48 - Higher and Higher
Title: Higher and Higher
Characters: Russia/America, Poland, Lithuania.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: 1961 - Russia sends a man into space. America does not.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
Moscow. April 13, 1961.
America didn't know if he was supposed to knock.
There were voices coming from inside Russia's house: happy voices. Happy, tipsy voices, and giggling and toasts, and all the windows were lit up to the third floor. He thought he heard Ukraine's voice, and Latvia's voice, and he didn't hear Russia but he was probably with them, too, and--and he would be happy--Russia wasn't happy often enough. And now he finally had a good reason to be and all his allies were happy for him too, and America didn't want to break up the party and make Russia unhappy even though God damn it.
God damn it.
He'd been on the porch for an hour, trying to decide if he should knock. His feet were cold. If he didn't knock, then he was going to have to call, but he couldn't call, because by the time he got to a phone that would take the change in his pocket it would be too late at night to be calling anywhere in the USSR. But he couldn't not call: he was supposed to congratulate Russia.
He was supposed to be a good loser.
(He was supposed to be in space.)
He sat down on the steps of Russia's porch, tugged off his glasses, rubbed his eyes with the heels of both hands, and then just stayed that way, hunched over with his hair messed up, the cold sinking up through his pants.
The door opened some time later, with a burst of noise and light and Poland, stumbling out with a martini clutched in his right hand, crowing over his shoulder. America jerked upright.
"--And I was like, fuck Rokossovsky, you know what I'm saying, it is not even like being born in Warsaw means you get to just--woah!"
"Hi," America said weakly.
Poland drew up sharp, and his drink retreated into his mouth for protection. "Like, what are you doing here?"
Lithuania piled into Poland's back, his hair flipped over into his eyes. "Oh--America--ah, sorry, we're just..."
"Yeah," America said. "Party. I'm not invited. It's cool."
"Communist parties," Poland declared, "Fucking suck, but the point is, answer my question. I am so drunk enough to kick your ass. I mean, don't even."
"Poland--" Lithuania tried.
"I just came to see Russia." America climbed to his feet. His knees had gone numb. He wobbled.
"Then like, go and fucking see Russia, it's not like he hangs out with us. He's in his office, or whatever. Second door on the right."
"But I was..." America's voice faded out. He took a step towards the door.
"Wait!" Poland struck out a hand. It thumped into America's chest. "You have to like, totally promise not to do any espionage shit or anything, or else it's like, your ass."
"I'm sorry," Lithuania whispered. "He gets revolutionary when he's drunk."
"I am like so not drunk but Rokossovsky is a son of a bitch. Okay? Liet. Liet, you have to listen."
"Yeah," America managed. "No spying. Got it."
"Right. And like, go through the kitchen. Or else you're gonna bring everybody down. Jesus."
America crept through the kitchen as quiet as he could, then up the stairs, his ears shut against the roar of drunken laughter from the living room. He found the door to Russia's office, and knocked. No answer. Tipsy, too-loud voices filtered up the stairs and drifted against the high ceilings. America knocked again. And again.
Finally, and barely audible over the sound from the first floor: "Yes?"
"It's me," America called. He had to hold his face about an inch from the door.
"Come in."
The stench of cigarette smoke hit America like a punch in the gut, and stuck. He squinted through the haze at the twin desk lamps and the blue-and-grey halos around them. Russia sat on the sofa. The table in front of him was clean, except for an empty bottle, a shot glass, and a tattered book of matches. There was a dessert plate, too, off to the left, with the fork flipped so the tongs tented against the china like claws. Crumbs of what looked like cake hung around the edges.
Russia watched him impassively, a cigarette between his lips. The top three buttons of his shirt hung loose; his scars gleamed behind the veil of smoke.
America shifted from foot to foot in the doorway, awkward, then stepped in and tugged shut the door behind him. "Um. Hey."
"I didn't think I'd see you so soon," Russia muttered. His fingers twitched around the filter paper.
"Yeah, well, I, um." America folded his hands around the doorknob at the small of his back, leaned his shoulders against the door. "I uh, came to congratulate you."
Russia blinked slowly. "In an official capacity."
America winced a smile. "Well I can't say I'm all that excited about it personally." A beat. Russia took a drag. America fidgeted. "But um...you don't seem that psyched either? What's...what's up with that. I mean…I know if I'd just put a man into space…" If he'd just put a man in space, America was pretty sure he'd never talk about anything else for the rest of his life.
