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osprey_archerTitle: Five Nations Who Abandoned Russia, and One Who Hasn’t (Yet)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
osprey_archer
Pairing: Russia/suffering. Also, Russia/America.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: 1989-1992. “Gorbachev,” says America, spinning a cocktail umbrella between his fingers. “How could you get rid of him? He’s like your Lincoln.” The Warsaw Pact countries leave Russia, and America invites him over for New Year's to celebrate.
June 1989
Poland stomps into Russia’s office. “I totally hate you,” he tells Russia.
Russia considers cracking Poland’s skull like an egg between his hands.
He’s tried it before. It has never worked. “I hate you more,” Russia says.
“Yeah, I noticed,” says Poland. “The Partition, man, and Katyn fucking forest. Someday I’m gonna, like, beat the shit out of you.”
Russia grabs Poland's collar. His grasp is too feeble to choke the other nation, but the color leaches gratifyingly from Poland’s face. “Try it,” Russia says, and smiles.
Poland spits in his face. Russia, shocked, releases him. Poland slams the door behind him, so hard that the bust of Lenin on the windowsill rattles.
***
October 1989
Prussia comes in, thumbs hooked in the pockets of his new blue jeans. Russia glowers. “You are supposed to knock."
“Yeah, fuck that,” crows Prussia. “I go where I want now.”
Russia sighs. His grip crushes his pen, and he looks, surprised, at the ink on his hand.
Prussia pokes Russia’s chest. “So I guess this is goodbye, big guy,” he says.
Russia forces himself to nod.
Prussia scrapes his hobnailed boot across the worn carpet. His hands hand loose at his sides, fingers flexing. Russia’s never seen him make such pointless movements.
“It’s really goodbye,” says Prussia, digging his boot into the carpet again. “West and I – we’re going to be one nation.”
Unification. Russia's gut contracts. He scrubs at his ink-covered hand with his handkerchief, looking away from Prussia. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”
Prussia takes a deep shaky breath. “Yeah, you’re right,” he says, and his regular cocky grin settles on his face. He salutes cheekily, and marches out in a fine goosestep.
***
January 1991
Liet comes in.
“No!” shouts Russia. He slams Liet against the wall. “No! You’re not leaving!” Liet's head dents the wallpaper. “You’re part of me!”
“I’m not,” says Liet. “You illegally – ”
Russia jams his arm over Liet’s throat. Liet gasps, but keeps talking, “ – illegally annexed me - ”
Russia presses harder, but Liet keeps talking. “ - and I’m not part of you.”
He presses, presses, but Liet won’t shut up.
“I was never part of you.”
Russia slams Liet’s head against the wall again. Liet gasps but doesn’t buckle.
They stare at each other. Liet doesn’t look down.
Russia drops him. Liet nearly falls but steadies himself on the wall, breathing hard.
Russia stalks away, leaning against the windowsill. Lenin’s bust sneers at him. Russia knocks it onto the floor.
“I want you to know,” says Liet, “I forgive you.” He shuts the door quietly as he leaves.
Russia kneels beside Lenin's bust. Lenin's nose has shattered.
***
December 1991
Ukraine races in, dragging Belarus. “Russia!” she shouts. “We’re leaving!”
Russia lies sprawled across the armchair, legs flopping over one arm, head burrowed against the other. His neck aches. His eyes burn.
He can hear Ukraine and Belarus whispering.
“Aren’t you angry?” asks Ukraine.
“It’s all the same to me,” says Russia.
Belarus bursts into tears.
“Belarus we talked about this!” Ukraine cries, but Belarus rips from Ukraine’s restraining hand and runs to Russia. She throws her arms around Russia’s head and kisses his cheek.
His throat swells. He shoves her away. “White Russia,” he says. “What do you think you’ll be on your own?”
“Free!” cries Ukraine.
Russia's throat is too tight to speak.
Ukraine drags Belarus away. “We’re going,” she announces, throwing open the door. Snow swirls across the carpet.
Belarus, weeping, grabs the doorframe. She and Ukraine hesitate over the threshold, looking back at Russia.
