Soviet was blushing. A lot. Thankfully, it was dark and America was asleep, so he wouldn't see. This was not how he expected watching a movie to go. He'd suggested watching a movie so America could unwind after the flight, but about halfway through America snuggled closer to Soviet's side and rested his head on his chest. Soviet panicked. What was he supposed to do? Did it mean something? Or was America just cold? I am such a mess, aren't I?

The credits rolled on the screen, but Soviet didn't have the heart to move, lest he wake America up. He looked so peaceful asleep, years of stress gone. He looked so tense all the time, like he was constantly walking on eggshells, and sometimes he'd space out in the middle of a conversation. Soviet noticed these small things, the way America's expression could change in an instant seemingly unprompted, from smile to frown. It worried him. What was going on in his head? If only America wasn't such an enigma.

He sighed, shutting the TV off. The arm that was around America's shoulder was tingling, asleep. Trying to be as slow and gentle as possible, he shifted America off his arm. America groaned and wouldn't let Soviet move.

"America," Soviet said softly. He really needed his arm. "It's late. We need to go to bed."

"I was sleep," He grumbled, pushing himself up off Soviet.

Soviet shook his hand, grimacing at the bout of tv-static feeling it gave him. "You were sleep?"

"Shut up," America grumbled, rubbing at his eyes blearily. His Southern accent was slightly thicker with sleep. "What time is it?"

"Eh..." Soviet glanced into his kitchen, squinting to see the clock on the stove. "2 in the morning." Good god, was it that late? He should've woken America up sooner, but then again, he was lost in the feeling of America snuggled up to him. It had been so long since he'd had physical contact like that...he mourned it already.

America said something under his breath that Soviet couldn't quite catch. He figured it was something he didn't want Soviet to hear, and if he did, then oops.

Soviet moved to get off the couch, hoping America would take the hint, but taking hints was not a strong suit of his. Soviet felt arms wrap around his waist, pulling him back down. Soviet's cheeks burned and he made a noise like a squeak. A squeak. He was a grown 35 year old man, and he squeaked.

He stared at America, bewildered. America had buried his face in Soviet's chest again, and Soviet realized he wouldn't be getting up any time soon. Resigned to his fate of sleeping on the couch, Soviet shifted so he could at least lay down. America grumbled, shifting so he was laying on Soviet's chest.

"Night, Sovi," America murmured, voice slurred with sleep.

"Good night, Ромашка," Soviet replied, heart fluttering in his chest.

———

Soviet woke up to the smell of pancakes and the sound of off key singing. He groaned, sitting up. He hurt in four different places, and his hair was a tangled mess. For a moment, he looked around the living room, confused. Why was he out here rather than his bedroom?

The memories of last night flooded back, and his cheeks burned. Oh. That's why...he'd let America sleep on his chest. He'd slept on that godawful couch so America could sleep comfortably. Or was it because he'd wanted to cuddle?

"You're up!" America said from the kitchen, flipping a pancake with expert delicacy.

"Morning, sleeping beauty."

"Shut up. I blame you for the fact that my whole back is sore." Soviet stood, stretching. Thankfully, this time America did not awkwardly stare at him, busy with his cooking.

"Could be a lot more, but you playin'," America said with a smirk.

"What?"

"Never mind. Anyways, I made coffee, but I wasn't sure how you take your coffee so I just left it in the pot for you to make." He gestured at the coffee pot on the counter beside him, shrugging. "Also, what kind of freak doesn't have bacon?"

"I don't eat bacon." Soviet made his way to the kitchen, having to slide behind America to get to the other counter. The pig's smirk widened, and he hip-checked Soviet. Soviet rolled his eyes. It was far too early for this nonsense. "And thank you for the coffee."

"No problem, commie man. What's the plan for today?"

"You're not jet lagged?" Soviet was surprised. He'd expected America to be exhausted, considering the 9 hour difference from what he was used to. Instead, America was awake as awake could be.

"Nope. I'm used to traveling. And you didn't answer me."

"Well, I was thinking we could go into town. I need to pick up some groceries, and I figured I could show you around." Soviet took a sip of his coffee (black, he wasn't a coward), watching America cook. He put such effort into his food, even if it was just a quick breakfast. Everything seemed deliberate, from how he poured the batter to how he flipped it. Clearly, he cared a lot about his food.

America caught him staring and raised an eyebrow. "What? Like what you see?"

"Shut up," Soviet snapped back, turning to go sit down at the island in the middle of the kitchen. He had a few bar stools there, and he often ate there.

America laughed. "You know, staring at your homie is kinda gay."

If it was possible, Soviet would've rolled his eyes so hard it hurt. Or, eye rather, since he only had one. "Says the one who made me sleep with him last night."

Now it was America's turn to blush, nearly dropping the measuring cup he'd been using into the batter. "Don't say it like that!"

Soviet threw his hands in the air exaggeratedly. "How else am I supposed to say it? It's gay either way!"

"Speaking of," America said, turning the griddle off. He leaned against the counter, taking a long sip of his coffee, which was barely even coffee. Calling it milk with a splash of coffee was more accurate. "What's your sexuality?"

