43 - Shadows Fade
Title: Shadows Fade
Characters: Russia/America.
Rating: R for implied sex.
Summary: 1956 - Khrushchev's secret speech opens the way for Russia to reach out to America and begin to recover from Stalin's mistreatment.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
Chicago. March, 1956.
Chicago was freezing, even to Russia. Wind swept in across the lake and cut through his coat, needled into his scarf. The inch of skin between his sleeves and his gloves was numb. When he breathed, the air hurt his lungs.
Illinois in March felt like home.
He knocked at the door of America's townhouse and waited. His cold rough hands twitched in his pockets. There was a long pause before America appeared, still struggling into an extra sweater.
He blinked. "Russia?"
Russia stared at him, his breath clouding the air between them. He took a step closer--ice cracked under his feet. He'd meant to say something. He'd come here with intent. But there was America, warm and a little flushed, his hair rucked up by the battle with his sweater, a fire dancing in the grate behind him.
"Hold me," Russia whispered. It wasn't what he had planned to say, but he suddenly couldn't think of anything else. "Please?"
A still, aching pause; the lines of America's eyes twitched. And then again, softer, almost disbelieving: "Russia?"
America caught him by the hand and pulled him across the threshold, swung the door shut and wrapped his arms around Russia's shoulders. "Yeah, I've got you, beautiful, what's up?"
It was that voice, the one that America only ever used for him. Russia shivered once, all over, as though someone had dug a pin into the base of his spine. He turned his face into the warm hollow of America’s neck. "I-I-I..." This wasn't what he had been planning at all, but--but America was cradling him in so gently, and, and--
He squeezed his eyes shut, jerked on a dry, awful sob. "I hated him so much!" A dizzy rush. He buckled in America’s arms.
America caught him up before they could both collapse to the floor and ushered him in, further in, towards the fireplace. Russia sank down; his knees reached the carpet a few feet shy of the couch. America joined him on the floor without protest and tangled their bodies together.
"Hated who--?"
"Stalin!" Russia cried. He scrambled tighter against America's body, and it felt like that name could bring his spirit roaring against the frosted windowpanes. "I-I tried so hard for him--"
America shuddered, gripped him, held him in as tight as he could and smoothed a hand down Russia's back, over and over. "Oh, God, sweetheart...Russia, I've got you, it's okay, it's okay..."
Russia twisted his fingers into the cable knit of America's sweater. "No, it's not! I-I spent years trying to make him love me! Years! I did everything he ever wanted-- "
America pressed his nose into Russia's hair: there was a warm rush of breath. "It's over now, and look at you--you're so strong, you're still so strong, and brave, and, and, after everything you've been through you've got no right to--to be so--goddamned impressive." Strong, warm fingers pressed in between his shoulder blades. "You made it. He was a bastard and he's dead, and you--you're--you're still--"
"But I don't know what I am without him! My--My people are lost, they're confused...He was s-supposed to be like a--a father to them! A-And now he's gone and they're afraid and hurting and I-I don't know what to do..." He was half in America's lap, now, trembling like the last leaf clinging to a branch.
America soothed him, kissed his hair; he caught the blanket hanging off the edge of the couch and wrapped it around them both, bound them in against each other. He nuzzled into Russia's jawline, whispered sweet sounds that eventually resolved into "They'll be okay...you'll be okay...you're so much stronger than Stalin's shadow, I know you are..."
The cold was slowly leeching out of Russia's skin. The fire popped behind them. Russia stroked his thumb over the back of America’s hand and, after a while, touched a tentative kiss to America's cheek. He didn't let his lips linger. He still didn't know how much was allowed. "I'm...sorry for just...coming here, like this."
America pulled back an inch and gaped at him in amazement. "I...no. Don't be." So much warmth in that. America flashed him a shaky smile.
Russia disentangled one of his hands, rucked it through his hair. "You're not...upset?"
America caught his hand and drew it into himself, kissed the backs of his knuckles. He watched Russia with warm eyes through their linked fingertips. "I'm happy you wanted to see me."
Russia nuzzled into America's throat, pressed a soft kiss to the underside of his jaw. "Would you..." He shivered, a hot pulse in his ears, and began unsticking the buttons of his coat. "Touch me? ...Here?" He guided America's hand to the hem of his sweater. He could see the scars criss-crossing his stomach in his mind's eye.
