6 - Jealousy
Title: Jealousy
Characters: Russia/America
Rating: PG-13
Summary: 1861 - Russia drops by to share the good news that serfdom in his country has been abolished, to find America on the cusp of a breakdown and civil war.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
New York City. July 1861.
Russia never would have imagined that he might come to this place of his own volition; New York in summer was too hot, too full, too metropolitan. But here he was, sweating beneath an American summer sky, staring up at a line of apartments on the corner of Broadway and Spring Street. His stillness cut a swathe through the press of people as they parted around him, and then he ducked into the doorway, lifted his hand, and knocked.
Russia wasn't in the habit of sharing his societal goings-on. In all his years of fighting and clawing and bleeding for his right to exist, he'd never felt the need. But now, something had happened, actually happened, and he had realized that he had no one to tell.
There was a long silence--long enough to kindle a small, preparatory flicker of disappointment--and then the door opened, and America blinked out into the sunlight. He smiled up at Russia. "You!"
His enthusiasm brought a mirroring smile to Russia's face. "I hope I'm not intruding?"
"No, it's fine, come in!" America pulled the door all the way open and half-tripped up the stairs. "I was just, uh--you know, I was thinking about you the other day! You look good!" He rubbed a hand through his hair, fumbled open a door at the landing, and led Russia into his darkened apartment. He waved towards the cold fireplace and its audience of furniture--take a seat anywhere--and set to yanking open the windows.
Russia glanced over the room as it flinched open under sunlight: fine upholstery, paintings on the walls, landscapes, mostly, with a few hunting scenes thrown in for good measure. How very America. He sank into the chair closest to the windows and crossed his legs. "Your home is beautiful," he said honestly. "I've never been to these particular apartments before."
America smiled over his shoulder. "It's not much," he demurred. "I just have some generous friends around these parts. Something to drink?"
"No, thank you." Russia let his eyes sweep up the curve of America's back. He was thinner than usual, even in his shirtsleeves. "I wanted to tell you about something that has happened in my country, if you have the time." Russia unbuttoned his coat and shrugged it over the back of his chair.
America swerved back across the room and dropped onto the couch, on the side closest to Russia. "You mean you're actually paying me a social visit? You don't just want to talk about trade, or railroads? I'm too flattered to pass this up."
"You should be," Russia chuckled, then leaned in a little. "We've talked about serfdom before, haven't we? The, ah…singular way we manage farmers, in my country." America nodded. "Well, it's over. Over and done with. His Imperial Majesty passed the legislation several months ago." The chair squeaked slightly as Russia sat back, watching America's face.
America blinked, then blinked again. Then sat forward with his hands clasped over the arm of the couch, and pulled one leg up below him. "Wait, what? Really? You mean--the whole system? You just--"
"Yes." A smile tugged at the corner of Russia's mouth. After the liberation of tens of thousands of people, America's bewilderment was the best part of all of this. "The nobility believes that it's better to abolish serfdom from above than to wait for the time when it will begin to abolish itself from below. Preventative measures, you know."
America's expression tripped through confusion, past astonishment, and into wide-eyed pleasure. "That's incredible, Russia, congratulations! And it was done--peacefully? No...no problems?"
"You know how difficult it is to please everyone. There have been disruptions in some of the villages--mostly peasants refusing to believe the manifesto is genuine." He waved a hand. "They will catch up."
"Right, well, sure, that makes sense." Something hooked and caught behind America's eyes, and that smile dimmed for a moment. He curled his fingers in. "It'll work out. You've really--huh. What a big step..."
Russia felt slightly ridiculous for being as proud as he was. "I certainly hope so. I'm sorry I took so long to tell you. I wanted to make sure everything happened the way I thought it would."
America looked up at him again. "No, don't be." He reached out and grasped Russia's forearm. "I--I'm jealous." A little laugh, but it wasn't quite right. "I'm happy for you."
