[fic] Priyatnogo Appetita!
TITLE: Priyatnogo Appetita!
AUTHOR: harusamemosuke
RECIPIENT:erueru_2d
CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: Russia/America
RATING: G
NOTES : OTL I am so sorry this is late. Seriously. Work sucks. This fill was going to be a whole lot better.
SUMMARY: It's a special day, circled in red. A special day requires a special meal.
It starts out small. A note on the calendar, an anniversary in fact - nothing big. No treaties or war declarations or invasions. Just a day circled in red, when two people decided, hey, I kinda like you, Hey, I kinda like you back (liked you back before everything went south/loved you before your world went crazy). It's not to say there have not been ups and downs over the years; fights, and objects being thrown, and silences (that oddly enough, never last more than a month; then it's on the phone - hey, how you been, just wanted to know how you were doing).
It's enough to warrant the circle, enough to make Russia feel warm inside, to hum a little as he goes about his day.
Two weeks and counting until the circled date. Two weeks until America comes to visit. Until they celebrate a milestone in their relationship with each other.
Perhaps I shall take him to dinner, Russia muses over lunch. Somewhere nice - America in a nice suit that accentuates his frame. Champagne. Good vodka. ("Why sir", he can hear Alfred say, in that Texas drawl, "I do believe you are trying to get me drunk") Steak (because he knows America appreciates a good one). Flowers, if he can get away with it.
Imagines America in candlelight, and sighs.
Still, he cannot help but feel, somehow, that it is not enough. Dinner and flowers and good alcohol, perhaps a gift?
What should I give him? He wonders aloud to his sister. They are talking, tentatively. She is happy for him, happy that her brother and America no longer stand poised to destroy each other.
Happy that her brother is in love. "What does he like?"
"Gadgets. Airplanes. Rockets. Perhaps I should offer to give him a ride on one of my shuttles?" Ukraine thinks hard, brows furrowing together.
"What about cooking something for him? I know that dear brother and sister love the bread that I give them"
Russia hums. "Mine? But that is nothing special."
Ukraine pauses, then claps her hands together. "How about his?"
___
It is simple to decide, but the execution, it turns out, is tricky.
What does America like to eat?
He rules out hamburgers immediately. Hotdogs follow soon after. It's embarrassing enough having a McDonald's in Red Square, he is not about to have them in his home. (At least, not without some serious persuasion.)
What does America like to eat? He googles and gets contradictory answers, though the entries about "Thanksgiving" seem promising. It is not the season for turkey, however, and he has no idea what "succotash" is.
Perhaps some intelligence-gathering is needed. He debates calling England, but decides things are tense enough between them - no need to remind him yet again of his relationship with America.
He winds up calling Canada.
____
Two days later, he is hunched over notes, arranging a hunk of chuck roast in a pot, covered with canned onion soup. Into the oven it goes, and then he is on to chopping carrots and potatoes, before setting them aside.
His cellphone vibrates across the counter. He picks it up absently and flips it open.
"Privyet."
"Hey, Russia!"
It is funny how even now his heart skips a beat hearing America's voice. He presses his hand against his chest to keep it from falling into the bowl of vegetables.
"Amerika. How are you?"
"Just dandy, thanks! Yourself?"
Russia glances around his kitchen. "I am well. Busy, but well."
"Umm hmmm… busy doing what?"
Russia chuckles. "Busy doing secret things."
"Secret things? Is this something I should be worried about? Do I need to alert the CIA?" The sincerity and concern in America's voice is marred by the undercurrent of laughter crackling over the phone line.
"Your CIA is so incompetent they cannot find the noses on their faces," Russia says with especial fondness.
"Hey now," America pouts, "don't go dissing my intelligence agency!"
Russia laughs while listening to America's grumbling on the other end.
"All right, all right, laugh all you want."
He quiets himself, reaches out to snag a carrot and takes a bite, nibbling away like a rabbit.
"Not that I do not enjoy hearing your voice, but may I ask why you are calling me?"
"I can't call to just talk if I want to?" America feigns hurt. "Well, fine. Just wanted to let you know my flight info and all, since it's not really an 'official' visit."
"Very well. Let me find a pencil."
They discuss America's flight (the information winds up written in the margin of Russia's notes) and then the conversation wanders from topic to topic, until they are discussing rockets and Russia realizes two hours have gone by.
