Still Cold
Title: Still Cold
Originally posted: Here.
Length: 1,500 words.
Characters/Pairings: Russia/America.
Premise: Russia/America...fluff? Sort of?
Time period: Modern.
Smuttiness: 1/10
Funnyness: 0/10
Wrist slashiness: 3/10
Lolhistoryness: 3/10
Violence: 1/10
Would I like it?: Well, I don't. There was something about their relationship that I was aiming for, and I missed. I'm including it here anyway because I think you can at least kind of see what I was trying to say off in the distance, and man, that'd make a really good story, somebody should write that.
You can read this story in:
Chinese - translation by chamber_music
It wasn't a romance.
It was just that, well. Somewhere along the line, they'd grudgingly admitted that they had a few things in common. More than just being big, rich, powerful nations--that was a club that included China, Canada, India, Iran, and a couple of others depending on the time of day. And while America and Russia both had allies on that list, it wasn't...the same.
All right, then they were both superpowers. Maybe that was a little more relevant. Although Russia was, technically, a former superpower...still, it hadn't been so long ago when they were the Big Two, and honestly, America had never stopped thinking of Russia as his only meaningful rival. That was also relevant. There had been an unspoken exchange of respect which Russia felt he deserved but had not truly expected.
America watched Russia make pirozhki from the other side of the kitchen. He didn't really know what it was, but it apparently involved cutting potatoes and mushrooms in a steady, thoughtful fashion.
"It's like a pierogi?" he had asked.
Russia frowned. "No. Pirozhki. You put potato, and meat, and onions, and some other things, into pastry."
"So...sort of like a pierogi."
"...Just be quiet."
"Wait, aren't pierogis the ones with--"
"I mean it. I will hurt you."
It wasn't a romance.
They just seemed to find themselves spending a lot of time together. Their bosses would spend all day arguing with each other, until Russia wandered off, and America got bored and went looking for him. They would find a quiet spot outside on the lawn, or on a staircase somewhere. And they would say whatever came to mind.
Usually that wasn't anything friendly.
"Hey, Russia, I see you got yourself a new president! Way to embrace the democratic process, man. Maybe for your next step, you'll actually get rid of your old president, too!"
"Yes, progress is amazing," Russia agreed. "I like how you have gone back to a monarchy, too. There are so many valuable lessons to be found in the past."
"...What do you mean, a--"
"You had the one president, and then you had a regent, and then the president's son became president, da? And even though he was hated by most of your country, you kept him on anyway. ...That experiment has worked so well for you, too."
America scowled. "He might be a...look, he was still legitimately elected."
"I read a lot about those legitimate elections," Russia smirked.
And then one or both of them would trudge back into the conference room with a black eye or a split lip, which everyone would very pointedly not discuss.
America turned away from Russia, and put on the coffee.
But they learned a lot about each other, even if it was just to arm themselves better for their next confrontation, and a strange understanding began to emerge from the silences between their spats.
"I read an interesting poll about you today," Russia remarked, without much vitriol.
"Oh yeah?" America replied, on guard.
"From England. Did you read it?" America's eyes fell. "Approval rating for the American alliance down to 27%. Only 38% still believe their future lies more with you than with the European Union."
And what America wouldn't say was, "I don't know what to do. England is the most important person in the world to me. I just want him to understand how I see things. I want to protect him. I would do anything for him. But he just keeps pulling away. And I...I try to make him stay, because I don't know what else I can do to keep him, and he's better off with me, he's safer. But it just makes him hate me. ...I feel so lost."
And Russia offered him a drink from his own flask, and what he didn't say was, "I know exactly how you feel."
And then there were the speeches. The speeches, from the other nations, condemning one or the other of them, and the language was so similar that their names could be switched and nothing else would have to change.
Things like:
Russia/America continues to act with characteristic hubris, disregarding the desires and rights any state he deals with. Russia/America has taken advantage of his allies and the goodwill he has earned in the modern era by making unreasonable demands and illegal impositions upon his neighbors. Russia/America persists in turning a blind eye to his own human rights' violations and pursuing unpopular and illegal wars. Russia/America was once a great nation, founded on high ideals and great principles, but now, sorry to say, Russia/America is the single greatest threat to modern democracy.
And then whoever was under fire that time would make the right conciliatory noises abroad, and put forward the same appearance of not caring at home. Later, Russia would call America, or America would call Russia, and say simply, "Look...you want to go get a drink?"
"Do you need a hand with anything?" America asked over his shoulder, since, once you flipped the switch, making coffee didn't take a lot of intervention.
"You should have asked ten minutes ago. I'm almost done," Russia rumbled.
They'd ended up doing that a lot. Getting shouted at by other nations, then going out for a drink. For a while it was a standing date. They would sit at the bar and make an effort to look like they weren't there together. Once a few drinks were in them, and the liquor had washed down all the false platitudes and the genuine, frustrated desire to make friends, more of those understanding silences would bloom.
