27 - V For Victory
Title: V For Victory
Characters: Russia/America.
Rating: PG-13.
Summary: 1945 - VE Day ushers celebration into the streets of Berlin. Russia receives a kiss, America smokes, and the future looms between them.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
Berlin, Germany. May 8, 1945
People were screaming in the streets, swarming along the sidewalks and against shop windows, a single roaring mass of faces and bodies and open mouths.
But this was different.
Finally, finally, they were shouts of joy, and the flailing arms were moving to embrace, to cheer, to wave red flags. Russia let himself fall in with the crowd, faceless, nameless, ecstatic. He was crushed on all sides by civilians and soldiers alike, and--he'd forgotten how sweet victory tasted. His flag (God, wasn't it beautiful?) fluttered over the Reichstag, red and gold and brilliant against the muted grays of rubble and the defeated sky. A young soldier off to his left was swept into the arms of a girl he'd clearly never seen before in his life for a kiss, and a small cheer broke out, swelling for an instant over the thundering mob.
Russia grinned. He couldn't help it. To see his people happy--it was the greatest joy a nation could experience.
A hand threaded suddenly into the crook of his elbow, and he was spun around. He caught a brief glimpse of another girl, all brown eyes and golden hair, before she flung her arms around his neck and kissed him soundly on the mouth. He quelled a laugh, and, borne up on the spirit of the thing, kissed her back.
A flash went off in his face, and the girl squealed in surprise and whipped to face it. A Hollywood grin peered over the wide black box of a camera, and the photographer--journalist--America shouted over the din, "You won't get in trouble with your parents if this turns up in the newspaper, will you, miss?"
"Dazhe amerikantsy segodnya zasluzhivayut potselui!" the girl cheered, and launched herself from Russia's arms into America's. He staggered back, laughed, caught her, and accepted a kiss on the cheek before she whirled away into the crowd. Even Americans deserve a kiss today. Russia supposed they just might.
That grin swept up towards him. "I figured the only people who'd get here faster than the army would be the press corps--" was all America said, and then they were embracing, in public but--but everyone else already was.
Russia decided it didn't matter. He buried his face in the curve of America's neck, kissed him where no one could see it. "You look like a character from one of your films," he laughed. "A real journalist would be offended."
"Good thing I don't think there was a single real journalist in the--" the words got drowned out, but they weren't important. America pressed his fingers into Russia's hair and clung to him. It was--going on a little longer, now, a little tighter than the people around them, and America seemed to realize it, too, because he pulled back and clapped his hands on Russia's shoulders. He was smiling so wide it must hurt. "God, I've never been so happy to see that fucking flag--"
The hammer and sickle flared out on a cross breeze as America spoke, and Russia's eyes flickered up to it. Then he reached up and wrapped his hand tightly around the other nation's forearm. He felt lightheaded with joy. "I was up on that roof, steadying the man who hung it, and it was--I couldn't--couldn't believe--" He broke off, because the words wouldn't ever be able to come fast enough.
America hugged him fiercely with the camera pinched between their chests and whispered something against his ear that got lost in the roar. Then he peeled back and grabbed Russia's hand, pulled him away into the crowd-- "Come on!"
Russia hung back. Stalin was speaking, soon, and he expected Russia to be there at his side. "My boss needs me, America. I can't just wander off." He had to shout to be heard.
America threw an eyeroll over his shoulder and tugged harder. "Look at this place, it's a madhouse! You can just say you got lost."
The thought of standing in front of his boss and using "getting lost" as an excuse made his stomach churn. But--America was right here, grinning and insistent, with the beginnings of a sunburn on the bridge of his nose. Suddenly Russia's chest hurt.
America watched him for a second, and then pulled himself against him. He captured the line of Russia's face, his fingertips wound into his hair, and he said from an inch away, their eyes fixed on one another, "It's the most important day of the century, Russia; I want you to spend it with me."
Russia's lips parted, but he couldn't think of anything to say. He looped his arm around America's back instead, and held their bodies together, only for a moment. The throng surged around them, fast and hard, and an elbow knocked into the small of Russia's back. The force was just enough to urge his mouth across that last inch of space and against America's.
America returned it, hot, open-mouthed and urgent, just for a few seconds, and then he wrenched back, laughing. "Come on, I'm not actually trying to get you in trouble--if we hurry we can break into a hotel or something ahead of the rush."
They broke apart, gripping each other's wrists, and shouldered their way through the teeming mass of soldiers and revelers. There were laughs, shouts of recognition, snatches of music--his music, loud and pure. But Russia only noticed his flag blazing against the clouds, and America's pulse thumping under his fingers.
