Work Text:
December 25th, 1991, Saint Petersburg
A sea of familiar faces, ones America hadn’t seen since the 1940s, spilled from Russia’s mansion, carrying boxes and shuffling somewhat eagerly in the opposite direction of the entrance. Evidently so inclined to leave, they completely brushed over the presence of the United States of America standing outside. America stood loitering at the front entrance, and while observing, was freezing his ass off. It wasn’t his typical Christmas Day, that’s for sure.
Usually, he’d seek out Mattie and facilitate some human-like brotherly normalcy between them, something they’d both been chasing since before they knew years had numbers, since before Finland found them, since before England and France declared themselves their parents. They’d exchange gifts, catch up with each other’s lives, and volunteer at soup kitchens. It’s been a slow transition in breaking the barrier colonialism forced between them.
Surely Canada would be upset he rushed over to Saint Petersburg, not because he felt Christmas was such a sacred occasion, but because he knew America– Alfred well enough that after his visit in Saint Petersburg eventually came to an end, he would come home aloof and unresponsive, hermetically hiding himself away until the ache in his chest subsided.
Somehow, Canada could always tell when his brother was in the company of the Soviet Union; it was almost like the closer the proximity the United States and the Soviet Union occupied, the lower the temperature dropped throughout the world, and a sentiment of imminent catastrophe was on the precipice. America smirked, thinking about how angry his brother would be. Though he knew Canada should not be surprised. Some wondered if America and the Soviet Union liked getting a rise out of one another or if they liked getting a rise out of the bystanding nations.
One nation stopped in his tracks upon seeing America: Lithuania, whose terribly exhausted expression turned bewildered. He ducked his head and asked: “America, what are you doing here?”
America refrained from looking too surprised. It had been so long since he had seen Toris. He straddled a broad crescent smile on his face. “Lithuania, long time, no see. Have you had a merry fall of communism day?”
Lithuania sustained an apprehensive laugh; his voice became heavy, pulling a force of gravity in his words. “Tell me you’re not here to celebrate that with Mr. Russia.”
“I don’t plan on fighting with him. Don’t worry about it,” America eased. He took a hand he kept buried in his pocket and clapped it onto Lithuania’s back. “Iv- Russia and I have history predating this, you know. Before this… we actually used to be…” America trailed off.
“He isn’t in the mood for jokes now,” Lithuania warned. His fingertips grew red from the cold and the weight of the box in his arms. “He’s not happy we’re all packing up.”
“Oh, I’d imagine as much.” America cut him off, only to be cut off himself by a hollering German voice. He turned his head to find the familiar albino man causing a ruckus before his departure. “I’ll, uh, have to visit you in Vilnius sometime.”
Lithuania seemed to notice America’s thoughts derail.
“You haven’t seen Mr. Prussia in a minute, have you?” He asked tenderly. America only shook his head, not taking his eyes off the ballistic man. “I’ll see you in Vilnius, America.”
“Fuck this place! Fuck you, you, you, and you!” Prussia was generously scattering out middle fingers to nations passing and especially sticking it to the front entrance. “I’m going to fucking Berlin or better yet, New York, see you never, you stupid sons of bitches.”
America turned his head to bid Lithuania farewell, but he was already gone.
“America! Alfred! What the hell are you doing here?” Prussia lunged in for a hearty embrace. He wrapped his arms around America. “I could hardly recognize you, holy shit! You’ve gotta be five inches taller than fifty years ago.”
“Not exactly something you’d know from Soviet newspapers,” America replied, squeezing Prussia tighter in his arms. He was much thinner than he used to be, and there was less force in his grasp. He nevertheless mustered the strength to pull America’s neck underneath his arm and rub his knuckles into his scalp.
“Oh man, this place was a nightmare; I’m getting so drunk tonight the newspapers will be writing for weeks!” Prussia cackled. “I still don’t know why you’d come to hell on earth, on purpose!”
America gave him a lopsided grin. He used to think of this place differently. European history was so vast compared to his that he might have trouble remembering just how fond America once was of this place. “Everything Soviet has been the center of my foreign policy for the past half-century, Gil.”
