Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Boston, Massachusetts, 1732

“Tell me a bedtime story?” 

America is on the cusp of graduating from childhood, not quite grown into the lankiness of his teenage years yet, with a question on his tongue and a need in his eyes. 

England, having already risen halfway off the bed after tucking his colony in, just sighs. 

“Alfred,” he begins, his tone admonishing but gentle, “you’re far too old for bedtime stories.”

America’s mouth twists. Rarely does England ever share stories with him anymore before bedtime, which is something the young colony is slightly disappointed about. As much as he would complain about how boring they were, he secretly misses England’s stories; they were told with fervor, chocked full of excitement, painting a vivid picture of enchanted forests and dangerous adventures to an easily enthralled America. However scary some may have been, the stories always soothed Alfred; they helped ward off the nightmares by allowing his imagination to roam wild as he drifted off into sleep’s peaceful arms. 

Now the nightmares have returned, and with nothing to block them out Alfred is helpless to their vicious torment. 

Lately it has been a cruel repeat of the same dreams, playing over and over again every night without fail. He sees glimpses of dense smoke clouds and black ash falling from a red sky; of man-made horrors beyond his comprehension; of political discourse and civil unrest; and of adversaries that bark at each other in familiar and foreign tongues alike. 

Most nights the dreams are too blurry to decipher. Others, they are clear as ice. Each one lasts no more than a handful of seconds, slipping from his memory like sand when he opens his eyes. Yet every time they happen they feel so real, so frightening, as if Alfred has been dropped into the shoes of this person he has never met, living vicariously through someone he is not. 

That isn’t to say there haven’t been times when the dreams were pleasant, because there have. Alfred can recall, just barely, one dream he used to have for nights on end: behind the eyes of this stranger, he admired what appeared to be a public park of sorts. Frosty air nipped at his face, kissing his nose bright red, but the person didn’t care for the blistering cold. He was alone, which was always a welcome respite from the busy life he led. On the bench he sat he would watch as the translucent skin of the lakewater froze over, trapping the aquatic life underneath in a cage of thick ice, and later observe the people that arrived shortly after to skate upon it. Occasionally, he would take breaks and glance down to write. Despite his best efforts Alfred could never make out the words on the parchment, only that the person writing them smiled fondly as their quill danced across in elegant motions.

Those were the dreams where Alfred could truly feel his soul tethered to this person’s own, where he could truly feel their tranquility. Their love. It smelled of sunflower petals blooming in the early spring, tasted of peculiar yet delicious cuisines he’s never tried, and felt like the warm embrace of a late summer afternoon breeze.

But now the dreams have become unbearable. Agonizing. Leaving Alfred to awake in a cold sweat during the dead of night, crying out into the emptiness from a pain in his bones that isn’t his. And he wants nothing more than to get rid of the dreams for good so that he can sleep soundlessly again. 

In spite of Arthur’s unspoken rule about sulking, Alfred can’t help but pout—it’s the only thing that increases the odds of getting his way. Ninety percent of the time, at least. 

“Please, Arty!” He adds the nickname for extra effect. 

Arthur frowns, considering. Those pleading blue eyes do drive a hard bargain. He inwardly curses, looking away as he shakes his head low. Hell, sometimes it still stumps him how this one boy can bring a ruthless empire such as himself to his knees with just a look. 

This boy is going to be my downfall.

It only takes a few seconds for Arthur to acquiesce, sitting back down on the bed, and Alfred has to hide the smile that threatens to tug on his lips at his small victory. 

‘Arty’ —works like a charm every time.

“Well,” Arthur begins, “what would you like it to be about?” This warrants a hesitant pause from Alfred. He has never been given the option to choose before. Normally it’s Arthur who picks because they’re his stories to tell, not the other way around. 

…Though he’d be lying to himself if he said he wasn’t thrilled at having the freedom to choose for once. 

Alfred chews the inside of his cheek, thinking. Winter snow and love letters float to the forefront of his mind, tempting. Tan fingers fiddle with the edge of an impossibly scratchy duvet.

“Soulmates,” he says quietly, and the word tastes bitter, wrong, like saying it is forbidden. Judging from the tension that seizes Arthur’s shoulders, it may as well be. 

“Alfred…”

Alfred winces at the warning in Arthur’s voice, but nevertheless he continues. “I hear whispers,” he says, “in every colony. All the time. About soulmates. I would just like to know because…” He chooses his next words carefully, “Because I think the information would be a great asset to my understanding of the colonies; and of my people.”

Not a complete fib—Alfred wouldn’t dare pass up an opportunity to connect further with his citizens. However he omits the real reason, a part of him thinking that these dreams have something to do with the subject matter at hand. 

There's only one tiny problem though, and it’s that soulmates are seldom talked about around England, always being a topic to avoid when the empire is nearby. But there are instances where Alfred gets possessed by the irresistible urge to ask, and when he does foolishly give in to that urge Arthur shuts him down at first notice. 

Like right now.

He’s sailing into uncharted waters, but the desire to know is too much to bear. He needs answers. 

Meanwhile Arthur, still mulling over the decision, concedes for the second time tonight. 

“As you wish,” he says, much to Alfred’s surprise—though he’s not complaining. Not one bit. 

The bed frame groans as Arthur relaxes back onto the pillow next to Alfred, chin resting idly on steepled fingers while he conjures up a story. 

“Once upon a time,” he starts, “there was a princess named Amelia. Now don’t let her title deceive you—she wasn’t your average princess, who was timid and in constant need of saving. Far from it, actually. She had a fiery spirit, and a tenacity which rivaled that of the king’s. Whenever she had a goal, nothing could stand in her way from achieving it.” 

Arthur glances at Alfred, who is listening to every word being said with bated breath. The empire’s lips quirk upward, and he continues on, “For as long as she could remember, Amelia had wanted a soulmate. Time and time again she would dream of meeting him—she would even lie awake at night just to wonder what color he would leave behind when they first touched.”

One day, she was taken by a dragon. Locked in a tower and secluded from the outside world, Amelia prayed that her soulmate would come rescue her and slay the evil dragon. For years she waited in that tower, only to find out she was holding onto an impossible wish.”

Alfred leans forward. “And?”

“Her knight in shining armor never came, because her soulmate was never a knight in the first place, like she had hoped; it was the dragon.” When Arthur finishes there, Alfred gawks.

“That’s it?” Alfred asks incredulously. “That can’t be it! Where’s the happily ever after?”

Arthur tries to conceal a laugh, but the smile on his lips betrays him. “You’re incorrigible, child,” he says through an amused chuckle. “But unfortunately, not everyone has a happy ending—our kind not excluded. Sometimes, fairy tales just stay fairy tales. I told that story to temper your expectations.”

“Well, I reject that ending,” Alfred announces stubbornly, crossing his arms. Determination flashes in his blue eyes.  “I’ll make a better one in my dreams! One that has a happy ending, where the dragon and the princess become friends and fall in love!”

Arthur’s laughing now, and Alfred doesn’t know if he’s teasing him or not before Arthur’s reaching out to pinch his cheek— an endearing gesture that has Alfred batting the empire’s hand away childishly. 

“I know you will,” Arthur says with a small smile. He means every word; Alfred can tell.

Planting a swift peck to Alfred’s forehead, Arthur stands once more and goes to snuff out the candle. But before he can leave Alfred sits up in bed, plagued with a question.

“Arthur…” 

Aforementioned empire pivots, candle hot in his grasp.

“Yes?” 

“Who is your soulmate?” 

Arthur’s features turn glacial cold, and Alfred suddenly regrets asking. 

“They’re better off a distant memory,” is all Arthur replies with. Alfred notes ‘them’ , not ‘she’. 

“All this talk about soulmates.” Arthur sets the candle down, and his tone becomes serious. “Are you having dreams?”

Alfred’s brows furrow. “How…no—?”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Alfred,” Arthur reassures his fretting colony. “Everyone has dreams early on about their soulmate. Though they never last longer than childhood.”

Alfred bites his lip, frustrated. “I can’t make sense of them. It’s like they’re from another world.”

“That’s because those dreams are glimpses into your soulmate’s future,” Arthur tells him, and Alfred’s mouth parts as understanding dawns on him. The empire sighs, perching himself on the edge of the bed and laying a regretful hand over Alfred’s.

“Forgive me, Alfred. I should have had this conversation with you a long time ago. Bonds forged between soulmates are…well, they’re special, as you may have heard; they run viscerally deeper than any other,” Arthur explains, sparing no time at all diving right into the subject. Green eyes flicker down, and soon he’s lifting Alfred’s hands between them both. “See this birthmark on your palms?” he asks. Alfred nods. “This is where your soulmate will leave a color on your skin; it’s where you’re both destined to touch. But it’s much more than the mark.” He relinquishes Alfred’s wrists, bringing his own hand to his breastbone. 

“Every time you touch your mark, you feel their joy; their pain; their love; their despair…Their hatred.” Arthur’s hand ghosts over his clothed sternum, stalling above his heart, and Alfred wonders what color Arthur’s soulmate left behind. What pain it inflicted. 

“Such is the curse of a lover,” Arthur finishes somberly. Belatedly realizing he’s traveled too far down the sentimental path, he looks back at his colony—only to see Alfred’s mildly horrified expression. Alfred always had a sneaking suspicion that soulmates were a sore subject for good reason, but now that he knows why, he can’t deny that he’s the slightest bit terrified. 

If big brother England had a bad falling out with his soulmate, I can’t imagine what will happen if I meet mine, Alfred thinks with a gulp.

“Scare you, did I?” Arthur chuckles, ruffling Alfred’s messy blond hair. “Well, you have nothing to worry about; not all love is a ‘curse.’ Somewhere out there, your soulmate is waiting for you too. ”

Arthur pulls the duvet over Alfred once again, getting him ready for bed—as originally intended.

“Do you think I’ll one day meet mine?” Alfred asks quietly, like he’s unsure of the answer himself. Arthur pats the bedding a few times for good measure and offers his young colony a warm smile.

“I have all the faith,” he promises, and those words are enough to erase all Alfred’s doubts. With that, Arthur takes the candle and blows out its dying flame, heading over to the door. Alfred yawns, snuggling further into his comfy cocoon of blankets. 

“G’night, Arthur,” he says. 

“Sweet dreams, love,” Arthur whispers back, softly closing the door. 

When sleep finally arrives, Alfred dreams. Not of evil dragons or red skies, but of sunflowers and spring, and the promise of someone who is out there, waiting to cross paths in a future only the stars know.

Moscow, Soviet Union, 1969. 

He taps his pen boredly against the lacquered table top. Once, twice, thrice. Brings it to his mouth a moment later to gnaw on the end, then drops it onto the table with a drawn out sigh, sinking into the bony confines of his chair. 

Snooze fest: the perfect combination of words to describe this meeting, America thinks.

Not only is this unfathomably boring world meeting hosted by his (self-proclaimed and very real) arch rival, but it also happens to be dragging along at a snail’s pace, much to America’s dismay. Which, now thinking about it, isn’t all that shocking—being on the eastern side of the Iron Curtain for more than just an hour can be downright exhausting, both mentally and physically. 

Currently presiding over the podium is Peru, who, after apologizing profusely for her tardiness, rambles on about something to do with her new trade accord signed with Russia. America should probably be a little more concerned with what she’s saying, but he can’t really bring himself to pay attention aside from catching bits and pieces here and there. Whatever. He’ll have his boss debrief him at a later time. 

He looks up at the wall clock for the fifth time today. It reads half past twelve. He frowns. One more miserable hour to go.

Fingers drumming a loose melody against the table, America hazards a furtive glance at the nations on his side. To his right, Hungary hastily scribbles down notes on her jumbled pile of documents. To his left, Japan is scarily focused; he clings to every word spoken, even if what’s being said doesn’t affect his nation in the slightest. Alfred brings his eyes back to his folder, grumbling.

He wishes he could talk to someone right now. Someone who preferably isn’t England or France. It sucks that other nations barely talk to him outside of politics and current world affairs anymore, and the nations that do converse with him are always tense and guarded. Apparently no one wants to rub elbows with the nation whose motto for the past couple decades has been, ‘when life gives you lemons, make atom bombs!’—which, granted, is fair. But still.

So with nothing to capture his attention for more than a lousy minute, Alfred lets his eyes flutter close—a terrible mistake to begin with, especially being as sleep deprived as he already is. Turns out, you can build up a tolerance to coffee after nearly a hundred years of drinking it every morning. Go figure.

Drowning out the background noise of presentations, America allows his mind to wander freely. Behind lidded eyes, he’s greeted with fragments of old memories coalescing into one.

He remembers one memory, just vaguely—a story that Arthur used to tell him about a monstrous dragon that kidnapped a princess. It was one of his personal favorites as a child (and a story which Alfred later discovered drew heavy inspiration from Wales' own stories, though England would never admit it). The dragon and the princess had been lovers, soulmates, but fate made them out to be enemies. Fate can be unforgiving sometimes. America knows all too well from experience. 

Unconsciously, his thumb glides over the grooves in his palm; over the birthmark that has yet to be colored in. He smiles sadly. 

More than likely, his soulmate has been dead for centuries. It's a painful reality, but it's just that: a reality.

Love just isn't in the cards for people like them. Besides, it's pointless; it only gets in the way of things, makes unnecessary complications and leads to a mountain of problems. At least, that's what England used to spout on about in his many tangents. Still, maybe it's for the better. 

All things considered, Alfred's just glad his soulmate isn't a six-foot communist hellbent on ruining his life at every waking moment. 

“Amerika, would you like to present your piece or would you prefer to continue napping?” 

All those thoughts wither away when Germany’s gruff voice drags America out of his head and back into the present. He jolts awake, very much aware of the fact that everyone is staring directly at him. His eyes flicker briefly to the now abandoned podium. He didn’t even notice Peru had already returned to her chair. America scratches his cheek sheepishly. 

A mantra of shit, shit, shit ricochets in his head as he scoops up his folder and makes his way toward the podium. He racks his brain for a feasible excuse. 

“Sorry, I had to rest my eyes.” Not exactly a lie. “Migraines are a total bitch.” There’s the white lie. 

“Typical.”

America’s feet stall in their tracks. Blue eyes narrow in the direction of Russia, who is seated near the podium to America’s utter delight. Not.

“Ignore him,” comes England’s clipped voice while America passes by the nation on his way up, somehow reading his mind.

“Easy for you to say,” America mumbles petulantly. Taking his place at the front he sets his folder down, grasping both sides of the wooden podium. He fortifies himself with a shallow breath. 

Once he has the stage, America clears his throat. Not like doing that grabs anyone’s attention though, because all eyes are already on him. 

“Alright-y then,” he starts, showcasing his signature smile, “there’s really not a lot to say except that I’m putting a freakin’ man on the moon in a few months! Oh, and I’ve got a new boss.”

Multiple pens scrawl against paper. Murmurs flood the air. Nations listen attentively from their seats. Germany, as per usual, opens his mouth to ask something, but America is quick to cut him off when his ears pick up a grating voice he’d rather go without hearing for the remainder of the day. 

“Sorry to interrupt you there, dude,” America says to Germany, eyebrow twitching, “but I can’t help but notice that Russia said something.” Many heads swivel in unison toward where Russia sits near the front of the table, tracing with his finger the government-issued papers strewn before him; Ivan barely lifts his head to acknowledge the American as he maneuvers around the podium, slowly walking Ivan’s way. “Russia, care to join us in the conversation?”

Just like the flip of a switch, tension descends over the room in a suffocating fog. Everyone collectively holds their breath, waiting for the other shoe to inevitably drop. 

“Here we go,” England mutters, massaging his temples. Any moment now, the two superpowers will be hurling ad hominems at each other til kingdom come. If they’re lucky, ‘commie bastard’ and ‘capitalist pig’ will only be said about ten thousand times before the meeting adjourns. England sighs.

Leave it to none other than America to stir the already simmering pot. But who is America, if not someone who flirts with danger on the daily? Potential ramifications be damned. 

Russia straightens up tall in his chair. He smiles with feigned cheeriness. 

“I said, I see you’ve installed another puppet to pull your strings,” he repeats calmly. A muscle jumps in America’s jaw.

“Oh-ho, that’s beyond rich, coming from you,” he laughs dryly. “Are you perhaps jealous that I’m going to have the first man on the moon before you?”

“My animosity radar is going off the charts,” Italy whimpers, shrinking back into his chair. Germany promptly smacks him upside the head to keep him quiet. 

“I fail to see how I could be jealous when I was the first to send a man into space.” Russia’s cat-like smile only widens, his violet eyes sagacious. “By the way, how is inflation treating you? A falling dollar is no joke in today’s economy.”

“Keep it civil, you two,” England chimes in with a grumble. 

“You know that’s not going to happen,” Ireland says to him in a low hush. “That’s like asking France to keep his hands to himself.”

“Hey!”

“Er, no offense.”

“How about a change of topic, да?” Russia proposes, gesturing to the many silent occupants of the room; his piercing gaze lands on America again. “I’m sure we would all like to hear Amerika’s plan for withdrawing from Vietnam.”

America’s smile is wry. “No can do, buckaroo. I can give you a short answer though: in the kindest way possible, go fuck yourself.”

In the background, the sound of England slapping his forehead briefly cuts through the palpable tension like a flimsy butter knife. 

“So uncouth.” Ivan raises his pipe menacingly. “I can remedy that.”

“What’re you gonna do?” America challenges haughtily. “Send in spies to infiltrate my national security? Oh I know, maybe you’ll conspire with another nation bordering mine to plant missiles on their home turf? Totally by coincidence, of course.” He pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, practically looming over the other country. “Well newsflash, buddy—that’s not gonna work this time around.”

