Soviet couldn't sleep.

At all.

He'd tossed and turned for hours, tangling himself in his comforter in the process. He couldn't stop thinking about him. It was stupid, really. He hadn't spoken to America in years. He'd tried to convince himself that he'd moved on, that he wasn't still hanging onto a thread that wasn't there, but then he'd remember some small detail about him. How his smile could light up a room. How beautiful his blue eyes were. His condescending smirk, the one he used whenever he was keeping a secret. The one Soviet loathed, like so many other things about him. God, he had it bad, and had for years. He'd just buried it, stuffed his feelings into a bottle and threw it away.

And it had worked, for a while. Every so often, he'd glance at the tarnished gold band on his ring finger and let himself remember, but for the most part he'd moved on. Until that fateful phone call, the texts.

God, he couldn't stop thinking about the texts. They'd been so awkward, and he couldn't stop worrying that he'd somehow made America angry. Over 40 years of constant fighting would do that to you. Part of him wanted to make America angry.

Really, the Cold War was a testament to how determined a heart can be. If Soviet was still holding on to fledgling feelings after that hell, shouldn't that have been a sign? What if the feelings weren't even romantic? Just some twisted form of hate...

America hadn't shown any remorse when he "passed". If anything, America was better off without him. He seemed happier, at least in his Instagram posts (it wasn't hard to find America's Instagram- especially when he had over a million followers and was such a prominent figure.) Maybe it was for the better that he'd never spoken to him again.

Soviet huffed, giving up on sleep. He knew it wouldn't happen. He was too hung up on blue eyes. So he stood, brushed his collarbone-length hair out of his face, and made himself a glass of vodka.

He kept a bottle of Stolichnaya and a small glass on his bedside table at all times. Not because he was an alcoholic (his relapses were few and far between these days) but because it helped him sleep. Oftentimes, he found himself staring at the ceiling for hours on end, guilt and regrets manifesting themselves in the form of insomnia. The alcohol quieted his mind, just enough to let him sleep.

Sure enough, the vodka worked wonders. It still took him a while to drift off to sleep, but at least it calmed his nerves enough that he could even sleep. Tomorrow would be absolutely hellish.

Sure enough, it was.

His nerves were absolutely everywhere, and it made cleaning a pain. He nearly dropped the bottle of Windex four different times. It was all extremely frustrating. Why was he so worked up over this? He should hate America, yet after everything, he still managed to turn Soviet into a mess. "This is so dumb," he grumbled, taking a quick swig from his Stolichnaya.

He had an alcohol limit imposed by Ukraine. No more than two glasses a day, even on a bad day. He'd done his best to follow that, but sometimes he slipped up. He had a feeling today was going to be one of those days.

He'd finished cleaning and was watching TV when he heard tires crunching over the gravel of his driveway. He'd gotten a text about an hour earlier from Russia, simply stating 'be there soon.' He hadn't expected this soon, especially considering the distance from Moscow to Yekaterinburg.

He made his way to the doorway, making sure his ushanka was on and hair braided nicely. He wasn't one for appearances, but still.

Russia was the first one out of the car, clearly tense by the set of his shoulders. When America got out, Soviet found he couldn't breathe.

America's navy blue hair shone in the dappled light filtering through the trees. He'd gotten new glasses, rectangular frames that looked fantastic on him. He was still well-dressed as ever, looking tastefully comfortable in jeans and a polo. And god, those eyes. Still as striking and beautiful as ever, blue as the East Siberian Sea.

Stop being such a disaster. Get yourself together. He hates you, you hate him too. Stop being foolish.

America raised an eyebrow, his typical smirk in full force. "Take a picture, it'll last longer," he said.

Ah, there it was. The snark Soviet had come to hate. At one point, it had been an endearing trait. It had made him fun. Now, it just made America seem stuck up, like he was overcompensating for something. Soviet rolled his eyes, not bothering to come up with some kind of remark.

Russia gave him a pleading look.

Soviet shrugged in response. He could guarantee nothing.

