that? —he asked, a hint of fascination in his voice—. Let’s just say this time it’s work again.
—"Let’s just say"? —he inquired to know more, but America hardly ever liked talking about his problems with people he appreciated, so he didn't explain right away—. What do you mean by "let’s just say," America?
—Wow, we’re feeling inquisitive today, huh? —It was a fair attempt from United States to avoid answering him, but he knew deep down that it was useless... Because Soviet Union always cast a kind of spell on him that ended up making him reveal even how many times he breathed a day.
—You started it, now I want to know how you are doing.
—Aww! Just because of that, I'll tell you —and there, at that precise moment, the spell that Soviet always cast on him took effect. How did he do it? Not even he knew, but he knew it was very real — as if it were a programmed act, America again had a silly smile on his face and decided to begin opening up to him—. It's just that I got into a fight with Reagan and the others at a meeting, and all because they want to make a stupid decision instead of looking out for the well-being of Americans.
A funny laugh filled the speaker and made the American shudder.
—You, a capitalist, worrying about the well-being of others? Shocking news. Congratulations, comrade.
—As if being capitalist meant I couldn’t feel empathy- —he broke off, his surprise making him lean forward sharply—. Wait, did you call me "comrade"? So now we’re like family or something?
—No.
—Ouch... Very on-brand for communists. You only accept into your family whoever benefits you, —he sounded hurt, but something inside him told him that refusal hid something... Something that was better left unasked. At least for now.
—Yeah, yeah, whatever you say. —Soviet Union commented with that teasing demeanor he had maintained since the very beginning of the call—. Now, continue. You don’t have to tell me what Reagan’s decision was, just tell me in your own words what happened that make you angry.
And it might seem like little… but in those few sentences from the Slavic man’s mouth, America found something valuable, something money couldn’t buy: a feeling. The feeling of being heard. That "small" act was enough to provoke in the blond man a reaction he had forgotten he was capable of: a genuine smile. He wished the call could last forever... But since that wasn't possible, he did everything he could to prolong it.
Thus the minutes ticked by, with the United States recounting what had happened in the infamous boardroom —obviously, omitting details about his government's plans— and Soviet Union interrupting him from time to time, either to question him or to make observations that ended in laughter. Needless to say, their conversation was so intense that it veered off into several completely different topics. And why not? As a matter of fact, America never once put his sunglasses back on.
America didn't even think about the relentless march of time, which, although it continued to tick by, simply stood still for him. He paid no attention to the hands of the wall clock in that room, which insisted it was already July 7th — he simply drifted along like a fish to water.
—Sometimes I'm surprised by the way UN thinks, and- ah!- y'know what else surprised me? That your secretary thought I was China —amidst laughter, that was the topic they'd settled on as soon as the clock struck twelve in Arlington.
—Oh... Olga —the Soviet chuckled—. What am I going to do with her? She's very young, barely eighteen. She should've asked you more questions, probably, —he explained, while the American laughed his ass off on the other side of the phone.
—It was... hilarious... —he said as he tried to catch his breath—. I told her "arigato".
And now the one who let out the loudest laugh was USSR.
—You're a fucking clown!
—Yeah, I know —he managed to reply as soon as he regained his composure, not before running a hand over his face—. It's just that I was surprised I got away with it, and I just... couldn't resist messing with her.
—Nah, you were also lucky to choose to pretend to be him, because she’s intelligent, I swear!, but I suppose she believed you because China's been coming here a lot lately and calls me often, —the Soviet added without much thought, much more focused on killing himself laughing.
—Uh… Yeah… I didn’t know that, —the yankee feigned ignorance about China’s visits, glancing up at the ceiling and forcing a smile, as if the Slavic man were standing right in front of him—. It’s good that you get to be visited often, Sovi.
A few more minutes must have passed with USSR simply would not stop laughing. Perhaps the joke wasn’t that great, but if it was enough to hear that laugh, which was so rarely heard, then he would come up with more nonsense like that. While his telephone companion was venting his glee, United States took the opportunity to remove his elegant coat and place it on the table, an action prompted not so much by the heat, but because his face suddenly felt like ten suns without him quite knowing why.