"Everyone wanted to shake my hand, you know," Russia said abruptly. "And tell me how proud they were, and buy me drinks..." He trailed off, sighed a long stream of blue-grey smoke. "I was excited."
America nudged off the wall; circled in towards the sofa. "So what happened?"
Russia's eyes fell to the last liquid sheen in the near-empty liquor bottle. "I called you. To...keep my promise."
America stopped: wavered. He bit his lip. "You did?"
"Yes." It was sharp, but Russia didn't look up. "You didn't answer."
America felt his toes curl up inside his sneakers. They both stared at the floor. He'd waited next to the phone all morning while trying to tell himself that he wasn't waiting next to the phone, and then he'd forced himself to go outside and get a bite to eat or something, because-- "I-I didn't think you were gonna call at all, so um...I decided to just come over."
The coffee table groaned as Russia propped his foot against the edge and took a long drag on his cigarette. A beat; exhale. His eyes dropped half-lidded. "I called you, and you didn't answer."
"Stop it," America said. He sat down next to him.
Russia arched an eyebrow. "Stop what?"
"I don't know. Whatever you're doing. Knock it off. It's not my fault I didn't pick up the phone. I wasn't in the house. I was on my way to see you. Okay?"
Something slunk out of Russia's eyes; he looked smaller, suddenly. He dropped his chin in a shiver that might have been a nod.
America sighed and drew his knees up against his chest, rested his chin against them. "I should've waited," he mumbled. Mingled voices throbbed against the floorboards beneath them. "Even though things've been...kinda weird this past year. ...I'm sorry. I, um. ...I didn't want to wreck your day."
"Thank you," Russia murmured. "Although...I did try to convince myself to forget my promise entirely." He leaned forward, and stubbed the smoldering butt of his cigarette out on the plate.
America slid his arm around Russia's shoulders as he leaned back again, and shifted in towards him. Touching had been a--little hesitant, ever since that humiliating incident with the spy plane; they'd never cleared the air. "Forget about it." America's forehead touched the side of Russia's head. "…So what was it like?"
Russia turned his head, and their cheeks brushed. His breath feathered cool and smoky across America's face. "You played with marbles when you were small, didn't you?"
America nodded.
Far-away: "Think of the biggest one you had, one that was swirled with colors, like clouds in a storm. Do you remember how the shapes looked inside, beyond the glass? Almost as if you could reach inside and run your finger into the blues and golds and greens, like a dollop of paint..." He nuzzled into him. "That's Earth, ptenchik."
America took a long, deep breath: held it for as long as he could.
Then he let it out.
"I'm jealous," he whispered.
"I know." Russia slid his arm around America's waist and he held him in; pressed a soft, halting kiss under his earlobe.
America's fingers cramped a notch into Russia's side, curling in the cool folds of his starched shirt. "I'm so fucking jealous I could...just..." He didn't know. A hoarse, quiet laugh.
"If it's any consolation," Russia's voice was a gentle murmur against the turn of America's jaw. "I appreciate it this time." His palm cupped around America's hipbone. "I know how much this matters."
America's hand folded over Russia's, and he laced their fingers together. The other nation's hands were rough and dry. America was silent, for long seconds, aching around the bitter pit in his heart; and then he looked up and pressed a kiss to the corner of Russia's mouth, ardent and sharp. "You know I'm grateful, though?"
Russia's nails skimmed sweetly over America's palm. He tried to catch the kiss, failed. Instead, he held America's eyes and gave him a crooked smile. "What for?"
America sat up three inches and touched their foreheads together. He stared into Russia's eyes. "Because--because you got there first, right? And I'm--I'm pretty upset about that; ha, you know, they dragged me out of bed at two in the morning to tell me that bird of yours was in the air, and I almost didn't get off the phone fast enough to throw up in the toilet, I'm pretty upset. But--beautiful...I'm just a couple months behind you. And--and listen; I know I wouldn't be touching space for years if it weren't for how I've gotta keep pace with you."
"A few months?" Surprise flitted across Russia's expression, but he cupped America's face in his free hand; his fingers nudged into the hollow of his jaw. "You're much closer than I thought..." A pause, and then Russia kissed him, hot, sweet, and full on the mouth. "It doesn't matter," he mumbled, words tumbling away between their lips. "You can chase me for as long as you like."
