note one: merry late christmas, individuals. umm, so this is something that had been on my mind for a long, long time. and i just really wanted to get it out of my system. i just…have a thing for space and the iss. this was inspired by heavy in your arms by florence and the machine. (i'm actually thinking of starting a compilation of fics based on some songs and i guess this would be the first installment)
note two: also, this will be kindda historical…but not really(i took liberties so this might be slightly inaccurate) please do tell me if you enjoy it. also, it's…not in chronological order…err. yeah.
by any other name
aero-breaking
first in the collection: i'm saying goodbye, you were the one i loved
i was a heavy heart to carry
my feet dragged across the ground
and he took me to the river
where he slowly let me drown
The Russian Federation has had many names. Some great, some not, some old and forgotten, some new and feared. She's worn each of them proudly. Despite everything. Despite the failures and the fear, despite the fact that no one remembers them, and despite the fact that some have not lasted much at all.
She's worn her name proudly. Because she was the same, her people and land were the same too. Even if she hated everything she stood for (she doesn't) she would still wear it proudly. Because her people needed her and in the end, that was all that mattered.
There was a particular time she remembers with unwanted clarity. And that was when she had disposed of her old name.
America had been with her that day. Much to her utter humiliation.
No matter how much she had screamed, slapped his hands away, and proclaimed that she didn't need his pity he had stayed straight faced with a kind, almost desperate, look in his eyes. Always mindful of her weakened condition; he was so patient with her, it was sickening. He had done nothing wrong. She knew that in the back of her mind, but she could not accept the fact that she had lost.
To him.
She had challenged him, and she had lost. And that infuriated her. It fueled a hatred for him deep in the coldest chambers of her heart and she wanted nothing more than to crush his neck with her cold, nimble fingers.
The line between love and hate was so very thin.
Because she had loved him, at one point. She is sure.
'Till this day, she's still not sure just why he had stayed with her. Was it because he felt the need to confirm her loss? Was it pity? Was it lingering affection?
She would never know.
Her name had changed many times. She has several scars to prove it. That time was no different. She had suffered the consequences of the rise and fall of her influence, her body had torn itself apart many times before. It was always painful, of course. Every country had gone through the same pain at least once. She had reminded America of this countless of times during that week. He had done nothing more than shrug and appease her with an "I know."
She had hated him a little more every time he gave her that offhanded response.
He'd followed her to the heart of Siberia where she usually dealt with the death and birth of…herself. It was a little less painful. The cold she claimed to hate so much would numb her skin and her heart. It was a very personal occassion, and he had witnessed it.
Witnessed how she had cried and screamed at the sky of the unfairness of it all. Because it was. Why him? Why was he born innocent and loved and she had born corrupt and hated? Why couldn't she win just once? Why had she fallen in love with the person that would lead to her ultimate demise? Why? Why? Why?
She had laid in the snow and bled and bled and bled.
"Your skies are beautiful." He says, his voice resounds through the night. They're the only humans for miles. It is him and her and snow and ice and the bitter cold that is Siberia.
She stands behind him as he stares at the open night sky. It is unusually still and in every direction the stars and moon illuminate the forest. The snow is tinged with silver and there is an eerie calm before the storm. It is as if they are standing in the spot where the earth meets the sky. It is ethereal and so very anticlimactic. She is dying and Siberia is a nothing but calm.
If Moscow was her heart then Siberia was her mind. A cold desolate place, bigger and more influential than the weak beating of her dying heart. She stands here and the world is at her feet. But America is here, and for her, it is the ultimate invasion of her being. Because he is going to watch her die. The enemy is going to watch her as the last light of life leaves her eyes and he's so so so in love with her.
That's comforting, at least. He's going to watch the person he loves the most die. And every night when he looks up at the night sky he's going to have it engraved behind his eyelids.
His words have always had a strange effect on her being. Before, a long, long before ago, a blush would have risen to her cheeks, her heart would beat wildly in her ribcage, and her palms would turn clammy.
Now, it is indifference. And bitterness.
She doesn't answer him. He's been having a one-sided conversation for the past day. Since they had arrived at the cabin where she had decided she would die. It was the same place she had been born years ago. It only seemed fitting.
