Heartbound

by Metri

Summary:

With the rise of humanity’s first sun, it was known that two souls were bound together by the thread of fate. Birth gifts one with a name etched upon the heart—the name of their destined other. It is said that the moment two hearts are brought back together, they will sing in harmony, resonating as one. That resonance is the sign of a true union—one that cannot be broken. The cost of resonance is equal to its worth. Once your heart and your soulmate’s heart sing together in harmony, you cannot part from them. As the distance grows, the heart weakens — forgetting how to beat on its own.

In other words, a specific soulmates au where two rivals are forced to succumb to their fate tying them together. Yes it is Amerus/Rusame and yes huge chunk of it takes place during the Cold War.

Chapter 1: The mark of the inevitable

With the rise of humanity’s first sun, it was known that two souls were bound together by the thread of fate. Birth gifts one with a name etched upon the heart—the name of their destined other. It is said that the moment two hearts are brought back together, they will sing in harmony, resonating as one. That resonance is the sign of a true union—one that cannot be broken.

“Does that mean I have a forever friend?” An ecstatic, high-pitched voice asked, painted with hope. The voice belonged to a child in a tattered gown and an overlong scarf, tugging weakly at the hem of his big sister’s skirt, desperate for an answer.

“Of course you do, Vanyushka.”
The soft-spoken girl, her voice kind, answered honestly.

“We nations are not so different from humans… their fate shapes ours.” She placed her hand on the child’s chest, smiling warmly at the faint heartbeat shielded by thin skin and not much thicker cloth.

“Here lies your destined one’s name, Vanya. One day you will find them.”

The boy curiously looked down at his chest, as if the name of his “forever friend” might reveal itself under his gaze.

“But listen, Vanyushka. The cost of resonance is equal to its worth. Once your heart and your soulmate’s heart sing together in harmony, you cannot part from them. As the distance grows, the heart weakens — forgetting how to beat on its own…”

“…Remember to treasure the bond once it is formed.”

1905.01.22

The young man’s mind latched onto old memories, hoping to drown out the ones formed today. To no avail — even a treasured childhood memory was no match for the sensation of trembling hands gripping a rifle. A rifle unstained, and yet to Ivan it seemed as if blood seeped from the barrel, forming a sickening puddle at his feet. Or perhaps those were merely the black spots dancing before his eyes. Certainty had never been a gift granted to him.
Panting heavily, eyes fixed on the ground, he began to notice an odd sensation. If not for his desperate search for distraction, he might have missed it — a small tingle in his chest, like the brush of a sparrow’s feather against his skin. Amethyst eyes, distant a heartbeat ago, now brimmed with confusion as he shifted his gaze from the floor to his chest just before—

PLOP!

A lump bulged beneath his coat, beating in rhythm with his heart.
He raised a quizzical eyebrow and unbuttoned the garment, letting the velvet slide from his shoulders. His shirt was stained red, and the bump beneath it was suspiciously so unmistakably heart-shaped. His already widened eyes grew wider as he stared in horror. The organ slid down his chest and fell to the ground with a splash. He yelped, recoiling at the grotesque sensation. Before him, his own heart throbbed violently upon the floor.
And yet, once the shock passed, Russia found himself staring in fascination. The thick, almost black blood coating it glistened in the light. It still pumped—drawing in and forcing out liquid as if it had never left his body.

“You are a rather loyal one, friend,” he rasped, squatting before the organ. Countless questions crowded his mind, but there was no one who could answer.

How can it still pump?

He didn’t fully understand how a heart worked, but experience told him one thing: a heart outside its body should not live.

Why did it fall out at all?

As a nation, he knew he was not like humans. No man could survive this long, nor heal so quickly. His body was tied to the land he represented. Something significant must have happened for it to fall. What, exactly, he dared not ponder. Best to forget.

Was the name of his forever friend written on it?
The thought silenced him. He reached for the heart, suppressing a wince at the raw sensation, and examined its surface. The light was dim, and the thick coating of blood obscured everything. With a shiver, he began wiping it gently with his thumb, searching for irregularities in the tissue that could indicate existence of the craving.
The process was slow, maddeningly so, and despite being used to pain of major injuries - the wrongness of the feeling managed to twist his stomach. The search seemed to be fruitless. Each centimetre of regular tissue brought him closer to despair and tears of frustration. He clung desperately to the promise of someone meant for him - someone who would never leave. Someone—

His thoughts halted. Under his thumb, he felt a faint indentation - a groove, like the beginning of a carved letter. Could it be? For the first time that day, Russia smiled with pure joy. The heart thumped faster in his hands as he brought it close to his face. But doubt sprouted in his chest.

What if it was the name of someone long dead?


Thump.

What if it was a human?


Thump.


A nation yet to exist, born long after his own end?


Thump.


Or a nation that ceased to exist centuries ago?


Thump.

Closing his eyes, he steadied his breath and braced for the cruelest answer. He hoped that fate was not cruel to him.
The letters were not Cyrillic. He figured from the second letter of the name that it was in fact a Latin alphabet. It was a man’s name - he could deduce from the given name. And from the surname, he finally deduced that he should never doubt fate’s cruelty.

Notes:

Hi hi, author here. It is the end of chapter one (or prologue if you prefer) and I hope that the story seems interesting to you. Please let me know what you think and please do not strangle me - it is my first multi chaptered fic.

Also some things about the story:
I personally feel that Russia’s heart might have popped out for the first time right after the Bloody Sunday. Perhaps symbolising the distance between the people and the government. It is just a headcanon of mine I hope that you guys do not mind it.
And yes 1905 is way ahead of Cold War but I think that Ivan was aware of the worsening relationship between him and Alfred.
Okay I am done with the explanations, thank you for reading my work. Please comment - I am very curious about your personal opinion of it! Criticism is welcome.

Also thousand thanks to my awesome beta readers! Without Neva I would not notice how messy the draft was! And thank you Arthur and Danon, love you all.

Chapter 2: Cursed flesh

After the discovery, Russia had little time to reflect on what he ought to do. Duty swept him off his feet and hurled him into the spiraling current of twentieth-century events—many of them gruesome, many unbearably painful. His suspicion of fate’s cruelty had not been misplaced; he sensed rightly that his path and his soulmate’s would diverge, pulled apart into opposition, straining the bond between them. Yet he could never have imagined the scale of hatred that would erupt between them.


28th October 1962 


"I would ask, if it weren’t so difficult—but that would be giving you too much credit, wouldn’t it?"
The words came in a voice cloyingly sweet, pitched unnaturally high for the man who spoke them. His English carried the weight of a heavy accent, each syllable sitting wrong in his mouth, as though his tongue longed to twist back into the familiar cadence of his mother tongue. The sound slithered from him like a serpent slipping through the dark, restless waters of a murky river. For the last thirteen days his ears have been battered by the discordant voice of a man before him, a voice which rose to a shout, spluttering curses at him. Even when the insults have not reached his heart, they certainly managed to reach his cochlea, relentless thud of a blunt knife hacking at a chicken’s neck. 
Polished floorboard squeaked under sudden halt of boots.

The figure stiffened as the words struck him. The leather of his gloves groaned as he curled them into fists - the beginning of a spectacle that earned a wider smirk of the Russian.To watch the other seethe, to see mask of the flawless hero crack and reveal the temper beneath, was deeply satisfying. Yet the moment carried bit of disappointment, as beside him there were no witnesses to savour it. After all, this was afterwards an arranged meeting between the nations convened in the uneasy aftermath of the Cuban Missile Crisis. It was an unspoken tradition for the two of them to linger untill the room emptied. Not unlike two hunters lying in wait, revealing themselves when the prey was theirs.
"You’ve got no reason to be this cocky—thirteen damn days just to pull those missiles out, you paranoid bastard!" 