America felt a twitch at the corner of his mouth. "Is that a come-on?" He nudged their mouths together, and slid his other hand into Russia's hair. And then, "Don't tell me you never thought about it." He swung up and straddled Russia's lap. "How we're dragging ourselves up over each other. All this progress we're making. Man, nobody on my side would give a fuck about space travel if it weren't for how we've gotta do it better than you."
"I'm glad I'm so motivating," Russia breathed. He knit his fingers into America's hair and tugged his head back an inch; fastened his teeth to the tender dip next to the other nation's windpipe and breathed out.
"Don't be cute." America slid his hands inside Russia's clothes. "I'm driving you forward just the same as you're driving me. You wouldn't be in space either if it weren't for the competition--you owe me for that view."
Russia shivered under that warm rush of America's air; wet his lips and spanned a heavy hand beneath the other nation's t-shirt. "Do I?" He managed. The collar of scars glittered as he arched in the light of the lamps. "What will you accept as payment? I'm afraid smuggling you onto our next flight is out of the question."
America's half-smile broadened; his hand dropped to hover over the back of Russia's neck, unfelt. Oh, he wanted to touch them; he always had. Not--not yet, but--one of these fuckin' days, Russia, you're gonna stop holding out on me. "We'll work something out, I reckon," he breathed. There was another thump from downstairs, a hoot of voices-- "Sounds like the kids aren't gonna be coming upstairs anytime soon."
"Not for another hour, at least," Russia smirked, and wound his arm around America's neck; he licked across the seam of his lips. "Maybe more..." His free hand drifted from America's back down to his ass, and slid neatly into the pocket of his jeans. Russia squeezed, nudged his nose against America's jaw. "We should make the most of it...After all--" Another pulse of his fingers against America's backside. "You still have to congratulate me."
"Fuck you," America whispered, and nipped at the curve of Russia's lower lip. Their bodies slid together in a hot, sweet shock.
+++
--On April 12, 1961, the Soviet Union put cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin into low earth orbit, making him the first man in space. While the United States did offer its official congratulations to the USSR for its accomplishment, the dismay in the White House was "palpable."
+++
Please read our Rules & FAQ before posting. / Пожалуйста, прочтите Правила и FAQ прежде чем комментировать.
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, Poland, Lithuania.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: 1961 - Russia sends a man into space. America does not.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
Moscow. April 13, 1961.
America didn't know if he was supposed to knock.
There were voices coming from inside Russia's house: happy voices. Happy, tipsy voices, and giggling and toasts, and all the windows were lit up to the third floor. He thought he heard Ukraine's voice, and Latvia's voice, and he didn't hear Russia but he was probably with them, too, and--and he would be happy--Russia wasn't happy often enough. And now he finally had a good reason to be and all his allies were happy for him too, and America didn't want to break up the party and make Russia unhappy even though God damn it.
God damn it.
He'd been on the porch for an hour, trying to decide if he should knock. His feet were cold. If he didn't knock, then he was going to have to call, but he couldn't call, because by the time he got to a phone that would take the change in his pocket it would be too late at night to be calling anywhere in the USSR. But he couldn't not call: he was supposed to congratulate Russia.
He was supposed to be a good loser.
(He was supposed to be in space.)
He sat down on the steps of Russia's porch, tugged off his glasses, rubbed his eyes with the heels of both hands, and then just stayed that way, hunched over with his hair messed up, the cold sinking up through his pants.
The door opened some time later, with a burst of noise and light and Poland, stumbling out with a martini clutched in his right hand, crowing over his shoulder. America jerked upright.
"--And I was like, fuck Rokossovsky, you know what I'm saying, it is not even like being born in Warsaw means you get to just--woah!"
"Hi," America said weakly.
Poland drew up sharp, and his drink retreated into his mouth for protection. "Like, what are you doing here?"
Lithuania piled into Poland's back, his hair flipped over into his eyes. "Oh--America--ah, sorry, we're just..."
"Yeah," America said. "Party. I'm not invited. It's cool."
"Communist parties," Poland declared, "Fucking suck, but the point is, answer my question. I am so drunk enough to kick your ass. I mean, don't even."
"Poland--" Lithuania tried.
"I just came to see Russia." America climbed to his feet. His knees had gone numb. He wobbled.
"Then like, go and fucking see Russia, it's not like he hangs out with us. He's in his office, or whatever. Second door on the right."
