Blessed Are The Peacemakers
Title: Blessed Are The Peacemakers
Originally posted: Here, for youkofujima from her reverse request meme.
Length: 2000 words.
Characters/Pairings: Russia/America.
Premise: Cold War-era Russia and America talk about religion over dinner.
Time period: 1960s-1970s.
Smuttiness: 3/10
Funnyness: 2/10
Wrist slashiness: 5/10
Lolhistoryness: 3/10
Violence: 2/10
Would I like it?: It's an argument about religion, and therefore pretty likely to offend someone. Viewpoints expressed include Marxist atheism, nihilistic atheism, pan-Protestantism, and a brief dig at Catholicism (which certainly does not reflect the author's opinion). Russia also gets a little rough with America. It's all right, though, he likes it.
You can read this fic in Russian - translation by erueru_2d.
---
"Not that I'd try to tell you how to live your life--"
"Oh, of course not--"
"It's just that I think--"
"--This means the Cold War is over, then, yes?"
"--You would be a lot happier--"
"Since you would never try to argue me out of an ideological position--"
"--If you embraced Jesus," America finished. Then added, "You commie fuck."
Russia tilted back in his chair, one foot on the floor, and regarded America across the dining table through the haze of candlelight. He twitched a smile. "Do you."
"Yeah, I do." America held his fork like the hilt of a sword.
"You know--" Russia folded an arm over the back of his chair. "I was Christian several hundred years before you existed."
"Yeah, and you were probably a prick a couple hundred years before I existed, too. But I try to judge you based on what you are now." America turned his fork in towards his greens, paused, then looked back at Russia. "Still a prick, by the way," he clarified.
"The Bible has some fairly specific things to say about judging others at all," Russia reminded him.
America skewered a baby tomato and popped it in his mouth. His next words were muffled. "Maybe, but I'm pretty sure even Jesus would want to lamp you one, sometimes."
"All the more reason not to welcome him into my house," Russia smiled.
"I'm serious." America put his fork down.
"So am I," Russia replied affably.
America dabbed at the corner of his mouth with his napkin and said, "You were pretty devout, once, weren't you?"
"Very." Russia let his chair thunk forward, and swiped up his wine glass. They were at America's house, and America never had vodka. So it was wine. "Moscow was the third Rome."
"--What was the second?"
Russia took a sip. His voice rang dully against the inside of the glass. "You are a very stupid nation, aren't you?"
"Lay off," America dismissed. He waved, and the candlelight fluttered. "Like I need to know about European papist shit. Catholics are weird anyway."
"Ah," Russia sighed. "Common ground."
"So why'd you turn your back on it? You just lose the faith, or something?" America hitched his ankle up onto his knee.
"I was liberated from my faith," Russia corrected him. He sat forward, and his hair fell in his eyes. He brushed it away. "Religion is man's invention to escape his own misery. If you don't reject illusory happiness, you can never find real happiness."
"Real happiness," America repeated. "This, from the most miserable fucker I know."
Russia tilted his head. "I thought you had a rule, in your country. No politics or religion at the dinner table?"
"It's like, the first rule of etiquette," America agreed. "I'm sorry, are we trying to be polite to each other? Should I have pushed in your chair? Want me to take your coat?" he pushed out from the table to stand.
Russia propped his chin in his hand and tilted his glass, watched the wine shiver up the walls. "This is supposed to be a diplomatic meeting."
"So was last time." America settled back and took a gulp from his own glass. "And you ended up pinning me to an outside wall of the Kremlin by two broken fingers and fucking me to my knees in the snow."
"That was very diplomatic," Russia demurred. A red shiver ached through him at the memory. "I felt much better disposed towards you for the rest of the day."
"All day? I'm so flattered." Another drink. "I'm just saying, I think I can ask you about religion if I feel like it."
"It's a fraud." Russia tried to sound patient, though he didn't know why. "You would be better off without it, as well."
"I just can't believe one little revolution could make you turn your back on centuries of faith."
"Some of my people do still practice it, in secret," he heard himself say.
America grinned, all teeth and glinting light. "I'll remind you that you admitted that, some day."