America could never say, for example: What the fuck do you all expect from me, anyway? If I stay out of things, you hate me, and if I try to get involved, you hate me. I think the only way you'd be happy is if you could order me around like a trained dog--send an army here, give medicine to them, pull out of that place, now go back to your dog house and be quiet until we need you again. And you'd still blame me for all of your problems, because if I tried to defend myself you'd call it ignorance and arrogance--and because being not me makes it easier for you to define what you are. You have no idea of the pressure I deal with! Nobody has ever had the reach and responsibilities of a modern superpower. I'm doing the best I can! I want to protect and save everyone, and make everybody happy, and even when you all spit at me I try to keep my confidence up, because I somehow ended up having all this power and I have to try to use it to make good things happen. If I listened to you lot, I'd be paralyzed with self-doubt. Fuck, can't you see that I'm just humoring you anyway? If you could do whatever the hell you wanted, would you be any better than I am?
And Russia could never say the exact same thing.
He didn't remember what combination of looks, drinks, and lingering gestures had deposited them both in front of Russia's door one night. Normally they split up the second they hit the street. It didn't matter; that time they'd pulled it off. They did the little "You're too drunk to walk home; I have a couch; don't get too comfortable, asshole" routine out of obligation, but neither of them were surprised when America ended up in his room, and it was dark, and they were both cold on their own, and--
They didn't talk about it afterwards, the same way they didn't talk about anything that mattered. The conversations they didn't have spilled between them like seconds through a clock. They didn't talk about it the next time it happened, either, some time later, or the time after that, except for when America muttered as they drifted off to sleep that if Russia woke up first this time, he could at least make some fucking coffee.
It wasn't a romance.
It was just that America needed Russia in order to be America, the same way Russia needed America in order to be Russia.
He poured the coffee just as Russia put the pirozhki into the oven. He went to stand beside the other nation, and offered him a mug when he stood.
He said, "Got any plans for today?"
He didn't say, You can stay, if you want. I know we don't love each other--we don't even like each other. But you're the only person in the world who makes me feel not lonely.
And Russia didn't say, I would. But we only have so much time before we have to decide between an alliance and a war, and every minute we spend together counts against it. I'd rather put that off for now.
Instead, he said, "Business."
"I understand," America said, and he did.
Originally posted: Here.
Length: 1,500 words.
Characters/Pairings: Russia/America.
Premise: Russia/America...fluff? Sort of?
Time period: Modern.
Smuttiness: 1/10
Funnyness: 0/10
Wrist slashiness: 3/10
Lolhistoryness: 3/10
Violence: 1/10
Would I like it?: Well, I don't. There was something about their relationship that I was aiming for, and I missed. I'm including it here anyway because I think you can at least kind of see what I was trying to say off in the distance, and man, that'd make a really good story, somebody should write that.
You can read this story in:
Chinese - translation by chamber_music
It wasn't a romance.
It was just that, well. Somewhere along the line, they'd grudgingly admitted that they had a few things in common. More than just being big, rich, powerful nations--that was a club that included China, Canada, India, Iran, and a couple of others depending on the time of day. And while America and Russia both had allies on that list, it wasn't...the same.
All right, then they were both superpowers. Maybe that was a little more relevant. Although Russia was, technically, a former superpower...still, it hadn't been so long ago when they were the Big Two, and honestly, America had never stopped thinking of Russia as his only meaningful rival. That was also relevant. There had been an unspoken exchange of respect which Russia felt he deserved but had not truly expected.
America watched Russia make pirozhki from the other side of the kitchen. He didn't really know what it was, but it apparently involved cutting potatoes and mushrooms in a steady, thoughtful fashion.
"It's like a pierogi?" he had asked.
Russia frowned. "No. Pirozhki. You put potato, and meat, and onions, and some other things, into pastry."
"So...sort of like a pierogi."
"...Just be quiet."
"Wait, aren't pierogis the ones with--"
"I mean it. I will hurt you."
It wasn't a romance.
They just seemed to find themselves spending a lot of time together. Their bosses would spend all day arguing with each other, until Russia wandered off, and America got bored and went looking for him. They would find a quiet spot outside on the lawn, or on a staircase somewhere. And they would say whatever came to mind.
Usually that wasn't anything friendly.
"Hey, Russia, I see you got yourself a new president! Way to embrace the democratic process, man. Maybe for your next step, you'll actually get rid of your old president, too!"
"Yes, progress is amazing," Russia agreed. "I like how you have gone back to a monarchy, too. There are so many valuable lessons to be found in the past."