“Fuck you,” he rasps.
Ukraine sticks out her tongue and yanks Belarus – still sobbing – from the room. She forgets to close the door. The cold air bites Russia's cheeks.
There’s no one to close it but Russia. He’s the only one left in the echoing house that he built for the whole world, back in 1917.
He wants to burn it.
But I’ll need it, he thinks; when they come back – they have to come back…
On America’s Christmas, he burns his old house to smoldering ashes. The smoke stings tears from his eyes.
***
New Year’s Eve, 1991
“Gorbachev,” says America, spinning a cocktail umbrella between his fingers. He’s drunk about a pitcher of Sex on the Beach. “How could you get rid of him? He’s like your Lincoln.”
They’re sitting on a balcony above Times Square, watching the signs pulsate like fireworks and waiting for the ball to drop.
Russia pours himself another shot, huddling into his coat. America, he thinks, is mocking him. “My Lincoln.”
“Freeing the slaves,” says America. He leans his chair back on its hind legs, twirling the cocktail umbrella between his fingers. “The Warsaw Pact countries,” he clarifies.
Russia’s jaw clenches. “You killed your Lincoln,” he says, and kicks back a shot of vodka.
"Not my fault," says America. He stretches. “I sent Poland some money to stabilize his currency,” he says.
Russia gags. He hurls the shot glass against the concrete floor. “Don’t!”
“Well I already sent it, I can hardly take it back.”
Russia grinds the shattered glass beneath his boot.
America persists, stabbing the cocktail umbrella into the air to make his point. “They had inflation at like a million percent – ”
Russia crushes the cocktail umbrella. “Don’t talk.”
The crowd below roars: the ball is beginning to rock. Russia hurls the remains of the cocktail umbrella over the rail. The tissue paper shreds flutter like butterflies as they fall into the crowd.
America stares in surprise at his now-empty hand. Then he grins. “Yeah, I’d really rather not talk either,” he says. “Let’s celebrate.” He grabs Russia’s scarf and pulls him in for a kiss.
Russia nearly chokes.
“Ten! Nine!” the crowd screams.
Russia falls off his chair. He’s kneeling at America's feet in the broken glass, and America’s bent almost double to keep kissing him.
“Seven! Six!”
Russia drags America onto the floor beside him. America’s laughing, mocking breath hot on Russia’s face.
Russia pins America to the floor, scraping his hands against the rough concrete. “Celebrate what?” Russia demands.
“Five! Four!”
America’s glasses reflect the Times Square ball, red white and blue. “Freedom!”
Russia sags. He really thinks, America has flipped Russia onto his back, really thinks that I – , and America is kissing him, his eyelids, cheeks, should be happy about –
“Two! One!”
“I’m so proud of you,” America says, and kisses Russia’s lips.
The crowd screams as the ball drops.
Russia, blinking rapidly, tries to turn away. America’s kisses graze his jaw, his ear.
“Another word for nothing left to lose,” Russia spits, cheek against the cold concrete. The broken glass cuts his skin.
“Janis Joplin,” America says, “Bourgeois decadence, I knew you liked it – ”
Russia smashes America’s mouth against his. America’s lips burn, sweet with schnapps and orange juice.
“Anyway,” says America, “You haven’t lost me.” He parts Russia’s scarf to kiss his neck.
I will, thinks Russia.
But not, he thinks, ripping open America’s coat, tonight.
Author:
osprey_archer Pairing: Russia/suffering. Also, Russia/America.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: 1989-1992. “Gorbachev,” says America, spinning a cocktail umbrella between his fingers. “How could you get rid of him? He’s like your Lincoln.” The Warsaw Pact countries leave Russia, and America invites him over for New Year's to celebrate.
June 1989
Poland stomps into Russia’s office. “I totally hate you,” he tells Russia.
Russia considers cracking Poland’s skull like an egg between his hands.
He’s tried it before. It has never worked. “I hate you more,” Russia says.
“Yeah, I noticed,” says Poland. “The Partition, man, and Katyn fucking forest. Someday I’m gonna, like, beat the shit out of you.”
