It was still too soon to venture safely in Russia.
However, Amelia F. Jones wasn't known for being a cautionary figure. Against the advice of her allies, the young American personification took a plane to what had once been the heinous, anti-western Soviet Union.
She decided to keep a low profile, entering the country through a series of flights, doing her best to hide her status as a personification by blending in with the civilian population. She wore a thick white jacket, a black scarf that fit snugly under her chin, and a black cap that clashed ungracefully with a headful of curly blonde locks. Throughout her journey, she kept her face down so as not to attract unwanted attention.
It was cold in Russia. Maybe it just happened to be one of those brisk, June days where the sun shined brightly against the clear blue sky, but the air held an icy undertone that seeped into her bones. However, every time Amelia had gone to Russia in the past, whether it be winter, spring, summer, or autumn, it was always cold. Cold, vast, and unforgiving...just like the long-term threat of annihilation she had held with Ivan for the past five decades.
Amelia kept her eyes on the black screen above her, waiting for the announcement of the train's arrival that would take her from Moskovsky station in St. Petersburg, to Moscow. Her right hand was wrapped securely around the handle of her luggage, and her left hand was stuffed into her coat pocket. Occasionally she would look away from the black screen to examine her surroundings. She noted the Renaissance-like architecture of the building, along with its large windows, columns and general old-world atmosphere. Amelia briefly wondered what it would have been like to be in power during the era of absolute monarchists and ocean-driven imperialism. Time and time again, she was reminded of how young she really was when Arthur and Francis would bicker relentlessly about events that happened around seven hundred years in the past.
A fair few times, she attracted the attention of curious stragglers, but nobody approached her directly. Amelia was grateful for this. The last thing she needed right now was a post-Soviet Russian individual to recognize her as the personification of the United States of America. Yes, the Cold War was over, but it was still too early for the effects of the separate spheres of influence to completely dissipate. And speaking of separate spheres of influence, Amelia felt a bit uncomfortable about being surrounded by so many eastern dressers. The west was definitely making its presence known through the occasional presence of jeans and fancy, new-age T-shirts, but it was...awkward.
The American shook her head. She didn't have to stay in Russia long. Hell, she didn't even have to be here in the first place. Arthur would definitely have a hissy fit if he knew that she had booked it into ex-enemy territory so soon after the dissolution of the Soviet Union.
Once the train marked its arrival, she stood up, grabbed her luggage, and made her way towards the entrance of the vehicle, blending in with the other passengers. She selected a seat near the end of the first car, set her luggage down, and proceeded to stare out the window. It would be a while before she reached Moscow, and she was thankful for that fact. It would give her time for mental preparation.
Amelia couldn't help but admire the scenery as the train whipped down the railway, passing lakes, rivers, forests, and mountains. The sky remained a bright baby blue, and the sun's light cascaded through the window, tempting the American to take off her jacket. She had never gotten the time to appreciate Russia's beauty due to the fact that she had been too busy plotting Ivan's downfall. She supposed that the country's land had sort of a cold, ethereal beauty...an intimidating, grand magnificence. A nostalgic, almost somber grace. Much like the personification himself.
The very thought of Ivan made her stomach churn with anxiety. She took a deep breath to expel the sensation; she could not become nervous now. She was here, and there was no going back.
Once she had arrived in Moscow, Amelia made haste to contact a taxi. The sooner she took care of this, the better. She stifled a yawn; she had been up since the crack of dawn this morning, and she was still suffering from yesterday's jet lag.
With the arrival of the taxi, the American tightened her scarf and tipped her hat forward to cover her eyes. She climbed into the passenger seat and wordlessly handed a slip of paper to the driver.
"This the address?" he asked in rapid Russian. Amelia barely caught his words. She nodded in response, refusing to look directly at him. She didn't want him to recognize her for who she was.
After a brief moment of hesitation, the taxi driver stepped on it. He immediately sensed that Amelia wasn't the talkative type, so he kept his mouth shut and proceeded with his job. To quell the strange tension, he turned on the radio. She was glad that he had; it was a welcome distraction to the tumultuous, panic-stricken thoughts that slammed against her skull.
