December 13, 1991

Soviet couldn't breathe. Not well enough, anyways. Despite being on a ventilator, it still felt like his lungs were caving in on themselves. Every breath was another stab of pain, every cough bringing blood to his lips. The doctors were kind enough to put him on a morphine drip, but the hazy state the painkiller brought was almost worse than the pain. He often found himself staring into space, thinking of nothing, for hours on end.

He'd always hated hospitals. They were cold and reeked of antiseptic and suffering. He'd had his fair share of hospital visits- his eye, having to bring Ukraine for his illnesses- but he couldn't shake the air of finality this one had. Perhaps it was because of the approaching New Years, marking the end of a tough year. Or perhaps it was the knowledge that he was dying, his lungs giving out after decades of smoking. Either way, he wanted to leave. He'd much rather be in agonizing pain at home than constantly bored in a hospital.

He'd reached the point where the doctors were forced to up his morphine dosages. He floated in and out of consciousness, his waking hours full of doctors and government officials. (At one point, he thought he saw America sitting next to him, but it might've been a dream. He wasn't sure anymore, the line between waking and sleep far too blurred.) It was rare that his children visited, which made today special.

He was staring at the window, watching the snow drift down to the streets of Moscow. Pale white beauty, destined to become disgusting grey slush under people's shoes and car tires. His mind was once again in a fog, induced by a pain and drug cocktail. The snow reminded him of something, of someone, but he couldn't quite put his finger on who.

When he heard the door open, he sighed, anticipating another doctor. Then he saw his four children, all standing in the doorway like lost puppies.

Belarus looked like she was on the verge of tears, hanging on Russia's arm. Kazakhstan pointedly looked anywhere but his father and the machines he was hooked up to. Russia's expression was one of grief, his eyebrows furrowed and steel eyes shiny. Ukraine was the only one who didn't look miserable, instead utterly indifferent. Like his father's impending demise was nothing but a simple inconvenience.

It was silent, both parties taking each other in. After what felt like hours, but was really just minutes, Russia cleared his throat and spoke. "Hey, Papa. Can you talk?"

"Of course I can talk," Soviet replied, but his voice betrayed him. Gravelly, broken, the sound of weakness. He cursed it. How dare he sound weak in front of his children?

Belarus buried her face in Russia's coat. Russia merely glanced at her, while Ukraine muttered something Soviet couldn't quite hear. Probably scolding his sister for crying.

"Kaz, close the door please." Russia said to his youngest brother, who nodded. Once the door was shut, Russia turned to Soviet once more, gripping the rails of his bed. "We've discovered something. Something that could help you."

Soviet doubted it. He was dying, the Union was collapsing. What could they possibly do to help? "Well," he paused to cough, more stab-slice pain, "What is it?"

Russia glanced at the window nervously. A few doctors milled about in the hallway. "Bela did some research. There's a loophole. Even if the Union collapses, you won't die."

It wasn't a matter of if, but when. Soviet wasn't going to argue the wording, though. "How does that work?"

"We can make you a micronation." Russia must have seen the disbelief on his father's face, because he backtracked rather quickly. "If we make you a micronation, you aren't going to die. The Union will still collapse, and we'll all be independent nations, but you'll live. We've already picked some land in Siberia for you. Deduchka's old dacha."

"The one north of Yekaterinburg?" Soviet vaguely remembered his father's summer home. He wasn't sure how he felt about all this yet. "Are you sure all of this is even legal?"

Belarus lifted her face from Russia's coat to speak. There were shiny tears streaming down her cheeks. "It's not. You'd be...a secret. But we all thought it was a good idea."

"They all thought it was a good idea. I'd be happy to let you die."

"Ukraine! Christ, could you not?" Russia snapped. Ukraine just shrugged and pushed a lock of blue hair out of his eye. Ukraine had never gotten along with his father- not for Soviet's lack of trying. He was just too headstrong, too bent on independence. Soviet had tried to stamp that nature out of him, but that did nothing but ruin their relationship further.

He thought all of this through, to the best of his drugged ability. A micronation in Siberia. He wouldn't have any political power, which wasn't entirely a problem. To be able to live, free of the constraints of being a nation...it almost sounded too good to be true. Fanciful ideas, crafted by desperate teenagers. But what if it would work? It wouldn't hurt to try, right? "You...have everything set up for this, yes?"