He hurriedly opens the oven and dumps the potatoes and carrots into the pot, the bowl making a clanging sound against the oven door.
"What's that?" America asks, interrupted in midflow.
"Nothing," Russia grunts. "Just making dinner."
"Ah really? Oh man, I'm looking forward to meals at your house! I mean, I love Mickey D's and everything, but your food is something else, ya know?"
Warmth blooms again in Russia's chest. "I am glad you think so."
Someone is speaking to America; he can hear it through the phone. America replies. then speaks to him. "Hey, listen, I have to go. I'll see you soon, okay?"
Russia sighs. "If you must. I shall be at the airport to pick you up."
"Okay. That would be awesome. Can't wait to see you."
"Same to you, dorogoi."
They hang up.
_____
Russia has a bit of time to wait. He sets the timer, then goes through some paper work on the kitchen table. One hour passes. He gets up, checks the oven.
Hmm… not quite done. He pokes the meat and realizes the carrots are still much too firm. Perhaps another hour?
He goes back to his paper work.
One hour. The meat looks undercooked.
Two hours. The potatoes are still much too firm. Canada said they should be easy to cut through.
Three hours. The roast is still raw in the middle.
Four hours. This is getting ridiculous. Russia finally pulls the pot out and stares at it. The outside is overcooked, the inside still raw. He tries some, and it tastes exactly like underdone meat.
He calls Canada again.
"Mmm… what's up Russia? Did you try the recipe I gave you?"
"Privyet, Kanada. Yes, I have. I believe I have made a mistake, however."
He presents the problem to his partner in crime. Canada chuckles over the phone. "I think I know what went wrong here. Don't worry, it's an easy mistake to make."
Russia pokes the roast again.
"What was it?"
"It's my fault really, don't think I told you about this part. You need to cover the whole thing in tin foil so it cooks properly."
"I see. And if I do that, it will not be underdone?"
"It shouldn't be."
"Thank you, Kanada. I appreciate your help."
"Not a problem. Good luck, eh?"
_____
Despite Canada's reassurance, Russia is nervous the day of America's flight. He rushes through the house, cleaning and fussing over minor details. He has another roast, all ready to go, as well as a peach pie (which America professes to like just as much as apple). He double checks the tinfoil on the pot, just to be sure.
Finally, there is nothing more to be done and it is time to pick up America.
He waits in the baggage claim.
"Russia!" He is engulfed in a bear hug which he happily returns, burying his face in America's hair.
"I am glad to see you made it safely."
America beams up at him tiredly. "As if anything would happen on the way over. Well, I could've been abducted by aliens, but that would've been kinda awesome, but also not because then I wouldn't be here, so it all works out."
Russia just hugs him again, glad that any aliens wanting to abduct America had held off.
Baggage is soon collected, and he manages to get America to his car. The blonde dozes on the way home, leaning against the car door and snoring quietly. They pull up his driveway to his home, and he shuts the car off, nudging his passenger.
"Pickles…. nooo… England, make the scary lights go 'waaaay…"
Russia takes a moment to laugh into his hand before nudging America again.
"Dorogoi, we are here."
America gets up drowsily to the tune of his stomach growling. He's guided inside with promises that he can lie down on the couch until dinner. And stops short.
"Whazzat?" He wrinkles his nose at the smell in the air.
Russia comes up behind him with his luggage. "Hmm?" He takes a sniff, himself. "Dinner seems to be almost ready."
"Dinner? Whaddya make?" America follows the elder nation into the kitchen. He plops himself down at the table and watches him pull out the pot from the oven. "Smells familiar. Have I had this before?"
Russia lifts back the tinfoil and sighs in relief. "I should hope so," he mumbles absently, going to open the fridge. "Otherwise, this will be all for naught."
He comes back with water, then goes to fetch plates and silverware. He makes America close his eyes, then brings the pot over, setting it on the table and removing the tinfoil entirely. "You will have to tell me what you think," he says shyly. "This is only my second attempt, but I hope you like it."
America opens his eyes and looks down. And stares. "You made pot roast?"
"Do you not like it?" Russia asks, suddenly nervous.
"No, no, it's just…" he continues to stare, with a funny sort of smile on his face. "I… I haven't had this in ages. It looks delicious, Russia." He looks up, still with that strange look in his eyes. "Thank you."