It took a solid five minutes for America to look around the dacha (now up to code) and loudly declare his opinion. "This is a beautiful house," he said, setting his duffel bag on the floor next to the couch. Russia had already claimed the guest bedroom, and that's where he was now. Whether or not he'd left the two alone on purpose was up for debate.

"Thank you. It was once my father's summer home. I've fixed it up."

"Mmhm. Well, you did a nice job." America's voice was thick with faux politeness. It dripped from every word like honey. "Little too rustic for my taste."

"It's not supposed to be to your taste. It's not your dacha." Soviet crossed his arms, leaning on the brick wall next to the fireplace. His head came close to hitting the TV mounted on the wall. The curse of being extremely tall.

He could already feel the bitterness rising in his chest. He wasn't sure how he'd expected this to go. With all of last night's leftover feelings, had he tricked himself into thinking it would be civil? With America, who didn't know the meaning of the word?

Before the capitalist could come up with another nasty comment, Russia made his grand reappearance. The look on his face was one of pure apprehension, and he looked at America like he was a caged animal. "Papa, can I talk to you? In private?"

"Of course. America, don't touch anything or I'll kill you."

"Sure you will." America smirked and sat down on the couch, eyes trailing Soviet as he followed Russia into the hallway.

They stopped once they were out of earshot of the capitalist. Russia exhaled before speaking. "Look, I have to go into town for a little bit. I have to buy pork for dinner tonight. Please watch yourself around him."

"What are you talking about?" Soviet raised an eyebrow. Russia had always been protective of him, ever since he nearly died, but this was a little much.

Russia's voice lowered to a whisper. "I don't trust him. At all. The only reason he's here is because you let him. I don't want you to get hurt."

"Сынок, I appreciate your concern, but I can hold my own against him. He barely tips the scale at 100 pounds soaking wet."

"I think you're underestimating his weight," Russia said. He was probably right. America had never been particularly light, but he wasn't fat either. He moved with a lean grace that screamed strong.

"Russia, I'm stronger than you and him combined. If he attacks me, I can easily overpower him."

Russia didn't look like he believed this, but he shrugged nonetheless. "If you say so, Papa." He sighed and glanced down the hall. "I'm just saying, watch yourself. If he hurts you..."

"Russia. I'll be fine. Go to the store before it gets too late." Soviet appreciated Russia's concern, to an extent, but it was unnecessary. If America was going to attack him, he would've done it already. He wasn't sure what America was going to do, but it certainly wasn't something violent. Besides, a son had no place telling his father to watch himself. Especially when the father was a man like Soviet, 6 feet and 9 inches of muscle.

Russia grumbled something, giving up the argument. Soviet watched him trudge into his room before he turned away and walked back into the living room. He paused in the doorway, however. He could hear something that sounded like...mumbling? It was in English, so it wasn't Russia talking to himself. He couldn't make out the words. He glanced over. Maybe America was just on the phone?

When he looked over, America was not on the phone. He would occasionally glance into a corner of the room, the way he'd pause between sentences reminiscent of a conversation. What the hell is he doing?

He vaguely remembered America mentioning something about schizophrenia in the past, an aside in a conversation. Was that still a problem for him? He felt bad eavesdropping on this, but it would make good blackmail material in the future. If he ever had a reason to blackmail the pig.

Soviet hoped he wouldn't seem suspicious as he stepped out into the living room. America's mumbling stopped immediately, horror flicking over his face for a few seconds before he went back to his usual smirk. "Hiya, commie. How'd that talk go?"

"None of your business."

"You and Russia say that a lot." America tilted his head, just a little bit. For some reason, the movement reminded Soviet of a puppy. "Must run in the family."

"Mhm. Do you want a drink? Water, tea? I've got scotch if you want any." God, could this get any more awkward? Probably not. Soviet was half tempted to bring up Cuba, just to start a fight.

America shrugged. "I'm good. I chugged a bottle of Coke on the way here."

"Fine then. Suit yourself." Soviet made himself a thermos of tea with a splash of vodka. Ukraine could go to hell. If he was stuck dealing with America and whatever the feelings in his chest were, he'd do it with alcohol.

