"Sovi, do you have any alcohol?" America asked, standing on his tiptoes to dig through Soviet's cabinets. He didn't look over, but he had the very strong feeling Soviet was giving him the world's most exasperated look right now. "Like, whiskey or anything other than vodka?"

"There's kvass in the fridge, but that's hardly alcoholic." Soviet said drily. "If you want something stronger it's too late for me to go out."

"What? Why can't you go out?" America shut the cabinet, masking his disappointment with confusion. He didn't want to get drunk, but he'd been craving a hot toddy since it first snowed. They'd almost reached the one-week mark and it had been fairly uneventful. One of them was always busy, and by night time neither of them were in social moods.

However, today there was a feeling in the air, one that felt of possibility. It felt like something would happen, and America loved it.

Soviet glared at America over his book, disgruntled that he'd been interrupted. "It's past 11. All of the stores won't be selling liquor right now."

"Hmph. I want a hot toddy." America crossed his arms over his chest like a child, leaning on the counter. Soviet just rolled his eyes and returned to his book, looking extremely comfortably in his armchair, covered with a fluffy throw blanket. He looked so cozy and focused on his novel. I want him to look at me as intensely as he looks at that book.

The thought gave him an idea. An extremely stupid idea, but a fun one. Purely to see how the uptight communist would react.

Before Soviet noticed him and had the opportunity to put his book down, America jumped on him. Really, more like a pounce-tackle hug combo. Soviet grunted from the force of America rocketing into his chest, and America laughed.

"Христос, America, you could've just asked for attention." Soviet said awkwardly, attempting to put his book down on the table next to his chair. America grabbed his wrist, and in the moment where Soviet froze, he snatched the book out of Soviet's hand. "Hey! Give that back!"

"Why? Is it something dirty?" America smirked, flipping through the pages. It was a worn book, the notes in the margins written in Soviet's delicate handwriting. He realized that this was a copy of the Communist manifesto, and by extension, a journal of Soviet's. "Oops. I didn't realize...sorry."

Soviet took it back gratefully when America handed it to him. "It's fine. Just...ask before you grab my stuff, please."

"Yeah, of course." America suddenly realized just how he was sitting. He was laying on top of Soviet, propping himself up with a hand on either arm rest. If someone were to walk in right then, they'd immediately back right out. America's cheeks burned, but he didn't move.

"Your glasses are lopsided." Soviet said with a smile. "It looks ridiculous."

"Oops. I need to take them off anyways, they're disgusting," America replied, taking his glasses off and setting them on the table. He crossed his arms over Soviet's chest and rested his head on them, content where he was. This was nice.

America found himself staring at Soviet, finding little details that hadn't been there before. He had more freckles than America remembered, gold speckling his cheekbones. There were flecks of blue in his otherwise grey eye. He was definitely attractive, there was no lying about that. He had that sort of effortless beauty that drew people in. Mix that with his wilderness wastrel vibes, deep Slavic accent, and sheer strength, and you had a man straight out of a romance novel.

Soviet's hair was down today, falling in crimson waves to his shoulders. Before America realized what he was doing, he reached up and twirled a bit of Soviet's hair around his finger, almost absentmindedly.

Soviet blushed, making it look like his freckles were glowing. "What are you doing?"

"I like this. Your hair is soft," America said dreamily, only half paying attention. He was in another world, daydreaming about running his fingers through Soviet's hair and pulling him in for a kiss. In another universe where he had more actual confidence, perhaps he would. But this was real life, so he'd resign himself to just playing with his hair.

"Thank you." Soviet muttered, looking both uncomfortable and happy at the same time. If that was possible. "Now please stop."

"Hmph. You're not being very affectionate today."

"Am I ever affectionate?"

"Good point," America said brightly, masking his disappointment that Soviet wasn't reciprocating the affection. He wondered why. Soviet was being very boring today, oddly closed off. America wasn't going to press for an answer, but from the way he frowned every time he looked at his phone he could tell it was something with his kids. Ukraine, perhaps? Probably Ukraine. The way they both spoke of each other lended itself to the assumption that they had not had a good relationship.

Okay, maybe America was going to press. For curiosity reasons. "Is something wrong?"

"No," Soviet replied, a little too quickly. America raised an eyebrow, and Soviet huffed. "Yes."

"Do tell," America rested his head on his arms, giving Soviet what he hoped was a puppy-dog look. Soviet wasn't even looking at him, instead frowning and staring into nothing.

"It's nothing, really. Russia started a fight that bled over to me and it just...reminded me of some regrets." Soviet's voice was tense. "I don't want to talk about it."

America understood that. After all, he didn't like talking about his problems either. He preferred to compartmentalize until he exploded, coping with alcohol and food. Unhealthy, yes. But when you heard nothing but criticism all hours of the day from everyone, even yourself, what else was there to do? He had no one to talk to. At least, until Soviet came into the picture. Soviet...Soviet helped. Even when he wasn't trying to, he did. There were a few days where America would be having a really rough time, and any text from Soviet, no matter how stupid, brightened his mood.

