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hetalia2009-12-22 03:35 am
inner-wings.livejournal.com) wrote in hetalia2009-12-22 03:35 am
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[Fanfic] Let it Snow! Chapter 7
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Title: Let it Snow!
Author/Artist: inner_wings
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Russia, America, Russia/America, various past bosses mentioned
Rating: PG/PG-13
Warnings: Drunken countries, America quoting Moby-Dick and referring to the Bolsheviks as 'a bunch of a-holes.'
Summary: An innocent invitation to the ballet turns into more than America and Russia bargained for. Chapter Seven: In which large quantities of alcohol are consumed.
America's house was nowhere near cold enough to get even the smallest shiver out of Russia, but the warmth the vodka brought was welcome all the same. That was the nicest part of alcohol, how it made things pleasantly warm and slow. Of course, large quantities of alcohol also tended to make it a little harder to do some of the more complicated things in life, like walking, but Russia had a lot of experience being drunk. When you had that kind of experience, you could get pretty good at learning how to function when your brain was saturated with 100 proof vodka. For example, Russia didn't make silly amateur-drunk mistakes, like vomiting on someone's shoes or taking a piss in a closet. Unless he wanted to, because some people did deserve to have their shoes vomited on and their closet pissed in. Russia could think of at least five off the top of his head. Maybe he should make a list.
The unfortunate thing was that no matter how much experience a person had with drunkenness, a certain number of drinks would inevitably cause the filter between brain and mouth to dissolve. Russia didn't realize that he had been monologuing until America slumped against his shoulder with a giggle, nearly spilling his whiskey.
“You're so funny,” he slurred. “You're a funny guy. I'm not on your list, right?”
“I took you off, after you bought me vodka,” Russia informed him, taking another swig of said beverage.
“Mighty kind of you.”
“I am always kind.”
“Pfft!”
“What?”
“What what?”
“You just 'pfft'ed at me. I demand to know why.”
“'Cause you're not nice at aaaall, man.”
Russia considered this, swishing the remaining vodka in his bottle around. There was much less than when the evening began. “Da, not nice. I am a...” He paused, fumbled for a word, and settled on “mean person.”
“Naw, you're not all bad. Like, earlier. 'Member earlier? You helped me decorate my tree and shit. Oh wait. Are you, like...allowed to have a tree?”
“Have a tree where? I think I am allowed to have a tree. Unless I steal it. But I don't steal trees. I have standards.”
“So your boss is lettin' you have Christmas trees again? 'Cause I remember you talkin' a while back about how your Bolsh-...Bol...revolution dudes were all like, 'you can't have Christmas trees no more, 'cause we're not doing religion and shit like that.' What a bunch of a-holes.”
“That was...uh, one, two...almost eighty years ago. I think. And then Stalin let me have trees again for the new year. That was nice.”
“Aw, Uncle Joe? But letting you have a tree is like...a not-douchey thing to do. Seriously out of character for him. Okay, we're not talking about him. Totally killing my good mood.”
“What do you want to talk about, then?”
“Uh...” America scratched his chin, and then took another gulp of whiskey. Russia watched his Adam's apple bob. “Okay, who was your favorite boss?”
“Why?”
“'Cause it's as good a thing as any to talk about, so spill.”
“Mm,” Russia hummed thoughtfully, leaning back into the couch cushions. “I liked Catherine a lot. But she was always...how to say it...trying to make me be more cultured. Or polite. Or something. 'Wipe your boots before you come inside, Ivan! Your scarf isn't a napkin, Ivan! Don't be so loud when we have sex, Ivan, the whole Winter Palace can hear you.'”
America dissolved into giggles again. “Oh dude. She had you whipped.”
“Not whipped,” Russia huffed, starting to fold his arms before he remembered he was still holding a bottle of vodka and would have spilled it all over his sweater. “I was...the opposite of whipped. What is the opposite of whipped? Because that is what I was.”
“Suuure,” America drawled. “See, I didn't have that kinda problem, 'cause I never banged any of my bosses. Not that I didn't want to. I mean, dude. Teddy. Teddy was awesome. That was a real American man, right there. And JFK,” he sighed sadly. “I fuckin' loved his smile, y'know? But he was all Catholic. It wouldn't have worked, even if he had lived. Sucks, right? The ones you can't have.”
“Da,” Russia agreed sadly. “I wanted Peter, my first Peter. He was so tall. And...what is the word...big personality, da? But I was never good enough. Never European enough.” He took another long gulp of vodka to take the sting out. He hated feeling inferior, hated that Europe would always be something he wasn't, something he could never be.