"But I was..." America's voice faded out. He took a step towards the door.
"Wait!" Poland struck out a hand. It thumped into America's chest. "You have to like, totally promise not to do any espionage shit or anything, or else it's like, your ass."
"I'm sorry," Lithuania whispered. "He gets revolutionary when he's drunk."
"I am like so not drunk but Rokossovsky is a son of a bitch. Okay? Liet. Liet, you have to listen."
"Yeah," America managed. "No spying. Got it."
"Right. And like, go through the kitchen. Or else you're gonna bring everybody down. Jesus."
America crept through the kitchen as quiet as he could, then up the stairs, his ears shut against the roar of drunken laughter from the living room. He found the door to Russia's office, and knocked. No answer. Tipsy, too-loud voices filtered up the stairs and drifted against the high ceilings. America knocked again. And again.
Finally, and barely audible over the sound from the first floor: "Yes?"
"It's me," America called. He had to hold his face about an inch from the door.
"Come in."
The stench of cigarette smoke hit America like a punch in the gut, and stuck. He squinted through the haze at the twin desk lamps and the blue-and-grey halos around them. Russia sat on the sofa. The table in front of him was clean, except for an empty bottle, a shot glass, and a tattered book of matches. There was a dessert plate, too, off to the left, with the fork flipped so the tongs tented against the china like claws. Crumbs of what looked like cake hung around the edges.
Russia watched him impassively, a cigarette between his lips. The top three buttons of his shirt hung loose; his scars gleamed behind the veil of smoke.
America shifted from foot to foot in the doorway, awkward, then stepped in and tugged shut the door behind him. "Um. Hey."
"I didn't think I'd see you so soon," Russia muttered. His fingers twitched around the filter paper.
"Yeah, well, I, um." America folded his hands around the doorknob at the small of his back, leaned his shoulders against the door. "I uh, came to congratulate you."
Russia blinked slowly. "In an official capacity."
America winced a smile. "Well I can't say I'm all that excited about it personally." A beat. Russia took a drag. America fidgeted. "But um...you don't seem that psyched either? What's...what's up with that. I mean…I know if I'd just put a man into space…" If he'd just put a man in space, America was pretty sure he'd never talk about anything else for the rest of his life.
"Everyone wanted to shake my hand, you know," Russia said abruptly. "And tell me how proud they were, and buy me drinks..." He trailed off, sighed a long stream of blue-grey smoke. "I was excited."
America nudged off the wall; circled in towards the sofa. "So what happened?"
Russia's eyes fell to the last liquid sheen in the near-empty liquor bottle. "I called you. To...keep my promise."
America stopped: wavered. He bit his lip. "You did?"
"Yes." It was sharp, but Russia didn't look up. "You didn't answer."
America felt his toes curl up inside his sneakers. They both stared at the floor. He'd waited next to the phone all morning while trying to tell himself that he wasn't waiting next to the phone, and then he'd forced himself to go outside and get a bite to eat or something, because-- "I-I didn't think you were gonna call at all, so um...I decided to just come over."
The coffee table groaned as Russia propped his foot against the edge and took a long drag on his cigarette. A beat; exhale. His eyes dropped half-lidded. "I called you, and you didn't answer."
"Stop it," America said. He sat down next to him.
Russia arched an eyebrow. "Stop what?"
"I don't know. Whatever you're doing. Knock it off. It's not my fault I didn't pick up the phone. I wasn't in the house. I was on my way to see you. Okay?"
Something slunk out of Russia's eyes; he looked smaller, suddenly. He dropped his chin in a shiver that might have been a nod.
America sighed and drew his knees up against his chest, rested his chin against them. "I should've waited," he mumbled. Mingled voices throbbed against the floorboards beneath them. "Even though things've been...kinda weird this past year. ...I'm sorry. I, um. ...I didn't want to wreck your day."
"Thank you," Russia murmured. "Although...I did try to convince myself to forget my promise entirely." He leaned forward, and stubbed the smoldering butt of his cigarette out on the plate.
America slid his arm around Russia's shoulders as he leaned back again, and shifted in towards him. Touching had been a--little hesitant, ever since that humiliating incident with the spy plane; they'd never cleared the air. "Forget about it." America's forehead touched the side of Russia's head. "…So what was it like?"
Russia turned his head, and their cheeks brushed. His breath feathered cool and smoky across America's face. "You played with marbles when you were small, didn't you?"
