A Secret
Title: A Secret
Author: DizzyTrickster
Pairings/Characters: USA/Fem!Russia, mentions of Belarus/Lithuania and one-sided France/UK
Genre: Romance, Fluff, Angst and touches of Comedy.
Rating: PG-13 for mentions of sex, cussing, and minor boob grabbing.
Summary: Russia was always a girl, but walking around as a male saved her from ridicule for her broad looks and from nightmares of the past. Her secret was kept safe until America asked her on a date, and now she is in a dilemma: Tell America the truth, or continue to run from it?
Warnings: Confusing!Pronouns and name use ahead! (I think Ivana would get used to thinking herself as Ivan over the years, if everyone would refer to her as such. /shrug).
Because sometimes Russia is the most girly out of all the male Nations, and even out of the female ones. Come on, his giggle! His cute shy nature! Gah!
Born from many fem!Russia fics, but all of them turning him into a Russian Bombshell. Which is cool, but I like my Russia. :3 And then I had to write it after reading Christina Rosetti’s poem Winter: My Secret in class. Guess which line I was like, ‘damn, gotta do it’ on.
Turned out longer then I meant it to be. But I am proud of it.
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I cannot ope to every one who taps,
And let the draughts come whistling through my hall;
Come bounding and surrounding me,
Come buffeting, astounding me,
Nipping and clipping through my wraps and all.
I wear my mask for warmth: who ever shows
His nose to Russian snows
To be pecked at by every wind that blows?
You would not peck? I thank you for good will,
Believe, but leave the truth untested still.
Russia fiddled with the ends of her scarf as she waited in the seat at the restaurant, feeling the butterflies twist and tumble in her stomach. Even the dim, mood-setting lighting of the place did not do much to hide her nervous blush. Nothing could do much to keep her fidgeting and blushing at bay, because America had asked her out.
America had asked her out.
The very thought had sent her mind tumbling a bit, and left her wondering at the fact. When America had asked her, all blushes and horribly mangled attempts at being a gentleman and acting casual and heroic at the same time, she had not been able to do much but giggle and smile in her usual way, causing half of the room to flee in terror. The other half casually strolled out while trying not to look panicked, except for England (who was protesting and trying to get to America to stop this madness), and France (who had been so sweet while dragging his Angleterre out by flashing her a encouraging smile and thumbs up). She had said yes.
Of course, now her worries had grown, and she had been so nervous she arrived at the agreed place a hour early. She was on her second basket of rolls now. But really, it wasn’t her fault. What if Alfred was gay? He asked her out not knowing her true gender, so what if he was disappointed and disgusted to find out that Russia was in fact Mother Russia?
She sniffled a bit, biting into another roll. Luckily the waiting staff was too terrified of her after her well-aimed threatening grin when they started trying to politely imply that ‘his’ date ditched her. (Really, it wasn’t Alfred’s fault that she was a hour early, and he usually showed up 15 minutes late. Her pocket-watch told her she had another 30 minutes before he would arrive.)
So she sat there, worrying about her hair (she had brushed it 100 times to make sure it shone, even if it was so short she didn’t need to do so), her face (maybe she should have put on some make-up? But that would have been weird, yes?), her clothes (Maybe she should have chosen something more formal than a thick blue-knit sweater over a turtleneck, even if the sweater was her favorite since it was the color of Alfred’s eyes. She wished she could steal those eyes so she could look at them all day), and whether or not this was a terrible prank (Alfred could be cruel at times, like she could be. The Cold War had driven this into her memory. But they were on good terms right now, and she was fairly certain his boss would kill him if he caused any international incidents).