“Fuck Europe,” America growled. “Who wants to be European? Fuck that, man. You and me, we don't need that shit. Jus' do our own thing, am I right?”
Even dulled by alcohol, America seemed to burn. He probably felt the same bitterness, Russia realized. Always the outsider, always the other, just like Russia.
“I will drink to that,” he said, holding his bottle out. America tried to clink their bottles together, missed the first time and almost shattered both the bottles with sheer force on the second try.
“Cheers!” America crowed happily before taking another sip of his whiskey and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “Know what? Hey Russia. Russia. You know what?”
“What?”
“We should team up. Seriously. The whole world would be just...nothing against the two of us. We could be...I dunno. Amerussia.”
“Russiamerica.”
“Fuck no, my name is not going after yours.”
“I would not have minded,” Russia mumbled. “I would not have minded being...being with you. Like that.”
“Yeah, it would have been cool if we were partners,” America sighed. “I just...wish we could go back and not do the whole Cold War thing, y'know? It just fucked stuff up. Why did we ever fight? That was stupid.” He stopped for a minute, and Russia was about to agree with him, it was stupid, it all seemed so stupid and pointless now, but America started talking again before he got the words out. “But I had this whole thing planned out. How it was going to end, if we killed each other. If we really did take it all the way to the end of everything, I wanted to say, 'to the last I grapple with thee; from hell's heart I stab at thee; for hate's sake I spit my last breath at thee.' I had it all planned out, I was gonna say that to you, right at the end.”
Russia stopped, bottle halfway to his mouth and stared at America. America stared back.
“'Cause it's a kick-ass line, right?” America tried to explain, waving his bottle so dramatically that he almost smacked Russia in the face. “Don't you, like...want to have an awesome line to say at times like that? It sounds awesome, but you gotta have the perfect moment for it, or you just look like a dumb ass. And like, I wanna have the perfect moment to say, 'here's lookin' at you, kid,' but the timing's never right for it. But I wanna say it to someone. Just 'cause. Best romantic line ever. I don't even know what it means, that's how romantic it is.”
“You can say it to me,” Russia blurted out. A little warning bell went off in his head, reminding him not to say these things that could give anything away. He ignored it; America was still leaning against his arm, so close and warm and...and drunk. America wouldn't notice.
“Say what?” America asked, looking up at him curiously. His glasses were slightly crooked. Russia wanted to pull them off.
“That line. That line you wanted to say.”
“Naw, not the right moment-”
“For practice, then?”
America went still, and for a single terrifying second it felt like he had seen through everything. But then he grinned sloppily and chuckled. “Awright, practice. C'mere, big guy.” America leaned closer, steadying himself against Russia's shoulder and cupping the older country's chin in one hand, pulling their faces closer. “Here's lookin' at you, kid.” He leaned back and laughed as soon as he said it, which was just as well; Russia might have been tempted to kiss him if they stayed there too long.
“Perfect,” Russia whispered, and quickly took another drink of vodka. His throat had gone dry.
America frowned at him, squinting slightly. “What's up with you, huh? You're looking all weird.”
“Not weird,” Russia insisted, hiding his discomfort behind another drink.
“Uh huh, weird. You're always like this, dude. Like...secrety. Secretive, yeah. Why can't you just tell me what's up, maaan.”
“Nothing is up.”
“Then why're you making that face? C'mon, tell me your secret.”
“Can't,” Russia said sadly, before swallowing the last of the vodka.
“Why noooot?” America whined.
“Because....because...it would be bad, da?”
“Naw, it wouldn't. Look, I'll tell you a secret, okay? Then you gotta tell me yours.”
“I do not want your secret. Probably something silly.”
“Uh uh, my secret is a big deal. Okay. Brace yourself. Sometimes, I pretend I'm Canada when I go out. 'Cause, y'know...people hate me. But they don't hate him. So, easier, right?”
“I-I knew that,” Russia said, caught off guard by how sad America suddenly looked. “I already knew that.”
“You did? Fuuuck, man. Not cool.”
“And I want to do it too, da? Pretend I'm someone else. My people do, sometimes, like yours. Pretend they're Ukrainian, or something. Anything but Russian. And-and I would too, if I was a woman. I'd pretend to be her. Not me. I don't like me.”
“Well shit, I like you,” America said flatly, dropping his bottle to the ground. It wasn't completely empty, and spilled whiskey on the carpet. “You better not pretend to be Ukraine around me. 'Cause that would be lame. And weird.”
“Then you can't be Canada around me, da? Only fair.”
“Only if you tell me your goddamn secret already.”
“I told you a secret.”
“But not the secret. Not why you...you go all weird and quiet sometimes, and give me this look and just...act strange, more and more. I wanna know why.”