“I miss when your foreign policy was as simple as hating Britain. That bastard makes himself so easy to hate.”
America laughed. “Agreed.”
Prussia’s arms were mostly empty-handed, other than a potato sack he slung over his shoulder. “Listen, buddy, it was nice– awesome seeing you, but I seriously don’t think I can stay any longer.” Prussia glanced up at the building, seemingly nauseated at the thought of lingering. “I’m outta here. If you wanna see me… Write to Ludwig when you get the chance; I’m still figuring out what the hell I wanna do from here on out.”
America’s shoulders fell, but he nodded. “Yeah, I get it. I’ll only be here a minute. I’ll catch you later.”
Prussia walked off, without looking back once.
America advanced into the mansion as soon as the last nation, Belarus, left. Things must have been seriously wrong if Belarus was leaving. It solidified that Russia was no longer the Soviet Union, and America couldn’t be happier.
He stood in the doorway, skidding through the foyer and meandering down the halls. Not much has changed since the 19th century, America noted. It was just as cold, and just as grandiose. Intricate patterns etched in the walls, panelling, and mantels, foiling the brutal Soviet infrastructure he’d thrown together after the revolution. The mansion reminded him of a time when Russia was pleasant and reserved, and not brutish and imposing.
“Russia!” America called out. There was no reply. He stuck his head in each room he passed. It had been almost seventy years since he had wandered these halls. America climbed up an ornate staircase and continued to call out Russia’s name. His nation's name.
America stopped at the end of the hall on the second floor, standing in awe, throwing his eyes on the horizon through the view of a massive window from a limestone terrace.
Surely enough, there was a creaking of a heavy boot stepping on a weakened part of the floor. America responded by turning his head, finding the towering Goliath of a man tunneling his vision in on him. Anyone other than America would’ve had goosebumps cascading up their arms from his jagged amethyst gaze.
“Hello there, comrade,” America snarked, crossing his arms pompously. “Love what you’ve done with the p–“
Russia cut him off, irritation prickling his words. “Do not speak to me in English.”
“What?” America tightened its upper lip, forcing a sarcastic smile. “Do you speak Spanish or maybe Creole?”
“You’re not funny, Amerika. You can either speak to me in Russian, or you can go back to fucking D.C.”
America reluctantly obliged; in Russian he said: “Merry Christmas to you, too.”
In Russia, Christmas is celebrated on January 7th, and America was aware of this. Russia’s eyes narrowed. “What do you want? You are the last person I want to see.”
America’s face fell. “Trust me, I’d rather be catching up with Canada right now, but I figured this was kind of important. I just thought I’d stop by, y’know?”
Russia glared at him with infernal vitriol, which was axiomatically demonstrated through a tight-lipped smile that exuded vast amounts of cruelty. What exacerbated the tension was a question posed by Russia that, in turn, America would have to answer. But America was unshaken by this. “You would rather get crushed into dust instead of seeing your brother for Christmas?”
America was silent, unwilling to engage in Russia’s obvious effort at provocation. He stifled the knee-jerk reaction to remind the Russian man that he was not exactly in the best position to crush anyone to dust.
Both of them, at one point, wanted to topple one another. Russia sought to teach the younger nation a lesson, while America sought to lead with finesse. They relished watching the other sweat with paranoia and exploring how far boundaries could be pushed. Others did not like seeing this. The world watched as two inconceivably equally massive sources of power catapulted towards one another and threatened to detonate the world into nuclear hell.
Yet, there was a sweetness to their rivalry from the lingering feelings of the eighteenth century. Truly, nobody so intimately understood the Soviet Union better than the United States, and nobody was so soulfully attuned to the affairs of the United States better than the Soviet Union. After half a century of suspicion, distrust, and ferocity, clinging to these attributes towards one another so tightly, they never thought the need for them would one innocuous Christmas day cease to exist.