He turned with a swiftness of a white eagle manoeuvring in the air, a blink was enough to miss the movement. Still seated Ivan however did not turn a blind eye to the coiling of the others upper arm, reading to a strike meant to bring a satisfying crunch.


"Hmmm, paranoid, you say? Oh, don’t be such a bad bad hypocrite! Who was it that snuck those scary missiles into Turkey and Italy, huh?" He raised his hand and began slowly counting on his fingers, then let out an overdone, dramatic gasp.
„…See? That is already more than Cuba!” 

He bobbed his head in a happy little nod, as if patting himself on the back for the thought, which only raised the American’s irritation further.

„Those? Ha! Those were but a shield! Every hero needs one when the villain is as cunning as you! Who wouldn’t point a weapon at you after shit you pulled!” 



His smile tightened, the edges strained by the sting of the words. At last, it was his turn to falter in their game. He had grown accustomed to being called the villain, but habit did little to blunt the cut. After all, everything he did was for what he believed to be right. Every moment of his life had been given to the pursuit of correctness. The lessons drilled into him—he had embraced them, eager to share their truth. So why, then, did the world meet him with suspicion, with trembling voices and tearful eyes? Was this not cause for honour, for glory, instead of fear? Ah he feared he had backtracked from the right course, ensnared from America’s attack. How foolish of him.



„Defensive? How noble… Truly fitting for oh so great hero! You call it defensive when you point the missiles at us.. Yet paranoia when we balance it out? Can only the hero feel safe?”
He began to speak slowly, words slipping forth like a river winding through steep banks—gentle, sweet, inviting, almost harmless. He tilted his head with practiced innocence as he posed the question. How docile he could be! 
He strode forward uncaring about the manners as he jabbed a finger in his enemies chest, digging it in bottle green cotton of the other’s uniform.


„Well the safety comes from trust!” He snapped. „Not from blackmail.. Oh but maybe YOU do not know how to play without the good ol’ blackmail, huh? Your whole system being one big cheat code!” 



Amethyst eyes snapped cold, their gleam turning bleak and grim. The smile froze on his face. The American’s actions struck him like stones hurled against the window of his heart. The first blow was the rude gesture—the jab of a finger he despised. No one dared behave so toward him in his home, and he would not tolerate it here. It was a lighter strike, no more than a punch that makes one grunt, not enough to stop the fight. The second blow cut deeper, as if teeth had been knocked from his mouth: an insult to the system he cherished, the creed he had devoted himself to. Even the smallest, most childish jabs filled him with fury.
Lies. Cheap lies.
And from that fury slipped a sound he could not contain—a giggle, high and brittle, disturbing in its imitation of a child’s soft laughter, yet cold enough to chill the room.



„Oh trust? We of course trust honest people! The representation of the glorious working class! The same one that gets squashed underneath your greedy boot!”

The entirety of the room except for the man next to him seemed to stop existing for the Russian. No, not even the man, but his eyes: a pair of sharp, calculating blue eyes that once sparkled with joy, now hardened to match the cold of his own.

He redrew his finger and instead leaned closer to his opponent.


„You call me greedy but isn’t expansion and conquest your thing? Certainly Hungary has something more to say about that! And you were the one calling me a hypocrite! Pfft what a bad joke!”



„Ahhh but comrade we were bringing revolution, it was the voice of the people. The voice of the people tearing off the chains of the bourgeoisie. You should listen to them rather than suffocate them under your corporations and your dollars!” 


„Do not talk to be about the voice of the people! That is a low insult even for you. You silence your own with fear. Those disgusting prisons and executions make me sick. And you dare to call it all justice!” 



„And maybe you are the one who can call anything just? Like how your home is jus the playground of the rich? At least we give bread to the poor.”



„Oh right, giving the bread and maybe a bullet if they dare to ask for more! Do not make me laugh you communistic bastard! Do not lecture me on justice, as we speak your tanks are probably crushing another city!”

„Then do stop the lecturing about freedom while your bombs rain on villages which names you cannot even pronounce!” 



Their jabs soon erupted into a heated argument, words rattling from their mouths like bullets from a machine gun. Neither gave the other a chance to breathe; every insult was met with another, each barb revealing just how intimately they knew one another’s weaknesses. The exchange felt endless, as if it might rage on for eternity. And Russian failed to notice a strange feeling in his chest. Focused solely on the sapphire orbs which he wishes he could gouge out. He had not heard a plop and did not feel wetness on his lap, hearing solely the insults.



„You hide behind your Hollywood smiles while you-„ 

His sentence broke off, cut short by a high-pitched squeak that escaped his lips instead of the venom he had meant to spill. The sound slipped out before he could suppress it, followed by a wince that rattled through his body. Then came the sensation—wrong, unbearably wrong. As if his insides were first seized in a cold, stiff grip and then stroked by something grainy, alien. It did not hurt, yet it felt excruciating in its wrongness. And just as wrong was America’s change: no longer furious, no longer even looking at him. His rival’s eyes had drifted downward, drawn to something else, something waiting just beneath. Slowly, unwillingly, he lowered his gaze. He wished he hadn’t. At least then the crack in his mask would not have happened. Now his eyes were wide, his lips pressed into a thin, trembling line. His greatest rival quite literally held his heart. With it, he could torture him endlessly—or worse, see the sacred name it carried.


"Y-you shouldn’t take things that aren’t yours… Give it back."

He cursed himself the moment the words left his mouth, the crack in his voice betraying him. What should have been a threat escaped as a plea. Pathetic. Humiliating. 


"And why would I now? Aren’t I the greedy bastard?"
American mocked, his shock already giving way to scorn. His fingers tightened, giving the heart the gentlest squeeze. A simple motion, yet it sent a shudder down the Russian’s body—one he barely contained through sheer restraint. Panic was flooding him now, and his heart betrayed him, hammering faster and faster against the hand that gripped it.


"Oh wow—man, you’re really nervous! God, this is so gross… But hey, look at that! You actually do have a heart after all!"

America’s voice lilted with cruel amusement, every word another needle. His mind has not been completely clear after the argument. The shock after seeing a heart literally pop out of someone’s body had cooled him a little. Otherwise he would already had crushed the thing but now he only experimented with the organ. You cannot really hold a beating heart everyday after all!



"Now you’ve seen it, had your little fun—give it back. America, this is not a joke."
His voice trembled on the edge of desperation. In the harsh midday light he could make out the faint outlines of letters between the other’s fingers. If America so much as turned the thing, even slightly, he would see them—see everything. In any other situation, if Alfred dared to hold what was his, he would not hesitate to lunge at him and tear it back by force. But this was different. He could not risk letting his soulmate be revealed. For now, all he could do was hope—hope that America, for once, would set aside his childish games and return his heart without further torment.


„What is the rush? Relax I am not a cruel bastard unlike you! I am just curious that is al- Oh?”