+
Nightfall, and they had managed to cover each other with the better sort of bruises.
When they had finally recovered enough to do anything besides clutch at each other and murmur against each other's skin, exhausted and delirious, they'd fumbled their clothes back on and staggered up too many flights of stairs to the roof. He had no idea where they were: some apartment building. America leaned against the railing beside him, one of Russia's cigarettes dangling from between his fingers. He turned a tired smile on him while the first fireworks lit his face up in gold. "It's almost over."
Russia grinned--he'd done more of that today than he had in the last three years--and took a drag on his own cigarette. "I know. This time last year I was sure it never would be." He looked over at America, at the tip of the other nation's tongue touching his cigarette, and shuddered on a little rush of heat. He reached out and pressed two fingers against a bruised ring of bites just above America's collar. Their overlapping skin glowed blue in the next explosion.
America closed his eyes and nuzzled the side of his face against Russia's hand. He was draped against the railing, his hips turned out and his toe propped behind his opposite heel, and America was never this unselfconscious, this relaxed. He fitted his hand under Russia's and raised Russia's fingers to his lips. "'S just Japan, now. And then--afterwards, you know? It's crazy to even think about it."
"He's not going to go down easily." Russia touched his thumb to the corner of America's mouth. "Germany didn't."
He thought of scrubbing Germany's blood out from under his fingernails, of the gorgeous crack as his boot connected with Germany's ribs...He couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed so long, so loud.
America bit the tip of his thumb and flicked a bit of ash onto the street below. "I know." Another wash of gold lit up the sky. "I'm ready, though."
Russia inspected the glowing tip of his cigarette, as bright as the fireworks when a breeze kicked across it. "My boss promised to help you, too. So you'll have m--us, on your side."
America smiled back at him and said deliberately, "You."
Russia's breath stopped. "I-I...Yes." He tried to pull himself together. "Me."
"Then I'm not worried." America took a last, deep drag, then sent the butt of the cigarette spinning down into darkness. There was what sounded like a thundercrack from overhead, and then a rain of red and white. America's fingertips slid across Russia's hand and crept into the hollows of his wrist. "And it sounds like this United Nations thing is really gonna take off, huh? I gotta say, I didn't think Uncle Joe would go for it right up until he did."
'Uncle Joe' was what the Americans called Stalin. America always said it in a tone of undisguised contempt.
Russia fixed his eyes up on the vibrant spray of fireworks and held his tongue. He turned his wrist gently in America's hand, exposed the soft underside for America's questing fingers.
He could tell America the truth, right now. Stalin's cooperation is a lie. Peace is not an option. Brace yourself for what's coming... But America's voice was rich with--hope. Russia couldn't bear to take that from him. Not today.
America pushed off the railing and stepped into him, dragged his lips along the line of Russia's jaw. America never touched his neck, but he kissed Russia's jaw and shoulders and ears enough that there must be some-- "It'll be nice to see more of you," he murmured.
Russia's eyes fluttered closed, and he wondered what America's mouth would feel like over his scars. Warm, insistent, maybe even bruising-- a sudden black terror blossomed in his gut, and his shoulders tightened. He crushed out the thought. "Will it?" he asked unsteadily, only half-aware of what he said.
America slid his arms around Russia's waist, his shoulders, and pulled him down until the tips of their noses touched. Russia could feel America's breath on his lips when he spoke. "Yeah." A small kiss, mouth closed. "I miss you."
"I miss...I-I don't--" Russia gave up. His lips brushed over each corner of America's mouth. He dropped a hand to his hip, nudged it under his wrinkled shirt. America's skin was warm beneath his fingers. He nestled his palm in the curve of the other nation's waist, turned his nails against his side, just a bit.
America inhaled, nuzzled into him. The sky lit up with gold and red, and America murmured against his ear, "Happy victory day, gorgeous."
Russia let another smile twitch across the line of his mouth. He replied over the ache in his heart, "Likewise--America."
+++
-Victory in Europe Day (V-E Day or VE Day) was on 8 May 1945, the date when the World War II Allies formally accepted the unconditional surrender of the armed forces of Nazi Germany and the end of Adolf Hitler's Third Reich. Millions of people, from London to Berlin, celebrated in the streets to mark the occasion.
-Want to see an awesome picture? Here. The Red Army hung the Soviet flag over the Reichstag after winning the Battle of Berlin.
+++
Please read our Rules & FAQ before posting. / Пожалуйста, прочтите Правила и FAQ прежде чем комментировать.