“France, do something!” England whispers harshly to the nation on his right, who pauses in filing his nails. With a determined nod, France squeezes Arthur’s hand reassuringly under the table and yells:

“Get a room!”

The meeting goes dead silent for a split second. Then, pretending as if nothing ever happened, the hostility returns like it never left. France turns to England, meeting his deadpan stare. 

“What?” he says, folding his arms defensively. “I tried. That is more than whatever you did, Angleterre.” England rolls his eyes, sliding down into his chair. I’m blaming you if we don’t make it out of this alive.

“Does it hurt, Америкос, knowing you will always be second best to everything I do?” Russia taunts, and America can feel incipient anger burning through his core, can feel his composure slipping through the cracks Ivan has methodically created over the years. 

“Probably won’t hurt as much as the broken nose you’re about to have,” he grits out, muscles poised to trounce the Russian at any given moment. 

Ivan angles his head, and there’s that look in his eyes that tells Alfred he knows he has already won this little game of theirs. Checkmate. 

“So easily riled up, just like a certain former empire who so tragically fell from grace long ago.” Ivan’s lips curl dangerously. “I guess the proverbial apple doesn’t fall far from the tree if you happen to shake it hard enough.”

With an animalistic snarl Alfred’s fist connects with Ivan’s nose in a sickening crunch, the force of the blow sending the Russian tumbling backwards in his chair and the other nations scattering to avoid their path of destruction. All out chaos erupts in the meeting room, with panicked and livid voices blending noisily together while the two nations collapse onto the floor. 

America scrambles on top of Russia, bare hands encircling around the other’s throat in a blind fit of rage and squeezing. The tipping point has been far exceeded and Alfred gladly surrenders to the decades of pent-up fury and anger and hurt that bombard him, channeling those feelings into action. Ivan’s gloved hands claw at Alfred’s, but Alfred only squeezes harder—

—until Ivan propels his hips upward and throws America off balance, the Russian immediately taking the opportunity to punch Alfred square across the jaw. But Alfred doesn’t let go of Ivan’s throat. Not for a second.

Before it can escalate any further than it already has, England and Prussia are brave enough to jump into the fray, pulling the two brawling nations apart; a few errant elbows and swings narrowly miss the other two nations, but they manage to evade most of the blows. 

“Break it up— break it up!” England shouts, more so to America, gripping America’s arm in a vice and reeling him back to his side. 

Gasps fill the air as soon as Alfred’s hands release Ivan’s windpipe, choking on wet coughs and ragged breaths. Alfred staggers to his feet as he’s roughly tugged away, still fighting to extract himself from Arthur’s steel arms to lunge at Russia, who has since been lifted to his own feet by Gilbert and Natalya. 

“That’s enough, Alfred!” demands England, trying to simultaneously calm America down and not lose his own sanity in the process. 

“Fucking bastard,” America spits, and there’s a litany of insults on his lips ready to be deployed at rapid fire speed—

—but his mouth screws shut before he can begin to dig his grave any deeper. 

Gone is the impish facade Ivan proudly displayed a few moments ago, replaced by…disbelief? Defeat? Horror? All three? No, that can’t be right. Alfred can’t stick a name to it, but whatever emotion it is, seeing it on Russia of all people—eerily-calm-and-collected-all-the-goddamn-time Russia— is mildly unsettling. 

Wrapping his loose scarf back around his exposed neck, Russia briskly dusts himself off and flattens out his disheveled suit. The silence surrounding them is deafening, asphyxiating, but no one dares say a word. 

Slowly, Alfred untangles himself from Arthur’s arms and steps back, feeling the heavy weight of everyone’s gazes on him. Their judgemental stares are only amplified when Canada whispers his name, “Al?”

But Alfred’s eyes are strictly pinned on the Russian fleeing the scene, oddly in a rush to leave before everyone else. Hot on his heels is Natalya, who follows him out alongside Katyusha and Gilbert; she glares daggers in Alfred’s direction, but he doesn’t give her a second thought. His eyes linger on Ivan’s rumpled scarf—noticing the undone bandages poking out like a sore thumb from underneath.

Maybe it’s a trick of the light, maybe his eyes are deceiving him, but Alfred swears he sees a hint of cobalt blue hidden beneath the fabric. It vanishes behind the door with Russia, and Alfred is left with the acrid tang of iron on his taste buds and a strange pain burrowed between his ribs.

Turning his head, he meets England’s eyes. Disappointment is all he reads, and it’s all he needs for his feet to carry him out of the room and down the hall, never once looking back. 

He’s only in the restroom for a minute before the door barges open, and in storms a pair of military boots striding swiftly against tiled floors. Alfred doesn’t need to look in the mirror to know who it is that walked in. He’d recognize those imperious footsteps from a mile away, having heard them scrape against war-torn battlefields for centuries. 

“What the hell was that?” England’s voice hisses from behind, and America winces as he’s harshly spun around by the shoulder to face a downright fuming Arthur. “Have you gone mad?”

England’s about to tear the boy a new one— rightfully so— but all that bubbling anger soon fizzles when he sees Alfred’s face. 

Cheeks caked in patches of dry blood and sporting a half-crooked nose, Arthur is confronted with a sight that makes his stomach churn looking at the younger nation. He lets go of America’s shoulders and lowers his arms back to his side, suddenly stricken with guilt. 

Alfred looks away, refusing to meet England’s gaze, and the shame held in those blue eyes isn’t lost on the British nation. It almost reminds Arthur of when he used to scold the younger boy for acting out of turn, many forgotten years ago.

Only this time, the trouble his ex-colony got himself into is infinitely worse and of a much larger magnitude than a temper tantrum over what’s for supper.

“Look at me, Alfred,” Arthur says softly, imploring. He mistakenly reaches forward. “Al, look at me—”

Alfred abruptly swats the consoling hand Arthur extends. A derisive snort precedes a defiant, “Who are you to tell me what to do?”

England flinches at America’s icy tone, but the flash of blood on America’s hands momentarily distracts him from the nation’s lashing out. The distraction is fleeting, however, because one look at America tells him everything. It’s like looking into a mirror.

Suddenly England is thrusted back to 1776, because it’s the same expression that was on Arthur’s face when he realized he had lost—not just the war, but a part of himself. 

He just never thought he’d see the same defeated look on America. On Alfred. 

The wounded expression he wears. The unbearable shame about what he did. The damage he can’t undo. 

Alfred knows he’s in the wrong. He knows he’s in the wrong, and it hurts more than any punch ever could.

The boy has always worn his heart on his sleeve, but Arthur can now see that it bleeds, too. 

“I’m sorry. Fuck. It’s just…” Alfred wipes an exasperated hand down his face. God, he can already feel a nasty migraine beginning to surface. 

Arthur has to remind himself that Alfred's in a fragile state of mind right now. Baby steps is what it's going to take moving forward. Before Arthur can think of anything to say, a dribble of red catches his eye.

“Here, you’ve got a nosebleed.” Arthur clumsily fishes in his pocket for a handkerchief and, beckoning Alfred forward, wipes the blood from his nose; Alfred doesn’t protest this time, only scrunching his face like a little kid who’s told to sit still but can’t. All too familiar, this feels. Arthur supposes some things never change. 

“I understand your frustration, Alfred,” says Arthur, discarding the dirty handkerchief in the bin. “He got under your skin, and you retaliated. No one blames you; to be honest, it was only a matter of time—one of us was bound to put him in his place eventually.” 

There’s a sudden sharp edge to his viridian eyes, a sort of stern seriousness that hardly ever uncovers itself anymore.

“But Alfred, you forget that we’re in his playground now,” Arthur stresses, “his territory. Any physical altercation is practically begging for the Kremlin to make a move. Not to mention the bloody fact that all out nuclear war is still a very plausible scenario.”

Alfred groans. “I know, I know. God, all I did was screw everything up. Feels like that’s all I ever do nowadays.” He hangs his head low. “I’m no better than he is.” 

Arthur frowns. He expected this pitiful amount of self-flagellation coming from someone like Italy or Romano, but hearing it come from America tugs a cord within him. A lone finger nudges America’s chin up, grabbing the nation's attention again. His features soften as he looks at America.

“Tidy up and we’ll head back to the hotel, get your mind off this mess with a drink or two.” Arthur pauses, reconsidering. “Actually, I think it’s best you go home—”

“No,” America immediately objects. He winces at his almost desperate hastiness, quickly backpedaling, “I mean…I can’t just neglect my duties. That’s not what the hero does!” 

Arthur stares at him, stupefied. Some things never change— no matter how idiotic. Try as he might to hide a smile, he can’t.

“You’re incorrigible,” Arthur huffs, a sound not unlike a laugh. “As your ally, I’ll respect whatever decision you make.” He places a gentle hand on Alfred’s shoulder. “But as your friend, I’d rather you clear your head at home than suffer a heart attack overseas from stress—and don’t give me that look, I’ve seen your cardiogram.”

Alfred brushes Arthur's hand off. “I’ve already made up my mind, dude. I’m staying. It’s only for another week.” He gives a cavalier shrug. “How bad can that be?”

Again Arthur opts to say nothing, only giving Alfred a level stare. How on earth did he ever survive raising this boy without going insane?

“What?” Alfred asks.

The innocuous look of confusion on Alfred’s face is the answer to that very question; it has Arthur battling the sudden urge to pinch his cheek. Old habits do die hard. 

“It’s nothing,” Arthur says noncommittally, pivoting on his heel and walking to the door. “The meeting reconvenes in twenty minutes.” Arthur stops in the doorway, turning his head. The barest hint of a smirk slants his lips. “In the meantime, try not to poke the bear any more than you already have.”

Alfred throws up an exaggerated salute. “Yes, sir.”

With a gentle shake of his head Arthur disappears behind the door, leaving Alfred alone for the second time.  

Guess it’s time to ‘tidy up’. Heh. British jargon.

One glance in the mirror has Alfred biting back a curse. He didn’t have time to fully examine his face before, but now that he does…

To put it bluntly, he looks like he just got his shit rocked by Muhammad Ali in the boxing ring for two minutes straight. That nosebleed Arthur helped him with? It’s nothing compared to the rest of his filthy face. Not to mention the ugly bruise coming to fruition along his jawline. And his lovely tweaked nose. Somehow, it doesn’t surprise him that Texas managed to stay intact through it all. 

Snatching a few crumpled paper towels and wetting them, Alfred wipes his face down—

He stops when he spies the red on his hands. How’d he not notice this before? Did he really choke Russia hard enough to draw blood? Now that Alfred thinks about it, Ivan did have those bandages around his throat—for whatever reason is beyond Alfred. To cover up an embarrassing birthmark or a scar, it makes no difference to him. And the blue...probably just a bruise. 

Alfred’s nose shrivels while he looks down at crimson palms, silently praying to whichever deity will listen that Russia didn’t transfer any diseases over to him. God knows he doesn’t need biological warfare tossed into the mix. 

“Gross,” he mutters, making a face. 

Stiffly, he turns the squeaky knob to the faucet and freezing water gushes out. Pumping as much soap as he possibly can from the dispenser, he lathers his hands together and begins rinsing them off.

Only the blood doesn’t rinse off. 

America blinks. 

Okay, that’s not weird at all. No need to panic. It’s commie soap anyway, so it’s automatically guaranteed to not be as effective as the stuff back home. He pumps more soap onto his hands, ignoring how they shake as he scrubs harder and harder with each passing second. To no avail, his hands stay tinged with that disgusting shade of red. 

Alfred lets the water run as he stares blankly at his now raw and pruny hands, paying no mind to the glasses sliding precariously down his nose. 

He stares and stares and stares.

The gears rotating in his mind suddenly grind to a screeching halt, and, with haunting clarity, it clicks.

His glasses clatter into the porcelain sink, cracking upon impact. 

All Alfred can do is stare as the whole world flips upside down.

“...Shit.”

Chapter Text

St. Petersburg, Russian Empire, 1776.

Within the privacy of baroque palace walls a young man sits at an easel, afforded the scarce moment where he can get away from playing soldier; where he can get away from the politics he despises so much and do something he actually likes for a change. 

The blank canvas stares back at him, waiting patiently to be given purpose. The young man flicks his wrist, and colors soar. 

Inky black tendrils drip tantalizingly slow along the rough edges of the canvas; eclectic purples and blues blur together in near perfect harmony; and flecks of white splatter amongst it all in an explosion of brilliant shades. 

The paintbrush choreographs a dance like it has a mind of its own, and Ivan bends to its every will. He effortlessly rakes it across in harsh movements, carving up a wordless story; then gently sweeps it across the crisp parchment in fluid motions, breathing life into an old memory of a nebulous future—a future where he leads a conquest in the constellations and inherits the unexplored cosmos. 

The world is the Russian Empire’s oyster, but Russia strives to achieve so much more than what spoils the earth can offer him—he strives to rise above heaven itself and touch the stars he has long been promised. And there is nothing in this world Russia craves more than to have the very stars people worship in the palm of his hand. 

For a moment the brush lingers there, hovering irresolute over the painting as fastidious eyes search for even the tiniest imperfections. Finding none, Ivan lowers it to his side and leans back to admire his creation.

Blue. So much blue, like the ocean—deep and rich and velvety, so vast he could drown in its depth just by looking at the canvas; so cold he can feel his skin prickle from its arctic chill. 

So familiar, yet so foreign. 

Something stirs within him, looking at the canvas. Something primal, something alive— it’s an electric spark winding down the narrow chasms of his heart, rendering him breathless, exhuming buried memories and bringing forth distorted dreams and nightmares to a murky surface—

It’s the feeling of loneliness, larger than any shadow and heavier than any burden.

It’s navigating congested St. Petersburg streets on a cold and rainy afternoon, surrounded by people who pass him by without exchanging a word; it’s observing from afar a woman throwing herself into her lover’s arms after he returns from a victorious war, and kissing him as if it’s their last hour on earth; it’s overhearing little kids’ excited chatter on his way home from a long day, and smelling freshly baked blini through open windows as his empty stomach rumbles. 

But beneath that loneliness, there is a sort of tangible warmth. 

Ivan rests the paintbrush on the easel. If he could, he would never take his eyes off of the canvas. There is something about it that soothes him, serving as a temporary antidote to the chronic ache that’s been living in his chest for as long as he can remember. He suddenly yearns for open blue skies, and he prepares to stand—

Behind him, large doors groan as they’re pushed open, and a new pair of footsteps echo in the room. There’s a low whistle.

“I see you’ve spruced up the place.”

Ivan stills, pulled from his thoughts by a voice he hasn’t heard in what feels like a lifetime.

There’s no denying how his heart flutters when he spins around to see Prussia standing in the corridor’s entrance, enormous grin and all. 

“Beilschmidt,” Ivan says, almost caught off guard. He finishes standing up—perhaps a bit too quickly, because the bench teeters awkwardly on its legs before settling. Gilbert holds in a laugh when Ivan flusters, but he skillfully recomposes himself. 

“Braginsky,” Gilbert acknowledges shortly after, grin never fading. “Long time no see.”

Russia doesn’t dawdle; he quickly closes the distance between them, standing before the other nation who, he notes, hasn’t grown any taller. Once upon a time they would have embraced, or maybe would have even shared a secret kiss. But those days exist only in memory now. 

Instead, Russia greets the Prussian with an invitation. 

“I was just about to go on a stroll outside. Walk with me?”

“Oh? Is this a date?” Prussia jokes, “Because it sounds an awful lot like one.”

Russia just shrugs nonchalantly, his smile sweet as wine. “If you would like it to be.”

Prussia huffs. “Alright, then. Lead the way.”

Out in the garden area, servants tend to the vegetation, avoiding the two men as they make their way down a stony path with no particular destination in mind.

It isn’t often that Gilbert and Ivan see each other outside of their demanding lives, but things have changed after the formation of their still-nascent alliance. Right now, they are not the bloodthirsty enemies they once had to be. They are allies on a simple stroll.

Allies who have evolved from a history of past conflicts and impulsive desires, and have since put aside their differences to prioritize their respective countries. 

While they walk, a gentle breeze flutters Ivan’s scarf to and fro. Mistakenly, he has forgotten how keen of an eye Gilbert has; when his scarf flutters the Prussian spies the birthmark around Ivan’s throat, paler than the otherwise normal skin bordering it. A necklace that has yet to be colored in by another set of hands.

“Still haven’t found your soulmate, huh?” Gilbert asks. It’s a harmless question, but oddly enough it makes something bristle inside Ivan.

“I don’t have the time to worry about love,” the Russian replies, in wooden tones. 

“That’s not what you thought a few centuries ago,” sing-songs Gilbert with a suggestive eyebrow waggle to match his equally mischievous smirk. Ivan doesn’t indulge him.

“Times change. So must we.” 

Gilbert’s expression flattens. “Okay, Herr Stoic, do you mind pulling that stick out of your ass so we can enjoy this totally-not-romantic walk? I think we’ve earned it.”

“Say that first sentence again and I will rip our treaty to shreds and toss it in the fireplace.”

“Shutting up now.” 

Peaceful quiet soon drapes over them again, save for the sound of birds chirping and leaves rustling in the wind. As they travel along the sinuous path between neatly-trimmed hedges and spiraling trees, Russia steals his own glance at Prussia’s left hand, where he knows a birthmark resides. He watches as it swings back and forth with each step taken, and notices how the lavender in Gilbert's palms peeks out every now and then with the movement. Russia’s smile wilts.

“I see you have found your soulmate,” Ivan comments. “I’m happy for you, Gilbert. Whoever it is, they are very fortunate to have you in their life.”

When Prussia’s eyes harden, Ivan gets the feeling he already knows who it is. 

“Unfortunately, we’re not on amicable terms right now,” says Gilbert. He snorts humorlessly. “Imagine that—after hundreds of years searching for my soulmate, you’d think we would be inseparable. Fate can be so cruel, ja?”