The violent pumps of the quick heartbeats stretched the tissue, revealing strange irregularities in the far corner of it. Did the bastard perhaps had a scar on his heart? Could a heart even scar? This all was so bizarre and alien to Alfred that he felt extremely drawn to it like a moth to flame.He gently, as if fearing that the heart would slip from his hands, moved his fingers and rotated the organ ignoring sudden objections to the action of his rival. To his growing confusion, what he had first taken for a scar revealed itself to be letters. He scrambled for an explanation until a memory surfaced—something Iggy had once muttered about names being written on hearts.
Oh. Soulmates. So it was real after all? Excitement sparked in him. Maybe he could even catch a glimpse of the Russian’s chick’s name. He squinted—was that an “A”? Ha! If it turned out to be some super lame name, he’d have endless ammunition to tease the commie with. No wonder the guy was panicking—this was gold.

With a smirk, he began to read the name, savoring the horror etched across the other’s face. But the satisfaction drained in an instant, replaced by the same look of dread. The letters on the heart spelled out his own name.
“…Is this a joke?”
He muttered, the words spilling to no one in particular. A sudden urge to hurl the damn thing to the ground nearly overcame him. This couldn’t be real. He barely understood how soulmates were supposed to work, but he knew one thing with certainty: he wanted to have nothing to do with that man. He was the hero, after all! And no hero’s soulmate was a villain. Villains were supposed to endanger the hero’s love, not be it. And Russia, of all people, was no damsel in distress. Revulsion twisted in his gut. He couldn’t even look at the man before him. His stomach lurched as though he might vomit. Clutching the heart tighter, he tried to blot out the cursed name with his palm before shoving his hand forward toward the Russian.
“Is this some kind of sick joke?! Why is my name there? I know for sure you’re not my soulmate!”

Russia felt irritation replace the horror. Even now America acted as if everything was his fault, as if he had mended with his own birth and managed to crave the cursed name on his own heart. He raised from his chair barely containing another shudder at how tight was America’s hold.

„I am not finding this funny either America. I told you to give me back my heart. If you had listened for once then it could all be avoided. Now give it back to me and we could perhaps forget about it all, yes?”

He hissed out the words, tone sharp and cold. He had enough of the others nonsense, hoping to be able to forget about this humiliating experience already and go back to his home. 



„Forget about it? No way dude! We are not doing this the commie way! We need to fix this.”

Against to Russia’s wishes instead of giving him back the heart he brought it closer to his chest, almost hugging it protectively.

„A true hero always fixes the bad situation and leads to-„

The moment he drew the heart close to his chest, a strange sensation seized him. For an instant, it was as if his own heart had stopped—everything stopped. A choking wrongness gripped him, sharp and suffocating. And yet, in the very same breath, it was perfect. Soothing. The pain melted into a startling calm, washing through him like cool water.
The sensation didn’t just ease him—it renewed him.

Notes:

Sooo did you like it? I hope that you enjoyed the read. Thank you for reading!

Chapter 3: Lens aberration

Silence draped itself over the room like a heavy cloth, smothering the air, thick and stale in their lungs. The thumping of the heart in America’s hand sickened him. Each beat was not merely a sound but a sentence, a relentless thud echoing through the room like a hammer striking down on iron. Again and again it fell, steady, merciless, like a mortician sealing shut a coffin. With every pulse, the nail was driven deeper, fixing him to a fate he had never chosen, one he could not escape. The rhythm pressed on his chest like a vice, suffocating him with its certainty. Every echo reminded him that he was bound, chained by something he could neither fight nor deny. And the cruelest part of all was how natural it sounded, as if the world itself had always intended for his fate to be struck into place one beat at a time. His fate to be stuck with the man he hated the most. The same man who decided to break the suffocating silence.

“America… Do you even know what you’ve done?”
Russia’s voice was stripped of all playfulness. The syrupy sweetness curdled into venom, each syllable weighted and corrosive. His smile had vanished, lips pressed into a bloodless line, eyes stretched wide in unnatural terror. It was a face America would have mocked under any other circumstance. 


But instead of laughter, something colder bloomed in his chest—dread that rooted itself deeper with every heartbeat. Every cursed heartbeat that ceased to feel as if it was his own, even though it had thudded against HIS ribs. What had just happened was no ordinary thing. It felt sacred—ritualistic, even. And he prayed he would never have to learn the cost. Whatever words America might have spoken were smothered by Russia, now piecing his composure back together. The terror in his wide eyes tightened to narrow slits, his lips parting just enough to let slip a hollow, mirthless giggle.

„Oh, of course you don’t! Silly me for thinking you might…After all, big strong America never worries about the mess he makes, hmm? He just leaves it for everyone else!”
It lacked the mockery, it lacked the loathing, it sounded purely bitter as a spoiled dish by old oil. Old neglected oil oozing through every ingredient, turning what was once warm and familiar into something spoiled.America would have preferred even the most tongue-scorching meal to whatever this was.

"Alright, dude, I get it! I MAY have screwed up a little, but it's NOT like a hero doesn't mess somethin' up sometimes, you know? So, stop being so dramatic and tell me what I've done already!”
He spoke after what felt like an eternity since his last words. His voice wavered despite his best effort to sound uncaring. Ignorant of just how serious the situation had become, it was easier for him to act, even as his gut told him that, beyond their hearts resonating, something else—something he couldn’t name—had shifted between them. And that it was all because he hadn’t listened. 



„You had bound us… Now we can never be apart… no matter what you want or I want.”
The words felt forced out of his throat, the admission of their fate felt like a surrender to it. 


„Ha? What do you mean, dude? I can see we are not bound by anythin’! C’mon, you’re just razzin’ me-„



„If we go too far from each other, we die.”

America’s mocking babble choked off at the weight of those words. For the first time, he really looked at Russia. That face—solemn, smooth, blank as stone—offered nothing. Panic gnawed at him as his eyes searched for cracks: a smirk curling at the edges, a glint of mischief betraying hidden intent, something to prove this was just another trick. But there was nothing. And that absence was worse.

„What in the world… aight, man… we’ll just stick together and not wander too far..”

Russia let out a sigh of relief. The panic and terror that had flooded his stomach gave way to his usual cool composure. He had feared that his rival would make the situation far worse than it already was, but to his relief, America sounded… Understanding. Understanding in the way of the friend the XXth century had long buried.

“I am surprised… You are not being difficult about it—”
Before he could finish, a sharp, unnatural laugh silenced him. Like a lid slammed onto a box, it sealed away whatever truth he had been about to speak. Each cackle coiled through him, locking his muscles until he stood rigid, frozen like a carved statue. 


“Ha! Ha! And what—hand you the classified docs? Let you breathing down my neck 24/7? No way, buddy—nope! Whoa, you really think that little of me if you think I’d fall for this cheap trick? Are you seriously using this for another one of your ‘Become one with Mother Russia’ stunts?!”



Panicked, Russia sprang from his seat, striding toward the other with hands outstretched—reaching, searching for a way to grab him, to make him stay, to make him listen. He could let him go now, but he needed him to understand. He could not face the consequences of this fate; he did not want another punishment, another chain of repercussions that might follow.
„America listen, it is not the time to-„

But instead of smooth cool and slightly grainy surface of the leather, his gloves caught a slippery firm warmth that was all but thrown in his way. Now thudded quickly, reflecting the panic he felt. 


“Nah, dude. Just… Just grab this cursed thing and DON’T even talk to me. Seriously… this.. This is WAY too much.”


Before he could speak, the other bolted for the door, carelessly leaving it ajar. What was supposed to punctuate his words looked more like sheer panic—a frightened animal, unable to face the chaos around it, retreating to the fragile safety of its den.