Finally, after about thirty minutes, the buildings started to become scarce as vast stretches of forest and mountain made themselves known. The taxi car pulled into a rugged driveway leading up to a rather large, rustic house with peeling paint, curtain-drawn windows, and a porch that looked as if it would rot away within the next year.
"This is it?" the taxi driver asked in apprehension, giving Amelia a shifty look. She just nodded, and quickly withdrew a large amount of money from her pocket, along with a hefty tip. After smoothing the bills out, she handed them to the driver and quickly exited the car, grabbing her luggage. She watched the taxi drive off, the sound of its engine quickly dissipating, leaving her alone with the ghostly rustling of leaves.
Amelia took a deep breath and turned back toward the ominous house.
So this is where Ivan lived.
She didn't know what she was expecting to be honest. She guessed that it fit his personality...icy, ominous, and isolated.
Amelia gritted her teeth and made her way to the front porch. The wood creaked under her step and she winced, wondering if Ivan's face would suddenly pop through the curtains of the nearest window at the sound. The very idea made her paranoid.
The front door was a solid black, with a single brass knocker right in the center of it. The American reached out with a shaky hand and used it to knock three solid times. She held her breath and waited.
One minute passed.
Two minutes passed.
Three.
Then four.
Maybe he wasn't home. Or maybe he was asleep. Or maybe...
However, before she could contemplate her other options, the door creaked open.
And there he was.
Ivan Braginski.
He definitely looked a lot less put together than when she had last seen him. His light hair was unkempt, ruffled, and definitely a bit longer than usual. His face was deathly pale, and there were dark circles under his blood-shot violet eyes. His usual heavy coat and scarf were abandoned for a plain white shirt, and with one look, Amelia now understood why he always covered up.
His arms, chest, and neck were covered in a multitude of scars, criss-crossing and interloping to form grotesque patterns. Amelia swallowed, a mixture of both fear and pity surging through her. She wondered how long he had lived and what he had truly experienced to have achieved all those...after all, no one really knew how old Ivan was.
At the sight of Amelia, Ivan's eyes narrowed dangerously.
"America," he stated in a flat, chilling voice.
"Russia," she responded, thankful that her voice was firm and steady.
A grim smile appeared on his lips as he leaned against the door frame. Amelia distinctively wrapped her arms around herself.
"What a pleasant surprise," he drawled in a tone that suggested the opposite. She wondered if he was about to slam the door in her face or slam a knife into her gut. Amelia cursed herself for not having thought this through a bit better.
"Can I come in?" She wanted to sound both sincere and business-like. Fear wasn't allowed when it came to Ivan, no matter how scared she really was. She never showed it during the Cold War, and she wasn't going to show it now.
Ivan just stared at her flatly, his ominous presence breaking away at the American's firm resolve. But she stood her ground.
"I'm unarmed," she pressed. "I can prove it. I can empty my bag for you. I don't want any trouble. I just came to...to talk."
Amelia lifted both of her arms up, her palms bare, as if to prove her point. But Ivan just chuckled. "I don't give a damn if you're armed or not, America. Either way, I know that you'd find a way to weasel your way out of a proper fight. That's what you've done for the past fifty or so years, da?"
"I told you, I'm not here to fight." She already felt a bit frustrated with both herself and with the Russian man. She wished that she could have taken more time to plan this out. She also wished that Ivan didn't have to be such a pain in the ass. If he wasn't so dangerous, she would've just stormed into his house and demanded that they have the civilized conversation that she so desperately needed to have. "It's over, Ivan. No more fighting. I've had enough fighting for a lifetime. I just want to talk."
After a moment of suspicious glaring, the Russian finally moved away from the doorway, granting Amelia entrance. As she passed him, he said, "Typical young American. You have so much to learn; the fighting will never be over."
She ignored him as she examined the interior of the house. The whole inside was extremely dark due to the drawn curtains, and there was a distinct smell of stale vodka. There was a spiraling staircase placed a few feet from the front door, leading up to an open vault in the ceiling. To the left was a dank living room with miserable looking couches and an ashen fireplace, and to the right was the entrance to what Amelia presumed to be a kitchen.
"It wouldn't hurt to let a little sunshine in," she said in a somewhat clipped tone that she usually reserved for Arthur.
Ivan walked past her and toward the kitchen, not bothering to respond. Amelia followed his looming figure, keeping her arms crossed.
