"I want us to be friends again."

America gaped at him. Were there drugs in his tea, because he had to be tripping balls right now. No way Soviet, the man who'd hated him, spied on him, blackmailed him, left him, wanted to be friends. This had to be a lie. No way in star spangled hell.

But Soviet's expression (or at least the parts America could see in the dark) showed nothing but vulnerable honesty. America didn't know how to respond. How could you respond, when your worst enemy asked to reconcile? Was there an appropriate response? An even better question- why? Soviet didn't do anything without some ulterior motive, so what was the reason behind this? It's not like the commie had any real power anymore, so blackmail was out of the question. Was he just trying to get in America's pants? Ew, no, bad thought. It was entirely too late for this.

His phone vibrated in his hands, yet another text from Minnesota. He ignored it. "I...what?"

"I want us to be friends again. I hated the fighting, and there's no real reason to fight anymore."

America knew he was right, but did he want to admit it? Definitely not. America was many things, but honest was not one of them. He wasn't even honest with himself. "You...want us to be friends again. After 40 years of constant fighting, you want to be friends." He said this drily, trying to work through what he'd just heard. There must've been something in the tea.

Soviet huffed. "Yes, I do. I- look, just forget I asked. Good night."

"No! I mean..." Why he'd exclaimed like that was beyond him. All he knew was that some obscure part of him wanted to reconcile. Maybe it was his natural idiotic nature, or maybe it was the fact that Soviet looked like a kicked puppy right now. "I want to fix things. I promise I do. You just caught me off guard."

Soviet chuckled. It was a nice sound. "Sorry. One in the morning probably wasn't a good time to drop a bomb like that."

"No, it wasn't. It's not like I was sleeping anyways, it's fine."

Soviet glanced at the phone in America's hand, which vibrated again, this time with a news alert. Riots Continue in Minneapolis, National Guard Called In. America grimaced and shut the screen off. Not now. He'd deal with it in a moment. Minnesota could wait a hot second.

"What's going on?" Soviet asked. Of course he did. Damn his curiosity.

America inhaled before speaking. "More police violence. There were protests, and now there's riots. It's fine, I can get it under control."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive. Go to bed." He snapped this, voice weary. America didn't like people caring for him. It made him feel weak, like he needed a babysitter. He didn't. He was a strong independent gay, he could do things himself. He could handle some riots.

Really, he just didn't want to talk about this with the commie.

Soviet seemed to take the hint and said his goodnight. Once he was out of the room, America laid back down and let himself deal with Minnesota. Sleep could go to hell, he'd be fine. He had a kid to take care of.

—————

Much to his dismay, America fell asleep a half hour later, and woke up with his phone on his cheek and his glasses ajar. He swore (those glasses were expensive. He'd replaced the last pair because he'd slept in them), took off his glasses, and sat up. Last night still felt like an acid trip.

Instead of dwelling on it, because that's what cowards did, he decided to be proactive and make breakfast. That was a friendly thing to do, right? Even if it wasn't, he was craving American food. He loved Russian food, but sometimes a carb overload was nice. That's exactly what this meal was. America had named it "Heart Attack On A Plate", and it was his signature breakfast. Gravy with homemade biscuits (because true Americans made their own damn biscuits), hash browns, eggs, and if he had it, sweet iced tea. Heart attack and capitalism all in one go.

Needless to say, it was a fantastic breakfast.

It was barely light outside. A glance at the stovetop clock showed him that it was 6:30 in the morning. Making the biscuits would take a little under a half hour, and everything else about an hour. 8:00 breakfast didn't sound that bad, and besides, he doubted anyone else was awake.

Trying his best not to be noisy, America raided Soviet's cabinets like the Middle East. He found everything he needed for the biscuits rather quickly, considering he was horrible at reading Russian. Speaking, he was great aside from his Southern accent. Reading, however, was horrible.

He made the biscuits from memory. Cooking was relaxing for him. Just follow the formula and you'll be fine, unlike many things in life. Like relationships.

