45 - The Other Side Of The Sky
Title: The Other Side Of The Sky
Characters: Russia/America.
Rating: PG.
Summary: 1957 - America panics when Russia unexpectedly takes the first step into space.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
America's house. October 5, 1957.
First, America had locked himself in his basement until everything around him was broken, knocked over, or sprayed across the floor.
That had been this morning.
Then he had called Russia and asked if he would come over to 'discuss some policy concerns,' which for nations was like saying 'honey, we need to talk,' but Russia had been amiable and agreed to drop by that evening, which had left America with plenty of time to find the key to the basement, go upstairs, have lunch, lock himself in again, and have another panic attack.
He felt twingy and spazzy and jerky, and exhausted, and he was all gross with sweat and bubbling tears gone dry and cold as he huddled in the dim hollows of the basement, and it had basically been a miserable day, a really miserable day, until Russia arrived and let himself in.
America figured that with all the (goddamned) spying Russia got up to, he shouldn't be surprised that he had copies of all his keys.
He looked up from his heap on the floor when Russia's boots arrived in his peripheral vision, and the first thing he said was, "You're not gonna nuke me f-from space now or anything, are you?"
"Not in the foreseeable future," Russia smiled. It faded as his eyes swept over America's face. A flicker of alarm, then, right between Russia's eyebrows, and he dropped to his knees in front of America. "I'm sorry," he breathed. "I didn't think--" He touched the back of America's hand with gentle fingertips. "No. No, of course not."
America dropped his knees to the floor in a tangle and hung his head. "I've been listening to it all day--" he threw a loose gesture towards one of the deepest heaps of debris. Softly, from somewhere underneath it, was a radio emitting a sweet beep...beep...beep. "I-I guess I sh-should congratulate you or, or something..." A sharp, shuddering breath, and he whipped off his glasses and ground the heels of his hands into his eyes.
Russia reached out and took his wrists, so gentle. He lifted America's hands slowly away from his face. "America." It was soft, careful. "What's the matter?"
America twisted their hands together. "You're in space!" he cried. A sick shudder swept down his back. "I, I, I can't even get a stupid three pound satellite in space, and you just throw up this three hundred pound spikey beach ball and don't even make a big deal out of it, like it's--like it's--not--even a big deal!" His fingers curled. "A-and I've been listening to it all day!"
Beep...beep...beep...
Russia tightened his hold on America's hands and tugged him forward. "It's just a satellite," he murmured. "Not a man. Or even an animal. It's an amazing thing, but...there's nothing truly special about sending a hunk of metal into space."
Just beyond his voice, barely muffled, Sputnik went on singing.
"Yes there is." America collapsed forward, his forehead in the crook of Russia's shoulder. "A-and my people are scared, and...and..."
"Shh." Russia hushed him, kissed into his hair. His arms wound tight around America's ribs, and he soothed his fingers down the ditch of his spine, crooning shyly under his breath. "Do you think that I would hurt you?"
There's a wrenching little silence. "No," America mumbled. Which wasn't true, exactly, but Russia didn't mean 'would he hurt him;' America knew that. Russia was asking if America thought Russia would kill him, and America didn't.
He hooked his fingers into Russia's shirt and let out a long, uneven breath. "But they're--my people--still scared. They...they thought I was..."
A long silence. And then, so quiet: "Doing better than I am."
One of Russia's heavy hands rubbed deep circles into the small of America's back. "They thought you would make it there first," he murmured.
"Well yeah, but..." America shrugged. He was pretty sure that both of their peoples were convinced that their country would make it to everything first. "I just...I'm not even close, Russia." He arched back into his hand, then looked up into the other nation's eyes. "It's not like I'm trying to pick a fight or anything," he pleaded, because he wasn't, he really wasn't. "And, and my boss is calm about the whole thing and...y-you just don't know..." He squeezed his eyes shut and hid in Russia's shoulder again.
Russia rested his cheek against America's hair, kept touching him, tracing his shoulder blades, the backs of his hips, the nape of his neck. They shifted closer into one another, knees bumping. Russia's right thigh pressed against the outside of America's left one. "Remember that story I told you," he murmured finally. "In Berlin? About the serf who wanted to fly with wooden wings?"
America relaxed an inch under Russia's hands. "Yeah, and he died horribly or something. All your stories end like that."
A soft laugh. "Yes, he did. Because no one can fly with wings like that. He wasn't ready. But maybe if he had waited longer, had some patience, he wouldn't have fallen." Russia stroked the side of America's neck with two fingertips. "That's what you need. You need to be patient. Space isn't going to disappear before you can touch it."