He should be home. Over there, in his old country home. Where he spent the majority of his time and his holidays. He should be with his family, celebrating…something. Christmas, her defeat, and the end of this hopeless love. And yet he's here. Suffering pains that he shouldn't be suffering. Watching things that would only make him cry later on. Because he wouldn't cry now. Not in front of her, it'd be like giving her a chip of his victory. And Anya is sure that is the last thing he wants.
He loves her. Yes. But for him it's all or nothing. Take it or leave it. He was greedy like that. She's always known it.
The cold of the night makes her skin numb, she's sure America is only acting the part of dealing with it. She sees the barely disguised shivers that run up his spine, even over the countless sweaters and coats he's pulled on. When she had followed him outside in nothing but a white gown he had sputtered stupidly, his voice cracking, and he'd tried to get her to put on her coat.
He was such a kid. She should have never given him the time of day.
But it is done. It has been done. And he's managed to come out victorious, like all those superheroes he likes so much. With all the odds stacked against him, he's won. And she's lost. Like the terrible villain that she is.
Something wet makes it's way down between the valley of her breast. It's a strange sensation and when she looks down, through the thin cotton material of her gown, she sees small trails of blood making their way down the expanse of her stomach. Her gown sticks to her skin and it is stained and ugly, menacing red.
She brings her fingers to her shoulder, touching the slightly torn skin, and feeling slight tinges of pain. So it has begun.
Anya almost wants to laugh. But no sound pours out of her lips. Time slowly passes, and the wound slowly becomes bigger and wider and America is still looking at the sky.
She hopes he doesn't turn around. Not now, not ever.
It spreads.
The pain, the blood, the tear, they all spread. And she's so numb from the cold and the agony that she doesn't realize she's screaming until America is by her side. He's talking in fast tones, and there is a panicked—heartbroken—look in his eyes. She will later, when she wakes up, deny ever seeing that look.
Her knees give under her and she's falling into his arms. She's still screaming. The pain has gotten to the point where she can't tell where her wound starts and where it ends. But she has a vague idea. She's seen her other scars before. They run from her right shoulder to her left hip, curling across her body like binds.
America lays her in the snow. He doesn't know what to do, doesn't know how to make it better and Anya is yet again reminded that he's young. Sure, he's had a civil war, but his name has never changed and he's never fallen like Britain or France or maybe even Spain. He doesn't know the pain of failure. Of complete irredeemable failure.
He holds her hand. And he's talking and murmuring things and Anya doesn't know what he's talking about. She can't hear him through her own cries and shouts. In the far, far distance of her conscious, she can barely manage to recognize what she is saying.
I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.
She remembers chanting that phrase through clenched teeth. Because she did. She hated America. Hated him and his sunny smile. She still does.
She had died that December day. And what remained of her love for him had died along with the disgrace of her past. She was not the Soviet Union anymore. She was not who she was decades ago, she had reborn into the same corrupt government and icy, cold lands. But she would make her name known again. Good or bad, rise or fall, she would proudly wear her name. It was the only thing she had.
"Anya." She hears America call behind her.
She turns around, slowly, and looks into the deep blues of his eyes. "Do not call me that. I do not need your empty affection."
"It's not—"
"Russia is fine."
She sleeps for three months. During that time, she's not sure what happens.
But she wakes up and her new name is The Russian Federation. She likes it. It rolls of her tongue easy and it's similar to ones she had domed in the past.
She wakes up in her St. Petersburg home, with the windows open and the curtains flowing. She doesn't remember how she got there and she doesn't really care. Her arms feel like lead and there is a disgusting aftertaste in her tongue. She sluggishly raises herself from the bed. Feeling like a child learning to walk, she's unsteady on her feet and she can barely stand to her full height.
Anya grabs her bed with the little strength she has. If not, she's afraid she will break her cranium on the marble floor. She makes her way slowly around the room, careful to not irritate her closing wound. It's wrapped tightly with white bandages and while it's not too painful, it is still tender.
When she's about to open the door it is abruptly pulled open by someone on the other side. It's one of her maids and she gasps, catching her just in time as her legs give under her.