And Russia was left alone, clutching his own heart which reflected his troubled soul, his face drawn and lost. A pitiful spectacle for a superpower—shrunken, small, more a lost child than a force of nuclear terror. When he finally forced his trembling composure into place, his first thought was a bitter, hopeless one: this decade could not get any worse. 








America did not have a good time after the confrontation which itself was worse than last two weeks of dance with the death itself. 



He did the right thing! He rejected the commie and got away from his clutches! Very heroically too! Not even looking back at the other as he left. Him? His soulmate? Even fate could not bind him! Alfred F. Jones was the embodiment of freedom! 



Okay to be fair, it was NOT As if America has somethin against the whole soulmate thing. Heck, he’d give anything to have his own happily-ever-after—after all, he was a hero! Every hero needed a damsel in distress to save and dote on… right? But why him? He deserved a cute nice girl... Well it was not as if the commie was not cute himself... No! Bad thoughts!

It was another aspect of the situation he hated. During the whole thing he swore he could see his old friend staring back at him in the face of the big bad incarnation of evil. He almost… almost believed it. But nah—couldn’t let himself. Too risky. What if he lost it? Lost himself to the cursed, corrupt Reds? No way, man. No freakin’ way.



He hadn’t paid much mind to his surroundings as he traveled back home. Buildings blurred into brown and gray vertical lines, like abstract sketches of the city, while the chatter of people drifted around him as a warm, pleasant buzz. Hurried law students brushed past him, flowing like schools of fish in a restless river. That hum was joined by the low growl of passing machines, engines rumbling as they carried him along the streets. He preferred to drive with the window down, feeling the wind tug at his hair and the city’s smells drifting in, and even now he hadn’t forgotten to slide it open. And before he realized it, he was there—standing before his home in Washington, D.C., the familiar silhouette of the building grounding him after the blur of motion. But the familiar abode brought him no relief - rather it felt uneasy to enter it. To enter it alone. 





His heart was slowing down. He could feel it—each beat weaker than it should be for a guy his age. Not the happy, pounding thump he usually got after a jog, just… meh. Like all those miles he’d run didn’t even matter. He hadn’t been jogging as much as lately—Australia had been yapping about it nonstop, calling it a perfect way to clear your head or whatever.
Yeah, sure, supposed to relax you… but it didn’t. He’d ditched work for this, too—and let’s be honest, he wouldn’t have gotten much done anyway. Focusing had never been his strong suit, but now? Forget it. He couldn’t even get through a page without his mind wandering off somewhere else. Every word that reminded him of him—even just a little—hit him like a punch straight to the guts. Looking over the reports on Soviet activity, his thoughts didn’t stay on the numbers or strategies for long. No, they kept drifting back. He wanted the other there. Wanted to feel that porcelain-cool skin, breathe in that musky scent, see those amethyst eyes… God, he craved it all, even when he told himself he shouldn’t.

And now? With every mile he ran, it felt like he was drifting further and further from the other. The fact that he cared this much made him sick. The fact that he actually regretted believing the commie? Unacceptable. He was supposed to be thrilled the bastard was gone! Gone from his men, gone from him! It should have filled him with relief, pride even, knowing the other’s influence didn’t reach him. But nooo… instead, his dreams were haunted by that face, his thoughts tangled in their shared memories and imagined scenarios. It was unbearable. He needed a new way to clear his head—fast—because jogging wasn’t cutting it anymore.

Jogging wasn’t cutting it—so screw jogging. Maybe he needed something bigger. Something that’d actually blow the cobwebs out of his head. Something like… right! There was nothing a good burger couldn’t fix. How had he forgotten the true love of his life? Screw soulmates, screw his brain, and screw jogging! He was going to grab a big ol’ burger, maybe a soda or two, and he was going to enjoy it. With a squeak of his boots, he stopped jogging and instead strode toward the nearest McD’s. He’d deal with Russia later. For now? America needed food, sugar, and a little chaos to remind himself he was still… well, him. 


“Eh, screw it,” he muttered. “Food fixes everything… even commies. Probably.”



But what should have felt fun, carefree, and almost celebratory felt strangely hollow instead. Even the cheerful murals of Speedee grinning from the walls, the bright reds and yellows gleaming under the fluorescent lights, failed to lift his spirits. He had expected to be carried along by the casual, easy energy of the place—the clatter of trays, the hiss of the grills, the warm scent of fries—but instead it felt alien, almost hostile.

Bubbly customers bustled past him, chatting and laughing with companions, their voices ringing like tiny bells he couldn’t reach. And there he sat, alone, clutching his hamburger and a fizzy Coca-Cola, the condensation sweating down the glass like a reminder of his solitude. Damn it—he’d almost always come here alone, and it had never bothered him. He had always felt at home. But now… now, even the laughter of others felt like it was aimed at him, sharp and mocking, ridiculing him for being alone, ridiculing him for defying fate itself.




Three days had passed, though it felt more like three weeks. He had just stepped out of the conference hall, his boss clearly unimpressed with his lack of proper decorum during the discussion. With a sigh, the man excused him early, muttering something about needing to stay more focused—and reminding him that the representative of the States should not be caught dozing off just five minutes into a meeting. Damn it he swore his eyes only flickered to the side! He still listened! He really did… Really.

He huffed as he walked, feeling like he was breaking apart piece by piece. His heart was beating too slowly, he could tell from the dizziness and that nagging ache in his chest. He was falling—both physically and mentally—like a weary traveler whose feet refused to carry him any further, knowing the destination was impossible to reach. He’d tried everything that usually cleared his head, even during the worst of times. Darn it—even the tricks that got him through the Cuban Missile Crisis weren’t working! And then panic really set in. He hit up his favorite diners… he jogged… he even tried a round of OXO… and nothing!

Wait… he hadn’t actually tried drinking. Not the hard stuff, of course—he wasn’t that reckless. But maybe a nice, cold root beer could help him push through? Yeah… maybe that would cheer him up a bit.

Right after that thought, he headed straight for the nearest bar. His suit and tie, still crisp from the conference, fit right in among the other guys in their workday armour of wool and silk. Women floated between the booths in pencil skirts and sleeveless blouses, some with hair teased just right, cocktail glasses in hand, heels clicking against the polished floor.

Cigarette smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling, mixing with the faint smell of booze and polished wood. The soft glow of amber lamps threw warm shadows across the leather booths, catching the brass rails and the shine of glassware. In the corner, a small jazz trio played—smooth and swinging, the scrape of the double bass and muted trumpet weaving through the low hum of conversation.

He eased onto a barstool, trying to shake off the weight of the last few days. For a moment, the city’s tension melted away, replaced by the easy hum of this little world. He tapped his fingers to the beat of the music on the counter, feeling the faint pulse of life in the room—a place where politics, power, and protocol didn’t matter, just the swing of jazz, the clink of glasses, and the occasional laugh. He almost let himself sink into it. Almost. The uneasiness he knew so well still hovered just above him.

He ditched his original plan of ordering a root beer and ended up with a glass of rye whiskey, eyeing it like it might morph into something dangerous at any moment. Lost in his thoughts, he didn’t notice the attention he was drawing—his fair, Hollywood-actor looks paired with the crisp official uniform were catching eyes. 


One woman, bolder than the rest, made her move toward him, her heels clicking softly against the floor. Soon, her perfume sliced through the smoky haze, sharp and sweet, pulling him out of his musings.

“You look like you’re carrying the whole Cold War on your back. You always drink that serious?”

