Prompt: Forgiveness.
1939. New York City.
Alfred hadn't been waiting too long for his friend by the time the latter finally showed up.
The buttered popcorn from the concession booth smelled heavenly, kind of expensive but not so pricey that it crippled him or anything, but honestly he was just glad to have money for it at all. If there was one thing he found absolute undying pleasure in, it was the cinema; however, his wallet had been empty for so long that he'd grown used to sneaking into the talkies illegally, just for a quick peek at the miraculous black-and-white images that would flutter across the screen. And they'd grown since then, not in size but in sound quality, in picture quality, the films in bright colors now so that one could actually feel like he could reach out and touch each strand of an actress's hair if he only dreamed hard enough.
The United States was still recovering from the recession that had crushed the nation just a few years ago, from the awful stock market crash of 1929, but the war in Europe was beginning to help him pull the economy back out of the gutters. The trembling in his hands was becoming less frequent as the war progressed, and his face was less pale than it had once been, his freckles beginning to once again stand out in small flecks of brown on his nose. The economy was certainly beginning to grow again, and for that he was more than grateful. Why not celebrate by inviting his best friend to the movies?
He turned with the bag in his hands once he caught sight of his friend, and held it with one hand as he lifted the other in a friendly wave.
Ivan's clothes looked heavy and thick, nothing like what one would wear for a quick outing in New York City, and his hands shook almost as much as Alfred's own had a few years previous. Alfred assumed the clothing was simply part of a fashion statement made by the expanding nation's people, and so didn't think much of it, and though the shaking worried him, he tried to ignore it. Nations all went through their sickly phases, and he was sure that Ivan's economy, too, would pick up soon enough.
"I was worried ya forgot," Alfred told him honestly, still half scrutinizing him, finding it strange to see Ivan so... no, he couldn't put an adjective to it.
At the sound of his voice, Ivan's shoulders jolted like he'd had a bucket of scalding oil dropped on him, and his startled gasp broke through the bubbling murmurs of the common citizens. "Oh," Ivan said, sounding almost relieved, and yet with a soft string of tension that went by almost undetected. But Alfred's ears were trained to catch every little uncommon fluctuation, and his eyebrows furrowed. "Oh, ah, hello, Ameri-"
A pause, and after a moment, Ivan drew in a calm breath and began again. "Privet, Alfred." His smile twitched and was gone again in the span of an instant. Strange, so strange. "I... I'm sorry; I didn't mean to make you wait," Ivan apologized softly, his eyes looking to the floor a moment, bashful and looking utterly nervous, like some sort of child expecting to be reprimanded. Alfred didn't understand, and was about to voice his concerns when his friend spoke up again. "Can we... can we go sit down?"
"Um... sure." Granted, Alfred hadn't been expecting Ivan to show up with this trembling manner about him, and a concern prickled his spine until he asked, "Hey, you alright? You seem kinda weird..."
Taking hold of Ivan's sleeve, he began to direct him toward the entrance to the theater, and found a nice spot for them to sit up near the top. In truth, he loved movies almost as much as he hated live performances - his hatred of theater only went as far as seeing things live, when the magic of the stage would seduce someone into distraction and the next thing you know... But not cinema. Cinema offered a magic of its own, a magic that allowed one to get bored, to get up and get more popcorn, to fall asleep with one's head on another's shoulder. Cinema, in short, was both more romantic and more safe than live performances.
In the back of his mind, he imagined taking Arthur to a place like this. Arthur liked performances, right? Plays, he assumed, which would be impossible. But wait until Arthur got a load of the beauty of film. He would put an arm around Arthur's shoulders, or perhaps rest his cheek atop Arthur's head, nuzzle into his hair, and they could be happy together for that few hours just like Alfred had always dreamed.
"I've never seen this one before, but it's new, and I heard it's swell." The explanation was simply to cover up the awkward silence, and his mind drifted to thinking about the changes in the both of them. A recovering United States, a failing Russia under a new government. "Real swell."
"I'm... I'm sure it is," Ivan responded roughly, and Alfred's heart sunk as he watched Ivan sit down with posture as stiff as a board, fingers together in what looked to be a painful lace. But in the next moment, Ivan looked down to those hands, and took a breath. "I suppose I'm being a lousy guest, da?" He didn't quite manage a laugh, which only worried Alfred further. "Can't quite... keep conversation."
It was a veiled apology, and Alfred cut in, "No... you're fine. You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to." Quick to assure him, and though he didn't want to pry, he was worried to the point of feeling sick all over again. He hated seeing his friends tearing themselves apart like this. "I mean, I'd prefer if you were on the level with me, but it's cool."