Later, when she's seated in one of her plush seats she takes the time to read the newspaper. Many things have happened in three months and America is on top of the world. She sighs, tossing the newspaper as far away as she can.
Her maid had long since left her alone. Going off with nervous, excited jitters to the market. Anya finds it a bit strange and it isn't until two days later, when America is seating across form her, that she realizes why.
"You've been keeping tabs on me?" She asks, her voice low and scratchy from disuse.
He doesn't respond to her jab. Instead he looks at her. And looks. And looks.
As if he cannot believe she's awake. As if he had been expecting her to die permanently.
"I'm glad—" his voice cracks, it's such a raw, heartbreaking sound "—I'm glad you're awake."
"Anya—"
"Russia."
She turns her body towards him, her cold, empty, amethyst eyes unnerving him. He had mentioned in passing once, back when they were romantically involved, that he hated the way she would look at him sometimes. As if he were a child and not worth her time. Back then, she hadn't cared about his age or the like. But looking at him now, she would use anything to not let him get past her defenses.
He lets out a deep sigh, "Right. Okay. Russia."
She turns back to the sea she had been mindlessly looking at before. They're in a ship somewhere in the pacific, here to witness a truly historical moment. At least for her. America had shown up sometime during the voyage, coming out of hiding from the cargo bay. It was disturbing how often he did that. Show up in places he wasn't needed or wanted.
A beat of uncomfortable silence goes by.
Anya checks her watch, Mir was probably reentering atmosphere right about now, slowly tearing itself apart. She looks to the open blue sky; a long time passes before she finally finally sees it. Falling across the sky with long trails of debris and enveloped in fire. Like a shooting star. She holds her breath. And sees one of the last relics of her past life burn right in front of her eyes. Something, she's not sure what, lodges itself on the back of her throat and a knot forms. She expends her hand out, with a useless desire to catch it on the palm of her hand. But it keeps falling and falling and falling until it disappears on the horizon. The ocean swallowing it up.
"Peace." America says behind her.
"What..?" She asks, not entirely understanding his comment.
"That's what you named her. Peace."
"Yes…" She murmurs, still not taking her eyes of the spot in the horizon where she had seen her previous space station land.
"It fit her."
It did. Mir was hers. All it's glory and its accomplishments and it's faults. They would always, always belong to her. That glory was her own and she wouldn't share it anyone. Most specially him. She could be selfish too, just like him.
"I can do it if you teach me."
He's angry. She can tell by the way his nostrils flare and the way he's clenching and unclenching his fists. She's going to be honest, she throughly enjoys making America angry. It's been a hobby for a long time now. She likes getting in the way of his foolishly thought out plans.
If he wants her help, he's going to have to prove himself.
"And why should I teach you?" She asks, twirling a unlit cigar in her fingers. "Why should I even consider the notion?"
He swallows his frustration, trying to calm down and be reasonable, "You're the only person that can. I wouldn't have asked you if there was any other person that could teach me."
Anya raises an eyebrow, "So it's out of convenience then?"
It's strange to see him. She can still see the things she fell in love with. Wasn't that such a strange thing? Usually, when people fell out of love it was because the things they fell in love with changed or disappeared or just couldn't be found anymore. Yet for her, she could see everything she fell in love with clearly on his person.
His eyes, his lips, his hair, his headstrong attitude, his ability to take charge, his over-the-top ideas, his being Alfred. But she couldn't say that name anymore. Couldn't call out that name and expect him to answer her and to comfort her. He was America now.
And America wanted to build a space station. Together. With her.
He wanted her to teach him everything she knows about residing in space for long periods of time. He wanted to someday—together—launch a space station into space and call it theirs. It was almost like having a child. In a strange roundabout way.
"Convenience," he says, interrupting her thoughts, "and collaboration. To…ease things up a bit."
The last part, he says almost hesitantly, as if they mentioned the things happening outside this room would burst in through the doors and force them to remember that they were supposed to hate each other.
Which she does. She hates him. But he doesn't hate her, and it's very sad. For him. Because sometimes it feels as though he's trying so hard and yet nothing works.
"Ease things up a bit…" She repeats. "Just what do you want America?"
