46 - Bliss
Title: Bliss
Characters: Russia/America
Rating: PG-13
Summary: 1959 - Russia is treated to a guided tour of Disneyland during Khrushchev's visit to the States.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
Anaheim, California. September, 1959.
Disneyland was much nicer after-hours.
America was indefatigable, despite the fact that he’d been playing tour guide to the visiting Soviet diplomats for the past eight hours. He skipped around Russia whenever the other nation slowed down, all warm eyes and big smiles and their fingers tangled into each other. There were still other guests, of course, wandering along the glittering lanes, but not nearly so many, and it wasn't like during the day--when, inexplicably, everyone had seemed to treat America like an attraction of his own. Guests, strangers had interrupted their tour, shook his hand, asked for photographs with them. America had been thrilled to talk to every single one of them.
Russia gazed up into the twinkling canopy spread over the cobblestones. Electric vines bloomed with tiny lights in the trees above them, illuminated the footpath with a glittering glaze. He shifted his fingers, felt America's hand around his.
"It's too bad your camera team had to go somewhere else," America was saying. "There's fireworks!"
Russia trotted a few steps to catch up and slid his arm around America's waist. "Is there anything this place doesn't have?"
"Free tickets," America chirped, and bumped their shoulders together.
It wasn't actually true. They hadn't paid for anything all day. Whether that was because the Soviet camera crew counted as visiting dignitaries, or because of America, and the funny way he seemed to fold into the park like cracked eggs into cake batter, wasn't entirely clear. Russia studied America's profile in the light from the trees. He hadn't known what to make of him, all day; and even now. It was as though walking through the gates of that castle (which was huge and blue and...faintly German, when Russia thought about it) had lit a lamp inside of him. He glowed.
And he made the people around him glow, too.
"Where are we going?" Russia nudged his nose into America's hair. He hadn’t been able to stop touching him since dinner.
America rose onto the balls of his feet, into the caress, and his fingers tightened in Russia's. "I wanted to show you the house--the new house." A pause. "And it's a good place to watch the fireworks." He said it almost apologetically. "I like fireworks."
Russia chuffed, and gave him a smile. "So do I."
Fireworks seemed almost pedestrian for this place. It was difficult to appreciate the idea when he'd spent the day surrounded by bright, blazing colors, whirling teacups and paper lanterns and cotton candy spilling out of America's hands. But it would be quiet, in the spaces between the pops and cracks; and he'd get to listen to the thrilled hitch in America’s breath every time another blaze of color flashed against the sky.
"Did you have a nice day?" America insisted, tugging on his hand.
"Yes." It was true, even if he did have a bit of a headache. He anticipated America's next question. "And my favorite part was the submarines. The mermaids, especially."
"Disneyland has the eighth largest submarine fleet in the world," America confided, a little smug, but Russia couldn't resent that flushed smile. "Ranks next to Turkey, I think. Just to look at mermaids."
"And sea serpents," Russia added. He gave America a little squeeze, let his hand curl around the bone of his hip. "Although I've always wanted to see a mermaid more. I used to look for them in the Sea of Azov when I was small." His smile kicked a little wider at the left side of his mouth. "Yours were very good."
America's hand slipped beneath the hem of Russia's shirt and cradled his waist as they walked. "I thought mermaids were, um, Greek or something."
Russia sucked in a gentle breath. America's touch was warm. "They are," he murmured, and kissed the shell of America's ear. "Byzantium used to tell me stories about them."
"Who?" America mumbled, and he always arched up, up into Russia's kisses, like Russia held a magnet over his head. Then, "Oh, she's the one who made the things with all those bits of glass." A pause. "Mosaics." Another pause, and then, his voice uncertain, "You must've been pretty young when she was around, yeah?"
"Yes." Russia nipped a little, watched the glow of America's skin the twinkling lights. "Very young."
America's fingers curled against Russia’s side. "What were you like as a kid?" Lights scrolled by overhead; a cluster of tourists spotted America and waved joyfully, and he gave them a slow smile and a lazy wave back.
Before the evening was over, Russia would ask how they all knew him. He thought for a moment. "Small," he said finally. "I cried easily. I used to like to build things, too. Little snowmen, houses made of pebbles." He shrugged. "For the wood spirits."
