Let's Just Be Human (Finished)

Chapter Two: A Series Of Awkward Conversations, Narrated By The Soviet Union

Soviet couldn't sleep.

At all.

He'd tossed and turned for hours, tangling himself in his comforter in the process. He couldn't stop thinking about him. It was stupid, really. He hadn't spoken to America in years. He'd tried to convince himself that he'd moved on, that he wasn't still hanging onto a thread that wasn't there, but then he'd remember some small detail about him. How his smile could light up a room. How beautiful his blue eyes were. His condescending smirk, the one he used whenever he was keeping a secret. The one Soviet loathed, like so many other things about him. God, he had it bad, and had for years. He'd just buried it, stuffed his feelings into a bottle and threw it away.

And it had worked, for a while. Every so often, he'd glance at the tarnished gold band on his ring finger and let himself remember, but for the most part he'd moved on. Until that fateful phone call, the texts.

God, he couldn't stop thinking about the texts. They'd been so awkward, and he couldn't stop worrying that he'd somehow made America angry. Over 40 years of constant fighting would do that to you. Part of him wanted to make America angry.

Really, the Cold War was a testament to how determined a heart can be. If Soviet was still holding on to fledgling feelings after that hell, shouldn't that have been a sign? What if the feelings weren't even romantic? Just some twisted form of hate...

America hadn't shown any remorse when he "passed". If anything, America was better off without him. He seemed happier, at least in his Instagram posts (it wasn't hard to find America's Instagram- especially when he had over a million followers and was such a prominent figure.) Maybe it was for the better that he'd never spoken to him again.

Soviet huffed, giving up on sleep. He knew it wouldn't happen. He was too hung up on blue eyes. So he stood, brushed his collarbone-length hair out of his face, and made himself a glass of vodka.

He kept a bottle of Stolichnaya and a small glass on his bedside table at all times. Not because he was an alcoholic (his relapses were few and far between these days) but because it helped him sleep. Oftentimes, he found himself staring at the ceiling for hours on end, guilt and regrets manifesting themselves in the form of insomnia. The alcohol quieted his mind, just enough to let him sleep.

Sure enough, the vodka worked wonders. It still took him a while to drift off to sleep, but at least it calmed his nerves enough that he could even sleep. Tomorrow would be absolutely hellish.

Sure enough, it was.

His nerves were absolutely everywhere, and it made cleaning a pain. He nearly dropped the bottle of Windex four different times. It was all extremely frustrating. Why was he so worked up over this? He should hate America, yet after everything, he still managed to turn Soviet into a mess. "This is so dumb," he grumbled, taking a quick swig from his Stolichnaya.

He had an alcohol limit imposed by Ukraine. No more than two glasses a day, even on a bad day. He'd done his best to follow that, but sometimes he slipped up. He had a feeling today was going to be one of those days.

He'd finished cleaning and was watching TV when he heard tires crunching over the gravel of his driveway. He'd gotten a text about an hour earlier from Russia, simply stating 'be there soon.' He hadn't expected this soon, especially considering the distance from Moscow to Yekaterinburg.

He made his way to the doorway, making sure his ushanka was on and hair braided nicely. He wasn't one for appearances, but still.
Russia was the first one out of the car, clearly tense by the set of his shoulders. When America got out, Soviet found he couldn't breathe.

America's navy blue hair shone in the dappled light filtering through the trees. He'd gotten new glasses, rectangular frames that looked fantastic on him. He was still well-dressed as ever, looking tastefully comfortable in jeans and a polo. And god, those eyes. Still as striking and beautiful as ever, blue as the East Siberian Sea.