31 - Ruin
Title: Ruin
Characters: Russia.
Rating: PG-13.
Summary: 1945 - The bombing of Hiroshima. Russia spends the evening in the company of a carton of cigarettes, a stack of photographs, and helpless envy.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
The Kremlin. August 6th, 1945.
Three heavy glass ashtrays sat in a squat row in the center of the coffee table, sliding into one another with faint clinking noises every time an elbow landed hard on the tabletop, and a hand tapped yet another chunk of ash into one of the bowls. They were all full. Russia had made sure of that.
A half-empty carton of cigarettes lay up on the couch, torn paper still half-attached, trailing off the box like the tail of a kite.
Outside, it rained.
The fabric of Russia’s slacks caught on the grain of the carpet as he slid one of his legs up, rested an arm across his knee, and took a long drag on his cigarette. He tipped his head back against the edge of the couch.
He tensed briefly as thunder cracked the wet air coming through the open window.
Thunder. It was the same thunder he’d heard a thousand times before. The same thunder as yesterday and last month and a century ago. Only now it was...different. Changed. Because the world had changed today.
He wondered if it had sounded like thunder to Japan, too.
A metallic click and a hiss, and his lighter became the sole point of light in the room. The smooth side pressed against the burns America had left in the palm of his hand, and the flame cast a flickering glow over a fresh ring of bruises around his right wrist.
He’d gone to Stalin immediately.
If he was honest with himself, he’d burst in on his boss not to talk about the events of that morning, or what the Soviet Union’s official response would be. It had been to see the man in the flesh...and to entertain the quiet, desperate hope that somehow he would want to protect him.
Russia had barely managed four words before Stalin had grabbed his wrist, twisted it viciously, and thrown him out, in front of Malenkov and two aides.
He brought his cigarette back to his lips, A sleek stack of photographs was toppled against the side of one of the ashtrays, and Russia reached for them. He left fingerprints on the corners as he flipped through them, one by one, studying them by the dim, hot glimmer of the cigarette.
There were no people to speak of, in these pictures. He thought he’d seen a gnarled husk of a hand when he first flipped through these, hours ago, but he couldn’t seem to find it again. What he did find were buildings collapsed in on themselves, miles of charred sidewalk, trees shriveled into nothing...and ash.
The couch creaked as he arched back against it.
Gunpowder. That was what this reminded him of. The first time he’d seen a man killed with a gun, it had taken his breath away.
He stubbed out his current cigarette, fumbled for another.
America had a gun. America had the most powerful gun the world had ever seen.
And America didn’t deserve it.
He was a child. What had he endured? He was strong, yes, someone who had made it to the top on a cocktail of bravery and dumb luck. But what was that kind of supremacy, really? What did that matter when all this rested securely in his hands?
The lid of the lighter snapped open as he lit up again. It was a warm weight in his hand, and he could feel America’s mouth on his back, the teasing flicker of his tongue along the crests of his shoulder blades.
They had kissed goodbye after Potsdam, but it was a hurried thing, too brief. Their bosses had been a room away.
He realized abruptly that that had to stop. America wasn’t a nation, not anymore. He’d--he’d spread his wings somehow, been reborn in fire, like the impossible bird in China’s legends. And he’d left Russia behind.
He blinked quickly. Smoke burned his eyes, his throat, and he imagined it painting his lungs black.
Russia knew the world wasn’t fair. He had learned that before he was old enough to lift a sword. When he was a child, such injustices had fallen under the influence of God. Because He moved in mysterious ways, ways that included starvation and terror and helplessness. And who was a tiny nation to question the acts of the Almighty?
But he questioned. Oh, he questioned. He was long since through with God, and still he couldn’t stop shaking his fist at the sky.
Why was America allowed to have this first? Hadn’t Russia done all he could and more? Wasn’t it his, by virtue of all he’d suffered?
A burning fleck of ash shivered off the end of his cigarette and fell to the carpet. Russia watched it blaze for a small clutch of seconds--then crushed it out savagely with the tip of his finger.
Because, really, in the end...it wasn’t fair.
Rain splattered onto the windowsill; the grey evening light caught the drops as the wind urged them inside. Russia listened, and hated this changed world, hated that he hadn’t been the one to change it.
America would be so good about it, too. He would talk about what a responsibility it was, what a burden, how his boss had been forced to make a terrible choice. And he would mean every word.
But he would never understand, not like Russia did. What he had was not an end to all wars, or an instrument of justice, or the beacon of a new age. What he had was freedom. The bomb saved him from helplessness, from ever being forced to play the part of another nation’s dog. It gave him a chance to be really and truly alone.
Russia looked through the photos again, faster this time. A small, tight feeling coiled in his belly, climbed up the back of his throat with wet little claws.
All that devastation. All that ruin. All that power.
Russia saw it. And he wanted it.
He could imagine himself locked within his own borders, ringed around with those glorious plumes of flame, lulled to sleep by the rumble of the apocalypse.
No one would ever touch him again.
+++
-The atomic bombing of the city of Hiroshima was an attack against the Empire of Japan by the United States at the executive order of U.S. President Harry S. Truman. After six months of intense fire-bombing of 67 other Japanese cities, followed by an ultimatum which was ignored by the Shōwa regime, the nuclear weapon "Little Boy" was dropped on the city of Hiroshima on Monday August 6, 1945.
-Georgy Maximilianovich Malenkov was a Soviet politician, Communist Party leader and close collaborator of Joseph Stalin. He briefly became leader of the Soviet Union after Stalin's death and was Premier of the Soviet Union from 1953 to 1955.