America stilled: then nodded. He cradled the back of Russia's head, held him in, while his other hand was...was so warm...and flush, and pressed in, Russia could feel the resilience of America's skin as he covered those scars with new touches.
"Where else?" America breathed.
Russia sighed, traced his fingers back into America's hair. "Everywhere," he whispered. He wanted that, suddenly: to feel America's lips drifting across him, feathering into the deep hollows of bone, nuzzling up, warm and soft against the prows of his ribs.
Take me back.
America kissed him behind his ear and bore him gently down to the floor, a soft shining in his eyes all the way. He dropped his glasses onto the couch, then bent their bodies together. He kissed Russia's stomach; cupped, kissed, breathed against Russia's hipbones; America's thumbs curled down the waist of his trousers just half an inch to bare more skin.
Their eyes met.
Russia wet his lips and stroked the back of America's neck. "Please," he breathed. His skin prickled to life, sharp and feverish.
America exhaled; smiled, maybe without even feeling it. America had a special smile for when he didn't know he was smiling; Russia had never seen him wear it around anyone else. Those warm hands, lips, eyes, that hot breath made their way up Russia's body. America kissed up his side, spread his fingers into Russia's ribs; he worked off Russia's sweater, unbuttoned his shirt, spread his clothes open across the carpet. His sternum, then, America's lips lingered there; and in the wide curves of his shoulders. America kissed his ears, his temples--and then he pulled himself away from Russia's hair (with tangible reluctance) and found Russia's wrist, found the spot where it never laid quite straight. He kissed that, too, and drew his teeth across it.
Russia caught up the hem of America's sweater, rubbed his palms into the warm ditch of his spine. His crooked wrist throbbed under the other nation's fingertips. He shifted against the nap of the carpet. "Mm..." His voice hitched, tumbled over itself and curled into a sweet moan. "Here, come here--"
America grinned in delight. He climbed over Russia, pressed their mouths together, ran both hands into Russia's hair and rolled them onto their sides. His leg rode up and hooked over Russia's hip.
"D-Did you--?" Miss me, miss me, did you miss me? Russia broke off, let out a gentle breath, and slid his fingers up America's thigh.
America nuzzled their faces together. His gaze trembled, like a ripple had gone through some vast underground lake inside of him. "Oh, my God, gorgeous...yes."
Something nestled deep in his ribs tremble in response. Russia shifted their hips together, gasped quietly. "Not gorgeous," he mumbled. "Wish you wouldn't...say that..."
America's grin was back. He plucked a kiss from behind the curve of Russia's jaw like a magician producing a coin. "Well maybe if you stopped being so damned gorgeous, I'd stop saying it." It was a warm, dim mumble against his earlobe. America's arm crept around his back. "Always makin' me recite the Pledge of Allegiance to myself in meetings so I don't get all distracted by how the light's shining off your hair, or what-fucking-ever..."
"You're lying," Russia murmured fondly.
"Either way you won't believe me, right?" America drew back and touched the tips of their noses together. He smiled into Russia's eyes. "I had you all wrong that whole time, didn't I?" he breathed.
"What do you mean?" Russia tugged the collar of America's shirt down, traced his tongue into his clavicle.
America kissed across his hairline. "I was always trying to make you stick words onto things. I mean--" a shiver as Russia's lips found the side of America's throat; he went on in a lower murmur. "Almost from the very beginning, I was trying to make you say that we were friends, you remember? And since then, it's been...it's been all kinds of things...I've tried to make you say that we were together, or that you were scared of me, or that you hated me, or you liked me, or--just about any damned thing I can think of. And just...really shoving you into a corner about it; bullying you, almost. I mean--" an exhaled laugh. "Why the hell should I have expected a good answer when I was being such a dick about it?"
He rolled Russia onto his back, lay long and hot above him, so their legs interlocked. "When maybe I should've just been saying to myself, 'hey. He's here. So this must be where he wants to be. Maybe you should shut the fuck up and kiss him already.'"
Russia cupped America's face with both hands. He didn’t say anything for a long time, just basked in the light of the fire and gazed into that blue; fighting off a feeling that may have been happiness. "I...I understand." A pause. “And I’ve been...difficult.” It’s all he could offer. He brushed his thumbs carefully across the other nation's cheekbones, traced his the very tips of those golden lashes. He bent up his left leg, caged them in on one side.
