Soviet was worried. Beyond worried. America had gone radio silent for the past week and a half. Well, not quite silent. He would respond to texts very late at night East Coast time, meaning he was exhausting himself and staying busy during the day. Even worse, he would respond with one or two word answers, or not at all. With the breakdown he'd had, it wasn't surprising, but it was worrisome.

Deep down, Soviet knew he needed alone time. America was a fiercely independent man, and needed his space when he was upset, but he couldn't stop the little voice in his head that whispered "he hates you now, you crossed a line" in the late hours of the night. It was frustrating to say the least, and he was irritable. Every small inconvenience pissed him off, at one point shattering a glass in frustration.

He hated long distances. He hated what he was seeing in the news, burning American cities and protestors being attacked by men in riot gear. He hated that he couldn't hold America in his arms and tell him всё хорошо, keep him safe, like he should've all those years ago.

That night when America had called him, a sobbing, terrified mess, Soviet felt his heart crack. He'd always been something of a softie when he wasn't stressed with the government and kids, and seeing someone in that state...it hurt. It made him want to reach through the phone and wipe those tears away.

It was late at night, almost 3 am. Soviet was staring at the ceiling, pondering everything. Should he have been making more of an effort? Should he call America? How was Ukraine doing, with the Chernobyl forest fires? Ukraine wouldn't speak to him, too bitter and distrustful of his father, but that didn't stop the worry. He seemed to occupy his days fretting now, over children and foolish loves. Wait, loves wasn't the right word. He wasn't in love. At most a crush, at least minor attraction. Wait, was it even possible to have a crush at his age? Was 35 too old to have a crush?

"You're the only option I have."

America had looked so scared and alone when he said that, blue eyes shining with a soft honesty. Soviet found that hard to believe, but it also made sense. America was the kind of person who shoved his loved ones away for fear of losing them. It was just his mindset, but a foolish one at that. Surely Soviet wasn't his only option. Surely someone else could've helped him, maybe Canada or Britain. But America had chosen him. For some strange, twisted reason, this made him happy.

Soviet grumbled and rolled over, blanket tangled between his legs. He wanted to talk to America. (Maybe more, but that was impossible. Too much distance and past between them.) So he grabbed his phone and texted him. Washington DC was 9 hours behind Yekaterinburg, so it would be 6 in DC.

: America, I want to talk to you.

America responded quickly, showing Soviet that he was either bored or on his phone at the time. Possibly both.

: ?

: I can't sleep and I miss you.

America didn't respond for five minutes. It was an agonizing five minutes. Had he annoyed him? Was he coming on too strong? Maybe he'd misread America's advances. Maybe he was just an oddly flirty friend. But you didn't touch your friend's cheek like that, didn't stare at their lips like that...

: gay

That took him five minutes to type. Good god.

: You're insufferable.

: you know it best

Finally, something more than a one word answer. It seemed America was in a better mood. Perhaps not a good one yet, but a better one. Maybe the riots were abating? Or maybe he'd just gotten more sleep, something Soviet should've been doing.

: In a good mood, I see?

: kinda

: sota brought me starbucks so im riding out a caffeine high

: Ah. Would it be appropriate for me to call you gay now?

: shut

: you know what im an iced coffee kinda bi and im proud you can suck it

: You wish.

Soviet found himself smiling. He'd missed this kind of back and forth banter. It was fun, lighthearted, and gave him an excuse to flirt under the guise of playfulness. Soviet had no doubts his feelings towards America were romantic, but he wasn't quite ready to act on them. Yet. He wasn't a very proactive person when it came to romance. Yes, he'd been in multiple relationships, with America and China and for a brief time Cuba, but he'd never been the one to initiate the romance.

Truth be told, none of those relationships had ended well, and it had ruined his idea of romance. He didn't want what had happened with America to happen again. He didn't want what happened to his kids to happen to a lover. What would happen if he slipped up, had a little too much vodka? Would he hurt someone again? He couldn't risk that.