He held the popcorn a bit closer to himself, but then tipped it over in Ivan's direction as the lights began to dim lower, ready to start the film with the Disney reels first.
"Nice rags, by the way," Alfred spoke up with a smile. "Nifty. Professional."
"Rags?" There was an edge to Ivan's voice, as though it were an insult, but then he blinked and his shoulders relaxed. "Oh... is that some type of 'slang' term? I'm no good with American language. Always changing..." The next bit caught Alfred by surprise, Ivan's observation of, "You're so much stronger now than last we met. I'm... I'm so glad."
A bruised warmth shone through in Ivan's dark eyes, and a sort of warmth came over Alfred and into the soft blush in his face now. "Aw, applesauce," he laughed bashfully, smiling as he thought over the words. He'd always been strong, that buffalo-spinning strength never having dissipated, but never particularly muscular. His only real period of weakness, he remembered, were during the Civil War and then this stupid Depression chewing away at him, but he'd gotten better, more full, not hollow-looking like he'd been just a couple of years ago. "You'd look a lot better if you weren't so nervous. You look like you seen a ghost or somethin'." The lights dimmed further, and a projection began to flicker across the screen with a too-familiar signature.
"Better pipe down," he whispered. "Disney's starting."
Disney was another thing Alfred found immense pride in. Not only the cartoons themselves, with their smooth animation, their adorable appearance, their sound quality. No, but for the stories - in truth, Disney is what had gotten him through the recession at all. That and the swing dancing that had swept through. Thank God for entertainment, he thought, or he'd have lost his mind.
Ivan took a handful of popcorn and ate the kernels slowly, thoughtfully, and with that same warmth in his eyes again. Alfred wondered silently if Ivan had popcorn back in Russia. Probably not, he assumed, and felt so glad to share these American experiences with him. Ivan went stiff again and pulled his hand back, didn't take any more of it, and... maybe he didn't like it? He didn't know, could never be sure, so instead he focused on the screen, on the Mickey Mouse whistling and steering his steamboat along the water. The first one he'd ever seen, and the first one Russia will have ever seen too. The thought made his heart flutter with happiness.
When the cartoon ended, Alfred found himself laughing along with the crowd but with Ivan still stiff and shaking at his side. What was going on inside of that muddled head of his? The static was distracting for a moment as the employees loaded another projection, and... and then it was opening to the film, to music playing during the long opening credits, beautiful and uplifting music - and then, yes, Metro-Goldwyn-Meyer presents The Wizard of Oz.
A shot of Kansas; Alfred could tell from the abundance of farmland and flowers, not to mention the style of the girl's dress, a pretty checkered blue thing that fluttered about her knees. While the actress looked to be around his own age, or older, the character should have been no older than eleven. The same age he'd been in his Revolution.
Minutes passed, and soon the girl was crying... adults were scolding her, calling her an idiot, and Alfred gripped he popcorn bag tighter without really noticing he was doing so, shoveling a few fluffy kernels into his mouth as he waited for the plot to begin.
But then... music began to play, and the girl spoke, "Somewhere far, far away... behind the moon, beyond the rain..."
Nothing like what Ivan must have been used to. No deaths of family members, nothing like Tolstoy's jarring realities or Tchaikovsky's ballets about human tragedy; this was all the American fantasy that Alfred had wanted to provide Ivan with so long ago. A sweet song, sweet like liquid sugar over the tongue and sunshine through distant clouds, his heart swelling with it as he hopes Ivan's is too. A film about dreams; he could certainly relate. They both could.
Dorothy became swept into this mysterious land of Oz, her house landing heavily on the dictator of the nation, the munchkins perplexed and the Good Witch sending the girl off down on her own path. A path of adventure, of heroism.
The poor Scarecrow without a brain, the Tin Man without a heart, the Lion without a shred of courage in him, and it was cute, easy to follow; it made him smile and laugh at the appropriate moments, which was all he really wanted in the sweet nature of his movies.
And it progressed, and Alfred followed in complete captivation - Ivan as well, his hand poised frozen above the now empty bag of popcorn - until Dorothy melted the Wicked Witch, a typical fairy tale. He anticipated the end, when they all would get what they wished for and Dorothy would be sent back to Kansas.
But no.
The wizard? He wound up being fake, something completely unexpected that left Alfred feeling... almost empty, to tell the truth. The Scarecrow and the others, they had what they'd wanted all alone. A sweet and unexpected ending, with all of Oz being a dream, waking up in her own home back in the U.S.A., the colorless life she leads... Strange how her daydreams exploded into color just as his own did, and how her everyday life looked to be just as bland as his own.