“Hey, Ivan! Damn, is my clock wrong? And here I thought I was early!” Nervous laughter followed as Alfred sat down in the seat across from her, Ivan looking up with a blush. She flipped open her pocket watch, looked down at it, looked back up at America, and repeated the gesture a couple times. Sweat started breaking out across America’s forehead. “Ah shit, how late am I? I’m really sorry-”
“Ny-nyet!” Ivan stuttered out. “It is just that it is ten minutes before the agreed time. I am surprised by America’s punctuality! You are usually the last one to show up, da?” Ivan grinned up at Alfred, her eyes crinkling in happiness as Alfred turned beet red. He had showed up early! How lovely~
“Er, yeah, well… I mean, I can’t leave a date waiting, right? That’s totally not heroic.” America shot at bright smile at her then, his blue eyes peering over his glasses with what he must have thought was a seductive and roguish look. Ivan broke out into another set of giggles.
“Perhaps we should call over the waiter now?” Russia happily gestured over to one of the terrified staff, watching with a innocent smile as they started shoving at each other like penguins deciding who should be plunged into the icy water first to judge if a killer whale was lying in wait.
America flipped up the menu, using it to hide his embarrassment at the failed ‘sexy hero’ look. He mourned it’s death; he had been practicing it for over a month in preparation. However, any disappointment was soon forgotten. “Sound great! Hey, they have cowboy burgers here, this place is awesome!”
As a shaking, blond girl approached their table with a stuttered “M-my name is Sarah, and I-I’ll be your waiter this evening.” Russia felt a bloom of satisfaction. Not only did Alfred show up early, but she would get to torture one of the waiters who Ivan had overheard whispering about how a big-guy like him must have been ditched. It was looking to be a wonderful night!
After Alfred had gestured and wildly jabbed at what he wanted at the menu, and Ivan politely informed the girl what she wanted herself (and throwing in a little comment about how she was surprised that a girl with such a stickly figure didn’t have a date on Saturday night, and oh, wasn’t stickly the right word for it? Sorry, his English wasn’t too good. Bony? No? Oh, he was horrible with this language!), Alfred smiled shyly at her which caught her breath. There was a beat of silence when neither could think of what to say after the waitress left, the awkward moment on a first date when no matter how much you have hung out before, the label ‘date’ made it like you never knew the person.
Finally, Alfred shifted and placed his elbows on the table, propping up his chin with one hand and turning his shy grin to a full-blown smile. “So, how many times do you think Italy will say ‘pasta!’ next meeting? My bet is down for six.”
Russia felt her shoulders relax, her facial muscles gentling and giving her first real smile of the night (and she felt her heart speed up a bit when Alfred gave her this wonderful look that just made her want to freeze him in place so she could always have it. It had been awhile since anyone had looked at her like that). “Ah, I am not in on that particular bet. Mine is on how much longer it will take before Germany decides to jump the boy for it. Whether violence or passion, my bet is covered~”
Alfred just laughed, full and too-loud like it used to be, before the fall of the Tsars and before the Cold War, and Ivan felt at peace. She had missed this.
“What is it with you and placing bets on that kind of stuff?” What he meant was, they both understood, how could he have forgotten that Russia liked to muse about those kinds of things at times.
Russia merely gave a chastising click of her tongue. “Come now Alfred, you met my Catherine back in those days.”
With that, their eyes met and something in Alfred relaxed, and a knot that had been in her stomach since she had left America screaming at her and let a door cut off his words (“They hate me, damnit! They won’t let me near you from now on AND YOU THINK IT IS OK? You agree with them, don’t you? Screw America, the fuckin’ kid who has no clue what he is doing! WELL YOU CAN-”), and things were OK as they hadn’t been for too many years.
And with that, they could talk again, of everything they used to share and all they were planning for in the future.
-------
It was on their third date, when Alfred had rested his head against Ivan’s shoulder in the park and Ivan had slung an arm around his shoulders, and people started shooting them looks that she ignored happily until she heard the whisper of ‘homo’ from a passing pair, that the bliss was drowned by worry once again.
America still did not know she was female.