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-13.
Summary: 1945 - VE Day ushers celebration into the streets of Berlin. Russia receives a kiss, America smokes, and the future looms between them.
TCE is co-written by wizzard890 and pyrrhiccomedy.
---
Berlin, Germany. May 8, 1945
People were screaming in the streets, swarming along the sidewalks and against shop windows, a single roaring mass of faces and bodies and open mouths.
But this was different.
Finally, finally, they were shouts of joy, and the flailing arms were moving to embrace, to cheer, to wave red flags. Russia let himself fall in with the crowd, faceless, nameless, ecstatic. He was crushed on all sides by civilians and soldiers alike, and--he'd forgotten how sweet victory tasted. His flag (God, wasn't it beautiful?) fluttered over the Reichstag, red and gold and brilliant against the muted grays of rubble and the defeated sky. A young soldier off to his left was swept into the arms of a girl he'd clearly never seen before in his life for a kiss, and a small cheer broke out, swelling for an instant over the thundering mob.
Russia grinned. He couldn't help it. To see his people happy--it was the greatest joy a nation could experience.
A hand threaded suddenly into the crook of his elbow, and he was spun around. He caught a brief glimpse of another girl, all brown eyes and golden hair, before she flung her arms around his neck and kissed him soundly on the mouth. He quelled a laugh, and, borne up on the spirit of the thing, kissed her back.
A flash went off in his face, and the girl squealed in surprise and whipped to face it. A Hollywood grin peered over the wide black box of a camera, and the photographer--journalist--America shouted over the din, "You won't get in trouble with your parents if this turns up in the newspaper, will you, miss?"
"Dazhe amerikantsy segodnya zasluzhivayut potselui!" the girl cheered, and launched herself from Russia's arms into America's. He staggered back, laughed, caught her, and accepted a kiss on the cheek before she whirled away into the crowd. Even Americans deserve a kiss today. Russia supposed they just might.
That grin swept up towards him. "I figured the only people who'd get here faster than the army would be the press corps--" was all America said, and then they were embracing, in public but--but everyone else already was.
Russia decided it didn't matter. He buried his face in the curve of America's neck, kissed him where no one could see it. "You look like a character from one of your films," he laughed. "A real journalist would be offended."
"Good thing I don't think there was a single real journalist in the--" the words got drowned out, but they weren't important. America pressed his fingers into Russia's hair and clung to him. It was--going on a little longer, now, a little tighter than the people around them, and America seemed to realize it, too, because he pulled back and clapped his hands on Russia's shoulders. He was smiling so wide it must hurt. "God, I've never been so happy to see that fucking flag--"
The hammer and sickle flared out on a cross breeze as America spoke, and Russia's eyes flickered up to it. Then he reached up and wrapped his hand tightly around the other nation's forearm. He felt lightheaded with joy. "I was up on that roof, steadying the man who hung it, and it was--I couldn't--couldn't believe--" He broke off, because the words wouldn't ever be able to come fast enough.
America hugged him fiercely with the camera pinched between their chests and whispered something against his ear that got lost in the roar. Then he peeled back and grabbed Russia's hand, pulled him away into the crowd-- "Come on!"
Russia hung back. Stalin was speaking, soon, and he expected Russia to be there at his side. "My boss needs me, America. I can't just wander off." He had to shout to be heard.
America threw an eyeroll over his shoulder and tugged harder. "Look at this place, it's a madhouse! You can just say you got lost."
The thought of standing in front of his boss and using "getting lost" as an excuse made his stomach churn. But--America was right here, grinning and insistent, with the beginnings of a sunburn on the bridge of his nose. Suddenly Russia's chest hurt.
America watched him for a second, and then pulled himself against him. He captured the line of Russia's face, his fingertips wound into his hair, and he said from an inch away, their eyes fixed on one another, "It's the most important day of the century, Russia; I want you to spend it with me."
Russia's lips parted, but he couldn't think of anything to say. He looped his arm around America's back instead, and held their bodies together, only for a moment. The throng surged around them, fast and hard, and an elbow knocked into the small of Russia's back. The force was just enough to urge his mouth across that last inch of space and against America's.
America returned it, hot, open-mouthed and urgent, just for a few seconds, and then he wrenched back, laughing. "Come on, I'm not actually trying to get you in trouble--if we hurry we can break into a hotel or something ahead of the rush."
They broke apart, gripping each other's wrists, and shouldered their way through the teeming mass of soldiers and revelers. There were laughs, shouts of recognition, snatches of music--his music, loud and pure. But Russia only noticed his flag blazing against the clouds, and America's pulse thumping under his fingers.
