first of all just a reminder that this fic would not exist without my dear friend and beta/research-assistant chela, who encouraged me, ranted history at me, and even gave me permission to use some of the wording she used in said rants. consider this a very, very late birthday fic and also I love you.
lots of historical references that I might discuss on my tumblr later but for now I'm interested to see what y'all pick up ;)
the non-standard capitalization is an intentional stylistic choice.
prologue: I tried carrying the weight of the world, but I've only got two hands (welcome to the new age)
his gloves are tacky against his face, sweat-soaked synthetic leather, black on black and more black. cold in his bones. he can't stop shivering.
hey dude! leave that alone! so Russia deliberately turns the thermostat that his fingers are hovering over up to 15 and sweeps back to his chair with a sweet smile.
–if one is not inconvenienced, one should cater to those who are. it is only polite.
–well, I am inconvenienced, America declares hotly. if you're cold, put a coat on.
Russia is wearing two jumpers and a turtleneck undershirt under his ancient greatcoat and the chill is still seeping through his teeth and fingernails, like it always does, and the sun through the window is too weak to keep it at bay, like it always is, and he is so sick of this fight, these well-worn words tracing their way up his throat like so much bile, the acidic mucus of a fevered cold.
–perhaps I will give you something else to focus on then? I could smash your gums in so easily and then you will not complain about being hot—
(once he would not have thought this. but Russia doesn't know that, not anymore. he has done his job too well too often and power—threat—protect—defend—destroy every time he looks at those cold blue eyes chained by glass, a museum exhibit with yellow radioactivity stickers flaring if you know where to look)
(why does no one else see it? boy king, they complain so loudly but do they even notice themselves kneeling?)
Ivan knows radiation. subtle poison, in the air in the water he has breathed it in and he will not succumb again—
(again? but he has never bowed before this upstart, barely weaned in Nations' years—)
—if he lets it spread no one will even notice the spreading; the sickness slides in and takes over years before anyone sees the danger and he will not let this happen he will watch the world burn before he lets the heaviness enter his lungs and drown him in his own blood while his hair clings in ashen clumps to hollow cheeks and trembling skeletal hands, he'll strike the match himself if no one else will
(and maybe then he will finally be warm…)
1863: high-dive into frozen waves where the past comes back to life (a promise dyed in sunset-light)
—it's very lovely, Ivan says a little dubiously, turning the thick paper in his hand. Alfred's face splits in a grin and he points to the crest at the top.
—look, see? US, that's me, and then an R, for you! Ivan traces the letters woven in and out of each other, pleasing and delicate symmetry under his big finger. they're sprawling on a low hill outside the city—well, Alfred is sprawling, dry grass tickling his nose, while Ivan sits with conscious poise.
—it's very lovely, he says again. this time he means it. his smile grows broader and more genuine. Alfred beams in the sunlight.
—you will come, right?
Ivan hates balls. they feel fake, and so glittery they make his eyes hurt, and worse than that they're boring after so long of them.
—I would not miss it if the last trump were to sound.
.
after the fire they collapse into each others' arms, gasping. Alfred's shirt is soaked with water and sweat. there's a massive swathe of ash streaked on Ivan's nose, right where the bridge of it curves out. they're laughing and pounding each other on the back and they still look far too young to drink but Ivan (Vanya, he said to call him) is talking about hidden stashes in hotel rooms and Alfred looks lower and sees pearly white lines stretching across pale skin, far too regular to have been accidents, and there's a burn scar on his hip and a bayonet wound in his shoulder that are aching in sympathy now and he says, Vanya, your scarf—
Ivan straightens so quickly it's almost a jump backward and his hands fly up and then, deliberately, he puts them down again.
Alfred reaches out and pulls the soft knitting up and he's watching the shadows on the bones of Ivan's flexing jaw and he won't realize until later, retching his guts up while Ivan laughs and holds his shoulders steady, how much he hadn't read in those tensing tendons.