"What?" Soviet frowned into his coffee. What kind of question was that? "What do you mean?"

"Are you gay, straight," America scoffed at the word straight. "Well, clearly not straight. Like, I'm bisexual. What are you, because I'm getting a lot of mixed signals."

"Eh..." Soviet hesitated. He really wasn't sure what his sexuality was. During the Cold War, he'd refused to acknowledge his attraction to men, and instead stayed out of the dating pool, aside from a few short relationships. Truth be told, he didn't like thinking about his sexuality. It was far too confusing, and he had far too many mixed feelings. Not to mention that if people found out he was gay, he'd be ostracized, or worse, sent to a gulag. Imagine that, sending your own Countryhuman to a work camp. Often, during those times, he wished for the 1920s, when homosexuality wasn't a crime.

"I don't know," He said, fidgeting with his hands under the counter.

America huffed. "You've had your whole life to figure this out. I've only ever seen you date men-"

"Cuba is a woman." Soviet pointed out. One of the few straight relationships he'd been in. "Besides, why does it matter?"

"It does to me. How am I supposed to know if-..." America's face turned a pale pink as he trailed off, staring into his coffee cup like it was the most interesting thing ever. "Never mind. I'm just curious."

Soviet huffed. "I'm not sure, okay? I don't like labels. I like men, I like women. Leave it at that."

Sensing the tension, America went silent. Soviet suddenly felt guilty, stomach sinking. Had he been too harsh? America had looked so happy last night, and he didn't want to ruin that. That was precious, a rare commodity. Something to be cherished, because America wasn't happy often. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have been so harsh."

America shook his head, smiling just a little too tight to be real. "No, no, it's fine. I shouldn't have pressed," He said. "Besides, it's breakfast time anyways."

Soviet just nodded, feeling guilty nonetheless.

————

"America! Hurry up!" Soviet shouted from the living room, tugging a pair of leather winter boots on. They were about to leave for town, and there was supposed to be snow coming shortly after they left, so Soviet wanted to hurry. If you wanted to suffer, get caught in a Siberian snowstorm. Suffering guaranteed.

"Sorry, sorry," America yelled, slamming the door to the guest bedroom. Soviet winced at the noise. "We're getting lunch there, right?"

"Yes- what the hell are you wearing?" Soviet's mouth fell open in an o when America walked in the room. America was wearing a plush looking cowl-neck sweater, but that wasn't what Soviet was looking at. He was also wearing black jeans that seemed to hug every single curve. America had always had a feminine form, but that usually wasn't noticeable with the baggy clothes he wore. Now, it was extremely obvious. "You do realize we're going into town, not to a club, right?"

"What, you don't like it?" America said sarcastically. Soviet cleared his throat and looked away. Oh my god. How is he this pretty and this dumb?

"I-shut up." Soviet stood, looking anywhere but at America. America seemed to notice this, and his smirk grew wider.

"That's not an answer." America said, knowing exactly what he was doing. His blue eyes screamed mischief behind his glasses. "Do you not like my outfit?"

"I-..." Soviet wasn't sure what to do. He knew he was being baited, but how to get around it? Say no? America was far too observant, he'd catch the lie. The truth wasn't an option- he wasn't going to feed into America's ego like that. So he went around it. "Hurry up and put your shoes on. I want to leave before the storm hits."

America just laughed.

Insolent moron.

———-

They just barely managed to beat the storm into town, having enough time for Soviet to buy the few groceries he needed before the snow really hit. The first snows were never that bad, but Soviet didn't like driving in it. It reminded him too much of Stalingrad, of a certain red country and needless bloodshed. As many bad memories as snow carried, he couldn't bring himself to hate it. It carried such a peaceful beauty, even now, drifting lazily from a pale grey sky to cobblestones streets. The town was old and small, like walking into a photograph from the 20s. Soviet loved it.

America seemed fascinated by how the store operated. He was oddly delighted by the lockers at the front of the store, and wouldn't stop talking about how much he liked that idea. "Why should you have to carry your coat around when you just put it in a locker?" He did, however, complain about having to pay for the plastic grocery bag. That was normal in Russia- you paid for the bag and packed the groceries yourself. Soviet found it both funny and unsurprising that America didn't like that.

Now they were sitting in a cafe, waiting for the worst of the snowfall to abate. The cafe was small and cozy, and they sat across from each other in a booth. America had ordered a chai latte, Soviet going with a simple hot chocolate, and they talked while they drank.

"It's so pretty here," America said wistfully. "I feel like I walked into an old film."

"Doesn't it? I love this little town." Soviet smiled softly, glad America liked it as much as he did. "I'm glad my father's dacha was nearby, so I don't have to go into Yekaterinburg. I hate big cities, always have."

"Me too," America said softly. "If it wasn't for my job, I'd have moved to Wyoming already. Or maybe a forest in Washington. I'm just so tired of the politics."