How could America not show up? When the past sixty-eight years– roughly a quarter of his life– had been orbiting the ordeals of the Soviet Union! To Russia, though, it was simply a short footnote in his lifespan. To America, it was everything.
“Today is truly a strange day; I must be dreaming,” Russia said with faux joviality. He shook his head in disbelief. “I managed to shut your fat pig-dog mouth, and all of my friends are leaving me. How strange.”
America stroked his chin, feigning confusion; he didn’t mean to be so inflammatory. “Gosh, it’s almost like when you don’t kill your dissenters and– well, let me see– made life shittier over a shitty arms race, nobody wanted to be a part of your shitty ass emp—”
The collar of America’s white button-down was caught in Russia’s gloved clutches. Forcefully yanking him forward with one hand and the other, winding back and balling into a tight fist. He let go of America’s collar and clamped down roughly on his throat, his palms enclosing as hard as he could.
“Didn’t… plan on… fighting,” America choked out in raspy English.
Just as his knuckles collided with America’s face, Russia felt a sprouting of pain rippling under the right side of his abdomen as a smaller fist wedged itself under his ribcage.
America tumbled backward, his body following his projectile head, but managing to catch himself with his hands, he threw them backward to prevent his skull from cracking on the hard flooring. A lingering buzz tickled America’s ears. He scrambled to his feet and noticed a wetness on his lips. The metallic taste indicated blood flowing from his nose.
Meanwhile, Russia tilted over, clutching his side. He recovered similarly and brushed the pain away. Putting in his full weight, his arms whistled through the air, going in for another swing at America’s face. America was able to maneuver out of the way and landed a hard kick to Russia’s abdomen, pushing him backward.
Russia somersaulted to prevent the air from being knocked out of his lungs. America was coughing, trying to catch his breath. America’s vision doubled, and he was registering Russia’s movements slower than they were happening. Before he had time to react, Russia’s fingers were wrapped tightly around his neck. He lifted America off his feet and slammed his back into the wall.
“Tell me now,” Russia’s tone was frigid and cruel like an endless Siberian winter. “Why shouldn’t I kill you right here?”
“I– won’t stop y-you,“ he croaked. America hacked up blood pooling in his trachea. His breaths were rapid and shallow, indicating the pain of a collapsed lung or perhaps a broken rib. “Bush is sev— seven thousand miles aw—ay.”
Russia’s teeth gritted so hard he thought they would shatter.
“Only… I know you won’t.” America, much to Russia’s confusion, mustered a sly smirk.
Despite the turmoil they created, the animosity they fostered, and even the love they once shared, Russia was sure that America was the only nation alive or that would ever live that he was utterly feckless against when it came to intimidation and control.
“You talk so much for a pig drowning in its own blood.”
“Listen, Ivan–“
The grip Russia held on America’s neck faltered, but it didn’t capitulate completely. When America brought his fist up, and it happened in an instant in Russia’s eyes, he noticed no trace of malice, only a firm flicker of melancholy in America’s eyes. America’s knuckles smashed into the side of Russia’s head. His punch was a hundred times harder than any he’d landed on him before and surely any he had ever witnessed. Dread pooled in Russia’s gut: had America been holding back? If the fist had landed on anyone else, it surely would have killed them.
A torrential storm of pain thundered in the crown of his head. Russia’s balance equivocated until it gave out, feeling as if the world began to spin out from underneath his feet. A dull ache on the other side of his head was dwarfed, but vibrant as his skull met harshly with the floor. Before his vision teetered into darkness, he watched America wipe blood from his lips as he held his head in his other hand and knelt at Russia’s side.
“Fuck,” America cursed. His hearing was the last sense to go. In America’s dulcet voice, he heard: “Ivan. Forgive me.”
Russia’s eyes fluttered, and gradually the blur wafted away from his vision, and it began closing in on the ornate detail that spiraled on the ceiling of the Winter Palace in Saint Petersburg. Sunlight stung his eyes.
“Ivan, wake up!”
