{Fanfiction} Nuclear Meltdowns [Part 1]
Title: Nuclear Meltdowns
Author/Artist: iota_espionage
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Russia/America
Genre: Angst/Drama
Rating/Warnings: M for Death, Gore, Violence against Animals, Language, and Sexual Content.
Summary: 1989: Pripyat, Ukraine, is a city best left forgotten, as easily abandoned in the confines of the mind as the people who left it. A place littered with deadly radiation is the last place Russia and America should be musing about their relationship, but the danger doesn't lurk in the heavily radioactive areas, but rather their own thoughts and whoever wields the biggest gun.
-:- Pripyat, Ukraine 1989 -:-
America was near-perfect in his Spanish but nothing compared to the way his tongue twisted over consonants in Texas and Tennessee - and nothing sounded more elegantly hard-hitting than the elaborate vowel formations of his New York accent. He’d mastered them all, much as England learned to speak Welsh and Cornish - which always sounded more like entrées that France would serve along with a croissant and cup of overpriced coffee (much to small for his standards.)
America thought it unfair that Russia knew English so well (along with Ukrainian, Belorussian, whatever-ian.) Tainted with the accent of his harsh dialect, he could (but obviously wouldn’t) recite Shakespeare in a way that would tweak England’s perpetually hard-lined mouth into an upwards curve, but Russia preferred Dostoyevsky and Prokofiev - who might actually be a composer or a painter, but every Russian name sounded the same to him.
He hadn't learned a word of Russian - spare the obligatory "hello", "goodbye", "thank you", and “please" - everything he'd heard Russia incorporate into his perfect English (leaving America wondering if it was England's English or America's English he spoke... because it mattered!) - and the curse words he'd translated a late one evening... although he'd forgotten them already, but he knew that one started with that letter that looked like a 3. He felt a sense of undercover satisfaction when he added another language to his list of "ways to say 'fuck'."
America scribbled Russian phrases on his palm with the intent of impressing Russia, but his nervousness had other plans. Sweaty palms smeared the blue penmanship into an even more incomprehensible hieroglyph that would make him trip and stumble over letters that should never be in succession to each other in the first place (Honestly, how many English words had v and d right next to each other?! What kind of sound is 'vd' anyway?)
And translators couldn't be trusted. It was one of the few times when "I love your eyes" turned into, according to Russia, "I love your fish." America didn't even like fish, and he recalled sharing a steak dinner with Russia that evening. (Still, America smiled because he got Russia to laugh. It was nice to see things winding down.)
But even now America wished he could look over at his clammy palms and try to decipher the blue ink that now looked suspiciously crimson. He could see blue silhouettes formulating in the crimson puddles like a witches' brew.
He wanted to curse in Russian because 'fuck' just didn't characterize the beads of red rising to the surface like Old Faithful. They collected in pools and ran through the canals that were the grooves on America's palm.
Russia's pinprick pupils drew the backwards Rs and the letter that reminded America of a fish, and pale chapped (perfect) lips drawled out the noiseless whispers America couldn't understand. He found his eyes watching the elaborate flips and curls of Russia's strawberry-colored tongue, and he shuddered at the implications of tangling their muscles together.
Tension never tasted so sweet. The caramel aftertaste of America's promise of victory, tainted with the roots of a collapsing empire.
America could feel every word brush over his restless, wordless tongue like the ghost of a passionate kiss he based solely off of the memory of their last encounter. He contrasted every vowel with a movement American hid behind sealed lips. His tongue dragged across the roof of his mouth with the sound of Russia's harshly formed L as if that consonant was in his mouth and not in Russia’s.
The bitter taste of his own blood caught in the corners of his lips stung like alcohol; a vinegary vodka that America couldn't stand, but one that, when resting on every taste bud in Russia's mouth, made it sweet, curdling - addicting. He couldn't find that brand (that brand of Russian alcohol that made the foolishness of shoving his tongue down the neck of a cheap bottle of Vodka worth it) anywhere in the liquor stores. Smirnoff maybe, but this brand was unique, mixed with the acrimony of centuries of distraught, and strong enough to get him addicted on the initial taste. It burned like swallowing a flaming candle, but the frosty contours of permanently chapped lips hissed against America's curious tongue like dripping icy water on a searing frying pan.
