No Longer Dust

The Bitchening

The communist wasn't used to pain, not anymore. 30 years of peace will do that to a man. So when he fell into seemingly nothing and dropped an entire 10ft drop, you could understand why he let out a noise as high pitched and feminine as he did. He definitely doesn't sound like that frequently. He is a strong, masculine man and he doesn't squeak. That is simply just not a noise he makes. Nobody was around to prove otherwise anyway, thank you very much.

Ignoring that, Soviet had no idea where he was. The room he was in was a stark white, far too bright for his taste. It was scarcely decorated, with only a few pieces of furniture placed semi-tastefully at best. The room could've passed as a hospital honestly, if it wasn't for how high in the air it was. The ceiling to floor windows said otherwise as well. He looked around, furrowing his brows at the odd, large, shiny black box hanging on the wall. It was far too thick to be a painting, and far too thin to be a monitor. Choosing to ignore his curiosity, he peeked around the nearest corner into what looked to be the kitchen, physically recoiling upon seeing the dishes piled unnaturally high in the sink. In fact, dishes weren't the only thing piling up. Taking a more thorough look at the place showed trash littered throughout the house. He almost felt bad for whoever lived here. Almost. What he really felt was more akin to pity.

"This place is a fucking mess," the socialist commented out loud, not noticing the boxy-ass figure standing in the stairwell behind him. Said figure, a certain star-spangled bitch, stood frozen in shock. Understandably so. His late husband was in his house! Alive! Last he had checked Soviet was a jar of ashes in Russia's house, yet here he was, commenting on his shitty housekeeping.

"...Soviet?" The still shaken man practically whimpered. It was hardly loud enough to hear, yet it was all that was needed to get the communist's attention. Soviet faced him, tensed from the sound of his widower's voice. A voice he hadn't heard since the day he died, a voice he loved so deeply, a voice he was yet to move on from.

"America?" His face morphed into one of love, the type of love felt when one's spouse returns from war, "Oh, America!" The widower rushed towards his beloved, taking him into his arms, holding him as if that was the only thing keeping him tethered to the mortal plane. Soviet buried his face into the crook of his lover's neck, relishing in the warmth the gods had denied him up until this point.

"My darling, my princess... you're back," the American whispered against his head, pulling him deeper into his arms, hands resting delicately on his waist, as though he might hurt him if he held him any tighter.

"I am. Finally, I am," Soviet murmured into his throat, "I missed you oh so much, my love." Almost unwillingly, Soviet pulled away ever so slightly, "Now, let's discuss your living situation."

"I- Excuse me?"

"This is where you live, yes?"

"Yes?"

"It's a fucking pigpen in here, let go of me so I can fix this hellhole of a house. If you could even call it that, it's so bland in here," Soviet pushed fully out of his grasp, which had loosened out of confusion. "It looks like a hospital, do you have no sense of decoration?" He insulted, no real malice behind the words.

"It hasn't even been a hour yet, and you're already insulting my house?"

"Naturally."

"Ok yeah, I don't know what I was expecting really. You can do what you want with the place, where do you wanna start?" Once Soviet started rambling on about his plan for the house, USA knew he'd be busy for quite some time. At least it'll give him time to catch up with his man.