A violent throbbing rattled his head, accompanied by a sharp pressure that felt like the weight of a million bricks clamping down upon his skull. His back was against the wall, cold and hard. He could burn all the trees in Finland, and it wouldn’t raise the temperature of the floor by more than 3 degrees.
“Russia, the American colonies are here, and you will not make a fool of us!”
Colonies? Ivan thought.
The last thing he could remember before waking up was a heavy onslaught of a singular fist, lifting his feet from the ground and blowing him backward. The anger dissipated only slightly, leaving him wondering what exactly he was fighting about. Knowing the situation, with America visiting on— granted not his worst day— but a fairly bad time, he deduced it hadn’t been pretty.
Ignoring the pain in his head, he struggled to his feet, not without his joints crackling under his weight. Once upright, there was a brief moment of dizziness and apprehension about standing akin to being drunk off your ass. He stood, and Russia could accurately assess he was back in the Winter Palace, only he couldn’t place the reason. He hadn’t set foot in the building in almost seventy years. He furrowed his brow. The halls of this palace should be exceptionally cold, almost as cold as the outside. He looked out the window to see that heavy blots of white sprinkled down from the sky. It was nostalgic.
More nostalgia crashed into him like an avalanche chasing him down a mountain. The fabric draping his body was thick and layered on like onions. It was his favorite waistcoat from the 18th century. He smoothed it out like a replaying memory. Cold, calloused fingers ran down the expensive silver buttons and decorative pendants. It didn’t feel archaic like it should. It felt new, rare, and well-made.
“Russia, are you listening to me?”
Russia jerked his head in the direction of the voice, and upon seeing who it was, there was an achy squeeze that drained all of the blood from his heart. Catherine.
Her plump face was contorted, puckering a worried frown.
“Are you alright?” Catherine asked.
Russia’s eyes welled up as weakness grew in his chest. “Catherine… oh god…”
Am I dead? Ivan thought to himself. Did America kill me?
“What is the matter, Russia? We haven’t got time for accidents.”
Ivan cleared his throat. “I am fine, I—“
He swallowed his words. Catherine took his hand and pulled him into the corridor. It slapped him with thoughts and memories he was forced to suppress.
“The American Colonies… you said?” Ivan asked. That didn’t sound right at all.
“Suicide Colonies more like it. Have you seen the boy?” Catherine scoffed. “Poor thing thinks he can rival the British Empire.”
“That is certainly audacious.”
“I couldn’t agree more. Have you ever heard of such a thing as a colony declaring independence? I certainly have not. The idea is ludicrous, but can you imagine if he were to succeed?”
Ivan wanted to laugh, knowing the outcome. During Alfred’s first visit, Ivan remembers feeling despondent when the boy left. Thinking he was going to die. A nation with the spirit like Alfred either wins or dies.
They stopped outside the door where guards were stationed. America and his ambassadors were just behind the walls. Ivan still hadn’t processed what was going on. Catherine turned to him.
“Be polite. We will enter. We shall greet. I shall have a separate conversation with the ambassadors. You occupy the nation— colony.” She corrected herself. “Just like normal.”
“Understood.”
“We’re ready,” said Catherine. The guards readied the door
Ivan tried to brace himself when he laid eyes on the colonies, but it was no use. The door opened, and seeing Alfred felt like it did the first time, but with the suppressed vehemence of the past two-hundred years forcefully rattled against the chains in his heart. It was really Alfred. The man he fell in love with.
Alfred was so small compared to his 20th-century self. America began wearing glasses when he acquired Texas to make himself look older. It worked wonders because Russia could hardly look at him with an ounce of animosity without them. His shoulders were narrow and scrawny. Hair wispy and long. His envoys and officials had done their best to make him look presentable, but it was evident that the boy had been pulled from a war zone to be here. There were scratches and lacerations around his face and neck. His breathing was shallow and reluctant, like his ribs had been broken. Despite this, his eyes burned like sulfurous volcanoes with the resolve of a million rebels who made their way and forged greater lives in his strange home.