Seeing Soviet go withdrawn stung in a different way. He wanted Soviet to open up to him, he wanted to help. It seemed unfair that Soviet did so much to help him, but he did nothing to help Soviet.

The sudden silence bothered America, so he filled the space with something they could both talk about. "Remember Elbe Day? 1945?"

Soviet gave him a confused look. "Of course I remember Elbe Day. That was our first dance, our first kiss, our first everything. Why?"

America traced circles into Soviet's chest absentmindedly. "I was just thinking about it. I haven't been able to find a champagne that tastes the same. God, that night was fun."

Soviet nodded. "I still think about it whenever I hear that Vera Lynn song. What was it?"

America grinned. "We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when!" He sang, voice drifting lazily from note to note. "But I know we'll meet again some sunny day!"

Soviet chuckled, voice rich as velvet. "We certainly did. Who would've thought a Vera Lynn song would describe us?"

"Definitely not me." America ignored the way his heart jumped in his chest. "We'll Meet Again" was an inherently romantic song, and for Soviet to say it described them...It had to mean something. He'd started thinking that Soviet didn't reciprocate his feelings. Soviet was very hit-or-miss with PDA. Sometimes he seemed to enjoy it, other times he jerked back like America had touched him with a lit match. It was frustrating, the mixed signals. He wanted to know. He had to know, because otherwise he was just leading himself on, and his heart couldn't take that.

Soviet sensed America's sudden nervousness and sat up, pushing him off. "W-We should go to bed," He stammered.

America cleared his throat. This all seemed very high-school, their cycle of flirting and then awkward avoidance. Not that he didn't enjoy it, being that he'd never really had a high school romance story, but it was annoying. He was a very get to the point person, and this dance they did was decidedly not that.

America paused in the doorway to the guest room, glancing back. Soviet was still sitting in his chair, staring at him with an unreadable expression. America smiled softly. "Good night, commie."

Soviet returned the smile. "Спокойной ночи, America."

—————-

"Get up."

There was the sound of blinds opening, and America groaned as bright light hit his tired eyes. "Five more minutes," He grumbled, rolling over and hugging his pillow.

"It's been five more minutes for the past half hour. Up. Now." Soviet said. America opened his eyes and glared at the commie, who was leaning on the headboard with an amused expression. His hair was braided over his shoulder today, shining in the cool morning light.

"No."

"Or we don't buy your whiskey."

This got America's attention, and he shot up like a bat out of hell. Soviet laughed. "Hell yeah! Hot toddies!"

Soviet shook his head. "You're ridiculous. I'm going to leave so you can get dressed. I'm leaving in ten minutes, with or without you."

"Okay, okay, I get it Sarge," America grumbled, sliding out of bed and stretching. Soviet just rolled his eyes and left the room, grumbling something in Belarusian.

America grinned. He had that feeling again, the opportunistic one. Something in the air spoke of something happening, something good.

He couldn't wait.

————

America watched Soviet inspect his hot toddy like it was a loaded gun, half of him delighted that Soviet was even trying it in the first place. Soviet was one of those people that were picky about their drinks.

They were in the dining room, America leaning on the counter and Soviet sitting on one of the stools at the island. Buying the whiskey hadn't taken long, but then America had to deal with Washington panicking about nothing, and the day just flew by. It was five now, the sun starting to set.

"Well?" America asked, swirling his drink.

"It's...good. I think."

"You think," America replied drily. "Okay then. Remind me not to show you new things again."

"Shut up." A moment after saying that, Soviet's eye lit up, and he stood. America raised an eyebrow, watching him rush to the door. At one point, he tripped over his own feet, apparently excited enough that he forgot what motor skills were. He wasn't drunk because they hadn't had any drinks, so you can imagine America's confusion. "You stay right there. Don't come into the living room until I say so."

"I...okay? What are you doing?" America called, craning his neck to see.

"You'll see!" Soviet shouted back.

America sighed and pushed his glasses up, tapping on the table nervously. What could Soviet possibly have to show him that would make him that excited? America had to admit, he was curious. More than, he was excited. If the stone-cold commie was that keyed up, it had to be something good.

It was about five minutes before Soviet called for him. America took a long drink of his hot toddy and went into the living room.

Soviet sat cross-legged on the floor, fidgeting with an old wooden record player that had seen better days. A pile of records with covers written in any variety of Slavic languages sat beside him. This was what Soviet was excited to show him? America wasn't sure what he'd been expecting but it wasn't this.

America sat down beside him, folding his legs underneath him. "So?"

"Okay, I know you think this is dumb, but wait," Soviet said, reading America's mind. Soviet held up a hand when he opened his mouth to argue. "You're wondering why I wanted to show this to you. Look."

The record Soviet pulled out of the case was not a record. Or, at least it wasn't patterned like a record. It looked like someone took an X-ray, cut it into a circle, and called it a record. Soviet grinned. "This was how we listened to Western music."

"You put it on X-rays?"

