[October 23 Prompt: "If what you have done yesterday still looks big to you, you haven't done much today." -Mikhail Gorbachev]

It was difficult to learn how to live alone again, Russia realized. The new quiet that filled his home after his Union fell was one of the hardest things to get used to. He tried to fill the silence by making as much noise as he could. He stomped whenever he walked. He slammed doors. He intentionally dropped things. He dug out his radio and turned it up as loud as it could go, even when there was nothing worth listening to.

It wasn't just the ringing silence of an empty house that Russia had to learn to contend with, now that everyone had left. There were practical matters, things he hadn't needed to bother with before. For most of the century his business had been running his empire. There were others to takes care of his cooking and cleaning, but the others were gone now. The initial depression Russia fell face first into following December 31 was so deep that for a while he didn't even care about the layer of dust that had settled over almost every piece of furniture he owned, or the fact that there was little in his kitchen besides stale bread, vodka, tea and some raw potatoes. Eventually he climbed far enough out of that hole to, in the very least, concern himself with the state of his house again. And so he had rolled up his sleeves and tried to remember things he had never been taught in the first place.

Washing his clothes had been the biggest disaster thus far. That had been Lithuania's job, even back when he was the Russian Empire rather than the Soviet Union. Lithuania was the one who knew how to iron Russia's pants, how to get the vodka smell out of his shirts after longs nights of drinking, how to clean his scarf so that it stayed soft and comfortable. He never bothered to teach Russia any of those things. There hadn't been a need before. He could vaguely remember Ukraine teaching him how to wash his things by hand when they were younger, but he hadn't a clue what to do with a washing machine. Lithuania had been extremely pleased when Russia finally caved in to his request and bought the thing years ago, but the purchase was to make Lithuania's work easier. Why should Russia have learned how to use it?

He used far too much soap on this first try and ended up with a sudsy, soppy mess. His second try somehow shrunk half the load of laundry. His formerly baggy sweater had turned small enough to fit Latvia. He snarled at his error, threw the ruined clothes aside and tossed more dirty clothes in, trying again. A red shirt and vest were the only things to come out intact. The rest, which had been white when he started, had turned pink. Even his favorite scarf was now the color of bubblegum. He stared down at the dripping piles of failure around him and laughed until he cried. Then he just cried. It had been a long time indeed since he had felt so pathetic.

He had been strong once, hadn't he? He had built a beautiful, powerful country from the ground up, for his people. Of course he had dirtied his hands in the process, but surely the glorious end he had in sight would more than justify all his means. His empire ought to have been grand, ought to have lasted centuries, but...no. It had all just been a castle of sand, and the tide had finally come in.

He ought to have been ashamed for indulging in such self pity, but he couldn't even muster up the energy for that now. He just lurked around his house like a reclusive ghost. Or perhaps he was more of a poltergeist, since he had adopted the habit of knocking things off shelves for the sake of hearing the smash. He avoiding venturing outside unless his boss demanded he attend a meeting, and he went straight back home afterward. Why bother going outside? What was the point?

He thought about calling America from time to time. He couldn't bring himself to throw away the red phone. It still sat on his desk, tempting him. But what good would that do? America didn't care about him, not any more. Russia was certain of that. In fact, he was surprised that America hadn't called yet to brag and remind Russia of all he had lost. Why did he hesitate now? Wasn't he glad that Russia had lost? Maybe he simply cared so little about Russia now that he wouldn't even bother with a phone call. America easily forgot the countries he didn't care about. Maybe...maybe he was just forgetting all about Russia now too. The thought was enough to make Russia want to go back to bed and stay there for the rest of the day. No one cared any more. Not his sisters, not his subordinates, not his old friends...

A little longer, he told himself. Just a little more time was all he needed, and he'd pull himself back out of this dark mood. He'd grin and bear it, and go back to being a part of the world and pretend that it didn't sting when he was reminded that everything he did ended in failure. He just needed a few more days to shake off the grief.

It had been nearly a week since he promised himself only a few more days, when the doorbell rang. Russia stared at the door as though he had never heard the sound before. To be fair, it had been ages since anyone had rang the bell, or even knocked. Visitors had been rare as of late. A list of potential doorbell ringers flashed through his head, and he decided to answer it. At worst if could be someone who meant him harm, but what could they do? Being stabbed or shot or beaten would hurt, but it certainly wouldn't kill him. If he could survive the transition from the Soviet Union to the Russian Federation then surely nothing anyone had on his front doorstep could put a dent on him. The thought was strangely uplifting.