Russia tried to pretend he didn’t know him, but the swelling feeling in his chest was too devastating. Thumping roaring in Russia’s ears. It was Alfred— America. Russia began to think he was sent here as a cruel joke. A reminder delivered to him from some comedic genius.
“Greetings, Your Majesty,” one of the ambassadors said. Francis Dana, Ivan remembered the man. Ivan knew how this meeting would end. Dana brought fourteen-year-old John Quincy Adams with him. This was not an impressive spectacle. At the time, Ivan remembered thinking that supporting the revolutionary cause would have made Russia just as suicidal as the colonies. As much as the young colony had made an impression on him, Russia was not the land of hopes and dreams like America was.
Of course, Ivan thought to himself, America would think he could defeat the British Empire.
Alfred was right, though, because he did defeat the British Empire. But back then, he was the kind of nation you would want to root for. His humble, ambitious origins only fueled his present day pride.
“Greetings, Mister Dana. I’m relieved to see you arrived safely. Please introduce me to this young man.” Catherine gestures to Alfred, who smiles at her. Ivan remembered the first time Alfred's smile made him curious about him. Smiling was not a common expression.
“My name is Alfred Jones. I represent the United States of America.” America introduced himself, and stressed his new surname, Jones, as if he had spent hours practicing it and mulling it over in his brain. “I-it’s a pleasure… Your Majesty.”
Alfred spoke more formally when he was younger. At some point he realized he did not need to be so uptight anymore because he had something to show for his rebellion. Seldom do nations have something to show for it. The humor was not lost on Ivan as he thought about the Bolshevik revolution and what he had to show for it now.
Ivan remembered cringing at America’s wavering firmness upon meeting him, but also finding it quite endearing. It was something new, and untouched. This was the first time he had seen a colony— or a nation try to prove they were a nation. Alfred was born trying to prove something. Ivan guessed that urge to prove something never left him. Perhaps if the British Empire was more accepting of his colony gaining independence, America would have been an ordinary nation. Without the penchant for being the strongest, the wealthiest, the smartest. In the end, Alfred certainly proved that not only was he a nation— he was the nation.
“It’s a pleasure to finally put a face to the name,” Catherine spoke enthusiastically. “This is Ivan Braginsky. He represents Russia. I would like to speak with your envoys here while Russia discusses… erm… nationhood.”
“I’m sure you could learn a thing or two,” Adams whispered to America.
America nodded.
Russia realized he was not a spectator in this. He opened his mouth and said exactly what he remembered.
“You can follow me.”
Russia exited the room, and Alfred tried to keep up with his pace. They walked down the corridor. Ivan was stunned, trying to make sense of how he could be back here, meeting Alfred for the first time… again. Alfred doesn’t mind Ivan’s silence. His eyes scanned the grandeur of the halls and the lavishness of Ivan’s clothing. America was dazzled by the sight of wealth and power, and he makes no effort to hide it. Soft expressions of awe escape his lips and his bright cerulean eyes expanded to the size of burning stars. They do not have such structures in the New World, Ivan deduced.
“Your palace looks much similar to France's palace in Versailles. Do you know him?”
“Yes.” Russia and his nobility wore French clothing, ate French food, and spoke in French often. Russia wondered if this was why he was seeking help from him. Despite his fondness for French culture, Russia was far from a French ally. America was the opposite. He was only sparsely influenced by French culture, but joined at the hip during his revolution.
“Where are we going?” America asked.
“Courtyard.”
America was dissatisfied with a one-word response. “You don’t talk much?”
Russia took a moment to respond. They appeared in front of a large door somewhere in the center of the palace. Russia opened the door and led America through a massive white archway that flowed into the courtyard. The sky was overcast, but still beautiful, and the fountain at the center was frozen over. Russia and America looked up at the trees. Russia was gripped with emotion, while America was staring in amazement.
“It must be isolating to be the first colony to declare independence,” said Russia.
“I am not a colony. Not any longer.” America spoke dispositively, like he was a judge putting down a gavel. “I am a nation. The United States of America.”
“You will be a nation only if you surmount the British Empire.”
