The Wall that Withstood Faith

November, 1989

Berlin, Germany

"I thought I would find you here."

America's voice was an unwelcomed drop of poison in the murmur of German conversation in the background. Russia did not stir from his barstool as America took a seat beside him. Russia did not bother to waste a glance at the bartender whose blue eyes and blonde hair he had committed to memory. The bartender was bound for the one beside him who seemed more promising for profit, as Russia had yet to order a drink.

Something wet splattered over the back of America's neck. As his nose filled with the strong scent of fermented barley, he threw a Hollywood smile over his shoulder at an Eastern German couple and their daughter who had loaded their newly purchased water pistols with German beer.

"I am afraid that there is not much to choose from," the bartender apologized in his thick accent. America's eyes scanned the little lights accenting the curvatures of the bottles in the bartender's backdrop—at least twenty brands of beer, scotch, vodka, rum—their contents now foaming in the mugs and swimming in the glasses of the celebrants behind him.

"I'll have a rum and coke, and he'll have vodka. Straight." Russia did not move from the nest he'd fashioned for himself against the counter to protest. The bridge of his nose nestled firmly in the crook of his elbow, just enough space between his chest and the lip of the counter to keep the air pocket from going stale. Even when he heard the sound of his drink hitting the bar near his right ear and the chime of ice cubes rattling against the glass when America went for his first sip of lukewarm beverage, Russia did not raise his head. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he heard America propose a toast in his broken German. Regardless of the heavy dose of Texan in his accent, the message seemed to register because everyone in the bar was raising their glasses. Russia left his untainted from the press of fingerprints. He did not lift his head to acknowledge his drink the fog of his breath.

He was the only person in all of Berlin not celebrating.

As America placed his half-consumed soda-alcohol concoction back on the bar, he noticed just from the tiny square inch of skin just shy of Russia's hair just how much paler the other nation had gotten. Russia heaved a heavy sigh, and the only way America could tell was from the time between the rise and fall of the taller nation's shoulders. The blue-eyed nation watched every millisecond of the breath in case – in case Russia's ribs shattered. He didn't remember Russia's hair being so white—and his hair looked dark in comparison to his skin. Was Siberia expanding or something?

As the Germans (they were just Germans now – not East or West) filed out of the bar, the increasing silence became unbearable—almost painful to America's ears who still rang from the sound of cheers, jackhammers, and drinking songs. "Hey, big guy, you're not going to put my money to waste, are ya?" his voice sounded broken and as stable as the ice melting away in Russia's vodka; he nudged the drink closer to Russia with the inside of his wrist. Russia only responded with a movement that made him look smaller with his decrease of distance between his chest and the bar.

By the time Russia had succumbed to his drink, the bar had emptied. The lights over the tables had dimmed; the brightest source came from the spotlights falling over the empty bottles of liquor decorating the wall, and they barely caught the ends of Russia's white eyelashes as he raised his head off the bar's surface to cradle a half-melted ice cube with the tip of his tongue. America had long since finished his second serving of rum and coke, and crunched down on the last of his ice cubes whilst stealing glances at the nation slouching beside him.

America could not remember the last time the two of them were on the same side of Berlin. Russia was pale – paler than usual – even after spending years in the hot, baking sun of Afghanistan. His hair fell over, just past his eyelashes, and clung to them like cobwebs. He looked small, sick, dark circles bruised under his eyes in a color darker than his signature violet. America wanted Russia to look at him, stare at him with hate-filled eyes like he used to. Point a gun between his eyes because America had won.

He won.

Somewhere out in Berlin, far away from that goddamned wall, Germany and his Brother were drinking beer together for the first time since the 1950s. America should be with them. He should be pulling the triggers of beer-filled squirt guns, laughing, and enjoying the first real mark of the Cold War's end; yet here he sat, watching a pale pink tongue caress at the last ice cube in a vodka glass (it just proved how fucking cold Russia was that his tongue couldn't melt an ice cube), watching his enemy through a veil of darkness thicker than the wall itself. The vodka and rum bottles were like the guards, the shelves like towers, twinkling lights like searchlights, watching and waiting for one of them to make the first move toward the other so they could shoot. Kill on sight.

With anger overpowering even the spark of pity he had for Russia, America seized the front of the collapsing empire's coat and forced them their gazes together. The world around them stilled, and Russia stared back, but he did not see America; America could tell just from the look he was giving him – hollow, distant. As if every last weapon, every ounce of energy he could muster throwing back at America had just been taken from him (Just like those poor Eastern Germans that tried to cross that wall, you Commie bastard. They left everything behind just to escape your red clutches). Unlike Russia, America had pity. Whatever wrath powered the clutch he had on Russia's collar faded away at that very instant. God, he wanted to darken the bruises under Russia's eyes with his knuckles, darken that pale skin with his merciless mouth, claim his prize after sixty fucking long years of it being just an inch from his grasp.