“Why?” Russia groaned, wishing he had more vodka. He had gone through the whole bottle, but that wasn't enough to drown out the ache and need in his chest. It was only enough to make him stupidly talkative and honest. Dammit.
“'Cause I want to know what's wrong. So I can fix it.”
America had gotten heart breakingly close again, close enough to touch and yet completely off limits.
“Can't fix this,” Russia muttered, looking away. “Not you, not me.”
“How d'ya know that? Let me try, you stupid...stupid.” He grabbed Russia's chin again, forcing him to face America once more. His eyes were so terribly, beautifully blue behind his glasses. Stupid glasses, hiding those eyes from Russia.
“I hate your glasses,” Russia suddenly blurted out, clumsily trying to pull them off America's face. America tried to swat his hands away, but Russia managed to grab them and drop them to the floor.
“I need those, dumb-ass,” America grumbled. “And that wasn't your secret. Gimme my glasses and talk.”
“Can't,” Russia moaned. “It-it will ruin everything. Can't. You won't like me anymore if I told you. Won't be my friend.”
“I will too! C'mon, just tell meee.”
“Nyet,” Russia said, but America was leaning in again, and their noses were almost touching, and those blue eyes were so...so...everything, there didn't seem to be anything else in the whole world except those eyes. Nothing else seemed to matter.
“Ya lyublyu tebya.” The words just slipped out, and a thousand warning bells went off in his head, telling him to stop right now, America probably didn't know what that meant, he was still safe, but for that brief moment, he just didn't care anymore. “I love you,” he translated. “Always, always, but I can't say that or everything will be...”
Those beautiful blue eyes went impossibly wide, and the magnitude of what had just happened finally clicked in Russia's head. He had said it. Really said it, out loud. And America had heard it, and understood and...and everything was over now.
“Your stupid eyes,” Russia muttered, choking on a laugh that felt more like a sob. “Your stupid, beautiful eyes, they made me say it, they've ruined everything.” And because it was all over anyway and he was too drunk to care if it made things worse, he seized America's collar and kissed him.
Historical Notes:
Oh hey, there are some history bits this time! Christmas trees were banned for a short period of time in Russia after the October Revolution, but the ban was repealed by Stalin (one of the very few not-horrible things he did, apparently.) The trees became a New Years tradition, and the star at the top was said to represent the red star instead of the Star of Bethlehem.
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Title: Let it Snow!
Author/Artist: inner_wings
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Russia, America, Russia/America, various past bosses mentioned
Rating: PG/PG-13
Warnings: Drunken countries, America quoting Moby-Dick and referring to the Bolsheviks as 'a bunch of a-holes.'
Summary: An innocent invitation to the ballet turns into more than America and Russia bargained for. Chapter Seven: In which large quantities of alcohol are consumed.
America's house was nowhere near cold enough to get even the smallest shiver out of Russia, but the warmth the vodka brought was welcome all the same. That was the nicest part of alcohol, how it made things pleasantly warm and slow. Of course, large quantities of alcohol also tended to make it a little harder to do some of the more complicated things in life, like walking, but Russia had a lot of experience being drunk. When you had that kind of experience, you could get pretty good at learning how to function when your brain was saturated with 100 proof vodka. For example, Russia didn't make silly amateur-drunk mistakes, like vomiting on someone's shoes or taking a piss in a closet. Unless he wanted to, because some people did deserve to have their shoes vomited on and their closet pissed in. Russia could think of at least five off the top of his head. Maybe he should make a list.
The unfortunate thing was that no matter how much experience a person had with drunkenness, a certain number of drinks would inevitably cause the filter between brain and mouth to dissolve. Russia didn't realize that he had been monologuing until America slumped against his shoulder with a giggle, nearly spilling his whiskey.
“You're so funny,” he slurred. “You're a funny guy. I'm not on your list, right?”
“I took you off, after you bought me vodka,” Russia informed him, taking another swig of said beverage.
“Mighty kind of you.”
“I am always kind.”
“Pfft!”
“What?”
“What what?”
“You just 'pfft'ed at me. I demand to know why.”
“'Cause you're not nice at aaaall, man.”
Russia considered this, swishing the remaining vodka in his bottle around. There was much less than when the evening began. “Da, not nice. I am a...” He paused, fumbled for a word, and settled on “mean person.”
“Naw, you're not all bad. Like, earlier. 'Member earlier? You helped me decorate my tree and shit. Oh wait. Are you, like...allowed to have a tree?”
“Have a tree where? I think I am allowed to have a tree. Unless I steal it. But I don't steal trees. I have standards.”