He grimaced. Of course his mind would take him there, moronic brain cells. He was still confused from last night's one AM conversation. Soviet, of all people, wanted to be friends. The thing was, America really didn't have any friends. At one point, he and Soviet had been friends, but we all know how that ended. He supposed he could consider Russia a friend, but they really weren't that close. Japan was a friend, but she was...well, a she. They had a different dynamic. He had nothing to go on for how this 'friendship' with Soviet would work. If only there was a recipe for relationships.

"What are you doing?"

"Oh- goddamnit!" America had been grabbing pepper out of the cabinet and dropped it in surprise, making a mess of the countertop. At least it hadn't been in the gravy itself. "Don't do that!"

Soviet chuckled, standing beside the now flustered country. America didn't get caught off guard easily, and hated it when he did. He met Soviet's gaze. The commie had stopped wearing his eyepatch, exposing the scar and the glass eye beneath. America found it oddly attractive, and liked looking at it. Somehow, it made him seem less imposing, even though it should've been the other way around. He looked less pirate-y and more veteran-y.

"Did I scare you?" Soviet asked, feigning innocence.

"No, but you almost ruined my gravy, and I take my gravy very seriously."

Soviet raised an eyebrow. "Alright then. What are you making?"

"Heart attack on a plate!" America grinned. He loved talking about his food. And himself. And just talking in general. "Biscuits and gravy, hash browns, and eggs."

"And are you only making this for yourself?"

"Nope. I figured I'd make breakfast for the three of us. Why, you got a problem with a carb overload?"

"America, I eat Slavic food every day. My every meal consists of nothing but carbs."

America snorted at that. He wasn't wrong. Nearly every Slavic dish he knew had some form of carb, be it potatoes or bread. "Then don't complain, old man."

"I'm not old. If I remember right, you're older than me." Soviet raised an eyebrow, dipping his finger into the work-in-progress gravy.

America swatted his hand away. "At least I still look 25. You look like a boomer."

"Having 15 kids will do that to you," Soviet replied, keeping up the fast-paced teasing. America rolled his eyes. Soviet seemed to use his 4 blood children and his 11 adopted children as an excuse for everything. It was irritating to say the least.

"I have fifty, and I'm still fresh as a daisy." Could you sound any more Southern? Why yes, head voice, I can.

"Yes, well they're not your real kids." All traces of joking had left Soviet's voice.

America nearly dropped the spoon. That comment was uncalled for. Not that he'd expected anything less, but ow. He knew most of his States, aside from the original 13, were adopted, but he loved them like blood. He'd die for them (almost had, several times. Pearl Harbor had not gone forgotten) and for Soviet, a father with adopted kids, to say something like that was appalling. "Do not say that about my kids."

Soviet stared at him for a moment, trying to figure out what he did wrong. There must've been some disconnect there, because he realized about five seconds too late he'd screwed up. "Oh god, America, I'm sorry."

America just rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Forget about it."

Russia chose that exact moment to make his grand entrance, namely stomping into the living room and plopping onto the couch with a tired groan. Soviet took that as his cue to leave the kitchen, and America let out a sigh he didn't know he'd been holding. God, this friendship thing was already going horribly. He knew it would, but his navïete had overridden his common sense once again. He poured his frustration into his cooking. He'd be upset later, right now he was going to make a damn good breakfast.

—————

"So, commie man, what's the plan?"

The July sun beat down on the two of them as they stood in the garden, Soviet weeding and America saying he was helping but really just watching and sipping cucumber water. Soviet squinted up at him, wiping sweat off his forehead with the back of a dirty hand. "Commie man?"

"Yep. I have to come up with new nicknames for you. Shithead is too generic." America smirked, taking another sip of his water. God, it was hot. If he didn't go outside soon he'd sweat through his white tee shirt, and that was not something he wanted Soviet to see, or Russia for that matter. He wasn't fat (far from) but that didn't mean he wasn't insecure.

Soviet just shook his head. "Anyways, I don't really have anything planned. After I finish this, I have to go into town and pick some groceries up. I was thinking about doing a bonfire tonight."

"Ooh, a bonfire sounds fantastic." America grinned. Soviet seemed to have forgotten that he had a bit of a pyromaniac side.