"Thank you, but--jealous?" Russia let his hand rest on top of America's. "Of what?"
America gave a short, harsh laugh. His eyes dropped to the floor beneath the coffee table. "Nothing. I've had some--some problems, lately. But it's nothing." He sat up a little straighter.
Something in the changing texture of the light as a cloud passed over the sun, or something else--he didn't know what, but this time when the smile fell from America's expression like a slipped shingle, he looked pale, and tired, and--lost. Russia's fingers tightened around his. "America? Are you all right?" He frowned and leaned forward. "I knew you had some kind of trouble earlier this year, but I thought it was resolved..."
Another laugh--higher and more ragged. A tinge of red rose in the tips of America's ears. "I wouldn't say it's been 'resolved,'" and there was a faltering note of--Russia wanted to call it despair, but that was something he had never heard in America's voice. America looked up and smiled, again, wan and wooden, and he gently tugged to pull his hand away. "I don't want to bother you with my issues, please don't worry about it. I'm--I'm happy for you. I'm really happy for you."
"Stop it," Russia snapped. There was a sudden knot in his gut. "You have no obligation to tell me what's going on, but I'd hate for you to--to think you couldn't."
America flushed. He stared fixedly down at their joined hands. "It's just--" his voice broke. He swallowed, and it didn't help. "I don't. Um. I don't know what's happening to me."
Russia waited. The air had gone humid, thick.
"No, I mean…I do. That's not what I mean. I--" America blew out a shaking breath. "I think I'm having a civil war."
Another silence, which Russia eventually broke with a quiet, "Are you sure?"
America's fingers tightened into his palm beneath Russia's hand. "I've lost eleven states. My. You know. My agriculture. The--the slave states. Not all of them. A few of the border states with slavery stayed. I hope they stay...they're shooting at each other, Russia." There was a hollow little note of pleading in his voice, for God knew what. "My people. Thousands of my people are dead already. And the president has called for more troops."
"I...I didn't know," Russia perched on the edge of his chair, knees almost touching America's. "Are you going to ask for help? I'm sure England would--"
"England?" his head shot up and he gave a cracked, uneven grin that was all teeth and empty shadows. "Yeah, England's--England's a big help. He's building warships for the rebels. France accepted their diplomats, too. They're saying 'the American experiment has run its course,' and things like that. England doesn't care if I live or die, so long as whoever's left afterwards will still sell him cotton, and tobacco, a-and…" Russia could hear the rest of it: and he's betrayed me, I thought if I needed him he would come, but he's--
His eyes narrowed. England had always been a bastard, but he was America's old ruling state, for God's sake. America looked small, slumped against the arm of the couch, and Russia's hand felt awkward, clumsy, wrapped around his. "Is it really so serious? Do you think you might die?"
America folded his free arm under his head and braced his forehead on his fist. "How should I know?" he groaned. "It's a mess, and it keeps getting bigger...and I'm, I'm not the Union. Not just the Union. I'm all of them, the Confederate states too, I can feel them still, I can feel them--killing each other." He sank a little lower. "What happens if the war ends and everyone agrees that I'm two countries? Do I--what happens to me? Will I just...be gone, and, and there will be two new people instead? Is that how we die?"
He was so tense, so curled tight, it hurt to look at him. Russia said, "Yes," because that all there was to say, and reached out and stroked America's arm from shoulder to elbow. "There will be two. And they will remember you, but it will be like a dream they had a long time ago." He rubbed his thumb gently in the crease of America's arm. "It will stop hurting then, I promise."
America shuddered and jerked back, freed his arm and hand and everything at once, wrenched back so far that he was halfway to the other side of the couch. "I don't want to die!"
Russia got to his feet. The chair nearly toppled in his haste. "No one wants to die, America."
"I know I let them down--I let everybody down--" he drew his knees up against his chest, and his teeth were chattering. "I knew slavery was wrong, and I, and I looked the other way, and now this has happened--but I want to fix it!"