"Russia…" his grip lessened and he deposited Russia back on the surface of the bar.

A pause, then: "America." More an effort to acknowledge the other nation's presence. The platinum blonde rested his elbow upon the bar and pressed the joint between his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. America's finger closed around that wrist to pry hand and forehead apart.

"Look, I- I came here to celebrate, or something, but I can't if you're being such a Debbie downer… the war is ending, Russia. That means" – he broke off, swallowing, and tried to chose his words carefully – "It means that you and I can be together again. Isn't that something worth celebrating – and god, Russia, would you just stop fondling that ice cube? I'm trying to talk to you, you know."

The glass clicked against the bar as Russia placed the vodka-less glass on the polished wood. "You've won, America," the voice sounded bitterer than any congratulations America had gotten all day. "I think that should be enough for you. I've lost two wars within a year… the others in my house are talking about declaring independence and moving out – Hungary's already done that." America tried not to think of how happy she looked when she embraced Prussia again for the first time since her induction as a satellite state. He tried to pity Russia, but he just – couldn't.

So he did in the best way that he could. He felt the pad of his thumb and the knuckle of his forefinger close around Russia's chin. He brought their mouths together in something far less than any synonym than graceful. Russia's breath hitched in surprise until his lungs were the last thing he needed in a kiss so deep and slow. Like a slow dance as opposed to their usual tango. The clock in the background ticked off minutes as Russia eased against America's mouth, then the ticking ceased altogether and time ceased to exist. It was just them, just America remembering every contour of Russia's soft palette and Russia remembering just how much coke complimented the taste of America's mouth. The bartender was somewhere in the background polishing more glasses than he could handle.

"Russia – sweetheart," he felt Russia retreat from the kiss, breathing vodka-flavored breaths on his moistened lips. "Those sledgehammers, pickaxes, and fists out there aren't just tearing down the Berlin Wall… they're tearing down whatever is between us. Hungary may be gone, and the others may be talking about moving out, but – I'm still here for you." That one line earned him a small smile in Russia's eyes, as his lips were still a hard line. He searched those dull lilac irises for another sign, but it was as transient as it when it came.

Then there was a flash behind Russia's eyes. America's eyes glimmered with optimism, but he quickly remembered from the times he pressed his gun to Russia's temple, drew blood, that this was a pained look. Physical pain. The slowly collapsing empire retreated to a position America had seen that whole night. He tucked the bridge of his nose in the bend of his arm and coughed. Just a cold, America thought, makes sense, it's November and probably snowing in every Russian city. But something wet graced the warmth of his thick coat. When Russia pulled back, his sleeve and his lips were stained with a deep red, and America did not remember ordering Russia wine.

He seized Russia's arm and nearly pulled him off the barstool.

"Don't you leave me, don't you vanish on me," America's voice cracked, but it was still a demand nonetheless. "Russia, you fucking—you've been through shit worse than this. Remember 1917?—no, that's stupid, of course you do. You were Imperial, or Monochromic-cratic, Monarchy-ial then. And now, well still, you're Soviet, and I know you hate it when I call you 'Russia', but you've never been the United Socialist Soviet… whatever to me anyway.

"Please, just…" he caught Russia's face between his hands, caressed his cheeks with the pads of his thumbs. "Let me take care of you. I've got this really shitty hotel like… a fifteen minute walk from this bar. It's got this amazing view of the Brandenburg Gate, and I can buy champagne or vodka or wine or all three, and I still haven't learned how many francs or marks or whatever currency this is are in a dollar, but I'll buy it. You can even eat something out of the mini-fridge even if it's a thousand dollars."

Russia wet his lips, nodded, and felt his body rise from the barstool as if involuntarily. He fell slowly into America's hold, the younger nation with his arms around his waist, and walked into the crowd-covered streets of an autumnal Berlin. He had a limp to his step, probably a wound from Afghanistan, but America liked the feel of Russia relying on him.

As America pulled him through a packed gate at the wall near Checkpoint Charlie, he was able to further appreciate the beauty of a united Berlin; once their bare bodies united against a cheap spring mattress, Russia could truly appreciate a different beauty entirely.

-:- -:- -:-

The Berlin Wall "fell" on the 9th of November, 1989, but it took many weeks afterwards for the Germans to actually tear it down with hammers and sledgehammers. The reunification of east and west marked the beginning of the Cold War's end.