“So your boss is lettin' you have Christmas trees again? 'Cause I remember you talkin' a while back about how your Bolsh-...Bol...revolution dudes were all like, 'you can't have Christmas trees no more, 'cause we're not doing religion and shit like that.' What a bunch of a-holes.”
“That was...uh, one, two...almost eighty years ago. I think. And then Stalin let me have trees again for the new year. That was nice.”
“Aw, Uncle Joe? But letting you have a tree is like...a not-douchey thing to do. Seriously out of character for him. Okay, we're not talking about him. Totally killing my good mood.”
“What do you want to talk about, then?”
“Uh...” America scratched his chin, and then took another gulp of whiskey. Russia watched his Adam's apple bob. “Okay, who was your favorite boss?”
“Why?”
“'Cause it's as good a thing as any to talk about, so spill.”
“Mm,” Russia hummed thoughtfully, leaning back into the couch cushions. “I liked Catherine a lot. But she was always...how to say it...trying to make me be more cultured. Or polite. Or something. 'Wipe your boots before you come inside, Ivan! Your scarf isn't a napkin, Ivan! Don't be so loud when we have sex, Ivan, the whole Winter Palace can hear you.'”
America dissolved into giggles again. “Oh dude. She had you whipped.”
“Not whipped,” Russia huffed, starting to fold his arms before he remembered he was still holding a bottle of vodka and would have spilled it all over his sweater. “I was...the opposite of whipped. What is the opposite of whipped? Because that is what I was.”
“Suuure,” America drawled. “See, I didn't have that kinda problem, 'cause I never banged any of my bosses. Not that I didn't want to. I mean, dude. Teddy. Teddy was awesome. That was a real American man, right there. And JFK,” he sighed sadly. “I fuckin' loved his smile, y'know? But he was all Catholic. It wouldn't have worked, even if he had lived. Sucks, right? The ones you can't have.”
“Da,” Russia agreed sadly. “I wanted Peter, my first Peter. He was so tall. And...what is the word...big personality, da? But I was never good enough. Never European enough.” He took another long gulp of vodka to take the sting out. He hated feeling inferior, hated that Europe would always be something he wasn't, something he could never be.
“Fuck Europe,” America growled. “Who wants to be European? Fuck that, man. You and me, we don't need that shit. Jus' do our own thing, am I right?”
Even dulled by alcohol, America seemed to burn. He probably felt the same bitterness, Russia realized. Always the outsider, always the other, just like Russia.
“I will drink to that,” he said, holding his bottle out. America tried to clink their bottles together, missed the first time and almost shattered both the bottles with sheer force on the second try.
“Cheers!” America crowed happily before taking another sip of his whiskey and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “Know what? Hey Russia. Russia. You know what?”
“What?”
“We should team up. Seriously. The whole world would be just...nothing against the two of us. We could be...I dunno. Amerussia.”
“Russiamerica.”
“Fuck no, my name is not going after yours.”
“I would not have minded,” Russia mumbled. “I would not have minded being...being with you. Like that.”
“Yeah, it would have been cool if we were partners,” America sighed. “I just...wish we could go back and not do the whole Cold War thing, y'know? It just fucked stuff up. Why did we ever fight? That was stupid.” He stopped for a minute, and Russia was about to agree with him, it was stupid, it all seemed so stupid and pointless now, but America started talking again before he got the words out. “But I had this whole thing planned out. How it was going to end, if we killed each other. If we really did take it all the way to the end of everything, I wanted to say, 'to the last I grapple with thee; from hell's heart I stab at thee; for hate's sake I spit my last breath at thee.' I had it all planned out, I was gonna say that to you, right at the end.”
Russia stopped, bottle halfway to his mouth and stared at America. America stared back.
“'Cause it's a kick-ass line, right?” America tried to explain, waving his bottle so dramatically that he almost smacked Russia in the face. “Don't you, like...want to have an awesome line to say at times like that? It sounds awesome, but you gotta have the perfect moment for it, or you just look like a dumb ass. And like, I wanna have the perfect moment to say, 'here's lookin' at you, kid,' but the timing's never right for it. But I wanna say it to someone. Just 'cause. Best romantic line ever. I don't even know what it means, that's how romantic it is.”
“You can say it to me,” Russia blurted out. A little warning bell went off in his head, reminding him not to say these things that could give anything away. He ignored it; America was still leaning against his arm, so close and warm and...and drunk. America wouldn't notice.
“Say what?” America asked, looking up at him curiously. His glasses were slightly crooked. Russia wanted to pull them off.
“That line. That line you wanted to say.”
“Naw, not the right moment-”
“For practice, then?”