America chuffed, drew up his knee, so they were locked together. He nuzzled against Russia's palm. "Well, I can't say I'd mind you being a little less of a total fucking hardass in my direction..." He kissed Russia's fingertips, nipped one, then turned a sly smile back down at him. "But I figure 'difficult' is just part of what you are. And hell, I can't get enough of you. Maybe I like 'difficult.'"
Russia shivered, felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth, lopsided and tender. "You're very patient,” he said finally. He curled his free fingers against America's chin, tipped his face to the side, and regarded him with soft eyes. "It's more than I deserve." His hips pulsed up, once, so gentle.
America drew in a quiet breath, then rubbed their whole bodies together. "Patient's something I'm really not--" his breath is hot and quiet against Russia's ear. "But I can't give up on you if I try, beautiful." His lips touched the hollow at the base of Russia's skull.
"I won’t make it easy," Russia breathed. "You know that." His back hitched into a long, sweet arch. He struggled up the back of America's sweater.
America wriggled out of his shirt, rucking his hair into a ridiculous spray, and mumbled, "It keeps life interesting."
He kissed the knot of Russia's scarf, so soft that Russia almost couldn't feel it.
+++
--On February 25, 1956, Khrushchev made a "secret" speech (note: not really all that secret) to the 20th Party Congress, denouncing the brutality and oppression of the Stalin regime, called On The Cult Of Personality And Its Consequences. This was followed by the remaining Stalinists being thrown out of the Kremlin following an attempted coup, and culminated in Khrushchev removing Stalin's body from Lenin's mausoleum and relocating it outside the Kremlin wall.
--The speech was leaked to the United States (via Israeli intelligence) in March of the same year, and led to a great warming up between Khrushchev's USSR and the Eisenhower administration.
+++
Please read our Rules & FAQ before posting. / Пожалуйста, прочтите Правила и FAQ прежде чем комментировать.
Got something to say to the boys about what just went down? Shoot them a letter.
This is a chapter from The Chosen End, a Russia/America collaboration spanning from 1780 to the present day. You can read all of the fics in this story at the Index.
Characters: Russia/America.
Rating: R for implied sex.
Summary: 1956 - Khrushchev's secret speech opens the way for Russia to reach out to America and begin to recover from Stalin's mistreatment.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
Chicago. March, 1956.
Chicago was freezing, even to Russia. Wind swept in across the lake and cut through his coat, needled into his scarf. The inch of skin between his sleeves and his gloves was numb. When he breathed, the air hurt his lungs.
Illinois in March felt like home.
He knocked at the door of America's townhouse and waited. His cold rough hands twitched in his pockets. There was a long pause before America appeared, still struggling into an extra sweater.
He blinked. "Russia?"
Russia stared at him, his breath clouding the air between them. He took a step closer--ice cracked under his feet. He'd meant to say something. He'd come here with intent. But there was America, warm and a little flushed, his hair rucked up by the battle with his sweater, a fire dancing in the grate behind him.
"Hold me," Russia whispered. It wasn't what he had planned to say, but he suddenly couldn't think of anything else. "Please?"
A still, aching pause; the lines of America's eyes twitched. And then again, softer, almost disbelieving: "Russia?"
America caught him by the hand and pulled him across the threshold, swung the door shut and wrapped his arms around Russia's shoulders. "Yeah, I've got you, beautiful, what's up?"
It was that voice, the one that America only ever used for him. Russia shivered once, all over, as though someone had dug a pin into the base of his spine. He turned his face into the warm hollow of America’s neck. "I-I-I..." This wasn't what he had been planning at all, but--but America was cradling him in so gently, and, and--
He squeezed his eyes shut, jerked on a dry, awful sob. "I hated him so much!" A dizzy rush. He buckled in America’s arms.
America caught him up before they could both collapse to the floor and ushered him in, further in, towards the fireplace. Russia sank down; his knees reached the carpet a few feet shy of the couch. America joined him on the floor without protest and tangled their bodies together.
"Hated who--?"
"Stalin!" Russia cried. He scrambled tighter against America's body, and it felt like that name could bring his spirit roaring against the frosted windowpanes. "I-I tried so hard for him--"
America shuddered, gripped him, held him in as tight as he could and smoothed a hand down Russia's back, over and over. "Oh, God, sweetheart...Russia, I've got you, it's okay, it's okay..."