After that, America got up and sat down at the table, at which point he picked up the device again and put it to his ear. The bursts of laughter he heard as soon as he did so brought an instinctive smile to the North American's face.
—Oh... By the way, —at some point, the other man had calmed down enough to continue the conversation—, speaking of visits, when are you coming to Moscow?
—Um, maybe in a few months, —he replied somewhat hesitantly, and without warning, his face grew even warmer—. But, uh... why do you ask? Ah, no, I get it. I knew you missed me.
—No way, not at all! —USSR protested amidst laughter—. I just wanted to know so I can leave Moscow that day.
—Yeah, sure, whatever you say, —he rolled his eyes in the friendliest way possible—. As if we could run away from our diplomatic responsibilities.
—I wish we could, —and although the comment still retained a touch of humor, you could clearly tell there was a hidden longing within his voice. And America had started recognizing that feeling damn well some time ago.
A softer laugh followed, perhaps born from the irony of it all —for beings like them— of wishing, even for a moment, not to represent. Or perhaps… born from the warmth that came from understanding and being understood.
Inspired by the sentiment, the country of fifty stars decided it was a good time to delve deeper.
—What would you do if you no longer had to represent a country or obey orders from your superiors?
—Hmm...
The Slavic pondered for several seconds, which was understandable, since it was not an easy question at all. However, there is always an answer to it, because everyone has, at some point, had dreams that go beyond the ordinary.
—This is... selfish, and it sounds like something you'd do, but I'd go far away and have my own home.
Strongly drawn in by his answer, USA wanted to know more.
—What would your home be like, Mister Selfish? —he replied after chuckling briefly at the Soviet's initial comment.
America could almost see a smile on that crimson face of his historical enemy, who let out a sigh full of amusement and enlightenment through the American telephone receiver.
—I don't know, it's the first time I've thought about it, America. What do you suggest?
—Uhh... A cabin would suit you, —he decided without much deliberation. As he listened, with his free hand, America delicately caressed the table—. Y'know, a cabin in the forest, one that doesn't feel scary, but cozy —he elaborated on the idea, when suddenly he felt the gentle urge to lean back on the desk where he was sitting. And so he did. Slowly, speaking in a calm tone, he laid back until he felt the wood against his skin—. Yeah, you could be happy there.
—Huh —the other man giggled—. Sounds nice, but somewhat lonely. —he sighed, then added honestly—, I wouldn’t really know who to ask to come with me.
—Uh, maybe your Soviet Republics? —the blond one suggested, placing the base of the red phone against his chest—. Y'know, your daughter, Russia. Or Belarus, Georgia, well, you'd know better.
—Yeah... Well... About that, —he hesitated—, they, uh, don’t get along very well with each other. Three days ago, Lithuania broke Ukraine's arm, and Ukraine, along with Kazakhstan, retaliated by hanging Tajikistan upside down from a tree —anecdotes like that could probably be counted on the fingers of everyone on an entire continent. And yet, USSR never quite came to terms with it — just like now, hr was always reluctant to admit that he didn't know how to manage his own people properly.
—'The hell man... What the hell is wrong with your republics? —and he, as always when he heard about these events, brought up his concern: something unheard of, since America rarely showed that empathetic side of himself to other people—. They don't get along with you either, do they? —he inquired further, unconsciously pressing himself closer to the receiver.
—That's right, —he confirmed with clear weariness—, last week Latvia said she was fed up with me; years ago I discovered Armenia had a voodoo doll with my face on it and several weird things stuck into it- oh, and Estonia looks at me with fear every time I walk by.
With each example the Soviet presented, the American's brow furrowed more and more with anguish. Although, of course, he couldn't deny that some of them seemed so absurd that he didn't know whether to laugh or anonymously call the authorities in Moscow
—. Oh no, —that was all he could manage at first. But he always had this urge to fix things—. Well, what if... you apologize to everyone? It's never too late, you know...—he suggested, rather hesitantly.
