Hetalia Oneshots/ drabbles

Yankee Doodles (RusAme)

London, 1964.

High ceilings, white walls and minuscule frames made sure to enhance the artworks' presence on the exhibition, vibrant colors and intricate forms guiding the eyes through a journey of styles, techniques, but above all, artistic freedom. A smile made its way into Alfred's face, months, even years of work allowed him, as well as everyone present, to marvel at the creations of an ambitious generation of artists.

He had wandered away from Arthur, or perhaps it had been the other way around, the Englishman seemed to be postponing the well deserved praise for his efforts, a bit of cooperation could go a long way with the right amount of resources and the right justification for such an investment.

Alfred's eyes narrow as he caughts sight of a familiar tall figure, it's impossible not to notice him, though the rest of the public seems dazed with the artworks.

With long quick strides he approaches, until they're standing side by side, a Pollock's painting right before them. Alfred whispers as if that could offer them the slightest privacy in a place like this. "What are you doing here?"

Alfred holds his stare into the painting but he can imagine, he can hear that growing smile, Ivan's voice is just as soft as usual, even that tiny pitch of irony is there. "Isn't that what you wanted, for me to see how much cultural powerness you have?"

He can't help but smile, the same arrogant bright smile that Russia hates but Ivan likes. A small shrug and he answers. "Not everything is about me or you, this time, it's about Arthur, I'm not here to take the credit away from him."

There's a pause, Alfred tries to focus on the painting, on the vigorous strokes and the imposing colors but his heart is hammering on his chest out of anticipation. The counterattack comes swiftly, too soft for his own liking. "You've been busy with these events, Rome, Paris, though I heard the latter was rather disastrous, France can be ruthless with the critics, can't he?"

It's too easy, Ivan must know the answer but Alfred obligues by replying just as the members of the congress for cultural freedom have done for the last years. "You know how prideful they can be. Europe's economy is blossoming once again and it's only natural to revitalize the cultural scene."

"They said it looked superfluous. It's big, it's boisterous, electrifying," Ivan chuckles, motioning with his hand towards the painting, "Perhaps... too American for their liking. I admit, there's a certain merit to what you've achieved here but it's rather obvious for me, and probably for France, that you wanted to deliver a message with this."

Ah, there it is, the strike towards his ego, Alfred can feel his blood boiling, his body tensing and his voice becomes dainty, taunting the bear that sleeps inside the other. "You talk as if I had done this alone, as if Arthur would let me push him around as you do with your...friends. I am not the one with state sponsored art."

A chuckle escapes from Ivan. "Abstract expressionism prides itself in being apolitical, in enhancing the artists' freedom of action as if those statements didn't align with certain american values. That's why France is reluctant to follow up. Rejecting tradition, breaking the past structures, it all sounds so promising to young artists that are receiving your funding, but it's certainly hard to hide the way the concept of freedom has taken a political stance."

The statement leaves Alfred speechless, he didn't expect Ivan to speak so bluntly about it, he ponders on a counterargument, on a way to deny ulterior motives, but this is not the place or the time for a political debate, so he bites his tongue and lets out a laugh, neither accepting nor denying what he's been told.

Ivan seems to understand, joining him on that small laugh as the tension in the air dissipates. His heavy hand rests on Alfred's shoulder. "This exhibition is... refreshing, Arthur should be proud."