Hey! I'm SocAu. This blog is specifically for my writing, both for my OCs and other fanfics. I'm 19 years old and currently in uni.
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fandom: Countryhumans.
pairing: Moscow & Soviet Union.
summary: An ordinary day in the life of Moscow and some musings on his life and his place in the new Soviet family.
genre: Slice of life, character study, fluff.
warning(s): None.
word count: 3,406 words.
authors note: For fun! Its 1 am I am dying
ao3 link.
A white ceiling, muted rays of light from the large windows on the left. The sight never changes and it’s almost comforting.
Moscow blinks his eyes open blearily. The clock next to him hasn’t gone off yet, although it shouldn’t be long now. He takes the few extra minutes to stare at the ceiling further, letting his mind wake slowly. It’s only a couple minutes later that the alarm clock next to him starts to ring obnoxiously. He reaches over, turning it off in a practiced motion before sitting up in bed and swinging his legs over the side. The bedroom isn’t terribly large, nowhere near the size of those in the old palace, but it is luxury compared to the average residence of a Soviet citizen so Moscow remains grateful. His eyes drift to the old, wooden and delicately crafted closet stood against one of the walls. The rest of his body follows, feet slipping into slippers before gliding over the wooden floor boards as he walks over to the large piece of furniture and opens its doors.'
His mind is still wandering as he gets dressed, the motion so well known he doesn’t particularly think about it anymore. He thinks about breakfast options and tasks ahead as the fitted suit slides over his arms to rest on his shoulders. He thinks he quite likes the fashion nowadays. It’s simple and smart. And no longer choking him with a collar for the sake of ‘fashion’. A welcome change. He closes the door of the dresser and heads over to the window, opening the thick curtains and tying them to the side diligently. It’s early, still dark outside although the streets remain illuminated by electric lampposts. Convenient, but the hand lit ones had a charm these can’t manage to replicate. Oh well, a bygone era is not to be mourned.
Moscow turns around, heading to the kitchen instead. His hands work quick here, too. The porridge is served and sitting on the table to cool, while he eats one of the pieces of toast slathered with sweet jam and reads the morning paper. A hot cup of black tea with milk steams next to him. His eyes scan over the headline with interest, but nothing interesting has happened. The papers still talk about the attempted coup d’état in Ecuador and no more. The lull in heart attack inducing stress and tension from this era of détente between the USSR and USA isn’t unwelcome, despite the boredom starting to seep in. After more than a lifetime of constant political upheaval, it’s hard to keep one’s mind occupied with crosswords, or whatever else normal humans his age were doing.
The breakfast is finished quickly and Moscow heads instead to the bathroom. He brushes his hair back, combing it carefully, before combing through his beard and mustache briefly. A dignified look, he thinks. His hair may have gone gray, but he will not be left behind in style. After a quick sweep of the apartment to open the curtains and set everything right, he glances at the clock on the wall in the hallway on his way to the front door. Still on time, as always. The dress shoes, coat, and black brimmed hat only serve to compliment the established style, unlike the leather briefcase he clutches to his side protectively. That one has a purpose, and no hands excepted his must touch it.
He makes sure to lock the door, although the building is more than safely guarded, before heading down. The sleek black car waits for him outside, just like it does every morning. A man in a thick wool coat opens the back door for him and he slips inside wordlessly. The man’s name is Piotr, Polish ethnically but he’s a Soviet man through and through. He knows the streets and is a good driver. They talk on the way to the Kremlin. Not about Moscow, never about him, but about Piotr and his wife and his kids. His oldest, Anastasia, has been accepted to Moscow State University for architecture. Piotr looks proud of his daughter, it radiates from his posture, his face, and his words.
The drive isn’t long, Moscow has tried insisting multiple times he can walk the distance but the answer is always the same; security risks are too abound. So, Piotr drives him every morning diligently. They pass the Red Square and pull into the fortress like structure, before stopping in front of one of the angular buildings. Piotr opens the door for the city, who steps out with a grateful nod and bids him goodbye. They’ll see each other again this evening, but only after the work is done.
Moscow works for half of his week in the building housing the Supreme Soviet, along with his direct employer, the Soviet Union himself. His other half of the week is spent working with the Mayor, an important job for a city. He walks up the stairs with unshaken confidence. The job of a capital is more taxing than that of the average city. Moscow is not only in charge of the ever growing metropolitan area, but must now also advise the representation of their union on every political, and non-political, matter. He greets the people at the door by name, and they respond to him with the usual greeting. He doesn’t like hearing his official title, but it’s a necessity for the professional working environment.