America looked up and nudged his glasses up his nose. He ruffled Russia's hair. "I bet you were cute as hell, too." A nipped kiss with his hand tangled in the front of Russia's shirt. "Tough guys make the cutest kids."
Russia returned the kiss, licked across America's lower lip. "No,” he murmured. “I was very plain." The lights formed a clustered flower in the joint of a branch above them. "Clumsy, too. I was still tripping over myself the first time I met France."
"I don't listen to your opinion about yourself," America dismissed. A brief touch of tongues, and then America sank back on his heels and they ambled onwards.
The wide gated sign to Tomorrowland passed by overhead.
Russia peered up at it. "Did we miss this earlier today?" Everything from one o’ clock in the afternoon on was a blur. America had realized that they'd never see the whole park if they kept to their leisurely pace. So they hadn't.
"Most of it. It's all kinda corporate," America confided. "I didn't figure your guys'd like it. But the House of the Future is so cool!" He tugged Russia towards an odd, windowed, pillow-shaped edifice raised up over a dense garden.
Russia looked up at the thing. "This is a house?"
"It will be," America vibrated with giddy energy. "Come on, come on--"
And so they went in. A shiver of cool air hit them the moment they entered, ("Air conditioning!" America said proudly) and Russia broke free of America's grip to wander the sitting room. The ceiling lights were covered by sheets of plastic, and dimmed or brightened at a touch from America; a thin television screen took up the space behind the couch, set into the wall.
In the kitchen there was a dishwasher that opened like a coffin, right out of the counter, where the dishes were cleaned (America informed him) by "ultrasonic waves." The bathrooms after that, and America brandished an electric toothbrush in Russia's face in excitement, and the bedrooms, full of sleek moulded furniture made of something Russia had never heard of before.
America stopped them in front of the huge picture windows, looking out over the garden, and further out overlooking the castle. He beamed at Russia.
Russia cocked his head; examined the strange, knotted glass in the window frames. "America," he touched his fingertips to his own faint reflection. "What is all this for?"
America gave him such a blank look that for a moment Russia wondered if he had forgotten to speak English.
Russia tried again. "The lights and the cordless phones and the television…what's the point of it? No one lives here."
America blinked a couple of times. "But people will live here!" he protested. "Or, I mean. In houses a lot like this." He hooked his thumb into the pocket of Russia's jeans.
Russia let a bemused smile flicker over his face. He reached out and slid his thumb in alongside America's. "How do you know?"
America's fingers scrambled over his. "Because..." he looked around. "The guys at MIT say all this stuff is possible. And it's cool! So why shouldn't people have it?"
Now it was Russia's turn to look blank. He rubbed the back of America's hand to cover his confusion. "All this," he asked quietly. "Just because it's possible?" His fingertips brushed idly over the highest point of America's thigh; the denim rushed against his skin.
America swayed forward, hooked his fingertips into the pocket of Russia's slacks, perplexed. "Don't you think radiation ovens and air conditioning and TV remotes and stuff sound like fun?"
"Well, yes, but--" Russia broke off. He brushed a stray lick of hair off America's forehead, let his touch linger. It drifted down until he cupped the side of the other nation's neck. America's face shone in the distant light of the castle. "What's the point?" He asked again.
America gave a puzzled laugh. "Fun is the point, Russia."
Russia blinked, frowned. There was an air vent to his direct right, and the tails of his scarf ruffled against the draft. "You said that this was the future," he murmured. "What if the future doesn't last long enough for everyone to get here?"
"God, you're such a buzzkill sometimes," America sighed, a twist of a smile on the corner of his mouth. He pulled back, caught Russia's hands, and tugged him towards the door. "The fireworks are gonna start soon. You know, if the world ends, at least my people are gonna go out in comfort. Okay? And probably in a slag of melted plastic," he reflected. He shook his head as they emerged into the cool night. "What's a threat like that got to do with progress? What, we shouldn't care about microwaves just because the world might end first? Might as well not do anything, then. That sounds so France."
It did, a little. It probably was.
Russia sighed. "I just don't understand why you would do something when it serves no practical purpose. Fun can't be your goal, America."
"Why not?" America led him up to the Home of the Future's terrace and linked his arm around his waist.
"Because it doesn't do anyone any good." Russia gripped the boundary rail, and gazed out across the park; he rested his other hand on top of the one America had curled against his hip. The castle shone across them both.
