It was a sunny July day, which would've been nice if it wasn't for the fact that America was wearing a suit. It didn't help that Moscow was disgustingly humid in the summer. It was almost as sticky as Michigan, and just breathing felt like inhaling water. America huffed, fanning himself with a hand.

Japan gave him an amused look. "Are you alright?

"Hell no. I'm regretting my outfit choice."

Japan laughed, tossing her braid of white hair over her shoulder. America called her Peppermint sometimes, because of the red streaks in her otherwise platinum blonde hair. "I can't relate. This dress is fantastic."

"Well, it's not socially acceptable for me to wear dresses to United Nations meetings."

"You act like you care about social norms."

"I most certainly do not- Hey! Rus!" America had caught sight of a certain tall country, who'd been walking out of the Embassy. When Russia looked for who'd called him, America saw that he was on the phone with someone. Not uncommon. What was uncommon was the guilty look Russia had on his face as he hung up and walked (more like stomped, Jesus Christ the man took heavy steps) over to them.

"Yes, America?"

"So I was thinking, we haven't gone drinking in a while." America couldn't fight the grin that came with that statement. Him and Russia were nowhere close to friends, but Russia was nice to drink with, and America could use a cold beer right about now.

Russia raised an eyebrow. "You want to go drinking? Now?"

"What better time than right after a meeting? Why, you chicken?" America knew the challenge would force Russia to agree. Despite all his nonchalance, Russia couldn't back down from a challenge. It was a fault America loved to exploit.

"Fine then. Who's driving?"

"Who said anything about driving?"

Russia shoved a hand in his uniform pocket. For whatever reason, he'd decided to wear his military uniform rather than a suit like the rest of the nations. "I did, because I do not feel like taking the Metro and getting robbed. Do you know how expensive replacing this uniform is?"

He did, actually, because he'd had to replace lost medals for his own uniform several times. "Fair enough. You drive, because I took a taxi here."

Russia sighed and gestured for America to follow him. America just grinned even more.

They drove in companionable silence, neither really having anything to say. Russia kept nervously glancing at his phone sitting in the console. America noticed this but didn't question it. The two weren't exactly friends, and since they were both constantly in touch with government officials, it wasn't surprising that he'd think America would go through his phone. Whether or not America actually would was a different story.

Finding parking in downtown Moscow turned out to be quite the spectacle. There were several сукаs and Чертов идиотs hurled at random passersby. None of the people actually reacted, which was a testament to Russian indifference. Eventually Russia managed to park the Lada about a block away from the bar, grumbling under his breath.

America found all of this incredibly amusing.

The bar itself was small, a hole-in-the-wall that looked like it'd been there since the Berlin Wall fell. America didn't mind this one bit. He disliked going to larger restaurants, because the stares he'd get from people unaccustomed to seeing Countryhumans were awful, especially in large numbers. He'd found that the hole in the wall restaurants were often better than the chain equivalents.

The bartender didn't give them a second glance when they sat down, instead happily chattering in Russian with Russia. America pretended like he didn't understand every word and instead looked over the menu. Once they'd both ordered (Russia had ordered plates of shashlik for both of them, loudly declaring that "it was the best damn shashlik East of Kiev"), they fell into casual conversation.

"Is it just me, or is the EU getting progressively more annoying?" Russia asked, half heartedly glancing at a notification on his phone.

"Oh, it's not just you. Did you see how they treated Mom? God, one more sarcastic comment and I would've kicked them." America didn't really like the EU, finding them pretentious, but the line was drawn with family. Since Britain had made her Brexit, their interactions had become increasingly more tense in the most civil of ways. Half the time, America found himself wanting to throw something at the European Union just for speaking.

Russia had his own reason for disliking the European Union, and that reason was named Ukraine. After the Euromaidan protests and the War in Donbass had broken out, the two brothers had become extremely tense with each other, often passing snide comments in meetings about the other's policies. It was getting to the point where some were growing concerned about the possibility of war.

Russia just huffed and took a long swig from his glass of kvass. His phone vibrated on the table, once, twice, three times.

"Who's blowing up your phone? Germany?" America asked, only half joking. Russia shot him a fierce glare and typed so hard that America could hear his nails hitting the screen.

"None of your business. Anyways, how're things going in Trump hell?"

"As well as your Putin business is.

Not." (Conservative grumbled something about 'goddamn lefties' in America's head. He ignored him.) "I can't wait for the next elections to be over. I'm so tired of running damage control."

Russia nodded in agreement, the flaps of his grey ushanka bobbing with the movement. "Me too. Except Putin's just put himself in office for longer, lucky me."