Russia blushes. "Do not thank me yet. You have yet to try some. Here." He beckons for America's plate and serves him a generous portion. He then serves himself and looks to America, anxious to see what he thinks of it.
America, never one to do anything by halves, loads his fork with meat, potato, and carrot and slips it into his mouth. He closes his eyes and chews. Then he relaxes and hums happily. "This is incredible! I can't believe you made this for me!" He goes to eat more, stuffing it happily into his mouth.
Russia sighs in relief, and takes a bite himself. It tastes different, but not bad. Warm and filling, the kind of food that sticks to your ribs.
He looks to America, gasping in contentment, and smiles.
____
After dinner comes dessert ("Peach pie! This is awesome!"). And then he and America clean up (America insists on helping, sneaking bits of pot roast when he thinks Russia isn't looking) until Russia shoos him out and finishes.
America is lying on the couch, groaning contentedly when Russia joins him, immediately sliding over to make room, before pressing himself into the elder nation's side.
"That," he declares, "was good."
Russia hums as he settles an arm around America's shoulders. "I am glad you liked it."
"I loved it. Thank you." America presses a kiss to Russia's check, then leans down against his shoulder. He sighs sleepily. " 's the best meal ever."
Russia presses a kiss to America's hair. "Happy Anniversary, America."
"hmm… same to you, big guy. Your gift's in the bag, here, lemme get it…" America struggles to sit up, then flops back against Russia, trying to stay awake.
Russia strokes his hair. "Do not worry about it, dorogoi. Rest. It will be there when you wake up."
"Mmm… okay." America finally succumbs to slumber.
Russia simply continues to stroke his hair as he sleeps.
_____
Notes: Yankee Pot Roast is the name of the dish. It's fairly simple, and a pretty staple food for winter for Americans. It can be cooked in the oven, or in a crockpot. (as a side note, the tin foil is important. My mother and I made the mistake of forgetting it, and the roast did not cook properly.)
Succotash is a New England dish involving beans and veggies all cooked together. It was a Native American dish, originally.
Dorogoi: If I have this right, it's essentially "darling" in Russian.
I hope you enjoy it just as much as I did writing it! :D
AUTHOR: harusamemosuke
RECIPIENT:erueru_2d
CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: Russia/America
RATING: G
NOTES : OTL I am so sorry this is late. Seriously. Work sucks. This fill was going to be a whole lot better.
SUMMARY: It's a special day, circled in red. A special day requires a special meal.
It starts out small. A note on the calendar, an anniversary in fact - nothing big. No treaties or war declarations or invasions. Just a day circled in red, when two people decided, hey, I kinda like you, Hey, I kinda like you back (liked you back before everything went south/loved you before your world went crazy). It's not to say there have not been ups and downs over the years; fights, and objects being thrown, and silences (that oddly enough, never last more than a month; then it's on the phone - hey, how you been, just wanted to know how you were doing).
It's enough to warrant the circle, enough to make Russia feel warm inside, to hum a little as he goes about his day.
Two weeks and counting until the circled date. Two weeks until America comes to visit. Until they celebrate a milestone in their relationship with each other.
Perhaps I shall take him to dinner, Russia muses over lunch. Somewhere nice - America in a nice suit that accentuates his frame. Champagne. Good vodka. ("Why sir", he can hear Alfred say, in that Texas drawl, "I do believe you are trying to get me drunk") Steak (because he knows America appreciates a good one). Flowers, if he can get away with it.
Imagines America in candlelight, and sighs.
Still, he cannot help but feel, somehow, that it is not enough. Dinner and flowers and good alcohol, perhaps a gift?
What should I give him? He wonders aloud to his sister. They are talking, tentatively. She is happy for him, happy that her brother and America no longer stand poised to destroy each other.
Happy that her brother is in love. "What does he like?"
"Gadgets. Airplanes. Rockets. Perhaps I should offer to give him a ride on one of my shuttles?" Ukraine thinks hard, brows furrowing together.
"What about cooking something for him? I know that dear brother and sister love the bread that I give them"
Russia hums. "Mine? But that is nothing special."
Ukraine pauses, then claps her hands together. "How about his?"
___
It is simple to decide, but the execution, it turns out, is tricky.
What does America like to eat?