+
Nightfall, and they had managed to cover each other with the better sort of bruises.
When they had finally recovered enough to do anything besides clutch at each other and murmur against each other's skin, exhausted and delirious, they'd fumbled their clothes back on and staggered up too many flights of stairs to the roof. He had no idea where they were: some apartment building. America leaned against the railing beside him, one of Russia's cigarettes dangling from between his fingers. He turned a tired smile on him while the first fireworks lit his face up in gold. "It's almost over."
Russia grinned--he'd done more of that today than he had in the last three years--and took a drag on his own cigarette. "I know. This time last year I was sure it never would be." He looked over at America, at the tip of the other nation's tongue touching his cigarette, and shuddered on a little rush of heat. He reached out and pressed two fingers against a bruised ring of bites just above America's collar. Their overlapping skin glowed blue in the next explosion.
America closed his eyes and nuzzled the side of his face against Russia's hand. He was draped against the railing, his hips turned out and his toe propped behind his opposite heel, and America was never this unselfconscious, this relaxed. He fitted his hand under Russia's and raised Russia's fingers to his lips. "'S just Japan, now. And then--afterwards, you know? It's crazy to even think about it."
"He's not going to go down easily." Russia touched his thumb to the corner of America's mouth. "Germany didn't."
He thought of scrubbing Germany's blood out from under his fingernails, of the gorgeous crack as his boot connected with Germany's ribs...He couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed so long, so loud.
America bit the tip of his thumb and flicked a bit of ash onto the street below. "I know." Another wash of gold lit up the sky. "I'm ready, though."
Russia inspected the glowing tip of his cigarette, as bright as the fireworks when a breeze kicked across it. "My boss promised to help you, too. So you'll have m--us, on your side."
America smiled back at him and said deliberately, "You."
Russia's breath stopped. "I-I...Yes." He tried to pull himself together. "Me."
"Then I'm not worried." America took a last, deep drag, then sent the butt of the cigarette spinning down into darkness. There was what sounded like a thundercrack from overhead, and then a rain of red and white. America's fingertips slid across Russia's hand and crept into the hollows of his wrist. "And it sounds like this United Nations thing is really gonna take off, huh? I gotta say, I didn't think Uncle Joe would go for it right up until he did."
'Uncle Joe' was what the Americans called Stalin. America always said it in a tone of undisguised contempt.
Russia fixed his eyes up on the vibrant spray of fireworks and held his tongue. He turned his wrist gently in America's hand, exposed the soft underside for America's questing fingers.
He could tell America the truth, right now. Stalin's cooperation is a lie. Peace is not an option. Brace yourself for what's coming... But America's voice was rich with--hope. Russia couldn't bear to take that from him. Not today.
America pushed off the railing and stepped into him, dragged his lips along the line of Russia's jaw. America never touched his neck, but he kissed Russia's jaw and shoulders and ears enough that there must be some-- "It'll be nice to see more of you," he murmured.
Russia's eyes fluttered closed, and he wondered what America's mouth would feel like over his scars. Warm, insistent, maybe even bruising-- a sudden black terror blossomed in his gut, and his shoulders tightened. He crushed out the thought. "Will it?" he asked unsteadily, only half-aware of what he said.
America slid his arms around Russia's waist, his shoulders, and pulled him down until the tips of their noses touched. Russia could feel America's breath on his lips when he spoke. "Yeah." A small kiss, mouth closed. "I miss you."
"I miss...I-I don't--" Russia gave up. His lips brushed over each corner of America's mouth. He dropped a hand to his hip, nudged it under his wrinkled shirt. America's skin was warm beneath his fingers. He nestled his palm in the curve of the other nation's waist, turned his nails against his side, just a bit.
America inhaled, nuzzled into him. The sky lit up with gold and red, and America murmured against his ear, "Happy victory day, gorgeous."
Russia let another smile twitch across the line of his mouth. He replied over the ache in his heart, "Likewise--America."
+++
-Victory in Europe Day (V-E Day or VE Day) was on 8 May 1945, the date when the World War II Allies formally accepted the unconditional surrender of the armed forces of Nazi Germany and the end of Adolf Hitler's Third Reich. Millions of people, from London to Berlin, celebrated in the streets to mark the occasion.
-Want to see an awesome picture? Here. The Red Army hung the Soviet flag over the Reichstag after winning the Battle of Berlin.
+++
Please read our Rules & FAQ before posting. / Пожалуйста, прочтите Правила и FAQ прежде чем комментировать.
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.