Soviet understood that, more than he could say. He found that by the time the government had gotten to Krushnechev, he'd become the thing he'd sworn not to be. He'd become a tyrant, an echo of his father. It was something that could've been helped, had Stalin never been elected. But, Stalin had been, and he'd turned the Union from a mostly peaceful place to a military powerhouse, but also an oppressor of the people. The influence it had on Soviet, the stress...it was all too much on him. If he'd had the option to retire sooner, maybe things would've been different for him and his children.

From what he understood, America's politics were a drain in a different way. A mental health way. He'd seen the pills, seen the attacks. His schizophrenia had to be such a drain on his well-being.

Soviet found himself reaching across the table, taking America's small hand in his. He rubbed circles into the top of America's hand as he spoke. "I understand that. Aren't you ever able to take a break?"

America shook his head. "This is the closest to a break that I've had in a long time. It's just work, work, work. I guess that's what happens when you're damage control for an idiot president."

America sounded so dejected when he said that, like he'd resigned to his fate already. Maybe he had. It couldn't be easy, dealing with a businessman president, 50 kids, and voices in his head. Soviet found himself wishing he could help, even when he knew he couldn't. How could he, when he wasn't even a real country anymore? He had no power on a global stage. He couldn't send money, he couldn't give any form of aid. Not that he'd be able to help anyways. America had always been a headstrong person, to a fault, and hated having any help from anyone.

Couldn't Soviet change that? Even if America pushed him away, which he likely would, it would be good for him to have someone to run to when things got rough. Couldn't Soviet be the person he could run to, be his shelter?

"Well, let's make it the best break you've ever had, shall we?"

America's eyes widened, surprised. Then he smiled, a genuine, heart stopping smile. Soviet couldn't breathe for a moment. "Sovi, that's...so sweet."

"It's not about sweet, it's about you being happy." Soviet squeezed America's hand just a little bit, enjoying how America's expression brightened. He hadn't seen America happy like this in years, and the fact that Soviet was what caused that happiness...if joy was an illness, Soviet would've died from it.

America shook his head. "You've changed, Sovi. I like it."

"So have you."

America just shrugged. "Not like you have. You're nicer now. I'm just...fat and depressed."

"America-" Soviet was about to argue, but America raised a hand to cut him off. Discussion over, subject dropped. America clearly didn't feel comfortable enough to talk about his problems yet. Soviet just sighed and obliged, and they sat in tense silence until the snowfall lessened just enough that Soviet felt comfortable driving in it.

America stared out the window the whole drive home, withdrawn from the world. Soviet glanced over at him a few times, frowning. How did he screw it up again? America had just opened up, but closed himself off again just as quick. Emotions snapped away inside a box of fake confidence.

Soviet tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. Getting America to open up would be harder than he thought. Much, much harder.

He was still going to try.

————

The next day went by without anything interesting really happening. America had to work for several hours on his laptop, and Soviet used the time to pick apples from his trees. It was chilly outside, but he didn't mind. He was used to cold, and it was nothing to him. He'd been outside for hours when he heard America call from the ground, "Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair!"

Soviet rolled his eyes and leaned against the ladder, dropping an apple into the basket. "Wrong culture, idiot."

"Wasn't trying to make a Russian joke, I was mocking your hair." America said, leaning against the tree. He looked nice today, wearing a simple red cardigan and nice grey jeans (thankfully not skinny). He looked relaxed. "Anyways, I'm almost done with dinner and if you stay out here much longer you'll get sick."

"Is it already dinner time?" Had he been outside that long? That explained why he was suddenly cold. Approaching night did that.

"Yep. You've been out here all day." America plucked one of the apples out of the basket and took a bite. The apple itself was almost as red as his stripes.

"Oops." Soviet jumped down from his perch on the ladder, landing a few feet from America. America smiled at him, close-lipped because he was eating. "What's for dinner?"

America swallowed before answering (thank God). "Just some shepherd's pie. I wasn't feeling too creative."

"Ah. Well, you made it, I'm sure it'll be great."

America shoved him playfully as they walked back to the house. "If I didn't know better, I'd say you're flirting."

"Who said I'm not?" Soviet replied, shoving America back.

America paused, staring at him with those lovely blue eyes. Suddenly, he reached up and brushed a strand of hair behind Soviet's ear, hand lingering for a moment too long on his cheek. Soviet's skin tingled at the sudden contact. "I love your hair," America said, softly. "It suits you."

Soviet stayed in the doorway even after America had gone in, trying to calm his heart rate back to acceptable levels. How did America manage to go from flirty back to confident in .5 seconds? Was it some American thing? God, the man was such an enigma.

He reached up and touched his cheek, smiling like the goofy idiot he was. He had it bad, didn't he?

I'm so gone for him.

I am so screwed.

————

Author's Note:

Anyways, we've reached 1k reads! Thank you all so much! I'm really glad you guys are enjoying this. I've had this stupid idea in my head for months.

If you guys want other vaguely LJBH related content check out my Drabbles and Things book. I've got a few stories in there that go with this universe. If you're curious. I'm not trying to clout chase.