He rules out hamburgers immediately. Hotdogs follow soon after. It's embarrassing enough having a McDonald's in Red Square, he is not about to have them in his home. (At least, not without some serious persuasion.)
What does America like to eat? He googles and gets contradictory answers, though the entries about "Thanksgiving" seem promising. It is not the season for turkey, however, and he has no idea what "succotash" is.
Perhaps some intelligence-gathering is needed. He debates calling England, but decides things are tense enough between them - no need to remind him yet again of his relationship with America.
He winds up calling Canada.
____
Two days later, he is hunched over notes, arranging a hunk of chuck roast in a pot, covered with canned onion soup. Into the oven it goes, and then he is on to chopping carrots and potatoes, before setting them aside.
His cellphone vibrates across the counter. He picks it up absently and flips it open.
"Privyet."
"Hey, Russia!"
It is funny how even now his heart skips a beat hearing America's voice. He presses his hand against his chest to keep it from falling into the bowl of vegetables.
"Amerika. How are you?"
"Just dandy, thanks! Yourself?"
Russia glances around his kitchen. "I am well. Busy, but well."
"Umm hmmm… busy doing what?"
Russia chuckles. "Busy doing secret things."
"Secret things? Is this something I should be worried about? Do I need to alert the CIA?" The sincerity and concern in America's voice is marred by the undercurrent of laughter crackling over the phone line.
"Your CIA is so incompetent they cannot find the noses on their faces," Russia says with especial fondness.
"Hey now," America pouts, "don't go dissing my intelligence agency!"
Russia laughs while listening to America's grumbling on the other end.
"All right, all right, laugh all you want."
He quiets himself, reaches out to snag a carrot and takes a bite, nibbling away like a rabbit.
"Not that I do not enjoy hearing your voice, but may I ask why you are calling me?"
"I can't call to just talk if I want to?" America feigns hurt. "Well, fine. Just wanted to let you know my flight info and all, since it's not really an 'official' visit."
"Very well. Let me find a pencil."
They discuss America's flight (the information winds up written in the margin of Russia's notes) and then the conversation wanders from topic to topic, until they are discussing rockets and Russia realizes two hours have gone by.
He hurriedly opens the oven and dumps the potatoes and carrots into the pot, the bowl making a clanging sound against the oven door.
"What's that?" America asks, interrupted in midflow.
"Nothing," Russia grunts. "Just making dinner."
"Ah really? Oh man, I'm looking forward to meals at your house! I mean, I love Mickey D's and everything, but your food is something else, ya know?"
Warmth blooms again in Russia's chest. "I am glad you think so."
Someone is speaking to America; he can hear it through the phone. America replies. then speaks to him. "Hey, listen, I have to go. I'll see you soon, okay?"
Russia sighs. "If you must. I shall be at the airport to pick you up."
"Okay. That would be awesome. Can't wait to see you."
"Same to you, dorogoi."
They hang up.
_____
Russia has a bit of time to wait. He sets the timer, then goes through some paper work on the kitchen table. One hour passes. He gets up, checks the oven.
Hmm… not quite done. He pokes the meat and realizes the carrots are still much too firm. Perhaps another hour?
He goes back to his paper work.
One hour. The meat looks undercooked.
Two hours. The potatoes are still much too firm. Canada said they should be easy to cut through.
Three hours. The roast is still raw in the middle.
Four hours. This is getting ridiculous. Russia finally pulls the pot out and stares at it. The outside is overcooked, the inside still raw. He tries some, and it tastes exactly like underdone meat.
He calls Canada again.
"Mmm… what's up Russia? Did you try the recipe I gave you?"
"Privyet, Kanada. Yes, I have. I believe I have made a mistake, however."
He presents the problem to his partner in crime. Canada chuckles over the phone. "I think I know what went wrong here. Don't worry, it's an easy mistake to make."
Russia pokes the roast again.
"What was it?"
"It's my fault really, don't think I told you about this part. You need to cover the whole thing in tin foil so it cooks properly."
"I see. And if I do that, it will not be underdone?"
"It shouldn't be."
"Thank you, Kanada. I appreciate your help."
"Not a problem. Good luck, eh?"
_____
Despite Canada's reassurance, Russia is nervous the day of America's flight. He rushes through the house, cleaning and fussing over minor details. He has another roast, all ready to go, as well as a peach pie (which America professes to like just as much as apple). He double checks the tinfoil on the pot, just to be sure.