Russia grabs Poland's collar. His grasp is too feeble to choke the other nation, but the color leaches gratifyingly from Poland’s face. “Try it,” Russia says, and smiles.
Poland spits in his face. Russia, shocked, releases him. Poland slams the door behind him, so hard that the bust of Lenin on the windowsill rattles.
***
October 1989
Prussia comes in, thumbs hooked in the pockets of his new blue jeans. Russia glowers. “You are supposed to knock."
“Yeah, fuck that,” crows Prussia. “I go where I want now.”
Russia sighs. His grip crushes his pen, and he looks, surprised, at the ink on his hand.
Prussia pokes Russia’s chest. “So I guess this is goodbye, big guy,” he says.
Russia forces himself to nod.
Prussia scrapes his hobnailed boot across the worn carpet. His hands hand loose at his sides, fingers flexing. Russia’s never seen him make such pointless movements.
“It’s really goodbye,” says Prussia, digging his boot into the carpet again. “West and I – we’re going to be one nation.”
Unification. Russia's gut contracts. He scrubs at his ink-covered hand with his handkerchief, looking away from Prussia. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”
Prussia takes a deep shaky breath. “Yeah, you’re right,” he says, and his regular cocky grin settles on his face. He salutes cheekily, and marches out in a fine goosestep.
***
January 1991
Liet comes in.
“No!” shouts Russia. He slams Liet against the wall. “No! You’re not leaving!” Liet's head dents the wallpaper. “You’re part of me!”
“I’m not,” says Liet. “You illegally – ”
Russia jams his arm over Liet’s throat. Liet gasps, but keeps talking, “ – illegally annexed me - ”
Russia presses harder, but Liet keeps talking. “ - and I’m not part of you.”
He presses, presses, but Liet won’t shut up.
“I was never part of you.”
Russia slams Liet’s head against the wall again. Liet gasps but doesn’t buckle.
They stare at each other. Liet doesn’t look down.
Russia drops him. Liet nearly falls but steadies himself on the wall, breathing hard.
Russia stalks away, leaning against the windowsill. Lenin’s bust sneers at him. Russia knocks it onto the floor.
“I want you to know,” says Liet, “I forgive you.” He shuts the door quietly as he leaves.
Russia kneels beside Lenin's bust. Lenin's nose has shattered.
***
December 1991
Ukraine races in, dragging Belarus. “Russia!” she shouts. “We’re leaving!”
Russia lies sprawled across the armchair, legs flopping over one arm, head burrowed against the other. His neck aches. His eyes burn.
He can hear Ukraine and Belarus whispering.
“Aren’t you angry?” asks Ukraine.
“It’s all the same to me,” says Russia.
Belarus bursts into tears.
“Belarus we talked about this!” Ukraine cries, but Belarus rips from Ukraine’s restraining hand and runs to Russia. She throws her arms around Russia’s head and kisses his cheek.
His throat swells. He shoves her away. “White Russia,” he says. “What do you think you’ll be on your own?”
“Free!” cries Ukraine.
Russia's throat is too tight to speak.
Ukraine drags Belarus away. “We’re going,” she announces, throwing open the door. Snow swirls across the carpet.
Belarus, weeping, grabs the doorframe. She and Ukraine hesitate over the threshold, looking back at Russia.
“Fuck you,” he rasps.
Ukraine sticks out her tongue and yanks Belarus – still sobbing – from the room. She forgets to close the door. The cold air bites Russia's cheeks.
There’s no one to close it but Russia. He’s the only one left in the echoing house that he built for the whole world, back in 1917.
He wants to burn it.
But I’ll need it, he thinks; when they come back – they have to come back…
On America’s Christmas, he burns his old house to smoldering ashes. The smoke stings tears from his eyes.
***
New Year’s Eve, 1991
“Gorbachev,” says America, spinning a cocktail umbrella between his fingers. He’s drunk about a pitcher of Sex on the Beach. “How could you get rid of him? He’s like your Lincoln.”
They’re sitting on a balcony above Times Square, watching the signs pulsate like fireworks and waiting for the ball to drop.