“When I am, you shall visit my home. I am sure that would get Britain riled up.” America’s voice thrummed mirthfully, ignoring the pain in his side and his face lighting up despite the bruising and blemishes.
“You want me to visit?” Russia asked incredulously.
“I have been told you like sunflowers. I have fields of them in Maryland!”
Russia had been deeply moved. Adoration igniting in his heart sent heat spiraling through his core and up his face like a brimstone fire. America’s uplifting atmosphere had been so foreign to him back then. Even now it is still just as infectious. He could not help but smile with him. Muscles flexing in parts of his face that he thought atrophied away.
“That sounds like a dream,” Russia accidentally said our loud. “Who told you I liked sunflowers?”
“France. He told me not to come here. I think he knew I wasn’t going to listen.”
“You are not very obedient, are you?” Russia wanted to comment on how classic that was of him.
America grinned. “That’s not always a bad quality.”
Russia agreed with a familiar stabbing feeling of jealousy in his stomach. “What did France say about me?”
“It is not polite for me to repeat him. His opinions are his own.”
Russia shrugged at that, nearly certain that France had told him he was a brutish and cruel nation. America had not known what it meant to be a nation yet; that much could be seen. The opinions of nations were intertwined with the opinions of their people and their leaders. At least, that was what Ivan always assumed. America seemed to challenge that, all throughout history.
“What are your opinions?” Russia couldn’t remember if that was what he said the first time, but it didn’t matter.
“That is a good question.” America chewed on his busted lip. “I suppose Thomas Jefferson said it well in the Declaration of Independence. Government power is derived from the consent of the governed. My opinions are gaining popularity in France. I’m unsure, though, if he is willing to help me for that matter or if he only wants to kick Britain's ass.”
“I’m sure it is the former,” Russia assured.
“You’re most likely correct. Although France has always said he’d be there for me if I needed anything. I like to think he is as indignant about the injustice of my people as I am.”
“What sort of injustice has Britain inflicted?”
“Thomas Jefferson listed twenty-seven grievances with the King in the Declaration of Independence. Among them were that he has dissolved our legislatures, cut off our trade with the world, and deprived my people of trial by jury.”
Russia remained stoic about his grievances. Injustice was a part of everyday life for him. But Russians always made great hostages in their country. Russia could endure anything, and it would take conditions that would make the devil shudder to get them angry. This was never something Russia could understand about America. It would be easier for him to accept the drawback and humiliation of being a colony than go through hell trying to make it as a country. Countries were not born of colonies anyway. America knew this. He was determined to be the first.
Snow had begun falling, as if on cue. Ivan remembered when this happened for the first time, but it was even more resplendent the second time. Alfred’s nose wrinkled as he smiled, eyes sparkling like stars in the sky. Jutting his hands out to catch snowflakes in his palms. Ivan noticed his arm was wrapped in cloth, and seeping with blood. Alfred didn’t seem to notice. A youthful laughter sang out of his chest as he looked up at the sky.
“Just like New York City. Your country is very beautiful, Russia.”
Ivan gripped his chest. Flecks of white speckled Alfred’s hair and crystalline flakes sparkled on his blotched skin. Redness soaked into his skin from the cold, painting his cheeks and nose the color of red roses.
“Once you win against the British Empire, I would be honored to see your country.”
Somehow Alfred’s smile broadened. He took Ivan’s hand and squeezed it. “Consider the war won. But I will warn you, there is much to see.”
“I suppose I have not looked at the colonies—“
“States,” America corrected.
“—on a map.”
“It’s about six times the size of the United Kingdom,” he bragged. “And I plan on growing.”
“That is impressive… but Russia can fit seventy United Kingdoms. You have some progress to make, young nation.”
“Hey, there you go! Nation… that’s me.” Alfred’s eyes sparkled. “I’ll be a nation… of progress. There will be no stopping me.”
Ivan’s face softened. Alfred was like a pinned butterfly as a colony. For a moment, Ivan seemed unaware of the last seventy years of history. All he wanted was to see America free.