"Then fix it," Russia said softly. He took a step closer and sank down carefully next to America, making sure to leave a few inches of space between them. "You can survive a civil war. And at least you haven't been invaded. You have a better chance of making it through this than you would an outside force."
"Is that true? You've had both, haven't you?"
Russia nodded stiffly. "Mostly invasions. The worst--when I was a child, the--the Mongols came from the east." His hand went to his neck.
America sat forward a little, wet his lips. "Was it--" he faltered. "I mean, I've heard stories--"
"Whatever stories you've heard probably fell short of reality." Russia let out a deep breath, not quite sighing. "I was young. I don't remember much." It was an easy lie.
"You don't have to talk about it," America said at once. "I just..." his fingertips twisted into the soft cotton cuffs of his sleeves.
His glasses were filthy, Russia noticed, smudged with fingerprints and what he assumed were tearstains. Before America could say another word, Russia pulled them off his face and began to clean them on his own shirttail. America blinked a few times and touched the cradle of his right cheekbone reflexively. "No one knew where they came from, at first." He kept his eyes on his work. "There was so much confusion, so much fear. I had even less of an idea than my people did. One of my chroniclers said they were there to punish us for our sins. I didn't think I'd done anything wrong, but they were there, after all. Perhaps he was right." The glass in the frames shone dully now, spotless. Russia kept them in his hand. "Many of my people died."
Half of my people died.
America pushed forward a few inches and focused on Russia. "…I'm sorry."
"There's nothing for you to be sorry about. You weren't even alive." Russia let the corner of the glasses dig into his palm, and looked up into America's eyes. "But I was, and I still am. Do you understand?"
He nodded hesitantly.
"Good." Russia placed the glasses lightly back on America's face, letting his fingertips linger on the other nation's temples. He was feverish, too.
America adjusted his frames, then captured Russia's hand between both of his own. "Russia--"
He raised an eyebrow. Feigning nonchalance used to be easier. "Yes?"
"I--thanks." His eyes dropped to the strip of upholstery that separated his knee from Russia's hip. He colored. "You--I really--you've never--uh."
"I 'never' because I don't usually care. In this case, I do." He smiled a bit at the sight of America's flush. His hand was too warm, clammy, almost, in the wet heat of the room--but he didn't pull away.
"That's--that's not what I was trying to say." America gave a breathy laugh. "Not that I gave you a lot of clues to go on, huh?" He folded his fingers into Russia's and held on tight. "You...never...talk down to me. And I--um. It means a lot to me. Because I really, you know, I really admire you. I mean--wait, I didn't mean for that to sound weird." He laughed again, and his voice tripped and stumbled like a new colt, but there was warmth there, undeniable warmth. "Just...just thanks. For--" he faltered, tipped his shoulder, and smiled.
That knot was back, and it was tighter this time. Russia paused, swallowed once. "You're welcome." He brushed his thumb across America's knuckles. "And thank you. There are many countries worthy of admiration, and I..." He lifted his own shoulder, gently mimicking the other nation's gesture. "...Yes," he finished lamely.
America smiled broader. Downcast eyes closed, and his eyelashes caught the light reflected back from within his glasses as they settled on his cheeks. "And you, what?" His fingertips curled gently against the back of Russia's hand.
"...I'm...I'm glad you chose me." The words came out in a rush, and Russia stared at America's closed eyes, jaw tightening. He can't see, remember that. He's not watching now.
America's eyes swept upwards, then, and met his. He was blushing, but he didn't shrink under Russia's attention, he wasn't embarrassed. He looked--a little shy, but not about that direct gaze, or that irrepressible smile. He started to say something, but Russia watched it fade out in his throat. His fingers twined around Russia's hand were hot.
Russia shifted closer, breath tight. Not to do anything, of course, just to look. Seeing America like this was...strange. "You were saying something?" he pressed.