In lieu of a response, Russia hums in agreement. That cinches his suspicions. At the end of the day, there is only one person in the world Gilbert reserves that contemptuous look for.

Ivan doesn’t dwell on Prussia’s confusing love life; instead, his placid gaze surveys the garden as they fall back into a comfortable silence and resume what they had originally planned to do: walk. 

Many of the flowers and trees are starting to bud, heralding the beginning of spring. Petrichor hangs in the air, but the clouds in the sky appear too sparse to carry heavy rain. For all he knows, it could snow in the next few hours; it is cold enough. Trust only the weather to be as capricious as the politics that ravage Europe.

Tilting his head back Ivan inhales the earthy scent, soaking in the apricity he often takes for granted in St. Petersburg around this time of year, enjoying this little green sanctuary he loves so much. He looks over at Gilbert, and a lancet of pain spears him.

The way his pale hair captures the thinning veins of sunlight, casting the faintest halo around his head, makes Ivan’s heart throb. Like an angel immortalized in the stained glass of cathedrals, he’s an ethereal sight to behold. It took him a while, but Prussia has finally grown into his position as one of Europe’s preeminent powers, wearing his strength proudly like an emperor wears his crown. Yet he has never lost sight of the nation he started out as, like so many nations who become drunk off their first sip of power.

Gilbert Beilschmidt has remained recognizably himself through the years, and Ivan can’t help but be immensely grateful for that. 

“Have you heard?” Gilbert suddenly asks, breaking Ivan’s reverie as they continue walking. “There’s talk about a new nation fighting for emancipation.”

Ivan inclines a brow. “In Europe?”

The Prussian shakes his head. 

“From overseas, believe it or not. In the Americas.” Consider Russia’s curiosity piqued. Gilbert lazily kicks a stray stone. “The colony is severing his ties with Britain for good. Kid finally grew a pair and realized that Daddy England isn’t the perfect nation he desperately makes himself out to be.” Gilbert guffaws, a sardonic sound; he roughly kicks the next stone in his path. “Serves the bastard right—now he’ll know what it’s like to be stabbed in the back.”

“Are you still holding that grudge?” 

Footsteps stop dead in their tracks. “After he cut me off and left me in the dust? Damn right I am.” Gilbert shoves his hands into his military coat pockets, a bitter scowl twisting his lips. “I’m not going to waste my time burying a hatchet that doesn’t deserve to be buried in the first place. Son of a bitch can rot, for all I care.”

That’s fair. Russia doesn’t exactly have the most stable of relations with the British either, so he understands to a certain degree where Gilbert’s anger stems from.

When Ivan looks back at Gilbert, there is a newfound conviction written in his features that wasn’t there before. 

“I’m gonna help the kid gain his independence,” Gilbert declares. “Just to see the look on that smug bastard’s face when he loses his precious little colony”—he sniggers—“it’s gonna be priceless!”

Russia, unphased by Gilbert’s self-absorbed tittering, silently stews over the new information. Well, the information isn’t anything new , per se—he has heard rumors even in his country of a fledgling democracy on another continent, and how they’re putting up a valiant fight against the British Empire’s tyranny—but what happens to snag Ivan’s interest is the fact that it’s a colony choosing to sever ties with Britain. It’s almost unheard of for a colony to challenge an Empire, let alone revolt against one. Almost like an ant that foolishly thinks it can survive the boot that hovers above it. Though Russia supposes that a million ants could probably stand a decent chance against one boot; he’s seen it happen before. 

Could freedom really mean so much, even if the impending shadow of failure is nigh? So many nations have tried. So many have failed. But some have succeeded. 

Against the British Empire? None have dared. 

He is suddenly reminded of an old mythological story about over-ambitious desires and melting wax wings.

Ivan doesn’t fully realize he has stopped walking until Gilbert turns around and says, “What’s up? You’ve got, you know”—he waves a hand in front of his own face—“that look.”

Finding himself lost in meditative thought for the second time today, Ivan recollects himself. 

“It’s nothing,” Ivan dismisses; he looks through the aperture of a nearby hedge, out toward the setting sun. “I was just remembering an old Greek myth I learned about a while ago.”

The last slivers of daylight bleed onto a darkening sky, bathing the royal garden’s lush plants in divine veils of gold. 

Within the realm of Ivan’s peripheral he spots a red rose, already in full bloom despite winter’s presence. Ivan doesn’t know what compels him to reach out and take it—maybe because it’s the only rose in bloom, or some other reason he can’t place—but he does it anyway, severing the rose from its home in the soil and giving it a twirl. 

“It isn’t often that one goes head to head with an empire like Great Britain,” Ivan murmurs, absentmindedly. His eyes never drift from the rose, as if engrossed in some otherworldly communion. Gilbert traces Ivan’s gaze to the flower as the Russian begins to pluck its fragile petals. “I wonder if our new friend will fly too close to the sun, or have his wings clipped before he gets the chance to spread them.”

Ivan plucks until one petal remains. He rubs it between the pads of his fingers, carefully minding its thorns. 

The petal is spared in the end, and he lets the flower fall to the ground.

“Or maybe he’ll succeed. Who knows.”

He stares out at the sun as it disappears below the horizon, ushering in the shining stars above. 

“Only time will tell.”

Moscow, Soviet Union, 1969.

With the meeting room fully vacated, every nation takes a brief recess after the—for a lack of a better term— fiasco that transpired a few minutes ago. As for Russia, he has long since retreated back to his own hotel room, sequestering himself inside from even his two sisters who had adamantly insisted they keep him company. While he appreciates their concern, and quite honestly would like to have a shoulder to lean on, he can’t bring himself to be around them right now. For just a while, he needs to be alone. He needs to think. 

He needs to breathe.

Ivan wastes no time stripping his clothes when he’s finally away from prying eyes, feeling too encumbered, too restricted in so many layers. He practically flings his suit onto the bed, struggling to undo his tie— (please, fingers, quit shaking)— before it too slides off and joins his abandoned suit on the bed, leaving only his white dress shirt underneath. Trembling hands raise to unravel his scarf—

—but they abruptly stop short of the fabric, hesitating. Then, defeatedly, they lower back down to his sides, clenching into fists. 

He takes his first breath since he left the meeting room. Slows himself down. One step at a time, he reminds himself. Decompress first, then improvise from there. 

With agonizing slowness, Ivan shuffles toward the nearest mirror in the room. It’s an ornate thing, embellished with scrolling curves and intricate gold carvings, framing smooth glass that gleams from the wall sconces’ light. A decoration fit for royalty, or some high-ranking politician. Certainly not for the person he is confronted with in the mirror.

Ivan takes in his reflection with a curled upper lip. Displeased eyes rove over his all but unkempt appearance— from his smeared bloody nose, all the way to the scarf that now droops sadly around his neck, exposing the culprit of his current plight: an incongruous ring of blue around previously pale skin. If he looks close enough, past the loose bandages that normally hide his scar, he can make out the faint indents where blunt nails pressed down. Fingers graze gingerly over the sensitive area, still tender. Still burning. 

Nausea curdles in Ivan’s gut. He feels sick just looking at it. Mortified. His fingers itch for the pack of cigarettes stashed in his suit—his only source for relieving stress these days—only to belatedly remember that he’s not even wearing his suit. He doesn’t bother turning around to retrieve it, his feet anchored so firmly in place not even a hurricane could knock him down. 

Like clockwork, every bad thought suddenly worms its way into his brain in a mad frenzy. 

Forget the humiliation of being throttled front and center on the world stage by America—what will Brezhnev think when Ivan breaks the news to his boss that he is inextricably tied to the enemy? Even if what happened was purely accidental, Ivan doesn’t see his boss taking too kindly to the situation. Besides, how can someone sugarcoat a fact like that? How can the RSFSR? And that dreaded conversation isn’t even the tip of the iceberg. This entire predicament has inadvertently set off a chain reaction that could lead to a lot more harm than good, even if Russia chooses to play his cards right. Too bad he’s been dealt the shittiest hand of all. Given his luck, he’ll be amazed if he survives just the conversation with his boss. 

Russia grips the wooden dresser in front of him with so much force it splinters. 

He should be angry. He should be furious. And he is, deep down. But those emotions dwarf in comparison to the anguish that now consumes him. 

This must be what it feels like to have a stake driven through your heart, Ivan thinks weakly. 

Another cross to bear. Another burden to shoulder. Another problem to deal with. 

Just when things were starting to look up, the world went ahead and ripped the rug right out from under his feet. 

Billions of people in the world, and it just had to be him.

America. 

America. 

The nation who is synonymous with arrogance. The West’s poster boy for their convoluted image of ‘freedom’. The mascot of all things cocky. 

Ivan can’t process the thought that it’s Alfred who has left a band of blue around his throat, let alone begin to digest it. Blue—the color Ivan used to love. The color of open skies and calm seawater, now wrapped around his neck like a permanent noose. God, if he thinks about it too much, he’s convinced his brain will begin to leak out of his ears.

It’s safe to say that Alfred and Ivan were altogether cut from different cloths. While Ivan considers himself more refined and silky, he isn’t without his jagged edges; however America is all jagged edges, and by far the most textured of them both—an unfortunate byproduct of his British upbringing. He’s snobby, childish, conceited, unbearably obnoxious, infuriatingly stubborn. Pretty much every terrible quality that exists under the sun, and then some. They're opposites, in every sense of the word.

But even Ivan can admit (much as he loathes to) that when he’s not acting a fool, Alfred can be… tolerable. Dare he say entertaining, if only to antagonize; smart when he actually tries to be, and surprisingly Machiavellian in ways that stump even Ivan on occasion.  

Maybe if history turned out differently, they could have found a way to each other. But between clashing ideologies and an acrimonious relationship dating back decades, Ivan knows that line of thought is only a pipe dream—one that he shouldn’t even be considering as a fucking possibility in the first place.

He can’t help but think this is some cruel joke fabricated by the universe to spite him. Years, centuries of waiting for this moment, sometimes wishing it would come, most of the time praying it wouldn’t, and now that it’s here…

Ivan takes another deep breath. Draws himself up from where he's hunched over the dresser, and wipes the dry blood from his nose. He studies the cracks he’s created in the polished wood. 

Then, as if struck with some earth-shattering revelation, violet eyes widen as the first sensible thought he’s had today pops into his mind. 

Perhaps he is looking at this too laterally. Being a nation of science and mathematics, he should be taking into account other variables—of which there are plenty. Pessimism aside, he needs to think logically.

It isn’t all black and white, as the West likes to paint it. Love, hatred, good and evil. Somewhere in the middle lies a gray area, and, however tiny it is, Ivan is now determined to find it. 

Maybe, just maybe, this is the foothold Russia needed to make progress with the West. This is how he can instill a sense of respect for the USSR from abroad, and revive old allyships while nurturing new ones. Finally hoist his economy up from where it’s plummeting, and welcome with open arms a new era of technology and prosperity to the USSR.

The opportunities are endless. They’re attainable. And Ivan isn’t one to pass up an opportunity that can lift his nation back onto its feet, stronger than ever. 

This may very well be the fork in the road he’s been waiting for, now gifted to him on a silver platter.

But he can’t let anyone know. Not when he’s dealing with the loose canon that is the United States of America; one word of this and he’ll be accused point-blank of fraternizing with the enemy. Diplomacy is within his grasp, but it will take more than a few months to reach it. Possibly years, just to sew back up the wounds he and America have given each other. 

So Ivan will keep this under wraps for the time being. He won’t tell his boss, or anyone for that matter. Not until the time is right. It’s between him and Alfred now, and, depending on how Ivan approaches this, they can both either walk away satisfied or send mankind into a devastating nuclear holocaust.  

Ivan much prefers the former solution, and he gets the feeling Alfred would, too.

Ivan Braginsky is as versatile as the RSFSR is durable. It will take more than an unfavorable destiny to buckle his knees. 

After all, if Alfred Jones has taught him anything, it’s that if there is a will, there is indeed a way.

And Ivan thinks he knows just where to begin.

Chapter Text

Moscow, Soviet Union, 1969. 

Water sloshes over his broken glasses, but he can’t bring himself to move even an inch to pick them up. Not when he can’t even pick himself back up. Figuratively, of course. But he fears that very soon it will be literal. 

Two minutes Alfred has been here, feet rooted in place, staring in abject horror at crimson hands, knowing very well there isn’t a damn thing in the world he can do. His fate was already set in stone the moment his fingers curled around Ivan’s throat. No, before that. His fate was sealed from the moment he took his first breath.

He was condemned to this nightmare from the very beginning. 

Alfred is fully convinced he just beat the world record for the fastest person to go through all five stages of grief. Twice. Because this right here? This is the real red scare. 

He can already see his grave taking shape— whether he’ll be personally buried by Belarus or Russia himself is the million dollar question of the century. One that Alfred is not too eager to find out. He shudders at just the thought.

It’s a miracle he hasn’t passed out cold on the floor yet—‘yet’ being the operative word.

Alfred grips the countertop for purchase, his legs feeling a bit too wobbly for his liking now that he thinks about it. Shit. Shit. Shit. 

An instruction manual about soulmates would be super handy right about now. Preferably one with a chapter dedicated to coming to terms with the fact that your soulmate is, as it turns out, your sworn mortal enemy whom you despise with every fiber of your being. Alas, that’s not how life works; there won’t be any instruction manuals falling conveniently from the sky anytime soon, much to America’s disappointment. His sigh comes out more like a trembling breath. 

There’s no denying it; not when the evidence is staring him back in the face. Ivan is his soulmate. No rhyme or reason to it, he just is. The red sullying Alfred’s hands is proof enough. Might as well have a fucking hammer and sickle tattooed to his skin. Christ . 

Alfred rakes a hand through his hair. He can shout ‘out damned spot, out I say!’ to his heart’s content, but it’s not going to fix anything. What he really needs to do is stop his mind from racing at the frantic speed that it's currently going. Slam on the brakes, so to speak, and gradually reel himself back in so that he can mentally recuperate. He sucks in a steep breath, straightening his posture. 

Never mind how he fled the meeting room with his tail tucked between his legs like a fucking coward. Never mind how he transformed tepid waters into molten lava, or how he basically committed political suicide on the spot. What is he going to do? What’s his next course of action from here? Persuade Russia not to immediately slam his hand on the red button? 

Retiring that train of thought before it flies off the rails, Alfred proceeds to do what he does best: compartmentalize. Usually when it comes to clusterfuck situations such as this one, he finds that it’s always your safest bet to categorize your thoughts into ‘worst-case’ and ‘best-case’ scenarios. Plus, it helps calm him down. If only just a little. Anything helps. 

Okay. So. Best-Case Scenario: Russia is open to negotiation, whatever that entails— Alfred will cross that bridge when he gets there. Next, they actually agree on something for once. That agreement being: they pretend this never happened and somehow the conflict resolves itself nice and neatly, never to be spoken of again. Both parties go home happy, and Alfred ends up supergluing gloves to his hands for the rest of his life. Bonus points if he ends up winning the space race later on down the road. 

Then there’s the dreaded Worst-Case Scenario, AKA they have entered Defcon 1 territory: Russia acts in typical Russia fashion—he calls up his boss (the one with eyebrows that could give England’s a run for their money) and shortly thereafter the trigger-happy nation blows America to smithereens. Poof. So long, USA. 

“…I am so fucked.”

Screwed the pooch? Check. Plan to apologize to Russia? Work in progress. 

As much as he would rather blow off some much needed steam, America has more pressing matters to attend before the meeting resumes. Like reconciling with Russia. And what better olive branch than sincere words of apology? Hopefully the bastard will think they’re sincere; after all, the world’s fate quite possibly hinges on whether or not Russia will accept this apology. Knowing how obstinate Russia is when it comes to anything America has to say and that the Soviet nation always opposes him at any given chance, America isn’t all too optimistic about how this is going to turn out. For all he knows, he could be opening a whole new can of worms he could, quite frankly, go without. 

Still doesn’t hurt to try, though.

The elevator dings, and Alfred’s heart stutters in his chest. He quickly adjusts his tie and scrubs any remaining blood from off his face; there shouldn’t be any left, he had already washed his face twice in the last ten minutes. Better safe than sorry. 

When the sleek silver doors slide open, he takes his first step forward and traipses down the narrow hallway. He begins practicing his apology. 

“What’s up, bro? Russki? … Broski?” Alfred grimaces. “Yup, definitely not starting with that.” He flicks a stubborn strand of hair away from his forehead, and in his most suave voice he says, “Hey dude, I feel like we got off on the wrong foot earlier and… no, that sounds awful.” He clears the thickness in his throat, tries again. “Hey, Ivan. Sorry about strangling you, uh, earlier. You know. In the meeting room. In front of hundreds of other nations. But I hope you know that I already forgive you for socking me in the jaw!” Feet momentarily pausing in their tracks, he thinks that last bit over. Then he shakes his head. “Fucking stupid, stupid, stupid—”

Not paying attention to where he’s going, Alfred rounds the corner and bumps into someone leaving one of the hotel rooms. His heart nearly shoots straight into the stratosphere until he recognizes who it is he bumped into—thankfully not Russia, but instead the ill at ease nation he has grown fond of over the years.

“Lithuania!” Alfred exclaims, clutching his chest. “Jesus Christ, man, you almost gave me a heart attack.” 

Realizing he didn’t grab his gloves on the way here, America hurriedly stuffs his hands into his coat pockets. Totally in a manner that isn’t suspicious whatsoever. He forces a smile. Play it cool, play it cool…

Lucky for him, Lithuania values politeness and doesn’t bother pressing America about his weird behavior. 

