The cummunist dick-tatorship

Chapter 2: Coffee shop conversations

Lenin's POV:
I settle myself into the booth in the corner of the local coffee shop. I wrap my hands tighter around my small pumpkin iced latte, and spread my work out on the table.
God I have so much to do. I'm currently trying to figure out how to take over from the Tsar.
#Autocracysucks. Am I right or am I right?
I pick up my pen and begin to scribble down ideas. I'd like to think of myself as quite a pragmatic guy, although I tend to have an idealist side to me. I strongly believe I'd be a great, worthy leader. The leader Russia needs right now.
This Nicholas guy clearly has no idea what he's doing, for god's sake he doesn't even like politics, and don't even get me started on his sad attempt to give concessions.
"The October Manifesto", more like "The October Disappointment"
Anyway, my trip to Poland has opened my eyes, I am ready to wield as much power as a man can hold.
Everyone will worship me.
As my mind is swirling with all the possibilities of a revolution, I hear the bell above the door of the shop ring, I lift my head to see who had just entered.
Oh god, it's him, please, anyone but him.
But there he is, in the doorway, in all his annoyingly handsome glory, and he's looking directly at me.
I feel myself go red as I lower my head swiftly, acting engrossed in my work, when really my mind is racing with thoughts of those icy blue orbs looking in mine, and how I kind of...liked it.
I hear him order a venti iced coffee, vegan, extra cold, organic, with 3 pumps of caramel, 4 pumps of vanilla, salted caramel cold foam, soy milk, cinnamon powder, extra ice, and caramel drizzle.
Not my personal fav, but sure.
I immerse myself back into my revolutionary thoughts and transport myself back to my safe space. I begin my relaxation routine.
I close my eyes, inhale, "all power to the soviets" I whisper to myself, then exhale.
This is what my therapist told me to do.
"Communism is dope af, autocracy sucks ass," I murmur to myself, doing my breathing exercises along with it.
"Peace, bread, lan-"
"Is this seat taken?" A gruff voice asks. I recognise that voice. I look up slowly, until my eyes meet those ocean ones I had (much to my annoyance) dreamt about, last night.
But I didn't want to dream about them. I didn't want him.
"Yes, it is," I rely matter-of-factly, "by my bag."
Stalin chuckles, a smirk tugging at his lips.
"Right, well does your bag mind moving so I can sit here?"
I sigh loudly, rolling my eyes, but unfortunately I'm a pushover, so I reluctantly move my bag.
I pick up my pen and begin to write again, hoping this will deter him from talking to me.
But surprise surprise, it doesn't. This guy is relentless.
He grabs my book, examining the page it's opened on.
"Karl Marx? The Communist Manifesto?" He grins at me, "Where have you been all my life?"
I scoff, shaking my head, refusing to look up.
"Not talking huh?" He teases, snatching the bit of paper I'm writing on from under my pen.
"Only because you're distracting me, and I don't wish to be disturbed right now," I respond, reaching out to grab the paper, but he only holds it higher.
His arms are much longer than mine, and due to our massive height difference, I'm unable to reach it.
Ugh, why do I have to be so small?
"Please give it back," I plead with him.
"Only if you beg," he says, a smirk working its way back into his lips. I roll my eyes once more, glaring at him.

Stalin's POV:
Gosh, he's adorable when he's mad.
I find myself staring at his face, taking all of him in, admiring him.
Then, with his body so close to mine, I become self-conscious. I hadn't exactly dressed up. I'd practically rolled out of bed, tossed my hair up into a messy bun, combed out my moustache and slipped on my red converse.
And here he was looking like an angel fallen from heaven.
I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, feeling my face burn red.
I slowly lower the paper.
Lenin looks rather shocked and confused that I've given in so easily, but the truth is he makes me so fucking nervous. Especially when I can't take my eyes off of him.
Unable to handle to tension any longer, I clear my throat, placing the paper back on the table.
I shake my head, shaking away the unholy thoughts, and decide to change the subject.
"So what are you working on? What's this big project you're so focused on?" I ask.
"Oh, it's- it's stupid really," Lenin laughs awkwardly, looking down at his lap and shaking his head.
"No, no, tell me."
"Well...I want to change the world. And I'm trying to figure out how."
Fuck, he's so cool.
"That's not stupid. At all." I tell him, meaning every word. "And you wanna know a little secret?" He nods, "me too."
He glances up, his forest green eyes suddenly full of hope.
"Really? You're not taking the piss?"
"I'm being dead serious, I pinkie promise." We lock pinkies, and the small bit of skin-to-skin contact drives me crazy. "I believe in change, in doing everything for the people."
"Exactly!" He exclaims excitedly.
I chuckle to myself at how much we have in common, yet there's still something holding Lenin back from trusting me fully. He still wants to pretend he doesn't like me.

We talk and talk, for what feels like hours.
We discuss ideologies, think up ideas for overthrowing the government, you know, the usual.
We talk in such detail, so passionately, and low-key get deep af.
We lose track of time.
"Oh shit, it's getting late," Len says, glancing at his watch, "I should get going."
"Yeah, same," I say nonchalantly, trying to disguise the disappointment that fills my body when he says this. I feel as though I could do this forever.
Lenin gathers his things, stands up and we say our goodbyes.
He leaves first, and I watch him walk out.
I miss him already, as he disappears into the dark night.
Flashbacks of his body being pressed up against mine, and his face being so close we could've-
Fuck.
What am I getting myself into?