America caught Russia's wrist and turned him in to face him. He was still smiling, but his expression had gone serious all around the edges. "We're all just trying to make our people happy, aren't we? I mean, at the end of the day?"
Russia nodded, once. America was right. In this respect, at least. But-- "Ignorance isn't bliss," he said softly. "No matter how many times you've heard otherwise."
America frowned. "What's ignorant about this?" He directed his thumb back towards the House.
"The idea of...of fun being an end. It doesn't help." He rubbed at the back of his neck with his free hand, smoothed his thumb unthinkingly up that longest scar, the one that curled under his jaw.
America watched him, then caught his hand and pressed a kiss to the pad of his thumb. "Yeah, it does. Russia...these people are all...all these people..." America looked down towards the park and cradled Russia's hand against his chest. "They're not fooling themselves by being here. Well, okay, maybe some of them are, but that's not what this place is for. They're normal folks, they've got kids, jobs, bills, they're stressed out and they've got their own problems, and I reckon sometimes it's pretty hard for them to be happy. They try real hard, to stay focused on the good things in life, but they're working hard and in the daily grind it can be hard to count your blessings, you know?"
He nibbled his lip. "So they save up, and they come here, with their families, and yeah, this is a money trap, the people here are trying to take their money. Welcome to capitalism, everybody's trying to take everybody's money. But they get here, and everything is just...nice. They don't have to go to work for a little while, they don't have to yell at their kids to try and get them to do their homework. Everything is fun and pretty, and the people who work here are all nice, and they'll never tell the guests 'no' or 'you can't.' And the kids are laughing and running around, and even their husbands or wives look about ten years younger, 'cause damn, mermaids are pretty fucking cool, and that doesn't--just go away when they go home again, you know? It's not like it never happened."
America was silent for a few seconds, working his fingers into Russia's. "Yeah, then they go home, and it's back to the stress and the work and the yelling. But it's not like they forget how happy their kids looked, how grateful they were, for a change, just because of something their parents did for them. And they don't forget how much they loved their spouse of fifteen years when they started giggling like they were eighteen again and all of a sudden they remember why they got married. Moments like that--that's what keeps people going."
His gaze dropped back down to the crisscrossing walkways and the winking yellow and blue lights. "That's what this place is for. That's what I want to give people. 'S why they're all so happy to see me," a quiet laugh, "Even if they don't know who I am."
Russia didn't say anything for a long while. He thought about a feeling that was a little like wonder and a little like sadness at the same time. America was lit up in the soft light of the castle, and--and something Russia had never understood fell into place.
It was genuine.
As manufactured as this place was, as ridiculous as that castle looked rising against the California landscape, as outrageous as it was to have a fleet of submarines to provide a view that anyone could see by traveling a few more miles to the beach... America meant it. All of it.
Russia lowered his eyes, stared at his hand, clutched in against America's chest. "I'm sorry," he said at last.
America smiled at him, not understanding, and looped his arm around Russia's hips. He hugged them together.
Russia leaned in and touched his lips to the side of America's neck, and for a while, everything was quiet and sweet and warm between them.
When the sky broke open in a shower of red and blue, Russia saw the colors first reflected in America's skin. America tightened in his arms; he held his breath until the first burst of color faded out of the sky. They eased against each other, then, eyes turned upwards, flinching at the noises and smiling at all the colors.
America murmured, "Do you remember the last time we watched fireworks together?"
Russia nodded. His hair was silver in the pale light of the castle; he brushed it away. "In Berlin." A smile, and a kiss, brushed soft across America's lips. "You tasted more like smoke, then."
America caught his lower lip gently between his teeth for a moment. "You've been smoking less the last couple years," he murmured. Then, "I used to really like you smoking. Y’know, before your new boss got in."
"Did you?" Russia touched his tongue to each corner of America's mouth. He'd had a cigarette this morning--and not one since. "I was always under the impression you couldn't stand it."
"Well yeah, that shit's bad for your health, but--" America folded his arms around Russia's shoulders and stretched up against him. His voice exhaled soft against Russia's cheek. "For a while there, breathing in that smoke was the closest thing I could get to tasting you."
