Chapter Text
It was a late autumn night in 1984, and Russia was sitting on the sofa half asleep and curled up under a thick blanket. The only thing that could be heard was the faint sci-fi-esque noises coming from the small box that sat on an equally small table leaning against the wall across from him.
Russia's dad had yet to come home, leaving Russia with no parental figure to force him into bed. He decided to stay up late watching some new American cartoon that he found. It was called The Transformers, if he remembered correctly. Weird robots that can turn into vehicles.
Like any stereotypical 12 year old boy in the '80s, he liked robots and cartoons. Unfortunately for him, though, this specific cartoon was American. He knew his father wouldn't let him watch it, so he only watched it when he knew his father wasn't home.
Russia was young, so he didn't really understand why his father hated everything American. All he knew was that his father – the Soviet Union – absolutely despised America's guts and would constantly give the boy lessons about being careful around him. Children are easily influenced, so naturally, Russia became fearful of the American.
Soviet Union would often come home angry from some sort of verbal argument with America or from some UN meeting that didn't work out in his favor. America attended the UN meetings so it was probably both.
Soviet Union would always storm in the house muttering things in Russian to himself, most of which were swear words. He would eventually find Russia and rant about "stupid Americans" and "capitalists" and such. Russia had no idea what a capitalist was, but from the way his father talked about it, he assumed it was something really evil.
However, none of that stopped him from watching American cartoons.
Russia's eyes were starting to flutter closed when the sound of keys jingling in the keyhole of the front door snapped him awake. He whipped his head around to find Soviet angrily barging in and slamming the house keys down on the table next to the door.
In a panic, Russia stood up quickly to run to the television. He didn't notice his blanket falling to the ground around his feet and accidentally fell when he tried to take a step forward. Soviet turned to face the commotion and was met with the television being on and what seemed to be nobody on the couch watching.
Confused, Soviet walked over and peeked over the couch to find his son frantically trying to kick the heavy blanket from off of his legs. Soviet stood still and directed his eyes to see the cartoon and frowned, then looked back down to Russia on the floor.
"Russia."
Russia froze at the sound of his name, too occupied trying not to drown in a sea of blankets to even notice his tall father looming over him from the other side of the couch.
Russia tightened his fists and didn't look up when he responded with, "Yes, papa?"
Soviet stayed silent for a moment before walking around the sofa and up to the television. He stared at the screen for a second before reaching for and pressing the off button. His hand lingered on the button for a moment before looking back at his son, who was still in the same position looking at the ground and had his back towards Soviet.
"What are you doing up this late? And I thought I told you to stay away from anything American."
Russia was too scared to move and his voice was shaky and quiet when he responded with, "I'm sorry, papa."
Soviet walked up to his son and kneeled down next to him, gently and quietly helping him untangle the blankets from around his ankles.
He folded the blanket neatly and sighed as he handed it to Russia.
"I know you are curious, son, but I can't have you watching American television programs. You know this."
Russia rubbed his eyes from either tiredness or because he was about to cry, he didn't really know. "I know. But why do you hate America so much?"
"He's a dirty capitalist that's full of himself and is always trying to be better than everyone else. Like when I put a man in space, so he put a man on the Moon. He's a fucking idiot," Soviet noticed his choice of words. "Wait, sorry. Don't say that word okay?"
Russia looked up at his father with a confused face. "I can't say the word 'idiot'?"
Soviet chuckled to himself at Russia's child-like innocence then put Russia's arms loosely around his neck and picked him up, Russia putting his legs around his father's waist and resting the side of his head on his shoulder.
"No, I meant the word 'fuck'. It's a bad word, only say it when you're older, okay? Now let's get you to bed, it's way past your bedtime."
Russia nodded and his grip tightened as Soviet walked him to his room. He didn't understand why he didn't want him saying that word, since he hears him say it all time. This was the first time he outright told Russia to not use swear words.
Soviet awkwardly kicked open the door and turned on the light. He slowly walked Russia to his bed, patting his back reassuringly. He slowly kneeled over his bed as he gently placed Russia on his back. Soviet gave him his blanket he was using on the sofa and unfolded it, covering his son. Russia fell asleep on his father's shoulder while walking to his room, so he never got the chance to tell him goodnight.
Soviet tucked Russia in and smiled as he bent over to kiss his son on the cheek. He knew he couldn't hear him, but he still whispered a "Goodnight, Russia," before walking out the room and softly closing the door behind him.