9 - Lies
Title: Lies
Characters: Russia/America
Rating: PG.
Summary: 1886 - America discovers Dostoyevsky, and he can't shut up about it.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
Moscow, 1886
America hugged him when they met, a flash of warmth in the cool air of the coffeehouse. His arms had threaded briefly around Russia’ shoulders, and the corner of the book he carried in his left hand dug into his spine.
It was all over in a moment, but, in Russia’s opinion, it had been a moment too long.
“Do you have any idea--any idea--how amazing this stuff is?” America was saying, waving the book a little too enthusiastically. He let Russia nudge him towards a table in the corner and dropped loudly into his chair, almost upsetting the mug of coffee already waiting for him. “Like the part with the monk’s body just sitting there, getting rotten and--”
“America.”
“Oh, and that Fyodor Pav--how do you say it?--Pavlovich? Such a son of a bitch, I can’t believe he--”
“America.”
“The courtroom scene, too, when that poor bastard gets sent to Siberia--”
“America.”
America’s voice stuttered to a halt. Even in the bad light, his eyes were shining behind his glasses. Russia watched him for a minute, then tugged the book gently out from under his hand, and dragged it to his side of the little table. “What are you doing with this?”
“Um, I think England used to call it ‘bettering myself,’” America gulped his coffee. “A bunch of publishing companies in New York have started translating all your books, and people are just eating them up. I am too, actually.” He lifted his shoulder in a little half-shrug, and grinned. “Your people can really write. I loved that one--what was it--the one where that girl gets hit by the train?”
“Аnna Karenina,” Russia supplied. His eyes settled briefly on the way America’s throat moved as he swallowed.
“Yeah, sure.” The coffee mug thumped back down on the table. “You know, it’s funny: England hasn’t written a damn thing worth reading since, oh I don’t know, forever, but he still acts like he’s got us all beat, literature-wise.” America propped his elbows on the tabletop and leaned in conspiratorially. His face was inches from Russia’s. “Blake? Totally overrated.”
Russia took a small breath, and his exhalation ruffled America’s hair. “Is that so?” he managed, hating the timbre of his own voice.
America nodded. “Absolutely.” His gaze dropped to Russia’s lips, and something tightened behind his eyes. He sat back abruptly, as though just noticing how close they actually were.
The other patrons clamored around them, and Russia could hear the distant shriek of a tea kettle. He looked at the book on the table, and tried to ignore the tiny ache of what wasn’t disappointment against his ribs. He felt around for the lost thread of their conversation. “And now you’re reading Brat'ja Karamazovy, yes?”
“If that means The Brothers Karamazov,” America rolled his eyes as Russia winced at his pronunciation, “then yes. Started it on Monday.”
“Your enthusiastic monologue earlier lead me to believe that you’re enjoying it.”
“It’s incredible. And, I mean, I can definitely tell it’s yours.” He flushed faintly. “If that makes any sense.”
Russia let himself smile, just a bit. “It does, thank you. Although, it’s a little disconcerting to know that when you read about sweeping themes of madness and betrayal, you instantly think of me.” America looked up sharply, and Russia’s mouth sloped into a grin. “I’m joking.”
“I know.” America played with a few drops of coffee splattered across the table. He dragged a long line through them, then added little dabs to the top, like a mushroom. Russia squinted. It was... America noticed his scrutiny. “A tree,” he explained. “like the ones in Florida.”
“Ah.” Russia drew his palm across the picture. The coffee was cold on the flat of his hand.
America touched his fingertips to the other nation’s, and caught his eyes. “Hey, can I have my book back? You’re getting coffee on it.”
Russia blinked, and slid the little volume back across the table. America picked it up, wiped it with his sleeve, and flipped it open. There was a moment of silence.
Russia looked at the book, at the dog eared pages and creased cover, and imagined America falling asleep with it tented in his lap, glasses sliding down his nose. The light streaming through the plate windows of the cafe was dim, alive with dust motes, and it caught across America’s face, made him gleam. Russia looked away.