He flinches. Not very noticeably, just a slight twitch of his shoulders. But she sees it, and is reminded that he hated it when she called him by his formal title.
"I just.." He begins and pauses. He looks around the room almost nervously. "I just want…to be up there. With you. And not have to worry about what's going on down here. Just for a few days. Please. I'm going crazy."
It's pathetic. He's pathetic and she's pathetic for allowing her heart to skip a beat.
A long silence goes by. With nothing but the sound of the air swooshing through the window. Pulling out a lighter she lights her cigar, takes a long drag, steels herself, and releases the smoke in his general direction.
"I don't want to."
There's shock in his handsome features, his eyes watering due to the smoke and something else. Humiliation, she hopes.
"You can't do this," He murmurs out.
"I can and I will. Mr. America, if this is it, I will be taking my leave." She stands, pulling her military jacket over her shoulders. She strides out held high, the door slamming closed behind her, she makes a short pause, just long enough to see that there are soldiers lining the halls. To the right she sees his men and to the left her own, they're staring each other down and it's entirely too amusing.
She's commanding one of her soldiers to begin the preparations for their departure when America burst out of the room with barely disguised rage.
He shouts. "I'm not done talking to you!"
She pays him no mind as she continues walking down the hallway of the building. They're in some abandoned building, it's only importance being that it was what had been dubbed 'The Neutral Zone'. It's old and falling apart, kind of like the reasoning of the man running up behind her.
Anya feels him grabbing her arm, digging his nails into her pale skin, and forcefully turning her around. Instantly she hears various weapons being pulled out of their hiding places, from both his soldiers and hers. She looks into his conflicted eyes and mocks, "Neutral, huh?"
He clenches his teeth, ignoring her jab, he grits out. "I need you to teach me."
She cocks her head to the side, faking confusion, "Why? Given time, you'll learn."
"It has to be you. I don't want to learn by myself. You have to teach me."
She pulls out of his grasp, her amethyst eyes hardening, "You're such a child."
America bites back an insult, if only to not further anger her. Anya looks into his eyes, searching for his real motive. But she finds nothing. It is infuriating to know that she could be running into a trap. America didn't do things without reason. Sometimes his reasons were stupid, but he always had a reason. He wasn't as stupid as he made himself out to be. He would have never defeated Germany if that was the case. He would have never gained in depended either. Always the deceiver this one.
"I will teach you." She says after some consideration, "but only if you kneel and ask nicely."
The disgust is palpable. He lets out a hesitant laugh, voice cracking, "—You're joking."
"I'm not. You know I don't like jokes. Right here, right now, kneel and beg."
America looks around taking in the smug faces of her comrades and the horror of his own. Don't do it, he hears them saying in their thoughts.
Anya looks at her watch, "Come on, Mr. America. I don't have all day."
He looks into her eyes, and for a split second she almost believes he hates her. But he lowers his gaze to the floor. He swallows thickly, closes his eyes, and does as she had requested.
The ISS is, after the moon, the most visible thing in the night sky. It's beautiful and majestic and it is no longer theirs. It belongs to the world now, and Anya wouldn't have it any other way.
She won't have to deal with America alone, and that's enough reason to make it international. Mir is gone but that's okay, because she has many plans.
America comes up to stand beside her. Standing a safe distance away. As of late, he's been growing quieter and quieter around her. Almost as if he's finally realizing that she doesn't not hold the same feelings she had for him before.
About two years ago, after a specially heated argument he had stomped out of the meeting room. Angry curses streaming out of his lips, when he had returned, however, there were tiny pink rims around his eyes. And it's only after she's home, a week later, that she realized that those rims must have been from crying. He had been crying and that made her both sad and happy.
America clears his throat, "I should…probably stop doing this, huh?"
She turns her questioning gaze to him. He waves his arm, gesturing to everything around them, "Following you. That is. I should stop. I don't want to—because y'know. But I should. It's just that—"
He's not making sense. So she lets him ramble and she tunes him out.
This is it, Anya thinks. The moment she's been waiting for. For the past ten years she's tried to get him to stop loving her and move on. The moment is here.
And she doesn't know what to think. Honestly.
