And my heart went boom
Mar. 19th, 2021 11:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
gwenchanChapter: 1/?
St Petersburg Imperial Palace is immense and breathtaking and America has been looking at the gilded ceiling for a solid five minutes now.
"Fix your cravat knot," John Adams says, for the umpteenth time, "we want you to look your best. And remember your manners."
Looking down at a cravat which knot that couldn't be straighter or tighter, America cannot help but huff. It wins him a strict glare and a slap on his nape.
"Geez! What was that for?" he laments, side-eyeing Adams. Adams shakes his head.
"You better not huff before the Tsar. And leave the speaking to me. I hope you remember how to address royals."
"Yes." America rolls his eyes and sighs again, which isn't exactly a huff, but Adams gives him another upside the head anyway. In America's opinion, he is simply worrying too much. The diplomatic mission will not blow up if he messes up a bow or addresses the Tsar the wrong way. The stakes are too high to stop at such petty details. And if it blows up for such petty details, then they should reconsider this whole operation.
In any case, all this talking is purely theoretical because he will not mess up. England spent more than a century drilling proper behaviour into his head and then France came to polish what his rival couldn't. America could navigate European courts without breaking a sweat if he so wished. He could if manners weren't so boring, most of the time utterly arbitrary and, frankly, useless. Besides he knows Adams does not think as highly of Russia as he is pretending now. He is like him, a Republican at heart.
Almost as if Adams had read his mind, he frets with even more pieces of advice of what to say and how to behave.
"And don't raise till the Tsar tells you you can. And -"
"I know," America exclaims. "I know. This is worse than when I accompanied La Fayette to Versailles to ask old Louis for funds."
"You were not a representative at the time. If I recall correctly, LaFayette did most of the talking and we knew France wouldn't miss the chance to rain on England' parade. Now it is different."
Now they need the Tsar to see him as an independent nation with personal interests to defend and the squabble between France and England risks becoming more of a threat than an advantage.
A servant uttering something in Russian interrupts his thoughts. America does not speak much Russian but the servant gesturing to follow him and another one opening the door to the Tsar’s private cabinet is sufficiently understandable.
Adams nods and glares his last warning. America nods back, even waving away his concerns. He plasters on the best, widest grin he has.
He is about to exhibit himself into a deep, flowery bow, when two things happen. First, the Tsar speaks but it strangely doesn't sound like Russian. It takes America a moment to realize Aleksander is speaking French, which in a certain sense is good. In another, has just caused America to flounder over his words and hang there with his mouth slack open.
Second, he catches that Tsar is not alone in the room. Logically, it has to be expected. Good manners require that if a nation representative meets a foreign leader the local nation representative has to be present as well. But rumour has it that not always Russia's sovereigns are so keen to share their decisions with their representatives until they have been made, at least.
Apparently, Tsar Aleksander doesn’t share the feeling; or he wanted to keep up appearances for the visit of the American delegation.
Almost in the shadows, Russia stands proud and tall. America's mouth falls open.
He chose his best suit and cravat for the occasion - well, Mrs Adams chose it for him - but now he feels very much undressed. His simple suit cannot compare with the gorgeous jacket Russia is wearing. A blue high official uniform wraps tightly around his chest, the rich fabric trimmed with golden threads and lined with silver buttons.
The cut of the sleeves is tight enough to show the line of Russia’s defined muscles underneath. Like America, he is not wearing any wig and his platinum blond hair almost glimmers in the autumn sun.
"And this must be America. It is a pleasure to meet you. I hope the travel wasn't too tiresome.”
"What?" America babbles. His mouth is dry and he cannot quite think straight. Russia watching him with those purple eyes isn't helping.
"America!" Adams chides, a hint of anxiety in his voice, glaring at America with all the strength of the shovel talk he will deliver as soon as they return home. "Forgive him, Your Majesty, he is still young. I am sure he did not mean any disrespect,” he continues and part of America would like to call him out for his hypocrisy. He knows Adams doesn’t really care so much for what the Tsar thinks. Then, it isn’t his fault he has eyes and they have just placed a gorgeous man just half a metre from him. He searches his smile again.
Russia smiles too, more subtle, but there and America forgets how to speak.
“Yes. I - I mean, it is lovel - I mean, an honour to be here, Ru -, I mean your majesty," he mutters, seemingly unable to string together two coherent words.
"The pleasure is mine," Tsar Aleksander replies, kindly. "But I do not remember if you have already met our representative."
"Only once, some decades ago," Russia answers for him. He has a sweet, calm voice but with something that sends shivers rolling all over America's skin.
"You have quite grown, America."
"You - you too," America hears himself answer.
The rest of the meeting is lost to him.
***
They meet again, frequently, almost daily, in the weeks afterwards. Part of America is absolutely, truly, sincerely glad for it. He doesn't exactly know what he is going to do with this, except he spent the last two nights tossing in bed with Russia burned at the back of his mind. The problem is dealing with feelings is not something America has been taught in depth. England has never been much of a model in that concern and America Puritan upbringing surely hasn't helped.