Finally, there is nothing more to be done and it is time to pick up America.
He waits in the baggage claim.
"Russia!" He is engulfed in a bear hug which he happily returns, burying his face in America's hair.
"I am glad to see you made it safely."
America beams up at him tiredly. "As if anything would happen on the way over. Well, I could've been abducted by aliens, but that would've been kinda awesome, but also not because then I wouldn't be here, so it all works out."
Russia just hugs him again, glad that any aliens wanting to abduct America had held off.
Baggage is soon collected, and he manages to get America to his car. The blonde dozes on the way home, leaning against the car door and snoring quietly. They pull up his driveway to his home, and he shuts the car off, nudging his passenger.
"Pickles…. nooo… England, make the scary lights go 'waaaay…"
Russia takes a moment to laugh into his hand before nudging America again.
"Dorogoi, we are here."
America gets up drowsily to the tune of his stomach growling. He's guided inside with promises that he can lie down on the couch until dinner. And stops short.
"Whazzat?" He wrinkles his nose at the smell in the air.
Russia comes up behind him with his luggage. "Hmm?" He takes a sniff, himself. "Dinner seems to be almost ready."
"Dinner? Whaddya make?" America follows the elder nation into the kitchen. He plops himself down at the table and watches him pull out the pot from the oven. "Smells familiar. Have I had this before?"
Russia lifts back the tinfoil and sighs in relief. "I should hope so," he mumbles absently, going to open the fridge. "Otherwise, this will be all for naught."
He comes back with water, then goes to fetch plates and silverware. He makes America close his eyes, then brings the pot over, setting it on the table and removing the tinfoil entirely. "You will have to tell me what you think," he says shyly. "This is only my second attempt, but I hope you like it."
America opens his eyes and looks down. And stares. "You made pot roast?"
"Do you not like it?" Russia asks, suddenly nervous.
"No, no, it's just…" he continues to stare, with a funny sort of smile on his face. "I… I haven't had this in ages. It looks delicious, Russia." He looks up, still with that strange look in his eyes. "Thank you."
Russia blushes. "Do not thank me yet. You have yet to try some. Here." He beckons for America's plate and serves him a generous portion. He then serves himself and looks to America, anxious to see what he thinks of it.
America, never one to do anything by halves, loads his fork with meat, potato, and carrot and slips it into his mouth. He closes his eyes and chews. Then he relaxes and hums happily. "This is incredible! I can't believe you made this for me!" He goes to eat more, stuffing it happily into his mouth.
Russia sighs in relief, and takes a bite himself. It tastes different, but not bad. Warm and filling, the kind of food that sticks to your ribs.
He looks to America, gasping in contentment, and smiles.
____
After dinner comes dessert ("Peach pie! This is awesome!"). And then he and America clean up (America insists on helping, sneaking bits of pot roast when he thinks Russia isn't looking) until Russia shoos him out and finishes.
America is lying on the couch, groaning contentedly when Russia joins him, immediately sliding over to make room, before pressing himself into the elder nation's side.
"That," he declares, "was good."
Russia hums as he settles an arm around America's shoulders. "I am glad you liked it."
"I loved it. Thank you." America presses a kiss to Russia's check, then leans down against his shoulder. He sighs sleepily. " 's the best meal ever."
Russia presses a kiss to America's hair. "Happy Anniversary, America."
"hmm… same to you, big guy. Your gift's in the bag, here, lemme get it…" America struggles to sit up, then flops back against Russia, trying to stay awake.
Russia strokes his hair. "Do not worry about it, dorogoi. Rest. It will be there when you wake up."
"Mmm… okay." America finally succumbs to slumber.
Russia simply continues to stroke his hair as he sleeps.
_____
Notes: Yankee Pot Roast is the name of the dish. It's fairly simple, and a pretty staple food for winter for Americans. It can be cooked in the oven, or in a crockpot. (as a side note, the tin foil is important. My mother and I made the mistake of forgetting it, and the roast did not cook properly.)
Succotash is a New England dish involving beans and veggies all cooked together. It was a Native American dish, originally.
Dorogoi: If I have this right, it's essentially "darling" in Russian.
I hope you enjoy it just as much as I did writing it! :D