America's fingers twisted a little tighter. "I wasn't..."
"Are you sure?" Russia fought to keep his tone light, but his hip was pressed against America's thigh. He already regretted saying anything about being grateful. "Because it sounded important."
America shook on a little laugh, and the corner of his mouth turned up. He pulled himself forward by Russia's hand, and then there was a...moment, it couldn't have been long, a second at most, but long enough that they were both aware of it as it crossed between them and slipped away.
America's lips brushed against his.
It was over before Russia could even close his eyes. The heat in the room was suffocating, and he felt a slithering dampness rolling down his spine. He licked his lips, started to say something. Stopped. America's eyes were brighter now, almost amused, worlds away from the terrified gaze that had lit on him only minutes ago. Death. They had been talking about death. He squeezed America's hand, once.
America sat back a little, not as far away as he had been seconds before, but a little further, he gave him room to breathe. He relaxed his hold on Russia's hand, although that didn't help; then the side of Russia's hand rested on the swell of his hip. He looked faintly perplexed. "Did you need to say something?"
Russia shook his head, cleared his throat, and managed a "No." He stood abruptly, let his hand slide away from America's side. "My boat leaves in an hour. I should start for the docks." He hadn't glanced at the clock on the mantle. He slid his coat over his shoulders, straightened the lapels, and turned back to America, catching his face between his hands.
There was a moment of stillness; then Russia pressed a kiss against his forehead. Still warm. "Will you be all right?" he asked, voice too thick.
America trembled, once. His eyes were large and wondering. He nodded. "I--I promise."
There was nothing left to say. Russia released him, turned away, and left.
+++
-The Mongol invasion of what would become Russia peaked in the middle of the 13th century with the sacking of Moscow. More than half of the population was wiped out. The Mongol yoke is often credited with what historians call Russia's "societal retardation", keeping it from participating in the Renaissance and creating a solid middle class.
-The American Civil War spanned from the years 1861-1865.
-This is a picture of Spring Street and Broadway, circa 1860.
+++
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
Rating: PG-13
Summary: 1861 - Russia drops by to share the good news that serfdom in his country has been abolished, to find America on the cusp of a breakdown and civil war.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
New York City. July 1861.
Russia never would have imagined that he might come to this place of his own volition; New York in summer was too hot, too full, too metropolitan. But here he was, sweating beneath an American summer sky, staring up at a line of apartments on the corner of Broadway and Spring Street. His stillness cut a swathe through the press of people as they parted around him, and then he ducked into the doorway, lifted his hand, and knocked.
Russia wasn't in the habit of sharing his societal goings-on. In all his years of fighting and clawing and bleeding for his right to exist, he'd never felt the need. But now, something had happened, actually happened, and he had realized that he had no one to tell.
There was a long silence--long enough to kindle a small, preparatory flicker of disappointment--and then the door opened, and America blinked out into the sunlight. He smiled up at Russia. "You!"
His enthusiasm brought a mirroring smile to Russia's face. "I hope I'm not intruding?"
"No, it's fine, come in!" America pulled the door all the way open and half-tripped up the stairs. "I was just, uh--you know, I was thinking about you the other day! You look good!" He rubbed a hand through his hair, fumbled open a door at the landing, and led Russia into his darkened apartment. He waved towards the cold fireplace and its audience of furniture--take a seat anywhere--and set to yanking open the windows.
Russia glanced over the room as it flinched open under sunlight: fine upholstery, paintings on the walls, landscapes, mostly, with a few hunting scenes thrown in for good measure. How very America. He sank into the chair closest to the windows and crossed his legs. "Your home is beautiful," he said honestly. "I've never been to these particular apartments before."
America smiled over his shoulder. "It's not much," he demurred. "I just have some generous friends around these parts. Something to drink?"
"No, thank you." Russia let his eyes sweep up the curve of America's back. He was thinner than usual, even in his shirtsleeves. "I wanted to tell you about something that has happened in my country, if you have the time." Russia unbuttoned his coat and shrugged it over the back of his chair.
