Give Sorrow Words
Fandom: Hetalia
Title: Give Sorrow Words
Character(s) or Pairing(s): America, Russia
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Historical material. Deals with the assassination of JFK, but also mentions the deaths of Lincoln and Stalin. The style is also a little unusual because I was playing around with something new, so bear with me.
Summary: America finds himself lost in the shock in the wake of Kennedy's assassination, and receives comfort from an unexpected source.
America stared at the alternating white and gray tiles on the floor beneath the pews. It was a pretty pattern. Pretty church. Catholic. Funny how he used to think that it mattered, Catholic, Jack being Catholic, gonna turn the White House into the Vatican. None of that mattered now.
Jackie made such a pretty widow. She was always pretty, whatever she was wearing, casual or formal or mourning or a dress splattered with her husband's blood - no no no, don't think about it, don't remember.
It was hard to think straight, hard to focus on one thing for more than a fleeting moment. There were no tears, not yet. It was too soon to let the hurt in. There was only weighty, leaden shock and flashes of horror. He couldn't really feel anything yet, while people and nations alike poured in pat America on the shoulder and tell him how very sorry they were for his loss. He wondered how many of them really meant that. Maybe later he would appreciate all the people who came and expressed their condolences, but for now it meant so little. The only one who had really mattered was England. He had been one of the first to come once the news had spread. For once there had been no quips, no picking or nagging when they finally met again. England had looked so terribly old and sad, and just opened his arms and America practically fell into him and let those familiar hands hold and soothe as much as they could.
He had to escape, eventually, from the crowd and noise of the public viewing at the capitol rotunda. The church seemed like the right place to go. He wanted (needed) to see where the funeral would be. Originally he had meant just to go for a brief look, but it was so quiet and peaceful (no radios repeating the bad news over and over, carving it into his skull) that he decided to sit and stay a while.
He wasn't surprised when he heard footsteps approaching. Someone always came after him sooner or later. He let his gaze trail along the floor to meet the shoes of the invader. Huge feet. Black trousers, cut a little wider than the American style. Soviet, he recognized. It used to be a game, Spot the Russian. Watch for the cut of his clothes, the way he holds his cigarette, how he stands. America didn't need to look up to know that this man isn't just a Russian.
“You were not at the public viewing,” Russia said by way of greeting.
America shrugged, still didn't bother to look up. “I'd been there for hours. I'm tired. Thought I'm come here instead. It's quiet. The funeral's gonna be here. Nice place. Even an atheist like you should appreciate it.” He blinked a few times. His eyes felt dry and sticky. “Did England tell you I was here?”
“He let it slip by accident. I am sure he does not want me here with you.”
“Well shit, I don't want you here with me either.”
Russia didn't answer. Instead he just sidled into the pew and took a seat beside America, close, too close, almost enough to touch, to feel the heat radiating off the other's body. America just stared at the floor, at Russia's restlessly tapping shoes to the left.
America remembered, a hundred year ago, in another lifetime, when Lincoln was killed. Russia sent letters by the bundle, full of sympathy and compassion, awkward and earnest all at once. The letters were also full of quotes, some from Pushkin or Dostoevsky, or various proverbs, many of which sounded clumsy with Russia's translation. He saved every last one of those fumbling letters, tucked away in a drawer. Where were they now? Lost in his closet somewhere, most likely. That was where he stored all the things that weren't safe to remember.
“You will still try to go to the moon, da?” Russia asked. His voice was too soft, as the very edge of a whisper. “Like your boss wanted.”
America snorted humorlessly. “Thought you'd be hoping I'm gonna give up the whole thing.”
“Nyet.” He felt Russia shift a little, let his arm brush America's side ever so slightly. “It would be boring without you to compete with. It is not a race if I am the only one running. No fun at all.”
“Do you think I give a fuck about what's fun for you right now?”
“I suppose not.”
America let out one long, slow breath that began as a sigh and ended in a hiss. “What are you even doing here?”
Russia made a noise deep in his throat and waited a long time to answer. “I thought you should not be left alone at a time like this. Even an enemy of mine does not deserve such a thing.”
America snorted duly. “The hell do you know about it.”
“I do understand.” Russia shifted his shoulders slightly. America would have missed the movement had they not been sitting so close. “When Stalin died-”
“Don't you dare,” America snarled. “Don't you fucking dare compare them. Don't you put Jack together with that monster.”