“America!”
A hand lashed out and clasped onto the back of his vest. America felt his stomach hit the wall of abdomen and his ass hit the dirt. He blinked blearily up at the monochrome sky before an equally monochrome figure eclipsed his vision. America’s eyes transfixed instead on the purple irises and not the ashy hair that harmonized with the backdrop. Madness swirled in them, magnetized by the contrast of the neutral skies; smoke swirled in wispy threads and mingled in his platinum hair. Russia cradled a cigarette on his bottom lip. Ashes fluttered down from the blistering tip like leaves in autumn and perched on the left frame of America’s glasses.
America decided centuries ago that Russia was twisted and demonic, and yet he found himself lying awake and wondering what plagued Russia's dreams; was it the tormenting nightmares of his past, or perhaps the memoirs of his bloodstained victories, and then there was the possibility that his dreams were of a future that could only be called "heaven" in the mind of the collapsing Soviet Union.
Or...
Did Russia even dream? Nations dreamed - American knew that after his countless dreams of standing on the banks of Elis Island and gazing at the Statue of Liberty, wondering if her arm ever tired from having to carry the same burdens that made America's back ache; he was envious of her strong, straight spine because... because his arm had been aching for carrying that same torch before she was even commissioned.
“America,” Russia repeated. More ashes trembled from the end of his cigarette. “You almost walked straight into a radioactive zone.”
America writhed in the prickly grasses to jar a thorn just left of his spine. Russia moved away and revealed what America presumed to be the sun because looking skyward caused strain, but it was difficult to tell where the sun was with the cloud cover. Something metallic bore against the small of his back, which upon further physical examination turned up as the muzzle of his RPD. America’s palm brushed against the polished wood handle, fingers framed the metal trigger, and he held it in an amateur manner because the gun was Russian. It felt heavier than American rifles, the ammunition chamber seemed awkwardly placed, and most importantly - it wasn’t American. The burden of the USSR burned scars into his palms, capitalism and communism clashing in the tiny plane between metal, woodwork, and skin.
He had a berretta snug against his hip, but Russia only laughed at the sight of it, as if there was something more to fear than a whatever radioactive creatures inhabited the ghostly city. Although second thoughts brought disturbing pictures of glowing, two-headed rabbits, America was firm in the belief of his berretta, because, when faced with something two-headed that desired the taste of his flesh, America would thrust the Ruchnoy Pulemyot Degtyaryova into the dirt, tear his berretta from his holster (Russia's terrified howl piercing the afternoon air) and-
“Are you getting up anytime soon?” Russia’s fingers curled around the chamber of his Dragunov and he pretended to readjust his scope. A knot of frustration tightened between his stomach and his diaphragm.
“Y-yeah, sorry…” America rocked onto his tailbone and shifted his weight to his right thigh. He drew his left knee to his chest and focused his strength on it enough to get to his feet. He supported the lightweight rifle against his hip and let the metal muzzle slide into the crook of his arm.
“Your hand is bleeding.” Russia observed as the blonde nation withdrew his hand from the barrel of his gun. America’s eyes glanced downwards to the crimson smears coating the carpentry then to his own hand in mock surprise.
He swore it was Russia who-
“Look at this place,” Russia craned his neck towards the mouth of a building whose front entrance had shattered. The windows were nothing but hollow punctures without a trace of glass in its frame. The paint, which America assumed to be formerly white but which Russia’s memories could confirm, matched Russia’s hair and Ukraine’s skies; Ukraine’s skies weren’t blue like Montana’s. Europeans perpetually stained the azure skies hoary with their centuries of war and disasters worse than these. Even Pearl Harbor still boasted skies of cobalt. “Fifty-thousand people used to live here; now it’s a ghost town.”
