Chapter Twenty One

A/N I'm sure the two people reading this would like to know why I missed two weeks of uploads. Well, for the first week I just needed a break 'cause I had a crap-load of homework, I was going to write two chapters for the next weekend to make up for it but then… then the power went out for two days. Like, okay, it's just power, you can still write, but you see…

The tree fell in my neighbor's yard right? Not only did it pull down power lines (they were ALL over the road btw) it pulled down the internet cable thingy so our internet was out until Sunday! (I was actually in Vermont on Sunday, at my aunt's house, so I was able to write this chapter, but I couldn't share it 'cause I was on my school chromebook and you better bet they don't allow Ao3, , or Wattpad.)

Also, there is a reference to a past sex scene. Just wanted to warn you. A/N over.

Japan, Russia, Canada and America had recently met with each other for work related reasons.

For some reason, Japan wasn't really sure why, he was quite happy in Russia's capital city. Normally he had a sort of itching sensation whenever he was in another country's capital and he had a sneaking suspicion it was the same for many of his friends. For example, America's overbearing nationalism often out-shown any sort of country related dysphoria but there were still signs of it. Japan assumed that he always felt this way because of safety issues, probably because he felt as though he could be attacked at any moment, which was untrue. Maybe the instinct was amplified because he was older and it was more true in the past?

Whatever the case, Japan had been sure to compliment Russia on the city, the buildings, the art, the new-ish McDonalds even. (He had noticed that Russia was rather proud of the last one and Japan was almost certain it was just because of the freedom it represented.) There were some very colorful rooftops, some with amazing archways, some without…

Now, it wasn't that he hadn't been to Moscow before, no, he had been to this place a number of times in the past, this one just felt vaguely… different. There was a hint of hope in the air and as much as the loneliness of his family leaving his house seemed to rule his personality Japan could tell that Russia was happy to have let the Soviet Union go. He felt faintly glad that Russia was free too, knowing what that type of control felt like and what it could do to a person, how could he not be happy for the other?

There were signs of the 'old way' of life here, it would go away quickly, but the people, the plant life, the sky, everything seemed hopeful.

And it seemed that Canada felt the same way, when he had talked to the elusive country there had been the sparkle in his eyes. That instinctive preparation for a better future. It was nearly always there with America, seeing as he was more of an ideology than a country, though he represented the land too. That glow. Japan appreciated this glow, the golden, violet, blue, and every bit of gray in his own eyes. If he did not have some hope for his people, for his future, his eyes were solid black.

For other people, like Russia or Switzerland whose eyes were naturally shiny and attention grabbing colors, they switched to a matte, blank space. Japan had rarely seen the more 'progressive' nations with such eyes, and rarely the less 'progressive' ones with hope. Russia's eyes quite literally glowed on their own accord but Japan knew this was probably from the ghosts that were so near to him. (Supposably anyway, the Asian personification couldn't see them himself.)

The hope was something you could feel but not touch.

There was a thrilling aspect to that kind of idea. That kind of thing, the kind that drew humans, personifications, and monsters alike forward. Even if it was arguable that money did this more extremely Japan knew it was from the changing world, as only that could influence such feelings so deeply ingrained in everyone's heads.

It was true, the older you were the more likely these obvious things would have dulled visibly, even though they were still stronger inside of you. That was why he so often looked blank, even when things were good. He had climbed from the literal rubble of his cities. Stood above destruction like no other. He knew what the future of war would be, and that was why he was glad that the USSR had collapsed.

No more power struggle with weapons powerful enough to wipe out entire American states.

At least for now.

He did not want to be around when such a thing started again. But no one else had felt the pain he had, no one had experienced the terror. He felt that it was his job, and his job alone if no one else cared, to protect the people of every nation from that fear, and so he stuck around.

America rolled the Big Mac over in his hand. There was still the American charm to the food, the puffiness of the bread, the taste. It was the same physically but he knew that Russia felt as though it represented something. The freedom from his past.

Though he couldn't relate on that same level, thank God, he knew what freedom felt like after fighting for it for so long. Things weren't perfect in his home and he knew that.

The blond accepted the mistakes in his government. That hatred towards people who were 'different' even though he was supposed to be the epitome of freedom. He hated the way people were treated, LGBTQ people, women, different religions, and any race other than white. He hated this. It was supposed to be free. He was supposed to be the most happy, most supportive and, though narcissistic, the best place to live.