“Russia,” Catherine called from the white arch at the entrance of the courtyard. “We have reached an agreement.”
Alfred’s eyes shot over to Catherine. They hurried over and spoke in hushed tones of agreements of neutrality. Alfred, though disappointed, found himself brimming with pride at doing things nations did, like diplomatic traveling and agreements.
On a quay of the Baltic Sea, Alfred and his envoys prepared to board a ship homeward. Russia and some palace officials had escorted them there. Russia noticed he had not felt the sickness in his stomach this time. America would be okay. More than okay, if anything. Alfred promised to write to him, and they spoke about plans of when the war was won.
“There are these huge prairies back home, and it’s so flat it’s like you’re standing on a disk. You see so much of the sky, it’s almost intimidating. You can see all of the constellations exceptionally clearly; I actually began to chart them myself.”
“That sounds beautiful.”
“I’m gonna go there one day.”
“Go there? Where?”
“Outer space.”
Ivan hitched a breath. The boy in front of him was aiming at the stars with a blotchy purple and green bruise around his eye and a fractured rib. Is this really where it all began? Ivan remembered how absurd this sounded when he heard it. Little did he know at the time. But who could have known? It was impossible to guess this little, scrawny, beat-up colony would have conquered the moon— let alone go on to be his rival.
“You should go with me,” Alfred said. “I want to dance with you on the rings of Saturn.”
“Go to space with you?” Ivan leaned in.
“Of course.” He replied confidently.
“Few nations have the bravery to be alone in a room with me, you know.”
Alfred blew a puff of air through his teeth, trying to imagine a world where he would be afraid to approach Ivan. The truth was, even being his worst enemy and greatest rival had not made America fear him. Ivan realized, the second time around, that nothing could scare him away.
Maybe fate did not cause the Cold War, or the Bolshevik revolution, or the manifestation of Das Kapital, but it had tied Alfred to Ivan. Little America did not know how intertwined their destinies were then. Their threads of fate knotted, impossibly, infuriatingly, and infinitely entangled.
“I wouldn’t want you to be my enemy, Russia. No matter what.” He looked up at him solemnly. “I used to be close with Britain and now… well, I don’t want that to happen with anyone else.”
Ivan’s chest collapsed. He couldn’t remember at what point their lives converged forever. Perhaps it was upon first meeting. But down the line, the fickle thread of fate, they would experience the intrigue, leading into infatuation, and descent into maddening obsession and tense turmoil. On Christmas Day, their thread of fate drew them back together in Saint Petersburg.
“It’s part of nationhood,” said Ivan. “One day you and Britain might reconcile. And I shall stand against you. But don’t wait for it to happen. Savor the time it is now. Relish our bond and miss it when it is hiding.”
Whether that was what Ivan said the first time was lost on him. Either way, it was the right thing to say.
“America, we should board,” Adams said.
America glanced at Russia and then back to Adams. Russia knew he’d be thrown back into war as soon as the ship docked. But he also knew America, though on a suicide mission, would prevail. It should be disheartening to him as his adversary, but Ivan loved Alfred all the years he had tried to destroy him.
“You owe me a dance when the war’s over,” Alfred said.
“I promise you, America…” Ivan held up his right hand. “A dance on the rings of Saturn.”
Ivan watched America board the ship, a fleeting sorrow burying in his chest. Perhaps remnant of his worry from the first time they met. A sick feeling that Britain was going to kill him. Or that nationhood would eat him alive.
“You are unusually gentle with him,” Catherine teased.
Ivan stiffened. “What about it?”
Catherine smirked knowingly. “You poor thing. You may be good at hiding that affection, but not as good as you think.”
Ivan’s head pounded as he stirred. He was whispering to himself and bringing his hand up to feel his face. There was a bruise across his eye and a welt growing on his face. It was sore, but Ivan knew he deserved it.
“Mornin’.” That familiar tenor voice was like honey in his ears. Clanking of pans and pots chimed off the walls, accompanied by the humming of a gas range oven. The smell of pork and vegetables wafted through the air, tangoing with the scent of apples and cinnamon.