Sometimes he and Russia walk together in the toe of the Tsar and Adams, hardly exchanging a word. Sometimes, however, they have to meet privately for national affairs. It has always been custom for their kind to meet parallelly to humans. They do it to discuss what humans cannot, lacking the whole picture of centuries worth of relationships and alliances.
This, at least, theoretically. In truth, America has absolutely no idea of what he is doing or what he is supposed to do. Not that he’s going to tell anyone - Russia’s especially, that.
They came here to show the Tsar that despite being a new nation he can play on the international chess-board. That he is not free land to conquer.
He’s surely not going to reveal Russia intimidate him terribly. The reasons are several.
First of all, despite appearances, and his body being the one of a young man, he is a toddler compared to Russia. Russia was conquering lands and signing treaties while he still ran through the meadows in diapers. Russia has had years to practice this diplomacy-thing, whereas America has just started this whole stuff. Besides, it's not like England was ever keen to teach and explain to him the dynamics. As long as America was a colony under his sovereign he never had a reason. France and Prussia tried to teach him something about Europe dynamics but some years cannot substitute centuries of training.
It feels very much like being thrown to the wolves. Except with the wolves, he'd have more chances.
Second, Russia is attractive. That is the worst problem.
Today Russia is dressed more casually, donning his uniform for a simple suit that fit his body just as well. When America walks in his office, revising under his breath the points they are supposed to tackle, he's hunched over some papers.
"Oh, hello," he says, welcoming.
Behind his desk, there's an oil painting of medium dimension but exquisite craftsmanship, no doubts something being commissioned at court.
It portraits Russia as a young man, only a few years younger than he looks now, sitting between two pretty girls dressed in rich gowns. The jewels adorning them, from their tiaras to the necklaces and the stones embroidered in their dresses could finance a war. Russia's wearing jewels too. A brooch shines on his chest and the handle of his sword is encrusted as well.
America searches his memory to try to not make a fool of himself again. For having been portrait next to a representative the girls must be nations as well or princesses, except in the second case it's strange Russia is hanging this specific portrait in his offices.
"Your sisters?" he guesses so, to which Russia nods. "Yes. That is Ukraine," he says, pointing at the woman at his right, looking slightly older. "And she is little Belarus. She is quite a beauty, is she not?"
"Yes, yes, of course," America comments, absentmindedly, too absorbed in the boy sitting at the centre of the picture in another gorgeous uniform. He looks handsome and powerful. "She's nice," he adds, playing cool, pretending he has not been staring at Russia, both the younger ones in the portrait and the one at ease in the flesh right before his eyes.
"While I know you have a brother," Russia reprises. "I think I have met him a couple of times. You are not on good terms, it seemed."
Right. To establish links with Russia is something America has to do but it would be less stressful if Russia hadn't territories bordering on Canada's lands now.
"It's complicated," Alfred gives what he hopes is a neutral answer. As a person, he has absolutely no problems with his brother. He likes spending time together, despite finding those occasions rather boring but it's not Canada's fault. On the other hand, there's the fact Canada is still a British protectorate, sort of like an extension of England, and America has yet to forgive him for not having sided with him during the war. They should've been on the same side, two brothers fighting together.
"Yes, siblings are often a complex matter," Russia agrees, bringing him back to the present. "I myself do not always agree with my sisters."
America nods, unsure of what to reply. Everyone who has ever mentioned Russia to him always agreed on one thing: to be aware. Prussia, especially, depicted him as the Devil incarnate. Sitting across Russia now, America finds himself fighting between his own experience and the other. Russia has been nothing but courteous and if he's hiding something, he's not different from any other nation he met.
"It happens," he says eventually, with a voice that tries to be sympathetic.
If he manages to connect with Russia on a personal level, then he is one step closer to prove to him he can be more of a friend and ally than an enemy. As far as he heard, Russia has never had a real friend and that could be an advantage, a void to fill.
Only that, heart pumping in his chest, America thinks he'd like very much to be Russia's friend and more.
**
The first ball at court is disappointing. If America expected everyone to parade in fairy-like Russian gowns, the same he saw in old pictures and illustrated fairy tales, his expectations are not met. Pretty much anyone is dressed in the same fashion he spotted when crossing through France and as France expands into Europe, so does his fashion.
Most of the men are dressed in shining officers uniforms with shining swords and Russia is no exception. Again, it suits him, and again America finds himself unable to tear his eyes away, even if that means giving the cold shoulder to several other guests. In case, he can use not knowing the language as an excuse. Even though this is a ball at court and everyone speaks French.
Giving the cold shoulder isn’t even the worst offense. America has already stepped on the feet of several noblewomen because he was too focused on the other nation to see where he was going.
Catching him giving a sly smile in the corner of his eye makes everything even more humiliating.
"I thought France taught you to dance," Russia comments then, passing by with a grace America thinks it's unfair. His footwork is precise and hypnotic and America avoids bumping into a Duchess? A Princess? Well, some noblewoman by a hair.
"I can dance," America replies, pride wounded. Again, he knows his manners. Russia tilts his head, and pursues his lips, thoughtful.
For a moment it's as if he is going to ask him as a partner for the next round. It is not unheard for nations, even if of the same sex, to dance together. A little it is the lack of women among their kind. A little is to show good-relationships between the representatives when needed.