And he knew that his people could do better than they were.

He knew it. He trusted their intuition, trusted his government to make bad choices, trusted his people to rectify those mistakes and for the government to continue off of the citizen's example. That was the point of his ideology, to build people up into comfortable living. Everyone. To build everyone into safety, to drag the poor out of poverty, to…

But his internal monologue stopped and he raised his head. What the hell was he doing? This was Russia's accomplishment, not that he would ever tell the other this, not after their… history together.

But this thought was also slowed, interrupted this time by the person he was thinking about. He had entered the McDonalds and was now looking around, a curiously conscious expression on his face. He looked tentative to be in the building (and rightly so, it looked as though he had skipped the long-ass line to enter the building judging by the angry faces of the humans around him). He was looking around, clearly intent of finding something. America was almost tempted to stand up and tell him that if he wanted food he would have to go to the counter, which was quite easy to find.

Yet he surprised the American, seemingly recognizing his jacket and making eye contact before making a beeline over to his former ally's booth.

The Russian sat down, leaving a wave of confused expression on the human's in his wake. His coat had not been removed, even though it wasn't cold out at the moment. His scarf was still on, flowing behind him due to his quick movement. It covered a scar that was on his neck, few people other than America and Russia's sisters knew this.

Alfred felt his face heating up. He didn't want to think about that scar, not before a conversation with the man who was attached to it, not ever. (He still didn't know where it came from, but just thinking about…)

Shuddering, America almost didn't notice when Russia sat down. The semi-European man cleared his throat, properly getting his attention.

Russia felt some level of embarrassment radiating off of the other and he could clearly see the blush that the American tried so hard to hide by turning his face. Drumming leather-gloved fingers on the table, the silver haired man waited for a response to his actions. He didn't know if he wanted to be congratulated for becoming free, didn't know why he had even chosen to talk with the other, he just knew he had too. He didn't expect a congratulation, Americans were always like that after all, self-centered and nationalistic. But right now he was too nervous to hide… well, his nervousness.

So he was surprised when America cleared his throat, his face still turned away as he held a Bic Mac up to shield even more of his features from the Russian's view, "Well, butter my ass and call me a biscuit," America breathed, involuntarily using the southern expression, "you... did it!"

He turned to face his surprised companion, the blush that had dusted his face now settled only on his nose and the very inner parts of his cheeks, "and here I thought," he laughed awkwardly and some of the blush came creeping back, "here I was thinkin' that I was runnin' over Hell's half acre while you were…" he gestured around, "doing this for pete's sake!"

Russia smiled, he didn't understand half of what the blond had said, but it sounded kind, "I appreciate it," he purred, shutting his eyes in both gratitude and relief.

"You'd be darn tootin'!" America huffed, crossing his arms and turning his head away once more, "this is one hell of an improvement from when I was last here!"

Russia smiled apologetically, "Oh?" He remembered now, though America usually spoke in a Jersey or New York accent, occasionally throwing in that California or Boston flair, the Southern half of his personality would always show through when he was embarrassed. It was a pretty handy tool, much easier than trying to recognize China's emotions though vague expressions and posture, especially when neither were present one hundred percent of the time. "So it…" Russia swallowed, "I look okay?"

America knew he was referring to the city, to the land itself and it's new freedom but he found it hard not to stare at the personification's human form, "fine as frog hair split five ways!" he exclaimed. It wasn't an exaggeration, human body or land. The city looked great, the people looked great, "a-slso!" Alfred tried to draw the Russian's attention away from the direct complement, "this place is hoppin'! I thought I would never get my food!"

Russia nodded slowly, he had caught that complement, not quite sure what it meant, but he had caught it, "Some people were waiting hours last year…"

"Yeah no shit!" America laughed, earning a few confused expressions from the cashires, all of whom could understand him at least mildly, "If I was here when it opened I would have…" he swiped his hand through the air, making a swooshing sound with his mouth to represent moving quickly, "like that!"

Russia laughed, the nervousness from both of them had seemed to have mostly melted off, "The lines on the first day…" he smiled warmly off into space, just remembering.

"Really really long, right?" America smiled kindly, "and it's been a few years too…"

"Well," Russia shrugged, "only two or three…"

"A couple then," America nodded, "There are so many of these things at my place-" he stopped himself suddenly and blushed, "well, you know that…"

Russia nodded too, "O-of course, but why-"

"It was nothing," America shook his head, "I'm just amazed that this is one of the things that stopped our war…"

"Americans will be Americans," Russia offered, trying not to sound offensive.

