Yearning to Breathe Free, Part 1
What's this? A boylove fanfiction with historical footnotes? The world has gone mad! Anyways this pairing doesn't get NEARLY enough love, so I'm here to fix that. <3
Toris spent the long and dingy voyage from London trying not to hope altogether too hard. The other passengers, not only His People but also Others--Italians, Greeks, Armenians, Hungarians, Poles--they did not try to contain their hope. The mere mention of America got a smile, albeit a tired and sea-worn one, and they said, we will find work in America. We will find safety. In America we will find a home, a life. Hope.
Hope was what Toris was stepping on the toes of, what fluttered in his stomach all the way across the pitching and tempestuous Atlantic, what was pinned under his fears. Finally he was free of Russia--well, he had been for many years now, but now he left, now he needed shelter, now he was caught in the same exodus as His People--and just like them he was frightened, but while they were frightened of a new and strange world, he was frightened of a new and strange master, one who might be as cruel as the last.
He had seen Mr. Jones at the summits he'd attended at Russia's elbow--young and brash, grand and friendly, arrogant but all-encompassing, intrusive but only because he wanted in, wanted to help everyone. He was always smiling pleasantly, even when he was insulting you. But Ivan could put on a soothing face too. Snow could look soft and gentle.
Toris also spent the voyage throwing up, between his seasickness and the oppressive and haunting fears, so that when the whole of the boat surged onto the deck to get that first glimpse of the Statue of Liberty, Toris was thin and lean and pale, and got crushed between two very stocky Armenians in the process. But he saw her, the Lady Liberty, standing silent and reassuring on her pedestal, torch lifted into the heavens. It seized the hope squished in his chest and brought it up, lifted it free.
When they disembarked, Toris bade a silent farewell to His People, crowded around him as they were shunted down onto the docks. Here they would all separate and diffuse, and eventually His People would become Americans, though he hoped they would remember that they had once been his.
He was let through Customs with the papers Mr. Jones had wired him, and which he'd kept tucked in his coat until they were wet and dirty and torn. The officials directed them out and then he was on a choked and sunbaked sidewalk, in America, in his dirty coat amid the classy New Yorkers and holding his single beaten bag.
New Yorkers surged around him; disoriented and frightened, he stepped back, and then had to dodge the door of Customs when it opened. He looked around wildly, and finally saw America himself standing just up the sidewalk, waiting for him.
He was very solemnly holding up a sign with Toris's name so badly spelled on it that Toris wanted to laugh. He was dressed very snappily in a pinstriped sharp-shouldered brown-and-gold suit, dress shoes, and a fedora that didn't dampen the bright gold of his hair. He was looking very hard over his glasses at Toris, but then the blue eyes lit and a bright grin appeared on his face. He put down the sign and gestured for Toris to come over, and Toris obeyed, stomach churning.
"Damned if I didn't recognize you at first, you look so skinny," he said easily, and shook Toris's hand. "You look a lot smaller of a feller than I remember, but a good suit makes every man look big and tall."
Toris wasn't sure what to say. How did one respond in America--was this how 'hello' normally went?
"I-I hope I find you well, Mr. Jones," he stammered, tongue tripping over his English. There was a moment when he prayed his accent wasn't too thick and his pronunciation was all right--Ivan had hated it when Toris couldn't learn Russian as quickly and fluently as he wanted, took it as a sign of defiance...
But America's grin just got wider, as impossible as that seemed. "Thrivin'," he said happily, "just one thing--don't, for the love of God, call me 'mister' anything."
Oh, a mistake already... "Er," Toris mumbled, desperate to get off to a good start, "then what..."
"Alfred," the nation said promptly. "Just Alfred. We'll be living together so we may as well call each other like friends, right?"
"Y-yes," Toris said uncertainly. Ivan had done this too. I will call you Liet because we will be the best of friends, da?
"So can I call you Liet?" Alfred wheedled. "I hear Poland call you that, and Russia, so I figured it was your nickname."
Toris tried to smile back. "That will be fine, M--Alfred."
"Well all right, then," Alfred said warmly. He took Toris's bag and tossed it into the shiny red Model A Ford that was parked on the curb beside him. "The plan is to take my new Fordor down into Pennsylvania afore night falls. Then if we get up bright 'n early we can get to my place in Chicago in a day. Till then you don't do no work--we eat out, get room service. Capisce?"