"Mhm." Soviet stood and stretched, done with weeding. He was still as built as ever, and stretching only pointed it out further. Even under a black v-neck, his muscles were well defined. Holy pectorals, he could suffocate someone with those. America felt his temperature rise a few degrees at the thought. He cleared his throat, which was really more clearing his mind of the unsavory imagery it had fed him.

Soviet noticed his blushing and smirked, very obviously flexing. "Like what you see?"

"Shut up. Stop that, you look ridiculous."

Soviet laughed and said something in what sounded like Ukrainian. It threw America off how many languages Soviet spoke. America spoke plenty himself (Spanish, French, Chinese, Arabic, and Russian, to name a few) but Soviet was a polyglot of untold levels. He spoke all four languages his children did, plus Chinese, Korean, Vietnamese, and German. How he'd managed to learn all those languages America would never know.

America took a long sip of his cucumber water, hoping it would rid his cheeks of any trace of blush. He knew it wouldn't. Now that America was looking, Soviet was attractive. Not in the conventionally attractive way that, say, Russia was, but in a rugged way. A sort of wilderness wastrel, with long hair and scars and the eye. There weren't many who could pull off that look, and boy, did he pull it off.

Soviet raised an eyebrow at him again, and America looked away, pretending the sun was in his eyes. He had to figure out a more covert way to check him out.

America went inside after that, needing a break from the heat that wasn't entirely caused by the sun. Russia sat on the couch inside, somehow not overheating in his Adidas sweatpants. He gave America a curious glance. "Did I miss something?"

"No. Shut your whore mouth."

"Coming from you, that means nothing."

"Wow, America's a whore. Very original. What does Germany think about that?" America grinned at the response that statement elicited, Russia's face growing a shade darker. Any mention of Germany and Russia in the same sentence made him blush, and it was incredibly amusing. "That is who you're texting, right?"

Russia shut his phone off and shoved it in his pocket. "No. Of course not."

"Uh huh, sure, loverboy."

"Shut up. You're not in a position to talk, considering you were checking my dad out five seconds ago." Russia smirked. America narrowed his eyes.

"I was not."

"Yeah, you were. It's painfully obvious. You know he's not gay, right?"

I think I know that better than you. Two can play at this game. "You know Germany has the hots for Poland, right?"

"Oh, screw off." Russia said something so crude it would make a sailor cringe after that, in Russian. America just cackled and walked away, feeling oddly elated for having only four hours of sleep.

————-

He decided to explore the dacha and the surrounding land. It was a decision spurred on by sheer boredom. Soviet had left hours ago for town, and Russia seemed preoccupied arguing with Ukraine over FaceTime.

The dacha itself was small, a two-bedroom one-bath house. It had an older charm, echoes of it's past life as Imperial Russia's summer home coming out in the trim molding and the simple elegance of the home's design. Soviet said he'd remodeled it, but reminders had remained. As far as decor went, it was all Soviet. Plain white walls, plain furniture.

Soviet's bedroom told the same story, a queen-size bed with a boring dark wood frame sitting in the middle of the room. There was a desk in the corner that looked like it was from the fifties, pictures of all four Soviet leaders sitting on top. Lenin, Stalin, Krushnechev, and Gorbachev all captured in black-and-white. His bedside table served as a bookshelf, copies of the Communist Manifesto, collections of Pushkin and Mayakovsky poetry, and oddly enough, a battered book of Russian fairy tales all being propped up by a long-emptied bottle of vodka. The bedroom seemed very...him.

The guest bedroom was the same, drab furniture and a boring-looking dresser. There were more personal objects in this room, but they all appeared to belong to Russia, who was more sentimental than his father was.

America sighed. He wasn't sure what he'd been looking for when he set out on this mission, but he knew he hadn't found it. All he'd learned was that Soviet was extremely minimalist, which he'd already known.

He sat down on the couch next to Russia, who'd ended his argument in the half hour America had been snooping about. Desperate for conversation, he turned to Russia and asked, "So what were you two arguing about?"

Russia stared at him. "Nothing, really. He was asking me about Crimea, and I told him not to concern himself with it. Why?"