“Sorry, Mr. America, I didn't mean to startle you,” Tolys apologizes, slightly abashed. He closes the door behind him. “Uhm. Though I have to ask…why are you standing outside Mr. Russia’s room?”

Shit. America fumbles for words. “Oh, what—this is his room ? Pft, I had no idea. Silly me. Must’ve missed my floor when punching in the number on the elevator.” He laughs awkwardly. “Butter fingers.”

“Did you come to apologize?”

Guilty as charged. Alfred's shoulders sag. 

“…Yes.”

“Unfortunately, you just missed him,” says Tolys, scratching his chin, and Alfred catches the gesture before it disappears when Tolys’ hand falls back down to his side. Lithuania and America have visited each other’s countries long enough to where America started picking up a handful of Lithuania’s quirks, intentionally or not. Like touching his chin when he’s telling a lie. A sort of self-comfort gesture for bluffing. 

Question is—why would he be lying?

“He should be back shortly,” Tolys says, bringing Alfred back to the present conversation. An inscrutable expression passes over the Lithuanian’s face. “Although I advise you to steer clear of Miss Belarus. She is not in the most festive of moods.”

Her and I both. Alfred just gives him a perfunctory nod; he can circle back to that question later. 

“That’s okay, I’ll catch him at another time.” Alfred smiles—genuinely, this time—and gets ready to turn around before hesitating. “But…don’t let him know I stopped by, okay?”

Tolys pulls his fingers across his lips, mimicking that of a zipper. “Mum’s the word.”

With a beaming smile, Alfred chirps: “You’re a saint, Tolys! Thanks!” and before the Lithuanian can reply Alfred retreats down the hallway, never once taking his hands out of his pockets. When he’s back in the elevator, he finally releases the breath he had desperately been holding in and slumps against the wall. 

America thinks he might have just dodged a massive bullet.

The remainder of the meeting is an interesting affair. 

Nothing worthwhile really comes out of the second half. For one, it was much shorter than the first half, having to be prematurely adjourned only because of the… outburst that happened. A small portion of countries presented their pieces, each taking no more than ten (insanely boring) minutes to talk. Alfred kind of zoned out the entire time—though in his defense, the meeting was already growing stale and he now has to juggle more worries than he can count on his ten fingers alone. That’s a lot to handle on your conscience. 

Which is precisely what brings him to Canada's hotel room after the meeting ends, where he could use a voice of reason during these trying times he finds himself in. 

Too bad whenever he broaches the subject to his brother, he doesn’t exactly get the life-saving emotional support he was expecting. Instead, Alfred is on the receiving end of one of the most baffled looks Matthew has ever had. No understatement there.

Yup. America should have known from the get-go that this was going to be a terrible idea. 

Judging from the way Matthew is gawking at him like he’s suddenly sprouted two heads, Alfred is positive he just broke his brother. It’s like Matthew’s mind has suddenly short-circuited, fried to a crisp, and if Alfred squints he can see actual steam coming from his brother’s head. 

“Your soulmate is Russia,” Matthew repeats slowly. He’s sitting on the bed now, with Alfred standing opposite to him. Well, more so pacing back and forth than standing—it’s the only way he can eschew the tension gripping his rigid muscles. 

“Unfortunately,” Alfred mutters. 

“And you’re his soulmate.”

“That’s how it works, yeah.”

“And nobody knows except you.”

“And now you.” The pacing stops. “Dude, are you with me or not?”

Matthew’s lips hook down. “After what you pulled not even an hour ago? I’d rather not stoke the already raging fire. Unlike you, I don’t have a death wish.”

“C’mon, Matty,” Alfred groans, “throw me a bone! I’m desperate!”

Matthew crosses his arms over his chest, defensive. “I’m not particularly fond of getting roped into a nuclear war because you decided to lash out during a meeting.”

“Harsh, but understandable.” Dejectedly, America collapses onto the sofa’s stiff cushions. He buries his head in his hands. 

Matthew sighs at his brother’s obvious attempt to garner pity for him. He's tired of Alfred trying to milk his sympathy when things don’t magically go his way. He’s even more frustrated at himself for always giving in.

“Give me one good reason why I should help you,” Matthew says, clearly peeved. Alfred lifts his head, pleading blue eyes looking over the rims of cracked glasses. 

“Because you’re my brother and you love me so much that you’ll help me with this crisis I’m about to spiral into?” 

Apparently that’s not going to cut it because Canada doesn’t budge. Not. At. All. America moans dramatically.

"Please, dude!” he begs. When Matthew remains stoically unimpressed, Alfred is on the verge of throwing in the towel. But then an idea sparks. 

He really didn’t want to have to draw this card, but his hand has been forced; he’s left with no other choice. 

So, as any brother-slash-master-tactician does when he can’t get his way, he guilt-trips Matthew with the saddest puppy eyes he can possibly make.

It’s as easy as taking candy from a baby; Matthew caves within seconds—probably because he figured it was a moot effort to begin with, and Alfred would have badgered him to the ends of the earth if he didn’t. 

“Fine,” Matthew says, to which Alfred crows triumphantly— but he’s abruptly shushed when Matthew raises a finger. “On one condition.”

“What’s that?” 

“Admit that I’m the oldest.”

Alfred blinks owlishly at his brother. “Dude, I can't just say something that isn’t the truth.”

“Then admit you lost in 1812.”

“Again, I can’t say something that isn’t true. Plus, that wasn’t even you—that was technically England.”

Matthew stares at his brother. Then he turns around, heading toward the door as he waves, “Good luck with Russia.”

“Waitwaitwaitwait—Matty, I was kidding!” Alfred hauls his brother back before he can exit the room. For the sake of his sanity Matthew indulges his brother, standing across from Alfred with his arms folded. He waits expectantly as Alfred musters the strength to say it.

“You’re…” Alfred mumbles the last few words, and Matthew cups his ear.

“What was that? I couldn’t hear you clearly.” 

He’s wearing a smug grin now, and god Alfred really doesn’t want to do this. 

“You’re the…” Alfred mumbles unintelligibly again. 

“Louder,” Matthew says, almost as if goading him.

“You’re the oldest,” Alfred finally says through gritted teeth. “Happy now?” 

Matthew nods, satisfied.  “More than happy.”

“I hate you.”

“I love you, too.”

“Okay, operation ‘Make Russia Forget About This’ is a go. This is a foolproof plan.”

“This is a terribly flawed plan.”

Currently hunkered down in the bushes are America and Canada, attempting to be discreet while they spy on (“Observe!”) Russia from across the park. Key word: discreet. You’d think America would know what that word means, but apparently not. Their disguises aren’t even remotely effective, in Matthew’s opinion; Alfred put on a pair of sunglasses and called it a day. Matthew just wore a baseball cap, mostly to shield his eyes from the sun. It doesn’t help that they are hidden in the bushes like a couple of nutjobs. And basically stalking ("Observing!") Ivan. That too.

“Look Matty, I didn’t let you tag along just so you could be a killjoy.” America lifts the binoculars up and over his sunglasses. “If I wanted that, I would have invited Australia.”

“You kind of forced me here…”

The binoculars lower again, and a gloved hand rests on Matthew’s shoulder.

“You’re the only person I’ve told about my situation because you’re the only person in the world I can actually trust.”

Matthew smiles a little. “I’m oddly touched.”

“Plus if you were to accidentally let my secret slip, no one would bat an eye.”

His eyebrow twitches. “And there’s the backhanded compliment.”

Alfred playfully tousles Matthew’s hair. “I’m just messing with you, dude. Twins gotta stick together, right?”

“I’m just praying you don’t get yourself killed, Al.” Matthew fidgets, his eyes on high alert as they dart around. “Being out here is already risky enough.”

“Rest assured, I did the math earlier—it’s a 60/40 chance on whether or not this works.”

“And if it doesn’t?”

“…Let’s just focus on the fact that the odds are slightly in my favor. And don’t forget—I always come prepared.” Alfred lifts a magic eight ball from wherever it was, winking at his brother. “Contingencies.”

Vigorously shaking the poor toy half to death, Alfred says, “Oh wise and powerful magic eight ball, will this awesome plan of mine succeed?”

“You’re letting a stupid toy determine your fate?” Matthew deadpans. It’s hard to conceal your annoyance when your brother is this thick-headed. 

“ Shhh! Don’t insult it! This thing works miracles.”

“Maybe it can work miracles and reverse your brain damage.”

“What was that?”

“The wind.”

Returning his focus back to the toy, Alfred waits for an answer to manifest. One eventually surfaces:

No.

Alfred chucks the magic eight ball onto the ground. “Fucking useless piece of shit.”

“Told you,” Matthew mumbles under his breath. How in the world did you ever gain superpower status? He swears the requirements get shorter each year. 

For a scant moment, the two brothers sink into this sort of mutual quiet. It only lasts a few seconds before Matthew punctures it.

“Al?” he says. 

“Hmm?” Alfred hums, distractedly.

“Why haven’t you told England?”

“I told you, didn’t I? I trust you the most.”

“Bullshit.”

Alfred flat-out flinches when the word escapes Matthew’s mouth, suddenly chastened. Matthew gives his brother an earnest look, something Alfred rarely sees—especially directed toward him. 

It’s a look that cows him into total silence. 

“We’re allies, sure— we’re brothers,” Matthew says, “but the bond you two have is something special. You and he quite literally have a ‘special relationship.’”

Alfred thoroughly wishes he could beat this conversation dead with a cudgel. 

“Don’t say it like that, it’s gross,” he mutters, looking away with burning cheeks. But Matthew isn’t finished; not until he gets to the bottom of his brother’s dilemma. 

 “Are you afraid he’ll be mad?” 

Alfred recoils in on himself, uncharacteristically subdued. His silence is the equivalent of a confession to Matthew, whose lips part in disbelief. His brother has always been an open book to him, one he can read with ease. Past the pretense of cheeriness Alfred tries so hard to sell to the world, past the guise of bravado and egotism, Matthew can see in between the lines. He never buys into it like most of the others. 

That’s because he knows how much Alfred cares about what the people closest to him think of him. 

“You are, aren’t you?” Matthew whispers, and it’s confirmation enough when Alfred doesn’t respond. Matthew purses his lips, bereft of words. “Alfred…you—”

“You don’t understand,” Alfred interjects, without any heat; he treats it like a personal attack, throwing up his walls without hesitation. “I can’t tell him. I won’t.”

“Why? Is it because you’re afraid he’ll reject you?” In spite of the serious atmosphere, Matthew stifles a rising snicker. “Or maybe it’s because you’re scared he’ll give  Russia the good ol’ shovel talk—”

“Matty, shut the fuck up!”

“Well…whatever reason you have for not telling England, I doubt he’ll react in the way you imagine,” Matthew says. “His nepotism for you knows no bounds.”

Alfred mouths the word ‘nepotism’ with brows raised exaggeratedly high, like he doesn’t believe what he just heard. His head swivels toward Matthew, a dubious expression latched to his face.  

“Are you sure we’re talking about the same person?”

When Matthew just gives him a quizzical look in return, Alfred says slowly, “Arthur, as in, the guy with a chip on his shoulder larger than his freakish eyebrows? The guy who’s currently suffering from empty nest syndrome because he’s losing colonies faster than his prime minister’s hairline is receding? The guy who makes it his holy moral mission to ridicule me to death? That Arthur?”

Alfred tries to keep it in, he really does. But soon he’s bursting into laughter, holding his stomach as he wipes a nonexistent tear from his eye. He slings an arm around Matthew, who becomes victim to a vicious noogie.

“Aw man, you should pursue standup because that shit is comical.”

Used to Alfred’s tactile tendencies, Matthew just bears the noogie and sighs at his brother’s antics. At least he’s back to his normal self: the quintessential idiot.

“Congratulations on dethroning Arthur as the most oblivious person in the entire world,” says Matthew flatly. 

“Alright, I’m calling off the mission.” Alfred pulls away. “You somehow managed to kill my vibe, and I can’t go in half-cocked. Definitely want to be full-cocked when I confront Russia.”

“What’s this about phallic organs and Russia?”

Alfred nearly jumps out of his own skin, Matthew sharing a similar reaction but to a far tamer extent. Both twins snap their heads around to check their six o’clock—

—only to come face to face with Australia, standing behind them with his arms akimbo. Cover officially blown. 

“Fuck! What is with people sneaking up on me?” Alfred hisses, his voice a harsh whisper. Australia shrugs.

“Dunno,” he says, a cocky grin making its way onto his face, “maybe you’re just a bit too easy to sneak up on.” He crouches down to their level, leaning forward. “I want in.”

Alfred frowns. “There’s nothing to get ‘in’ on, Mike.” 

There’s a very England-like tch sound that Australia makes . “Seems to me like you’re doing reconnaissance on Russia. Extremely ballsy even for you, Al. ‘Specially out in the open.” He peers over the bushes, then back down to them. “But it looks like the fish has escaped the lure. He’s already gone.”

“What?!” Alfred pops his head up and, lo and behold, the Aussie’s right. He shoots Matthew a surreptitious glare and huddles closer to him, mumbling low, “You were supposed to be keeping an eye on him.”

“Don’t blame this on me! This was your idea!”

“Whatever.” Alfred sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“This is a covert operation that doesn’t concern you,” Alfred finally says, facing Michael once again. Michael raises one incredulous eyebrow. 

“Seeing as I’m a member of our little espionage group, I believe this ‘covert operation’ concerns me plenty.”

“Don’t you have an Emu War to lose?” Alfred counters. 

“Save the cunty attitude for the old man,” Michael deflects, completely unphased much to Alfred’s chagrin. 

While Alfred elects to ignore that jab, Michael shifts his attention to Matthew, knowing he can’t win when it comes to arguing with Alfred. 

“Matt,” he says, “c’mon.”

Green and blue eyes fix on Canada, and he does his best not to squirm under their weighty gazes. He finds his words soon enough.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Al wanted this to stay between us.”

Michael just huffs, standing up; there’s that same tch again. “Your losses.” He spins on his heel, pauses. “Oh, and speaking of the old man—Arthur wanted me to remind you that dinner is still on for tonight. And don’t even consider ditching this one, Alfred. Russia’s hosting it.”

At that last bit, Alfred’s brain lags. It reboots and is back online the following second, his mouth still feeling like grainy T.V. static as he forces out, “Got it.”

Just when he thought the day couldn’t get any worse, he always has to be proven wrong. Thanks, universe.

Dusk eventually rolls around, and with it comes rain. Lots of it.

Torrential downpour was nowhere to be seen on the forecast last Alfred checked, and at this point it’s just the universe wanting to spite him that he oh so conveniently left his umbrella in the hotel room. Gotta love Moscow weather. 

Knowing he can’t attend dinner drenched from top to bottom, lest he wants to be publicly scolded by Arthur—or, God forbid, Francis—Alfred makes an impromptu detour back to the hotel and changes into a fresh set of clothes. Always better to be fashionably late than early and soaking wet. Although his soggy shoes are going to have to suffice; they were the only pair he packed on this trip. A mistake he will not be making again after tonight. At least he remembered his umbrella this time. And to switch out his glasses for a new pair.

To add to his already insurmountable pile of problems, because why the hell not, he hits traffic on the way over to the restaurant. Moscow’s streets are heavily crowded this time of day, which should come as no shock to anyone who has ever visited the bustling city. Pair that with freezing rain and you get the perfect recipe for traffic. Alfred should have anticipated this. Oh, well. Fifteen minutes more isn’t gonna kill him. But Arthur? That’s debatable. 

Finally he arrives, glancing down at his watch as the taxi rolls to a bumpy stop. Barely fifteen minutes late. That isn’t bad at all. By American standards, at least. Punctuality is held to a bit of a higher standard over here in the motherland. It’s not like he can do anything about it now. It’ll be fine.

Famous last words, he thinks. 

Getting out and thanking the taxi driver one last time, Alfred shuts the door and watches as the vehicle lurches forward, speeding down the cobbled road until it’s out of sight. He briefly struggles to open his umbrella— the latch is so goddamn finicky— before succeeding, raising it over his already wet head. Walks a couple of squelching footsteps before standing in front of the restaurant’s entrance and readies himself. Here goes.

He pushes the doors open, and Alfred can’t help how his eyes widen. 

On the outside, it looked like any other restaurant you would pass by on the street. But inside is breathtaking—it’s the only descriptor Alfred can come up with that accurately captures what he sees. 

Walls washed in shades of gold, adorned with rococo decorations you could only hope to find within a palace. Massive chandeliers hang from a tall ceiling, limning the interior in warm tones. It’s an impressively capacious restaurant, probably large enough to fit hundreds of guests, but it’s not just about how it looks nor its sheer size. Soft music pervades through the air, violin and piano mingling with the faint chatter of political dignitaries and rich folk alike; the aroma of different cuisines passing by on shiny trays fills his nose, making his stomach growl and his mouth water. 

The atmosphere is soothing. It’s classy. It also makes him feel severely underdressed. Out of place. Uncomfortable. 

Shoving those negative thoughts aside, Alfred surveys the room. He spies Arthur on the far end of the restaurant, seated at a table and conversing with Francis, who is positioned to his right, with Matthew and Michael to his left. There’s a vacant seat adjacent to Arthur—reserved for Alfred, no doubt. Yippee. 

And then there he is, the man of the hour: Ivan. Sitting, of course, at the other end of the round table. There’s a sight you don’t see everyday: Russia, seated for dinner with more than two Western nations in his vicinity. Dressed, of course, in a nauseatingly lavish suit that makes Alfred’s own look like rags. 

But nobody else sits beside him; no sisters, no satellite nations. He's all alone. Isolated from the western countries to his opposite. Ostracizing himself from the same people he once considered allies. 