Toris struggled with his slang and his accent, which seemed to keep shifting, somehow, from one kind to another.
"Yes," he said experimentally. Alfred nodded and opened the driver's side door, swinging himself up onto the leather seat.
"Hop in on the other side," he suggested. "Careful of the traffic. These New Yorkers, they'll run you over."
Toris went, and as he got up into the new car, onto the shiny leather seats, he took a breath--if he could just stay on Alfred's good side, maybe things would be okay.
----------
They drove until nightfall, when in South Pennsylvania Alfred pulled in at the first motel he saw, and booked them a room with two twin beds. He took Toris out to eat at a glowing aluminum diner, where the food was hot and greasy and came in huge portions. The cheeseburger Toris ate (Alfred ordered for him) dripped with fat, but it was thick and flavorful, and the lettuce was fresh, and the French fries were crispy and hot, and the pop fizzed all the way down his throat.
He lay awake a long time that night, his too-full stomach churning with newness and worry. Maybe Alfred was like Ivan, and would be seized with the idea to come to Toris in the middle of the night, petting and touching and then hitting and biting and--
But Alfred slept, snoring gently.
He shook Toris vigorously awake at dawn. They showered--Toris put on a crisp suit shirt and a pair of slacks that belonged to Alfred and were way too big. And then they were on their way before the sun had really risen.
Toris gazed out at the passing countryside as they drove. He even dozed off, and napped a while, waking with his face stuck to the leather seat and the Fordor stopped at a full-service station in Ohio, and Alfred was swinging back into the driver's seat with an ice-cream cone in each hand and a glass bottle of Pepsi-Cola under each arm. He gave Toris one of each and drove with one hand and the bottle held between his knees. It was hot and the air above the cornfields melted--cornfields the same color as Alfred's hair, and Toris was sleepy and the vanilla was dreadfully sweet and cold.
"You all right there?" Alfred asked, stealing glances at him. "Maybe feelin' sick from the voyage? Do nations get seasick?" He laughed easily. Toris watched Ohio melt into Indiana, and didn't notice when Indiana became Illinois, because it all looked the same. He dozed and had dreams that Ivan was waiting for him to come back, waiting, in the cold and the snow, patient and coldly furious...and that Alfred, haloed in sunlight, leaned over at 65 miles an hour and kissed Toris's forehead.
"I'm not gonna ask you to do a whole lot," Alfred told him, when he'd woken as they were gliding into the outer metropolis of Chicago, as the sky was purpling. "Just the house things. Keeping the place neat, doing the laundry, cooking--but I can get the groceries. The market's on the way home from the factory. I'd like coffee and breakfast in the mornings, and a lunch to go with me to work, and dinner when I come home. If you get done with everything, then there'll be money in the front hall you can take and do whatever you want with. Go see a show or something. Sound good?"
"Yes, sir," Toris said quietly, already worried he was going to make a mistake--moving something he wasn't supposed to, or getting the coffee wrong...
They parked on the curb outside a tall apartment building on State Street. Alfred carried both of their bags, saying with a grin, "Don't you worry. I do all the heavy lifting. Not to brag or nothing but I'm pretty strong."
The apartment was discreet, compared to its owner. It wasn't ritzy, but it was spacious and well-furnished. It was fairly easy to believe that a single upper working-class man lived here, rather than a nation. Alfred swung the bags down and handed Toris a key.
"This here's your copy. The number for the factory's by the telephone, so if you need me you can just ask for one Mr. Jones. I work 'til eight, from eight. Not bad hours." He laughed. "Your bed's through there, mine's through there, bathroom's through there. Kitchen--den--and so on."
Toris nodded shyly, peering around, mouth paralyzed by the worry that he was going to make a mistake, and then he'd have to find out what America's wrath was like. At least Ivan's rages and insanity had been familiar.
Alfred stood with his suit jacket hooked on one finger and hung over his shoulder, and looked down at Toris.
"You look sad 'n pitiful," he said blithely. "You don't like it?"