America could do nothing but hum in agreement, as his teeth were chattering too much to spout intelligible speech. Cities like this only existed in the Old West when miners would exhaust the mountain of gold, and even so in the horror stories he’d read in The Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew. America had heard Russian nursery rhymes before, so by correlation it only made sense for his ghost towns to be more frightening.
In Russia’s case it was poles apart. His eyes stained the city with colors of the lively faces of husbands returning from work at the plant, children with their thumbs in their mouths and one hand wrapped around their mother’s pinky fingers. Red balloons gently tugged at their bony wrists and Ukraine’s people would watch the construction workers bestow life in the canary yellow Ferris wheel. Russia’s polished boots crunched over crabgrass, Ukrainian children gathered at the nation’s feet with hands like butterfly nets clenching and unclenching at the glossy medals pinned to his uniform. A boy with wheat blonde hair as fair as Ukraine’s who proudly puffed up his chest when Russia adorned him with his infantry cap. He remembered seeing Ukraine’s forced smile that day and just how thin she looked… she hugged her baby brother, but he could feel her fingernails clawing at his back.
“There’s the ferris wheel!” If it weren’t for the rib-high elbow Russia felt, he would have come to conclude that America was the wheat-haired child wearing his infantry cap. America’s finger rocketed skyward towards the amusement park attraction peering over the building like a setting sun, as it appeared to fall behind the horizon that was the roof of a deteriorating structure. To America’s eyes it was relief to see something with even a hint of color after hours of trudging over tarnished grass, past pale structures, and staring at skies that should make his irises turn green with envy. The North American nation kept his eyes locked firmly forwards, down - anywhere but up in fear that if he looked at the sky for too long, its avarice would rob him of the pigment and shower Moscow and Kiev with cerulean. It would snow in New Orleans and Russia wouldn’t have to wear such heavy clothes in autumn…
America’s eyes fixed on the bulletproof vest gilding Russia’s back. Beige wasn’t a selfish color like gray or black. America could feel his body being starved of color as his feet seemed to pulverize grass that sublimates from a solid to the dusty air around him. He tried to think of Andy Warhol paintings and MTV, but everything flickered back to the days of black and white television when he was watching the film of Little Boy’s devastation on Hiroshima - did reactor four produce a mushroom cloud too?
Did Ukraine have a scar as ghastly as Japan’s?
The nations’ boots echoed across the chipped ceramic tiles on the floor and on the walls. Ahead was an office with missing windows, and openings to two hallways in the direction of America’s shoulders. Russia snorted and took a left, much to America’s sudden pang of fear in that taking the wrong path would result in falling into a pit of toxic waste (either that, or there was a possibility that they were walking into the girls’ showers.)
He followed closer behind Russia than he’d care to admit and let his eyes wander over matching tile benches and rusted showerheads where people only three years prior would change out of their clothing and into their swim trunks, as the end of this hallway (hopefully) led to a swimming pool. He would never admit to the sigh of relief when the optimistic side of him proved trustworthy.
Dusty windows that deviated from its counterparts only parallels away coated the wall opposite of where the winding way spilled into the large open atrium-looking room. The waterless pool matched the scheme of the tiled entrance and the tiled hallways. Foundations creaked, carried on the wind by the abandoned acoustics that, if one were to start singing America the Beautiful (Gimn Sovyetskogo Soyuza, spasiba), would reverberate for minutes more after ‘from sea to shining sea.’
He’d been walking so closely to Russia with a distracted eye that he nearly yelped the moment their frames came in contact. Russia stood still enough to make the Venus de Milo look animated. His lavender gaze peered through the scope of his Dragunov and America was tempted to tilt right a little more to see the magnification of those eyes he brazenly adored, even if he risked being sniped from point-blank. He imagined seeing an amused sneer on Russia’s face when he “accidentally” pulled the trigger and fired a bullet into America’s temple. America imagined his body, like a mangled rag doll, falling into the arid swimming pool for the stray dogs to feast on. He imagined Russia’s cherry tongue running along the frame of the glasses that had clattered to the floor to clean it of his liquid crimson remains and-
BANG.