Russia frowned. "They will come around."
"Sure they will." America uncrossed his legs and crossed them again the other way. "You can't convince people to give up on God with rhetoric, Russia. God is something that you feel."
"I remember." And he did remember; he had crouched with his people in the rubble of ruined town centers, hid among the other children, and listened to the priests exhort them to come together as Russians--as Russians, not as Suzdalians, or Vladimirians, or Rostovians. They said that God had sent the Mongols to punish them for their sins--but that, if they were virtuous, God would help them to drive the Mongols out again. Russia had listened, and Russia had believed.
He put it gently from his mind. "God is what people want to feel when they have nothing else to turn to."
America sat back in his chair in amazement. "So you've really felt nothing since the commies took over."
"Nothing," Russia confirmed. He put his glass back on the table and tested, "Have you?"
"All the time," was America's reply.
"Of course--because you believe you are a special country, don't you. A special country, with a special mission."
America looked abashed. "I--well, I--"
"'A city on a hill,' yes? You are fond of that phrase."
America sat up, lay his hands before him on the table. "Yeah. That's right."
More steady eye contact, half-smote by candlelight. Russia smiled. "You believe you are doing God's work."
America's expression thinned, the way it always did when he was looking for a trap. Russia wondered if anyone else had ever seen so much of that expression. Maybe England, from the old days. Maybe not. "I…believe I'm upholding the principles of freedom, justice, and democracy, for the--"
"You believe," Russia repeated, "You are doing God's work." America didn't deny it. "'God bless America,' isn't that what it says, on all that money of yours? ...Do you think he does?"
"I hope so." His voice was guarded.
"Do you think God even cares about nations?"
America shifted, dropped both feet to the floor. "I think God cares about everyone."
Russia shook his head. "Do you even imagine that you have a soul?"
America raised his eyebrows, very faintly. "I hope so. I think I do."
Russia twitched his scarf on his shoulder. "I am hearing a great deal of 'I think' and 'I hope,' and very little 'I know.'"
"Yeah, well, I guess that's why they call it faith," America sneered.
"I will tell you what I know." Russia looked down at his plate. Steak, of course; America was so fond of his cattle, and his ranches, and his wide open plains. He flicked back his sleeves, took up his knife and fork, and cut out a small bite. "I have seen pyramids of skulls made from my people. God did not help them."
America set his teeth, and folded the very tips of his fingers together.
"I have seen my soldiers butchered and starved, my women brutalized, and my children slaughtered. Many times. Over centuries. By anyone who could--anyone who could reach me. Most of them liked to claim that God was on their side. I am sure that he was not on mine."
"I get your point," America muttered. He hiked his weight over his elbow and leaned forward on the table. "But, Russia--people cause that kind of suffering, not God."
"People, and nations," Russia mused.
"…Sure, whatever. My point is, God didn't make all that shit happen to you."
Russia raised his fork into the candlelight, so the ragged edge of meat glowed gold. "He didn't stop it, either. Not even for the third Rome. Burned, many times."
America chewed his lip. "That's not really what God does."
"Then fuck him," Russia replied.
America blinked. "This, uh, doesn't really sound like Marx, anymore."
Russia turned his fork. "If God won't protect the faithful, what use is he?"
America wet his lips. "To--to give you hope, and strength… Maybe God was with you, you think of that? I mean, just to survive everything that you have--"
Russia slammed his fork down onto his plate. It rang into America's sudden silence. "No."
"How do you--"
Russia was on his feet, and then standing over America, and then hauling him out of his chair by the front of his shirt. America clamped both hands around Russia's forearm, but he didn't fight back--he waited to see where Russia was going with this. It always made Russia want to hit him even more. "The priests convinced my people to fight," he snarled, "But my people survived because they fought, not because of God."
"But you--you lived--" America bumped his chair back to make room for them both to stand.
"I lived," Russia sidestepped him and dragged him around, so America's back was to the table. "Because as soon as I was strong enough to lift a sword, I hunted down every Tatar tribe on my land, and cut their throats. While I was busy with that," he shook him, hard, "The other nations took it as their sign to invade!"