"Oh, no, it's not that," Toris stammered in answer. "I'm j-just a little n-nervous, b-but everything is so big and g-grand...I'm, I'm very lucky..." And he looked down, ashamed. "I'm--I'm very lucky to have b-been allowed to come."
"Aaw," Alfred said, beaming. He took Toris's shoulders and pulled the smaller man very gently against him, and hugged him one-armed, but even through that Toris could feel some huge and pressing and wild might in those arms, not regimented and frozen like Ivan's but barely controlled, barely restrained, the weight of the Rockies and the untamed and open wilderness. "Don't you worry 'bout a thing, Liet, you're gonna fit in just fine. Why, my whole nation's a nation of immigrants. Everyone gets along all right."
He released Toris, who stood there uncertainly. Alfred tossed his coat onto the sofa, and went toward the bathroom, undoing his tie. Then he stopped.
"Arthur told me Russia didn't treat you so nice," he said, and it took Toris a minute to remember who Arthur was. "'Sat true?"
Toris was quiet for a while. "He had his moments," he murmured finally. For the first time, Alfred looked serious.
"Well," he said, "I'll treat you nice. 'S long as you work hard and I work hard, we'll get along peachy." And then he smiled, more cheerfully. "Good to have you as company, Liet."
Toris smiled very uncertainly back. "It is good to be here," he answered.
----------
Chicago is the second-largest Lithuanian community in the world. According to my paper source, several hundreds of thousands of Lithuanians immigrated between 1870 and 1930, despite the xenophobia that was setting in around the time.
The Model A Ford actually got some spectacular mileage. Somehow we went backwards? Though the tank probably held only like six gallons.
Lithuania gets its independence when Czarist Russia collapses in 1918. There is also a coup in 1926 that has more to do with this than you might think.
Diners are pretty popular around this time. And yes, so are French fries and hamburgers.
State Street, Chicago.
The title comes from, of course, is from The New Colossus which is actually NOT written on the outside of the Statue of Liberty.
Sorry for butchering the regional dialects. In some cases I just had to go opposite of what I always say--sofa instead of couch and pop instead of soda--but beyond that I murdered it. Fffff.
This will be a multi-part fic, and it only gets more explicit from here on out. My obsession with pretty prose and detail makes everything I write long. D:
The next parts:
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
Epilogue
Toris spent the long and dingy voyage from London trying not to hope altogether too hard. The other passengers, not only His People but also Others--Italians, Greeks, Armenians, Hungarians, Poles--they did not try to contain their hope. The mere mention of America got a smile, albeit a tired and sea-worn one, and they said, we will find work in America. We will find safety. In America we will find a home, a life. Hope.
Hope was what Toris was stepping on the toes of, what fluttered in his stomach all the way across the pitching and tempestuous Atlantic, what was pinned under his fears. Finally he was free of Russia--well, he had been for many years now, but now he left, now he needed shelter, now he was caught in the same exodus as His People--and just like them he was frightened, but while they were frightened of a new and strange world, he was frightened of a new and strange master, one who might be as cruel as the last.
He had seen Mr. Jones at the summits he'd attended at Russia's elbow--young and brash, grand and friendly, arrogant but all-encompassing, intrusive but only because he wanted in, wanted to help everyone. He was always smiling pleasantly, even when he was insulting you. But Ivan could put on a soothing face too. Snow could look soft and gentle.
Toris also spent the voyage throwing up, between his seasickness and the oppressive and haunting fears, so that when the whole of the boat surged onto the deck to get that first glimpse of the Statue of Liberty, Toris was thin and lean and pale, and got crushed between two very stocky Armenians in the process. But he saw her, the Lady Liberty, standing silent and reassuring on her pedestal, torch lifted into the heavens. It seized the hope squished in his chest and brought it up, lifted it free.
When they disembarked, Toris bade a silent farewell to His People, crowded around him as they were shunted down onto the docks. Here they would all separate and diffuse, and eventually His People would become Americans, though he hoped they would remember that they had once been his.
He was let through Customs with the papers Mr. Jones had wired him, and which he'd kept tucked in his coat until they were wet and dirty and torn. The officials directed them out and then he was on a choked and sunbaked sidewalk, in America, in his dirty coat amid the classy New Yorkers and holding his single beaten bag.
