As The Bird Flies

5

1989, during the empiric advancements of the United States

1989, during the beginning of the fall of the Soviet Union

Moscow, RSFSR, in the home of the Soviet Union.

He looked almost gentle in this lighting. His clothing was stylish, informal, his hair in a muse and a smile pulling at his lips made him want to shrink. How many, now dead, had seen that smile? Soviet ignored the terror pulling at his chest.

"How long has it been?" America smiled. He prodded items of his home with precision, as if looking for something. Soviet allowed him. He had nothing to hide, "God. If I didn't know any better I'd say you remodeled a church."

"Monastery," Soviet corrected, "you are here for business, are you not?"

"Hey, that doesn't mean I can't see the amenities," America gave a cheeky smile, and he rolled his eyes, "you got working showers?"

"Yes."

"Huh. Lots of people don't, ain't that right?"

"And half of your people are drinking poisonous water," Soviet replied, "why are you here, if not for business?"

America sighed, his head arching back as he studied the man before him. Soviet, someone who was plagued with sickness throughout his life, had boney cheeks, and his hands were shockingly brittle. He normally took medicine for it, but now that peace was beginning to be reached between the Soviets and the Americans, what was he to care if he was thinning?

America didn't say another word to him, humming a song he believed he recognized before pulling a record out of his bag.

"Be careful-" he waved him down as he began to mess with the record player, placing his record on before fitting the needle down. A smile pulled at his face, and the music began to play.

He did recognize what he was humming. It was his father's favorite song.

America offered him a hand.

"Dance with me."

Soviet drew a breath out. He needed to think about it. In a moment, though, his nerves had faded, and he placed a hand in America's, resting his hand on his back and feeling his hand get placed on his shoulder. While his hands were boney, America's were cold and calloused, as if they had no more life in them. He tried to connect his hands to the hands of Burkina Faso, maybe Cuba, but his body was so different from theirs. It was almost otherworldly, as if he was touching a ruslaika or a leshy.

He knew these dances. He hated that he knew him. His movements were slow, at first, and clumsy, but his muscles remembered the movements, turning the two around with careful steps.

"Are you okay?" America cupped his cheek, running his thumb over the bone, "You've gotten so thin. You aren't the man who defeat the Nazi."

"You know what happened to me," he replied.

"No recovery?"

"It will never heal."

America gave a small smile, "I'm sorry."

Soviet felt more confident after a few more steps, drawing America in closer as he began to go faster. He saw the flash in America's eye, the hint of reminiscing, a part of him was sick that he was able to remind him of his father.

He felt a hand brush his throat, and felt himself get led down to parted lips. He was panting slightly. America parted with only a peck. A hint of kindness seemed to brush his eyes, and he ran his hand down his throat.

"I lied," he said, "I'll never be sorry for the death of a commie."

It all happened so fast. He felt a hand- so cold, ever colder- wrap around his mouth, jerking his head back into the American's shoulder. When had he gotten behind him? He felt the ice of a pocket knife against his throat, and let out a low, pained noise as it sliced. He gasped for breath, feeling America gently lead him down to the floor.

In the doorway, he saw a little boy, with white and black hair, and big blue eyes.

"Papa!" Russia cried, and he tried to yell 'No! Get away! Run! Get your siblings and run!' but his lips were numbing, and his eyes were losing their sight, and America was still right there and his little boy needed to get away. He didn't want him to die with him. He didn't want him to die! Was that so hard? Why wasn't he running!

"Papa! Papa, get up!" Russia exclaimed, shaking his father, "Please! Papa, don't leave me! Please!"

America wiped the blood from his cheek, wiping down his knife before shoving it back into the pocket of his coat. If Soviet had been hospitable his death would have never come, yet he hadn't even asked to take his coat. Rudeness doesn't pay, after all.

"Please, please papa, don't leave me. Please, wake up," Russia's face was buried into his father's shoulder. Soviet's eyes were rolled into the back of his head, his mouth hanging open. His chest didn't rise anymore. Blood still dripped from him, but with no force- no heart beat in his chest.

"Run along, little boy," America called, "he'll start to smell soon."

The door rattled on it's hinges as it slammed, Russia still calling for a father that would never answer him again.