The kitchen was a different story in comparison to the dark entryway. Though the stove top and wooden dining table were covered in empty liquor bottles and shot glasses, the whole area was bright with the cascading sunshine that fell from both a window above the sink, and an open pair of glass doors located on the opposite side of the table. Amelia made her way cautiously toward the open doors. She stepped out into what seemed to be a garden and barely managed to stifle the gasp that almost erupted from her lips. Lining the stone walkways were tall rows of blindingly bright sunflowers that glittered under the sun. The pathway seemed to go on for miles and miles, and Amelia now understood why Ivan preferred to have a house in the middle of nowhere with lots of space.
It was simply beautiful, and Amelia almost forgot why she was here in the first place.
"I like sunflowers. They're bright and pretty. They're hard to grow around here, and they all die in the winter, but it's worth all the hard work when they end up looking like this...even for a short amount of time." Ivan's voice was still a bit cold and antagonistic, but his words held a sense of deep admiration and sadness that tugged at Amelia's heartstrings.
She turned around to see the Russian himself standing at the doorway, his eyes alight as he looked at the sunflowers. In his hand was a full bottle of vodka. His eyes shifted to Amelia. "You wanted to talk, da? Let's go for a walk. I find that I can hold better conversations with rivals when I'm outside."
She was at a loss for words as she nodded once, allowing him to take the lead. She walked behind him, not feeling comfortable enough to be at his side or make proper conversation with him. Amelia took her hat off and brushed her fingers through her messy locks of hair. The rows upon rows of sunflowers that surrounded her was almost overwhelming, and she could hear nothing but the subtle sound of their footsteps against the stone walkway as they plunged forward in silence.
Finally, the sunflowers seemed to disperse, making way for a giant grassy hill that traveled upwards, surrounded by massive trees with twisting branches. Amelia wondered how she could have missed all of this when she took a glance at the decrepit house. She continued to follow Ivan in silence up the hill for a few more moments before he stopped midway, turned around, and sat down, bottle of vodka in hand.
He rose an eyebrow at Amelia and patted the spot next to him. She obliged, still at a loss for words. From their vantage point, they had a great view of the sunflower maze and the old house that almost looked endearingly antique from here. The American no longer felt the familiar coldness that she usually attributed to Russia.
"That's better, isn't it?" Ivan asked as he opened the bottle of vodka and took a hearty swig. He cringed in satisfaction. "Now, we can talk. What exactly do you want America?"
Amelia opened her mouth but no words came out. She looked at Ivan. He looked different under the sunlight. Almost child-like and vulnerable. It sent an odd, twisting pain through her chest.
After mentally shaking herself, she answered, "I... I came here to...make amends."
He gave her a skeptical look. "Make amends?"
"Yes." She cleared her throat, gaining some of her confidence back. "Make amends. I did not come here on any sort of governmental or political or social obligation. I understand that with recent events, things have been rather shaky between us. I'm here, as a person, as a human being, to make amends with you."
His face was unreadable. So she plowed on with a frustrated sigh. "Look. We don't have to be best friends, okay? I just think that it would be beneficial for everybody if we held some sort of mutual respect for each other as human beings. And I thought that it would be more personal and more meaningful if I came here in person."
Now that she had said it out loud, she wanted to smack herself for how foolish she sounded. And she couldn't blame Ivan for giving a bitter smile.
"That's now how it works."
He took another swig of vodka.
"...I...but..." she stuttered. He handed the bottle to her.
"Have a drink."
"No, I don't drink."
"I insist."
Amelia crinkled her nose as she grabbed the bottle and took a hesitant swig. The liquid made her cough as it traveled down her throat and settled in her stomach, making her insides warm. She liked the sensation, but despised the taste.
Ivan ran a hand warily over his face before speaking. "We have been at odds for years. You've been my main target for the past five decades. We've had conflicting ideals. We've tried to outdo each other in every way possible. We have both caused unforgivable problems all over the world, and we are both responsible for many deaths. All because we wanted the triumph of our own personal idealism. And now it's finally over. You won and I lost. Cheers to nationalism and democracy, da?"
He said the last sentence with strong antipathy, which he quickly drowned out by taking another heavy swig of vodka. He then passed the bottle to the young American, who took another drink.