Deep down, he still wanted something nice. Marriage, even. He knew it likely wouldn't happen, but it was nice to dream.

America's next text shook him out of his introspection.

: i miss you too

: i want another hug.

Had he read Soviet's mind through the screen? God, he hated distance flirting. It was so agonizing, not being able to touch or see him. He wanted to drown in ocean eyes again.

: FaceTime?

: sure, it's not like i'm being productive anyways

Soviet called him, and America answered right away. He was outside on what looked like a balcony, wearing a comfy looking t-shirt and sipping something out of a concerningly large Starbucks cup. The serving size of American fast food was concerning. No wonder the people were obese. Music played from a speaker perched precariously on the balcony railing, something that sounded vaguely like classic rock.

There were dark circles under America's eyes, and his normally carefully styled hair was a tousled mess. His glasses shone in the setting sun. "Wow, I cannot see you."

"I'm sitting in the dark, jackass. It's 3 am."

"Then go to bed, idiot."

"Not tired, that's the whole reason I called you," Soviet retorted, brushing a strand of hair out of his eyes. America raised an eyebrow, smirking. It wasn't as confident as it normally was, but it was a start. It made Soviet happy to see him recovering.

"You mean you didn't just want an excuse to stare at this work of art?" America gestured to his face. Soviet fought down a blush. Stop reading my mind. Stop being so attractive, you pig.

"Keep on lying to yourself, I think it's working," Soviet said drily. America laughed.

"God, you're feisty today. I like it." America took a long sip of his drink, and then frowned at it. "Damn it. Chocolate got stuck in the straw."

"You have the attention span of a five year old."

"I beg to differ," America said with a grin. "Can you spend 24 hours straight doing nothing but writing emails and dealing with idiot Senators?"

"You pull all nighters?" Soviet wasn't surprised, but also surprised. America had always been a workaholic, but he didn't know it was to this extent. No wonder the man was so skinny. He didn't take care of himself. If only Soviet was there to monitor him. "That's not healthy."

America shrugged, still fidgeting with his straw. "Goddamn it, Starbucks, if I could have one Java chip without it getting stuck that would be great. And yeah, I pull all nighters. It's not a big deal."

"Kind of is, but-"

America cut him off with a warning glare, sharp as daggers. One Soviet knew well. It was the end this discussion now or there's going to be a fight look. Soviet dropped the topic, not wanting to ruin his good mood.

"How are you doing?" America asked, directing the conversation back to playful small talk. "How's it going in Slavic Quartet hell?"

"Number one, Kazakhstan isn't Slavic. He's Turkish. Two, as good as it can be. Russia and Ukraine have kept their fighting to a minimum. Wait, what are you listening to?"

America grinned, turning up his speaker. He'd just started playing music, something that sounded like 70s rock. "Hell yeah. Queen is fantastic."

Soviet had no idea who this Queen was. The Eastern Bloc had no Western music in it, per Kremlin requirements. No capitalist propaganda brainwashing allowed. People still found ways to listen to Western music, in the form of disks printed on old X-ray vinyl. Soviet himself had some of this костная музыка (bone music) but his taste in Western music had started and ended in the 50s. He had a few smuggled Elvis records East Germany had given him and that was it.

America sang along with the music. "'Cause I could search the world from south to north, but I've already found what I'm looking for. Wherever I go and whatever I do," He sang, his voice oddly nice. His slight Southern drawl and baritone voice sounded fantastic when he sang. America singing was a rare occasion indeed. "I was born to love you!"

Soviet chuckled, ignoring the obvious implications of the song. "You're going to wake up your neighbors."

"It's six, they're all having dinner. Also, I'm a multi millionaire. I can just pay them to shut up."

Ah, that fake confidence. Sexy but irritating at the same time. Only America could make something extremely annoying attractive.