Something foreign prickles beneath Alfred’s skin—

It’s gone when a finger politely taps his shoulder, and he turns to face a man whose hands are outstretched. The man says something to him, and Alfred can’t help but stare like a deer in the headlights. Aside from basic words Alfred doesn’t speak a lick of Russian, but if he had to hazard a guess the man is probably asking for his umbrella and coat, so he just hands both to him and hopes he did the right thing. Thankfully the man takes both with a smile and says: “спасибо”— that Alfred understands— before walking away. 

Alfred turns back around. When roaming green eyes land on him, they immediately narrow. Off to a great start already. Alfred sighs. 

Needless to say, being around Mr. Prim and Proper is like constantly walking on eggshells—that is, if the eggshells were landmines. Dude’s got a temper that can explode on command, so Alfred has to be careful of the things he says. And the little fact about his soulmate that he now has to hide like his life depends on it. Because, truth be told, it actually does. One little slip up and he’s toast; he’ll never hear the end of it from Arthur. 

Alfred mentally braces himself for the earful he’s about to endure as he walks over to the table. 

Pulling out the chair from under the table, he avoids Ivan’s steady gaze as he says, “Man, it is raining cats and dogs out there.”

“You’re late,” Arthur chastises in a low whisper when Alfred takes a seat next to him. It’s crazy how fast he can revert back to his default emotion of ‘grumpy old man’. Predictable, but crazy nonetheless. 

“Not even a ‘hi, Alfred, how are you’?” 

“Perhaps if you showed up on time. It’s bad manners.”

Alfred suppresses the urge to roll his eyes. “My apologies, Dad. ”

The way Francis chokes on his wine goes unnoticed by them both; the same can’t be said about how Michael snickers into his own glass of wine. 

“Git,” says Arthur, patently irked. In spite of his irritation, heat scorches Arthur’s ears at Alfred’s cheeky remark. It’s always fun to ruffle Arthur’s feathers; it’s like Alfred’s favorite pastime.

Everyone’s eyes soon draw to Ivan when he gently taps his glass with a fork. “Now that we’re all here,” he begins, definitely not singling Alfred out, “help yourself to whatever you would like; the bill is on me.”

“How generous.”

Arthur roughly kicks Alfred’s shin underneath the table, eliciting a pained yelp from the American. Ivan looks back and forth between the two, confused, before reading his menu. 

Alfred really needs to put a moratorium on the impulsive sarcastic comments before he gets himself killed. Or worse. 

God, he wishes he could have just skipped this dinner, but it was scheduled weeks in advance and Alfred isn't one to flake—have to maintain appearances somehow. Every time a world meeting is held in your country, a random select few of countries are to have dinner with you for a night during their stay. To reiterate: random select few. It's just extremely unfortunate that Alfred happened to be one of those few guests that were selected. And a bit more ironic considering the other guests are France, Canada, England, and Australia. It's a system that was implemented long before Alfred's time, designed so that countries, be it allies or adversaries, could engage in dialogue. Alfred thinks it's insanely antiquated and should have long since been abolished, especially with the climate they're in now. Some world leaders thought differently. Now he's here. 

God, he should have just skipped.

“Alfred.” Said country turns to Arthur, who clears his throat while vaguely motioning to Alfred’s hands. When Alfred doesn’t get the memo, Arthur sighs and says, “Your gloves.”

Alfred’s mouth malfunctions on him. “I, uh, have a rash,” he manages to get out. As if on cue, his hands get incredibly itchy. He resists scratching them. 

Arthur scoffs, but he leaves it at that. Best not to beat a dead horse. Fortunately for Alfred he goes right back to the conversation he was having with Francis earlier, and Alfred is left to himself. 

It's almost out of nowhere that his nerves kick into overdrive. Alfred bounces his foot, unable to stay still for so long—especially in a ten foot radius of Russia. Aforementioned nerves running rampant in his stomach are solely to blame for his jitteriness. And Russia. Same goes for his muscles that are coiled tight like wires. 

In an effort to combat his overwrought nerves, he focuses on the diverse selection of food in front of him. With everyone’s noses buried in their own menus, Alfred takes the opportunity to slide the untouched basket of rolls in the center toward him and begins pilfering it to oblivion. 

One taste test has Alfred smuggling three more into his mouth. Holy shit are these things divine. Did the chefs infuse these bread rolls with crack? 

As he eats, Alfred can feel Ivan’s eyes on him from across the table. Although only for seconds at a time, Alfred can see violet eyes drift toward him every now and then. The Russian will say a few things to Matthew, spare a glance in Alfred’s direction, then continue on with whatever he was saying. Studying him for moments at a time. 

Alfred thought this dinner would be boring, not downright unsettling. 

He chooses to ignore the feeling by focusing on something other than the six-foot, hulking megalomaniac sitting across from him. 

“So what’s the game plan?” Alfred whispers to Arthur. “We hittin’ up a few bars after this?”

“Alfred.”

Aaaaaaand rejected.

“What? Not my fault you’re allergic to having fun.”

“This is a professional dinner,” Arthur says curtly. “Can you not be an incompetent oaf for one minute?”

“I don’t know. Can you not insult me for more than five seconds?”

The Brit looks about a half second away from ripping out all his hair. The baleful look he pins on Alfred isn’t lost on the American; he just tunes it out, like with everything England does. 

“He got you there,” Francis whispers to Arthur, and Arthur just lifts the menu up further. 

“Can we enjoy dinner without it devolving into a bickering session,” Arthur grumbles. 

“Glass houses, mon chéri.” 

When Francis and Arthur do that gross eye-sex thing they always do without noticing, Alfred rolls his eyes. Thank god they’re in a public area so that he doesn’t have to be around them when they’re swapping saliva. He wouldn’t subject even his worst enemy to that view. 

Actually, on second thought, maybe he would. 

Speaking of said worst enemy…

Alfred finds his eyes gravitating toward Ivan. He chews his cheek. 

Might as well talk to him. It’d be awkward not to. What with him being the host and all. And the colors binding them together.  

Enmity roils in Alfred’s gut just looking at him. He pushes it down like you would a bitter pill. 

Icebreakers, icebreakers... What’s always a good go-to icebreaker? 

“So. Ivan. How’s the weather?”

“For the love of God,” comes Arthur’s exhausted voice, barely audible in the sea of chatter around them. Alfred ignores him, waiting for Ivan's response.

The Russian nation is looking at him now, blue and violet holding each other, and there is this sort of wordless communication that passes between them. It seems as though he is about to say something.

He says nothing.

All heads turn to Ivan as he suddenly stands, a strange stiffness to him as he does. “Excuse me,” he pardons himself with an empty smile before walking away, still stiff in his gait.

“…What was that about?” 

“Bloke’s gotta do his business, Matt. I don’t blame ‘im, I’m about three sips away from having my bladder burst so I’ll be joining him soon.”

“Some things are better left unsaid, Mike.”

Alfred catapults upward, his chair wobbling unsurely against the carpet floor from the fast movement. 

“And where do you think you’re off to?” Arthur demands. 

“Restroom,” Alfred says quickly, beginning to walk away. “These cheesy bread rolls did a number on my stomach and now my lactose intolerance is acting up.”

“Wha—?” Arthur starts, increasingly distressed as he stands. “Wait— Alfred!”

But his words fall on deaf ears because Alfred has already disappeared behind swinging restroom doors, leaving a stunned Arthur. He slowly lowers himself back down into his chair, mildly confused.

“He isn’t even lactose intolerant…” he mumbles to himself.

When Arthur is met with a suspicious silence from his commonwealth countries, he shoots them both a questioning look. Michael raises his shoulders in a shrug and hums ‘I dunno’ while Matthew simply continues munching on his entree, just happy he isn’t involved in this shit show. 

The doors open with an ear-splitting squeak, and in walks America. 

Jesus, even the restrooms are fancy, is his first thought, unsurprisingly.

“What do you want?” Ivan says without preamble, not once looking up from where he’s hunched over the sink. A scene all too familiar to Alfred. He rubs his neck. 

“Well, I mean. We really, uh, we should probably…” Alfred makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat, “I don’t—”

“Spare me the pathetic word vomit,” interrupts Ivan coldly. His back is no longer facing Alfred. “You need to go back inside—”

“Chill pill, buttinsky,” Alfred says, brazen. “Ever heard of it? And just so we’re on the same page, the last thing I am ever going to do is take orders from you .”

“Why are you even here?”

Unwisely, Alfred braves a few steps forward. Testing the waters. Possibly overstepping more than a few boundaries. 

“I think we can stop beating around the bush because you and I both know the answer.”

They’re standing closer now, Ivan leaning against the sink’s edge while Alfred takes to leaning against the other sink beside him. England would absolutely pop a blood vessel if he were to see them this close in proximity after what happened—but Alfred is trying to mitigate a situation before it has the chance to rupture, and sooner or later no measly bandaid will be able to cover the gaping wound left behind. Progress needs to be made, and that’s basically America’s second middle name. 

“You’re wearing Lithuania’s gloves,” Ivan says a moment later, with recovered equanimity. Alfred glances down at his hands. 

“He gave these to me as a gift a while back.” He looks back up at Ivan. “I see you're as astute as ever.”

“And you're as foolish as ever. What did you think you would accomplish, waltzing in here?” says Ivan, incredulous. “Restrooms are not exactly the most auspicious place to hold peace negotiations.”

“Perhaps. But maybe apologies are.”

Ivan stills, the movement almost too imperceptible to notice. Alfred notices. 

He always does. 

“I’m sorry, Russia,” he says. “For what happened this morning. It wasn’t appropriate behavior on my part.”

A considering pause. Then: “How much did England pay you to say that?”

“What, did it seem too forced?” Alfred couldn’t fend off the half-smile that tugs at his lips even if he tried. 

“Contrived, yes. Artificial, most definitely.” Ivan has his own ghost of a smile now. “Like someone was holding a loaded gun to your head.”

“Geez, and here I thought my acting skills were pretty great,” Alfred huffs, in a note of levity. “Thanks for nothing, Hollywood.”

Silence. It comes down over them both like an unforgiving sledgehammer. It’s agony. Suffocation. Alfred shifts under its mighty weight, wanting nothing more than to break it. His fingers glide over his palms, contemplating. 

“Can I see it?”

The words spill from Alfred’s mouth faster than he can process them. The silence only grows more heavy. 

“What?” Ivan’s eyes are sharper now. Guarded. Like a cornered animal.

“Your…” Alfred falters, “the mark.” I want to see it, he refrains from saying. The damage I dealt. The shitstorm I accidentally brewed. The reason we’re even having this fucking conversation in the first place.

These adamantine chains I’ve shackled around both our wrists, with the key nowhere to be found.

Alfred hates how he tiptoes around the S-word. It’s the first time they’re both acknowledging it; this elephant in the room they’ve been carefully skirting around. 

Ivan sheathes his expression like one would a trenchant sword in a scabbard. Hides it behind this stolid exterior he loves putting on display, as if he is afraid of the world getting to know him for more than just the resilient nation he tries to be.

As if he is afraid of anyone seeing that, just like everybody else, he has vulnerabilities, too. 

Ivan has spent decades, centuries crafting this expert mask of his, and for some reason, for some stupid reason, a small part of Alfred seeks to unmask him. 

Ever so slowly Ivan’s scarf is lowered, revealing a deep blue ring stark against a pale jugular. Alfred ignores the bilious feeling that swirls in his stomach like a bad meal. It’s much harder to ignore the tightness in his chest as he stares at Ivan’s mark. Almost resembling a bruise, but not quite. A grim reminder of what he brought upon them both. 

The words ‘I’m sorry’ dangle briefly on the tip of Alfred’s tongue, tempting. They never get past his lips. 

Opting in favor of guilty silence, Alfred takes to leaning against the wall as Ivan tugs his scarf back up. The Russian digs in his pocket for something before pulling out a pack of cigarettes and a rusty lighter. 

Blue eyes linger on the cigarettes. Alfred isn’t a chronic smoker by any means, but stress sometimes brings out the worst desires in people. And right now, he’s craving an outlet for that stress. Unhealthy cancer sticks or not.

“May I…?” Alfred doesn’t need to finish the sentence. Without exchanging a word, Ivan proffers a cigarette and Alfred takes it with an awkward nod. 

The lighter flickers to life, and Ivan lights both their cigarettes.  Alfred lifts his to his lips. Drags out a long, very much needed puff of smoke. It burns his lungs. 

“How did it come to this, huh?” Alfred laughs dryly. “I feel like we’ve been asking ourselves that question for the past couple decades. One minute we’re fine, then next thing you know we’re aiming at each other’s throats. Waiting for the other to bleed out first and claim victory.” Another puff of smoke, followed by another humorless laugh that comes out more like a cough. “It’s like goddamn Groundhog Day.”

Ivan grunts—a sound Alfred can’t confidently place as agreement or disagreement. 

“Hatred breeds hatred. Violence only begets more violence,” Ivan says, voice eerily devoid of emotion. He keeps his eyes trained on the ground. “The cycle never ends.”

Ivan’s cigarette falls to the tiled floor, and he grinds it out with the heel of his boot. 

“But we could put an end to it.”

Alfred arches a brow. That’s new. “What are you suggesting?”

“We can end this before any blood can be shed.” Ivan is facing Alfred fully now, unwavering resolve deep beneath those violet eyes. “Before any more proxy wars break out, and before our two nations plunge the world into another pointless conflict.”

He takes a step forward.

“Love does not have to be a variable in this equation.” Ivan extends a hand. “However, partnership is a different story.”

Alfred stares at the hand. 

“Partnership…like business partners?” says Alfred cynically, his brows drawn down. “ Comrades? What is this— some type of last minute tactical gambit? Even for you, that’s a cheap move.”

Ivan’s smile is nothing less than cryptic. “You’ve said so yourself many times that you would be welcome to negotiate toward peace. Here I am, open to negotiate toward peace.”

“Thought you said that restrooms weren’t ‘auspicious’ for negotiating peace talks,” Alfred huffs. He folds his arms. “So. What’s the catch? There’s a lot you’d have to put on the table for me to even consider buddying up with you.”

Again, with that damn smile. 

“We agree to suspend the mass production of nuclear weapons in our countries, putting an end to the arms race; we collaborate and share the knowledge and technology of our space programs with each other. Neither of our bosses need to know of this”—Ivan’s fingers skim over his scarf—“ little secret of ours. Not until we reach a consensus. The rest can come later.”

Alfred balks. “You’re insane.”

Ivan lifts his shoulders. “Maybe so. But I am doing what is in our country’s best interests. Don’t tell me you are not already mulling it over in your head how this will benefit you financially?”

Fucking bastard.

Alfred’s blood froths, but he schools himself calm. Focus on the bigger picture, not the obvious provocation. 

Talk about a case of diplomatic whiplash. What is Russia playing at? Soulmates or not, such an offer is exorbitant—even for the Soviets. And ‘love’ not being ‘a variable in the equation’? Jesus Christ. He has so many things flying through his head right now it's impossible to tie down just one.

Alfred has to hand it to Churchill, the man hit the bullseye when it came to Russia— the nation is a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma, and for the life of him Alfred still can’t decipher the puzzle that is Ivan Braginsky. He’s like those damn nesting dolls of his—take one layer off, and there’s always one more inside. 

Ivan doesn’t give up when silence seems to be Alfred’s definitive answer. He already knows what Alfred will do. Always two fucking steps ahead of the American. No more, no less. 

Pocketing his cigarettes Ivan walks over to the doors, stopping beside Alfred. They don’t make eye contact; they don’t need to. 

“You’re the self-proclaimed nation of freedom; a pillar of democracy. Therefore, I will leave the decision ultimately up to you.” The door creaks open. “I trust you will make the right one in the end.”

Russia doesn’t leave just yet. 

“You are here for another week, да?” Alfred can hear the smile in Ivan’s voice. “We can continue this conversation over dinner. I assume Friday works fine with your schedule?” 

Alfred’s mouth is dry as sawdust. All his legs can do is stand there, useless. All he can do is nod, powerless. 

“Until then,” says Ivan, and Alfred is alone.  

Chapter Text

Late 1730s, Colonial America. 

Time moves like thick molasses during the dead of winter— excruciatingly slow; so slow it makes Alfred believe he is stuck in the tangled tendrils of time itself. 

Today marks the seventh month since Alfred has seen Arthur. Since autumn’s bitter farewell and winter’s harsh arrival, crops have decayed and the food shortages have caused famine to suffuse through some of the colonies like a skulking serpent. He’s hungry, afraid, and alone; forced to fend for himself without a mentor to guide him in any one direction. Not even his brother, whom he barely sees on a regular basis anyway, comes to visit.

Arthur seldom visits the colonies anymore, sometimes for a prolonged period of many, many months. Alfred has grown somewhat accustomed to it by now, Arthur’s long absences. He understands that Arthur has his plate full, that he has other colonies around the world that require his unremitted attention. The life of an empire is a hectic one, Arthur always tells him—you’re on your toes for so long that your feet begin to ache, but even with all that pain you must never stand still for a second; for that one second could very well be the difference between peace and war. 

Though when Arthur does happen to pay a visit, it’s only for brief moments at a time; but the duration of his stay doesn’t matter to Alfred, whether it’s reading a bedtime story before bed or sharing supper—he cherishes what time he can get with Arthur all the same. 

Then, as if serendipity is on his side today, Arthur visits the colonies, and Alfred’s world brightens for a shining moment. 

They’re in the foyer in one of America’s colonial homes, a small house fashioned from carved wood and stone—his childhood home in Massachusetts, where he was chiefly raised for over a hundred years. Arthur has just returned from an assembly with the local British representatives posted in Boston, and his weariness isn’t lost on the American colony; with dark circles underneath his eyes and a sickly pallor clinging to his cheeks, England looks in dire need of a good night’s sleep. Luckily Alfred knows just the thing that will bolster the English nation’s spirits in the meantime. 