As he took a sip of his tea, he pondered what to do next. He needed to talk to America, sort things out, but doing so in the house, where Russia could overhear them, didn't seem right. He didn't want to wait until Russia left for the store either, because by then he'd lose his courage. A walk sounded like the best option. The forest, with its plethora of Siberian larch trees and constant cacophony of noise, would be an ideal place to talk.

"America."

America looked up from his phone with a "hm?" He wore an expression of bored indifference, but Soviet could see through it. His shoulders were tense with words unsaid. "What?"

"Come on a walk with me." Soviet gestured towards the door. America raised an eyebrow but stood and followed him outside anyways. Soviet led him to a small trail that wound through the forest, past a small creek. The path was well shaded by the trees, birdsong all around them. It was beautiful. Soviet had found many similar trails spread throughout the many acres of land. Most of them were overgrown, old hunting trails long abandoned. A few had been so well trodden that they stayed plant less and were easy to maintain.

America was the first of them to speak. "Soviet, why didn't you want Russia to tell me? And be honest, none of that 'didn't want me looking' garbage. You don't care about me enough for that."

Soviet huffed. He'd run over that choice many times, never finding one solid answer. There was the obvious one- he hated America, and wanted to be left alone. As time went on, that answer became less and less true. They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, and in Soviet's case, that was very true. Now, he wasn't sure. Had it been a subconscious measure to protect America from further stress? No, no, it had definitely been because he hated the pig. There were no feelings.

Occam's Razor said that the easiest answer was often the correct one, so he went with the former reason. "I wanted to be left alone. If you'd have known, you would've come looking for me. Not to mention the fact that my very existence is currently illegal."

America snorted. "I guess that makes sense. I'm still pissed about it though. I would've liked to know that my ex and enemy was still kicking."

Soviet chose to ignore the ex part. He didn't like to acknowledge their past relationship because it hurt to think about. He took another sip of his vodka tea to avoid saying something he'd regret.

America seemed happy to carry on the conversation. Soviet had forgotten how talkative he was. It was both welcome and annoying at the same time. "Anyways, how'd you even make it out of the hospital? When I visited, you looked like you were already halfway to hell."

This made Soviet pause. Vaguely, he remembered seeing America in the hospital. He'd been so drugged up that day that the memory was hazy, a five-second glimpse of a sobbing country besides him, before he slipped back into sleep. Someone had been holding his hand, he remembered that. He just hadn't known who. He hadn't been entirely sure it was America, or even real. Now that he knew it was...a switch flipped in his mind. Maybe they didn't hate each other as much as he thought they did. No, that couldn't be right. Of course America still hated him. One hospital visit couldn't change that. America was the kind of person who could fake tears for publicity, and would do it shamelessly. That visit meant nothing. (The voice in his head, the one that sounded suspiciously like his father, argued this.)

"The doctors were paid to keep my survival a secret. To make a long story short, I got a lung transplant and recovered. I was discharged by April." Soviet grimaced, remembering the cold sterile of the hospital, the months spent hopped up on morphine. It was enough motivation to quit smoking, permanently.

"Hm. Makes sense. I'm guessing you can't be around sick people now?"

"Yes. I have to stay away from sick people, and have to take medication for the rest of my life so my body doesn't reject the lungs."

"Sounds annoying. Well, at least you've got a nice place to hide out from society. I would kill to have a place like this."

Soviet raised an eyebrow at the wistfulness in his voice. America had plenty of houses, scattered throughout the States. He doubted that he didn't have at least one cabin. "Don't you have land in...what is it, North Carolina?" (He cringed at his pronunciation of North Carolina. Stupid accent, mixing up five different Slavic languages.)

"I do, but it's not nearly this nice. It's backwoods but not like this. I mean, this is what, 20 acres?"

"40."

America let out a low whistle. "Damn. Guess I'll have to come over more often then. Take advantage of the land. Where'd you even get this?"

Soviet wasn't sure why America was asking so many questions. Or even being civil. He wasn't complaining, but it seemed so at odds with earlier. It was nice, actually. He was nice to have conversations with. "It was my father's summer home. Dacha, in Russian. It was abandoned after..." Soviet trailed off, not wanting to say the name Romanov. "That. Russia found it when I was in the hospital and helped me fix it up."