“Where are we…?” Ivan croaked. He was sitting on a leather sofa. Judging by the structure of it, he was back in the 20th century.
“My cabin,” he replied. “In Nome.”
“Alaska?” Ivan said. He felt a fur blanket draped over his shoulders. Fire crackled in front of him, warming his cheeks. Near the door was a kerosene heater. It radiated heat almost better than the fire. Dried sunflowers were hanging on the wall next to a cinnamon broom.
“Yep. This cabin used to belong to some Russian settlers back in the 18th century,” Alfred said. He was in another room scraping something from a pan. The kitchen, where the smell was finding him. “They left for California soon after I purchased the land.”
The concept of pale Slavs in California was beyond his comprehension.
“I… I apologize. For punching you.” Ivan said. “Are you alright?”
Alfred appeared through the walkway that led to a kitchen. His face was bright. He held two plates on a tray in one hand and in the other, two beers. Pelemni was steaming on the plates as he set them down on a coffee table in front of the sofa.
“Don’t worry about me. You shoulda seen the other guy,” he remarked with a cunning grin before handing the plate over to Ivan. “I should’ve watched my mouth, though. I never wanted to fight. Maybe I should, uh, walk the talk or whatever the saying is.”
Alfred sat beside him, enjoying the food with his legs curled up. There was a small television atop the banister of the fireplace where an NFL rerun was playing. His eyes glittered with the flickering of the fire.
Ivan observed Alfred. He saw the idyllic youth gleaming under his glasses, morsels of the dreamer who wanted to sweep Ivan into his pursuit of happiness. Alfred was the same as the colony whom he spoke to in Saint Petersburg. He wished he had told the young nation he would become everything he had wanted to be. And that when it came down to it, nothing— NATO, ideology, proxy wars— could ever truly wedge between them. At least not forever.
“I had a dream. When you knocked me out.” Ivan bit into the Pelmeni. It was delicious. He sank into the furniture. It had been ages since his soul had felt this much at peace.
Alfred tore his eyes away from the television. “Oh yeah? About what?”
“Just… about something I had forgotten.” Ivan pondered telling him and opted to shrug. “I suppose it wasn’t that eventful.”
“That’s nice, though.” His eyes returned to the television and he scarfed down another pelmeni. “Uneventful is good.”
“Can I ask you a question?” Ivan asked before taking a swig of beer.
“Lay it on me.”
“Do you still want to dance with me on the rings of Saturn?”
There was a beat of silence. Alfred slowly lifted his head. He looked like a wax statue left out in the sun. Softened and mellow eyes searched Ivan’s gaze as if to say: Oh god, he’s serious.
Alfred dropped his plate and crawled into Ivan’s arms, forcefully pressing his lips to his. Ivan kissed back, his eyes shut tight. Beer seeped into his lips and coated his tongue. He brought his hands up to Alfred’s jaw and trailed his fingers down to his neck and around his nape. Alfred embraced him, pulling him closer by hugging around his shoulders. They kissed as if they were starving.
“You owe me a dance. Don’t think I forgot,” Alfred whispered in Ivan’s ear.
Ivan lifted Alfred to his feet and wove his fingers through his like an elaborate tapestry. They forgot all about the pelmeni and the half-empty beer bottles. The stone floor in the living room was strong enough that they could dance for the rest of eternity. He spun him, Alfred’s blond sunshine hair fanning out, and a hearty bellowing laugh erupted from Alfred’s chest.
Alfred pulled him close and inhaled, holding him flush to his chest as he dipped him to the floor and swung him back upward. Pressed together, Alfred could feel Ivan’s heartbeat tap merrily against his. Every so often they joined in a kiss and only let go to breathe.
Decades of unexpressed love unraveled in the remote stretches of Alaska, a place they both called home. They danced together on a mosaic of quilted feelings until the sun rose, and if it was up to them, they would dance on the rings of Saturn for seventy years to make up for the lost time.