America swerved back across the room and dropped onto the couch, on the side closest to Russia. "You mean you're actually paying me a social visit? You don't just want to talk about trade, or railroads? I'm too flattered to pass this up."
"You should be," Russia chuckled, then leaned in a little. "We've talked about serfdom before, haven't we? The, ah…singular way we manage farmers, in my country." America nodded. "Well, it's over. Over and done with. His Imperial Majesty passed the legislation several months ago." The chair squeaked slightly as Russia sat back, watching America's face.
America blinked, then blinked again. Then sat forward with his hands clasped over the arm of the couch, and pulled one leg up below him. "Wait, what? Really? You mean--the whole system? You just--"
"Yes." A smile tugged at the corner of Russia's mouth. After the liberation of tens of thousands of people, America's bewilderment was the best part of all of this. "The nobility believes that it's better to abolish serfdom from above than to wait for the time when it will begin to abolish itself from below. Preventative measures, you know."
America's expression tripped through confusion, past astonishment, and into wide-eyed pleasure. "That's incredible, Russia, congratulations! And it was done--peacefully? No...no problems?"
"You know how difficult it is to please everyone. There have been disruptions in some of the villages--mostly peasants refusing to believe the manifesto is genuine." He waved a hand. "They will catch up."
"Right, well, sure, that makes sense." Something hooked and caught behind America's eyes, and that smile dimmed for a moment. He curled his fingers in. "It'll work out. You've really--huh. What a big step..."
Russia felt slightly ridiculous for being as proud as he was. "I certainly hope so. I'm sorry I took so long to tell you. I wanted to make sure everything happened the way I thought it would."
America looked up at him again. "No, don't be." He reached out and grasped Russia's forearm. "I--I'm jealous." A little laugh, but it wasn't quite right. "I'm happy for you."
"Thank you, but--jealous?" Russia let his hand rest on top of America's. "Of what?"
America gave a short, harsh laugh. His eyes dropped to the floor beneath the coffee table. "Nothing. I've had some--some problems, lately. But it's nothing." He sat up a little straighter.
Something in the changing texture of the light as a cloud passed over the sun, or something else--he didn't know what, but this time when the smile fell from America's expression like a slipped shingle, he looked pale, and tired, and--lost. Russia's fingers tightened around his. "America? Are you all right?" He frowned and leaned forward. "I knew you had some kind of trouble earlier this year, but I thought it was resolved..."
Another laugh--higher and more ragged. A tinge of red rose in the tips of America's ears. "I wouldn't say it's been 'resolved,'" and there was a faltering note of--Russia wanted to call it despair, but that was something he had never heard in America's voice. America looked up and smiled, again, wan and wooden, and he gently tugged to pull his hand away. "I don't want to bother you with my issues, please don't worry about it. I'm--I'm happy for you. I'm really happy for you."
"Stop it," Russia snapped. There was a sudden knot in his gut. "You have no obligation to tell me what's going on, but I'd hate for you to--to think you couldn't."
America flushed. He stared fixedly down at their joined hands. "It's just--" his voice broke. He swallowed, and it didn't help. "I don't. Um. I don't know what's happening to me."
Russia waited. The air had gone humid, thick.
"No, I mean…I do. That's not what I mean. I--" America blew out a shaking breath. "I think I'm having a civil war."
Another silence, which Russia eventually broke with a quiet, "Are you sure?"
America's fingers tightened into his palm beneath Russia's hand. "I've lost eleven states. My. You know. My agriculture. The--the slave states. Not all of them. A few of the border states with slavery stayed. I hope they stay...they're shooting at each other, Russia." There was a hollow little note of pleading in his voice, for God knew what. "My people. Thousands of my people are dead already. And the president has called for more troops."