America stiffened against him; his eyes darkened and his upper lip thinned. Russia knew that look, the one that said America's threat assessment was complete, and now he was preparing to resist--he knew that look because America's resistance made him harder than anything ever had in his life. "So Europe's full of bastards," America snapped, "What else is news. The fact is that you're here, and a lot of other nations aren't."
Russia's mouth curled into a crooked smile. "And I should take this as evidence that God is real? What have I done to prove that I'm one of God's creatures?"
"What are you even--"
"What have any of us done? We all have blood on our hands, America. We're all bastards. Otherwise we wouldn't be alive."
"I've never--" he tore at Russia's arm.
Russia's grip slipped, and he seized America's shirt with his other hand, and shoved the other nation into the edge of the table. Wine glasses toppled, plates shivered, and the salt shaker tipped and rolled and clattered to the floor. He wanted to backhand him--oh, so much, because America was an arrogant, intolerable fool--and to see that flare in his eyes…but no, not yet. "You have never faced a serious threat to your sovereignty since you gained your independence, and yet--how many nations have you fought? For your allies? Or influence? Or pride?"
America glared at him and braced his hands on Russia's hips, to push him back--or, perhaps not, perhaps just to grip. Yes: even though America's back was to the candlelight and his face was thrown in swerving shadows, Russia could see that all-over flush. America was thinking about it, too. Russia stepped into a bind against him.
"You should hope I'm right," Russia hissed against the side of his face. He looked up through America's hair, to the join of the far wall and the ceiling. "You're a thief and a liar and a murderer, too, just like the rest of us."
America shoved him, but Russia didn't move, and it just sent the table groaning a few inches back. Russia used the change in leverage to bend America into it, to reach behind him and sweep his steak dinner crashing to the floor, and forced America's shoulders down to the tablecloth. America's hands crawled up inside his coat, and America's teeth found the corner of his jaw. Russia bit back a vicious smile.
As they shoved things off the table and tore into each other's clothes, Russia caught America by his hair. He twisted, brought America's ear briefly to his lips.
"Maybe some people go to heaven," he breathed. "But nations all go to hell."
Originally posted: Here, for youkofujima from her reverse request meme.
Length: 2000 words.
Characters/Pairings: Russia/America.
Premise: Cold War-era Russia and America talk about religion over dinner.
Time period: 1960s-1970s.
Smuttiness: 3/10
Funnyness: 2/10
Wrist slashiness: 5/10
Lolhistoryness: 3/10
Violence: 2/10
Would I like it?: It's an argument about religion, and therefore pretty likely to offend someone. Viewpoints expressed include Marxist atheism, nihilistic atheism, pan-Protestantism, and a brief dig at Catholicism (which certainly does not reflect the author's opinion). Russia also gets a little rough with America. It's all right, though, he likes it.
You can read this fic in Russian - translation by erueru_2d.
---
"Not that I'd try to tell you how to live your life--"
"Oh, of course not--"
"It's just that I think--"
"--This means the Cold War is over, then, yes?"
"--You would be a lot happier--"
"Since you would never try to argue me out of an ideological position--"
"--If you embraced Jesus," America finished. Then added, "You commie fuck."
Russia tilted back in his chair, one foot on the floor, and regarded America across the dining table through the haze of candlelight. He twitched a smile. "Do you."
"Yeah, I do." America held his fork like the hilt of a sword.
"You know--" Russia folded an arm over the back of his chair. "I was Christian several hundred years before you existed."
"Yeah, and you were probably a prick a couple hundred years before I existed, too. But I try to judge you based on what you are now." America turned his fork in towards his greens, paused, then looked back at Russia. "Still a prick, by the way," he clarified.
"The Bible has some fairly specific things to say about judging others at all," Russia reminded him.
America skewered a baby tomato and popped it in his mouth. His next words were muffled. "Maybe, but I'm pretty sure even Jesus would want to lamp you one, sometimes."
"All the more reason not to welcome him into my house," Russia smiled.
"I'm serious." America put his fork down.
"So am I," Russia replied affably.
America dabbed at the corner of his mouth with his napkin and said, "You were pretty devout, once, weren't you?"