When she had stuttered a excuse to leave early from their date he had given her a concerned look and asked if she was alright, told her not to let stupid people bother her (“Look, don’t worry about it. They are gonna have to get used to two guys being all lovey-dovey eventually.”) With such a innocent and happy grin, with a look so full of her, that she barely could string two words together before darting off in shambles.
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Two weeks later, he had left her nearly a hundred messages in various forms, questions of what he did wrong, and so many sunflowers her bedroom could no longer hold them.
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A month later, France arrived at her door with kind eyes and a bottle of Vodka.
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Only two living nations knew of Russia’s true gender. The first was Ukraine, who was older than Russia and could remember a time when her younger sister accepted being called a girl, and didn’t knowingly try to hide the fact. Belarus was too young, and so never even entertained the idea that her manly brother might actually be a woman.
It had all started shortly after the Mongol’s had attacked. Russia, at that time the horribly young Kievan Rus, had found out by the hands of Mongolia what being female got you in times of war, what it meant when you were conquered, no matter how much of a child you were.
After she finally was freed of them, she hid the scars on her neck with the scarf, and she hid her body with thick coats. She was thankful that she grew tall and strong, with a proud nose and thick bones that lent strength to the illusion. And although Ukraine had begged and wished for the largest land, Russia had claimed what was now her namesake for one truth- she could pretend to be a male, but Ukraine with her large…erm, tracts of land, and delicate features, could not. And with Belarus’s porcelain like looks, a resolve was born. Russia would protect her sisters. She would not let any believe that they were weak, as other nations would sometimes sneer when a female took the lead. She was Russia, and only her people would know her as Mother. The rest would see the smile and form of a bear before the rage of one was inflicted on them.
Though she always did wonder why no one seemed to realize that it was the mother bear who was the most dangerous.
The second one who knew was France, who found out one night after sneaking into Russia’s room to seduce her. At that time many nations preferred female companionship, so she had never considered that there were those like France who would chase after anyone. Thus, when she had entered into her room only to be pounced on and kissed and loved by the nation who she thought hung the moon (for this was France, with all his wondrous language and culture and philosophers), she had not had the presence of mind to push him away before he had opened her shirt and discovered her secret.
She had been terrified. He had a moment of surprise before purring ‘what a surprise!’ and getting right back too it.
After the week of romance and visitations were over, they only had sporadic meetings and flings over the years, for a time broken after he had executed his king but then resumed with travel and pleasure, and he had from the very start kept the secret he had murmured a promise to keep against her breast. It had hurt when she realized that his full attention would never be focused on her, but at that time her own gaze was shifting (his expression so full of a sharp, painful longing that she was only just starting to feel herself, his gaze directed at a man whose temper was bigger than his body, and her own at the very sun that sat across land and ocean with a smile that was filled with hope and life).
She still did not see what he liked about his Angleterre, but then again, France always had odd tastes as he went after her as well. And at least he had fallen for someone within his grasp, even if the person had too many thorns to hold. Russia was reaching for the sun itself, and would load every rocket with endless fuel to attempt to get to it, but would never be able to even get close.
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“I know this does not make up for the whole Napoleon event, but I hope the fact that you won that and crushed my pride will sweeten the drink.”
Russia blinked her red, swollen eyes, and tiredly brought up her scarf to blow her nose in the pink fabric. France winced, then gave a sigh.
“Oh, mon cher, what shall I do with you?” With a cluck of his tongue, he spun her around with a gentle hand on her shoulders before guiding her onto the couch. He disappeared into the kitchen, then came back with the vodka opened and a horrified look.
Ah, the kitchen. She had forgotten to clean it up after her second eating binge. (She wasn’t sure what scared him more; the few raw potatoes scattered about that she had taken a couple bites out of when too depressed to cook or to shop, or the state of the kitchen itself. Knowing France, both were making the gourmet in him curl into a little ball. She tried not to be amused at this.)
Sitting down on the cushion next to her, she took the bottle from him and drank a long pull from it. France let out a sigh. “Now tell me ma belle, why did you not tell America the truth?”