Soviet nodded, putting the record on the player. Elvis' "All Shook Up" played, slightly distorted, like listening to an echo. Soviet swayed slightly to the music, glancing at America anxiously.

America smiled. "I didn't take you for an Elvis person."

"I loved Elvis. He had a lovely voice," Soviet replied. They sat in silence and listened to the song until it ended and changed to another song. America recognized it within the first few notes. So did Soviet, it seemed, who stood and extended his hand towards him like some lost soul from the Tsarist era. "May I have this dance?"

"I can't dance," America said, heart fluttering in his chest. "You know that."

"Just follow my lead. Come on," Soviet smiled and America couldn't fight anymore, any arguments lost in the notes of the music. He let Soviet pull him to his feet, a thrill running up his spine when Soviet placed his hand on the small of his back.

Wise men say

Only fools rush in

Soviet lead them into a graceful waltz, swaying to the music. America's heart screamed at the closeness, at the soft way Soviet was gazing at him, eyes like rain clouds.

But I can't help falling in love with you

Shall I stay?

How had they come this far? From barely knowing each other to dancing in the living room? Was it bad that America never wanted this to end?

Would it be a sin

If I can't help falling in love with you?

"You look nervous," Soviet whispered, guiding him into a gentle turn. "Am I that scary?"

"It's not that." You're too beautiful and I'm too lost for words. "I just...I don't know. I haven't done this stuff with someone in a while."

Like a river flows

Surely to the sea

"Isn't it funny that we went from hating each other to this?" America said, ashamed of how shaky his voice was. He was close enough to Soviet that he could smell that mint and smoke smell that seemed to cling to him. It was hypnotic. Everything was hypnotic, from their slow movements to the way Soviet's eye sparkled. America felt like he was drowning, in the best way possible.

Darling, so it goes

Some things are meant to be

Soviet tilted his head, a motion that reminded America of a confused puppy. Endearing. "I suppose. Are you complaining?"

"Of course not," America replied, blushing. Maybe he was blushing at the teasing, or maybe it was the proximity. Or maybe it was that, like Elvis said, some things were meant to be, and they certainly seemed to be one of those things. Even after all those years, all those fights, they were still drawn to each other. Strings of fate, one could say.

Take my hand

Take my whole life too

For I can't help falling in love with you

Something had changed. Suddenly, the air between them seemed charged, thick with a possibility. A possibility that America desperately wanted to happen. He found himself leaning closer.

Like a river flows

Surely to the sea

They stopped moving, stopped swaying even. Soviet pulled him closer, tantalizingly so. If one of them leaned forward just a little bit...

Darling, so it goes

Some things are meant to be

Take my hand

As the last notes of the song wound down, America met Soviet's gaze, asking a silent question. He didn't wait for an answer, hands shifting from Soviet's neck to cupping his cheeks.

Take my whole life too

For I can't help falling in love with you

America didn't know who leaned in first. Their lips met, at first a simple brush, then a real kiss as America melted against his chest. It was a soft, achingly slow kiss, both of them drinking in every possible detail. Soviet tasted of honey. He kissed the same way he used to, strong and sweet, letting America lead.

It wasn't quite the world-shaking kiss one would expect, but it still made America's knees weak. He'd wanted this for so long, and to have it again...he felt like he was dying.

Or maybe he was finally living.

For I can't help falling in love with you...

Soviet pulled away, America exhaling softly. Every nerve seemed to be lit, suddenly aware of every small thing. The way he was pressed against Soviet, and how Soviet's hands had drifted to his hips.

"Ромашка," Soviet murmured, and this time it was him who initiated this kiss. This one wasn't soft, but it wasn't rough either. It was like all barriers were ripped away, all resolve gone. America gasped, fingers tangling in Soviet's hair. I'm so, so in love with you. I'm so lost for you.

America's phone chimed, startling them both out of their trance. They jumped away from each other. America's cheeks were on fire, eyes wide. They'd really done that. He'd kissed Soviet, and Soviet had kissed back. Soviet kissed him!

"Oh- oh my god," America whispered, fixing his glasses. He'd kissed Soviet. The one man he couldn't be with because it broke several international laws. Then again, didn't his very being here break those laws too?

Suddenly panicked, America grabbed his phone off the couch and rushed to his room. Soviet stopped him in the doorway to the hallway, with a hand on his shoulder. "Wait, what's wrong?"

America couldn't meet Soviet's gaze, scared of what he'd see. Not hatred, but love. Could he do that? Could he do that to himself, to Soviet? "We- We shouldn't have done that."

"What? Why? America-"

America shoved past him, diving for the guest room door. Before he shut it, he saw how hurt Soviet looked, how confused he was. It stung more than it should've. "I'm sorry," he whispered, before closing the door, separating them. Another wall, in a relationship seemingly built by them.

————

Author's Note:

Hi my name is Sushi and I love ripping people's hearts out.

This isn't the end! Far from! I'm really glad you guys are enjoying this. It makes me really happy.