"She died, you know. My mom."

Soviet turned to America, who was still staring into the flames. They'd been outside for a few hours now, just watching the fire die. Russia had gone in an hour ago, wanting rest for the road tomorrow. He thought America would have as well, considering he had both a long drive and a flight, but he didn't move to get up.

His voice was oddly sentimental as he spoke.

"The pox. It got everyone back then, but it hit Natives really hard. The Natives didn't have the antibodies for it." He paused, staring down at his lap. "I miss her sometimes. She was...amazing."

Soviet knew the pain of losing a parent. His was a different pain, however. A guilt, one he carried with him every day like a cloud of regret. He still remembered it like it had happened today. His father, jumping him as he entered the locked office. The sudden blindness, hot blood dripping down his face. The stinging pain not long after. A loud bang. A groan of agony.

He'd shot his father in the stomach without thinking. Some had said Imperial Russia earned it, jumping his son with a letter opener. Soviet was lucky he hadn't lost his eye (that would come later, on a snowy hill in Stalingrad). His father bled out later that night. Soviet hadn't been there, instead trying to aid the Bolsheviks. One wish, he'd always carried through his life, was that he could've been there. That he could've said goodbye, said I'm sorry.

He sighed, softly. "I miss my father sometimes too. I guess...it's just something we have to live with."

America's gaze softened. He reached up and ran a thumb along the scar on Soviet's cheek. It was a long, jagged thing, starting just above his eyebrow and ending just below his cheekbone. He used to cover it as best he could with an eyepatch, but now, he saw no point in that. He was no longer a country, he had no need to seem imposing and hide his scars. So he didn't.

Soviet leaned in to his touch, thoughts lost in sparks and ocean eyes. "I know I can't...quite relate...but..."

"You talk too much." The statement itself should've been bitter, but America said it with a smile. He looked beautiful in the firelight, ethereal.

"And what are you going to do about it?" Soviet said, voice barely above a whisper. Vaguely, he was aware of his heart pounding in his chest. He shouldn't be letting this happen. He should be slapping the pig's hand away. After all, they were only friends, and barely that. But...god, America was so pretty, and he'd opened up about his mother, so didn't that have to mean something? Couldn't Soviet let himself listen to his heart for once? Couldn't he just have this? Have him?

A piece of wood fell in the fire, startling them both out of whatever trance they'd been in. Soviet's cheeks burned. America pulled his hand away, staring back at the low-burning fire. "Sorry," he murmured. Soviet almost didn't hear it.

"Don't be."

America just shrugged in response, closed off again. They sat in silence until the fire was just embers. Soviet found himself touching his cheek, the ghost of America's hand still lingering. He shouldn't be letting himself feel this. These feelings were foolish and would only get him hurt. But he couldn't stop. How could he, when America looked at him like that? God, this is stupid.

He glanced over at America. He was half asleep, slumped over in his camp chair. His hair was falling into his eyes, which were glassy with sleep. How late was it? "America."

"Mm?" He looked up tiredly.

"We should go inside. It's late."

America yawned, standing. Soviet noticed him wobbling and just barely managed to catch him before he fell. He made a noise, something like a squeak but more weary.

"God, how late were you up last night?"

America's voice was rough when he answered. "Like...three."

"You've got to get more sleep than that."

Before he could object, Soviet picked him up in bridal style. No way he was letting him walk to the house, not when he'd nearly fallen over just standing. Too exhausted to argue, America just wrapped his arms around Soviet's shoulders and rested his head on his chest. America was surprisingly light for how much he ate.

It wasn't a long walk to the house, maybe five minutes, but America had already fallen asleep by the time he got to the door. It was a pain to open the door, but Soviet managed it. He was about to set him on the couch, when he realized that tomorrow would be a very long day for him. A 23 hour drive, only to leave from Moscow the next morning? He didn't deserve to sleep on the couch. Soviet could sleep in his armchair for the night. So he carried America to his room and gently set him on the bed. He looked so...peaceful asleep. Calmer, ages younger. Soviet smiled beside himself.

His armchair was uncomfortable as a bed, an old thing from the 90s, but it worked well enough for a night. He really needed to get a futon.

He slept better that night than he had in ages.

It was early when he woke up to the sound of slamming car doors and shouting in English. For a moment, he forgot what was happening, but then America burst in the door. Everything from the previous night came back, and Soviet's face burned. Oh god. Had he been that starstruck that he'd let America touch him? Hold his hand? What the hell was he thinking? They were barely friends. And yet, Soviet found that he wanted America to touch his cheek again. He wanted to do more than that.

It was entirely too early to have thoughts like this. "What's going on?"