She took a moment to blow her nose on the scarf again, looking extra miserable while doing so. “…Because he likes Ivan.” She gave a little sniffle, tugging up the part of the scarf that rested around her neck until it covered the lower half of her face.
France let out a understanding hum. “And not Ivana. But are they not the same?”
Russia gave him a baleful look, and debated what was more important: taking another pull of vodka, or keeping her dignity by hiding her pathetic expression. Vodka was winning out. “But he likes Ivan. He likes resting his head on Ivan’s shoulder, he likes the way I am taller than him, he likes my handsome manly looks. Yet how will that change when I am no longer a man?” She finally pulled down the scarf, swallowing half the bottle in one go and deciding she was by far too sober for this conversation.
France shook his head. “You underestimate the boy, darling. He would not care.”
At this, Russia pounded her fist on the couch’s arm, her expression turning dark and her kol’s beginning to escape. “Not care? Underestimate? He likes to lie with MEN, France. Even if he liked woman, just look at his magazines! They are all like Ukraine- busty and cute with a trim little waist. And no matter how he is, a woman that is taller and looks more like a man than he does will do nothing but hurt his pride. And he has much of that.” She gestured wildly, the liquid in the bottle swishing and churning around like the thoughts in her head.
“Well, we both agree that he could do with less of it.” France pointed out reasonably.
“Nyet, it is what makes him beautiful and strong.”
France gaped at her as she let out a pathetic sniffle, tears beginning to gather into her eyes. “Oh, mon cher… you truly are in the grasp of love if you think that America’s pride is attractive!”
She shot him a baleful look. “And you think your Angleterre’s eyebrows and temper are lovely, so you do not get to lecture me mon chouchou.” The last part was said with a heavy dose of loathing. She wasn’t quite sure who it was directed at.
France took it in stride, only a moment of his shoulders tensing and a eyebrow twitch before he relaxed and gave her a sad smile. “Either way, the boy is broken-hearted Ivana. You owe the truth to him.” He got up, slowly walking to the door as her heavy eyes followed him. “He has loved you since the Civil War, and I myself know how it feels to be on that side of matters for such a long time.”
After the door closed, Russia finished in vodka while replaying every message that America had left on the machine, his hurt voice filling her ears and bouncing around in her skull until she felt like there was nothing but the pain in the tone and the burn of vodka down her throat.
------
It took four days for her to clean up and fly to Washington D.C. Three hours to make it to America’s house after touchdown, most of that because of traffic but ten of those minutes were to be blamed on her stopping at McDonald’s to pick up ten big macs, and another thirty on dropping by a flower store to pick up a bouquet of 11 purple and blue hyacinths (she had panicked when the girl had asked with a confused air if she meant a dozen. “Nyet! NYET! Must be odd, even numbers no good!” She was always embarrassed how her accent grew when truly worked up).
And so she stood in front of America’s door, with the bouquet of flowers in her arms weighing down her regrets further, because woman didn’t buy men flowers and how had she forgotten such a thing? And then after ten minutes and another aborted attempt at pressing the doorbell passed by, she nearly had a heart attack when the door opened and Alfred looked at her with wide and pained eyes, looking at her as France looked at England and she looked at America.
She took a shuddering breath, and wished she had the foresight to down a bottle of vodka for courage before she got out of the car. “May I come in?”
“Oh, uh, yes! I mean, come in. Yeah, you can- er, yes.” America stepped to the side, running his hands through his hair with a pinched look of hope and a flutter of nerves about his eyes. Russia straightened her shoulders like she was preparing for war and stepped through the door.
“These are for you.” She handed the bouquet to him, and felt despair as his eyes lit up and he blushed and stuttered over them, because when he found out the truth he would simply think she was weird. “The purple ones mean I am sorry, and forgive me, and express sorrow.” At his brightening eyes and smile, she knew that he understood that not only the flowers were saying that.