“Russia?” America asked at length, “Do you think people matter?”
“...That’s a strange question.”
“Not really.” his finger caught on one of the pages and pulled away with a scratching sound. “‘S what the whole story is about. I think. I was never any good at the whole ‘analysis’ thing.”
A pause. Then: “Yes. People matter. But some people matter more than others.”
“Oh. I guess that’s, uh, one way of looking at it,” America’s fingers stumbled over the handle of his mug, then, and Russia knew suddenly that there was more to the question than he’d thought.
“So, Dostoyevsky...Did you know him?”
Russia seized on the change of subject. He took a sip of his tea, let it scald his tongue. “We met once or twice. Why?”
“Just--this Ivan guy. They call him, what, ‘Vanya’, right?” America flipped through the pages of the book, and then glanced up at Russia, his expression unreadable, “Is that, like, a nickname?”
“A diminutive.”
“Whatever. It’s cute.” He turned back to the text, “Anyway, he’s got this whole complex about how unjust life is--like, God couldn’t exist in a shitty world where kids get sick and die and stuff like that. So he doesn’t believe in Him at all.” He looked up at the other nation, and let a smile trace the corner of his mouth. “He kinda reminds me of someone. Weird, right?”
“Very.” Russia’s hand shot out and flipped the cover closed, trapping America’s fingers amid the last pages, somewhere in the middle of Dmitri’s trial. His touch lingered briefly on the other nation’s wrist.
...Above all, do not lie to yourself. A man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to a point where he does not discern any truth either in himself or anywhere around him...
Russia hesitated, and snatched his hand away.
+++
-A number of Russian works had been translated for American audiences earlier in the 1800s, but in 1886 a number of major works became available to the U.S. market. American translators published Russian books that had immediate and longstanding popularity in the United States.
-"Above all, do not lie to yourself..." This quote comes from Chapter Two of Part Two of The Brothers Kramazov.
-Coffee houses became extraordinarily popular throughout the latter part of the nineteenth century, popping up everywhere from Paris to Moscow to Philadelphia.
+++
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.
Summary: 1886 - America discovers Dostoyevsky, and he can't shut up about it.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
Moscow, 1886
America hugged him when they met, a flash of warmth in the cool air of the coffeehouse. His arms had threaded briefly around Russia’ shoulders, and the corner of the book he carried in his left hand dug into his spine.
It was all over in a moment, but, in Russia’s opinion, it had been a moment too long.
“Do you have any idea--any idea--how amazing this stuff is?” America was saying, waving the book a little too enthusiastically. He let Russia nudge him towards a table in the corner and dropped loudly into his chair, almost upsetting the mug of coffee already waiting for him. “Like the part with the monk’s body just sitting there, getting rotten and--”
“America.”
“Oh, and that Fyodor Pav--how do you say it?--Pavlovich? Such a son of a bitch, I can’t believe he--”
“America.”
“The courtroom scene, too, when that poor bastard gets sent to Siberia--”
“America.”
America’s voice stuttered to a halt. Even in the bad light, his eyes were shining behind his glasses. Russia watched him for a minute, then tugged the book gently out from under his hand, and dragged it to his side of the little table. “What are you doing with this?”
“Um, I think England used to call it ‘bettering myself,’” America gulped his coffee. “A bunch of publishing companies in New York have started translating all your books, and people are just eating them up. I am too, actually.” He lifted his shoulder in a little half-shrug, and grinned. “Your people can really write. I loved that one--what was it--the one where that girl gets hit by the train?”
“Аnna Karenina,” Russia supplied. His eyes settled briefly on the way America’s throat moved as he swallowed.
“Yeah, sure.” The coffee mug thumped back down on the table. “You know, it’s funny: England hasn’t written a damn thing worth reading since, oh I don’t know, forever, but he still acts like he’s got us all beat, literature-wise.” America propped his elbows on the tabletop and leaned in conspiratorially. His face was inches from Russia’s. “Blake? Totally overrated.”