"Very." Russia let his chair thunk forward, and swiped up his wine glass. They were at America's house, and America never had vodka. So it was wine. "Moscow was the third Rome."
"--What was the second?"
Russia took a sip. His voice rang dully against the inside of the glass. "You are a very stupid nation, aren't you?"
"Lay off," America dismissed. He waved, and the candlelight fluttered. "Like I need to know about European papist shit. Catholics are weird anyway."
"Ah," Russia sighed. "Common ground."
"So why'd you turn your back on it? You just lose the faith, or something?" America hitched his ankle up onto his knee.
"I was liberated from my faith," Russia corrected him. He sat forward, and his hair fell in his eyes. He brushed it away. "Religion is man's invention to escape his own misery. If you don't reject illusory happiness, you can never find real happiness."
"Real happiness," America repeated. "This, from the most miserable fucker I know."
Russia tilted his head. "I thought you had a rule, in your country. No politics or religion at the dinner table?"
"It's like, the first rule of etiquette," America agreed. "I'm sorry, are we trying to be polite to each other? Should I have pushed in your chair? Want me to take your coat?" he pushed out from the table to stand.
Russia propped his chin in his hand and tilted his glass, watched the wine shiver up the walls. "This is supposed to be a diplomatic meeting."
"So was last time." America settled back and took a gulp from his own glass. "And you ended up pinning me to an outside wall of the Kremlin by two broken fingers and fucking me to my knees in the snow."
"That was very diplomatic," Russia demurred. A red shiver ached through him at the memory. "I felt much better disposed towards you for the rest of the day."
"All day? I'm so flattered." Another drink. "I'm just saying, I think I can ask you about religion if I feel like it."
"It's a fraud." Russia tried to sound patient, though he didn't know why. "You would be better off without it, as well."
"I just can't believe one little revolution could make you turn your back on centuries of faith."
"Some of my people do still practice it, in secret," he heard himself say.
America grinned, all teeth and glinting light. "I'll remind you that you admitted that, some day."
Russia frowned. "They will come around."
"Sure they will." America uncrossed his legs and crossed them again the other way. "You can't convince people to give up on God with rhetoric, Russia. God is something that you feel."
"I remember." And he did remember; he had crouched with his people in the rubble of ruined town centers, hid among the other children, and listened to the priests exhort them to come together as Russians--as Russians, not as Suzdalians, or Vladimirians, or Rostovians. They said that God had sent the Mongols to punish them for their sins--but that, if they were virtuous, God would help them to drive the Mongols out again. Russia had listened, and Russia had believed.
He put it gently from his mind. "God is what people want to feel when they have nothing else to turn to."
America sat back in his chair in amazement. "So you've really felt nothing since the commies took over."
"Nothing," Russia confirmed. He put his glass back on the table and tested, "Have you?"
"All the time," was America's reply.
"Of course--because you believe you are a special country, don't you. A special country, with a special mission."
America looked abashed. "I--well, I--"
"'A city on a hill,' yes? You are fond of that phrase."
America sat up, lay his hands before him on the table. "Yeah. That's right."
More steady eye contact, half-smote by candlelight. Russia smiled. "You believe you are doing God's work."
America's expression thinned, the way it always did when he was looking for a trap. Russia wondered if anyone else had ever seen so much of that expression. Maybe England, from the old days. Maybe not. "I…believe I'm upholding the principles of freedom, justice, and democracy, for the--"
"You believe," Russia repeated, "You are doing God's work." America didn't deny it. "'God bless America,' isn't that what it says, on all that money of yours? ...Do you think he does?"
"I hope so." His voice was guarded.
"Do you think God even cares about nations?"
America shifted, dropped both feet to the floor. "I think God cares about everyone."
Russia shook his head. "Do you even imagine that you have a soul?"
America raised his eyebrows, very faintly. "I hope so. I think I do."
Russia twitched his scarf on his shoulder. "I am hearing a great deal of 'I think' and 'I hope,' and very little 'I know.'"
"Yeah, well, I guess that's why they call it faith," America sneered.