America was quiet for a minute while he felt something old and cold and deep as a mine shaft tunnel deeper and deeper through his stomach. "I just want to fly more than anything," he mumbled. He peeled back a few inches and looked up, lost, into Russia's face. He wet his lips. "I mean, all my life." He winced a smile. "I remember when I was a little kid, you know...England asked me if I wanted to grow up to be a colony. And I said no, I didn't want to grow up to be a colony. I wanted to grow up to be a bird."
Something immeasurably tender touched on in Russia's eyes, hung there like the glow of a candle in a dark room. He cupped America's face in his hand and traced his fingertips into the hollow beneath his jaw. "You're still growing," he breathed. "One hundred and seventy-six years isn't an eternity, no matter how much it feels like it is....You have time to learn to fly, ptenchik." This last was barely audible.
America flushed and looked down. "I-I thought when I made airplanes, that was it, that was the most free I'd ever get, but...then there were all those books in the 20s that talked about going to the other side of the sky, and...and Russia..." His voice twisted off around a fresh sting of tears.
Russia drew him in closer, touched a kiss to each of his eyelids. "This doesn't mean that beyond the sky belongs to me, now." A pause, and Russia tipped America's chin up, held his gaze. "I won’t take this from you. I swear."
America wrapped his arms around his waist. "I-I know, space is--space is free for everybody, just..." A long silence, and then a hard shudder. "I wish I could trade with you!" He didn't know if this was something it was all right to say, and it didn't bear up to any kind of examination or reason, it was all just feeling, but-- "I wish--so you got the bomb first, and, and I could go to space, because--because--and I know I'm just being s-stupid, because it's just a big shiny beach ball and it doesn't do anything but go 'beep, but--! But I-I've been listening to it, all, all day, and--! And I would give anything--!" A wet and heaving breath.
"I know," Russia whispered. "I know. I...I understand. America..." He nudged a soft breath into the hollow of America's neck and shoulder, and America could feel him tremble, once, all over. "When you...when you got the bomb... I wanted it so badly that I couldn't breathe. It was everything I'd ever wished for...And you had it and you acted as though you didn't appreciate it." He kissed the turn of his jaw. "I understand."
"I understand," America echoed, miserable. He buried his face in Russia's hair, clung to him. "If you--if you get there first; if you get to space first, I mean, like a person;" he exhaled sharply. "It's probably gonna turn into some huge political thing and I don't even know what'll happen after that, but--but no matter what happens--" he curled his fingers into the back of Russia's shirt. "You h-have to tell me what it was like, okay?" He shut his eyes. "I-I want to know what it looks like."
Russia's hands never stilled on America's back. They had drifted over every inch of it, wide and strong and calming, but they kept traveling, kept urging little twinges of breath past America's lips. "I will. I promise. I'll...I'll tell you what the stars look like from up there."
America blinked, hot and wet. "You can't break this promise," he whispered.
Russia held his gaze, and his expression was gentler than America had ever seen it. "I won't."
+++
--Sputnik 1 was the first Earth-orbiting artificial satellite, launched into an elliptical low Earth orbit by the Soviet Union on October 4, 1957. The satellite was approximately 23 inches in diameter and weighed 184 pounds; for comparison purposes, at the same time, the United States was struggling (and failing) to put a 3 pound scientific satellite into orbit. Two months later, the Soviet Union ended even the most tenuous impressions of parity between the two nations when it launched Sputnik 2, which weighed more than 1,100 pounds and even carried a living passenger (a mongrel dog named Laika). The American public response to these developments was near-panic: there was a genuine fear that the Soviet Union would use its superior rocket technology to bomb the United States from orbit. President Dwight D. Eisenhower, however, was calm at the outset of the Space Race, since by moving first and without international consensus, the Soviet Union had set the precedent for free use of outer space.
Rather endearingly, the Soviet Union itself did not seem to be aware of the enormity of its own accomplishment when Sputnik 1 was first launched; the event only received a brief column halfway down the front page of Pravda, the official Communist Party daily newspaper. It wasn't until after the Soviet government took note of the hysterical reaction in the West that Pravda carried the banner headline "World's First Artificial Satellite of Earth Created in Soviet Nation."
In other news, we are having an event to celebrate reaching 50 chapters! We hope you guys will have fun with it!
+++
Please read our Rules & FAQ before posting. / Пожалуйста, прочтите Правила и FAQ прежде чем комментировать.
Got something to say to the boys about what just went down? Shoot them a letter.
This is a chapter from The Chosen End, a Russia/America collaboration spanning from 1780 to the present day. You can read all of the fics in this story at the Index.