America went still, and for a single terrifying second it felt like he had seen through everything. But then he grinned sloppily and chuckled. “Awright, practice. C'mere, big guy.” America leaned closer, steadying himself against Russia's shoulder and cupping the older country's chin in one hand, pulling their faces closer. “Here's lookin' at you, kid.” He leaned back and laughed as soon as he said it, which was just as well; Russia might have been tempted to kiss him if they stayed there too long.
“Perfect,” Russia whispered, and quickly took another drink of vodka. His throat had gone dry.
America frowned at him, squinting slightly. “What's up with you, huh? You're looking all weird.”
“Not weird,” Russia insisted, hiding his discomfort behind another drink.
“Uh huh, weird. You're always like this, dude. Like...secrety. Secretive, yeah. Why can't you just tell me what's up, maaan.”
“Nothing is up.”
“Then why're you making that face? C'mon, tell me your secret.”
“Can't,” Russia said sadly, before swallowing the last of the vodka.
“Why noooot?” America whined.
“Because....because...it would be bad, da?”
“Naw, it wouldn't. Look, I'll tell you a secret, okay? Then you gotta tell me yours.”
“I do not want your secret. Probably something silly.”
“Uh uh, my secret is a big deal. Okay. Brace yourself. Sometimes, I pretend I'm Canada when I go out. 'Cause, y'know...people hate me. But they don't hate him. So, easier, right?”
“I-I knew that,” Russia said, caught off guard by how sad America suddenly looked. “I already knew that.”
“You did? Fuuuck, man. Not cool.”
“And I want to do it too, da? Pretend I'm someone else. My people do, sometimes, like yours. Pretend they're Ukrainian, or something. Anything but Russian. And-and I would too, if I was a woman. I'd pretend to be her. Not me. I don't like me.”
“Well shit, I like you,” America said flatly, dropping his bottle to the ground. It wasn't completely empty, and spilled whiskey on the carpet. “You better not pretend to be Ukraine around me. 'Cause that would be lame. And weird.”
“Then you can't be Canada around me, da? Only fair.”
“Only if you tell me your goddamn secret already.”
“I told you a secret.”
“But not the secret. Not why you...you go all weird and quiet sometimes, and give me this look and just...act strange, more and more. I wanna know why.”
“Why?” Russia groaned, wishing he had more vodka. He had gone through the whole bottle, but that wasn't enough to drown out the ache and need in his chest. It was only enough to make him stupidly talkative and honest. Dammit.
“'Cause I want to know what's wrong. So I can fix it.”
America had gotten heart breakingly close again, close enough to touch and yet completely off limits.
“Can't fix this,” Russia muttered, looking away. “Not you, not me.”
“How d'ya know that? Let me try, you stupid...stupid.” He grabbed Russia's chin again, forcing him to face America once more. His eyes were so terribly, beautifully blue behind his glasses. Stupid glasses, hiding those eyes from Russia.
“I hate your glasses,” Russia suddenly blurted out, clumsily trying to pull them off America's face. America tried to swat his hands away, but Russia managed to grab them and drop them to the floor.
“I need those, dumb-ass,” America grumbled. “And that wasn't your secret. Gimme my glasses and talk.”
“Can't,” Russia moaned. “It-it will ruin everything. Can't. You won't like me anymore if I told you. Won't be my friend.”
“I will too! C'mon, just tell meee.”
“Nyet,” Russia said, but America was leaning in again, and their noses were almost touching, and those blue eyes were so...so...everything, there didn't seem to be anything else in the whole world except those eyes. Nothing else seemed to matter.
“Ya lyublyu tebya.” The words just slipped out, and a thousand warning bells went off in his head, telling him to stop right now, America probably didn't know what that meant, he was still safe, but for that brief moment, he just didn't care anymore. “I love you,” he translated. “Always, always, but I can't say that or everything will be...”
Those beautiful blue eyes went impossibly wide, and the magnitude of what had just happened finally clicked in Russia's head. He had said it. Really said it, out loud. And America had heard it, and understood and...and everything was over now.
“Your stupid eyes,” Russia muttered, choking on a laugh that felt more like a sob. “Your stupid, beautiful eyes, they made me say it, they've ruined everything.” And because it was all over anyway and he was too drunk to care if it made things worse, he seized America's collar and kissed him.
Historical Notes:
Oh hey, there are some history bits this time! Christmas trees were banned for a short period of time in Russia after the October Revolution, but the ban was repealed by Stalin (one of the very few not-horrible things he did, apparently.) The trees became a New Years tradition, and the star at the top was said to represent the red star instead of the Star of Bethlehem.