"Great, then Lady H. would be ecstatic to dance with you," Russia says instead, proceeding then to introduce America to another noblewoman. She's young and quite pretty, but as America is awkwardly dragged onto the dance floor, he can hardly look away from Russia. The consequences are easy to divine and difficult to escape.
The more he looks at Russia, the more he fails. The more he fails, the more Russia ignores him safe from the occasional, condescending, pitiful glances.
By the end of the ball, America has decided he either needs new dance lessons or to find a way and get this out of his system.
Above all, he needs to redeem himself before Russia's eyes. He comes to the decision knowing he’ll not stay in St. Petersburg for long still. It’s never a good idea for a free representative to stay away from their home-land, especially when in a still fragile situation like America.
***
One day of November, after a drop of temperatures not unusual at these latitudes, Tsar Alexander invites the Adams to partake in a day with the royal family. A lake nearby Petersburg has frozen over and the clear, sunny day makes it a perfect day to skate and play in the snow. It goes without saying it's the perfect occasion to speak politics, weaving them in between small talk.
It's also implied America is expected to go. While nation representatives usually deal with these affairs with their kind, the situation is delicate enough that having the Tsar know the new nation better will only benefit the American cause. Inside, America knows this. However, it doesn't change the fact walking outside is suicide.
"It's so cold," he protests, sitting on the couch in the Adams' parlour, only his nose peeking out from the thick cocoon of blankets in which he found refuge.
John Adams, a man who is not going to let the tantrums of a teen ruin his mission, has already tried to drag him out of it; but he could do little against the nation's superstrength.
"I am not going to tell his majesty and the local representative you were so rude as to ignore their invitations."
"The local representative?" America's head snaps out the cover so quickly it actually strains his head a bit. "Russia will be there too?" he asks for confirmation, trying and failing to hide the hope in his voice. After the ball, he needs a way to redeem himself and though he hasn't skated in years, maybe even a century, it cannot be that hard. He has to show Russia he is not a kid anymore. He is an adult, independent nation and can be partner material.
"Yes," Mr Adams confirms. "So you better stand up and get ready by the next five minutes."
America can't throw away the blankets fast enough, except the movement only causes him to get tangled in them, falling head first into the floor. When he has freed himself, somehow, he aims for the door and slams it open.
A freezing gust of wind reminds him he forgot his coat, gloves and hat.
***
When they arrive courtiers are already flooding the frozen lake shores, many of them gliding onto the ice. It takes America a glance to spot Russia. Aside from his height and features, there is always a subtle aura around a nation representative putting them apart from common humans.
He's spinning with ease on the ice surface with the same grace of when he dances, a perfect combination of elegance and power. He turns on one foot under America' awe-struck eyes, those toned legs making him unable to look away, mouths hanging agape.
He watches the Russian' muscles flex under his jacket and stares at his toned arms, finding himself imagining what would be like to be held by them. The quick thought makes him shake his head.
"Oh, I didn't see you there," Russia calls after another, complicated-looking spin. In a few slides he comes to stand right before America. "Do you skate?" he asks, or well, America sees him move his mouth but he isn't quite sure of what he just said.
"What?" he yelps, then shivering inside hearing his voice crack. He should probably just go lie in the snow.
"I asked if you skate," Russia repeats, nodding at the skates America is holding by the strings. He forgot they were there. "Oh, yes. Yes! Of course," he lies. Again, it can't be that hard. After all, it's just a matter of not falling while balancing on two knife-blades attached to your feet. He won his independence despite the odds, so he should be able to skate.
In the next minutes, he's screaming, waving his hands like a crazy wind-mill, and trying without success to not fall with his butt again on the ice. Its bumpy surface makes it harder by the minute and America has no idea how Russia can slide on it so easily, when he gets stuck every other step.
"It's about the pressure," he suggests, amused, offering him his hand to get back on his feet. America huffs, accepting it.
"I know! I'm just a bit rusty," he brushes it off with the snow on his butt, attempting another step. For once being a nation with superstrength is turning against him, as he continues to apply too much pressure onto the ice, with the unpleasant consequence of losing his balance, face forward this time. Being caught at the last minute by Russia is both humiliating and something that makes America want to fall again, only for a chance to be held in Russia's arms.
It is a nice picture. America enjoys it for a moment, savouring it, while another plan forms in his mind.
“But I’d refresh faster with a little help,” he says, looking from down below. He can swallow a little pride in the great scheme of things. He waits, on edge, for Russia’s response. Maybe he has no intention to help him. He seemed to be quite enjoying America’s goofiness. But then Russia glances at the Tsar and the Tsar glances back and there must be a whole conversation in that because when America returns his attention to Russia, he is holding out his arm for America to take.
“I guess I have no choice,” Russia says, a vague amusement in his voice. America swallows, then grabs his arm, a little tighter than what should be acceptable; but he doubts Russia, being one of the biggest and strongest representatives will be bothered or even notice.
So he holds on tight, glad for the slippery ice giving him an excuse, cheeks tinted pink and the November afternoon suddenly feeling as warm as a summer day.
