May 4, 2118

Peace.

Russia felt at peace when he woke up this morning. In recent years, he'd been starting to look forward to their anniversaries—there was always something interestingly humorous America planned that never failed to amuse Russia.

They didn't even bother relocating most years anymore: they only moved when the other started to feel homesick, which in Russia's case, isn't very often anymore. They've been living in the United States for the last five years in a row… Maybe this year they should move back to Russia, he thought to himself.

He got out of bed to go down to the kitchen and make them breakfast. It was the least he could do since America insisted on taking charge of the celebrations… again. Even though this year would be their 50th year united, America wouldn't let Russia take part in the preparations. If Russia was honest with himself, he had to admit he was looking forward to the parade and festivities-and surprises- that America no doubt had planned for today.

By the time the last pancake was done, America finally came in, already dressed for business.

"Oh, thank God! I'm starving," he said as he sat down at the counter.

"Thought so," smiled Russia, handing him a plate with a stack of pancakes.

America didn't waste a second before starting to shovel food into his mouth. "Gonna have a busy day today," he said between enormous mouthfuls.

"Please slow down," replied Russia, sitting down to eat as well. "But now will you tell me what you've planned?" he asked in a sweetly pleading tone.

"Nope!" America swallowed another mouthful. "You get to wait just like everybody else."

Russia pouted.

"Don't give me that," frowned America. "You know the rules: host country hosts the party, and I decided to make it a surprise!"

At that, Russia made a more exaggerated pout, whimpering for effect.

America looked away, embarrassed for him. "You know, you're alarmingly cute when you wanna be."

Russia chuckled. "I like making you uncomfortable."

"I noticed," chuckled America before cleaning off the rest of his breakfast. "Delicious. I'll get going now. Remember to meet me in front of the Capitol at one o'clock sharp."

"I will," assured Russia.

"Right, then. Later!" he said as he left the kitchen again to join his boss, leaving Russia to clean up after breakfast and mind his own business until it was time to go.

Chaos.

That was the only word America could use to describe what was happening, how he felt, and who the hell is going to take responsibility for this?

He was distantly aware of people screaming as others rioted, fire and shards of glass littering the streets. He wanted everything to just shut up for a minute so he could actually process what happened, what's happening, and where the hell is Russia?

This was supposed to be a celebration for surviving, for making it halfway through their treaty without killing each other, whether it was actually peace or tolerance, they made it this far.

But now he knew better. Now he could see his people were just waiting for an opening, an opportunity to lash out and here it is—chaos. He thought he was done playing the naive young nation that everyone loved to mock when they thought he wasn't listening, but clearly he was wrong. To make matters worse, just as he was beginning to trust Russia, this happened.

Never again.

Whoever dared to assassinate the 61st President of the United States of America was going to pay very dearly for it, and if it turned out to be Russia himself, then so be it.

Blinking through the migraine he now had thanks to this very public murder, America made his way to the Pentagon. Although they've already initiated the necessary protocols, he needed to be with the vice-president until everything settled down. The armoured vehicle that took him there barely muffled the riots and bombings going on, mirrored by the pounding in his head. The last time he felt this sort of pain was in 1963 and it took weeks for that migraine to go away.

When they arrived at the Pentagon, America was escorted in, still too dazed and disoriented from everything going on.

"Alfred," called a familiar voice.

"What?" he replied, flinching at how irritable his own voice sounded.

"Alfred, are you okay?" asked the same, concerned voice, familiar hands wrapping around his arm to help him walk.

"No," groaned America, and his discomfort was unaided by the bustling in the headquarters. It seemed whoever was talking to him could tell and was leading him to a quiet and secluded office—with a couch, thankfully. He laid down in the darkened room while extra-strength aspirins and a glass of room temperature water were handed to him. Whoever this was could read minds; until the pieces finally clicked together.

"Russia, you bastard," groaned America. "How could you do this to me?"

"Me?! I didn't do this," protested Russia.

"Yeah, like you haven't been dy—"

America stopped himself when he finally looked at Russia and saw him covered in dirt and what looked like blood in some places. And he was wearing his nice shirt too: the light blue button-down that felt really soft and that he only wore on special occasions. His scarf was torn in places, too, but what disturbed America the most was the obvious look of distress across Russia's features. He was worried… No, he looked scared. America had never seen him look so vulnerable before.

"I… I'm sorry, I thought…"

"You thought it was a Russian that killed your president," he completed, somehow sounding more hurt than he looked. "I can't say I blame you…"

"No, Ivan, I'm sor—"

"It's okay," interrupted Russia, holding a hand up as though to physically stop the words from coming out of America's mouth. The damage was already done.

America bit his lip. "But who…?"

"The FBI are investigating," assured Russia. "And if they don't find the culprit by the end of today, then I'll bring in the KGB and CIA to investigate as well."

America let out a relieved sigh. Clearly, Russia had a handle on it, which he didn't. He must have been growing soft…

"Thank you," he said sincerely.

"It's nothing," murmured Russia.

Now that the aspirin was finally kicking in, America forced himself to sit up—there was a lot of work left to do.

Several hours passed before the assassin—a disenchanted American, they sadly noted—was found. Unfortunately, the killer committed suicide before he could be taken in.

Russia drove them home when it was finally all over in the early morning hours while America slept in the back with enough pain killers in his body to overdose a normal person three times over. America sadly thought to himself that he didn't know how he would've gotten through the day without Russia's help.

Even as they arrived home, Russia helped America into the house and up to his room. After Russia tucked him into bed, he was about to go to his own room when America held him by his shirt. Russia looked back curiously.

"Yes?"

"Stay," said America in a quietly pleading tone.

Russia was confused. "I wasn't intending to go anywhere at this hour,"

"No, I mean stay here," blushed America, tugging Russia towards him onto the bed.

Russia was stunned. "Oh," he murmured. "Oh… Well at least let me change," he said, surprising himself.

America nodded, realizing Russia was still covered in dirt and blood from when he was helping injured civilians at the start of the riots and let him go.

Russia still had not completely processed the strange request as he washed himself and changed into something clean and comfortable. He set his scarf on his dresser for mending later. He went back down the hall to America's room, surprised (but slightly thankful) to find him still awake.

He got in next to him, hesitant to get under the covers, but America pulled him down to him to clutch at his shirt, his face buried in as he cried, "I'm sorry."

"It's okay, Alfred," reassured Russia, awkwardly patting his back while America slowly crumbled in his arms.

"I'm so sorry I doubted you," he continued to sob, hiccupping with every breath he took. "I never thought an American could do this, I knew they were unhappy, but not this much!"

Russia knew there was nothing he could really say to comfort America and what he was feeling was all too familiar to Russia. He wished there was someone there for him when his rulers were mercilessly slaughtered in the past, but he had always been alone. Until now…, he thought, biting his lip.

So for all those times Russia was alone, he held America the way he wished he was held and comforted him the way he wished he was comforted. America's crying eventually subsided and his grip in Russia's shirt softened. Both exhausted, they quickly after fell asleep.

A/N: For those of you that don't know, 1963 was the year John F. Kennedy was assassinated (my humble Canadian ass had to look it up lol)