—I… I can do it, but it doesn’t guarantee they’ll forgive me. But, uh, I understand them, really. It’s complicated.
It was then that his deep voice finally reached bitterness. And the American pressed his lips together as he always did when he couldn’t refute his rival. He, better than anyone, knew that there were cases in which a simple “I’m sorry” wasn’t enough, or did more harm than good. And from the little he knew, the communist’s relationship with his republics was one of those cases.
So the American decided it was time to stop looking for solutions when no one had asked him to, mainly because his concern now rested on that somber tone of voice the Soviet had adopted, which only made America’s throat tighten.
—Well, then I’d go with you, —he continued, trying to cheer up his telephone companion—, but only for a while. Sounds good?”
—It’s better than nothing, —his slightly joking tone showed that America’s attempts had not been in vain at all—. But you’ll have to help me take care of the cabin whenever you visit.
America let out a short laugh, relieved as if he'd accomplished a great feat.
—Don't worry, I'll cook and do the laundry, and you clean the house and walk our pets.
—Our pets? —A small glint appeared in his voice. And perhaps it was just the blond's delusion, but he could swear he heard a giggle accompany his question.
—Hell yeah! Why not? We'll have two dogs - one of yours and mine —he explained more eagerly, trying to reignite that glint in his rival—. And a cat! Oh, and we can have a bear as well, but it'll be up to you to tame it.
—America, for the last time, we don't tame bears here, —he clarified, now with growing amusement—. Besides, I'm allergic to cats.
—Oh, well- well... —he dodged the obstacles to the plan as best he could— ...Well, that's no problem, Sovi! No bears, then, and instead of cats we'll have a turtle, and we'll name it Donatello.
Without warning, a laugh burst from the Slav's mouth, nearly making America jump out of joy at having achieved his self-imposed goal of making the Soviet forget his bitterness for a moment.
—Oh, man, you're totally out of your mind! —he said—. Make it two turtles, and we’ll name the other one Mikelandzhelo.
From then on, it became impossible for America to hide how fascinated he felt with USSR’s agreement. With an enchanted smile, United States replied more calmly.
—WE are out of our minds. We sound like chronic asylum patients, but deal.
The other man’s laughter reaching his ears became the melody and final piece needed to complete a masterpiece created by the two of them: one in which the whitish ceiling of his office served as a canvas, allowing him to place upon it all the elements of that fantasy created by two rivals who, perhaps, understood each other like no one else in this world could.
He imagined there, on his canvas, the cabin, the forest, their pets, both of them, and also peace: that which he thought he had forgotten a long time ago, but that returned that night with unprecedented force. That was what it was: a chimera, the improbable presence of warmth in the cold surroundings in which they had lived for decades, except that at that exact moment, it felt real. And that was all that mattered. It really was.
He found himself so captivated by the idea that he could easily have stared at the ceiling for entire hours with a huge grin spread across his face. And so it would have been, had it not been for the very melody that completed the masterpiece abruptly collapsing, taking the entire dream with it.
It was a cough.
He'd heard that before. It wasn't a cough born of laughter. It was more of a sign that reality existed, and it was dimmer than America ever wanted to admit.
He swallowed every last trace of joy he'd felt until recently; his smile, on the other hand, transformed into the most vivid display of fear imaginable; his heart raced, but this time it wasn't from joy. Bringing his feet back down to earth was painful because of how sudden it was, though he managed clumsily to sit up on his desk.
His hands were trembling - no, his whole body was. He gripped the phone tightly, paralyzed, unable to find anything to say or do, as the coughing fit showed no sign of abating. The only solution he could find in his helplessness was to stay glued to the phone and wait for the storm to calm down.
For it's almost torture to know that the storm never ends, it only loses intensity, isn't it?
A whole minute passed. Or perhaps it was a minute and a half. But the American's hopeless and terrified expression didn't change in the slightest, unlike the Soviet's cough, which subsided when that time had elapsed. Silence soon reigned on the phone line, as neither of them knew what to say, or if speaking at all would be wise.