Russia's heart went a little still. His hands spanned America's waist; they looked huge against the sweet arch of his ribs. "I remember when we’d have to see one another," he said slowly. “And I’d smoke a pack in a day. You’d spend those hours just staring at my mouth.” He paused. "Is that why?"
America turned languid, happy eyes up at him, the lights from the fireworks reflecting in his glasses. "Always wonderin' what you'd do if I just snatched the thing out of your mouth and kissed you," he mumbled. "Probably sock me in the teeth...but it would've been worth it."
A beat, and another pop.
"You can kiss me now." Russia's voice was hushed.
America made a soft sound in his throat, then bore Russia down by the back of his head into a warm kiss. The autumn breeze fluttered around them.
Russia's grip shifted on America's middle until both arms were wrapped tight around him. He hummed a little into the kiss; it made their joined lips prickle. After a long, sweet minute, he broke back an inch, tipped his forehead against America's. "I--I'm glad you're here."
America shivered on a giggle. "Of course I'm here. It's my country. I live here."
"With me, America." Russia kissed the tip of his nose. He felt numb inside, tingling, light on a hot, tender glow. "I'm glad you're here with me."
America went still: and then, a little break in his expression, a gentle smile. He breathed out again and touched a kiss to the corner of Russia's mouth. "I'm glad you're here with me, too."
He rested his head in the crook of Russia's shoulder, fixed their arms around each other's waists, and together they gazed up towards the lights.
+++
--Nikita Khrushchev spent thirteen days in the United States in mid-September, 1959. He travelled with his wife, his adult children, and various diplomats across the country, stopping everywhere from San Francisco to an Iowan farm. He only spent a day in Los Angeles, however. His itinerary had included a trip to Disneyland, but it had to be canceled because his security could not be guaranteed in the huge crowds that the park drew. Khrushchev was displeased, to put it mildly.
--The House of the Future opened in Disneyland in 1957, as part of Tomorrowland. It closed its doors a decade later, as technological advances quickly made it seem quaint in comparison to what was being used in American homes across the country. Here, this clip explains it better (and with more awesome 50's enthusiasm) than we ever could.
--The Submarine Voyage. With mermaids in!
--Sleeping Beauty's Castle at Disneyland is architecturally based on Neuschwanstein Castle in Germany.
+++
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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: PG-13
Summary: 1959 - Russia is treated to a guided tour of Disneyland during Khrushchev's visit to the States.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
Anaheim, California. September, 1959.
Disneyland was much nicer after-hours.
America was indefatigable, despite the fact that he’d been playing tour guide to the visiting Soviet diplomats for the past eight hours. He skipped around Russia whenever the other nation slowed down, all warm eyes and big smiles and their fingers tangled into each other. There were still other guests, of course, wandering along the glittering lanes, but not nearly so many, and it wasn't like during the day--when, inexplicably, everyone had seemed to treat America like an attraction of his own. Guests, strangers had interrupted their tour, shook his hand, asked for photographs with them. America had been thrilled to talk to every single one of them.
Russia gazed up into the twinkling canopy spread over the cobblestones. Electric vines bloomed with tiny lights in the trees above them, illuminated the footpath with a glittering glaze. He shifted his fingers, felt America's hand around his.
"It's too bad your camera team had to go somewhere else," America was saying. "There's fireworks!"
Russia trotted a few steps to catch up and slid his arm around America's waist. "Is there anything this place doesn't have?"
"Free tickets," America chirped, and bumped their shoulders together.
It wasn't actually true. They hadn't paid for anything all day. Whether that was because the Soviet camera crew counted as visiting dignitaries, or because of America, and the funny way he seemed to fold into the park like cracked eggs into cake batter, wasn't entirely clear. Russia studied America's profile in the light from the trees. He hadn't known what to make of him, all day; and even now. It was as though walking through the gates of that castle (which was huge and blue and...faintly German, when Russia thought about it) had lit a lamp inside of him. He glowed.
And he made the people around him glow, too.
"Where are we going?" Russia nudged his nose into America's hair. He hadn’t been able to stop touching him since dinner.
America rose onto the balls of his feet, into the caress, and his fingers tightened in Russia's. "I wanted to show you the house--the new house." A pause. "And it's a good place to watch the fireworks." He said it almost apologetically. "I like fireworks."
Russia chuffed, and gave him a smile. "So do I."