America ricocheted out of his fantasies just in time to see Russia heave the Dragunov back to his hip. America followed the supposed line of the bullet to find a motionless patch of black and brown fur pressed up against the monochrome tile walls and ohgod that red wasn’t rust.
“Stray dog.” the taller nation explained as he clicked his safety back on. America didn’t double-check to confirm that Russia wasn’t lying. Since the helicopter delivered the two of them to the city, America had seen at least a dozen different breeds of canine digging through old apartment complexes for a way to cure their protruding ribs. America noticed the same sculptor carving at Russia's torso; he seemed skinnier every time they met. He didn't want to think about how shallow Russia's breathing was or how he'd wince when he shifted his weight to his right leg.
Guess Russia wouldn't have to worry about being protected from two-headed, radioactive rabbits.
Russia pressed the barrel of his gun hard against the small of America’s back to urge him on. “Come on. We have a few hours until the helicopter arrives, but there is nothing left for us to investigate.” America held his hands up like he was being arrested, gun wavering in the air above him aiming at nothing, with a subtle expectation of Russia capturing his hands, replacing the mouth of his gun with his own wrists in a painful grip that would be almost worth it when the taller nation’s lips found that sweet spot on America’s neck near his throat.
When his eyes opened again he found his breathing shallow; Russia pressed on as if it was just another fluctuation in the wind. The windows rattled as America trudged after his companion with a grudge weighing down his feet like he was shackled to the wall (he won’t even begin to think about the implications of such an idea.)
“Big Sister really let herself go…” the ash-haired nation dropped the mouth of his rifle toward the grass and wandered en route to the giant round magnum opus of collapsing metal. There’s your Andy Warhol, America.
Ukraine used to be incredibly proud of this city; she’d invited her little brother to ride this Ferris wheel during its construction… when he wasn’t discussing nuclear disarmament with the very nation standing behind him. He could taste that miniscule sneer tweaking the corner of America’s left eye because he was winning, he was winning, that’s why he came - just to mock him, to keep an eye on Russia so he wouldn’t make off with these impartial nuclear devices. It was his duty as a “Hero,” was it not? To rid the world of villains, and Russia so perfectly fit the role.
He’d caught glimpses of the look in America’s eyes when he strode into a room with Latvia, Lithuania, Poland, Estonia, and his sisters at his heels: the look of mythological timeframes concerning fastening Russia to the wall with paralleled hips, a gilded fork with the juice of a rare steak lacing its prongs now drawing blood from three punctures in Russia’s left kidney, kissing him with a prolonging intention not to draw away even after he tastes blood mingling with the saliva under Russia’s tongue. Russia would replace cries of pain with the distracting stir of pleasure, trying hard not to think of the potential infected scar that would soon form over the bleeding tissue.
Russia had seen the scar on Ukraine’s lower-back, and toward the end of 1986, he would have terrible nightmares about seeing those scars sprout around his body. Scars from fires in Moscow left star-shaped burn marks; Invasions from Mongolians left Frankenstein scratches under his jaw line and over his Adam’s apple; Civil wars meant internal bleeding and purple bruises over the torso and shoulders. Very few nations were - ah - fortunate enough to receive the nuclear brand of scar. Japan had two: one on his lower stomach and on the skin between his third and fourth rib. The scars burned, even years after the incident. The scar was deep, red like it was conceived the day before, and charred black like looking through the empty body who bore it. America’s usually carefree appearance deviated by the silhouettes of burning homes, the smell of rotten Soviet flesh thickening the smoky air, cackling at Russia’s pitiful figure huddled up against the collapsed spiral onion dome of his cathedral. The jade and yellow colors bleeding from the palette into a uniform ash white… just like his hair.
This city was the very real image of what could've happened to St. Petersburg or Moscow... Russia shook his head to clear his mind of the haunting images.