“Wow, thanks- I mean, I would have rather had you here for the past month-” they both winced as his joke fell flat, and he laughed it off with a nervous jolt. “But these are great. Let me go get some water for ‘em. You need anything?” He waved her towards the living room and he walked off towards the kitchen.
“Nyet, I am fine.”
A couple minutes later found them both sitting on the couch, the flowers in a vase sitting on the coffee table in front of them while they both used it as a excuse to avoid each other’s eyes. America, as usual, was the first to break the silence.
“So, um, what do the blue ones mean?” Seeing Russia start, America quickly continued. “I mean, you told me the purple ones, but not the blue ones, right?”
Russia blushed and looked down at her hands. “Ah… they mean constancy.” She started fiddling with the edge of her scarf, twining it around her fingers and slowly she gathered up her courage. “I, ah- America, I swear to always be constant in my feelings. They have never changed, even if other feelings may have been stronger then them from time to time.” She closed her eyes tightly, remembering when she was a child and how it was a lot easier to be brave if you couldn’t see something. And more than anything, she knew that if she looked at America’s look right now, she would be too scared to say another word for fear of losing.
“America, if I was a woman, how would you feel?” There, she said it. She slowly peeled open one eye to look at America.
He blinked as he ran a hand through his hair, tousling nantucket. “Um… Oh! Is this about those dicks at the park? Look, I love you, ok? I wouldn’t want to change you for the world. I like that you’re a guy! Who cares what idiots think.”
Her stomach gave a twist. Why did America have to be so perfect(ly dense)? “Ah, that is good, but not what I meant. If nothing changed, except that I was a woman, but was exactly how I am now- how would you feel?” She hoped clarifying it would do some good.
At his blank expression, she cursed his dense nature. “Um, well, you’re not a girl and hey! Who wants to deal in the what-if’s? You’re you, and that’s all that matters. And I-” Ivana felt something in her snap at his sheer innocent bumbles that were tearing her nerves to shreds. Her hands flew up and started unbuttoning her jacket, swiftly pulling it away before starting to pull up her turtleneck.
“I-Iva-Ivan! What’re you doing?! We need to wait for marriage for-”
Ignoring his blushing face, she grabbed one of the hands that were waving around in panic and shoved it underneath her shirt against her bound chest. America stopped dead in the middle of his sentence, his blushing shocked face frozen in embarrassment.
She waited a couple seconds. His fingers twitched. His eyes zoomed in on where his hand was resting. His fingers twitched again, this time curving against her breast, squeezing as if to check that he wasn’t going insane and that yes, it really was soft and like a cushion there instead of the firm muscle that was supposed to be there.
His jaw flapped open. “Y-you’re a girl?”
She felt her cheeks slowly warm, red creeping across her neck as well. “Da.”
“You’ve ALWAYS been a girl?”
“Da?”
“England didn’t accidentally hex you or-”
“NYET, America! I was born a girl and that is what I am.” She let out a sniff, tears gathering in her eyes. She knew the rejection was coming. “That is why I left! I knew you would hate me. You prefer men, and as a girl I am plain and too tall, and I am fat with a big nose and I do not look good in dresses-”
All of a sudden the rest of her words were stopped up by a pair of warm, chapped lips slotted against her own, and a hand sliding and massaging against the breast they were resting on.
Oh, she thought, her eyes slowly closing as she tilted back onto the couch, America straddling her. This was unexpected.
She blinked her eyes open in disappointment as a flushed and grinning America pulled back. “Fuck yeah, I knew I wasn’t gay!” He paused, frowning briefly. “Not that there is anything wrong with it. But damn, having a sexual identity crisis during a Civil War just sucks.”
Russia stared up at America as he started going off on a tangent about how he was perfectly attracted to ladies and do you know how messed up he felt over everything for years trying to figure stuff out, and truly she tuned him out as everything sunk in.