"I will tell you what I know." Russia looked down at his plate. Steak, of course; America was so fond of his cattle, and his ranches, and his wide open plains. He flicked back his sleeves, took up his knife and fork, and cut out a small bite. "I have seen pyramids of skulls made from my people. God did not help them."
America set his teeth, and folded the very tips of his fingers together.
"I have seen my soldiers butchered and starved, my women brutalized, and my children slaughtered. Many times. Over centuries. By anyone who could--anyone who could reach me. Most of them liked to claim that God was on their side. I am sure that he was not on mine."
"I get your point," America muttered. He hiked his weight over his elbow and leaned forward on the table. "But, Russia--people cause that kind of suffering, not God."
"People, and nations," Russia mused.
"…Sure, whatever. My point is, God didn't make all that shit happen to you."
Russia raised his fork into the candlelight, so the ragged edge of meat glowed gold. "He didn't stop it, either. Not even for the third Rome. Burned, many times."
America chewed his lip. "That's not really what God does."
"Then fuck him," Russia replied.
America blinked. "This, uh, doesn't really sound like Marx, anymore."
Russia turned his fork. "If God won't protect the faithful, what use is he?"
America wet his lips. "To--to give you hope, and strength… Maybe God was with you, you think of that? I mean, just to survive everything that you have--"
Russia slammed his fork down onto his plate. It rang into America's sudden silence. "No."
"How do you--"
Russia was on his feet, and then standing over America, and then hauling him out of his chair by the front of his shirt. America clamped both hands around Russia's forearm, but he didn't fight back--he waited to see where Russia was going with this. It always made Russia want to hit him even more. "The priests convinced my people to fight," he snarled, "But my people survived because they fought, not because of God."
"But you--you lived--" America bumped his chair back to make room for them both to stand.
"I lived," Russia sidestepped him and dragged him around, so America's back was to the table. "Because as soon as I was strong enough to lift a sword, I hunted down every Tatar tribe on my land, and cut their throats. While I was busy with that," he shook him, hard, "The other nations took it as their sign to invade!"
America stiffened against him; his eyes darkened and his upper lip thinned. Russia knew that look, the one that said America's threat assessment was complete, and now he was preparing to resist--he knew that look because America's resistance made him harder than anything ever had in his life. "So Europe's full of bastards," America snapped, "What else is news. The fact is that you're here, and a lot of other nations aren't."
Russia's mouth curled into a crooked smile. "And I should take this as evidence that God is real? What have I done to prove that I'm one of God's creatures?"
"What are you even--"
"What have any of us done? We all have blood on our hands, America. We're all bastards. Otherwise we wouldn't be alive."
"I've never--" he tore at Russia's arm.
Russia's grip slipped, and he seized America's shirt with his other hand, and shoved the other nation into the edge of the table. Wine glasses toppled, plates shivered, and the salt shaker tipped and rolled and clattered to the floor. He wanted to backhand him--oh, so much, because America was an arrogant, intolerable fool--and to see that flare in his eyes…but no, not yet. "You have never faced a serious threat to your sovereignty since you gained your independence, and yet--how many nations have you fought? For your allies? Or influence? Or pride?"
America glared at him and braced his hands on Russia's hips, to push him back--or, perhaps not, perhaps just to grip. Yes: even though America's back was to the candlelight and his face was thrown in swerving shadows, Russia could see that all-over flush. America was thinking about it, too. Russia stepped into a bind against him.
"You should hope I'm right," Russia hissed against the side of his face. He looked up through America's hair, to the join of the far wall and the ceiling. "You're a thief and a liar and a murderer, too, just like the rest of us."
America shoved him, but Russia didn't move, and it just sent the table groaning a few inches back. Russia used the change in leverage to bend America into it, to reach behind him and sweep his steak dinner crashing to the floor, and forced America's shoulders down to the tablecloth. America's hands crawled up inside his coat, and America's teeth found the corner of his jaw. Russia bit back a vicious smile.
As they shoved things off the table and tore into each other's clothes, Russia caught America by his hair. He twisted, brought America's ear briefly to his lips.
"Maybe some people go to heaven," he breathed. "But nations all go to hell."