America snorted at that, taking a swig of the beer he'd ordered. He wasn't sure if he liked it yet. However, Russia was right about the food. The shashlik was divine.

Russia's phone rang at that exact moment. He choked on his food, and in that five seconds America made the worst choice he'd made in a while. He snatched Russia's phone off the table before he could recover from his choking fit, answering the call from someone named Папa. He answered the call with "Hello, is this Germany? I'm afraid your boyfriend can't come to the phone right now."

The voice on the other end was startlingly familiar. "Who is this? Russia?"

America nearly dropped the phone. This mysterious Папа sounded exactly like Soviet. He'd never thought he'd hear his name in that voice ever again. He wasn't sure if he wanted to. All he knew was that he was talking to the Soviet Union, a man who was supposed to be long dead. A man who America had mourned for. "H-holy hell," he managed to stammer out between the whirlwind of panic and the pounding of his heart.

"Who is this? Russia, if you're playing a prank on me, you will regret this." Soviet said this last part in Russian, but America understood it loud and clear. God, he'd missed Soviet's gravelly voice, more than he'd ever admit.

In that moment of stunned silence, Russia recovered. The look in his eyes was one of pure rage as he snatched his phone out of America's shaking hands. "I'm so sorry about that, someone can't seem to keep his nose in his own business." Every word was punctuated with an ice only achieved through anger.

America was too stunned to respond to that. He was shaking, he realized, as he tried to take a sip of his beer. What the hell was going on? Was that actually Soviet on the other end of the call? From the way Russia sounded like a kid being scolded, it was. But how? Soviet had died in 1991. America had visited him in the hospital, even went to his funeral (not that the bastard had deserved a funeral). He'd seen Soviet hooked up to a plethora of machines, the ventilator the only thing keeping him breathing. He'd sat next to him for three hours in the hospital that reeked of antiseptic. He'd even cried. He knew Soviet was dead. But if that wasn't Soviet...who was it?

"Alright. I have to go. Yes, I know," Russia said exasperatedly, glaring at his shaking companion. There was no sympathy in his eyes, only a palpable rage. "I'll talk to you later. Bye. America, what the hell is wrong with you?"

"Was...Was that who I thought it was?" America's voice was shakier than he'd wanted.

Russia stammered, face reddening, caught red handed. "I-America, look. Finish your drink, and I'll explain in the car." He tossed several rubles on the bar counter, apologizing for the disturbance.

America obliged, chugging his beer and slamming it on the counter once he'd finished. He trailed a clearly furious Russia back to the Lada, trying to sort out his thoughts. How it was possible that Soviet was alive, he didn't know. All he knew was that he'd heard Soviet's voice, that Soviet had a cell phone, that he was still kicking. It all seemed too sudden, too real. Needless to say, this was not how he'd expected tonight to go in the slightest.

They'd been driving for five minutes before Russia spoke. "I'm assuming you know who was on the phone, and before I tell you anything, you have to promise not to tell a single soul. No one. Not your mothers, not Canada, no one. Got it?"

This struck America as odd, but it was the least odd of all things tonight. "I...alright. Got it."

Russia let out a shaky breath, guiding the car onto a freeway. From the way he was tapping his fingers on the wheel, he was clearly nervous. "Papa's been alive for years. He never died. We...well, mostly me, weren't sure how we'd function without him. He'd never taught us anything about being independent nations. So when he was sick, Belarus did some research and found a way to keep him alive, even after the Union fell apart." He paused and glanced over, gauging America's reaction.

America stared at his hands, folded in his lap. So far, everything made sense. So far. "Go on."

"She discovered that if we made him a micronation, he wouldn't die. What we did...It breaks several peace treaties. If it were to get out that we'd kept him alive and hid him for all these years..." Russia shuddered.

It'd be the start of a Third World War. America knew this, and yet, part of him, the part he hated to acknowledge, was still angry. Russia had kept a huge secret from him. Why hadn't he thought that America would've wanted to know? Then again, Russia knew nothing of America's past with Soviet. Hopefully. He couldn't account for things Soviet would've told his son. Russia had never brought up past relationships, so America didn't have anything to go on.

Even with Russia's explanation, America still had so many unanswered questions. He had the how and the why, but not the where. "I want to see him."

"What?" Russia shouted, turning his head so fast the flaps of his ushanka hit him in the face. It would've been amusing, in different circumstances. "No, no, no, no. Absolutely not."

"Why not?"

"Because I doubt he wants to see you! Besides, how do I know you won't attack him?"

Russia's panic was understandable, but it still stung. America had never once laid a hand on Soviet during the Cold War, and he certainly wouldn't do it now. Well, maybe he would. A slap in the face sounded fantastic right about now. "Of course I won't attack him! At least let me have his number."