The song changed to another Queen song, this one talking about playing the game of love, whatever that meant. Soviet would never grasp English figurative language. The song itself was nice, but America made it beautiful. He sang along, and his vocal range was impressive. He could hit the high notes and the low notes. His singing was almost hypnotic. When he finished the song, he took a long sip of his drink.

"You're a beautiful singer," Soviet murmured, not expecting America to hear.

America choked on his Frappuccino, coughing and spluttering. It was incredibly amusing, and his face turned bright pink. He looked so pretty blushing, the navy of his flag turning a lovely purple, red stripes going darker and white going pink. "You douche, you made me choke!"

"Good!" Soviet laughed. "In all seriousness, your singing is lovely."

"Thank you, I try." Suddenly America was bashful. Did he get compliments often? By the way he acted when he got one, he didn't. Soviet would have to change that.

America suddenly looked away from the phone. From the sudden shift in camera angle, he was distracted by something in the street below. The adorably bashful expression was gone, replaced by concern.

"America, what's going on?" Soviet asked, tentatively.

"Nothing, someone slammed a car door. For a moment I thought I heard...never mind."

America shook his head. "I'm sorry, I've been so distracted lately. Everything's been so stressful and I just...I don't know. I needed some time, I guess."

"Of course, it's okay." Soviet gave him a comforting smile. Being as observant as he was, he already knew this, but it was nice to hear it from him. "I'm always here for you."

"Thank you," America whispered, and the phone barely caught it. He fidgeted with his drink straw, smiling shyly. A genuine smile, a soft upturn of the corners of his mouth. Not his smirk or his grins. Genuine. Soviet's heart fluttered at the sight.

America chuckled. "How did we go from hating each other to...whatever this is so quick?"

"The universe just wants us together, I guess," Soviet blurted without thinking. Oh god, oh no. Why, in the name of all things Socialist, would you say that?! His face burned like a wildfire. "I-I-"

America laughed again. "You're adorable, Sovi. You really are."

Soviet suddenly wished he could kiss someone through a screen.

—————-

America shooed him to bed not long after that, having to hang up because one of his daughters had brought dinner home. Soviet didn't mind, and fell asleep without vodka for the first time in a long time. When he woke up a few hours later, it was to messages from Ukraine.

Russia's drunk texting me again. Something about Crimea.

Of course it was nothing personal. No, "Hi, Papa, I miss you." Not that Soviet deserved even that. He'd been so cruel to Ukraine, and he hadn't even meant to.

Soviet had always been a violent drunk, but he turned to alcohol for his problems nonetheless. Raising 15 kids and taking care of a tyrannical government lead to a lot of stress that he would drown in a sea of Stolichnaya. He'd get so drunk some days that he'd pass out on the sofa and forget to feed his kids. Of course, because he spent most of his nights in a tired drunken daze, the slightest thing set him off. Ukraine was usually the source of his rage, and unfortunately paid the price for it in the form of lashes from a belt. Back then, Soviet considered him his 'problem child'. His wild one. Ukraine wasn't like Russia or Kazakhstan, who took his strict rules without voicing a complaint. No, Ukraine was rebellious and outspoken. He'd call his father out on his rules, complaining when there was a new, oppressive rule put in place.

Soviet wouldn't remember the beatings when he woke up from his drunken hazes. He'd see them the next day, see his children black and blue. He'd apologize, but that wasn't enough, when he'd just go back to his old routines. Soviet had never realized the error of his ways until years later, after he'd become a micronation.

He'd tried to change, he had. He treated Ukraine kinder now, treated all of his kids better. No more insults. No more drinking. As many things he tried to do were, it wasn't enough. Ukraine would never be loving towards him. He'd ruined that, lost that privilege. Ukraine still flinched when Soviet would raise his voice, even if he wasn't angry. Now that he was free, Ukraine wanted nothing to do with his father, only speaking to him to resolve a problem with Russia.

Soviet sighed and responded, pushing the dark memories away. Not today.

: I'll take care of it.

: Thank you.