Fireworks seemed almost pedestrian for this place. It was difficult to appreciate the idea when he'd spent the day surrounded by bright, blazing colors, whirling teacups and paper lanterns and cotton candy spilling out of America's hands. But it would be quiet, in the spaces between the pops and cracks; and he'd get to listen to the thrilled hitch in America’s breath every time another blaze of color flashed against the sky.
"Did you have a nice day?" America insisted, tugging on his hand.
"Yes." It was true, even if he did have a bit of a headache. He anticipated America's next question. "And my favorite part was the submarines. The mermaids, especially."
"Disneyland has the eighth largest submarine fleet in the world," America confided, a little smug, but Russia couldn't resent that flushed smile. "Ranks next to Turkey, I think. Just to look at mermaids."
"And sea serpents," Russia added. He gave America a little squeeze, let his hand curl around the bone of his hip. "Although I've always wanted to see a mermaid more. I used to look for them in the Sea of Azov when I was small." His smile kicked a little wider at the left side of his mouth. "Yours were very good."
America's hand slipped beneath the hem of Russia's shirt and cradled his waist as they walked. "I thought mermaids were, um, Greek or something."
Russia sucked in a gentle breath. America's touch was warm. "They are," he murmured, and kissed the shell of America's ear. "Byzantium used to tell me stories about them."
"Who?" America mumbled, and he always arched up, up into Russia's kisses, like Russia held a magnet over his head. Then, "Oh, she's the one who made the things with all those bits of glass." A pause. "Mosaics." Another pause, and then, his voice uncertain, "You must've been pretty young when she was around, yeah?"
"Yes." Russia nipped a little, watched the glow of America's skin the twinkling lights. "Very young."
America's fingers curled against Russia’s side. "What were you like as a kid?" Lights scrolled by overhead; a cluster of tourists spotted America and waved joyfully, and he gave them a slow smile and a lazy wave back.
Before the evening was over, Russia would ask how they all knew him. He thought for a moment. "Small," he said finally. "I cried easily. I used to like to build things, too. Little snowmen, houses made of pebbles." He shrugged. "For the wood spirits."
America looked up and nudged his glasses up his nose. He ruffled Russia's hair. "I bet you were cute as hell, too." A nipped kiss with his hand tangled in the front of Russia's shirt. "Tough guys make the cutest kids."
Russia returned the kiss, licked across America's lower lip. "No,” he murmured. “I was very plain." The lights formed a clustered flower in the joint of a branch above them. "Clumsy, too. I was still tripping over myself the first time I met France."
"I don't listen to your opinion about yourself," America dismissed. A brief touch of tongues, and then America sank back on his heels and they ambled onwards.
The wide gated sign to Tomorrowland passed by overhead.
Russia peered up at it. "Did we miss this earlier today?" Everything from one o’ clock in the afternoon on was a blur. America had realized that they'd never see the whole park if they kept to their leisurely pace. So they hadn't.
"Most of it. It's all kinda corporate," America confided. "I didn't figure your guys'd like it. But the House of the Future is so cool!" He tugged Russia towards an odd, windowed, pillow-shaped edifice raised up over a dense garden.
Russia looked up at the thing. "This is a house?"
"It will be," America vibrated with giddy energy. "Come on, come on--"
And so they went in. A shiver of cool air hit them the moment they entered, ("Air conditioning!" America said proudly) and Russia broke free of America's grip to wander the sitting room. The ceiling lights were covered by sheets of plastic, and dimmed or brightened at a touch from America; a thin television screen took up the space behind the couch, set into the wall.
In the kitchen there was a dishwasher that opened like a coffin, right out of the counter, where the dishes were cleaned (America informed him) by "ultrasonic waves." The bathrooms after that, and America brandished an electric toothbrush in Russia's face in excitement, and the bedrooms, full of sleek moulded furniture made of something Russia had never heard of before.
America stopped them in front of the huge picture windows, looking out over the garden, and further out overlooking the castle. He beamed at Russia.
Russia cocked his head; examined the strange, knotted glass in the window frames. "America," he touched his fingertips to his own faint reflection. "What is all this for?"
America gave him such a blank look that for a moment Russia wondered if he had forgotten to speak English.
Russia tried again. "The lights and the cordless phones and the television…what's the point of it? No one lives here."