To his relief, America just laughed, "That's fair, and plus, I'm glad that this place is here, and plumb full of food! Seriously, this is the best possible outcome,"

Russia blushed, "Glad you like it,"

America didn't respond at first, taking a few bites from his sandwich. And the air of uncertainty descended on them once more. Russia looked down at his feet, rubbing his gloved hands together and biting his lip. America tapped his heel rapidly on the floor, something that Russia remembered him doing a lot in meetings where they were discussing truly serious topics. He was extroverted, that was for sure, but he was scared of a lot of things.

One of those things just so happened to be conversations with Russia, which was fair, most people he knew were scared of him.

"I…" America started, putting his burger down on the table and staring at his neatly folded hands, "you… you know why it's awkward between us."

Not even surprised that he had cut straight to the point, Russia sighed, "the war…"

But America shook his head, his words coming short and constricted, "more than that," Russia understood. Their… love, if it could be called that. In truth the relationship had been more of an acceptance of each other's presence and a few extra steps.

Sweaty movements, a coat long forgotten flung onto a desk, a scarf ripped off his neck by two pairs of hands (one of them his own), four leather gloves tossed haphazardly to the side, gentle hands running through hair… Russia shuddered just thinking about going back to the way they were. Trying to get the thought out of his head he looked up, "I… I wanted to apologize for…" he trailed off into a whisper, "for everything."

"Don't apologize," America shook his head violently, his cheeks sprinkled with pink, "don't."

Another silence descended upon the pair but this time it was different. The space between them felt farther and the quiet felt sad instead of awkward. Alfred's foot had stopped tapping and the drumming of Russia's fingers slowed. It felt as though Alfred wanted to say something else, something to fill the space, a few words that would ease their fears.

America stuttered, looking up again and forcing a sad, sad smile, "You know what Ivan?"

Russia looked up at the mention of his human name. People didn't tend to say it all that much, and although he definitely preferred his actual title to the simple word it was still sweet to hear. After a beat of appreciating the smile that held America's mouth in place, Russia coughed and raised his shoulders, "W-what is it?"

He had turned his eyes away. As much as this conversation was making him happy in that nostalgic way he couldn't help but feel dirty for it. There was no sense to his guilt, he was single, there was no one he was interested in… well, interested in publicly. So though it was true that America was beautiful, with his pleasantly ruffled hair and scuffed up boots there was something homey about him. But Russia didn't like him. America wasn't a person he trusted just as much as he wasn't a person America trusted.

It would have been a real shame sixty or so years ago, when they at least mildly got along as friends, or slightly more than that. But now… Russia had moved on.

America shook his head and whispered, sounding ashamed, "It's nothing."

Russia took in a shaky breath, about to apologize, say something, anything that would make that sad look come off of the other nations face. He usually liked seeing his fellow nations without smiles, especially if he was the cause of that other expression but this was not like that. He felt distressed, mostly because internally he was aware there was nothing he could do.

America shrugged, his voice high pitched and blank, though distantly choked, "but… but if we could go back to how we were before the recent, uh…" he cleared his throat and crossed his arms, turning away and staring intensely at a wall in a vain attempt to hide his emotions, "the war, I would…"

His voice died and he shook his head. At this point Russia wasn't sure why the American was feeling such intense emotions but he got the point. He understood what America was trying to say.

"I would be able to love you again."

Sure, they had stopped seeing each other on some truly nasty terms but Russia almost felt as if this reaction was... over the top? Extreme? They had never reached a 'love' or 'appreciation' stage. Their 'relationship' hadn't really been about that. So why the hell did America sound so sad? Was it angry? Or was it a mix between the two, maybe an entirely different emotion?

Seeing the slight confusion and annoyance in Russia's eyes America quickly stood, wrapping up his burger and grabbing his drink. Putting his wallet into his pocket, the blond pointed at Russia's eyes, causing him to jump.

"Violet," he said, the soda in his hand sloshing inside the cup.

Then he withdrew his hand and pointed to his own eyes, "Blue." His arm dropped and Russia binked, now more confused than ever.