She started smiling. “Alfred, dorogoy!” He hands clapped to the sides of his faces, her heart melting just a bit at his open expression and the fact that he still loved her (and his heart stuttering to a stop at seeing her smile, a real smile wide and full-blown). “I love you.”
He beamed down at her, her sun in her hands. “I love you too, Vanya.”
And she decided that that was the best name of all.
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One month later they had their first anniversary, which just happened to coincide with a World Meeting. Ivana walked into a room with nineteen other people, wearing the first bra and skirt that she had ever worn. It was a simple outfit, picked out by France and Ukraine after a day of shopping together. A yellow turtleneck the color of her favorite flower and the hair of her favorite person (which also went well with her white scarf), and a black pencil skirt with flats and a swagger.
She wasn’t sure what was better- the complete look of shock and horror from nearly every countries’ face upon the realization that she was a she, the proud smile and thumbs up that France gave her as he announced that he nailed that, or the way America had beamed at her with a look of absolute devotion after he and England had pummeled France to the ground and she gave Alfred a bouquet of 11 red roses.
Oh, who was she kidding? The best part was easy to choose. It was when Belarus fell from the ceiling in shock, and then turned to Lithuania demanding to get married. Apparently Belarus only had a big brother complex, and thus needed to fill the void quickly.
“Hey Vanya,” Alfred whispered to her before he took his seat. She noticed he was blushing. “Um… tonight, would it be ok if you, ya know, stayed over?“
She felt her grin nearly split her face in two. Bless France and his means of inspiring jealousy. “I thought you wanted to wait until marriage, America?” She cooed teasingly.
She decided she loved how America struck a heroic pose when embarrassed, as he still tried to keep up appearances despite her knowing him better. It was too cute. “Well, that was kinda my puritan roots talkin’, you know? And I figured it’s only right for a hero and his lady-” He paused at her dark look, before picking it up as if he hadn’t stopped at all. “-Eading, leading partner and Wonderwoman to his Superman, to give some sort of commitment. So I want to make things perfect. But anyway, we’ve been dating a month and I figured that we can’t really get married unless our bosses merge our nations, so-”
She kissed him on his forehead. “Da, and the ring you gave me yesterday while proposing at the airport had the explanation with it.” She chuckled, remembering how cute the wildly proposing America was, and how he stuttered out how they couldn’t really get married but he would do as much as he could about it, and how he knew it was soon but they have loved each other forever, until she had kissed him and put on the ring herself to shut him up. “I would love to, Alfred.”
He grinned widely, before blushing again and shifting his weight from foot to foot. “Um..and, well, can you wear your World War Two jacket tonight? I always thought you looked sexy as hell in it.”
Ah yes, she thought as she gave a coquettish giggle and nodded, life was good.
Especially since her boyfriend loved her always, with or without this wire travesty one called a ‘bra’.
Perhaps some languid summer day,
When drowsy birds sing less and less,
And golden fruit is ripening to excess,
If there’s not too much sun nor too much cloud,
And the warm wind is neither still not loud,
Perhaps my secret I may say,
Or you may guess.
-Christina Rossetti, Winter: My Secret
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Mon Cher- My love
Mon Chouchou- My lovely blue-eyed boy. The loathing might be directed at her, at Alfred for her loving him, or France himself.
Belle- Beautiful
America screaming out how they hated him: After the revolution took place in Russia and Lenin took over, well, they didn't really like America too much. I figured America would be hurt and not really thinking calmly at this point.
France knowing what being on 'that side of things' felt like: Being in love with someone one the other side of a hella long war cannot be fun. Whether it's a cold one, or a hundred year one.
11 flowers, no even numbers! : In Russia, you always make sure you give a odd number of flowers in a bouquet to your loved one, as they represent celebratory occasions. Even numbers are for things like funerals.
Russia was rather obsessed with French culture for a time, like every culture tends to be. For awhile the Russian nobility had all french tutors and spoke predominantly in french.