"I...I didn't know," Russia perched on the edge of his chair, knees almost touching America's. "Are you going to ask for help? I'm sure England would--"
"England?" his head shot up and he gave a cracked, uneven grin that was all teeth and empty shadows. "Yeah, England's--England's a big help. He's building warships for the rebels. France accepted their diplomats, too. They're saying 'the American experiment has run its course,' and things like that. England doesn't care if I live or die, so long as whoever's left afterwards will still sell him cotton, and tobacco, a-and…" Russia could hear the rest of it: and he's betrayed me, I thought if I needed him he would come, but he's--
His eyes narrowed. England had always been a bastard, but he was America's old ruling state, for God's sake. America looked small, slumped against the arm of the couch, and Russia's hand felt awkward, clumsy, wrapped around his. "Is it really so serious? Do you think you might die?"
America folded his free arm under his head and braced his forehead on his fist. "How should I know?" he groaned. "It's a mess, and it keeps getting bigger...and I'm, I'm not the Union. Not just the Union. I'm all of them, the Confederate states too, I can feel them still, I can feel them--killing each other." He sank a little lower. "What happens if the war ends and everyone agrees that I'm two countries? Do I--what happens to me? Will I just...be gone, and, and there will be two new people instead? Is that how we die?"
He was so tense, so curled tight, it hurt to look at him. Russia said, "Yes," because that all there was to say, and reached out and stroked America's arm from shoulder to elbow. "There will be two. And they will remember you, but it will be like a dream they had a long time ago." He rubbed his thumb gently in the crease of America's arm. "It will stop hurting then, I promise."
America shuddered and jerked back, freed his arm and hand and everything at once, wrenched back so far that he was halfway to the other side of the couch. "I don't want to die!"
Russia got to his feet. The chair nearly toppled in his haste. "No one wants to die, America."
"I know I let them down--I let everybody down--" he drew his knees up against his chest, and his teeth were chattering. "I knew slavery was wrong, and I, and I looked the other way, and now this has happened--but I want to fix it!"
"Then fix it," Russia said softly. He took a step closer and sank down carefully next to America, making sure to leave a few inches of space between them. "You can survive a civil war. And at least you haven't been invaded. You have a better chance of making it through this than you would an outside force."
"Is that true? You've had both, haven't you?"
Russia nodded stiffly. "Mostly invasions. The worst--when I was a child, the--the Mongols came from the east." His hand went to his neck.
America sat forward a little, wet his lips. "Was it--" he faltered. "I mean, I've heard stories--"
"Whatever stories you've heard probably fell short of reality." Russia let out a deep breath, not quite sighing. "I was young. I don't remember much." It was an easy lie.
"You don't have to talk about it," America said at once. "I just..." his fingertips twisted into the soft cotton cuffs of his sleeves.
His glasses were filthy, Russia noticed, smudged with fingerprints and what he assumed were tearstains. Before America could say another word, Russia pulled them off his face and began to clean them on his own shirttail. America blinked a few times and touched the cradle of his right cheekbone reflexively. "No one knew where they came from, at first." He kept his eyes on his work. "There was so much confusion, so much fear. I had even less of an idea than my people did. One of my chroniclers said they were there to punish us for our sins. I didn't think I'd done anything wrong, but they were there, after all. Perhaps he was right." The glass in the frames shone dully now, spotless. Russia kept them in his hand. "Many of my people died."
Half of my people died.
America pushed forward a few inches and focused on Russia. "…I'm sorry."
"There's nothing for you to be sorry about. You weren't even alive." Russia let the corner of the glasses dig into his palm, and looked up into America's eyes. "But I was, and I still am. Do you understand?"
He nodded hesitantly.
"Good." Russia placed the glasses lightly back on America's face, letting his fingertips linger on the other nation's temples. He was feverish, too.
America adjusted his frames, then captured Russia's hand between both of his own. "Russia--"
He raised an eyebrow. Feigning nonchalance used to be easier. "Yes?"