.
Ivan flops on his back in the grass and stretches out his long teenaged legs. he feels his shoulders pressed to the earth, hips pressed to the earth, soil running along his spine like the anchor of a ship. he feels strong and solid. if this is how Alfred feels all the time no wonder his face is always lit up from behind, stained-glass lantern painting all his feelings on his soft-looking mouth.
Alfred sits with his back straight, and for once he's not remembering England rapping his head with a spoon. he's thinking of the ball, and how elegant Ivan was (how handsome Ivan was) and he's thinking of the ships, and how Ivan's face in the dull red light was set determined and stubborn.
—are we friends? he blurts out. new world, he's thinking, and how long the voyages are. (England and France and Spain don't come anymore. Matthew has his own work to do; Rosa hates the sight of him.) (Europe is nothing but a fancy dinner club and here are two children out in the cold, short trousers and messy hair and fine, they can play their own games then.)
Ivan stirs, thick pale lashes flickering lazily. I suppose we are, he murmurs, and he sounds so pleased and awed and Alfred feels a twinge in his stomach and doesn't know that Ivan is swallowing hard over the anxiety that had dripped from America's question and when their eyes meet it's a promise it's un-forgetting it's a jerk in both their collarbones like tugging gently on a scarf.
.
dearly cherished ally.
they kiss carefully, with enthusiastic shyness.
1919: walk on through a red parade and refuse to make amends (don't touch me with your dirty hypocrisy)
he hadn't realized freedom would feel so good.
perhaps he's made it through some sort of rite of passage; maybe it's just that the rest of the world is too exhausted to ignore him or dismiss him anymore. anyway they're treating him like an adult for the first time he can remember. it's a heady sort of excitement, bubbly in his mouth like fancy wine, flashing neon-bright with promise and the future is all glittery in his vision whenever he turns around.
money's sliding smooth through his hands like the silk of a woman's dancing dress.
he hadn't realized freedom would feel so good.
.
a memory: Ivan outside a warehouse talking animatedly to a group of workers on break, still-bandaged hands gesturing with excitement. he's got bruises on his face from the war, looks worse for wear but there's a deadly vibrancy shining out of him and the men are listening to him.
—man, you're sloshed. let's get you back to your hotel, okay, Vanya? America comes up beside him and slides his arms around his friend and when did he get so light? he barely weighs anything in comparison to his previous bulk. dude, are you okay?
and Russia who is standing straight and tall and not swaying at all suddenly turns, slipping out of Alfred's arms, and grabs his hands earnestly.
—what lies did they tell you?
stars in his eyes, glittering bright and manic. talking so so fast the words spill out of him like oil oozing into a puddle. it's okay, it's okay. I didn't think I could do it either. did you know I couldn't even say a word against Nikolai five years ago, not one word Alfred, my throat wouldn't let me but when I shot him, my hands raised the gun to my shoulder my finger pulled the trigger.
America braces his hands on Ivan's shoulders and he keeps talking he's frantic and Alfred isn't sure if he thinks of a missionary's eyes fevered with religious zeal or an animal caught in a trap struggling to get free.
.
they used to pull the serfs out of the villages before Catherine drove through so she wouldn't see them. he knew it was bad he knew but when he let himself feel it it was like a dam broke in his chest.
champagne and caviar and the glittering lights of hollywood reflect in Alfred's eyes behind his glasses. he looks worried. for Ivan? for the people standing around them listening? he remembers the aching longing and how hard he'd always tried to ignore it and a wave of pity for his friend who can't see his own chains sweeps up into his throat.
—it all makes sense now why won't you listen to me
he claps his sister on the back and reminds her that his door's always open, once she gets tired of running her own affairs. (she smiles at him, tightly, all her teeth bared.)