To his surprise, Russia fell quiet again, for so long that America almost thought the conversation was over.
“I did not want to see the body,” Russia continued. His voice was small, distant with memory. “I had to go to the dacha where it happened, of course, but I did not want to see the body. So I hid at the bottom of the staircase. Everyone was too busy moving around. They left me alone.”
America glanced left. He could see Russia's toes curling in his shoes.
“Everyone was crying, I remember. Even Molotov. Me too. There were women passing out valerian drops, to calm down those of us who were getting too upset. Lithuania came later, and I remember him bringing me the medicine, and kneeling down next to me as he tried to coax me into swallowing it.”
For the first time, America raised his eyes from the patterned floor, only so far as Russia's hands clenching and flexing where they rested on his thighs.
“He stayed with me all day. I do not think he left me for more than a moment after he arrived. I never told him to. No one ordered him to do such a thing. I did not even call him to the dacha. It seemed so very strange. He has plenty of reasons to hate me. I am no fool, I know this. He has all the reasons in the world to hate me. And yet he stayed with me, right there by my side. For so long I wondered why.”
America swallowed against the tightening in his throat. He could hear it, at the brink of the words, what Russia was trying to say.
“Why were you crying?” he asked, because he couldn't ask the bigger question that hung in the air, not yet.
Russia's voice caught slightly on the answer. “I do not know.”
America gulped again. His vocal chords were tying themselves into knots, he was sure of it. “I haven't cried yet. I don't think I can.”
It might have been his imagination, but America thought Russia moved just a tiny bit closer. “It is not a thing to be rushed. No one doubts your grief.”
America forced a bark of laughter. “Yeah, I've got plenty of time to think about all this, now that Jack's gone and Camelot is over...”
Russia's hand moved over to America's knee, squeezing gently.
“I wasn't even at the parade, you know? Because it wasn't a big deal. Just a normal parade. I've seen a million of them.” He was babbling now, words flowing out uncontrollably. “It wasn't a big deal. If I needed to talk to Jack, I could just wait until later, right? And...and...oh god, you should see Bobby now. No, you shouldn't, because it's horrible. He looks so broken. It was his brother. And the kids, now that their dad's dead... It's not fair. It's not fair.”
Russia didn't answer, or tell him that the world was unfair. He just kept his hand on America's knee and said nothing. It was a magic spell, and if Russia said one word it would all be broken. So long as he was quiet, they could pretend no time had passed. No nukes, no rockets, no hate and fear, no World Wars or Great Depression or Marx or Lenin. Maybe it was 1865 instead of 1963, and Russia was sitting with America to listen to him grieve and talk about a play that turned into a nightmare. Russia, not the Soviet Union, his dear friend, the only person he could really trust in that other lifetime a hundred years ago.
Later, tomorrow, in a week or a month, the fight would start up again. The spell would be shattered by then and the world would continue on along the same path...but for now he could pretend. He could let himself slump a little against the warm body at his side and let his mind drift in the dull fog. It would all end soon enough, this brief peace between them and the chilly shock that kept him safely numb. But for one small moment in between the chaos, there was calm.
Historical Notes:
John F. “Jack” Kennedy was assassinated during a parade in Texas on November 22, 1963. This event made a lasting impact on the American people and was considered a major loss of American innocence. His body was placed in the capitol rotunda in Washington D.C. For public viewing prior to his funeral at St. Matthew's Cathedral. He was buried at Arlington National Cemetery. Around the world, people expressed shock and sorry at Kennedy's death, from both sides of the Iron Curtain. Foreign dignitaries from over eighty countries attended the funeral, including Anastas Mikoyan representing the USSR. Kennedy was the first (and so far only) Catholic president. His religion created some controversy while he was running for president.
Joseph Stalin died on March 5, 1953, from a stroke or possibly assassination by poisoning. The national response was also great mourning for many (and relief for more than a few,) although the reaction from the people who actually knew him personally was understandably more complicated. All the same, many of the people who did know and fear him, including the men in the Politburo who would start the scramble for power soon enough, wept at his deathbed. One has to wonder if anyone was crying from relief instead of grief. Valerian is a sedative, and a nurse at Stalin's dacha was distributing it to people who were getting hysterical.
The 'Spot the Russian' game mentioned was something that came about during Khrushchev's visit to the US in 1959. Khrushchev brought along a large entourage, and the American public became interested in noticing the small differences in mannerisms and dress and so on between Russians and Americans.