Characters: Russia/America.
Rating: PG.
Summary: 1957 - America panics when Russia unexpectedly takes the first step into space.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
America's house. October 5, 1957.
First, America had locked himself in his basement until everything around him was broken, knocked over, or sprayed across the floor.
That had been this morning.
Then he had called Russia and asked if he would come over to 'discuss some policy concerns,' which for nations was like saying 'honey, we need to talk,' but Russia had been amiable and agreed to drop by that evening, which had left America with plenty of time to find the key to the basement, go upstairs, have lunch, lock himself in again, and have another panic attack.
He felt twingy and spazzy and jerky, and exhausted, and he was all gross with sweat and bubbling tears gone dry and cold as he huddled in the dim hollows of the basement, and it had basically been a miserable day, a really miserable day, until Russia arrived and let himself in.
America figured that with all the (goddamned) spying Russia got up to, he shouldn't be surprised that he had copies of all his keys.
He looked up from his heap on the floor when Russia's boots arrived in his peripheral vision, and the first thing he said was, "You're not gonna nuke me f-from space now or anything, are you?"
"Not in the foreseeable future," Russia smiled. It faded as his eyes swept over America's face. A flicker of alarm, then, right between Russia's eyebrows, and he dropped to his knees in front of America. "I'm sorry," he breathed. "I didn't think--" He touched the back of America's hand with gentle fingertips. "No. No, of course not."
America dropped his knees to the floor in a tangle and hung his head. "I've been listening to it all day--" he threw a loose gesture towards one of the deepest heaps of debris. Softly, from somewhere underneath it, was a radio emitting a sweet beep...beep...beep. "I-I guess I sh-should congratulate you or, or something..." A sharp, shuddering breath, and he whipped off his glasses and ground the heels of his hands into his eyes.
Russia reached out and took his wrists, so gentle. He lifted America's hands slowly away from his face. "America." It was soft, careful. "What's the matter?"
America twisted their hands together. "You're in space!" he cried. A sick shudder swept down his back. "I, I, I can't even get a stupid three pound satellite in space, and you just throw up this three hundred pound spikey beach ball and don't even make a big deal out of it, like it's--like it's--not--even a big deal!" His fingers curled. "A-and I've been listening to it all day!"
Beep...beep...beep...
Russia tightened his hold on America's hands and tugged him forward. "It's just a satellite," he murmured. "Not a man. Or even an animal. It's an amazing thing, but...there's nothing truly special about sending a hunk of metal into space."
Just beyond his voice, barely muffled, Sputnik went on singing.
"Yes there is." America collapsed forward, his forehead in the crook of Russia's shoulder. "A-and my people are scared, and...and..."
"Shh." Russia hushed him, kissed into his hair. His arms wound tight around America's ribs, and he soothed his fingers down the ditch of his spine, crooning shyly under his breath. "Do you think that I would hurt you?"
There's a wrenching little silence. "No," America mumbled. Which wasn't true, exactly, but Russia didn't mean 'would he hurt him;' America knew that. Russia was asking if America thought Russia would kill him, and America didn't.
He hooked his fingers into Russia's shirt and let out a long, uneven breath. "But they're--my people--still scared. They...they thought I was..."
A long silence. And then, so quiet: "Doing better than I am."
One of Russia's heavy hands rubbed deep circles into the small of America's back. "They thought you would make it there first," he murmured.
"Well yeah, but..." America shrugged. He was pretty sure that both of their peoples were convinced that their country would make it to everything first. "I just...I'm not even close, Russia." He arched back into his hand, then looked up into the other nation's eyes. "It's not like I'm trying to pick a fight or anything," he pleaded, because he wasn't, he really wasn't. "And, and my boss is calm about the whole thing and...y-you just don't know..." He squeezed his eyes shut and hid in Russia's shoulder again.
Russia rested his cheek against America's hair, kept touching him, tracing his shoulder blades, the backs of his hips, the nape of his neck. They shifted closer into one another, knees bumping. Russia's right thigh pressed against the outside of America's left one. "Remember that story I told you," he murmured finally. "In Berlin? About the serf who wanted to fly with wooden wings?"
America relaxed an inch under Russia's hands. "Yeah, and he died horribly or something. All your stories end like that."
A soft laugh. "Yes, he did. Because no one can fly with wings like that. He wasn't ready. But maybe if he had waited longer, had some patience, he wouldn't have fallen." Russia stroked the side of America's neck with two fingertips. "That's what you need. You need to be patient. Space isn't going to disappear before you can touch it."