+++
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.
Rating: PG-13.
Summary: 1945 - The bombing of Hiroshima. Russia spends the evening in the company of a carton of cigarettes, a stack of photographs, and helpless envy.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
The Kremlin. August 6th, 1945.
Three heavy glass ashtrays sat in a squat row in the center of the coffee table, sliding into one another with faint clinking noises every time an elbow landed hard on the tabletop, and a hand tapped yet another chunk of ash into one of the bowls. They were all full. Russia had made sure of that.
A half-empty carton of cigarettes lay up on the couch, torn paper still half-attached, trailing off the box like the tail of a kite.
Outside, it rained.
The fabric of Russia’s slacks caught on the grain of the carpet as he slid one of his legs up, rested an arm across his knee, and took a long drag on his cigarette. He tipped his head back against the edge of the couch.
He tensed briefly as thunder cracked the wet air coming through the open window.
Thunder. It was the same thunder he’d heard a thousand times before. The same thunder as yesterday and last month and a century ago. Only now it was...different. Changed. Because the world had changed today.
He wondered if it had sounded like thunder to Japan, too.
A metallic click and a hiss, and his lighter became the sole point of light in the room. The smooth side pressed against the burns America had left in the palm of his hand, and the flame cast a flickering glow over a fresh ring of bruises around his right wrist.
He’d gone to Stalin immediately.
If he was honest with himself, he’d burst in on his boss not to talk about the events of that morning, or what the Soviet Union’s official response would be. It had been to see the man in the flesh...and to entertain the quiet, desperate hope that somehow he would want to protect him.
Russia had barely managed four words before Stalin had grabbed his wrist, twisted it viciously, and thrown him out, in front of Malenkov and two aides.
He brought his cigarette back to his lips, A sleek stack of photographs was toppled against the side of one of the ashtrays, and Russia reached for them. He left fingerprints on the corners as he flipped through them, one by one, studying them by the dim, hot glimmer of the cigarette.
There were no people to speak of, in these pictures. He thought he’d seen a gnarled husk of a hand when he first flipped through these, hours ago, but he couldn’t seem to find it again. What he did find were buildings collapsed in on themselves, miles of charred sidewalk, trees shriveled into nothing...and ash.
The couch creaked as he arched back against it.
Gunpowder. That was what this reminded him of. The first time he’d seen a man killed with a gun, it had taken his breath away.
He stubbed out his current cigarette, fumbled for another.
America had a gun. America had the most powerful gun the world had ever seen.
And America didn’t deserve it.
He was a child. What had he endured? He was strong, yes, someone who had made it to the top on a cocktail of bravery and dumb luck. But what was that kind of supremacy, really? What did that matter when all this rested securely in his hands?
The lid of the lighter snapped open as he lit up again. It was a warm weight in his hand, and he could feel America’s mouth on his back, the teasing flicker of his tongue along the crests of his shoulder blades.
They had kissed goodbye after Potsdam, but it was a hurried thing, too brief. Their bosses had been a room away.
He realized abruptly that that had to stop. America wasn’t a nation, not anymore. He’d--he’d spread his wings somehow, been reborn in fire, like the impossible bird in China’s legends. And he’d left Russia behind.
He blinked quickly. Smoke burned his eyes, his throat, and he imagined it painting his lungs black.
Russia knew the world wasn’t fair. He had learned that before he was old enough to lift a sword. When he was a child, such injustices had fallen under the influence of God. Because He moved in mysterious ways, ways that included starvation and terror and helplessness. And who was a tiny nation to question the acts of the Almighty?
But he questioned. Oh, he questioned. He was long since through with God, and still he couldn’t stop shaking his fist at the sky.
Why was America allowed to have this first? Hadn’t Russia done all he could and more? Wasn’t it his, by virtue of all he’d suffered?
A burning fleck of ash shivered off the end of his cigarette and fell to the carpet. Russia watched it blaze for a small clutch of seconds--then crushed it out savagely with the tip of his finger.
Because, really, in the end...it wasn’t fair.
Rain splattered onto the windowsill; the grey evening light caught the drops as the wind urged them inside. Russia listened, and hated this changed world, hated that he hadn’t been the one to change it.
America would be so good about it, too. He would talk about what a responsibility it was, what a burden, how his boss had been forced to make a terrible choice. And he would mean every word.
But he would never understand, not like Russia did. What he had was not an end to all wars, or an instrument of justice, or the beacon of a new age. What he had was freedom. The bomb saved him from helplessness, from ever being forced to play the part of another nation’s dog. It gave him a chance to be really and truly alone.
Russia looked through the photos again, faster this time. A small, tight feeling coiled in his belly, climbed up the back of his throat with wet little claws.
All that devastation. All that ruin. All that power.
Russia saw it. And he wanted it.
He could imagine himself locked within his own borders, ringed around with those glorious plumes of flame, lulled to sleep by the rumble of the apocalypse.
No one would ever touch him again.
+++
-The atomic bombing of the city of Hiroshima was an attack against the Empire of Japan by the United States at the executive order of U.S. President Harry S. Truman. After six months of intense fire-bombing of 67 other Japanese cities, followed by an ultimatum which was ignored by the Shōwa regime, the nuclear weapon "Little Boy" was dropped on the city of Hiroshima on Monday August 6, 1945.
-Georgy Maximilianovich Malenkov was a Soviet politician, Communist Party leader and close collaborator of Joseph Stalin. He briefly became leader of the Soviet Union after Stalin's death and was Premier of the Soviet Union from 1953 to 1955.
+++
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.