Alfred bounces on his feet, a deck of cards in his hands as he eagerly begs Arthur to play a quick round with him. Just for a moment, he wants to shed the titles and responsibilities placed on them both. Just for a moment, he wants to be just Alfred. 

“Sorry, America,” Arthur says, without sounding the least bit sorry. He has his coat and luggage in tow as he walks toward the door—he’s leaving already. “Not today.” 

Alfred pouts, but he leaves it at that. Arthur is a busy man. He understands that.

Yet he still can’t help but feel a dull twinge in his chest when Arthur leaves without staying for barely a day. Neither can he squash this feeling of being left in the dust, like an old toy a child outgrows with age. His colonies are hurting, and he’s being outright ignored. Can’t England see that?

Can’t Arthur?

He swallows those feelings down anyway, because Arthur does care about him. He wouldn’t abandon Alfred. Never.

Thinking that was his first mistake. 

It becomes a pattern thereafter, Arthur’s absences. Two months becomes six months. Seasons change with each rotation of earth around the sun. And every time Arthur visits, Alfred naively gets his hopes up—hoping that he’ll get to spend time with Arthur outside of the chaotic world of politics, outside of this pathway he never asked to be sent down—and every time he gets his hopes crushed.

“I’m sorry, Al. I’m calling a rain check for today.”

“Not today, Alfred.”

“I’m busy, America.” 

“Another time, America.”

“Not now, America.”

Arthur’s visits get shorter. Then he just stops visiting. Sometimes for years. 

May of 1756 arrives, hot and humid, and Alfred is left to watch as Arthur hurriedly gathers his things in his office after an overnight stay. It’s been three years since Alfred last saw him. And now he’s leaving.

War looms forebodingly on Europe's horizon. With the European continent on the brink of yet another conflict, England is needed back in his country should the fighting be brought to his soil. While America has little knowledge of all that is transpiring across the pond, he has some idea of who else might be involved on the other side. It would only make sense, considering the war that has been raging on his own continent between the two strong powers.

America is more perceptive than he lets on; it was inevitable that he would figure out whom Arthur’s soul has been forever tied to. Why he never reveals the colored-in mark on his left breastbone; why he never talks about it. 

Alfred can’t begin to imagine how much it tears a person apart, having your soulmate be your worst enemy. He hopes he never finds out.

Arthur’s halfway out of his office when he catches Alfred standing in the adjacent hallway, an unmistakable frown on his usually grinning face. 

“You’re not staying, aren’t you?” Alfred says quietly. He already knows the answer. 

Meanwhile, Arthur can only give his colony an apologetic look. “I have to return home. Perhaps another day we can play that card game you’ve been talking about.”

“Lord Kirkland,” one of Arthur’s soldiers—a tall, narrow-faced man dressed in an immaculate red coat—interrupts from the doorway. He pauses, eying Alfred in the hallway before looking back at England. “Your ship is ready to depart.”

Nodding curtly, Arthur averts his gaze to Alfred, whose blue eyes are fixed sadly on the floorboards. Walking a few paces to lean down, Arthur prods Alfred’s dejected chin up with a finger; he offers Alfred a small smile. “Stiff upper lip, lad,” he says, pinching Alfred’s cheek lightly. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

For some reason, Alfred doubts that. 

Again, many years elapse. Again, Arthur’s promise proves false. Alfred begins to feel restless. Impatient. Discarded. Abandoned. 

Dwelling on those unwanted emotions for too long has Alfred deviating from the self-effacing boy he’d been cultivated into. It has him acting rashly. Unruly. Getting what attention he can, good and bad. Perhaps his unruliness can be attributed to his physical age—being just shy of thirteen, you’re more rebellious, more impulsive. With no one but a few low-ranking British soldiers to watch over him, Alfred learns how to sneak out past them at night. He learns which floorboard panels creak the loudest, which soldier is posted where, what time during the night is best to slip by without the soldiers noticing. 

Oftentimes he gets caught. But when he does successfully sneak out into the busy streets of his colonies, he mingles with the colonists at every chance he gets. He slips into pubs when the soldiers aren’t looking and listens to the men tell tales of far away lands as they guffaw and chug mugs full of beer; then he’ll mess around with the kids in a game of tag or hide-and-seek, and later peruse the shelves of the libraries he finds himself spending countless hours in. Sometimes he’ll get involved in a street brawl just for the thrill, or he’ll purloin an apple from the marketplace and run from the red coats that chase him soon after, and every time Alfred relishes the freedom of doing what he wants. For once, he feels like a kid. He feels free.

This is his first taste of defiance, and it is a taste that has him craving more.

It also has him getting into trouble a lot more often. 

Sure, America has had his fair share of temper tantrums and bouts of rowdiness, but only when England was ever around. England’s men, on the other hand, do not operate in the same manner as their magnanimous empire does. It’s not a simple slap on the wrist when consequences enter the picture—especially now that he’s committing actual crimes. 

From the very moment Alfred became self-aware, Arthur has drilled the notion into Alfred’s head that children are to be seen, not heard. Children are to be loyal and to always obey their guardian, without question. Questions to authority only lead to dissent, which lead to consequences, which leads to Alfred cleaning up his own bloody nose after speaking out of turn in a room full of English politicians who’d sneered at him in disgust. Even with the limited freedom he’s granted, he is still the ward of the illustrious British Empire, in all his dignified fame and glory; he needs to act like it. Play the role of the obedient colony he is, amenable to anything the British Empire asks of him because he is a child, and children are to be seen, not heard; and when you are heard you should be polite and respectful, or you’ll soon find yourself staring down the menacing muzzle of a musket. 

They can’t die from such injuries. Still doesn’t mean the bullet doesn’t hurt like hell, though. 

Every act of defiance puts Alfred firmly in his place. Reminds him that he is still a kid, untutored in life and out of his depth— despite the fact that he has outlived every living person’s great grandparents. So he stubbornly does as he is told when the punishments double. Sits where he is told to sit. Speaks when he is given the green-light to speak. Walks when he is ordered to walk the distance expected of him to go. 

He is a kid. He does as he is told.

Except 1764 comes along, and Alfred suddenly isn’t that little kid anymore. He is now eclipsing adulthood, standing taller than he did yesterday and trying to fill shoes that are bigger than he’s ready to wear. He takes on more responsibilities. His fellow colonists now regard him as an equal, as a man— not as the precocious boy they had previously treated as such. In the free time Alfred is allotted, he sequesters himself in his quarters and studies politics until his eyes cross and a headache pounds his skull. Each day he imbibes his mind with new knowledge about his people, about a world he has yet to fully explore; how vast that world truly is, and what wonders he will eventually come to discover when the passage of time allows him. And as the days blend together seamlessly, England becomes less of a present mentor and more a forgotten memory at the back of Alfred’s mind. 

Truth be told, ordinary life without Arthur constantly hovering over his shoulder and scrutinizing his every move is a much needed breath of fresh air. 

But all that crumbles when the world as Alfred knows it suddenly shifts beneath his feet overnight.

All because of England.

Seemingly out of the blue, the British begin levying taxes; taxes that take America by surprise, and only end up churning consternation within the colonies. After many years spent in salutary neglect, the British are actively seeking to disrupt the colonists’ comfort, Alfred’s comfort—all for their own selfish gain. Alfred quickly learns that what the British seek is to strengthen their enfeebled empire due to the crippling debt they now face since the end of the Seven Years’ War; and what better victim than defenseless colonies full of farmers too inexperienced to wield firearms and stand up for themselves? Or, in the British Empire’s case, the perfect scapegoat for their brutal power trip. 

When the British Parliament enforces a deluge of unfair tax laws, Alfred storms into Arthur’s office and demands an explanation from him, hurt and confused: “These taxes aren’t just,” Alfred says, “they’re only a damper on my people. Why are you doing this?”

Arthur doesn’t lift his gaze from the book in his hands. “I’m doing it to protect you,” he says, uncharacteristically stony; uncharacteristically apathetic. “The revenue gained will be allocated to your defense measures.”

Tan hands ball into trembling fists. “I don’t need to be defended; I contributed plenty to the war efforts—you saw all that I did! I can handle my colonies just fine on my own.” 

The book snaps shut. “I said it is for your protection. End of story.”  The conversation dies there. 

When unwelcome British soldiers begin forcibly stationing themselves in the homes of his colonists, Alfred again demands an explanation from Arthur, agitated and aggrieved: “Why haven’t you stopped?” Alfred says, “I already told you—I don’t need protection.”

“And I told you otherwise,” Arthur replies testily. “Who here is the older and wiser of the both of us? Who here has bore witness to the true face of war and its hideous scars?” 

“But—”

“No buts. Clean yourself up, we’re having guests over for luncheon.” The conversation dies there.

Act after act, day in and day out, Alfred’s demands continue to be in vain, only managing to fall on deaf ears. In spite of his best efforts, and by God did he try, push soon comes to shove—strife ensnares the colonies in its sharp claws. The colonists are getting antsy. Fearful. Channeling that fear into hatred, and using the British as a conduit for that intensifying hatred. Scuffles break out. Insurrectionist groups begin to rise from their grassroots. Tensions between the American colonists and the British run high. 

And England only continues to pour salt into the ever burgeoning wound. 

Before America could realize it, England had grown into a power-hungry tyrant. Prideful in his bloody endeavors, colder than he used to be, and callous to his colonies’ suffering. To Alfred’s suffering. 

Arthur has become a hollow shell of the man Alfred once knew, now a glutton for money and power. His avaricious appetite blinds him. Sours their relationship. Fosters a deep-seated resentment in Alfred every time he sees the Englishman. So much so that Alfred doesn’t even recognize the man he once considered…whom he once considered…

He can’t bear to even think about what he considered the man he is now under the strict jurisdiction of. A caretaker, a warden. All Alfred knows is the feeling of betrayal—a blade plunged into his chest and twisted by the hand that used to console him when he cried, and that pinched his cheek when he beamed with unfettered joy. The same hand that took his own and squeezed it gently when his body shook from the nightmare he had awoken from, and that steadily guided his fingers along the heavy barrel of a musket as he aimed at a deer grazing in the woods. 

The same hand that acted out his bedtime stories with fervor, now burying the knife deeper into his heart. 

Does the Magna Carta mean nothing to England anymore? His Bill of Rights? Apparently, those documents don’t concern the likes of the colonists.

Perhaps Alfred had the wrong impression of Arthur, since the very beginning. Perhaps he’d been fooled into believing the facade of benevolence Arthur had masterfully curated, shaped to perfection over the centuries. America is merely a fish on a hook. A cog in the British Empire’s well-oiled machine. A piece of property to the filthy rich proprietor. 

A lot of land to a rapacious king. 

At the end of the day, Alfred got his wish—Arthur now visits the colonies more frequently than before. And therein lies the irony. God sure does have a cruel sense of humor. 

Half a decade comes and goes, thrusting the colonies into a new era of unease. With no hopeful outcome in sight, it behooves Alfred as the living, breathing heart and soul of the thirteen colonies to step up and take matters into his own hands. 

America knows what he has to do. He can’t just play bystander while his people take up arms. Not when their battle cries roar in his blood; not when his people are indiscriminately murdered in the streets by the same people who swore to protect them, who once thought of the colonists as their brothers and sisters. 

He knows what he has to do. 

And he knows it’s going to hurt. Not only himself, but the man who has been with him every step of the way until now.

Unbeknownst to Arthur, he has miscalculated terribly. In his hubris, he thought the colonies would be ripe for the picking; that he could let his king bleed them dry into submission and stamp out their hope with an iron fist. But what Arthur and King George III don’t seem to understand is that the spirit of the colonists is unconquerable—so unconquerable that not even the greatest conqueror to ever walk the earth will get them to grovel before the crown. If it’s a fight he wants, then it’s a fight he’ll get. 

They gambled, and it is going to backfire severely. That Alfred can solemnly promise.

The colonies gave him life, and he is more than prepared to lose that life which was bestowed for his people’s security. For their safety. 

For their liberation. 

Alfred can see the marked frustration written on Arthur’s face when he visits the colonies one wet spring morning—and hiding cowardly beneath the tiny cracks in his mask, a guilt like no other. 

“Call it a momentary lapse in judgment, call it my conceit, but it was never, ever my intention to hurt you,” Arthur says, keeping the anger in his voice at bay. “I only ever want what’s best for you.”

You only ever want what’s best for yourself, Alfred wants to scream. It takes everything he has to hold his normally loose tongue. A crowd of his colonists was fired upon by British soldiers. Five Americans were murdered in cold blood by British soldiers. And Arthur blames it on a momentary lapse in judgment.

Alfred can still feel each individual shot as if it were he who was hit. His skin stings.

When Arthur reaches a hand toward Alfred, America draws himself back. The hand stalls, as if stunned; then it finally falls back down, and a nebulous expression descends over Arthur’s face. 

“I should have been more forthcoming with you,” Arthur says, a faint frown between his eyebrows. The conversation ends there when Alfred storms out of his office, not once looking back. 

Other times when they clash, they clash heatedly, and Arthur plays the victim to frightening perfection. 

“I took you under my wing; put a roof over your head, fed you, bathed you, clothed you, showered you in riches half the world has never even seen,” England nearly screams, apoplectic with rage, “and this is the gratitude I get in return?”

America tries to stand tall, but the past few months of sleepless nights and secret committee meetings have bogged him down so much that his shoulders can’t hold out against the weight of gravity. He hates how his eyes burn with tears. How he can’t demonstrate his strength, how weak he must look in front of the powerful empire standing before him. 

“All I ever wanted was your love, and you couldn’t even give me that,” Alfred whispers. 

The tension shatters asunder like a bullet to brittle glass. Alfred crosses a line in the sand he should have known better than to cross over. Hammers the final nail into a coffin of his making. 

This is his second mistake, the most damning of them all. The one that determines his fate from then on. 

The one that tells Arthur all he needs to know. 

Arthur’s jaw visibly sets, his green eyes darkening. Darkening with anger, grief, pain —perhaps all of those or none at all—Alfred will never know.

“Out.” The word comes out in a shaky breath. Arthur’s shoulders are shaking. They’re shaking. “Out, dammit!” he shouts, red in the face with an emotion Alfred is all too familiar with: unrestrained fury.

When Alfred leaves, he can hear the thud of books and hiss of papers being thrown against the wall, and following him down the hallway to his room, a muffled scream of frustration. 

Colonial America, November 1774.

The pieces of the musket lay scattered on the table as Alfred concentrates on reassembling the weapon, his tongue poking out as he does.

Nighttime hangs over the colonies in a cloud-ridden darkness, the streets outside his bedroom window eerily quiet and devoid of life. Even the critters that prowl during the night can’t be heard; only the light pitter patter of rain against his window pane fills the empty silence he sits in as he works. 

Clicking a piece of the musket almost effortlessly into place, Alfred leans back in his chair to admire the hard work that took him only a few minutes from start to finish. For just a few minutes—and with a lack of decent tools available—Alfred would say he did a pretty good job using what he had. To be honest, Alfred has always been exceptionally adept with his hands since a young age. Be it configuring trinkets, solving puzzles, dissecting and reassembling muskets, he has an inherent knack for anything involving hand coordination. So much so that Arthur never skipped a second to praise him for his gifted abilities. 

Alfred finds himself wondering if it’s the birthmarks on his palms that give him his adeptness, as if his soulmate’s hands are an extension of himself, guiding his own along the way. Guess he’ll never know. 

His fingers glide over the polished wooden stock as his mind wanders. He is no more a human creation than the musket he reassembled. Sometimes, he still can’t wrap his head around the thought. He is an anomaly of nature. A being cursed to live through centuries of plight and misery and death. Just like weapons of war he is so intimately acquainted with now.

When his ears pick up the shuffle of footsteps headed toward his room, Alfred tenses. In a mad scramble, he covers the musket with a crinkled map and a few stray papers. Grabbing the nearest book, he opens up to a random page.

There’s a light rap of knuckles on his door shortly before it creaks open, and a new pair of feet join him in the room.

“Burning the midnight oil?” says Arthur, breaking the silence.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Alfred mumbles, skimming a page of the book he pretends to have been reading for the past hour. Something to do with the Evolution of English Agriculture, from what his eyes have gleaned thus far. Not exactly his area of interest. 

Arthur only hums, walking across the room to observe one of Alfred’s many bookshelves. His fingers trace over the spines of the organized novels. “You tracked mud into the foyer earlier,” he says, pulling out a novel and routinely flipping through it. While Arthur isn’t looking, Alfred rolls his eyes. “Miss Galloway said you took quite the fall when you tried to rescue a cat from a rather capricious tree branch.”

Closing the book, Arthur turns toward Alfred, whose broad back is facing him. Sometimes he still forgets how much his colony has grown from the young boy he used to be; quite literally having sprouted like a weed since he’s been gone. Sometimes he also still forgets how heroically compassionate said colony is. Stubbornly so. Which is why falling out of a tree to save animals has always been a common occurrence. 

“Are you alright?”

Alfred gives a noncommittal grunt. Flips another page—grainy in texture, like sandpaper. 

Arthur rounds the desk to face Alfred; the colony glances at him warily when the empire kneels down in front of him.

“Let me see the damage,” Arthur says, his tone gentle. Despite a twisted mouth Alfred silently acquiesces, dragging his leg forward. 

Rolling up Alfred’s pant leg to assess the agitated scrape, Arthur slides open one of the janky drawers and pulls out a medical toolkit. Procuring a vial of ointment with herbal healing properties, he dips his fingers in the gel and applies it to Alfred’s bloody knee. Alfred winces. It stings.

“There,” Arthur murmurs, trading the vial in his hand for a wad of gauze, “That should keep it from getting infected.”