Title: Give Sorrow Words
Character(s) or Pairing(s): America, Russia
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Historical material. Deals with the assassination of JFK, but also mentions the deaths of Lincoln and Stalin. The style is also a little unusual because I was playing around with something new, so bear with me.
Summary: America finds himself lost in the shock in the wake of Kennedy's assassination, and receives comfort from an unexpected source.
America stared at the alternating white and gray tiles on the floor beneath the pews. It was a pretty pattern. Pretty church. Catholic. Funny how he used to think that it mattered, Catholic, Jack being Catholic, gonna turn the White House into the Vatican. None of that mattered now.
Jackie made such a pretty widow. She was always pretty, whatever she was wearing, casual or formal or mourning or a dress splattered with her husband's blood - no no no, don't think about it, don't remember.
It was hard to think straight, hard to focus on one thing for more than a fleeting moment. There were no tears, not yet. It was too soon to let the hurt in. There was only weighty, leaden shock and flashes of horror. He couldn't really feel anything yet, while people and nations alike poured in pat America on the shoulder and tell him how very sorry they were for his loss. He wondered how many of them really meant that. Maybe later he would appreciate all the people who came and expressed their condolences, but for now it meant so little. The only one who had really mattered was England. He had been one of the first to come once the news had spread. For once there had been no quips, no picking or nagging when they finally met again. England had looked so terribly old and sad, and just opened his arms and America practically fell into him and let those familiar hands hold and soothe as much as they could.
He had to escape, eventually, from the crowd and noise of the public viewing at the capitol rotunda. The church seemed like the right place to go. He wanted (needed) to see where the funeral would be. Originally he had meant just to go for a brief look, but it was so quiet and peaceful (no radios repeating the bad news over and over, carving it into his skull) that he decided to sit and stay a while.
He wasn't surprised when he heard footsteps approaching. Someone always came after him sooner or later. He let his gaze trail along the floor to meet the shoes of the invader. Huge feet. Black trousers, cut a little wider than the American style. Soviet, he recognized. It used to be a game, Spot the Russian. Watch for the cut of his clothes, the way he holds his cigarette, how he stands. America didn't need to look up to know that this man isn't just a Russian.
“You were not at the public viewing,” Russia said by way of greeting.
America shrugged, still didn't bother to look up. “I'd been there for hours. I'm tired. Thought I'm come here instead. It's quiet. The funeral's gonna be here. Nice place. Even an atheist like you should appreciate it.” He blinked a few times. His eyes felt dry and sticky. “Did England tell you I was here?”
“He let it slip by accident. I am sure he does not want me here with you.”
“Well shit, I don't want you here with me either.”
Russia didn't answer. Instead he just sidled into the pew and took a seat beside America, close, too close, almost enough to touch, to feel the heat radiating off the other's body. America just stared at the floor, at Russia's restlessly tapping shoes to the left.
America remembered, a hundred year ago, in another lifetime, when Lincoln was killed. Russia sent letters by the bundle, full of sympathy and compassion, awkward and earnest all at once. The letters were also full of quotes, some from Pushkin or Dostoevsky, or various proverbs, many of which sounded clumsy with Russia's translation. He saved every last one of those fumbling letters, tucked away in a drawer. Where were they now? Lost in his closet somewhere, most likely. That was where he stored all the things that weren't safe to remember.
“You will still try to go to the moon, da?” Russia asked. His voice was too soft, as the very edge of a whisper. “Like your boss wanted.”
America snorted humorlessly. “Thought you'd be hoping I'm gonna give up the whole thing.”
“Nyet.” He felt Russia shift a little, let his arm brush America's side ever so slightly. “It would be boring without you to compete with. It is not a race if I am the only one running. No fun at all.”
“Do you think I give a fuck about what's fun for you right now?”
“I suppose not.”
America let out one long, slow breath that began as a sigh and ended in a hiss. “What are you even doing here?”
Russia made a noise deep in his throat and waited a long time to answer. “I thought you should not be left alone at a time like this. Even an enemy of mine does not deserve such a thing.”
America snorted duly. “The hell do you know about it.”
“I do understand.” Russia shifted his shoulders slightly. America would have missed the movement had they not been sitting so close. “When Stalin died-”
“Don't you dare,” America snarled. “Don't you fucking dare compare them. Don't you put Jack together with that monster.”