"Oh good. You're up," America said, digging for his shoes in the coat closet. "Russia and I are leaving in a few minutes, I was going to wake you up but you looked so peaceful sleeping."

"Oh." He was leaving? Already? God, the two days had gone by so quickly. Soviet got up, ignoring his joints popping when he did. America raised an eyebrow, amused. He's sexy when he does that. No. Stop.

"And you say you're not an old man."

"I'm not. Sleeping in an armchair does that," Soviet grumbled, stretching. Like he had yesterday, America stared at him, blushing. It was both an ego boost and annoying at the same time. On one hand, he still had the body to make people stare, but on the other, it was America checking him out. Capitalist whore extraordinaire. Not that he was actually a whore- he was far from, but he was very flirty and acted like one.

America seemed to realize what he was doing and looked away, clearing his throat. "A-Anyways, I wanted to say thank you. For letting me come over. And letting me sleep in your bed. Means a lot."

Soviet waved him off. "Don't be. It would've been rude of me not to. Besides, I kind of missed you."

"You...missed me?" America said this with a palpable disbelief, leaning against the wall. Why he hadn't stood up yet was a mystery, instead opting to sit on the dirty foyer floor. (Russians had a similar mentality when it came to shoes that the Japanese did- take them off as soon as you get in the house so you only track the outside into the doorway. )"I find that hard to believe."

Damn it. I shouldn't have said that. "Of course I missed you. Who else would I harass?" He said this with a nervous chuckle, trying to cover his slip-up.

America clearly didn't believe this, smirk only growing. "Sure, Casanova," He said drily.

Russia chose this fantastic moment to pop his head in the door, grumbling in Russian about 'gonna be goddamn late and it's all his fault'. When he saw them, his jaw dropped. Soviet could only imagine what he saw- America sitting on the floor, as coolly confident as ever, and Soviet a flustered mess. He stared at them for a moment, trying to decipher whatever the hell was going on. "Seriously, flirting again? It's 5:30 in the morning. Come on, Papa."

Soviet swore he could feel his soul leaving his body. "Что?"

America just cackled, both at the sheer mortification on Soviet's face and at the hilarity of the situation. Of course he found this funny. He wasn't the one being harassed by his son about being gay. Good lord.

"Shut up," he snapped at the capitalist, who only laughed harder. "Russia! Why didn't you wake me up?"

His son shrugged. "Didn't see the need to. Clearly, I should've, since apparently your boyfriend wanted to say goodbye."

"I'm not his b-boyfriend," America managed to stammer out between laughs. Both ignored him, instead talking in rapid Russian.

"He's not my boyfriend, сынок. I'm not gay, you know this."

"Sure, Papa. Anyhow, we have to leave soon. America wants to be at Sheremetyevo International by 9 tomorrow, his flight leaves at 12. It's a 23 hour drive just to Moskva." Russia said, in a matter of fact way.

Soviet sighed. "Alright, you both should get going." He said this in English. He was oddly sad. He'd enjoyed having America here, as much as he hated admitting it. They could still text and FaceTime, but it wasn't the same. He'd never enjoyed texting. It only made the distance more noticeable.

America stood, and before Soviet could react, wrapped him in a hug. He froze. What the hell was he supposed to do? Hug back? Obviously that. America still hugged as tightly as ever. Soviet swore his body temperature skyrocketed. He hugged the capitalist back, ignoring how his heart thudded in his chest.

"I'll miss you, old man. Text me, will ya?" America said, not breaking away from the hug. Oh god, they were going to hug for an inappropriate amount of time weren't they? Soviet's fool heart couldn't handle this.

"Of course," Soviet replied, patting America's back as a signal. Russia was staring at them again. America didn't let go, apparently deciding that 5 second hugs weren't long enough. If his son wasn't staring daggers at him, Soviet wouldn't have been so uncomfortable with this, but that wasn't the case. "America, please let go," he muttered.

America did as he asked, face bright pink. "Sorry."

"Can we go? Please?" Russia, clearly impatient, snapped. America gave Soviet another long look before he turned and walked towards the door.

Soviet waved them goodbye and watched them drive away. He wasn't sure why, but he was sad. Maybe it was just the melancholy that came with guests leaving, or maybe it was that he'd genuinely enjoyed America's company. The pig was annoying, but he had a charisma about him, one that drew people to him like moths to a flame. It was certainly something to admire and a good trait to have in his line of work.

He went back to sleep shortly after that, remembering that it was indeed 5:30 in the morning, and woke up a few hours later to a flurry of text messages. He groaned, rubbing the sand out of his eyes. "What the hell." All the texts were in their family group chat, affectionately named "People I Hate" by Ukraine.