"I--thanks." His eyes dropped to the strip of upholstery that separated his knee from Russia's hip. He colored. "You--I really--you've never--uh."
"I 'never' because I don't usually care. In this case, I do." He smiled a bit at the sight of America's flush. His hand was too warm, clammy, almost, in the wet heat of the room--but he didn't pull away.
"That's--that's not what I was trying to say." America gave a breathy laugh. "Not that I gave you a lot of clues to go on, huh?" He folded his fingers into Russia's and held on tight. "You...never...talk down to me. And I--um. It means a lot to me. Because I really, you know, I really admire you. I mean--wait, I didn't mean for that to sound weird." He laughed again, and his voice tripped and stumbled like a new colt, but there was warmth there, undeniable warmth. "Just...just thanks. For--" he faltered, tipped his shoulder, and smiled.
That knot was back, and it was tighter this time. Russia paused, swallowed once. "You're welcome." He brushed his thumb across America's knuckles. "And thank you. There are many countries worthy of admiration, and I..." He lifted his own shoulder, gently mimicking the other nation's gesture. "...Yes," he finished lamely.
America smiled broader. Downcast eyes closed, and his eyelashes caught the light reflected back from within his glasses as they settled on his cheeks. "And you, what?" His fingertips curled gently against the back of Russia's hand.
"...I'm...I'm glad you chose me." The words came out in a rush, and Russia stared at America's closed eyes, jaw tightening. He can't see, remember that. He's not watching now.
America's eyes swept upwards, then, and met his. He was blushing, but he didn't shrink under Russia's attention, he wasn't embarrassed. He looked--a little shy, but not about that direct gaze, or that irrepressible smile. He started to say something, but Russia watched it fade out in his throat. His fingers twined around Russia's hand were hot.
Russia shifted closer, breath tight. Not to do anything, of course, just to look. Seeing America like this was...strange. "You were saying something?" he pressed.
America's fingers twisted a little tighter. "I wasn't..."
"Are you sure?" Russia fought to keep his tone light, but his hip was pressed against America's thigh. He already regretted saying anything about being grateful. "Because it sounded important."
America shook on a little laugh, and the corner of his mouth turned up. He pulled himself forward by Russia's hand, and then there was a...moment, it couldn't have been long, a second at most, but long enough that they were both aware of it as it crossed between them and slipped away.
America's lips brushed against his.
It was over before Russia could even close his eyes. The heat in the room was suffocating, and he felt a slithering dampness rolling down his spine. He licked his lips, started to say something. Stopped. America's eyes were brighter now, almost amused, worlds away from the terrified gaze that had lit on him only minutes ago. Death. They had been talking about death. He squeezed America's hand, once.
America sat back a little, not as far away as he had been seconds before, but a little further, he gave him room to breathe. He relaxed his hold on Russia's hand, although that didn't help; then the side of Russia's hand rested on the swell of his hip. He looked faintly perplexed. "Did you need to say something?"
Russia shook his head, cleared his throat, and managed a "No." He stood abruptly, let his hand slide away from America's side. "My boat leaves in an hour. I should start for the docks." He hadn't glanced at the clock on the mantle. He slid his coat over his shoulders, straightened the lapels, and turned back to America, catching his face between his hands.
There was a moment of stillness; then Russia pressed a kiss against his forehead. Still warm. "Will you be all right?" he asked, voice too thick.
America trembled, once. His eyes were large and wondering. He nodded. "I--I promise."
There was nothing left to say. Russia released him, turned away, and left.
+++
-The Mongol invasion of what would become Russia peaked in the middle of the 13th century with the sacking of Moscow. More than half of the population was wiped out. The Mongol yoke is often credited with what historians call Russia's "societal retardation", keeping it from participating in the Renaissance and creating a solid middle class.
-The American Civil War spanned from the years 1861-1865.
-This is a picture of Spring Street and Broadway, circa 1860.
+++
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.