To his surprise, Russia fell quiet again, for so long that America almost thought the conversation was over.
“I did not want to see the body,” Russia continued. His voice was small, distant with memory. “I had to go to the dacha where it happened, of course, but I did not want to see the body. So I hid at the bottom of the staircase. Everyone was too busy moving around. They left me alone.”
America glanced left. He could see Russia's toes curling in his shoes.
“Everyone was crying, I remember. Even Molotov. Me too. There were women passing out valerian drops, to calm down those of us who were getting too upset. Lithuania came later, and I remember him bringing me the medicine, and kneeling down next to me as he tried to coax me into swallowing it.”
For the first time, America raised his eyes from the patterned floor, only so far as Russia's hands clenching and flexing where they rested on his thighs.
“He stayed with me all day. I do not think he left me for more than a moment after he arrived. I never told him to. No one ordered him to do such a thing. I did not even call him to the dacha. It seemed so very strange. He has plenty of reasons to hate me. I am no fool, I know this. He has all the reasons in the world to hate me. And yet he stayed with me, right there by my side. For so long I wondered why.”
America swallowed against the tightening in his throat. He could hear it, at the brink of the words, what Russia was trying to say.
“Why were you crying?” he asked, because he couldn't ask the bigger question that hung in the air, not yet.
Russia's voice caught slightly on the answer. “I do not know.”
America gulped again. His vocal chords were tying themselves into knots, he was sure of it. “I haven't cried yet. I don't think I can.”
It might have been his imagination, but America thought Russia moved just a tiny bit closer. “It is not a thing to be rushed. No one doubts your grief.”
America forced a bark of laughter. “Yeah, I've got plenty of time to think about all this, now that Jack's gone and Camelot is over...”
Russia's hand moved over to America's knee, squeezing gently.
“I wasn't even at the parade, you know? Because it wasn't a big deal. Just a normal parade. I've seen a million of them.” He was babbling now, words flowing out uncontrollably. “It wasn't a big deal. If I needed to talk to Jack, I could just wait until later, right? And...and...oh god, you should see Bobby now. No, you shouldn't, because it's horrible. He looks so broken. It was his brother. And the kids, now that their dad's dead... It's not fair. It's not fair.”
Russia didn't answer, or tell him that the world was unfair. He just kept his hand on America's knee and said nothing. It was a magic spell, and if Russia said one word it would all be broken. So long as he was quiet, they could pretend no time had passed. No nukes, no rockets, no hate and fear, no World Wars or Great Depression or Marx or Lenin. Maybe it was 1865 instead of 1963, and Russia was sitting with America to listen to him grieve and talk about a play that turned into a nightmare. Russia, not the Soviet Union, his dear friend, the only person he could really trust in that other lifetime a hundred years ago.
Later, tomorrow, in a week or a month, the fight would start up again. The spell would be shattered by then and the world would continue on along the same path...but for now he could pretend. He could let himself slump a little against the warm body at his side and let his mind drift in the dull fog. It would all end soon enough, this brief peace between them and the chilly shock that kept him safely numb. But for one small moment in between the chaos, there was calm.
Historical Notes:
John F. “Jack” Kennedy was assassinated during a parade in Texas on November 22, 1963. This event made a lasting impact on the American people and was considered a major loss of American innocence. His body was placed in the capitol rotunda in Washington D.C. For public viewing prior to his funeral at St. Matthew's Cathedral. He was buried at Arlington National Cemetery. Around the world, people expressed shock and sorry at Kennedy's death, from both sides of the Iron Curtain. Foreign dignitaries from over eighty countries attended the funeral, including Anastas Mikoyan representing the USSR. Kennedy was the first (and so far only) Catholic president. His religion created some controversy while he was running for president.
Joseph Stalin died on March 5, 1953, from a stroke or possibly assassination by poisoning. The national response was also great mourning for many (and relief for more than a few,) although the reaction from the people who actually knew him personally was understandably more complicated. All the same, many of the people who did know and fear him, including the men in the Politburo who would start the scramble for power soon enough, wept at his deathbed. One has to wonder if anyone was crying from relief instead of grief. Valerian is a sedative, and a nurse at Stalin's dacha was distributing it to people who were getting hysterical.
The 'Spot the Russian' game mentioned was something that came about during Khrushchev's visit to the US in 1959. Khrushchev brought along a large entourage, and the American public became interested in noticing the small differences in mannerisms and dress and so on between Russians and Americans.