America blinked a couple of times. "But people will live here!" he protested. "Or, I mean. In houses a lot like this." He hooked his thumb into the pocket of Russia's jeans.
Russia let a bemused smile flicker over his face. He reached out and slid his thumb in alongside America's. "How do you know?"
America's fingers scrambled over his. "Because..." he looked around. "The guys at MIT say all this stuff is possible. And it's cool! So why shouldn't people have it?"
Now it was Russia's turn to look blank. He rubbed the back of America's hand to cover his confusion. "All this," he asked quietly. "Just because it's possible?" His fingertips brushed idly over the highest point of America's thigh; the denim rushed against his skin.
America swayed forward, hooked his fingertips into the pocket of Russia's slacks, perplexed. "Don't you think radiation ovens and air conditioning and TV remotes and stuff sound like fun?"
"Well, yes, but--" Russia broke off. He brushed a stray lick of hair off America's forehead, let his touch linger. It drifted down until he cupped the side of the other nation's neck. America's face shone in the distant light of the castle. "What's the point?" He asked again.
America gave a puzzled laugh. "Fun is the point, Russia."
Russia blinked, frowned. There was an air vent to his direct right, and the tails of his scarf ruffled against the draft. "You said that this was the future," he murmured. "What if the future doesn't last long enough for everyone to get here?"
"God, you're such a buzzkill sometimes," America sighed, a twist of a smile on the corner of his mouth. He pulled back, caught Russia's hands, and tugged him towards the door. "The fireworks are gonna start soon. You know, if the world ends, at least my people are gonna go out in comfort. Okay? And probably in a slag of melted plastic," he reflected. He shook his head as they emerged into the cool night. "What's a threat like that got to do with progress? What, we shouldn't care about microwaves just because the world might end first? Might as well not do anything, then. That sounds so France."
It did, a little. It probably was.
Russia sighed. "I just don't understand why you would do something when it serves no practical purpose. Fun can't be your goal, America."
"Why not?" America led him up to the Home of the Future's terrace and linked his arm around his waist.
"Because it doesn't do anyone any good." Russia gripped the boundary rail, and gazed out across the park; he rested his other hand on top of the one America had curled against his hip. The castle shone across them both.
America caught Russia's wrist and turned him in to face him. He was still smiling, but his expression had gone serious all around the edges. "We're all just trying to make our people happy, aren't we? I mean, at the end of the day?"
Russia nodded, once. America was right. In this respect, at least. But-- "Ignorance isn't bliss," he said softly. "No matter how many times you've heard otherwise."
America frowned. "What's ignorant about this?" He directed his thumb back towards the House.
"The idea of...of fun being an end. It doesn't help." He rubbed at the back of his neck with his free hand, smoothed his thumb unthinkingly up that longest scar, the one that curled under his jaw.
America watched him, then caught his hand and pressed a kiss to the pad of his thumb. "Yeah, it does. Russia...these people are all...all these people..." America looked down towards the park and cradled Russia's hand against his chest. "They're not fooling themselves by being here. Well, okay, maybe some of them are, but that's not what this place is for. They're normal folks, they've got kids, jobs, bills, they're stressed out and they've got their own problems, and I reckon sometimes it's pretty hard for them to be happy. They try real hard, to stay focused on the good things in life, but they're working hard and in the daily grind it can be hard to count your blessings, you know?"
He nibbled his lip. "So they save up, and they come here, with their families, and yeah, this is a money trap, the people here are trying to take their money. Welcome to capitalism, everybody's trying to take everybody's money. But they get here, and everything is just...nice. They don't have to go to work for a little while, they don't have to yell at their kids to try and get them to do their homework. Everything is fun and pretty, and the people who work here are all nice, and they'll never tell the guests 'no' or 'you can't.' And the kids are laughing and running around, and even their husbands or wives look about ten years younger, 'cause damn, mermaids are pretty fucking cool, and that doesn't--just go away when they go home again, you know? It's not like it never happened."
America was silent for a few seconds, working his fingers into Russia's. "Yeah, then they go home, and it's back to the stress and the work and the yelling. But it's not like they forget how happy their kids looked, how grateful they were, for a change, just because of something their parents did for them. And they don't forget how much they loved their spouse of fifteen years when they started giggling like they were eighteen again and all of a sudden they remember why they got married. Moments like that--that's what keeps people going."