New Yorkers surged around him; disoriented and frightened, he stepped back, and then had to dodge the door of Customs when it opened. He looked around wildly, and finally saw America himself standing just up the sidewalk, waiting for him.
He was very solemnly holding up a sign with Toris's name so badly spelled on it that Toris wanted to laugh. He was dressed very snappily in a pinstriped sharp-shouldered brown-and-gold suit, dress shoes, and a fedora that didn't dampen the bright gold of his hair. He was looking very hard over his glasses at Toris, but then the blue eyes lit and a bright grin appeared on his face. He put down the sign and gestured for Toris to come over, and Toris obeyed, stomach churning.
"Damned if I didn't recognize you at first, you look so skinny," he said easily, and shook Toris's hand. "You look a lot smaller of a feller than I remember, but a good suit makes every man look big and tall."
Toris wasn't sure what to say. How did one respond in America--was this how 'hello' normally went?
"I-I hope I find you well, Mr. Jones," he stammered, tongue tripping over his English. There was a moment when he prayed his accent wasn't too thick and his pronunciation was all right--Ivan had hated it when Toris couldn't learn Russian as quickly and fluently as he wanted, took it as a sign of defiance...
But America's grin just got wider, as impossible as that seemed. "Thrivin'," he said happily, "just one thing--don't, for the love of God, call me 'mister' anything."
Oh, a mistake already... "Er," Toris mumbled, desperate to get off to a good start, "then what..."
"Alfred," the nation said promptly. "Just Alfred. We'll be living together so we may as well call each other like friends, right?"
"Y-yes," Toris said uncertainly. Ivan had done this too. I will call you Liet because we will be the best of friends, da?
"So can I call you Liet?" Alfred wheedled. "I hear Poland call you that, and Russia, so I figured it was your nickname."
Toris tried to smile back. "That will be fine, M--Alfred."
"Well all right, then," Alfred said warmly. He took Toris's bag and tossed it into the shiny red Model A Ford that was parked on the curb beside him. "The plan is to take my new Fordor down into Pennsylvania afore night falls. Then if we get up bright 'n early we can get to my place in Chicago in a day. Till then you don't do no work--we eat out, get room service. Capisce?"
Toris struggled with his slang and his accent, which seemed to keep shifting, somehow, from one kind to another.
"Yes," he said experimentally. Alfred nodded and opened the driver's side door, swinging himself up onto the leather seat.
"Hop in on the other side," he suggested. "Careful of the traffic. These New Yorkers, they'll run you over."
Toris went, and as he got up into the new car, onto the shiny leather seats, he took a breath--if he could just stay on Alfred's good side, maybe things would be okay.
----------
They drove until nightfall, when in South Pennsylvania Alfred pulled in at the first motel he saw, and booked them a room with two twin beds. He took Toris out to eat at a glowing aluminum diner, where the food was hot and greasy and came in huge portions. The cheeseburger Toris ate (Alfred ordered for him) dripped with fat, but it was thick and flavorful, and the lettuce was fresh, and the French fries were crispy and hot, and the pop fizzed all the way down his throat.
He lay awake a long time that night, his too-full stomach churning with newness and worry. Maybe Alfred was like Ivan, and would be seized with the idea to come to Toris in the middle of the night, petting and touching and then hitting and biting and--
But Alfred slept, snoring gently.
He shook Toris vigorously awake at dawn. They showered--Toris put on a crisp suit shirt and a pair of slacks that belonged to Alfred and were way too big. And then they were on their way before the sun had really risen.
Toris gazed out at the passing countryside as they drove. He even dozed off, and napped a while, waking with his face stuck to the leather seat and the Fordor stopped at a full-service station in Ohio, and Alfred was swinging back into the driver's seat with an ice-cream cone in each hand and a glass bottle of Pepsi-Cola under each arm. He gave Toris one of each and drove with one hand and the bottle held between his knees. It was hot and the air above the cornfields melted--cornfields the same color as Alfred's hair, and Toris was sleepy and the vanilla was dreadfully sweet and cold.
"You all right there?" Alfred asked, stealing glances at him. "Maybe feelin' sick from the voyage? Do nations get seasick?" He laughed easily. Toris watched Ohio melt into Indiana, and didn't notice when Indiana became Illinois, because it all looked the same. He dozed and had dreams that Ivan was waiting for him to come back, waiting, in the cold and the snow, patient and coldly furious...and that Alfred, haloed in sunlight, leaned over at 65 miles an hour and kissed Toris's forehead.