His head was pounding rhythmically like the footsteps of a thousand soldiers. His heartbeat could only compare. In full view of the ferris wheel, especially one that had the leeway to collapse atop of them, Russia felt the lump in his throat double in size. The encrusted windows of the pool foyer rattled in the wind to their right, an apartment complex obstructed the city to their left, and the paved parking lot cracked, fractured, and splintered under nature’s retaliation. Colorless pavement split into plate tectonics under the forces of rising crab grass - it was just a wonder that something could still grow here. America could practically see the radiation gushing up like water in a compressed sponge when he stepped onto softened-by-summer earth. Yellow signs with the three black inward-facing fan blades poised like guardians in front of fields with concentrated areas of radiation, and America recalled Russia having to reel him back only minutes earlier when he’d wandered too close to the forbidden territories.
Black, white, forest green - like the color scheme of the whole damn city - and powder blue cars littered the parking lot. In the ferris wheel’s shadow stood a roofed platform with bumper cars pressed against each other and the plaited metal walls just like the ones on Coney Island. America caught eye of a distinctly red one, relieved to know the color wasn’t from the ruptured flesh of a stray German shepherd.
America rubbed his knuckles in a circular motion against a dusted driver’s side window and peered through the glass. The leather interior matched the pavement of the lot it sat on, the back seat was littered with glass shards from the rear window and a bird’s nest sat between the radio and the stick shift. He saw the reflection Russia’s silhouette approaching from behind in the side view mirror (objects in the mirror are closer than they appear) and felt the muzzle of Russia’s Dragunov embed against the pressure point right at the axis of his vertebra.
To his relief Russia removed the rifle and braced it over his shoulder. The taller nation felt the cool polished wood brush against the shell of his ear as he tilted his head and scrutinized America with a reproaching raise of his eyebrow. The look read ‘stop fooling around’ but America was still stuck on the fact that Russia keeps prodding him with his loaded gun. “Hey, Russia, would you ju-”
“-We can wait in one of the ferris wheel carts until the helicopter comes to retrieve us. I’ll have a nice sniping position from up there.” Way to change the subject you bastard Commie.
“Yeah, sure, let’s get into the damn radioactive ferris whe-wait, sniping what? Are you on a hunting expedition or something? There are more humane ways to put down a dog, you know.”
“If there was no apparent danger here, then why would I bring a gun?”
“I don’t know.” Maybe to take me out and toss my corpse into a radioactive zone?
Russia pushed the gun harder against the American's back and clicked the safety off. With a tone that verbally laced itself with his trademark sweet smile - when he wanted something he couldn’t have - he leaned in behind America and sought out his ear with his lips. Lean closer…
“Get your ass in that cart, America… or I will shoot this bullet through your pretty little stomach and you’ll again have to see the hamburger you wolfed down last night.”
His throat was dry. His tongue clicked against the roof of his mouth, wet the spot on his lip where it split the day before, and tried to generate noises that wouldn’t be sexually acceptable. “I think… I think you’re lying about the danger… the only danger here is you.” But he dare not step forward; he wanted to see how far Russia would do with this. America pushed back into the gun until the pain assured the gun leaving a red ring branded on his skin.
“Then you are fortunate that this is the case.” The only pinprick of warmth America had felt for two days drew back, taking Russia’s sodden breath with him. America bit his lip to suppress a shiver and his incisors raked at the scar symmetrically framing his bottom lip into halves.
America hadn’t the foggiest idea of the dangers in this city. A country whose CIA was as known as Area 51 jumping on the opportunity to accompany Russia on the mission when England’s SAS was only a fraction less capable than Russia’s troops. England’s green eyes rolled clockwise to white and back when America jumped on the chance.
“This mission is dangerous, you brat. There will be most-likely be officials everywhere with the orders to kill on sight.”
“I’ll be fine, sheesh. Who would want to go to a creepy radioactive ghost town like this anyway?”
[Part Two]