"Yeah, but we have to move on, don't we? What else can we do? I don't see the point in waiting for something else to go wrong or for another nation to take advantage of this situation and fuck everything up..." she rambled, already feeling the effects of the alcohol loosen her tongue.
"You're the sole power. You're the one in charge, and everyone is looking to you, America. You came out of this chaos as the main winner. How does it feel to be in charge, Amelia?"
His words reminded her of what Arthur had told her so years ago just as Russia was coming to power after World War II had ended. She was in charge. She had the reigns. Everyone was looking to her. And as much as she loved having so much influence, she also hated it. She hated that people both loved and envied her. Targeted her. Depended on her.
"Are you mocking me?" she spat in retaliation, her eyes narrowing.
He gave a grim smile. "Maybe. But it doesn't make a difference."
"Well, stop it."
"Why? I'm only telling you the truth."
He looked out to the distance, his eyes reflecting the blues and golds of both the sky and the sunflowers. "You're in a position of power that we've all been in before at a certain point in history. And no matter how many allies you have, we all hate you for it deep down. When you gained your independence from England so many years ago, how long did it take before you two could speak civilly to each other?"
"What does that have to do with anything?" Amelia snarled, becoming worked up. This was pissing her off. He was just rambling about nonsensical, unimportant matters like the psychotic basket-case that he was. "And for your information, he is my best friend. He always has been."
"False," Ivan stated simply. "I know that you two have fought for a long time. And even now that you've made up, he still holds contempt for you, as you do for him. We nations live long lives... therefore, we hold long memories. And because we hold long memories, we bear long grudges that can only be broken with time. You've come here to me, the most powerful you've ever been, asking for a civil, human relationship when you have caused me and my country grave physical and emotional damage only a few months ago. I don't want to forgive you, and I know that you don't want to forgive me in turn. So, tell me, Amelia, what the hell are you doing here?"
Amelia was stricken. She was angry. She was horrified. She was upset. She was confused. How could he just calmly walk her into his garden, share a drink with her, and then tell her that he refused to make amends? She glared at him with all of the hatred she could muster, opening her mouth to speak. "So what the hell are you saying then? That you and I are still enemies and that you still hold the United States with bitter comtempt?"
"I don't hold you in a favorable light. We all know that. I probably won't for a long time. We are nations. Not humans. Our relationships are all based on self-sufficiency. Right now, you are the most powerful nation in the world, and you are in charge of fixing everything up. Focus on that, and let me do what I need to do to heal." The sunlight reflected off of Ivan's hair, highlighting shades of gold and amber that Amelia had never noticed before.
"What's your idea of healing, huh? More communist revolutions and anti-US campaigns?" Amelia snapped, grabbing the bottle from Ivan and taking another drink. She proceeded to strip off her jacket, exposing a blue T-shirt underneath. The world was starting to tilt around her as the alcohol worked its way through the young girl's system.
"I can't make any promises," Ivan responded with a shrug, a slightly eerie smile playing on his lips.
Amelia snorted bitterly. This was a complete waste of time. He just made her feel worse about everything. She knew that she could do it...she had proven herself time and time again to the other nations. She had proven that the United States was not a force to be reckoned with. But now it was the real deal. She really was in charge this time. Everyone else had fallen somewhere in the whirlpool of war, and she was the only one left standing.
She felt vulnerable.
And this sudden realizatino of her own vulnerability canceled out all of the anger inside of her.
"Ivan."
It was rare for her to call him by his first name.
"Da?"
"If our relationships are based on nothing but self-sufficiency, then why do we feel pain if someone we care about gets hurt? Why can we feel overwhelming affection for a single, unimportant person just by being in their company?"
He didn't respond, but his eyes were trained on the blonde girl sitting beside him. He noticed how small she really was, and how scared she looked. This was the first time that he had ever seen her openly display fear, and it bothered him.
"Because I'm scared," she admitted. Maybe it was the alcohol talking, but she had never felt so certain about anything in her life. "I'm so fucking scared, it's not even funny. And I can't afford to think that everyone else holds this deep hatred for me solely based on nationalistic envy, and that they are only helping me because they are functioning on self-sufficiency alone. There has to be more than that."