She hated loosing. She couldn't be with someone who'd she's lost to. Her pride wouldn't allow her, wouldn't leave her alone. She forever think, you lost and you didn't even try to redeem yourself.
"—I love you." She hears him say. It's the last thing she catches from his string of unintelligible words. He's looking at her now. America with his wide blue eyes that remind her of a curious child.
He's waiting for her to hit the nail of the coffin. She should, she hates him. She'd win this round. Because it was always a competition with them, someone had to out-do the other. They couldn't accept second place. They had to meet right at the middle, blow for blow.
"Alfred." She says, it's the first time she's said his human name in twenty years.
"Yeah?" He asks, barely audibly. His eyes are watering.
"Thank you for everything."
Alfred shifts his weight from foot to foot, his body is jittery, "Yeah." He repeats, biting his lip to keep the tears from slipping out of his eyes. "Is it—" his voice cracks, it's always memorable moment when his voice cracks, something about the pain in his voice makes her remember it with astounding detail. "Is it safe to assume that you'll never return my love for you?"
She hums and looks up at the setting sun, "Alfred. I'm not going to love you again for years. Decades. Maybe even centuries. But I'll probably…eventually…fall in love with you all over again."
A tear does manage to make its way down his cheeks, she moves to wipe it off, because she can't see him crying. "We're both stupid like that."
She smiles. A small but real and sincere smile.
"I'll see you around." She says, mimicking his goodbyes.
She slips away from him. And before she's out of complete earshot he shouts, "IT WON'T BE CENTURIES. YOU'LL BE IN LOVE WITH ME AGAIN BY THE END OF THE DECADE!"
She turns around and he's looking at her with bright eyes and a blinding smile. She almost snorts and shouts back, "I WOULDN'T COUNT ON IT!"
She wakes up to the smell of Alfred making breakfast. It's been two years since the end of the Great War and three years from the end of her revolution. It's the beginning of a new era. She can see the tell tale signs. It's a new generation with new dreams and aspirations.
She stretches in the bed, relishing in this moment were she has no responsibilities.
She is Anya and he is Alfred. It's not perfect. Far from it, actually. Both their countries are entering stages that will shape and change them forever. But this morning is theirs.
He comes into the room with a tray in his hands and with nothing on but a pair of shorts. He quickly rids himself of them after setting the tray on his nightstand. With an excited yell he jumps into bed next to her. His golden skin meeting with her pale one and creating a startling contrast.
"So ma'am." He begins with his best seductive voice, "Today I have a beautiful day planned for you."
"Is that so?" She questions, laying her head on his chest. "Do tell."
"Today we will be staying in bed all day. Doing nothing but relaxing."
"Mmm," She says suspiciously, "You're idea of relaxing could be different from mine."
He gives her a sheepish grin and kisses her nose. "I know."
"So what did you make?" She asks, eying the tray and dropping the topic, because she wouldn't refuse the things he had in mind.
"An all American breakfast."
She rolls her eyes, "Of course you would."
"Hey Anya?" He calls, as she's gets up, it makes her pause.
"Yes?"
He smiles wide, "I'll love you forever."
She snorts, "You can't know that for sure."
"Yes I can," He retorts, "I'm going to love you until the end of time."
"Loving me forever is going to be a hassle." She says, half joking, half serious.
But Alfred is adamant, "Just watch," He says, "I'll love you forever, even when you don't love me. I'll make you fall in love with me all over again and again until you realize that you won't ever be able to break away from me."
Anya doesn't take him seriously, "I doubt it, you're not strong enough to love me forever."
"Then I'll become strong," he says, with such confidence Anya almost believes him. "I'll become strong enough to love you, despite everything."
i was a heavy heart to carry
but he never let me down
when he had me in his arms
my feet never touched the ground.
note three: ta-dah! it is done. you know, writing historical fics is hard. because i dunno, there's lots of angst. also, you will notice that i will write a lot of americaxfem!russia in the future. and that's because i feel like this paring is just…a goldmine of angst and it has so so much potential. like, i love all version of rusame but this particular one hits me right in the guts. like—woah, let me sit down i'm hyperventilating.
note four: please review! (also, sorry if there are grammatical mistakes...)