Russia twisted his fingers into the cable knit of America's sweater. "No, it's not! I-I spent years trying to make him love me! Years! I did everything he ever wanted-- "
America pressed his nose into Russia's hair: there was a warm rush of breath. "It's over now, and look at you--you're so strong, you're still so strong, and brave, and, and, after everything you've been through you've got no right to--to be so--goddamned impressive." Strong, warm fingers pressed in between his shoulder blades. "You made it. He was a bastard and he's dead, and you--you're--you're still--"
"But I don't know what I am without him! My--My people are lost, they're confused...He was s-supposed to be like a--a father to them! A-And now he's gone and they're afraid and hurting and I-I don't know what to do..." He was half in America's lap, now, trembling like the last leaf clinging to a branch.
America soothed him, kissed his hair; he caught the blanket hanging off the edge of the couch and wrapped it around them both, bound them in against each other. He nuzzled into Russia's jawline, whispered sweet sounds that eventually resolved into "They'll be okay...you'll be okay...you're so much stronger than Stalin's shadow, I know you are..."
The cold was slowly leeching out of Russia's skin. The fire popped behind them. Russia stroked his thumb over the back of America’s hand and, after a while, touched a tentative kiss to America's cheek. He didn't let his lips linger. He still didn't know how much was allowed. "I'm...sorry for just...coming here, like this."
America pulled back an inch and gaped at him in amazement. "I...no. Don't be." So much warmth in that. America flashed him a shaky smile.
Russia disentangled one of his hands, rucked it through his hair. "You're not...upset?"
America caught his hand and drew it into himself, kissed the backs of his knuckles. He watched Russia with warm eyes through their linked fingertips. "I'm happy you wanted to see me."
Russia nuzzled into America's throat, pressed a soft kiss to the underside of his jaw. "Would you..." He shivered, a hot pulse in his ears, and began unsticking the buttons of his coat. "Touch me? ...Here?" He guided America's hand to the hem of his sweater. He could see the scars criss-crossing his stomach in his mind's eye.
America stilled: then nodded. He cradled the back of Russia's head, held him in, while his other hand was...was so warm...and flush, and pressed in, Russia could feel the resilience of America's skin as he covered those scars with new touches.
"Where else?" America breathed.
Russia sighed, traced his fingers back into America's hair. "Everywhere," he whispered. He wanted that, suddenly: to feel America's lips drifting across him, feathering into the deep hollows of bone, nuzzling up, warm and soft against the prows of his ribs.
Take me back.
America kissed him behind his ear and bore him gently down to the floor, a soft shining in his eyes all the way. He dropped his glasses onto the couch, then bent their bodies together. He kissed Russia's stomach; cupped, kissed, breathed against Russia's hipbones; America's thumbs curled down the waist of his trousers just half an inch to bare more skin.
Their eyes met.
Russia wet his lips and stroked the back of America's neck. "Please," he breathed. His skin prickled to life, sharp and feverish.
America exhaled; smiled, maybe without even feeling it. America had a special smile for when he didn't know he was smiling; Russia had never seen him wear it around anyone else. Those warm hands, lips, eyes, that hot breath made their way up Russia's body. America kissed up his side, spread his fingers into Russia's ribs; he worked off Russia's sweater, unbuttoned his shirt, spread his clothes open across the carpet. His sternum, then, America's lips lingered there; and in the wide curves of his shoulders. America kissed his ears, his temples--and then he pulled himself away from Russia's hair (with tangible reluctance) and found Russia's wrist, found the spot where it never laid quite straight. He kissed that, too, and drew his teeth across it.
Russia caught up the hem of America's sweater, rubbed his palms into the warm ditch of his spine. His crooked wrist throbbed under the other nation's fingertips. He shifted against the nap of the carpet. "Mm..." His voice hitched, tumbled over itself and curled into a sweet moan. "Here, come here--"
America grinned in delight. He climbed over Russia, pressed their mouths together, ran both hands into Russia's hair and rolled them onto their sides. His leg rode up and hooked over Russia's hip.
"D-Did you--?" Miss me, miss me, did you miss me? Russia broke off, let out a gentle breath, and slid his fingers up America's thigh.