"I don't know, I'm bored."

"You're always bored."

"Damn, you're right. There's nothing to do in this house."

Russia chuckled at this. "There's plenty to do. You could go walk outside, go pick berries from Papa's berry bushes."

"He'd murder me if I did that."

"Good."

America snorted. "Rude. Seriously, is there something to do that I won't get killed for?"

Russia thought for a moment, tapping his fingers on his leg. He did that when he was thinking. "We have Mario Kart."

"You have Mario Kart? I'm sorry, your father owns a Wii?" America said incredulously. Somehow, maybe because he associated Soviet with the past, that didn't fit at all. However, Mario Kart gave him something to do and an excuse to get extremely competitive.

They played four rounds of Mario Kart before Soviet got home. At one point, they made a bet. Best out of four, whoever lost had to buy the winner a drink. America, very determined not to spend money, got very, very aggressive. When Soviet opened the door, America was mid-Rainbow Road, and accidentally threw the controller. Soviet dodged, the controller flying into the fireplace. It sent a cloud of ash flying upon impact.

Russia and America both froze. Oh hell. Soviet just laughed. "Don't break my controller, numbskull. Those are expensive."

"Sorry." America shrugged, laughing. Russia just sat there, smiling. He wasn't one for laughter. The most you'd get was a smile.

"You will be."

Russia looked between them, steel eyes confused. "Are you two...flirting?"

Both of them cried out at this, America turning beet red. No way in hell was he flirting with Soviet. Wait, no, that was a lie, he kinda was. Argh. Damned heart, making him feel things. (Soviet was adorable blushing, he noted.) "Of course we weren't flirting!"

Soviet nodded. "I'm not gay, Russia."

America was half-tempted to point out that he was, in fact, lying, but he had no proof and put it to rest. Russia just raised an eyebrow and nodded sarcastically.

Oh god, it was going to be a very, very long night.

————-

After a delicious dinner of chicken Kiev, made once again by Russia, it was bonfire time. The temperature outside was rapidly dropping, and America realized he didn't have a hoodie. He couldn't wear his suit jacket, because that was stupid, so he just decided to let himself freeze. Soviet noticed as soon as they were about to head outside and gave him a skeptical glance. "You're going to freeze."

"No I'm not. I'll be fine," He argued. He could handle a little cold, he wouldn't die. He wasn't Texas, who despised cold with a vehement passion.

Soviet took his jacket off and handed it to America. "Here. Take it."

"What? No!" America shoved it back at him, ignoring the way his heart jumped in his chest at the gesture. "It's your coat."

"I have others, and I'm used to Siberia. Wear the damn coat before I change my mind."

Soviet was purposefully not meeting the other's gaze. A light blush dusted his cheeks. It was adorable, and just enough to convince America to take the coat.

The coat itself was a light jacket, made of a soft material. It was about three sizes too big for him, the sleeves dangling past his fingers. It smelled like Soviet, of smoke and mint. This did not help the burning in America's cheeks in the slightest. It was such a kind gesture. Surely that was why he was blushing. Not because it was romantic, because it wasn't. Ah, denial. Such a fun pastime.

Soviet was smiling softly. "It looks nice on you."

"I look like a paper bag."

Soviet laughed, and America found himself giggling too. In yet another act of chivalry (more proof the commie was an old man) Soviet opened the door for him. They held gazes far longer than they should've in that doorway. Soviet had such pretty grey eyes. Or eye.

Soviet cleared his throat and looked away. "We should go. Russia's already at the fire."

"Y-yeah, of course." America's heart was doing gymnastics in his chest. Stop it, he's not interested in you. Jesus Christ you're more of a disaster than Canada, and that's saying something. And yet...there had been something in Soviet's gaze, something that held him there. Thin threads of feelings, tying them together for better or for worse.

Russia was indeed already at the fire, fidgeting with the fur of his ushanka and poking a long stick into the flames. When he saw them, he paused, and then plastered the world's most shit eating grin on his face. "Whatcha got there, Meri?"

"Shut up before I shove that stick where the sun don't shine." America grumbled, sitting down in a chair.