Amelia's hands were clutching the almost empty bottle of vodka, the heat in her body morphing into something that resembled desire and need. The need for human touch. She squeezed her legs together and took another deep breath.
"We all need some comfort. We all need to be held and touched and told that everything's okay. Because we're human...or at least somewhat human. Aren't we?" She was whispering at this point/ Her eyes trailed the scars on his skin. She wondered how many times he had pressed on without the touch of a loved one, without a single hope of genuine sincerity or care.
Ivan's eyes were fixed on Amelia. It was as if he had never seen her before. He had never seen her as anything more than the United States of America...that democratic, capitalistic, trigger-happy threat that posed a danger to everything he stood for. But now, under the sunlight of the Russian sky, he saw a young woman with blonde curly hair, soft cheeks, wide, spirit-filled blue eyes, and a fiery confidence tainted with fear and vulnerability.
A woman who actually saw him as human.
And that very thought broke the spell.
Without another thought, he leaned over, grabbed a fistful of the girl's shirt to pull her forward, and kissed her full on the lips. She responded hungrily without another thought, snaking her arms gently around his neck and shifting her body so that she was straddling him. Their movements were slow and rhythmic, aided by the shuddering breeze and the cascading sunlight that reminded them that they had to make it last...that this single moment of mutual human contact wouldn't last forever.
Just as suddenly as it started, the kiss suddenly ended as Ivan pulled back, his lips parted ever so slightly as his eyes bore into the American's. The two were speechless, frozen in a single moment in time, breaths coming out in ragged pants, limbs trembling ever so slightly, minds racing at top speed...
The leaves rustled in the wind, flapping in a ghostly, peaceful fashion, and the sun continued its relentless, unchangeable shine as the two nations tried to fully make sense of what had just occurred.
Amelia pursed her lips. She could still taste his vodka-flavored mouth, feel his gentle, yet forceful tongue. Untangling herself from Ivan, she stood up and looked down at the man, whose gaze was now fixed on the distance, a hard, cold expression on his face, his fists clenched at his sides.
The American stared at him for another moment, studying him closely.
And she knew that she was right.
"Now you know what I mean," she stated with a steady voice.
"Leave," came his clipped reply.
"You felt it too. That's why you kissed me."
"I said leave."
"You kissed me because you wanted to. Because you needed the release."
"Don't make me ask again, America."
"You're human too."
Ivan sprang to his feet, advancing towards the American, his facial expression filled with an icy, almost stoic rage. Amelia stood her ground, her fear dissipating with each passing moment.
She had nothing to be scared of right now.
Because he was just as fucked over as she was. If not, even more so.
"Get. The. Fuck. Off. Of. My. Property," he enunciated with each step, his teeth gritted.
Before he could lay a hand on her, the American smirked. "Gladly."
With that, she turned around and started to head downhill. She let out a shaky breath, her heart still hammering against her chest. However, her anxiousness had disappeared. Though she had not accomplished what she had originally set out to do by coming here, Amelia was still successful in exposing the vulnerability of her old enemy...even if it was for a short, single moment.
But that moment still happened. It existed within the tumultuous space of thought and memory and there was no taking it back.
She knew that he was still staring at her.
"It doesn't matter, in the end." His voice stopped her in her tracks.
She turned around to look at Ivan, who was still planted on the spot. Though his expression was stone cold, she saw it in his eyes. That cloud of memories...memories that included pain, sadness, happiness, joy, heartache, love, hatred, fear...
"Even if we- even if I do care about you as a human being, I will always put myself first for the sake of my nation. It's who we are. We're nations over humans. We will be fighting again, America. This isn't over."
It was true, of course. Nations were nations. Most of what they felt came as a result of their governmental policies towards efficiency, competition, war, and survival. However, nations were made up of humans as well...humans with desires, emotions, hearts, and souls. They gave life to their nation. They allowed them to think and feel and lose themselves in a single moment of bliss and pure, unadulterated happiness.
But Amelia couldn't explain all this to the Russian verbally. It would be pointless.
Instead, she just turned her back to to him.
"I know."
The American slipped her jacket back on and continued to walk down the hill. Ivan watched her, his eyes fixed on her golden hair that reflected the sunlight until she disappeared into the maze of sunflowers.