"Everyone has their secrets," America shook his head, "mine just happens to be unsolvable," he tipped his head, "unlike China's,"

Russia swallowed at the sudden mention of his friend's name. He had been trying his darndest not to think about the brunet while speaking with America. It just felt low to give them both attention, even though he was entirely entitled to talking with people.

"Maybe one day you'll get it, maybe one day you won't," America smiled sadly before wiggling his fingers in a sort of wave, "bye Ivan!"

Russia watched him leave the McDonalds before looking around at the tables around him suspiciously, eyeing anyone who looked like they might now English. Luckily everyone seemed to be busy with their food, although they might have just known well enough not to interrupt. He bit the inside of his cheek, hands gripping his knees tightly. How was he supposed to feel? What did America mean by that last thing?

There were so many questions swirling around in his head.

There was no snow hitting the windows, not even the whooshing of wind in the rafters of his house. It was quiet except for the clock ticking on the wall and his own humming.

Russia had no idea when he had picked up this habit of humming when he was thinking hard but it filled up some of the emptiness where he lived so it felt pleasant and he hadn't stopped. Plus, background noise was always helpful when he was thinking, the louder the better to a point. Maybe it was the way he had grown up, maybe not.

He was mentaly weighing his options.

On one hand sat America, a strong, overbearing, nationalistic teen who only had a bit under three hundred years of life under his belt. It wasn't the blonde's fault that he was young, in fact his escape from being an English colony was quite impressive, but it was still something to think about. Russia had known America for almost as long as France or England had, though he had not been influential in the slightest.

But on the other hand was China, a strong, overbearing, nationalistic-

Russia paused. He actually had no clue what age China was physically, and it was especially hard to tell because the entire time Russia had known China he had looked the same, so there was no comparison to be made. Maybe that was the problem with being five thousand years old. Years, decades, even centuries blended together both in memory and in looks.

In truth, the first time that Russia had spoken with Egypt he thought that the man might have been the same age as China. The African country's history stretched back far enough so it felt possible that they were a similar age. Because of this it came as quite a shock when Egypt had mentioned his mother, 'ancient' Egypt. Apparently she had been the first one, the one with all the pyramids that humans marveled at. She had probably talked to China, or at least spoken with someone who had talked to China at some point.

The world was very different without the ability to send mail without the risk that the messenger would die within the first month or so of their journey.

Russia blinked and sat up, his humming stopping. Where had he been going with this train of thought? He bit his lip, thinking hard before it finally popped back into his head.

"Очевидно..!" he exclaimed under his breath. He had been comparing America and China. What was it that Alfred had said today?

"Violet… blue…" Russia muttered in heavily accented English, pointing to his own eyes and a hypothetical America's eyes as he repeated it, "my secrets are more worthy than you," he finished.

He knew that that wasn't really what America had said but it felt that way, if he was going to mention a secret he should have at least laughed or sounded less sad than he ended up sounding, it had almost worried Russia.

Worried? What the hell had becoming friends with China turned him into? Someone who felt emotions?

"Нет нет нет нет…" Russia murmured. It was okay if he felt emotions, so far it had helped him greatly at both speaking with his friend and visiting countries that were warmer than his own. Both of those things were very welcome, but he wasn't sure how he felt about feeling emotions towards America other than anger and annoyance.

America had mentioned a secret and Russia was actively trying to figure out what China was hiding. For some odd reason he felt as though the secrets were related, but that was only grabbing at straws to find an excuse to stalk both of them. Perhaps calling it stalking was a bit harsh but he couldn't for the life of him call it research at this point. It was more than that.

He truly cared about China, his sly smile, those captivating golden eyes, the gradually changing expressions and every constant emotion in his voice. It was more than curiosity about something he wasn't supposed to know at this point, it was way more than that. This was more of a curiosity about how far their rekindling friendship could take him.

He had to make a decision between chasing after America's secret or China's. At this point America's was more intriguing but when he thought about China… A stray touch of their hands here and there, phone calls into the early hours of the morning, and how time seemed to pass so painfully quickly whenever they were together.

The choice was clear, there was no way Russia could go back to America, not when China was so close. Not when he was so close to being cared about.

A/N Hope the sudden RusAme wasn't too jarring, but it is absolutely necessary for the plot! I'm going to be straying a bit from the plan I had because I've gotten some new ideas since I first wrote it.

*I said LGBTQ instead of lgbtqa+ because of the time period. A/N over.