Ever since the détente, the work has gotten more menial. Once again, not an unwelcome change. Moscow has his own office, where he sits at his desk and reviews the ever growing stack of papers coming in for Soviet. He writes up the summaries, and then his advice on the matter, before handing it to the secretary of the higher ranking man to pass on in big pile. Other paperwork also comes, directed at Moscow himself this time. He takes care of these in the afternoon, they’re never urgent. Press meetings, journalists, some personal letters on how to approach Soviet, and other mail of the type are the only ones that bear his name. It remains long and tedious work, despite the seeming simplicity. He wouldn’t trade it for the world.
It’s not long until lunch rolls around. He glances at the clock and hums to himself, getting up and locking the door of the office behind him carefully. He walks to the large, dark oak doors at the end of the hall and opens them directly after knocking, much to the annoyance of the younger man inside. The office is large, decorate with different shades of dark red expensive looking fabric. A desk, a plethora of bookshelves, and a small sitting area with a plush armchair and couch near the ceiling to floor windows fills the space. The furniture is solid wood, carved with beautiful intricate details. Soviet looks up from his paperwork with an annoyed glare. Eye bags taint his handsome face, not an unusual sight nowadays. His eyes drift up to the ornate clock on the wall of the equally ornate and large office before he nods wordlessly.
And so, they head down to a smaller dining room, where a table sits with a detailed white cloth and two seats set up. Moscow sits at one end, Soviet on the other. The dishes are served up, and the sound of fork and knife clinking against porcelain plates fills the room. Moscow observes the taller man closely. He looks broody, a constant glare on his face that the city has learned to differentiate from his actual intentions or thoughts. As much as he tries, it’s moments like this he can’t help but see a much younger teenager in front of him. Despite everything, Soviet still bears clear resemblance to the troublesome and always grumpy child that Moscow helped raise. He half expects Soviet to slam down his utensils loudly before declaring he was headed to his room, leaving his unfinished meal and livid father in the dining room with Moscow.
But he doesn’t, of course he doesn’t, he is not that little boy anymore. He no longer runs away into his room when he is upset, or ambles in the gardens for hours. He no longer runs up to Moscow with a proud look on his face, excited to show off a new song for the piano or a particularly eye catching butterfly. He no longer runs around the halls of a long gone palace, or locks himself away in his study. He no longer needs help to sneak out of the palace and into the city, before returning full of questions. His face is no longer defined with round boyish cheeks and bright freckles. No, he is a dignified and fine man now, on equal standing with the much older city. Moscow isn’t sure he can ever fully see him that way.
Their conversation over the lunch is surface level, simply to entertain. Moscow still attempts to dig deeper for the reason behind the eye bags of the younger man. His gaze is soft, as always, compassionate and warm.
“What troubles you?”
A silence follows. “Much troubles me, I carry the troubles of the largest nation on the globe.”
“No, what troubles YOU? Not the Soviet Union, I know of his troubles all too well.”
Another silence. “He is me and I am him.” another silence after the declaration before Soviet speaks up again, a random meaningless comment about the traffic in the city that day.
And the conversation lulls into matters of little importance again. It seems there will be no luck in breaking through the iron curtain today. Moscow doesn’t push, he knows better than to after so many decades. Soviet has been slower, more languid than his usual self. Moscow thinks it started after the détente, and although the recent economic and social stagnation are most certainly connected, he thinks Soviet rather misses the intense, adrenaline pumping rivalry. The younger man can thrives in the chaos of it, as much as he denies it. The USA, and America himself as an extension, are symbiotic to the USSR and Soviet. They keep each other in check, as if a twisted version of soulmates. It is no wonder if Soviet misses the rivalry, Moscow thinks, it has been there since he has come to power.
The lunch wraps up all too quickly, even if they have been talking for two hours, and now both representations are back to work in their respective offices. The slow, dull march forward of the paperwork is not unlike any other day. While most would be used to it now, bored of it even, Moscow continues to drink it up as the gift it is; peace. He is old, so so very old, fifty years of paperwork is but a temporary blink in his lifetime. It is akin to the average individual standing in line for bread. A boring task, to be sure, but brief nonetheless when compared to the decades of life that preceded it, and the decades more that will follow it.
Moscow remembers coming about around the fourteenth century. Although, his lineage dates back further. He remembers how the city started to flourish in the 1320s, the first established monastery, the first schools, the first everything. Cities tend to be older than nations, sure, but Moscow in particular was old. He lived through the Grand Duchy, the Tsardom, the Empire, and now the Soviet. He was sure he’d live to see the next stage of the Russian country as well. The first representation he truly had a hand in raising had been the Tsardom. By then, he had been made capital and the newfound influx of work and responsibilities was just as overwhelming as his new appointment as royal babysitter. He never did have children of his own.