Russia took a small breath, and his exhalation ruffled America’s hair. “Is that so?” he managed, hating the timbre of his own voice.
America nodded. “Absolutely.” His gaze dropped to Russia’s lips, and something tightened behind his eyes. He sat back abruptly, as though just noticing how close they actually were.
The other patrons clamored around them, and Russia could hear the distant shriek of a tea kettle. He looked at the book on the table, and tried to ignore the tiny ache of what wasn’t disappointment against his ribs. He felt around for the lost thread of their conversation. “And now you’re reading Brat'ja Karamazovy, yes?”
“If that means The Brothers Karamazov,” America rolled his eyes as Russia winced at his pronunciation, “then yes. Started it on Monday.”
“Your enthusiastic monologue earlier lead me to believe that you’re enjoying it.”
“It’s incredible. And, I mean, I can definitely tell it’s yours.” He flushed faintly. “If that makes any sense.”
Russia let himself smile, just a bit. “It does, thank you. Although, it’s a little disconcerting to know that when you read about sweeping themes of madness and betrayal, you instantly think of me.” America looked up sharply, and Russia’s mouth sloped into a grin. “I’m joking.”
“I know.” America played with a few drops of coffee splattered across the table. He dragged a long line through them, then added little dabs to the top, like a mushroom. Russia squinted. It was... America noticed his scrutiny. “A tree,” he explained. “like the ones in Florida.”
“Ah.” Russia drew his palm across the picture. The coffee was cold on the flat of his hand.
America touched his fingertips to the other nation’s, and caught his eyes. “Hey, can I have my book back? You’re getting coffee on it.”
Russia blinked, and slid the little volume back across the table. America picked it up, wiped it with his sleeve, and flipped it open. There was a moment of silence.
Russia looked at the book, at the dog eared pages and creased cover, and imagined America falling asleep with it tented in his lap, glasses sliding down his nose. The light streaming through the plate windows of the cafe was dim, alive with dust motes, and it caught across America’s face, made him gleam. Russia looked away.
“Russia?” America asked at length, “Do you think people matter?”
“...That’s a strange question.”
“Not really.” his finger caught on one of the pages and pulled away with a scratching sound. “‘S what the whole story is about. I think. I was never any good at the whole ‘analysis’ thing.”
A pause. Then: “Yes. People matter. But some people matter more than others.”
“Oh. I guess that’s, uh, one way of looking at it,” America’s fingers stumbled over the handle of his mug, then, and Russia knew suddenly that there was more to the question than he’d thought.
“So, Dostoyevsky...Did you know him?”
Russia seized on the change of subject. He took a sip of his tea, let it scald his tongue. “We met once or twice. Why?”
“Just--this Ivan guy. They call him, what, ‘Vanya’, right?” America flipped through the pages of the book, and then glanced up at Russia, his expression unreadable, “Is that, like, a nickname?”
“A diminutive.”
“Whatever. It’s cute.” He turned back to the text, “Anyway, he’s got this whole complex about how unjust life is--like, God couldn’t exist in a shitty world where kids get sick and die and stuff like that. So he doesn’t believe in Him at all.” He looked up at the other nation, and let a smile trace the corner of his mouth. “He kinda reminds me of someone. Weird, right?”
“Very.” Russia’s hand shot out and flipped the cover closed, trapping America’s fingers amid the last pages, somewhere in the middle of Dmitri’s trial. His touch lingered briefly on the other nation’s wrist.
...Above all, do not lie to yourself. A man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to a point where he does not discern any truth either in himself or anywhere around him...
Russia hesitated, and snatched his hand away.
+++
-A number of Russian works had been translated for American audiences earlier in the 1800s, but in 1886 a number of major works became available to the U.S. market. American translators published Russian books that had immediate and longstanding popularity in the United States.
-"Above all, do not lie to yourself..." This quote comes from Chapter Two of Part Two of The Brothers Kramazov.
-Coffee houses became extraordinarily popular throughout the latter part of the nineteenth century, popping up everywhere from Paris to Moscow to Philadelphia.
+++
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.