"There's no place like home," she'd said. And indeed, there was no place at all like his home here, feeling like a charity case to other nations, friendless but for the man seated next to him now. No one knew what to do with him, it seemed, and even though he had instructions by his own president to keep out of the war in Europe, it was increasingly more difficult to stay away when he saw Ivan, or Arthur, or even France, in their respective conditions. All he wanted was a bit of understanding, perhaps encouragement, from the nations he'd once called his friends.
His heart twisted harshly as he blinked down into the bag, only a few buttery kernels of popcorn left. Turning to offer some to Ivan, he noticed that his guest was... crying, he was crying, and that startled him into silence for a moment, eyebrows raised.
"...I-Ivan? Hey, are you okay?" Alfred reached to place an almost timid hand on Ivan's shoulder, watching a few tears slip down his friend's jawline and into his lap. "Man, it's just a movie... hey..." He wanted to help, but what was one to do when their best friend in the world has been shaky all afternoon and then is suddenly weeping like this? In any other situation, he would probably tease him relentlessly, but he wouldn't dare do that now.
He expected Ivan to maybe calm down a bit, but instead Ivan huffed a small shaky sigh, eyes glassy but furious as he turned and snapped, "It's not because of the-!" Alfred flinched away from him, heartbeat fast as he watched him nervously, and then Ivan shook his head. "I'm... I'm so sorry, Alfred. I can't..."
Heartbeat still hammering, Alfred turned to the people that had started to stare and shot a glare at them to get them to mind their own damn business, turned back to Ivan, and caught sight of a bruise up by his eye.
"What is...? Um... come here." He took hold of Ivan's sleeve and pulled him up out of his seat and out into the concession area, then to the restroom, locking the door so they could have privacy. With a quick motion, he shoved Ivan's sleeves up to reveal several more bruises, not to mention a thinning appearance, his wrist now thin enough for Alfred to wrap his whole hand around. Ivan jerked his arm away, but not before Alfred's strength came in handy and he held him still.
"What is this on your arm?" he asked pointedly. "Ivan, what's happening? It's not the movie you're crying over. Then what is it? You've been weird to me all day. Now, I don't know from nothin', but I do know that this whole S-Soviet Union business can't be good for you. Look at you." He reached up with his opposite hand to tip Ivan's face toward his own, looking at him straight in the eye. "Quit futzin' around and tell me what's up."
"It's nothing!" snapped Ivan again. "Fine, I'm - you weren't, it... you- you can't see- it's just from, no, the Union is..."
Something searing hot wedged into Alfred's throat that he recognized all too well: anger. "Ivan."
His friend stood there in silence for a moment, and Alfred wondered how long it had been since someone had touched Ivan tenderly. Caring about him, about what's happening over there in a country most of his own people had stopped worrying over. He wouldn't blame Ivan for shouting at him that it was a little late to be asking; but no, instead Ivan moved his bruised arm forward to that his hand entangles in Alfred's hair, those eyes no longer glassy but suddenly sharp with determination.
Ivan's other hand moved up to grab his arm, and suddenly Alfred was pulled in, and he went rigidly stiff as there was a...
Oh. Ivan's eyes were closed now, and Alfred would speak but his lips were... occupied in a way he wasn't used to. After a moment of confusion and shock, he felt heat suddenly rush upward to take a home in his face, blushing darkly because he'd really only ever had two kisses in his entire life, and one of them had ruined a relationship forever.
But this was Ivan kissing him, kissing him, can you imagine? Almost like he cared about him more than just a friend, almost like Alfred was worth kissing at all, like he wasn't a total idiot. Like he wasn't a stupid, capitalist pig in need of a reality check. Dreaming in technicolor, that was all Alfred felt he was good for anymore, just like Dorothy, dressed in shoes too bright for his body and wandering aimlessly on a path to a miracle only to find that what he wanted...
...was right here the entire time.
Those lips were surprisingly warm for such a cold person. Part of him instructed him to yank back instead of just dumbly standing there, but he couldn't help but be wide-eyed and deafened by his own thundering heartbeat. He tried, hesitantly and clumsily, to kiss Ivan back. His hands came up to grip into that Soviet coat and hang on for dear life as his breath skipped unevenly in his throat, only fifteen year old in human terms, even for how old he tried to act sometimes. No, no real experience to speak of at all, which is what made his eyebrows knit and that worried look come over his face again as he screwed his eyes shut and pressed forward into him.
He could almost feel Ivan's heart jamming into overtime through the jumble of amazement, and in the next second, Ivan was pulling away from him, that hand moving up to rub tenderly into his own tense shoulder. Alfred's skin was tingling like it was on fire, fueled by the gentle touches to his cheekbones and the kisses into the soft sweep of his hair, a firm one directly in the middle of the forehead.
Softly, Ivan confessed, "I've been wanting to do that for so long..."