Soviet texted Russia and told him to leave Ukraine alone, and then got up and made himself tea with a splash of vodka. What a wonderful way to start the morning. Truly fantastic.

The rest of the day moved at a snail's pace. He went into town, sold some of his crops in the farmer's market, and came home to clean and do chores. He looked forward to another late night conversation, but America seemed to be busy, so he went to sleep bored and irritated.

————-

: hey so you're really attractive

: loving the sexy wilderness wastrel vibes

It was now September. The temperature had dropped, and Soviet's apple trees were starting to produce good fruit. Nothing particularly interesting had happened over the past month or two, mostly the same schedule. Soviet's days consisted of gardening, selling, and talking to America. They'd grown closer, and Soviet had discovered that they both enjoyed hockey. They'd gotten into several debates over the sport, at one point arguing about whether the Canadian teams or the American teams were better. Of course, America had advocated for his teams.

The riots in the US had calmed down. One thing Soviet had always found hilarious about Americans was their attention span. They'd focus on a big issue for a month, and then move on to the next drama and leave the previous to die. It was a wonder anything got done there.

Soviet frowned at his phone, wiping his flour-covered hands on his black shirt (tactical dressing error, wearing black while using flour). He was making dough for chebureki and had somehow managed to make himself into one gigantic flour mess.

: That was sudden. Thanks, I suppose?

: you're horrible at flirting. im bored and sneaking my phone in a Congress meeting entertain me

: Shouldn't you be paying attention to that?

: oh please, it's just a bunch of boomers arguing over the same issues

: entertain me Sovi

: what are you doin

Soviet sighed. Couldn't a man bake in peace? He didn't mind talking to America, but the pig had some poor timing.

: Making dough for dinner.

: oo sexy I like me a man who can cook

: wait no you can't cook

: What's that supposed to mean?

: you're not the best cook. you underspice everything. full offense

: however your baking is fantastic

: god I want to come see you

Soviet rolled his eyes. America always wanted to see him, and he mentioned it at least once a conversation. He was more attached than a dog with separation anxiety. Truth be told, Soviet wanted to see him too. Not that he'd ever admit it, being the coward he was.

What was stopping America from visiting, if he was so eager to? He could fly to Yekaterinburg, and Soviet would pick him up there. Russia would never have to know.

God, Soviet wanted to see him. He wanted to hear that laugh again, see that smile. He had it bad. So, so gloriously bad.

: Then come see me.

: whaha?

: Fly to Yekaterinburg. I'll pick you up. Come visit.

: I miss you. I'll bake you something.

: if i didn't know better I'd say you're using my love of baked goods against me

: oh wait you are

: hell congressman noticed me on my phone brb

Soviet laughed and returned to his dough. He was oddly anxious. He felt like a schoolgirl asking her crush to go to dance. This was so stupid. He was in his 30s (appearance wise, Countryhumans didn't have a set age) and getting all tied up asking someone to visit.

Suddenly wanting a mood (read: confidence) booster, he tossed the dough in the fridge and attempted to retrieve his records from his bedroom closet. His records and record player were buried and dusty from disuse, but still worked as wonderfully as they had when they were in style.

He put an Elvis record on, laying down on the cool carpet and letting himself daydream to the music. He felt like he was 19 again, running through the streets of Saint Petersburg like a fool. The things love would do.

As Presley sang "Can't Help Falling In Love" in his dark chocolate voice, Soviet's phone vibrated in his pocket. Smiling like an idiot, he pulled it out to a text from America.

: i booked a flight on october 11, go back two weeks later

: im so excited to see you

Soviet smiled so wide his cheeks hurt.

: I'm excited to see you more.

——————-

Author's Note:

God this chapter got really gay and really long. why is it that I can write long fluff filler chapters but not decent angst chapters? smh. anyways, decided to speed up the plot because I feel like boring text dialogue is well...boring. so here. and yes, I do listen to both Queen and Elvis.