"...What do you mean, a--"
"You had the one president, and then you had a regent, and then the president's son became president, da? And even though he was hated by most of your country, you kept him on anyway. ...That experiment has worked so well for you, too."
America scowled. "He might be a...look, he was still legitimately elected."
"I read a lot about those legitimate elections," Russia smirked.
And then one or both of them would trudge back into the conference room with a black eye or a split lip, which everyone would very pointedly not discuss.
America turned away from Russia, and put on the coffee.
But they learned a lot about each other, even if it was just to arm themselves better for their next confrontation, and a strange understanding began to emerge from the silences between their spats.
"I read an interesting poll about you today," Russia remarked, without much vitriol.
"Oh yeah?" America replied, on guard.
"From England. Did you read it?" America's eyes fell. "Approval rating for the American alliance down to 27%. Only 38% still believe their future lies more with you than with the European Union."
And what America wouldn't say was, "I don't know what to do. England is the most important person in the world to me. I just want him to understand how I see things. I want to protect him. I would do anything for him. But he just keeps pulling away. And I...I try to make him stay, because I don't know what else I can do to keep him, and he's better off with me, he's safer. But it just makes him hate me. ...I feel so lost."
And Russia offered him a drink from his own flask, and what he didn't say was, "I know exactly how you feel."
And then there were the speeches. The speeches, from the other nations, condemning one or the other of them, and the language was so similar that their names could be switched and nothing else would have to change.
Things like:
Russia/America continues to act with characteristic hubris, disregarding the desires and rights any state he deals with. Russia/America has taken advantage of his allies and the goodwill he has earned in the modern era by making unreasonable demands and illegal impositions upon his neighbors. Russia/America persists in turning a blind eye to his own human rights' violations and pursuing unpopular and illegal wars. Russia/America was once a great nation, founded on high ideals and great principles, but now, sorry to say, Russia/America is the single greatest threat to modern democracy.
And then whoever was under fire that time would make the right conciliatory noises abroad, and put forward the same appearance of not caring at home. Later, Russia would call America, or America would call Russia, and say simply, "Look...you want to go get a drink?"
"Do you need a hand with anything?" America asked over his shoulder, since, once you flipped the switch, making coffee didn't take a lot of intervention.
"You should have asked ten minutes ago. I'm almost done," Russia rumbled.
They'd ended up doing that a lot. Getting shouted at by other nations, then going out for a drink. For a while it was a standing date. They would sit at the bar and make an effort to look like they weren't there together. Once a few drinks were in them, and the liquor had washed down all the false platitudes and the genuine, frustrated desire to make friends, more of those understanding silences would bloom.
America could never say, for example: What the fuck do you all expect from me, anyway? If I stay out of things, you hate me, and if I try to get involved, you hate me. I think the only way you'd be happy is if you could order me around like a trained dog--send an army here, give medicine to them, pull out of that place, now go back to your dog house and be quiet until we need you again. And you'd still blame me for all of your problems, because if I tried to defend myself you'd call it ignorance and arrogance--and because being not me makes it easier for you to define what you are. You have no idea of the pressure I deal with! Nobody has ever had the reach and responsibilities of a modern superpower. I'm doing the best I can! I want to protect and save everyone, and make everybody happy, and even when you all spit at me I try to keep my confidence up, because I somehow ended up having all this power and I have to try to use it to make good things happen. If I listened to you lot, I'd be paralyzed with self-doubt. Fuck, can't you see that I'm just humoring you anyway? If you could do whatever the hell you wanted, would you be any better than I am?
And Russia could never say the exact same thing.
He didn't remember what combination of looks, drinks, and lingering gestures had deposited them both in front of Russia's door one night. Normally they split up the second they hit the street. It didn't matter; that time they'd pulled it off. They did the little "You're too drunk to walk home; I have a couch; don't get too comfortable, asshole" routine out of obligation, but neither of them were surprised when America ended up in his room, and it was dark, and they were both cold on their own, and--
They didn't talk about it afterwards, the same way they didn't talk about anything that mattered. The conversations they didn't have spilled between them like seconds through a clock. They didn't talk about it the next time it happened, either, some time later, or the time after that, except for when America muttered as they drifted off to sleep that if Russia woke up first this time, he could at least make some fucking coffee.
It wasn't a romance.
It was just that America needed Russia in order to be America, the same way Russia needed America in order to be Russia.
He poured the coffee just as Russia put the pirozhki into the oven. He went to stand beside the other nation, and offered him a mug when he stood.
He said, "Got any plans for today?"
He didn't say, You can stay, if you want. I know we don't love each other--we don't even like each other. But you're the only person in the world who makes me feel not lonely.
And Russia didn't say, I would. But we only have so much time before we have to decide between an alliance and a war, and every minute we spend together counts against it. I'd rather put that off for now.
Instead, he said, "Business."
"I understand," America said, and he did.