She slid into the barstool next to him, a playful smile curving her lips, her eyes sparkling with mischief. Her hair was teased into a soft bouffant, the front swept neatly into a gentle wave that framed her face. Her skin was smooth and glowing, lightly powdered, with a subtle flush on her cheeks like the softest oil painting.


Her figure was slender but curvy, cinched at the waist, accentuated by a fitted dress that hinted at the elegance of Jackie Kennedy’s iconic style—pencil skirt hugging her hips and a sleeveless top showing just enough shoulder to be tasteful. Her makeup was classic: a thin, defined brow, a flick of an eyeliner, and softly coloured lips, nothing too bold, just polished and poised. Even her posture exuded confidence, a playful grace that turned heads without effort.

Her words snapped him out of his thoughts, and he chuckled softly at the irony. If she only knew how spot-on she really was. 

“Me? Oh, ma’am, I’m not really much of a drinker… wasn’t expecting anyone to be watchin’ me, either!”

He winked, leaning into his charm to match the playful ease of his new companion. It felt good to talk to someone, to occupy his mind with another person for a change—someone other than the ever-present Russian nuisance. For the first time all day, he felt a flicker of ease, like a weight had been lifted. 



“Hard not to.” She said, tilting closer, leaning on the counter until he could almost feel the warmth of her breath against his skin „You’ve been staring at that glass like it’s got all the answers. How about you let me buy the next one, see if it talks back?”



He laughed softly, the sound blending with the clink of glasses and low hum of conversation around them. 

"A woman offering me a drink? That’s a first." 


Her smile deepened, teasing, deliberate, and for a moment, he allowed himself to forget the city outside, the politics, and the weight of everything he carried. Instead he fully focused on the woman before him, ignoring the nagging feeling of wrongness of the act. 



“Maybe you’ve been going to the wrong bars. Or maybe the wrong women.”



His grin was growing by the second. Now this was a treat! He didn’t meet ladies this upfront very often, and, wow… it was kind of a nice change of pace. Would Ivan be this straightforward? No, he would most likely be timid, let himself be led by Alfred’s pace at first, observing quietly and responding subtly rather than initiating. That did not matter anyway. 

“And, uh… what’s your angle, if I can ask?” 

He asked unsure, leaning a little closer, half-grinning. He wasn’t exactly a rookie when it came to girls, but love? Romance? Yeah… that was a whole different ball game. He’d seen a few others do the whole love thing, sure, but him? His love life was basically a blank page—too busy being a hero, running around saving the world to actually settle down.
So yeah, he’d taken her bold move as just friendly chatter at first—and now he was kinda thrown by how upfront she was. He had a rough idea of what it meant, but he needed to be sure before deciding whether he wanted to play along… or not.



“Angle’s simple,” She started, eyes narrowing, smile sharpening. “You look like a man who could use a little company tonight. I don’t mind providing it.” 

The edge in her voice didn’t match the sweetness of her looks. Sure, the sexual revolution was starting to flicker even here in the land of liberty, but society was still mostly conservative. Not only had she made the first move, she hadn’t played coy—she’d laid her cards on the table, bold and direct, tossing decency to the side in a way that made him blink. He laughed nervously feeling the seed of doubt plant itself in his chest.



No. Do not do it. You’re already with someone. You cannot—only him. You cannot—


His heartbeat stuttered, rebelling against him, while his thoughts scolded every inch of his body. Every nerve, every cell, screamed against the offer… Which was exactly why…

“Well, then. You’ve got my attention.”

He said yes. He was done with yielding to fate, done with the gnawing ache, done with the longing that had haunted him for the last three days. To truly free himself, he had to act boldly, maybe even recklessly—and maybe, just maybe, it would finally sever the twisted bond tying them together.



Laughter spilled from them, glasses clinking together, mingling with the low hum of conversation and the soft scratch of jazz spilling from the bar’s corner trio. Cigarette smoke hung in the air, curling toward the ceiling and carrying faint hints of perfume and whiskey.
After a few rounds, neither needed to speak; a silent agreement passed between them—they’d had enough. They stepped out into the street, the warm amber glow of the bar giving way to the cooler, muted light of tall street lamps. Neon signs flickered faintly in shop windows, their letters buzzing with the hum of electricity. Somewhere down the avenue, a campaign radio blared a political jingle, overpowered by the distant rumble of streetcars and the soft roar of traffic along Pennsylvania Avenue.

Their boots struck the pavement in a chaotic rhythm, echoing against brick walls and iron fire escapes. Smoke from a nearby diner swirled into the night, carrying the tang of coffee and sizzling bacon. Street vendors called out, selling peanuts and late-night newspapers, while a group of teenagers leaned against a lamppost, laughing and flipping coins.

They walked side by side, talking about everything and nothing, the words less important than the shared motion. A car door slammed; a couple’s laughter spilled from a passing café. Even the city itself seemed alive with murmurs, lights, and restless energy—yet for these few blocks, they existed in a bubble, a fleeting escape from the watchful eyes of the capital.


It all seemed unimportant, just a blur of colours at the edge of his vision. She was nothing more than motion, and he didn’t notice when the front door slammed behind them, or when he had guided her toward the sofa. Her hands moved over his uniform, undoing buttons, while he held her by the bare shoulders, keeping her close, grounding them both in the heat of the moment.


It was all a blur until he felt the slightly calloused, yet large hands tracing over his bare chest. His gaze locked on suddenly vivid amethyst eyes, staring intently at his face. The once healthy curved body, now ragged with scars and gaunt from malnourishment, pressed forward, chest meeting chest. Thin yet soft lips hovered close, almost brushing his own, when—

A sudden yelp escaped him as his hands pushed the body away, his breath coming quick and shallow, panic rising in his chest. The thud was followed by a sharp slap, a burning sting across his cheek. Instead of the storm of purple he expected, he found greyish-green eyes blazing with fury, staring daggers into him. Another slap, delivered by hands smaller than his own, landed on the other cheek, and the sharp click of heels echoed as she stormed away, leaving him dazed and reeling.


This was too far.

Notes:

SORRY FOR LATE UPDATE! I was sick and could not write for the most of the week sorry... I hope you liked this chapter! It was so hard to write at some points won't lie. Writing America is quite difficult

Chapter 4: Your poison

To say the last few days had been hard for Ivan was not saying much at all. Handling past days was like stopping a tank with bare hands, and he knew something about it. 


At first, it was only a little problem—his heartbeat slowing until each thud felt more like a sleepy snore drawn from the slumbering bear. Slow, occasional and weak.


But then his usual longing for company grew sharper, heavier, until it pressed against him like a weight. Crushing and demanding him to yield. He thought maybe, if he lingered among his dear little republics, it would help. Now his home was filled with many, mere thought of their presence usually managed to soothe him. But this time their presence did not soothe him at all. Instead, their stares were cold. Sharp like a scalpel. Like they did not want him there at all. Like they hated his home, his presence, loathed anything that had to do with him.
That was silly, of course. They had to want him there. It would not be possible for them to hate him after he had worked so hard to make them happy, to make a paradise on earth for everyone.
So why did their eyes feel so hateful? Why did it feel like they wished he would vanish? That must have been another nasty trick of the curse, of course—so he tried very hard to ignore the hurt. But what he could not ignore was how the longing had become… oddly specific.