"Huh. It's a nice place. It suits you." America's gaze was indecipherable. He was smirking like he usually did, that mask of cold confidence, but there was something in his eyes that Soviet couldn't figure out.

He cleared his throat and looked away. Stop being...whatever you are. He's not your friend. He's your ex. What part of you hate him do you not understand? "How is my sister?"

"Alaska? She's doing great." America seemed to relax more now that he was talking about the States. The states were like his children, with the exception of Alaska. She was more of a close friend. "One of her sled dogs just had puppies. I'm going to adopt one. Kennedy needs a friend."

"Kennedy?" Soviet frowned.

America nodded. "Yep. My dog. Named her after the president, before I realized she was female."

"Oh. I was thinking like...the president." Soviet chuckled.

America laughed, a bright sound that made something flutter in Soviet's chest. God, you're really asking for it, aren't you?

They kept walking for a little while more, just talking about nothing. There was so much to talk about, and yet here they were, talking about food and weather and everything but anything important. It was nice. Sometimes it was good to ignore the politics. Soviet found himself smiling, something he hadn't done in ages. America had a nice smile, when he wasn't smirking. "You're beautiful."

Oh no. He wasn't sure what had made him blurt that out, but he knew he'd regret it. He hadn't even thought about it, he just said it. It was true, however. America did look beautiful, the setting sun shining off of his hair. He looked even better blushing, his cheekbones dusted pink. "I-thank you. You're not looking too shabby yourself."

Now it was Soviet's turn to blush. "I look the same as I always have. Like a tired father."

America just sighed and shook his head, not bothering to argue. "You're insufferable."

"I did not do anything, but thank you nonetheless."

America laughed again. Soviet's smile grew. How had he managed to hate him for so long?

————————-

When they returned to the dacha, it smelled of Pelmeni. Russia waved at them from the kitchen, playing some obscure Russian rap while he cooked. Soviet raised an eyebrow at the music. He liked most forms of music, but rap was not one of them.

"Oh, it smells fantastic in here. Whatcha makin, Russ?" The nickname sounded funny in America's lightly Southern accent. Soviet had to force himself not to laugh. America shot him a warning glare.

"I'm making Pelmeni. They're these meat filled dumplings, you'll like them."

"I like all food." America grinned and Soviet watched him sashay over to the sink to wash his hands. "Teach me how to make these, they smell like heaven."

Russia glared at the striped country. "And, pray tell, why would I let you anywhere near a stove?"

America let out an indignant shout. "Hey! You know I'm a fantastic cook. Who do you think makes the BBQ I bring to the potluck meetings?"

Soviet sighed, sitting on the couch, watching his son and his...ex? Enemy? Friend? interact. It was kind of adorable. They argued like they hated each other, but Soviet could see the bond they had. He was oddly jealous. Their bond was one he wished he could've had, if only he hadn't left. The type of bond that they could have if they were friends. If only.

—————-

Yet again, Soviet couldn't sleep. He'd resorted to distracting himself with mindless Russian game shows so he would stop replaying the day's events. It didn't work. His thoughts kept turning to how casual their conversation had been, to how America had changed. He was...softer, somehow. Less argumentative. Or maybe Soviet's perception of him had changed. Hell if he knew.

He sighed, running a hand through his shower-damp hair. He wanted a drink, but not vodka. He knew how perceptive America was. He'd smell the vodka on Soviet's breath, point it out, use it against him. So Soviet went with the next best thing- chamomile tea.

America was still awake when Soviet entered the living room. His glasses were perched on top of his head, the only light coming from his phone screen. He looked exhausted, dark circles under his eyes. He gave Soviet a tired nod. "You should be asleep."

"I could say the same to you."

America didn't answer that, returning to his phone. He was probably too exhausted for conversation. Soviet sighed (again) and went to make his tea in the kitchen. "Do you want any tea? It'll help you sleep."

America snorted. "Like you care about my sleep patterns. But tea sounds lovely."

"I thought so. Why are you still up?"