Alfred knows what Arthur is trying to do—he’s trying to salvage something that is unsalvageable. Trying to show Alfred that he still cares, deep down. Maybe he does. But it’s not going to work. If anything, it’s an ineffective balm over a wound that refuses to heal. 

As Arthur wraps a thin layer of bandages around Alfred’s knee, he says, “I want you to accompany me to a world meeting.”

The words escape Alfred. “To…to a world meeting?” he finally manages, confusion furrowing his brows. “You never let me—”

“That was before. This is now.” Arthur tucks the bandage until it’s secure and stands, looking down at Alfred. “Would you like to come or not?”

Alfred gnaws his cheek.

I get a choice?

Not much deliberation goes into Alfred’s decision. “I’ll go,” he says a moment later. Pleased to hear this, Arthur’s lips quirk up a little. He makes toward the door.

“I took the liberty of picking out the attire you will be wearing when we attend. It’s in a month; we’ll depart by ship at sundown,” Arthur says.

“Where is it held?”

“St. Petersburg.”

The five weeks aboard ship were hellish. Seasickness befell many of the crewmates, storms rocked the ship so violently Alfred nearly thought it would capsize at times, and his temporary living quarters were about the pitiful size of a shoebox. Though he supposed even that was being generous. It wasn’t like he would be given royalty status anyway—at least, not with how things were faring back in the colonies—so he shouldn’t have expected as much.

The filth aboard the ship wasn’t the only dirty thing Alfred had to endure throughout the trip; he couldn’t exactly ignore the dirty looks thrown his way by the British crewmates that practically shunned his entire existence. And Arthur didn’t do a damn thing about it. Sure, he gave them a ‘stern talking to’, but that never deterred the crewmates from wanting to watch America walk the plank. Thankfully he spent most of his time in the respite of his quarters, reading stacks upon stacks of books about the nation he was about to visit. 

When they disembarked the ship— The Conquest, England had called her—they thereupon set off for the Russian capital. The journey from the port to St. Petersburg took an additional three days by carriage alone, but once they finally arrived America understood why the city adopted the nickname Venice of the North. 

It was a breathtaking sight to behold, and unlike the paintings he’d tried memorizing in the atlases and books aboard the ship. No—not even the acrylic paintings could do justice to the city and all its remarkable beauty, natural and man-made. For one, the city resided on a massive harbor, making Alfred feel a sense of familiarity as if he were back home in his colonies. Enormous ships at docks never ceased to amaze him with their formidable size; and billowing in the breeze on the topmasts of many was the first foreign flag he’d seen in person—three stripes, white, blue, and red, adorned with a golden insignia that shone in the morning sunlight. The first, real sign that he was on foreign soil. 

Surreal was the only word that came to Alfred’s mind. 

Contrary to his excitement of being on foreign soil, the meeting wasn’t anything worth remembering and was actually a bit boring. Aside from nations butting heads and the overwhelming amount of different languages being spoken rapidly and all at once, nothing substantial came about. No treaties were proposed, no alliances were formed or dissolved. Only petty disputes about petty trivialities between petty rivals. He recognized a handful of countries that spoke—France, Spain, Scotland, Holland, Ireland. The rest he couldn’t put a name to. For the entire duration of the meeting Alfred had stayed seated behind Arthur as he listened, sandwiched between two red coats for what seemed like a dreadfully long eternity. And the entire time, all Alfred could think about is that one day he’ll be at the main table talking alongside them. As equals. 

Only when the meeting adjourned did Alfred breathe the longest breath of relief, but to his disappointment the day wasn’t over just yet.

Which leads him to where he is now: attending a dinner party held in the heart of the Winter Palace, sitting at a vacant table with a glass of champagne in his hand and a fake smile plastered to his face. Though it’s more than a traditional dinner party— it’s a formal masquerade ball hosted by one of the Russian Empire’s most esteemed Tsarina’s, Catherine of Russia. Or whatever her real name is. Alfred can’t remember for the life of him—even though he read about the nation’s history beforehand; honestly, he blames it on his exhaustion. All he knows of Russia’s Tsarina is that she is a woman of German origin who is rumored to bed many men. 

European customs continue to elude him. 

“Stay here,” Arthur had bade him only a few seconds after sitting down, “I’ll be back shortly.” Then the empire promptly left the table and made his appearance into the liveliness of the party, leaving Alfred to himself. Even a dog has more dignity when it is ordered to stay put.

Of course, the entire party’s attention immediately shifts to His Royal Majesty’s Right Hand when England joins them. Everywhere he goes, Lord Kirkland will always have a crowd to follow close behind. Given that he is an exalted political figure belonging to one of the world’s most powerful empires— and the fact that he is the embodiment of that powerful empire— it’s no shock he gets swarmed like peasants to a shimmering jewel when he enters the public eye; he commands a presence, and he does a flawless job at beguiling others—women and men.

While politicians and socialites proceed to monopolize England’s time (and flatter his vanity to the ends of the earth), Alfred busies himself with twirling his cutlery despondently on his plate. Alfred feels like a dog on a leash. And now his owner has left him unattended in the interim. 

The fork clatters to the plate. Feeling a flare of defiance, Alfred surges from his seat when he sees Arthur vanish into the colorful sea of aristocrats. 

A smirk tugs at his lips as he makes his way toward the corridor leading out of the ballroom. He won’t be a wallflower while England chums around with pompous rich folk who worship the very ground he walks on. Alfred would much rather enjoy the cold, fresh air outdoors while he can. 

He’s about to make it to the corridor—

That is, until he makes one sharp turn around the corner and slams into another person walking the opposite way. It’s safe to say he is now wide awake. 

“Ah—I am so, so sorry,” Alfred stammers out, mortified at the wine that now stains the masked man’s obviously very expensive attire. Not to mention very white attire, which is now red with his blunder. And his scarf. Damn it. He can already hear England’s angry reprimands from a distance.

“Нет, I should be the one apologizing,” says the stranger smoothly. Truthfully, the thick accent catches Alfred by surprise—rough, like corroded metal, and yet his pronunciation is still crisper and far clearer than that of a seasoned scholar’s. He’s never heard anything quite like it.

Face still flushed with embarrassment, Alfred stoops down to pick up the broken pieces of glass—

“Пожалуйся, allow me,” the stranger insists, and Alfred pauses midway. “I was the one who should have looked where he was going.”

Curiously, Alfred looks up to meet the stranger’s eyes.

And he forgets to breathe. 

Behind the elaborately carved white and gold mask he wears is the most vivid shade of violet Alfred has ever seen. Like a night sky drenched in stars, he thinks. And so oddly familiar. The incandescence of the chandeliers above sets the man’s pale features aglow, accentuating every soft curvature of bone and the prominence of a strong nose. Before Alfred can help himself, his eyes flicker to the man’s parted lips—rosy, and so sinfully inviting. 

So wrongfully inviting. 

If Alfred wasn’t frozen with his face redder than a rose in bloom, he would have probably already been on his merry way back to the table and sat there for the remainder of the night in shame. Decades of lessons in proper manners anchor his feet in place. 

“Thank you,” Alfred belatedly says, all in one breath. 

An uncomfortable beat of silence passes between the two strangers. Why is he acting gauche all of a sudden?

“Are you enjoying the party?” 

Alfred doesn’t realize the mysterious man is trying to talk to him until he’s staring right at him. 

Small talk. Small talk. If only Alfred could focus on articulating his words and not the organ racing a mile a minute in his chest. 

“Oh, yes. Very much.” Alfred swallows, his throat inexplicably parched. “It’s a wonderful palace. I’ve only ever been around British architecture, so I’ve never seen anything like this before. It’s beautiful. Gorgeous. Never seen anything like it before. Seriously. I feel like I already said that—but you get my point.” Is he babbling? He is definitely babbling. Alfred never wanted to slap himself so badly for running his nervous mouth. 

Despite his evident anxiety, the stranger doesn’t make an effort to exacerbate it. Rather than leave Alfred be and change into a clean pair of clothes, he tries to bring an air of lightheartedness and comfort. It soothes Alfred’s jittering nerves.

He’s the first person on this trip to treat Alfred like an actual person—not a trophy to flaunt, or a traitorous patriot. 

“I’m glad you think so,” the man says, his lips curved in a smile. “We pride ourselves in our westernized designs.” 

Another beat of silence, this time not as stifling. Alfred shifts on his feet, unsure of how to proceed. Fortunately, the stranger takes the reins of the conversation. 

“Care to dance?”

Alfred trips over his words again, more flustered than before. “Me? Oh, I don’t…I’m going to be candid with you— I’m sort of a klutz when it comes to dancing,” he says, rubbing his neck sheepishly. “A dead fish has more rhythm than I do.” 

“You need not repine; I can teach you.” 

Alfred couldn’t deny the way his stomach flips if he tried. He’s about to respond when suddenly a woman—with an oval-shaped face and beautiful brown eyes to compliment her pale complexion— waltzes up to them, hiding shyly behind a fan as she turns toward Alfred. She says something to the colony, oblivious to the language barrier between them, and smiles benignly at him. Alfred awkwardly leans over to the man. 

“What did she say? I’m not from around here.”

“I gathered,” the mysterious man chuckles. “She asked if you would like to dance.”

Flustered beyond belief now, Alfred tries to hold onto his words. “Ah…um, нет. Прошу… прощения. ”

Smile dropping from her face, the woman briskly walks away as if offended. Alfred would feel bad if he weren’t so embarrassed. 

“…That was awful pronunciation, wasn’t it?” 

There’s a rumble of laughter in the man’s chest. “I’ve heard much worse.” Curiously, the man glances at Alfred. “Your accent is not British—are you from the American colonies?”

Alfred’s heart skips a beat at the mention of the colonies. Halfway across the world, and this stranger recognizes his accent? His colonies? A sense of pride bubbles in his chest. 

But before Alfred can answer, another person approaches them—this time, a man of large stature in an elegantly tailored guard uniform. Russian. He whispers something in the man’s ear, and the smile he was wearing quickly falls. When the guard leaves, the man looks at Alfred. 

“Pardon me. I have to go.”

Not sparing a second longer, the man makes for an abrupt exit out of the corridor where Alfred had originally planned on heading, disappearing from sight. 

Hurt replaces the pride his chest held a moment ago. 

“There you are!” 

Alfred doesn’t have time to register the voice until a hand spins him around by the shoulder to face Arthur, looking positively miffed. “Heaven’s sake, boy, I’ve been looking all over the bloody place for you. I thought I told you to stay seated,” he scolds. But the last vestigial of his annoyance drains when he catches the frown Alfred wears; Arthur finds his composure soon after. “Who were you talking to?”

Alfred looks behind him, at the corridor. 

“Nobody,” he says.

Moscow, Soviet Union, 1969.

Warm light pours through the Cathedral’s tall windows, bathing the interior in a watery sheen of light. With no one except Alfred inhabiting the Cathedral, everything is peaceful. Serene. Makes him long to be back home in his own churches, but he supposes that this one should suffice in the meantime. A house of God is still a house of God, borders be damned—even within a country so aggressively mired in atheism. 

Sitting in the otherwise empty pews, Alfred leans back against the sturdy wood. He didn’t come to pray, or to ask for forgiveness. It’s not like God would forgive him in the first place; centuries worth of sin makes it difficult for even a merciful deity to absolve. If only he had a penny for every fouled up thing in his life so far, he’d be richer than the Rockefellers and their unborn grandchildren. 

But he doesn’t want money, or to bow his head over clasped hands. All he wants is a moment to himself. A moment to sit back and forget about every shitty thing happening and just be. 

The doors groan in all their heavy weight as they’re pushed open. Alfred doesn’t pay any mind to the person who entered just now, until the echoing footsteps walk right up beside him and someone takes a seat. 

“You know, I had a feeling I would find you here,” a familiar, thickly accented voice says. Alfred glances at Francis, whose eyes are looking where Alfred’s previously were: the stone-carved angels looking down on the apse with melancholic faces. 

“Where’s Arthur?” Alfred says.

“Off somewhere brooding, if I had to wager a guess.” Francis turns to Alfred. “What, is big brother not enough? I’ll remember to bring my entourage of British soldiers next time.”

The attempt at a lighthearted joke falls flat on its face, Alfred not entertaining him in the slightest. 

“Did Matthew send you?” Alfred instead asks, dubious. 

Francis exhales. “Mathieu expressed his concerns about how, and I quote: ‘downbeat’ you have been this past week. If you’re wondering if he told me anything, he didn’t. I am completely in the dark.”

A pall of silence descends over the two. Alfred fiddles with the leather material of his gloves. Coarse, yet undeniably smooth at the same time. Worn from decades of use, with little snags and faded patches. His favorite pair, gifted to him by Tolys. Now used to cover the color of his shame. 

“How have you been?” Francis asks a brief moment later. Worry laces each word. 

“Living the dream,” Alfred replies, with a wry smile. 

“Unfortunately for you, I’m impervious to any and all sarcasm after having raised Mathieu for a hundred years,” Francis says. Alfred actually laughs this time. 

“That’ll do it.”

Sitting side by side, the two men look off into the apse. 

“Do you remember when you came down with a terrible case of the flu only a few years ago?” Francis suddenly asks, and Alfred’s eyebrows pinch together. “Non? I certainly do. A 40° fever had you acting borderline delirious, and yet you refused to quit working yourself to the bone every day. Said it was because you ‘could not afford to sleep for just a moment, because that moment could mean the difference between peace and war.’ I wonder who you adopted such a philosophy from,” Francis chuckles. He continues on in a notably more serious tone, “Not a day went by that Arthur didn’t worry. You weren’t answering the telephone. You barely made appearances in public. He was so afraid that if he flew to Washington, he’d only find you passed out cold on the floor in your home. Nearly gave him so many heart attacks in a week, until you finally picked up the telephone one morning and groggily told him to ‘buzz off’, and then hung up.” Francis chuckles again. “I will never forget the look on his face after that call ended—equal parts relieved and annoyed.”

Alfred doesn’t meet Francis’ gaze, his eyes trained in his lap. He squeezes his hands. “Why the sudden trip down memory lane?” 

“Because Arthur is just as in the dark as I am, and you know as well as I do that that man cares a great deal about you. Even if he doesn’t act like it sometimes.” That earns a raised eyebrow from Alfred, to which Francis huffs. “Well, most of the time,” he amends with a smirk. “He has been worried sick about you ever since last week’s meeting, fretting nonstop like you would not believe. A mother hen, that rosbif.”

Alfred doesn’t say anything to that, his lips pursed tight. Maybe it’s the wrong call. Maybe it isn’t. But as much as he wants to halve the burden of his secret and just tell Francis— as much as it kills him to keep it to himself— he can’t. Not when he can’t accept it himself. Not when Francis wouldn’t, either.

Or Arthur, for that matter. Especially Arthur.

“You don’t have to tell me what has got your panties in such a twist, but shutting us out is not the way to go about your predicament,” Francis says, earnestly. “We are allies, Amérique, not business partners. And more than that, we are like family. Our history was built upon the mutual trust of one another—anything you ever need to get off your chest, you know you can always count on me to lend an ear. And a glass of rosé,” he finishes with a wink.

Alfred smiles a little at that, genuinely. “Thanks, Francis. But I’ve just been a little homesick lately, that’s all.”

The hint of disappointment that crosses Francis’ face doesn’t go unnoticed, even if it only lasts for a transient moment. 

“I understand,” Francis says. He pats his thighs, standing as he checks his wristwatch. “On the topic of homesickness, I have a flight to catch in an hour so I will be taking my leave.” 

He looks down at Alfred and sighs. Soon a hand is ruffling Alfred’s hair fondly. 

“Chin up, mon petit chou-fleur. ‘Heavy is the head that wears the crown’, as it goes,” Francis says, walking down the aisle. “Don’t let yours fall.”

Alfred approaches politics like one would a chore—you put off washing your dirty clothes for so long that the clothes pile up until you’re forced to confront reality: you now have a shit ton of clothes to wash, your stress levels are at an all time high, and you now have to reap the consequences of something that was avoidable from the start. 

Shitty analogy aside, he’s now tasked with figuring out how to deal with the walking, talking headache that is Ivan The Terrible and their dinner date he has in about thirty minutes. 

Not date. Definitely not a date. Dinner meeting? Whatever it is, Alfred would rather be anywhere but there in thirty minutes. He wishes he were beneath a sweltering Miami sun right now, where the humidity makes your clothes stick to your sweaty skin and the oppressive heat is lessened by the cold can of beer in your hand—not in the coldest, most communist country on planet Earth that has arguably the biggest hate-boner for his own, and has ostensibly labeled Alfred F. Jones as Public Enemy Number One. Trademark pending. 

After a lengthy scavenger hunt for a nice suit and tie, Alfred just ends up swinging by Matthew’s hotel room to borrow his. Luckily his brother isn't there when he barges in, otherwise it would have taken too much energy trying to argue with him over it. Energy Alfred needs in order to survive the next two or so hours of his life.

Today isn’t as rainy—something Alfred is incredibly grateful for, because getting drenched head to toe like last time wasn’t too fun. Overcast with a light drizzle, the only problem Alfred has about the weather is that it’s fucking colder than the North Pole. 

The cab ride takes five minutes from the hotel, and once outside the cobblestone steps of the restaurant Alfred has to build the mental fortitude to just reach for the door handles. 

He’s about to break bread with the enemy. Alone. Under his roof. These sure are unprecedented times, he thinks dryly.

Sucking in a sharp breath, he bites the proverbial bullet and enters.

Slightly overwhelmed at how crowded it is inside, Alfred begins searching for Ivan like it’s a damn game of Where’s Waldo, Russian edition. Finally spotting Ivan across the room, Ivan sees Alfred a moment later. The Russian waves him over, and awkwardly Alfred wades through the maze of tables. 