: Please tell Украина that I'm driving and can't talk. His pea brain can't seem to comprehend that.

: Tell Росія to stop ignoring me and calling me EU's whore

: Украіна and Расія are fighting again and trying to make me the mediator.

Soviet groaned. Russia and Ukraine had never been good friends, or siblings for that matter. The two fought like cats, over the smallest of things. Oftentimes, they'd drag one of their other siblings into it, usually Belarus, and when Belarus said no they'd ask their father.

: Both of you stop. For the love of god, get along for once.

: Easier said than done

: For the record, Украина picked the fight this time.

: Don't. I just woke up and I do not want to deal with this from you two. Russia, drive. Don't get America into a car accident.

: We're at Теремок right now. And I'm glad to see you've got your priorities straight, or should I say gay.

: what? wait, you have America with you? what do you mean gay?

: I'm so confused.

Soviet huffed. He'd been up for five minutes and he was already being harassed. Good lord. Instead of responding to the group chat, which had devolved into yet another argument, Soviet texted America.

: Slap my son for me.

: what why

: im going to do it regardless of if I know why but why

: He's picking fights with Ukraine again.

: oh that explains why he looks like he's going to turn his blin into a weapon.

: im bored already can i come back

Soviet smiled as he made his morning tea. America sounded like a child when he texted. It was endearing, in a way. He liked it. It made him softer, less cocky capitalist and more real person. It was a side he liked to see in person.

: I would say yes, but I think you have business to attend to in the States so no.

: damn. don't tell me you've seen the news

Soviet had, in fact, seen the news. It was all over Twitter and he'd even seen things on Vkontakte. The protests had spread to all 50 states, riots now in the capital. America had to be under a lot of pressure. Riots were rough on Countryhumans, not only mentally, but physically. They often caused bruises of varying sizes depending on the intensity of the riots. Now that he thought about it, America had seemed exhausted, even last night when he'd been happy, dark circles under his eyes and a nervous twitch in his hands.

: How are you holding up?

America typed for a moment, seemingly typing a long message. Soviet wondered if he'd said the wrong thing, but then he responded.

: As good as I can be when I'm bruising in like six different spots and I'm running out of Olanzapine. I'm holding up. Don't worry about me.

: I'm more worried about my kids than me.

Soviet frowned. Olanzapine sounded like a medication, and when he googled it, it came up as an antipsychotic. So America still had schizophrenia problems. Oddly enough, that explained a lot. The random looks into a corner of the room, mumbling to himself, the sleeplessness.

If America said he was holding up that meant he didn't want to talk about it, so Soviet wouldn't press. He knew what it was like to have problems only you can understand, and how annoying it was to have people press for information. So he left it at that.

: Alright. Relax when you can.

: believe me, that's my entire plan. as soon as I get home I'm raiding my liquor cabinet

: I didn't mean like that but sure.

: i don't want to talk about this anymore

: we're leaving teremok text you when we get to the hotel

The rest of the day seemed to crawl at a snail's pace. He did his usual farm duties, picked some berries from his bushes, and even took some berries and set them in front of a trail cam for the bears. He didn't hunt the Siberian brown bears (only a suicidal fool would) but he liked seeing them. Bears were majestic, beautiful creatures. Once, when he was little, he'd tried to bring a bear cub home. This did not bode well with Imperial Russia.

Soviet got so bored that he decided to bake, something he rarely did. He wasn't a big sweets person, but he had a wealth of berries and figured using a few to make blackberry tarts wasn't a big deal. Of course, he'd decided to make these at 9 at night, so by the time he finished it was already 11. He was exhausted but wanted to wait for a text from either Russia or America. Secretly, he wanted it from the latter.

He'd been sitting in bed watching Мажор and shoving a tart into his mouth when his phone vibrated on his bed stand. He almost dropped his tart onto his chest trying to grab it.

: at my hotel commie man

: are you even up

: Yes, I'm watching TV and eating.

: send pics

: No? I'm not wearing a shirt?

: sexy, send a pic. wait why not

Soviet ignored how his face burned at his teasing.

: Because it's hot and my aircon is garbage.

: Go to bed, you have an international flight tomorrow.

: you just don't want to talk to me

: Quite the opposite. Now go to bed.

: no

: My show is back on. I'm ignoring you. Go to bed.

: fine.

Soviet smiled. It wasn't often he managed to get the pig to admit he'd lost an argument. It was a win, albeit a small one.

: спокойной ночи

: night sovi

——————

Author's Note:

Thank you for all the support! I love reading your comments, they make me genuinely happy. You guys are fantastic.

I'm considering making some art for this fic. If you'd be interested, I'll post it on my insta, @sovietsushi_ .