"Why do you even care?"

America wasn't sure how to respond. After all, Russia was right. Why did he care? He'd been (somewhat) happy, now that the Cold War was over. So why did he want to see Soviet so bad? Was it some strange revenge complex? Or something else, something residual from the memories he'd buried. He hesitated before answering, trying to word it the best he could. "I...just do. Please, Russia. At least let me talk to Soviet."

It was silent for a long time, both thinking through their answers. Finally, Russia spoke. "I'll give you his number. And ask if he wants to see you. That's it. If he says no, you don't get to see him. I won't have you pestering him."

America let out a sigh of relief. He'd been expecting him to bark Nyet, so this turn of events was a welcome one. The rest of the ride to America's hotel was silent, Russia driving and America staring out the window, watching the lights outside blur like a watercolor painting. It was a tense silence, certainly not a welcome one, but neither were going to break it. So they sat there, both of them buried in their thoughts.

Once they'd arrived at the hotel, Russia hurriedly put Soviet's number in America's phone and shooed him out of the car. "I'll text you what he says," he said as he drove away.

As America made his way up to his hotel room, he agonized over what to send. Hello sounded too casual. How are you too open ended. I've missed you was far too emotional, not even an option. What did you send to someone you haven't seen in years? To someone you thought was dead? He mulled it over as he changed into pajamas, and then as he scrolled through Instagram. Was he procrastinating? A little bit. Truth be told, he was nervous. In the end, he settled on a simple Hey, this is America. His hands shook as he hit send.

Soviet read the message immediately. It was almost like he'd been waiting for a message, too.

: Hi. Been a while, hasn't it?

America smiled. At least this wasn't overly awkward. Yet.

: yep. how's the modern world for ya?

: You make it sound like I just came back from the dead.

: well, for me, you kinda did

America watched the three typing bubbles anxiously. Oh god, he'd made it awkward. Five minutes in, and they'd already reached the point of no return. The exact thing he'd tried to put off (there was no avoiding it). Jesus Christ, this was like meeting a kid you'd known in fifth grade again. He wasn't sure of what to say. How could you recap thirty years of events in a text message? You really couldn't.

After what felt like an eon of watching the three dots bounce, Soviet replied.

: I'm sorry. I asked Russia not to tell you. I didn't want you knowing because if you had, you would've tried to find me, and I didn't want that.

Now America was the one who didn't know how to respond. He hadn't wanted America to know? For some strange reason, he was offended. He was angry. Of all things, angry. He shouldn't have been offended, after all, they'd spent almost 50 years fighting. Of course he wouldn't want his worst enemy to know he was still alive, especially when his worst enemy was as fiercely determined as America. If he understood the reasoning, why did he still feel like he'd been wronged?

: i wish you'd told me, but i understand why you didn't.

: Thank you. I'm sorry.

: I told Russia it was okay if you visited. How much longer are you in Moscow?

: three days. i have some embassy stuff to take care of, but i can stay in Moscow an extra day.

: Alright. If it's possible, Russia wants to drive you here tomorrow. He wants to leave early in the morning, so be ready around 08:30.

: and why isn't Russia telling me this himself?

: He's pissed off at you right now.

: Expect an awkward car ride.

Oh. That made sense. In all of his confusion and shock, he'd forgotten that he'd gone and answered a call on Russia's phone. Oops. He'd have to apologize tomorrow. Before responding, he set an alarm on his phone for 7:30. He needed at least an hour to get dressed and eat before he left.

: makes sense.

: Anything interesting happen with you?

Tons of interesting things had happened to him over the past thirty years. 9/11, Obama, gay marriage, Trump. Where did he start? The personal things? His realization that he was indeed bisexual, or how the voices in his head had grown worse? How he'd kicked his smoking habit (still occasionally using an e-cigarette, when things got bad.) He decided to start with the last one, the smallest thing.

: i don't smoke anymore.

: That's good! I don't either. Lung cancer will scare that out of you.

: haha, I bet.

From that point on, the conversation got frustratingly casual. Not that he was looking for an argument, but he was looking for something other than small talk. Something other than awkward conversation.

They only spoke for about an hour more before America started to feel sleep tugging at his eyelids and said good night. As he plugged his phone in and pulled his glasses off, he realized he was excited for tomorrow. Of all things, he was excited.

Only he would get excited about seeing an enemy, nonetheless an enemy that was also an ex.

———————

Author's note:

I have no idea what the posting schedule for this is going to be. I'll probably just post when I finish them and have my editor look over it.

Votes and comments are always appreciated, and I'm always open for constructive criticism.