Huh. This time, it appears that he’s the one who overcompensated in the dress department. What are the odds.

“Ivan,” he says when he reaches the table.

“Alfred,” Ivan acknowledges with a nod.

Alfred lifts a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon, like it’s somehow a mediator for the tense atmosphere he wants so badly to escape. “I brought wine. ‘52, from Santa Cruz. Never been opened.”

Ivan arches a brow. “You had it flown in?”

“It’s wine worthy of a special occasion.” Alfred shrugs. “This is the special occasion I’m choosing to use it for. I know it’s not Smirnoff, but it’ll do.”

He’s about to sit down before he hesitates.  “No wiretaps?” 

“You think so lowly of me,” Ivan says, his tone unreadable. 

“Don’t pretend like you weren’t gonna ask the same thing,” Alfred replies defensively. “For all I know, there could be a KGB agent breathing down the back of my neck while I’m standing here.”

“Then sit, and he will be escorted out.” Upon receiving Alfred’s blank stare Ivan adds, not first without hiding his smirk, “A tasteless joke, perhaps. But please, sit.”

Begrudgingly taking the seat opposite of Ivan, Alfred sets the wine bottle aside and briefly surveys his surroundings. Nothing out of the ordinary; no people that warrant an arousal of his suspicions. He’s been in this rodeo long enough to where he could identify a KGB agent from a mile away, just from their body language. For now, the coast is clear.

A part of Alfred is somewhat impressed that Ivan held his end of the bargain. They had agreed to no spies or secret hidden devices for this occasion. Hopefully it stays that way.

“Credit where credit’s due, Braginsky—you never fail to wow me with your restaurants,” Alfred says to ease the silence between them. “Although this one doesn’t seem as fancy as the last one.”

“Спасибо,” Ivan says. “This restaurant is one of my personal favorites, and not too well known in the area. The liveliness of the atmosphere is simply unmatched.” 

Ivan isn’t wrong about the liveliness. Everyone here looks to be having a good time—smiling faces and laughter-tinged voices all around. The inside of the restaurant is also a bit different from the last one. Bearing a resemblance to a tavern both architecturally and design-wise, plus the fact that everyone is practically packed together in here like sardines, Alfred honestly prefers this place to the other fancy-shmancy restaurant. It’s homey. Reminds him of the bars back home. Right up his alley.

Alfred only realizes a moment later that Ivan’s tapping a foot to the rhythm of the music that flows through the air—a faint backdrop amongst the many voices that chatter about in the restaurant. For a moment Alfred allows his muscles to relax, listening to the soft tune of accordion, balalaika, and other instruments play in tandem. 

After giving their orders to the waitress, Alfred pops the cork off the bottle, pours himself a glass, and takes his first sip of wine. He sighs contentedly. Pure, unadulterated sweetness. Santa Cruz vineyards never disappoint—something even France, the connoisseur of wine himself, can attest to. 

“I have a few stipulations I’d like to discuss before we dive into the more granular aspects of our arrangement,” Ivan begins, so predictably apposite and to-the-point. “First and foremost, we speak nothing of this encounter. It would only raise eyebrows to have us meet outside of a professional setting.” Okay, Alfred can agree to that. So far, not too terrible. “Secondly, we are going to resume the strategic arms limitation talks we held a few years ago.”

The wine glass almost slips from Alfred’s hands. “Woah, woah, woah —timeout.”

“I’m not finished,” Ivan says, glacially.

“Okay, well, I’m gonna go ahead and add my own stipulations, since apparently we’re jumping the gun. Being a ‘pillar of democracy’, I think it’s appropriate,” Alfred says, regurgitating Ivan’s words back at him. “So let's dive into the meat and potatoes of it, shall we? One: you can’t call to suspend both our nuclear production programs. That’s fuckin’ nuts, even for you. I think you’re overestimating the little amount of jurisdiction we have to make a call like that. Two—”

“It would resolve many of our current issues,” interrupts Ivan, his eyes narrowing. “I’m sure our bosses wouldn’t be opposed to at least putting a restriction on the production of offensive nuclear weapons.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’d love for me to agree to that—just so you can secretly build more warheads and line them up with all the rest that are pointed at the U.S. Jesus, it was just two weeks ago that you were rattling your nuclear saber like a madman. And everyone from here to Timbuktu knows your infamous track record of reneging on agreements.” 

“I somehow find myself doubting that this conversation will lead to any progress,” Ivan says flatly, eyebrow twitching. 

Unstoppable force, meet immovable object. Two polar opposite ends of a magnet have a better chance of not repelling each other than when it comes to Russia and America agreeing on something. 

When their food arrives, Alfred finds he’s lost his appetite. He moves the steaming pile of potatoes and bread around on his plate while Ivan eats his own, unperturbed. 

“Why did you really invite me? Just to argue?” Alfred grouses. 

“I thought you could use the company,” Ivan says between bites of food. 

“That’s a load of BS, if I’ve heard any.”

“If it is, then why did you come in the first place?”

Alfred, on the verge of blowing several gaskets, falls silent. Being the cunning bastard he is, Ivan takes the opportunity to continue while the American has his mouth wired shut.

“I, for one, thought we could bond over dinner. Maybe even find common ground, and take a step toward a better, safer world.” Ivan dabs the napkin over the corners of his lips. “I did not realize it until fairly recently, but we are alike in more ways than just our superpower status.”

“We’re nothing alike,” says Alfred, a cold edge to his voice.

Ivan leans back, violet eyes pensive. “I once thought similarly. Two lonely people in a world praying for their downfall.” He takes a sip; looks down at the wine swirling ‘round in his glass. “Have you already forgotten the marks painting your palms?”

Staining, Alfred bites back his tongue from blurting out. He crosses his arms instead. “That doesn’t make us alike at all.” 

“Hm. I suppose I assumed wrong, then,” Ivan says. “With all due respect, I thought we could share a civil conversation over dinner—not point fingers or plug our ears and say ‘lalala’ when the other raises a valid point.” 

Alfred’s nails dig painfully deep into his arms. “What did you expect me to do? Sit here and twiddle my thumbs, agreeing to your every outlandish wish?” he hisses. In a dramatically sarcastic voice, he says, “ Of course I’ll adopt the communist doctrine to my country, Oh Great and Powerful USSR. How could I have been so blind to it before? Thank you for opening my eyes, I’m forever in your debt!” 

Downing a long gulp of wine, he nearly slams the glass back onto the tabletop. The red liquid sloshes about from the sheer force of the movement. 

“Communism is a cancer, Ivan. It wreaks havoc wherever it spreads, consumes countries until starvation swallows half your population and devastates your people. I’ve read that manifesto inside and out. It’s not sustainable. It never will be. And as long as you continue down that path, I can’t agree to anything except that we will keep this”— Alfred stiffly raises both gloved hands —“ a secret between the two of us.”

A pregnant pause. Then: “You speak as if your ideology is infallible.” But before the wolf in sheep’s clothing can bare his carnivorous teeth any further, as Alfred expects him to, he goes and does the exact opposite. He retreats. “I’m much too tired to fight, especially in a place I frequent,” Ivan sighs. “Would you care to dance instead?”

Alfred snorts. “With you? I’d sooner revoke my American citizenship and become British.”

Ivan shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

An anvil of silence comes crashing down upon them and Alfred shifts, reflecting on himself with a frown. Okay, maybe he’s being too unreasonable and should cut Ivan some slack before he blows it. It’s just so damn easy to get tunnel vision when he's around Russia; it’s basically programmed in Alfred’s DNA to object to whatever Ivan does or says—muscle memory at this point, if he’s being honest. Even fighting on the same side back in WWII, he’d always find something to pick a fight over with the Russian nation. Communism is really the one to blame here. Better dead than red hasn’t lost its meaning since 1776; it just happened to change to a different team. 

But despite Alfred’s intransigence on communism, he has to remember that he’s doing this for his country. This isn’t a conventional war fought with artillery or tanks or air power—this is a competition of who can keep their head above water for the longest before the other drowns and takes the victor with him. In this instance, the pen is mightier than the sword; negotiations and policy are the new ammunition. Besides, there’s still so much America can do should they restart SALT that isn’t increasing his arsenal of warheads. Like putting a man on the moon. Pushing the limitations of space travel, and inventing new technology that was once conceived as impossible just a few years ago. 

Regardless of what happened last week, now that Alfred really thinks about it he feels…cautiously optimistic, for a change. Hopeful, even. Because it’s Ivan who is reaching out to him. Ivan who wants peace, just as much as he does. 

Maybe the wolf in sheep’s clothing is only just a sheep this time around. 

When the music swells, the patrons in the restaurant begin to join in enthusiastically. Tugged from his thoughts at the sudden animated atmosphere, Alfred looks up to see Ivan swaying his head along with them, singing some of the song beneath his breath. A matronly-looking woman suddenly approaches their table, smiling at Ivan and motioning for him to join her while nearby people clap and sing. 

“Давай,” he says, a smile playing on his own lips as he takes her hand and she pulls him to the open floor along with the other dancing couples. 

Alfred doesn’t fully realize he’s smiling until Ivan’s eyes land on him, and there’s a certain something within them, like a spark that strikes within Alfred a strangely strong sense of deja vu; it’s gone when the woman spins Ivan around rather quickly, and a laugh escapes Alfred as the Russian is thrown off balance. Alfred actually laughs. 

The song plays on and on, and Alfred finally releases his inhibitions, clapping along with the others into the night. 

Chapter Text

Europe, 1917.

The social fabric of Russia is rapidly changing. Ivan can feel it—the slow way in which he’s being ripped apart at the seams. It isn’t like before, this confusing turbulence of uncertainty and agitation. No, this time is far different. 

The red specter of revolution creeps over the horizon, and the bloodbath that will inevitably sweep his country will be a merciless one. One he is not fully prepared to face, but he knows is long overdue. He’s tired. Hungry. Apprehensive for what the future holds. If he even has a future. It seems that everything he has been through this past century is one chapter in a never ending book of agony and suffering and despair. Any future guaranteed at this point is bound to be bleak and miserable. After a humiliating defeat to Japan a decade ago, after losing the disputed territory of Manchuria and foiling Russia’s plans to expand the empire further into Asia; after the constant incompetence displayed by his tsar, his people’s growing unrest; the food shortages, the looting and rioting, the festering anger. Not to mention the war devouring half of Europe. The Great War, they’re calling it; bigger than what Napoleon ever managed. The first international conflict to take place on such an unfathomably large scale, now right at Ivan’s doorstep. Everything has been taking a steep nose-dive south, and the prospect of any future looks grimmer each passing day. With no Rasputin around to cure the disease of instability that is soon to infect Russia, Ivan feels helpless. Alone. 

Nothing can stop the inexorable marching of Russia toward his cataclysmic fate. 

Nothing but a different specter, now. 

Ivan is no stranger to the rumors, having heard them almost everywhere. On the streets of Petrograd, deep in the trenches. Even inside palace walls. While the politicians are too busy cannibalizing themselves over their slipping power, a resistance of the working class rises from dormancy, armed to the teeth and ready to lay down their lives for a future of prosperity. The monarchy is crumbling fast, and all that is needed to have it come crashing down for good is a powerful hammer. And his people have many of those to come by. With the parochial mindset behind them, the Russians have banded together in unity to fight for a Russia worth living in.

But in the meantime, a war rages on fiercely—which is where Ivan finds himself now: underneath a tree, outside one of his military camps set up along the Eastern Front. 

The Central Powers have the Russians cornered. Depleted of their resources and left hanging out to dry in the brutal winter cold, the morale of the Russian Army has all but plummeted. Rationing has already dwindled what little food and supplies they had, and his troops are now deserting their regiments in droves. Nicholas’ lack of military prowess paired with Kerensky’s dire miscalculations have cost Russia the war. They’re sitting ducks now, the few soldiers that remain aching to be with their families—not die a meaningless death on the frontlines while the flame of revolution ignites back home. And sitting ducks quickly become pigs to slaughter the more time goes on. 

Despite how much he wants to, Ivan won’t give up without a fight. Even until his last breath. 

There are much bigger victories waiting to be won elsewhere.  

“Иванушка,” a battle-worn, feminine voice calls through the chilled evening air. Ivan tilts his head back from where he lies on the ground. 

“Наташа,” he acknowledges his baby sister as she trudges through the melting snow toward him. Even with the night approaching, Natalya is still dressed in her military uniform—it’s beyond muddied, and decorated in crusted German blood, among other things. Which makes sense. His sister has proven to be a devil on the battlefield, relentless with her firearm and an incredibly sharp eye for moving targets; so much so that Ivan’s convinced she could send a bullet zipping clean through a beetle just a few miles away with her deadly aim. 

The lineaments of exhaustion etched on her face tells him that she hasn’t gotten a wink of sleep since war broke out—and neither has Ivan, for that matter. Sleep is a luxury nowadays, and you’re considered lucky if you get even a meager three hours uninterrupted. 

Still, it pains Ivan seeing his baby sister in such a terrible state—a far cry from her usual, gracious self. But war is ugly. Unkind. It demolishes the person you once were until you are a rotten husk of your former self. Reveals a part of yourself you can never cover back up. Ivan knows all too well from experience.

“It’s cold,” Natalya says, the heat of her breath curling in the frosty air providing evidence of her statement. “Come back inside, before you get sick.”

Ivan shakes his head with a huff.  “As your older brother, I’m the one who should be telling you that.” He pats the wet dirt beside him shortly after. “Come sit with me?” At Natalya’s mulish expression, Ivan adds, “Just for a moment. Then we can get some shut-eye.”

She obliges then—stubborn as always, like a bull—closing the distance between them and situating herself on a drier patch of mud. She turns to her brother, whose eyes are transfixed on the night sky slowly transforming above them in a blended mosaic of blues and purples.

“What have you been doing out here?” 

“Stargazing.”

She hums, tracing his amethyst gaze to the night sky. There’s a light rustle of clothing thereafter, followed by Natalya presenting Ivan with a long, pale stretch of fabric. 

“I made you a new scarf,” Natalya says, unable to hide her darkening cheeks. Ivan takes the scarf into his shivering hands, running his fingertips over its soft expanse. Like his old scarf he had lost in the war, but without the tatters and bloodstains and broken memories. For the first time since the war began, Ivan smiles. 

“Thank you, Наташа,” he says softly, wrapping it around his neck. He breathes in the strong smell of soot and dust and grime. Of home. His eyes burn. “It’s wonderful.” 

Sister and brother sit beside one another in a calm quiet, relishing this rare moment of peace they’ve been robbed of these last few years. 

“See that cluster of stars?” says Ivan to Natalya, puncturing the silence as he points to the sky they've been observing together. “That’s Andromeda.” His hand comes back down to his side. “According to the Greeks, she was the mortal daughter of Queen Cassiopeia and King Cepheus. When her mother, the queen, claimed she was more beautiful than the sea nymphs, Andromeda was punished for her mother’s arrogance and chained to a rock, where Poseidon sent a monster to ravage her.”

“I did not know that,” Natalya says. She looks in her lap, where her hands are folded neatly. “That’s cruel,” she says a moment later, much quiter. “And unfair. It wasn’t her fault.”

“It wasn’t,” Ivan agrees. His eyes never leave the glowing stars above. “Sometimes, our destiny is simply out of our control.”

Another hum. Natalya looks at her brother, curious. “Was she eventually rescued?”

A nod. “She was.”

“Was she saved by a hero?”

Ivan pauses. “Her future lover,” he finally says. Natalya’s lips purse, and she makes a face. Ivan laughs, looking back up at the stars. His sister, ever the anti-romantic. At least some remnants of her personality remain through it all. 

“There is a story worth telling behind every star you see," Ivan tells her. He raises his hand toward the glittering sky, splayed fingers reaching for something impossible. “One day, I will touch them,” he says with resolve, more sure of himself than anything else in this collapsing world. 

Moscow, Soviet Union. July 20th, 1969.

Everyone in the Kremlin remains deathly silent as the events on T.V. unfold before them. There’s a slight lag in the grainy footage, everyone holding their breath as if a nuclear explosion is increasingly imminent. It might as well be, as the Americans set foot on the moon for the first time in human history. 

“That’s one small step for man…one giant step for mankind.”

Like a lit match doused in gasoline, outrage erupts in the Kremlin. Some share a series of disbelieving laughs, while others empty the room in a blatant show of poor sportsmanship. Brezhnev keeps quiet throughout the entire duration of the broadcast, his stoic countenance impenetrable as ever.

Meanwhile Ivan sits near the T.V. with his chin resting on folded hands, a look on his face entirely different from all the others in the room. 

“He did it,” Ivan murmurs, utterly awe-struck as the footage pans to the crew of Apollo 11 tripping over the moon’s uneven surface. “He actually did it.”

Years of jockeying for dominance in the vast emptiness of space. Years of funneling millions of rubles into his space programs, after the government bled his people’s wallets dry when they were already hurting. Years of grandstanding on the world stage, of conquering the cosmos inch by inch in this race where they’d only just been neck-and-neck. Sputnik and Gagarin may have given Ivan the head start, but the finishing line has ultimately been crossed by Alfred. The Stars and Stripes have been planted on the surface of a celestial body for the very first time, signifying an undeniable American victory. The dog has finally caught the car he was chasing. 

And as the Russians angrily demand to kill the feed, Ivan can’t find himself feeling bitter with envy like his fellow comrades, or enraged that he hadn’t gotten there first. Of all the emotions he’s grappling with, jealousy isn’t one of them.

All he feels looking at the livestream on that static T.V. screen is pure astonishment, and somewhere between the narrow crevices of his heart, an ineffable glimmer of warmth shining through.