Whenever he let himself drift off at his desk, trying to forget the dull ache in his body and the heaviness in his limbs, it was not the usual warm sunflowers that came to him. No, instead a figure appeared. Always the same figure. He would come close, so very close, and hold him tight. Whispering sweet, secret words into his pale hair, words that made his chest ache in ways he did not understand.
 At first he leapt back, shoving the figure away with frantic hands. Mouth opening on its own in mute shock. He even thought that the man sneaked into his home, somehow free of KGB’s all seeing eyes. 



Then he tried to ignore it, scolding his own imagination for the weird visions. Instead of reacting to them he burried himself in paperwork until his eyes blurred. Endured the hardest tasks without the help of an escape to his mind.
But letting go of old habits was harder than swallowing stones. And before long, he was giving in—welcoming the warmth that lived only inside his head. 

His head would tilt, ever so slightly, as though resting against a shoulder that was never there. He melted into that phantom embrace the way fresh snow surrenders in a child’s warm palm—quiet, fleeting, inevitable. To deny that warmth now would be like diving beneath thick ice on purpose, sinking into the black lake of loneliness, choosing the cold that would freeze him solid.





Another stack of papers appeared on his desk, glaringly white against the deep mahogany, demanding attention as if their very existence scolded him. He hadn’t bothered to check what they were—such details were trivial. His comrades had always been right; it was best not to question them. So he began to fill in the required forms.
The scratch of his pen was soon interrupted by sharp thuds, growing into impatient steps echoing through the room. The door screamed in protest as it was thrown open, hinges groaning under the assault. Ivan set his pen down, senses sharpening. It was time for a far more… vivid vision.

His eyes slowly rose, taking in the figure before him: a man disheveled, golden hair in chaotic strands, sun-kissed skin now marred with streaks of dirt. Even his uniform bore the marks of a rough journey—shirt wrinkled, tie askew, but still somehow commanding. His brows were tightly furrowed, and his mouth hung open as he gasped for air, exhaustion written across every line of his face.



Their eyes met—cold violet against vivid blue. Silence stretched between them, only to be broken by heavy, deliberate footsteps as they approached the visitor. Ivan made no effort to hide his fatigue; there were no witnesses, after all. His shoulders slumped, his back curved, as if he carried the weight of his duties upon it. He almost looked like a drowsy man making way to the bed, wishing to sink into the mattress after a long day. His intentions were not so distant from reality; instead of yielding feathers and linen, his head found rest upon a firm, unyielding shoulder.
And yet—strangely, impossibly—it was more comforting than any pillow, as if the world itself had folded into that narrow space. His head nestled perfectly into the hollow of the other’s neck, bodies aligning with an uncanny precision, two halves of a whole, like puzzle pieces carved to fit one another in secret harmony. Even though the shoulder beneath him tensed at first, a quiet ripple of surprise, he paid it no mind. He let his hands weave beneath the other’s arms, fingers curling, clasping, drawing the warm, living weight closer until their bodies pressed together in quiet accord. 

And then—inevitably, as if by some unspoken ritual—he buried his face in the hollow of the other’s neck, inhaling the soft, steady heat, the faint scent of skin and subtle earthiness. A smile, gentle and unguarded, curved his lips, melting the tension he carried like a long-burdened cloak. In that embrace, time seemed to slow, the world outside fading, leaving only the warmth and closeness that sooth- 



“Hey, man! What the FUCK do you think you’re doing?!”


An inhumanly strong shove sent him stumbling away from the too-realistic vision. He blinked rapidly, taking in the furious, flushed face of the American before him—real, unmistakably real.

Instantly, his vulnerability retreated, replaced by a carefully constructed defence. His back straightened, arms tense and ready, head held high, a hollow smile fixed on his lips. The only trace of what had just passed lingered in the deep crimson blooming across his cheeks, burning from the inside out.



“I ask same thing, America. Why you come?”
His tone wavered, shifting from the composed, high-pitched, uncaring sound to something more frantic, more unsettled. His heart pounded, faster than it had in days, each beat echoing in his chest. Embarrassment flared, scorching him from within and making it nearly impossible to meet the other’s gaze. His amethyst eyes darted aside before finally settling on the wall, avoiding contact entirely.



Alfred chuckled, despite the distress gnawing at him. Escaping the cursed agents for a few hours had been quite the ordeal—especially since his guide had been a real pain in the ass, to put it bluntly. They really had outdone themselves choosing a “tour guide” for him. So he deserved a little entertainment. A few chuckles wouldn’t kill the commie, anyway. Okay… maybe he had snorted a little. The point was, even a hero could have a bit of humour sometimes! And as frighteningly pleasant as the embrace had been, the other’s reaction was even better. The guy was redder than his own flag! He ignored the burn creeping across his own cheeks, blaming it on the contained snorts. 


“Ha! You look funny! Oh… right, right. I came here because—”
He coughed into his fist, suddenly more serious, lips drawing into a thin, determined line.
“Because we need to stop this.” He made a small motion between them.
“This… bond is no good, man. We’re not meant for each other. This was a mistake.” 


Ivan stayed quiet glaring underneath the smile, a silent threat hanging in the air. He did not take teasing lightly, it flustered him very much so. He had ignored it for the sake of his and for the sake of finding a solution to a bigger problem.


„Oh… so you are finally beginning to understand.” His words drifted out tauntingly soft, almost innocent—like a child’s approval dressed in mockery. „Mm, that’s good. Then… perhaps you are ready to listen, yes?”
The question was asked with a glimmer of genuine hope, no matter how carefully he buried it beneath layers of feigned innocence that never failed to crawl under America’s skin. For beneath the mask, Ivan did long for them to sort this out. He longed—achingly—for a soulmate who would not run from him. He was ready to forgive, ready to embrace, if only America would lay down his stubborn pride. If he would just let go of that corrupted world of his and step into Ivan’s arms, into the warmth Ivan promised, then perhaps… perhaps they could finally be one. 



„Hey! Don’t get the wrong idea, man. I ain’t buyin’ into your commie junky ideas!”
Alfred shot back, flashing a wide, confident grin as he puffed out his chest.
„I’ve got a way better plan—something only the hero could cook up. We’re gonna outsmart fate itself… and you’re doin’ it under my lead!”
 


Ivan looked at him funnily, as if the man had grown another head which had an even more ridiculous flashy smile on its face.
„And just how are we going to do this, America~?”
Ivan tilted his head, his voice lilting like a nursery rhyme. „
You can’t go against fate, you know… No, no, it doesn’t work that way…”



Alfred marched right up to him, grin stretching wider with each booming step, like he’d just won some unspoken game. He stopped short in front of Ivan, leaning in with that cocky spark in his eyes. „Man, you’re forgetting…” he said, lifting his hand. „One—” His finger jabbed against Ivan’s nose, not playful but pointed, making the Russian’s eyes cross in confusion. „Thing.”

Before he could draw back, Ivan’s hand clamped around his wrist, grip iron-strong. His words came out low, steady, carrying that dangerous edge beneath the softness.
„…Don’t touch me.”

Alfred didn’t even blink at that and just kept rolling.
„Man, my team’s way cooler than yours!” He grinned, pausing to let it hit, watching Russia’s disapproving head shake with pure amusement. Man, it was way too easy to rattle that guy.

„…I thought you were serious—“

„No, no, dude, DUDE! You don’t got a real sorcerer on your team! And forget it—Romania doesn’t count, he’s just a satellite!”
He waved his free hand right in front of Russia’s face, cutting off whatever protest was about to slip out, shushing him before he could even start. 

