Prologue: A Plan to go Backwards
"I never got around to asking, Alfred. But your country - it was a backwards one, wasn't it?"
The glance is cast sideways, the light tilting of a familiar head covered in pale, almost silver, hair. Violet eyes peer from half clouded glasses, trying to remain expressionless as they wait for a snarling comment, or a quiet whisper, in response. The wait is a bit vexing one, and the man clothed in a military outfit betrays a hint of impatience, his feet tapping on the concrete ground of the steps. When the blonde beside him does answer, there is a wry mixture of the familiar annoyance, and then submission, in his words.
"At least I am not alone in that."
The violet-eyed Russian furrows his eyebrows in confusion. "How so, Amerika?" He says this name and this sentence, a formal and official one, in the hopes of receiving a reply that is more explosive and colorful then the last, emphasizing the vowel of the word in a thick and, as Alfred once said, "annoying as hell" accent.
But there is a slip, as there usually is - and he doesn't catch it until too late. The blonde-haired American turns to face him, and with eyes so blue - but with none of its once brilliant splendor showing - he says, "Because you are one too."
Ivan blinks, staring at his partner.
Me?
This day is a crisp and breezy one, with the clouds parting dismissively behind a beautiful setting sun. Perhaps the wind is lost somewhere behind them, because, although the air is breezy, there is nothing stirring in the foggy mists of evening. Perhaps it is their imagination that incites these shadows and ghosts of the pasts to start dancing forward, because, in reality, nothing is moving but the stillness of an ending day. Perhaps it is because they are lonely, deep inside and hidden behind countless centuries of trauma and upheavals, that they continue to sit here, on the outside steps of a once grand and illuminated building, and hold onto each other's hands.
"I'm backwards?" Ivan shakes his head, laughing.
"Yes." Alfred doesn't even bat an eye. He draws his knees up to his chest and, with his free hand, wraps himself in an embrace.
"I wasn't the country who used Fahrenheit instead of Celsius, or invented a completely new and absurd form of measurement when there a perfectly decent one already created!"
He expects a fiery retort, a disgusted and annoyed glare - anything but the sigh and stoic whisper, "I guess you are right."
The hand in his is suddenly cold. Icy and chillingly cold.
He wishes to say something, wishes to console the small person sitting beside him. But in truth, he is probably, if not more, needy than this person - not a little, but a lot smaller too.
"What are we doing after this?" Alfred asks, and sighs again. "I am exhausted."
"Do you wanna go home?"
The American gives a short bark of laughter. "Home," he murmurs. Unexpectedly, he removes his hand from Ivan's and throws them up towards the sky, as though interpreting invisible raindrops from the clouds. "Home is everywhere, is it not? Just pick a place to go to lay down and rest, somewhere you can eat, and call it home, right?" The sapphire orbs grow a shade duller. "Home..." he repeats. "Is there really a home anymore...?"
Ivan follows the other's gaze lingering over the distant, into the atmosphere of forever-present fog and crimson-red splashes. Splashes that were once a deep, sky-blue, with strokes of careless marshmallow and creamy white attached to its canvas. He slowly takes in the smell of sulfuric smoke and the overly sickening stench of sunflowers - when had they planted them in front of the Conference building in America? He could not remember...was it two days ago? Or was it two dozen decades ago? All he can take in, through the edge of the thick glasses, is a blur of gray and black, feel the telltale touch of a long-dead breeze, the touch of those dead nations buried beneath red soil, which was in turn, buried under artificially green grass.
America, England, France, China, Germany, Italy, Japan. And him.
All dead.
"Why did you ask me that?"
These words, distinctly different from Alfred's normally emotionless tone, snaps Ivan back from his thoughts and to attention.
"Huh?"
"If my country was once a backwards country."
That? Ivan smiles. "Because I was curious, da?"
Once again, the accent is forced and curiously wrong on his tongue. He stumbles over them, quite expertly, and Alfred is all too quick to notice. For a brief second, those blue eyes flash - with disgust? - and then he reprimands, "Terrible. Do not try that again, Ivan. And stop answering in such a roundabout manner."
If you agree to stop talking like that, I will.
But Ivan just shrugs and says, "Fine. But before I tell you, promise me something?"
Alfred raises an eyebrow and nods.
Ivan allows that smile, the extremely rare and gentle one, to grace his lips. He latches onto Alfred's cold hands once more, and involuntarily begins to hum a tuneless song. "Promise me you won't forget this place once I tell you the reason why," Ivan sings cheerfully. "Promise me you won't forget what has happened here, the prices we have all paid, to reach this 'perfect' society." His amethyst eyes lock onto Alfred, and he tilts his head again in that puzzling and nostalgically childish way. "Will you promise me, любовь?"
Perfect society? Why, yes. Look at all those beautiful and peaceful buildings situated around us! How placid and serene they are - not fighting or killing anyone. Though one must admit they are a poor substitute for actual humans...
The American's blue eyes remain impassive for the longest second - and then they change. For the first time in such a long time, they grow wide with a hidden excitement and desire. When he opens his mouth, the words flow more freely and happily than they ever had before:
"Yes, I promise!"
Ivan's own eyes soften, and it feels like back then - when America was the child, and he the responsible adult. When America needed him beyond anyone else, and although they fought, they were also in love. Unlike now, with the brand of lovers etched upon their foreheads, but the feelings of loneliness and unhappiness embedded within their hearts. He pulls the small nation into his arms, and is sad to realize how much they have matched in physique.
"Backwards," Ivan whispers into Alfred's ears. "You were a backwards nation, and still are now, aren't you?"
No hesitation now. "Yes."
The Russian closes his eyes softly, his head resting heavily on his partner's shoulders. The humming continues on in the silence of the dark evening. "Well then," he says and squeezes Alfred closer, "would you, America, a backwards nation, like to travel with me, in a backwards manner?
"Backwards into the past that knew of only tomorrow, and not of yesterday? A past that walked forwards blindly, and never even considered glancing retrogressively?"
He expects those arms around him to tighten, but is also not surprised at the static lack of response. Ivan knows that deep inside Alfred is more than excited. More than overwhelming happy at his words. And for some reason, that saddens him.
"...So you built it?"
Ivan inclines his head, "Yes."
"How long did it take you?"
"A mere thousand year."
"And the time...?"
Hm. Time. Ivan's lips curl up in displeasure. "You will not like it."
Alfred jerks out of the embrace and settles his flat gaze on Ivan. "Tell me."
"I had set it to 1991, but the marker would not go that far. Instead, it landed on..." The Russian takes a deep breath and sighs. "On the day of the war, 2012.
"December 2012, to be exact."
One thousand, twenty-one years ago.
Translations:
любовь - love (my love)
*Feel free to correct any wrong translations; I used Google for them, heh.
A/N: Ohmygosh, I finally made another Ivan x Alfred fic after since a long time! (*cough* still need to update the other ones, ik = w= but bleh for brainblocks!) But I-I have no idea what this is. owo" You could call it a strange and random whim that caused me to spurt this strange and random idea and storyline/plot which I am now strangely and randomly starting and trying to finish and publish to you readers? :'D
So, it begins. The start is very confusing (aren't all my story beginnings like that? hah), but it'll make more sense soon. Hopefully you guys will stick with it for that long and (if it ever makes it there) to the end :3 Reviews and critique/story and plot suggestions are IMMENSELY welcomed and will be received with loving hugs and sunflowers!
Anyone want to take a guess at the time period in the Prologue and what's going on so far? :S