His gaze dropped back down to the crisscrossing walkways and the winking yellow and blue lights. "That's what this place is for. That's what I want to give people. 'S why they're all so happy to see me," a quiet laugh, "Even if they don't know who I am."
Russia didn't say anything for a long while. He thought about a feeling that was a little like wonder and a little like sadness at the same time. America was lit up in the soft light of the castle, and--and something Russia had never understood fell into place.
It was genuine.
As manufactured as this place was, as ridiculous as that castle looked rising against the California landscape, as outrageous as it was to have a fleet of submarines to provide a view that anyone could see by traveling a few more miles to the beach... America meant it. All of it.
Russia lowered his eyes, stared at his hand, clutched in against America's chest. "I'm sorry," he said at last.
America smiled at him, not understanding, and looped his arm around Russia's hips. He hugged them together.
Russia leaned in and touched his lips to the side of America's neck, and for a while, everything was quiet and sweet and warm between them.
When the sky broke open in a shower of red and blue, Russia saw the colors first reflected in America's skin. America tightened in his arms; he held his breath until the first burst of color faded out of the sky. They eased against each other, then, eyes turned upwards, flinching at the noises and smiling at all the colors.
America murmured, "Do you remember the last time we watched fireworks together?"
Russia nodded. His hair was silver in the pale light of the castle; he brushed it away. "In Berlin." A smile, and a kiss, brushed soft across America's lips. "You tasted more like smoke, then."
America caught his lower lip gently between his teeth for a moment. "You've been smoking less the last couple years," he murmured. Then, "I used to really like you smoking. Y’know, before your new boss got in."
"Did you?" Russia touched his tongue to each corner of America's mouth. He'd had a cigarette this morning--and not one since. "I was always under the impression you couldn't stand it."
"Well yeah, that shit's bad for your health, but--" America folded his arms around Russia's shoulders and stretched up against him. His voice exhaled soft against Russia's cheek. "For a while there, breathing in that smoke was the closest thing I could get to tasting you."
Russia's heart went a little still. His hands spanned America's waist; they looked huge against the sweet arch of his ribs. "I remember when we’d have to see one another," he said slowly. “And I’d smoke a pack in a day. You’d spend those hours just staring at my mouth.” He paused. "Is that why?"
America turned languid, happy eyes up at him, the lights from the fireworks reflecting in his glasses. "Always wonderin' what you'd do if I just snatched the thing out of your mouth and kissed you," he mumbled. "Probably sock me in the teeth...but it would've been worth it."
A beat, and another pop.
"You can kiss me now." Russia's voice was hushed.
America made a soft sound in his throat, then bore Russia down by the back of his head into a warm kiss. The autumn breeze fluttered around them.
Russia's grip shifted on America's middle until both arms were wrapped tight around him. He hummed a little into the kiss; it made their joined lips prickle. After a long, sweet minute, he broke back an inch, tipped his forehead against America's. "I--I'm glad you're here."
America shivered on a giggle. "Of course I'm here. It's my country. I live here."
"With me, America." Russia kissed the tip of his nose. He felt numb inside, tingling, light on a hot, tender glow. "I'm glad you're here with me."
America went still: and then, a little break in his expression, a gentle smile. He breathed out again and touched a kiss to the corner of Russia's mouth. "I'm glad you're here with me, too."
He rested his head in the crook of Russia's shoulder, fixed their arms around each other's waists, and together they gazed up towards the lights.
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--Nikita Khrushchev spent thirteen days in the United States in mid-September, 1959. He travelled with his wife, his adult children, and various diplomats across the country, stopping everywhere from San Francisco to an Iowan farm. He only spent a day in Los Angeles, however. His itinerary had included a trip to Disneyland, but it had to be canceled because his security could not be guaranteed in the huge crowds that the park drew. Khrushchev was displeased, to put it mildly.
--The House of the Future opened in Disneyland in 1957, as part of Tomorrowland. It closed its doors a decade later, as technological advances quickly made it seem quaint in comparison to what was being used in American homes across the country. Here, this clip explains it better (and with more awesome 50's enthusiasm) than we ever could.
--The Submarine Voyage. With mermaids in!
--Sleeping Beauty's Castle at Disneyland is architecturally based on Neuschwanstein Castle in Germany.
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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.