There were half a dozen locks and chains to undo before the door could be opened, and it swung open with a creak, letting some piled up snow spill inside. Russia stared blankly at the sight before him. There was no one there. There was, however, a small mountain of colorful cartons, all labeled 'Ben and Jerry's,' with a little bag of plastic spoons on the side. Now this was most unexpected. Russia glanced up and over, just in time to see someone in a very familiar bomber jacket disappear around a corner. Ah, so it was America. Of course. No doubt he felt that Russia's collapse had made him the default winner of their silly little war, and now he had come to rub his victory in Russia's face. Although he had certainly picked a strange way to go about it, but America's brain could be truly incomprehensible at times. Perhaps he sought to flaunt the superiority of capitalism through ice cream? It didn't matter. America had to be up to no good. Why else would he run away?

Without another thought, Russia took off after him, almost tripping over a carton of 'Chunky Monkey' in the process, half to catch America and demand an answer and half for of the desperate need to talk to someone just to convince himself that he was still capable of the act.

The snow on the streets was a stroke of luck; Russia could move through it much faster than America, and soon he caught sight of the back of a blond head. America had made the mistake of thinking he had gotten too far away to be followed and slowed his step. Russia took advantage of that to quickly catch up and seize the back of his jacket, jerking back sharply.

"Son of a bitch!" America yelped a he pulled away from Russia's grip and whirled to face him, glasses crooked and hair mussed. Russia would be the first to admit that he was no master of the English language, but he was fairly certain that 'son of a bitch' was four separate words. Yet the four always turned into one when it came out of America's mouth. Sonuvabitch. How curious.

"Good afternoon," Russia said icily as America tried to regain his bearings, clasping his hands behind his back. "I can not help but notice that you left quite a mess on my door step. Would you care to explain yourself?"

"Oh, um, uh, well. Er," said America, ever the eloquent one. "I, uh, guess you found my present."

Russia frowned. Where were the scathing remarks? The quips? The insults? The threats? Oh, he and America had been civil on occasion during the Cold War (and sometimes even something roughly resembling friendly, just like the old days) but surely America would take advantage of Russia's sorry state to land a few blows now, rub some salt into the wounds. Why did he hesitate now? Was this an act? But America had never been a very good actor...

"So, did you eat any yet?" America asked awkwardly, scuffing at a pile of snow with his shoe.

"Where would I have found the time for that? I have been chasing you, or did you forget?"

"Shut it, asshole. You could at least say thank you or something."

"For what? What have you done to deserve thanks? Enlighten me, I am curious."

"I bought you a shitload of ice cream, for one thing. And it wasn't exactly easy to transport all that from my place to yours."

"Ah, but that doesn't explain your reasons. Surely you did not waste all the time and trouble because you were bored, da? Although you have always been so proficient at wasting-"

"Can you shut your yap for ten seconds and let me talk?"

Russia shut his yap and folded his arms, waiting.

"Okay," America began, now that he had a quiet audience. "I dunno what you're being so weird about. This ain't rocket surgery. I bought you ice cream to cheer you up. That's it. And this would have worked a lot better if you hadn't ruined my doorbell ditching by chasing after me. Don't you know how this stuff is supposed to work?"

"And why should I believe this is true?"

"Whaddya mean? I just heard on the grapevine that you were kind of in a funk right now. And ice cream always fixes me when I'm in a funk, so hey, I figured it would work for you."

There was a very heavy question weighing on Russia's mind, but instead he asked, "What is a 'funk'?"

"You know...a funk is when...you're all down and sad and stuff."

"I see. And who told you I was...'in a funk'?"

"N-nobody, word was just kind of passing around-"

"It was Lithuania, da?"

"...Okay, knock off the creepy mind reader jig. It's too weird."

"No mind reading, just basic logic. Which you lack, of course."

"Listen here, bud-"

"You are friends with Lithuania. Friends tend to pass on information. Lithuania was...aware that I was upset after he left. He is in close contact with Belarus, even if it is against her will, and she most likely mentioned to him that I was feeling even more poorly by the time she left. And so it is no surprise that this was passed on to you."

"...Fine, you're right. Happy?"

"Nyet. I am 'in a funk,' da?" The corner of his mouth twitched up in spite of himself.

"All the more reason we go back to your house and eat that ice cream. You're beyond hope if that doesn't make you feel better."

But why do you care? Why does it matter to you if I am sad? Russia couldn't quite bring himself to ask that. A part of him was sure America would answer that he didn't care, it didn't matter to him, he had another reason for all this nonsense...

"Alright, pick up the pace. My balls are turning into ice cubes out here," America announced to the world at large, marching back to Russia's house. Russia followed, still bewildered by the turn of events.