America was the one who knew least what to do. He knew nothing, absolutely nothing. And yet, that didn't stop him from trying.
It was quite difficult, however, his desperation was the key factor in breaking the cold ice—. Sovi...? Are you feeling... any better? —His trembling voice finally broke through. The response from his eternal rival? Just a broken "mhm".
—Is there anything I can do to... help you? —the yankee insisted after some time. But this time he received no reply beyond a labored breath.
This only made the American more nervous: there was nothing he could do, for he knew perfectly well how they had reached this point. There was nothing he could do... except be there. And he didn't even know if that would be of any use to the Soviet.
—How are your cracks...? —his final question, uttered after a deep sigh, was what opened the door to continue their dialogue.
—...You already know that, —the Slavic's deep voice had shifted to a weak, trembling one—, they’re getting bigger and bigger. The other day I started coughing up blood, but that's something you didn't know.
There it was. That damned feeling of regret and guilt that never quite let America sleep at night.
—I... I'm so sorry.
—Don’t be, it’s not your fault either, America. And even if you were at all to blame, I suppose we’re even now.
—"Even"? —his confusion was genuine. He didn’t feel the Soviet had done anything truly serious to him in the past—. Why do you say that?
—What do you mean, "why"? —a bitter laugh came through the speaker—. Don’t you remember losing an arm in ’75 because of me? Or have you already forgotten about that after sweet-talking so much through these calls?
The American, frowning and sweating, quickly tried to find justifications for what had happened as soon as he remembered. For America, it was perfectly logical to think that the USSR hadn't hurt him that time. It was his soldiers, and his own fault too, for meddling where he wasn't wanted. Yes, that MUST have been it.
—No- uh, ah- that- that was different! —he tried to argue afterward. He couldn't have anticipated the flat response the other was about to deliver.
—No, it wasn't, America.
—It was! —he grabbed his hair in despair—. You weren't even the one who directly caused it, and- and my damn arm regenerated in a year-
Hearing the last part, USSR scoffed ironically.
—What do you mean? That it's different because you managed to recover from it and I won't be able to do so?
—Ah?! Wha- Soviet, y'know I didn't mean that! Don't say nonsense, man! —given his agitation, and because his heart was no longer racing from excitement but from anguish, he tried to calm himself with a long, deep sigh, just like he did during his countless public speeches—. It's just that you've been like this for so long and... and... —he could simply not form a non-self-incriminating sentence after what he said—. You know I didn't want it to end like this...
—But it did, America. Anyway, you didn't do it, I did it to myself —his voice, hoarse and tired, was now more pronounced—... Don't take too much credit for it.
The telephone line between the Pentagon and Moscow fell flat silent after that last sentence. Several minutes must have passed, during which America fought to hold back even a single tear. He didn't even know why he was crying. If anything characterized her relationship with the Soviet, it was confusion. The fact that he wanted to cry, talk for hours, laugh, and blush over his supposed enemy always left him immensely bewildered. It was a feeling he simply couldn't resist. And perhaps, just perhaps... deep down within him was the certainty that he would not be able to live if he left for evermore.
—I'm so, so, so sorry... —the American finally wailed.
—Sure you are, —the black-haired man responded—. Just... it's alright, forget about it. —he sighed—. I have things to do, America. You should go to sleep now.
—Can I... call you again?
—Yes, Америка.
—M'kay... Bye-bye.
—Пока.
There was nothing after that. Not a sound from him, nor a movement. Only the constant weight of knowing he had begun to lose a part of himself he would never get back. Only the ill-at-ease feeling of a stream of tears running down his cheeks until they fell and darkened onto his suit. Only the flat, deafening beeping coming from the red telephone because there was no one on the other end.
Dawn had probably already arrived, but that didn't really matter. The inevitable happened: he hung up too, and had to put his sunglasses back on to shield his eyes before anyone could discover what they were hiding. Roger arrived a few moments later, only to receive firm orders from his boss to delete the information he had gathered during the call.
After all, that information would be just useless to him now that he knew he had won and lost everything at the same time.