1957: don't speak as I try to leave, we both know what we'll choose (borrow the name of some discoloured justice)
it's a fundamental law of physics that it takes more energy for something to go up than it does to go down.
this is why getting to space is so difficult: pulling against the force of gravity takes up that much extra energy, that much extra fuel, that many extra resources. orbit is easy compared to that. it's just about falling and falling and constantly missing the earth.
America, Ivan thinks, almost gleefully, hitched-breath and watching the rockets shoot off like meteors, has never fallen before. hero of the hour, with his tanned skin and perfect smile and the stares of the world are intoxicating.
(oh, but just wait, he'd said, just you wait, and Lithuania had smiled and nodded, gently removed the half-empty bottle from the table, and climbed out his window that night to join his children in the forests. one of the Italies called for him the next morning. white-knuckled on the phone, Russia said Tolys was busy and hung up.)
.
it's a fundamental law of physics that an object in motion stays in motion and an object at rest stays at rest, unless acted on by an outside force.
the exhilaration feels almost like being drunk, or in love. America promised himself during the war that he wasn't ever going to be an object again, wasn't going to be a card to play a stone to drop a child to be dragged into fights. now he's the one playing the cards, he's the one applying the force, the whole world is looking to him to stand firm and hold his ground. to stop the dominos from falling.
give me a big enough lever and I can move the world. (Russia hasn't got a place to stand how could he? an island against the sea spreading its pestilences because misery loves company and it's all his precious little union's got he's so calm why the hell is he so calm)
two exactly opposite, equally opposed forces will grind the object to a standstill. there's a part of Alfred that wistfully murmurs worthy opponent but he binds that bit up in a cardboard box and lets the paranoia seep through into it until it drowns, until it stops whispering and what is it that's pushing you along?
(Vietnam thinks bitterly that they're just overgrown children, playing king of the world on a trash hill. America had grabbed her arm and smiled his pearly perfect smile and said are you with him or with me, Lien?
—I don't want to be with either of you.
his expression told her he'd never considered that answer. her burnt scalp itched under her uniform cap.)
epilogue: on a razor's edge and salvation cuts my feet (life is an hourglass glued to the table)
he can't look away and he doesn't want to.
scarf tight tight tight around Russia's neck, ends dangling, strange fruit he thinks absurdly but there's no oxygen on the moon there's no mercy in a noose and he can't even breathe without knowing there are people watching him. Russia's watching him, that cute little quirk of his lips as if he's not dying slowly, piece by piece, suffocated by all the weight he's trying to bring to bear on my country (there was a time when Alfred helped wrap that scarf but it's gone gone gone they're different people now and there's nothing to regret you rewrite the history and scratch out the initials and he won't let Russia get to him he will die before he lets those huge hands wrap around his throat like the scars he's made himself forget are there)
Russia's standing now and fiddling with something on the wall.
and America thinks of hot desert air pressing down on him (I am become death destroyer of worlds a brilliant white plume of flame and smoke and the pressure against his eardrums even from miles away) dust choking him into voicelessness; the empty weight of nothing is smothering.
hey dude! leave that alone! so Russia deliberately turns the thermostat that his fingers are hovering over up to 60 and sweeps back to his chair with a sweet smile.
—if one is not inconvenienced, one should cater to those who are. it is only polite.
—well, I am inconvenienced, America declares hotly. if you're cold, put a coat on.
once, America would have known better than to say it, would have known to see the slight, constant shaking of cold seeping through teeth and bone and nails.
(in another universe Alfred reaches the thermostat first, slides it up to 95 that's labelled as 35 here because Europe, and bounces back to his seat with a sunny smile and keeps his jacket on throughout the meeting out of sheer perverseness. Ivan smiles shyly and for just a little, the shivering is stilled; Russia slips his gloves off and lays them carefully on his lap to reveal big pale thick-fingered hands, glowing under the bright fluorescent lights.)
—perhaps I will give you something else to focus on then? I could smash your gums in so easily and then you will not complain about being hot—
—I'd like to see you try it!
the sun glitters on the window glass and doesn't warm the room in the slightest.