„But I thought you mocked England’s magic?”
Russia tilted his head, genuinely puzzled now, trying to figure out where America was going with this. 


„…Well, I still think the guy’s kinda bonkers sometimes (like, his magic pals and all!), but dude, I don’t think magic’s totally phony… If that whole soulmate thing is real, he’s definitely got some kinda trick up his sleeve!” America practically glowed, grin stretching ear to ear.

Russia knew that look—once he locked onto something, there was no way to wiggle out. He wasn’t taking “no” for an answer, not now, not ever. He’d pester, nag, and yammer until Russia had no choice but to tag along with his plan—and he was loving every second of it.

„I am right to assume you already have little plane waiting for us, yes?”
Ivan released a long, weary sigh, the sound soft but heavy enough to still the air. Before the other could utter a word, he was already moving, silent steps carrying him to the closet. His pale fingers ghosted over the fabrics until they found something simpler, quieter—clothes that would not draw as many eyes. London would not welcome the severity of his formal dress, and he had no desire to linger there longer than necessary. Best to be swift, to end things cleanly—without forcing his pipe to drink more crimson than it already had.

„

Big guy sometimes even you are right!” 






Russia used his connections to their fullest, allowing them to get on the plane to London without any needed approval. Although the fear of his boss’s wrath still gnawed at him. After all, he had moved west without permission, without precautions, without so much as a proper explanation. But how could he explain? The thought of speaking about his current soulmate problem never even crossed his mind. 


Sodomy had been outlawed since 1933, and he tried not to imagine what would happen if his boss discovered that the representative of the Soviet Union had been bound—fated, even—to another man. It was listed as a bourgeois perversion, and the bourgeoisie had always been the source of their suffering. 


He tried not to dwell on the hypocrisy each time he allowed himself to enjoy the other’s touch, tried to reason with himself: they were nations, not mere men—surely it was different for them. Fate would not have bound them otherwise. Right? 


But perhaps Jones had been right all along. Perhaps this was the gravest mistake of all—an anomaly to be erased. He told himself his disobedience now was only temporary, that it was so he might submit more completely in the future—bring himself closer to the ideal of the country, closer to the perfection his boss demanded. 



His inner conflict had been silenced by a snore from the seat next to him. Like a cough in a theatre during a dramatic pause, it echoed through the well-tuned room, shattering every bit of carefully built tension. 

His companion lay sprawled across the plane seat, limbs loose and careless, head tilted against the wall, a stray trickle of saliva glinting at the corner of his mouth. His hair was a storm of gold, tousled beyond reason, as if a tiny hurricane had danced across his head and left its wild mark. One leg stretched lazily, brushing against Russia’s own, careless and intimate all at once.

Ivan shook his head softly, a quiet exhale escaping him, and began to comb the tangled strands through his fingers, almost without thinking. Each lock yielded to him, settling into place under the gentle guidance of his touch—except for the one at the crown, stubborn and upright. That one he left untouched, a small rebellion he allowed, as if even in order there could be a fragment of freedom. Something America proudly seemed to represent. 

He hadn’t realized what he had done until the other’s head lolled to the side, settling softly against his shoulder. Instantly, he tensed, breath caught in his lungs, eyes widening in shock, ears tinged with a faint, unfamiliar warmth. Russia had longed for the closeness, starved for it, yet ever since their resonance, every touch from Jones had scorched him. He craved it more fiercely than ever—but it brought pain, too. Pain because he knew he should not.

The forbidden fruit brushed against him, tantalizingly close, so near that his nose could catch its sweet, subtle scent. And in that nearness, desire and restraint wove together, cruel and exquisite, leaving him suspended on the edge of longing he dared not fully indulge. The man before him had been everything he fought against. He endangered his dream and stopped the growth of his home. He should loathe his presence, when he had the visions he should force his imaginations to create cruelest deaths of the man before him. Yet, yet he could not and it troubled him greatly.

To his relief, the other soon stirred and stretched, abandoning his living pillow without realizing what he had been resting on. He glanced around groggily and hoarsely asked, 


“’Ow much longer?” 


He yawned immediately after the question, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. 


“One hour,” Ivan replied, his gaze drifting away from the man. Instead, he focused on the view through the window of the opposite row, letting himself calm, steadying his racing thoughts.



„Mmm Awesome awesome…” 
Sapphire orbs drifted lazily across the surroundings, taking in the familiar hum of the space, until they finally settled on his companion. He sat surprisingly stiff, every movement taut, deliberately avoiding the meeting of their gazes. Almost like…



„Hey man, I’ve got a question”


Ivan let out a slow, weary sigh. America’s questions had a way of stirring both headaches and confusion, like a heavy weight settling over his mind. He silently hoped the man had no intention of sparking another argument over their clashing ideals—he was in no mood to reason with the proud, willfully blind fool. Some debates were exhausting, but this one promised more friction than resolution, and Ivan had neither the patience nor the energy for it. 


„Mmm.. And what is that you ask?”
He tentatively met the others gaze, ready to bring his defences if needed. 



“Hey man, why were you all clingy when you saw me? Not your usual commie style, man!”


Oh it was even worse than any argument. Ivan’s smile froze on his lips as his cheeks were dusted with a subtle pink.



“Ya know… you kinda looked like a chick greeting her hubby after work, which was totally hilarious, man! Were you going to also give me a welcome home ki-” 


That was it! He slammed a hand over the other’s mouth before another word could escape. His own face was a wildfire of red, lips trembling like they had a life of their own. Why did he always have to make everything so embarrassing?! Couldn’t he, for once, just drop it and let things be?! Nooo, of course not—he had to babble on, spewing nonsense and setting his poor face aflame! 



“I—this—” His voice pitched higher than intended, and he practically dove into his scarf, hiding his face in the soft warmth as if it could erase the shame.
“You are twisting everything! It did not look like that at all, yes? I am not some silly „chick greeting her husband”! I was only ah… only checking you for weapons, yes?! To disarm you! Do not make this… this ridiculous!”

His fists clenched instinctively, and he glared over the scarf with wide, flustered eyes, a mixture of fury and mortification colouring them. He could feel his own ridiculousness, but he could not stop it.



In the midst of his own turmoil, he hadn’t noticed that the other was flustered as well. America, amused as ever, found himself oddly drawn to Russia’s state. He cursed himself for thinking it was… cute—not adorable, of course, just… teensy, bitty, itty-bit cute. The way his pale skin flushed, how his violet eyes widened with raw vulnerability, the instinctive way he burrowed into his scarf—it all gnawed at him.

Desperate to drown the distracting thoughts, he threw his head back and cackled loudly, the sound bouncing through the plane and drawing the curious—and slightly alarmed—gazes of the other passengers.

Ivan abandoned all hope in calming the American and instead chose to look away from him acting as if he did not exist.



The rest of the flight passed without incident. Ivan gradually managed to steady himself, swallowing back the embarrassment that had threatened to spill into quiet, shameful tears. Occasionally, they bickered—small, pointed exchanges to pass the time and distract from their shared fluster.

The aircraft hummed with the low, steady drone of its propellers, a distinctly mechanical song. The cabin smelled faintly of oil and worn leather, seats creaking under shifting weight as passengers fidgeted. Soon, the plane began its slow descent. The pilot’s voice crackled over the intercom, announcing the landing in that clipped, professional tone. Outside the window, the airport emerged, angular and bustling, framed by runways glinting in the sunlight. 