"I know that common sense is a foreign concept to you, but are you certain you wish to eat something as cold as ice cream when, as you say, your testicles are feeling slightly chilly?"

"Yes I am certain, you colossal weirdo. Ben and Jerry's is the best thing ever!"

Star Wars, the Beatles and beer helmets had all been referred to as 'the best thing ever' by America. Russia wasn't certain about the legitimacy of that term.

They made it back to the house without further incident, and America even helped bring in the ice cream mountain he had built earlier on Russia's front doorstep. He flopped down on an overstuffed sofa without waiting for an invitation and opened a carton for himself (Half Baked) and had already eaten a third by the time Russia joined him on the sofa with his own little tub of ice cream (Chubby Hubby.)

"So..." America drawled after the silence had become truly uncomfortable. "I like your new flag. Uh, I mean your old flag. New old flag. Y'know the one with the white and blue and red stripes? That."

"I would have thought it was not flashy enough for you," Russia mumbled dully around the spoon in his mouth.

"Nah, red, white and blue works for me. Or white, blue and red in your case. Whatever. Good honest colors."

"I was under the impression that you hated red? You certainly ranted and raved enough about it."

"The blue and white cancel out the bad parts. So you're fine."

Russia sighed and put down his spoon. "Why are you here?"

"I already told you, to cheer you up!"

"Da, and why do you want to cheer me up?"

"Jeez, are you gonna make me say it? Okay. It bums me out when I think about you being sad and all on your lonesome. Got it?"

Russia just looked at him until he huffed in embarrassed annoyance and continued.

"I don't really hate you, y'know. You can be an Olympic-grade pain in the ass, but that doesn't mean I want you to be depressed and lonely. Besides, you aren't any fun to fight with when you're sad. So the sooner you pick yourself back up again, the better."

None of this made any sense, not America's supposed motives, not the way the tips of his ears were red with something other than cold, nothing.

"You sound so sure that I will make a full recovery from all this," Russia mumbled, half to himself.

"Yup. 'Cause you're you. And you always bounce back, no matter what drags you down, and you come back twice as strong every time."

"Is that really what you think?"

"Yup. And the old USSR wasn't all that awesome. You can do way better than that."

"You understand nothing," Russia snarled, slamming down the ice cream carton on the table. "I put everything into the Soviet Union. Everything. That was the best I had, the best I could do, and it-" His voice broke, and he had to stop there. America said nothing for a long time, and Russia finally picked the half eaten ice cream back up again, shoveling it mechanically into his mouth and trying to blink away the hot blur in his eyes.

Finally, America spoke again. "So, what? Are you just giving up on everything now?"

"I don't know," Russia whispered. "But I will never be as great as I was."

"What kind of crappy attitude is that? I'm telling you, you can do better than the Soviet Union. It's not like it was perfect. Or anything close to perfect. So quit getting all hung up on it. Yeah, some stuff you did there was pretty cool, but you're never gonna get anywhere if you only ever think about how great you used to be. If you're upset about how good things were, then work twice as hard and make the future twice as good. And don't tell me you can't. You're better than that. I know you are."

Russia blinked, slowly absorbing all that. It shouldn't have made a difference. It was all just common sense that Russia should have already known. And yet...he hadn't been able to say it to himself yet. Those were the words Russia needed to hear, the ones he hadn't been able to give to himself. And here was America, handing him those words as if it was nothing at all.

"That was surprisingly good advice, coming from you," he said honestly.

"Well," America scratched his nose awkwardly and took another bite of ice cream, unused to this kind of praise. "You know me. I don't like worrying about the past too much. Whatever happened is done and over with. We're living right now. That's what matters."

"Hm." The ice cream tasted a little sweeter on its way down. "I will think about what you have said."

"Good! Enjoy your ice cream, ex-commie. If you aren't back to normal at the next meeting, I'm gonna send you a heap of apple pies. Apple pie is a WMD against the blues, just so you know."

"I see. It is wise that you have a back up plan."

"Yup!" America had finished his ice cream and stood with an exaggerated stretch. "I better head back. I was just gonna leave the ice cream in front of your door and run, so I've probably already missed my flight home. Don't want the boss to worry too much."

You can stay, Russia almost said. I do not mind. There are plenty of spare beds. It would not bother me if it was just for one night.

But no, he couldn't say that. Not quite yet. But he could manage a small smile, and shake America's hand without squeezing too hard, and not pull away with America tuned the handshake into a quick hug.

"Cheer up, bud," America said on the way out, giving him a thumbs up. "You're gonna be fine."

The house didn't feel so lonely for the rest of the day, and Russia went to bed that night with a stomach ache (too much ice cream.) The next day, he called his boss. There was work to be done.