America nuzzled their faces together. His gaze trembled, like a ripple had gone through some vast underground lake inside of him. "Oh, my God, gorgeous...yes."
Something nestled deep in his ribs tremble in response. Russia shifted their hips together, gasped quietly. "Not gorgeous," he mumbled. "Wish you wouldn't...say that..."
America's grin was back. He plucked a kiss from behind the curve of Russia's jaw like a magician producing a coin. "Well maybe if you stopped being so damned gorgeous, I'd stop saying it." It was a warm, dim mumble against his earlobe. America's arm crept around his back. "Always makin' me recite the Pledge of Allegiance to myself in meetings so I don't get all distracted by how the light's shining off your hair, or what-fucking-ever..."
"You're lying," Russia murmured fondly.
"Either way you won't believe me, right?" America drew back and touched the tips of their noses together. He smiled into Russia's eyes. "I had you all wrong that whole time, didn't I?" he breathed.
"What do you mean?" Russia tugged the collar of America's shirt down, traced his tongue into his clavicle.
America kissed across his hairline. "I was always trying to make you stick words onto things. I mean--" a shiver as Russia's lips found the side of America's throat; he went on in a lower murmur. "Almost from the very beginning, I was trying to make you say that we were friends, you remember? And since then, it's been...it's been all kinds of things...I've tried to make you say that we were together, or that you were scared of me, or that you hated me, or you liked me, or--just about any damned thing I can think of. And just...really shoving you into a corner about it; bullying you, almost. I mean--" an exhaled laugh. "Why the hell should I have expected a good answer when I was being such a dick about it?"
He rolled Russia onto his back, lay long and hot above him, so their legs interlocked. "When maybe I should've just been saying to myself, 'hey. He's here. So this must be where he wants to be. Maybe you should shut the fuck up and kiss him already.'"
Russia cupped America's face with both hands. He didn’t say anything for a long time, just basked in the light of the fire and gazed into that blue; fighting off a feeling that may have been happiness. "I...I understand." A pause. “And I’ve been...difficult.” It’s all he could offer. He brushed his thumbs carefully across the other nation's cheekbones, traced his the very tips of those golden lashes. He bent up his left leg, caged them in on one side.
America chuffed, drew up his knee, so they were locked together. He nuzzled against Russia's palm. "Well, I can't say I'd mind you being a little less of a total fucking hardass in my direction..." He kissed Russia's fingertips, nipped one, then turned a sly smile back down at him. "But I figure 'difficult' is just part of what you are. And hell, I can't get enough of you. Maybe I like 'difficult.'"
Russia shivered, felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth, lopsided and tender. "You're very patient,” he said finally. He curled his free fingers against America's chin, tipped his face to the side, and regarded him with soft eyes. "It's more than I deserve." His hips pulsed up, once, so gentle.
America drew in a quiet breath, then rubbed their whole bodies together. "Patient's something I'm really not--" his breath is hot and quiet against Russia's ear. "But I can't give up on you if I try, beautiful." His lips touched the hollow at the base of Russia's skull.
"I won’t make it easy," Russia breathed. "You know that." His back hitched into a long, sweet arch. He struggled up the back of America's sweater.
America wriggled out of his shirt, rucking his hair into a ridiculous spray, and mumbled, "It keeps life interesting."
He kissed the knot of Russia's scarf, so soft that Russia almost couldn't feel it.
+++
--On February 25, 1956, Khrushchev made a "secret" speech (note: not really all that secret) to the 20th Party Congress, denouncing the brutality and oppression of the Stalin regime, called On The Cult Of Personality And Its Consequences. This was followed by the remaining Stalinists being thrown out of the Kremlin following an attempted coup, and culminated in Khrushchev removing Stalin's body from Lenin's mausoleum and relocating it outside the Kremlin wall.
--The speech was leaked to the United States (via Israeli intelligence) in March of the same year, and led to a great warming up between Khrushchev's USSR and the Eisenhower administration.
+++
Please read our Rules & FAQ before posting. / Пожалуйста, прочтите Правила и FAQ прежде чем комментировать.
Got something to say to the boys about what just went down? Shoot them a letter.
This is a chapter from The Chosen End, a Russia/America collaboration spanning from 1780 to the present day. You can read all of the fics in this story at the Index.