Russia pours himself another shot, huddling into his coat. America, he thinks, is mocking him. “My Lincoln.”
“Freeing the slaves,” says America. He leans his chair back on its hind legs, twirling the cocktail umbrella between his fingers. “The Warsaw Pact countries,” he clarifies.
Russia’s jaw clenches. “You killed your Lincoln,” he says, and kicks back a shot of vodka.
"Not my fault," says America. He stretches. “I sent Poland some money to stabilize his currency,” he says.
Russia gags. He hurls the shot glass against the concrete floor. “Don’t!”
“Well I already sent it, I can hardly take it back.”
Russia grinds the shattered glass beneath his boot.
America persists, stabbing the cocktail umbrella into the air to make his point. “They had inflation at like a million percent – ”
Russia crushes the cocktail umbrella. “Don’t talk.”
The crowd below roars: the ball is beginning to rock. Russia hurls the remains of the cocktail umbrella over the rail. The tissue paper shreds flutter like butterflies as they fall into the crowd.
America stares in surprise at his now-empty hand. Then he grins. “Yeah, I’d really rather not talk either,” he says. “Let’s celebrate.” He grabs Russia’s scarf and pulls him in for a kiss.
Russia nearly chokes.
“Ten! Nine!” the crowd screams.
Russia falls off his chair. He’s kneeling at America's feet in the broken glass, and America’s bent almost double to keep kissing him.
“Seven! Six!”
Russia drags America onto the floor beside him. America’s laughing, mocking breath hot on Russia’s face.
Russia pins America to the floor, scraping his hands against the rough concrete. “Celebrate what?” Russia demands.
“Five! Four!”
America’s glasses reflect the Times Square ball, red white and blue. “Freedom!”
Russia sags. He really thinks, America has flipped Russia onto his back, really thinks that I – , and America is kissing him, his eyelids, cheeks, should be happy about –
“Two! One!”
“I’m so proud of you,” America says, and kisses Russia’s lips.
The crowd screams as the ball drops.
Russia, blinking rapidly, tries to turn away. America’s kisses graze his jaw, his ear.
“Another word for nothing left to lose,” Russia spits, cheek against the cold concrete. The broken glass cuts his skin.
“Janis Joplin,” America says, “Bourgeois decadence, I knew you liked it – ”
Russia smashes America’s mouth against his. America’s lips burn, sweet with schnapps and orange juice.
“Anyway,” says America, “You haven’t lost me.” He parts Russia’s scarf to kiss his neck.
I will, thinks Russia.
But not, he thinks, ripping open America’s coat, tonight.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2010-11-19 05:28 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-20 05:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-19 05:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-20 04:56 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-19 09:23 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-20 05:06 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-20 10:55 am (UTC)You did a good job with all of this, congrat'
no subject
Date: 2010-11-21 05:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-24 04:15 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-11-25 04:54 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-12-02 07:17 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-12-03 06:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-12-04 04:15 pm (UTC)And then America!
It was a brilliant fic ♥ ;u;
no subject
Date: 2010-12-05 03:50 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-12-15 01:07 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2010-12-16 02:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-09-01 09:09 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-09-02 04:37 am (UTC)Fic recs!
Lithuania being awesome despite the fact that the world is totally terrible to him: Mother Courage (http://puella-nerdii.livejournal.com/92256.html), about the Nazi occupation, and Apostle's Creed (http://puella-nerdii.livejournal.com/76516.html).
Lithuania is my faaaaaavorite. I've been looking through the Scandinavia and the World archives, and I can so see a fic based on this strip (http://satwcomic.com/the-boogeyman-comes-at-night) where Russia visits countries that used to be a part of him when he gets drunk. It's a pity I know hardly anything about Lithuanian history.
Also, Whatever Happened to Alfred Jones? (http://mithrigil.livejournal.com/420055.html), which is about 9/11 and exceptionally well done, I thought.
And on a lighter note, We Do Not Speak of Berlusconi at the Table (http://puella-nerdii.livejournal.com/126908.html), about northern Italy and Germany and southern Italy glowering at their epic love.