America was quiet for a minute while he felt something old and cold and deep as a mine shaft tunnel deeper and deeper through his stomach. "I just want to fly more than anything," he mumbled. He peeled back a few inches and looked up, lost, into Russia's face. He wet his lips. "I mean, all my life." He winced a smile. "I remember when I was a little kid, you know...England asked me if I wanted to grow up to be a colony. And I said no, I didn't want to grow up to be a colony. I wanted to grow up to be a bird."
Something immeasurably tender touched on in Russia's eyes, hung there like the glow of a candle in a dark room. He cupped America's face in his hand and traced his fingertips into the hollow beneath his jaw. "You're still growing," he breathed. "One hundred and seventy-six years isn't an eternity, no matter how much it feels like it is....You have time to learn to fly, ptenchik." This last was barely audible.
America flushed and looked down. "I-I thought when I made airplanes, that was it, that was the most free I'd ever get, but...then there were all those books in the 20s that talked about going to the other side of the sky, and...and Russia..." His voice twisted off around a fresh sting of tears.
Russia drew him in closer, touched a kiss to each of his eyelids. "This doesn't mean that beyond the sky belongs to me, now." A pause, and Russia tipped America's chin up, held his gaze. "I won’t take this from you. I swear."
America wrapped his arms around his waist. "I-I know, space is--space is free for everybody, just..." A long silence, and then a hard shudder. "I wish I could trade with you!" He didn't know if this was something it was all right to say, and it didn't bear up to any kind of examination or reason, it was all just feeling, but-- "I wish--so you got the bomb first, and, and I could go to space, because--because--and I know I'm just being s-stupid, because it's just a big shiny beach ball and it doesn't do anything but go 'beep, but--! But I-I've been listening to it, all, all day, and--! And I would give anything--!" A wet and heaving breath.
"I know," Russia whispered. "I know. I...I understand. America..." He nudged a soft breath into the hollow of America's neck and shoulder, and America could feel him tremble, once, all over. "When you...when you got the bomb... I wanted it so badly that I couldn't breathe. It was everything I'd ever wished for...And you had it and you acted as though you didn't appreciate it." He kissed the turn of his jaw. "I understand."
"I understand," America echoed, miserable. He buried his face in Russia's hair, clung to him. "If you--if you get there first; if you get to space first, I mean, like a person;" he exhaled sharply. "It's probably gonna turn into some huge political thing and I don't even know what'll happen after that, but--but no matter what happens--" he curled his fingers into the back of Russia's shirt. "You h-have to tell me what it was like, okay?" He shut his eyes. "I-I want to know what it looks like."
Russia's hands never stilled on America's back. They had drifted over every inch of it, wide and strong and calming, but they kept traveling, kept urging little twinges of breath past America's lips. "I will. I promise. I'll...I'll tell you what the stars look like from up there."
America blinked, hot and wet. "You can't break this promise," he whispered.
Russia held his gaze, and his expression was gentler than America had ever seen it. "I won't."
+++
--Sputnik 1 was the first Earth-orbiting artificial satellite, launched into an elliptical low Earth orbit by the Soviet Union on October 4, 1957. The satellite was approximately 23 inches in diameter and weighed 184 pounds; for comparison purposes, at the same time, the United States was struggling (and failing) to put a 3 pound scientific satellite into orbit. Two months later, the Soviet Union ended even the most tenuous impressions of parity between the two nations when it launched Sputnik 2, which weighed more than 1,100 pounds and even carried a living passenger (a mongrel dog named Laika). The American public response to these developments was near-panic: there was a genuine fear that the Soviet Union would use its superior rocket technology to bomb the United States from orbit. President Dwight D. Eisenhower, however, was calm at the outset of the Space Race, since by moving first and without international consensus, the Soviet Union had set the precedent for free use of outer space.
Rather endearingly, the Soviet Union itself did not seem to be aware of the enormity of its own accomplishment when Sputnik 1 was first launched; the event only received a brief column halfway down the front page of Pravda, the official Communist Party daily newspaper. It wasn't until after the Soviet government took note of the hysterical reaction in the West that Pravda carried the banner headline "World's First Artificial Satellite of Earth Created in Soviet Nation."
In other news, we are having an event to celebrate reaching 50 chapters! We hope you guys will have fun with it!
+++
Please read our Rules & FAQ before posting. / Пожалуйста, прочтите Правила и FAQ прежде чем комментировать.
Got something to say to the boys about what just went down? Shoot them a letter.
This is a chapter from The Chosen End, a Russia/America collaboration spanning from 1780 to the present day. You can read all of the fics in this story at the Index.