Chapter Text
“It is better to be unhappy and know the worst, than to be happy in a fool’s paradise.” — Fyodor Dostoevsky
July 4th, 1941— Moscow, Russia
War is full of treaties, some of which stay strong, while others were doomed to fall apart from the start. Russia thought that the Non-Aggression Pact couldn’t have lasted forever, but it crumbled much faster than he had thought.
They were also storming into the soviet border faster than Russia could handle. As they crossed the border, they burned through lands and buildings.
The feeling was crippling.
As Ivan walked through the cells of the others in the soviet block, their pained screams rang out against the brick walls that trapped them.
The Baltic brothers had been unable to assist him for the past week, as they were too weak to provide Russia anything other than annoyance.
He had wanted to keep them working, afraid that he would fall behind on the many tasks that Stalin had given him. But the Germans were tearing through all of their lands, burning and slaughtering everything they came across.
Ivan would be no better than Stalin if he made them work. So he stayed up late at night, working on stacks of paperwork, often with details of how the Red Army was failing as the Germans encroached.
Some nights he didn’t sleep. But he would have preferred that over the nightmares that plagued his sleep.
Most nights, it was of his citizens being shot and falling into piles of bodies in ravines. Other nights, when he was unlucky, he dreamt of happier times, now tainted by his government.
He had a meeting scheduled with the leader of said government soon. Stalin.
Ivan was left waiting in a room, dim but much too large for a meeting between two people. The Russian tapped the table impatiently, each second lasting far too long for his waning patience.
An hour after the meeting was supposed to have started, Stalin walked through the large doors, several guards following. Russia stood to attention, meeting his leader straight in the eye.
“Dobryy den', tovarishch,” the large nation greeted, keeping a fake smile on his face.
Stalin waved him down. “Sit. We must begin. We have already fallen behind.”
Thanks to you, Russia thought, trying not to let his displeasure show on his face. “What is it you wished to talk to me about?”
Stalin then spoke the words he would have never thought to come out of the very anti-capitalist's mouth, “I need you to craft a letter to Amerika.”
Russia fought the urge to laugh, though he didn’t manage to keep the shock off his face. “Whatever for?”
“They already provide Britain with free supplies. I wish for you to try to convince the Americans to grant that same treatment to us. I remember you being particularly… close to their personification.”
Russia shook his head. “The connection between us was broken long ago, though I don't remember how. I have tried to make amends, but he doesn't listen, the stupid child. The American means nothing to me.”
“Are you saying that you won’t do it? Are you disobeying me?” Stalin said, his face going red.
“Nyet, comrade Stalin! I am simply saying that-”
“You will contact the American. In fact, you will contact their personification specifically.”
“Comrade-”
“This meeting is adjourned. I expect to hear your report within a week.” With that, Stalin stood up, guards following him out of the room, the door shutting with a loud slam.
Russia sat there in confusion for a moment, then felt mad. How dare Stalin take advantage of his past relationship with America? How dare Stalin, of all people, a key player in his separation, force him to talk to America?
Russia slammed his fist against the table, the wood shattering down the middle. He collapsed back into his chair, sighing. Great, he thought, now I’ll have to order another table.
-_*_*_*_-
Figuring out what to say to America was a difficult task. How should he start? How should he go about convincing the Americans that helping him was the right thing to do?
After all, their last meeting hadn't gone particularly well.
Russia decided the best approach would be to keep it as formal as possible. He had spent six days deciding what he should say, even making a script that had reasons detailing why his country needed (as much as he hated to say it) help from the Americans.
Ivan had one final day left before his report to Stalin was due. His fingers hovered over the dial keys of the phone. A mix of emotions ran through him, making him unable to tell if he was annoyed, excited, or worried.
An apathetic tone was the best choice to go for. Alfred wasn’t going to be excited to hear from him, so he shouldn’t be happy to hear from the American.
With this in mind, Russia dialed the numbers. A tone rang in his ear for a while before finally being picked up.
“Whoever you are, you have a lot of fucking nerve calling me at three in the fucking morning,” America’s grumpy voice said.
“Oops! Seems I forgot!”
“Russia?!" Russia smiled as he heard the American's voice shift to anger. "Of course, it's you. Only you could be calling at this ungodly hour. What the fuck do you want?”
“I merely wish for your nation to extend the military lease you give to Britain to my own nation. It seems only fair that-”
Russia didn’t get to finish before he was cut off by a bark of laughter from the other end of the phone. “You? You're- You're asking for my help!” The laughter continued for another full minute. “Oh, how the mighty have fallen!”
Russia only smirked. “So you admit that I am mighty?"
“I never said that!”
“Too late!” Russia replied with a smirk.
“Shut the fuck up.”
“My, what language you have! And on a call with a foreign diplomat!”
“Stop distracting me and get the point, ya damn commie! Why are you really calling me? Enough bullshit.”
“I have already told you. But once again, your mouth is bigger than your brain. I simply wish for some assistance in deterring the Germans from my home.”
“Let me think about it for a moment… No.”
Russia gripped the phone so hard that he almost snapped it in half. “You didn’t even think about it for a moment! This war is not like the others! My people are dying by the thousands every day!” He snarled back, his voice as cold as Siberia.
“That ain't my problem! I'm here chilling on the other side of the planet. Maybe you should just try harder.”
The wood splintered beneath his hand as he slammed it down on the table. He wished the American were standing in front of him so he could beat him with his metal pipe.
“Since when have you become so cruel, Alfred? Do you really no longer care for lives, many of which are civilian lives for that matter, being lost?”
“Don’t call me that,” Alfred hissed.
“What?” Ivan snarled. “Call you cruel, just as you call me? Call you heartless for not caring as people are shot to death and my ravines are piled up with bodies?”
“Don’t call me Alfred.”
“Or what? Would you rather me call you the selfish capitalist pig you are?”
“I would rather hang up the phone and never hear from you again. It isn’t gonna hurt me if I hang up and unplug my phone.”
“But it will kill thousands of innocent people, Alfred. And haven’t you always claimed that you are a hero?”
The other end of the line was silent, and Ivan had wondered if Alfred really had hung up. He began to sweat as the silence stretched. What would he tell Stalin? What would happen to him? What would happen to his soldiers and citizens?
“You’re one son of a bitch, you know that, Ivan?”
The Russian breathed a sigh of relief, then chuckled. “I'm aware, I believe you have told me many times.” He paused. “Does that mean you will send aid?”
“There’s no guarantee. I have to get my boss and others on board with the idea, so I can’t make any promises.”
“Spasibo, Alfred.”
“Yeah, whatever, dude.”
“Spokoynoy nochi, Alfred.”
“Good night to you, too,” Alfred said, yawning at the end of his reply.
“Thank you, though I believe I will have trouble falling asleep in the middle of the day. I will try to sleep well tonight, though.”
“Dick.” Alfred snapped before hanging up the phone.
Ivan just smiled. The smile hurt, both his face and his heart. He wasn't exactly sure why; it was just a phone call after all, and he hadn't gotten aid for his country just yet.
But he had gotten something else, though he wasn't exactly sure what it could be just yet.