"I'm not gonna ask you to do a whole lot," Alfred told him, when he'd woken as they were gliding into the outer metropolis of Chicago, as the sky was purpling. "Just the house things. Keeping the place neat, doing the laundry, cooking--but I can get the groceries. The market's on the way home from the factory. I'd like coffee and breakfast in the mornings, and a lunch to go with me to work, and dinner when I come home. If you get done with everything, then there'll be money in the front hall you can take and do whatever you want with. Go see a show or something. Sound good?"
"Yes, sir," Toris said quietly, already worried he was going to make a mistake--moving something he wasn't supposed to, or getting the coffee wrong...
They parked on the curb outside a tall apartment building on State Street. Alfred carried both of their bags, saying with a grin, "Don't you worry. I do all the heavy lifting. Not to brag or nothing but I'm pretty strong."
The apartment was discreet, compared to its owner. It wasn't ritzy, but it was spacious and well-furnished. It was fairly easy to believe that a single upper working-class man lived here, rather than a nation. Alfred swung the bags down and handed Toris a key.
"This here's your copy. The number for the factory's by the telephone, so if you need me you can just ask for one Mr. Jones. I work 'til eight, from eight. Not bad hours." He laughed. "Your bed's through there, mine's through there, bathroom's through there. Kitchen--den--and so on."
Toris nodded shyly, peering around, mouth paralyzed by the worry that he was going to make a mistake, and then he'd have to find out what America's wrath was like. At least Ivan's rages and insanity had been familiar.
Alfred stood with his suit jacket hooked on one finger and hung over his shoulder, and looked down at Toris.
"You look sad 'n pitiful," he said blithely. "You don't like it?"
"Oh, no, it's not that," Toris stammered in answer. "I'm j-just a little n-nervous, b-but everything is so big and g-grand...I'm, I'm very lucky..." And he looked down, ashamed. "I'm--I'm very lucky to have b-been allowed to come."
"Aaw," Alfred said, beaming. He took Toris's shoulders and pulled the smaller man very gently against him, and hugged him one-armed, but even through that Toris could feel some huge and pressing and wild might in those arms, not regimented and frozen like Ivan's but barely controlled, barely restrained, the weight of the Rockies and the untamed and open wilderness. "Don't you worry 'bout a thing, Liet, you're gonna fit in just fine. Why, my whole nation's a nation of immigrants. Everyone gets along all right."
He released Toris, who stood there uncertainly. Alfred tossed his coat onto the sofa, and went toward the bathroom, undoing his tie. Then he stopped.
"Arthur told me Russia didn't treat you so nice," he said, and it took Toris a minute to remember who Arthur was. "'Sat true?"
Toris was quiet for a while. "He had his moments," he murmured finally. For the first time, Alfred looked serious.
"Well," he said, "I'll treat you nice. 'S long as you work hard and I work hard, we'll get along peachy." And then he smiled, more cheerfully. "Good to have you as company, Liet."
Toris smiled very uncertainly back. "It is good to be here," he answered.
----------
Chicago is the second-largest Lithuanian community in the world. According to my paper source, several hundreds of thousands of Lithuanians immigrated between 1870 and 1930, despite the xenophobia that was setting in around the time.
The Model A Ford actually got some spectacular mileage. Somehow we went backwards? Though the tank probably held only like six gallons.
Lithuania gets its independence when Czarist Russia collapses in 1918. There is also a coup in 1926 that has more to do with this than you might think.
Diners are pretty popular around this time. And yes, so are French fries and hamburgers.
State Street, Chicago.
The title comes from, of course, is from The New Colossus which is actually NOT written on the outside of the Statue of Liberty.
Sorry for butchering the regional dialects. In some cases I just had to go opposite of what I always say--sofa instead of couch and pop instead of soda--but beyond that I murdered it. Fffff.
This will be a multi-part fic, and it only gets more explicit from here on out. My obsession with pretty prose and detail makes everything I write long. D:
The next parts:
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Part 5
Part 6
Part 7
Part 8
Epilogue