America nodded.
Far-away: "Think of the biggest one you had, one that was swirled with colors, like clouds in a storm. Do you remember how the shapes looked inside, beyond the glass? Almost as if you could reach inside and run your finger into the blues and golds and greens, like a dollop of paint..." He nuzzled into him. "That's Earth, ptenchik."
America took a long, deep breath: held it for as long as he could.
Then he let it out.
"I'm jealous," he whispered.
"I know." Russia slid his arm around America's waist and he held him in; pressed a soft, halting kiss under his earlobe.
America's fingers cramped a notch into Russia's side, curling in the cool folds of his starched shirt. "I'm so fucking jealous I could...just..." He didn't know. A hoarse, quiet laugh.
"If it's any consolation," Russia's voice was a gentle murmur against the turn of America's jaw. "I appreciate it this time." His palm cupped around America's hipbone. "I know how much this matters."
America's hand folded over Russia's, and he laced their fingers together. The other nation's hands were rough and dry. America was silent, for long seconds, aching around the bitter pit in his heart; and then he looked up and pressed a kiss to the corner of Russia's mouth, ardent and sharp. "You know I'm grateful, though?"
Russia's nails skimmed sweetly over America's palm. He tried to catch the kiss, failed. Instead, he held America's eyes and gave him a crooked smile. "What for?"
America sat up three inches and touched their foreheads together. He stared into Russia's eyes. "Because--because you got there first, right? And I'm--I'm pretty upset about that; ha, you know, they dragged me out of bed at two in the morning to tell me that bird of yours was in the air, and I almost didn't get off the phone fast enough to throw up in the toilet, I'm pretty upset. But--beautiful...I'm just a couple months behind you. And--and listen; I know I wouldn't be touching space for years if it weren't for how I've gotta keep pace with you."
"A few months?" Surprise flitted across Russia's expression, but he cupped America's face in his free hand; his fingers nudged into the hollow of his jaw. "You're much closer than I thought..." A pause, and then Russia kissed him, hot, sweet, and full on the mouth. "It doesn't matter," he mumbled, words tumbling away between their lips. "You can chase me for as long as you like."
America felt a twitch at the corner of his mouth. "Is that a come-on?" He nudged their mouths together, and slid his other hand into Russia's hair. And then, "Don't tell me you never thought about it." He swung up and straddled Russia's lap. "How we're dragging ourselves up over each other. All this progress we're making. Man, nobody on my side would give a fuck about space travel if it weren't for how we've gotta do it better than you."
"I'm glad I'm so motivating," Russia breathed. He knit his fingers into America's hair and tugged his head back an inch; fastened his teeth to the tender dip next to the other nation's windpipe and breathed out.
"Don't be cute." America slid his hands inside Russia's clothes. "I'm driving you forward just the same as you're driving me. You wouldn't be in space either if it weren't for the competition--you owe me for that view."
Russia shivered under that warm rush of America's air; wet his lips and spanned a heavy hand beneath the other nation's t-shirt. "Do I?" He managed. The collar of scars glittered as he arched in the light of the lamps. "What will you accept as payment? I'm afraid smuggling you onto our next flight is out of the question."
America's half-smile broadened; his hand dropped to hover over the back of Russia's neck, unfelt. Oh, he wanted to touch them; he always had. Not--not yet, but--one of these fuckin' days, Russia, you're gonna stop holding out on me. "We'll work something out, I reckon," he breathed. There was another thump from downstairs, a hoot of voices-- "Sounds like the kids aren't gonna be coming upstairs anytime soon."
"Not for another hour, at least," Russia smirked, and wound his arm around America's neck; he licked across the seam of his lips. "Maybe more..." His free hand drifted from America's back down to his ass, and slid neatly into the pocket of his jeans. Russia squeezed, nudged his nose against America's jaw. "We should make the most of it...After all--" Another pulse of his fingers against America's backside. "You still have to congratulate me."
"Fuck you," America whispered, and nipped at the curve of Russia's lower lip. Their bodies slid together in a hot, sweet shock.
+++
--On April 12, 1961, the Soviet Union put cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin into low earth orbit, making him the first man in space. While the United States did offer its official congratulations to the USSR for its accomplishment, the dismay in the White House was "palpable."
+++
Please read our Rules & FAQ before posting. / Пожалуйста, прочтите Правила и FAQ прежде чем комментировать.
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.