They had no luggage to slow them down, so they strode through Heathrow, the hum of conversation and rolling suitcases surrounding them. The air smelled faintly of fuel and cigarette smoke, mingling with the distant whistle of terminal announcements. Russia stayed silent, letting America do the talking. His heavy accent, jarring and foreign, would only make things worse—the tension of the Cuban Missile Crisis still clung to the world like a shadow, and he knew he was not welcome in the West.

Outside, black cars glinted under the mid-morning sun, swarming the terminal like ants in a nest, engines humming and doors slamming. None, however, were available for them. With no choice, they prepared to navigate the city to England’s home by public transportation, slipping into the current of travelers, their footsteps echoing on the worn linoleum floors.







Knowing they would soon arrive did nothing to soothe the irritation prickling at him, not with the relentless racket of shouts and knocks echoing through the hall. He abandoned his knitting, straightened his suit with precise care, and made his way to the door. A gentleman, after all, ought to greet even the most tiresome nuisances of the century with decorum. These particular gits, however, tested that patience more than most lately. 



„Iggy! I-G-G-Y! I got the bastard! Come on! Did you not charge up your powe-„



The booming shouts came to halt when the fist instead of wood met air as the doors were opened wide.



„Quiet down, you daft sod, and get in here! Everything’s ready for you lot.”



Crossing his arms, he stepped inside without so much as a glance at Russia, silently shepherding them down to the basement, where everything had been laid out ready for the ritual. 



His home was far from humble. Dark, polished wood furniture stood proudly throughout, each piece intricately carved in the ornate Victorian style, the curves and flourishes catching the light like delicate shadows. Rich tapestries and heavy drapes hung at the windows, their deep colours and patterns breathing life into the otherwise modest space. Brass fixtures gleamed faintly, and the scent of aged wood mingled with faint traces of lavender polish. Every corner was filled with curious ornaments and delicate trinkets, each telling a story of refinement and careful curation, making the house feel simultaneously lived-in and timelessly elegant. Even the small rooms seemed grand under the weight of such meticulous decoration, a quiet testament to a bygone era of English sophistication. All composed together like a fine painting, curtains like harsher strokes, heavy weight put against olive green walls. Tapestries and ornaments like careful swipes, slim, gentle yet emphasising the wealth. It was truly a sight to behold that Arthur was proud of. 


A pair of footsteps soon followed the host—one energetic and impatient, the other hesitant and wary. Russia was no stranger to this house, and even less so to the basement where he had been summoned countless times. Yet familiarity did little to ease his doubts; he was, after all, on enemy soil, and caution was imperative. 



„Not surprised you’ve gone this far behind my back… Now, what is your plan?” 

His tone was sweet, hiding any uncertainty he might feel.

“Iggy’s on it, dude! That weird curse? Gone! Freedom’s all ours, man!”

He gave a little thumbs-up and, almost wrapping his hand around Russia’s shoulder, caught himself at the last second, letting it instead flop exaggeratedly onto his hip.


“For your sake, I shall overlook that appalling butchery of my craft and endeavour to explain it properly.”

Arthur’s thick eyebrows twitched in irritation, a headache already threatening behind his temples. It was scarcely believable that this man had once been his colony. 


“Soulmates endure until the death of both parties. Beyond that… well, the outcome is uncertain, though we know that once both have passed, hearts cease to bear the names. The difficulty, of course, lies with nations who do not succumb to death in the usual manner. Even if they fall temporarily, they revive swiftly, their wounds closing with unnerving efficiency.”

He then paused, giving the others time to process the information given.
“Therefore, what we shall do is this: I shall place you in a death-like state, long enough for the marks to vanish entirely, for the names to be erased as though they had never existed. Consider it a surgical excision of the past, executed with precision.”



He grinned, rather pleased with his own cleverness. After all, he was about to defy fate itself—surely that would earn him a touch more respect from America. Perhaps Russia might even see fit to refrain from meddling with his spells! Yes, this was a splendid opportunity!



Unbeknownst to Arthur, Ivan was far from pleased with the proposed solution. At first, he had listened with keen interest, intrigued by a way to outwit fate, even excited at the thought that this chaos might soon be resolved. But, like moody weather, the sun of his hope was quickly swallowed by thick clouds, the gentle breeze of anticipation turning into a brewing storm. Then Arthur’s final words reached him—“as though they had never existed”—and something struck him, making his heart stutter nervously. Memories of harsh centuries rose unbidden: his younger self recoiling at the very promise of a soulmate, of someone who might truly be for him. Now was he supposed to forget it all? To throw his biggest dream away in the sake of comfort? 



Arthur crossed to his desk, a chaotic battlefield of parchment, ink-stained notes, and peculiar ingredients scattered in no discernible order. Bottles of strange liquids jostled for space with bundles of dried herbs and half-burnt candles, leaving only the smallest of clearings where two small glasses sat, precariously perched between the islands of organised chaos. He snatched them up with practised ease, as though navigating the mess were second nature.

“Careful, lads. Brewing this was the easy part, but I won’t be able to do it again anytime soon—one of the ingredients takes years to prepare, and I’ve used up every last bit I had for you two.”



Would it only deepen the hollow ache in his chest? Tear him away from the fragile comfort of that familiar, steady heartbeat? What if everyone left—again? They always left him, sooner or later. Why should this time be any different? Even his strong house could not shield him from this gnawing dread. Would he be left standing alone forever, surrounded by walls but with no one to fill the silence?



He went to Russia first, preferring to be rid of his company before dealing with America. At present, he felt rather ill at ease around the hulking man—his presence seemed more ominous than ever.

The liquid in the glass was an inky black, so dark it seemed to swallow the light around it. It bubbled sluggishly, each pop releasing a faint hiss that curled in the air like a warning. Its very presence made the hairs at the back of Russia’s neck stand on end, a cold shiver running down his spine. He eyed the glass warily before taking it, his fingers hesitant, as though it might bite. 


THUMP


He lifted it to his lips, the rim hovering just shy of brushing against them.


THUMP

He could smell it—an overwhelming, heavy herbal scent that seemed to cling to the air. It felt lonely somehow, achingly, suffocatingly lonely. 


THUMP



He hurled the glass to the floor, utterly indifferent to the shouts of the other two men.

Notes:

SORRY FOR ANY INACCURACIES!
I tried my best to make it as accurate for the settings as possible. From what I have read - it was not all that easy in the sixties to catch a cab in London, them not being as organised as they are now. Also the Moscow-London travel required more precautions than simply hopping on the plane but I believe that Russia HAD some authority, and in this case he would overuse them for the sake of getting his stuff done.

Do not be shy to comment, I love them all and will gladly answer any questions!
Chapter was partly beta read (thanks Kae and Neva love you guys)

Notes:

Hi hi, author here. It is the end of chapter one (or prologue if you prefer) and I hope that the story seems interesting to you. Please let me know what you think and please do not strangle me - it is my first multi chaptered fic.

Also some things about the story:
I personally feel that Russia’s heart might have popped out for the first time right after the Bloody Sunday. Perhaps symbolising the distance between the people and the government. It is just a headcanon of mine I hope that you guys do not mind it.
And yes 1905 is way ahead of Cold War but I think that Ivan was aware of the worsening relationship between him and Alfred.
Okay I am done with the explanations, thank you for reading my work. Please comment - I am very curious about your personal opinion of it! Criticism is welcome.

Also thousand thanks to my awesome beta readers! Without Neva I would not notice how messy the draft was! And thank you Arthur and Danon, love you all.