Alfred was shaking again. He swallowed around a hard lump in his throat and felt his grip slacken on Ivan's coat. "I never thought..." He blinked, touched a hand up to his mouth. "Wh-why? Why in the hell...?"
Didn't even want to finish that statement, in case he got an answer he wouldn't want to hear. Just in case the whole point of that was to make him join the Union or some stupid thing like that, something stupid and political, because this Ivan is different from the one he'd seen only a decade ago. Not phenomenally different, but different, so maybe... maybe Ivan didn't want to be friends anymore. Maybe he was so jumpy because he was trying to think of a way to break the news to Alfred about not wanting to come over anymore, or not talk to him anymore, and maybe that kiss was some sort of plot to scare him off. Maybe it wasn't a friendly thing at all.
"Y-you taste like popcorn," Alfred laughed under his breath, painfully awkward as he smoothed down the front of Ivan's coat without looking up into his eyes.
And when he did look up, Ivan was smiling a little with a familiar twinge of crookedness to it - his smile, the real smile, and it hurt a little to see since he hadn't seen Ivan smile in such a long time. Ivan's fingers carded through his hair in a way he hadn't felt since he was a colony.
"Things are still changing, Alfred," he whispered. "More so than I had told you before... I don't know where we're headed, but it looks... very bad." Hurriedly, Ivan added after the lick of his lips, "I'm not supposed to be here. I shouldn't... I- just stay out of the war, at least. It's inevitable for me to become involved. I don't want you to see me like this, worse than this."
Then more quietly, as he gently touched the joined curved bone of Alfred's jaw with the brush of his thumb, soft a calm, that smile re-appearing in a saddened light, eyes weighted with the grief and tension burning there: "I don't know what to do with you."
"I... don't know what to do with me half the time either," Alfred admitted, but felt confused by the way things were indeed changing. The war was getting worse. Changing for the worse, that's what Ivan was telling him. And what about England? What was happening in the United Kingdom right now? "I'm staying out. It's... it feels like something I shouldn't be part of."
"Staying out of things you don't want to get involved in, yes - like my Revolution," Ivan spat out bitterly. Alfred felt the twist of guilt in his chest that had been present ever since the break-out of the Bolsheviks, but then Ivan wrapped his arms around him, and the top of Alfred's head touched up under his chin. "You really have grown up impressively, Alfred..." His voice trickled through his hair, and Alfred thought of the Revolution, of the Civil War, Antietam and the Cindered Valley, or even Crimea, the plains. "My people hate you, you know. You sided with the Czars, you stand for capitalism, you left... but... but I still want to be your friend too."
('They come from miles around to eat in my fields and laugh in my face. I'm a failure because I haven't got a brain.')
Alfred felt like that now. Like the Scarecrow. A brainless failure, letting Ivan down in his time of need. "I never meant to fail you," he said, like talking to Arthur. "I want to be your friend. I just don't like the changes you've made. My... my government's very different from yours. I know your people hate me, and my people hate you too, but I don't hate you, Ivan. I want to be your friend so badly. I just... I'm so sorry I failed."
Ivan just shook his head and pulled away, leaving Alfred feeling cold and lonely to end the embrace. "Don't talk like that. If we were to list our shortcomings and slights we've pitted to each other, it would take hours."
He thought of the first meetings with this new Soviet Union, how rough and turbulent and awful that had gone.
"No one is without fault, Alfred, and you're the closest friend I've ever had. And the truest." Ivan ran his fingers behind his ear to gently sweep his hair back, and then the hand drew away. Alfred missed the contact already. "And you haven't failed. When capitalism does inevitably fail you, I'll help you more than you've ever helped me... so we're fair."
Alfred watched him smile, embedding into his memory, and that word, fair, sunk deep into him until it nearly broke his heart. It wasn't fair at all. None of this was fair, Ivan leaving, muttering about needing to go, abusive leaders and starving people and... no. No, no, no.
"Let's hope luck is on our side. My best wishes to you, Alfred. Be... careful, alright?" A pause for both of them, and Alfred opened his mouth to argue, but then Ivan's fingers rested against his lips. "I'm serious, please. I... I'll see you next time. When the war's over, hopefully, and as friends..."
Another long, long pause. Alfred wanted to lean in for another of those kisses, but he didn't. He stood there, and watched him, and his heart pounded.
"D-... Dansvydanya," Ivan whispered, and he slipped out the door without giving Alfred a chance to catch him up.
The echoing of speeches and anti-Soviet statement rang in his head, and he leaned heavily against the door of the restroom. His fingers went to his lips again, and, silently, he began to cry.
('If happy little bluebirds fly beyond the rainbow, why, oh why can't I?')