Russia nodded. "We'd have to get Gorbachev to sign on it, but...I don't think he's in a position to argue. What with the current hellstorm he's getting from the Party."

Soviet sighed, ignoring the sharp stabs of pain that came with it. "If...if this is possible...we should try."

His children were visibly relieved by this. Belarus wiped the tears from her eyes, and Russia smiled just the slightest bit. "Thank you, Papa. I promise we'll get this to work." Russia looked so genuinely determined it almost hurt. He'd be crushed if this micronation plan didn't work.

"You'd best hurry then. It's almost New Year's, and I doubt Gorbachev is going to sign anything over the holidays." He coughed, hoping his kids would take the hint and leave. He needed rest.

Russia nodded. "I'll get the papers to him tonight. We won't let you down, Papa." (Ukraine scoffed at this- he'd clearly been hoping for a fight.)

They all left after that, leaving Soviet to the beeping and whirring of the countless machines he was hooked up to. He mulled all this over as the next wave of painkillers hit. A micronation. He'd be able to have the life he'd always wanted, the peace and quiet. As he drifted off into another morphine nap, he smiled. He could live. He could be happy. If that wasn't a miracle, he wasn't sure what was.

December 26, 1991

A television had been brought into his room on a cart. It now sat in a corner, tuned in to President Mikhail Gorbachev's resignation speech. Soviet was trying his best to keep his expression blank, devoid of the dread that settled in his veins like lead. Russia was sitting beside him and cast him a sympathetic glance. Soviet was thankful for his son's presence. Russia had come by two hours earlier, bringing his father a bottle of Stolichnaya and his ushanka. He needed the company, especially now.

Gorbachev's face was grim as he finished the last lines of his speech. "I am leaving my post with apprehension, but also with hope, with faith in you, your wisdom and force of spirit. We are the heirs of a great civilization and its rebirth into a new, modern and dignified life now depends on one and all.

I wish to thank with all my heart all those who have stood together with me all these years for the fair and good cause. Some mistakes could surely have been avoided, many things could have been done better but I am convinced that sooner or later our common efforts will bear fruit, our nations will live in a prosperous and democratic society.

I wish all the best to all of you."

The speech ended then, the broadcast cutting to a misty-eyed news announcer. Russia glanced over. "Papa? Are you alright?"

Soviet didn't look over. He just stared at the TV, feeling numb, but not because of the vodka. It was over. The President had resigned. The Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, the union he'd worked so hard for, was gone. Dissolved. Sixty-eight years, gone in the time it took to make a speech. He felt a strange sort of peace with this, underlying the pain of watching everything unravel. He was no longer the Soviet Union, but now the Soviet Socialist Micronation. He abhorred the title, but it was better than being dead.

"I'm...fine." He said, finally. Russia just raised a white eyebrow, but didn't push the issue.

Russia's appearance had changed- Soviet had noticed it the minute he walked in. His flag was no longer the red and blue, now a horizontal tricolor of white, blue, and red. He'd gotten a haircut, from shoulder-length waves to a short cut with bangs that fell over his forehead. He'd also donned a black ushanka with grey fur. He'd completely reinvented himself. He looked...like an adult. It sent a pang through Soviet's heart.

"From us here, we wish you all a good night." The TV shifted from the announcers to a camera outside. The sickle-and-hammer flew above a well-lit Kremlin, the anthem a melancholy soundtrack as the flag lowered. It struck Soviet that this would be the last time he'd hear his anthem played. In that very moment, between the beats of the drums, everything became painfully real. His flag had been lowered for the final time, replaced with the new Russian Federation's tricolor.

The tears started before he could stop them, and suddenly, he was sobbing. Painful, shoulder-jerking sobs. Russia swore and wrapped his arms around his father.

It was over. Everything he'd worked for, fought for, bled for, gone in the lowering of a flag. In the eyes of the world, he was dead.

The end of day signoff played and the room was shrouded into darkness. A son hugged his father as he sobbed, mourning for the loss of an empire, a people, a culture. As one regretted the end of an era, the other celebrated the dawn of a new one.