Still, he’d gotten used to it all quite quickly. He wonders sometimes if cities have an instinct for this sort of work, much like mothers seem to know and care for their children so quickly too. The years went by, new experiences, friends, lovers and royal families accumulated with them. Before he knew it, the age of the Empire had arrived, and he was no longer capital. The role had been passed on to Saint Petersburg. At first, he’d cursed the man. Moscow loved, and still did, being an important man. Yet, he settled into retirement well. Life quieted down, and any need for adrenaline was kept at bay by having to watch over the trouble loving tsarevich. Then, the revolution, the upheaval, and suddenly he was back being a capital. He settled into this, too, nicely, although significantly more appreciative of moments of peace like these.
All of that to say, the paperwork is but another phase of an already tumultuous life. In earlier years, he’d be kept busy helping Soviet raise the children. Soviet was, and is, a busy man with no wife and yet fifteen children. Even if one were to only pay attention to said children, it would be hard to manage them all. That is why Moscow, officially only a political advisor, had been tasked with watching over the children whenever possible. In the afternoons when school let out, he’d pack up whatever paperwork he had left to complete in the more homely Soviet residence across the administrative building, and head over to watch over the kids. He never got much of it done.
He’d sit with the kids, make sure they all ate, make sure they all did their homework and help if needed, break up petty fights between the siblings. When Soviet was particularly busy, he’d stay until the late hours of the night and help them through their evening routine. Braiding hair, making sure everyone washed their teeth, reading bedtime stories, break up some more fights. The kids inherited their fathers tendency to be a handful. All fifteen of them. That was alright. Moscow never blamed the kids and it isn’t like he didn’t know how to deal with them. He loved them and doted on them all the same, sneaking an extra dessert during a punishment here and there and doing his best to stave off their father’s anger at most times. There was only so much he could do.
The Soviet residence itself is located in the Kremlin, next to the residence of the head of state. It is a large space, one decorated to the fullest with intricately crafted details and expensive fabrics. But it also bears the tell tale damage of a home that raised children. A few marks on the wall in the corner by the kitchen where Soviet measured the heights of the kids as they grew. Some chipped pieces of the wall here and there were the kids had roughed something up. Every scratch, every buff had a story, and Moscow knew each and every one of them. Now that they had all left to make their own lives, the residence remains strangely empty and quiet. The kids, with the exception of Russia and Belarus, rarely visit the place. Moscow knows they have good reasons, but he can’t help but miss them. He can see Soviet does too.
Without the kids, the rest of the day goes by slowly but surely in the office. By evening, Moscow can barely see the words correctly on the paper. He pushes himself up from his desk, packing away all the important documents into lockable cabinets, before heading out of his office and locking that too. He heads over to Soviet’s office first. The younger man is splayed across his desk, right on top of his paperwork, pen still in hand and dripping ink onto the wooden surface. Moscow can’t but smile slightly. Some things never change. As he approaches, he notices a few discarded sheets of pain medication— the new one that the Soviet had been put on for his migraines. This random bout of sleep must be a side effect.
Regardless, with gentle hands, Moscow removes the pen from Soviet and places it in its rightful place to stop it from drying out. He grabs a blanket from the couch and gently covers the sleeping form with it. He watches the gentle breathing for a minute. Soviet looks peaceful and so young, so much more his actual age, in moments like these. Moscow reaches out, gently putting a hand on the other man’s head before retreating out of the office entirely, turning the lights off on his way. In an hour, Soviet would surely be awake and throw himself right back into work, however exhausted he may be. Until then, he should get all the rest he needs. Moscow makes sure to instruct his secretary to not let anyone into the office.
The way home is no different than that of the way to work. The same black car greets him, Piotr’s familiar face appearing in the driver’s seat before he jumps out to open the door for the city. Moscow gladly slips in. The way back is quieter, both of them are tired from a full days work and nobody has the energy or want to entertain a discussion in such situations. Moscow still makes sure to thank Piotr and wish him, and his family, a pleasant evening when he is dropped off. A good man to be sure, Polish or not.
Moscow takes the elevator back up in the building, unlocking the apartment door with ease. His eyes scan the visible areas as he slips his shoes and coat off. Everything is undisturbed as he’d left things that morning. He hangs up his hat before heading deeper into the apartment and putting on a kettle to boil. He opens the fridge as the water starts to boil, peering around for a possible dinner. As he’s gotten older, he finds himself craving less and less for the meal. Today, he settles on a simple bowl of porridge with some honey and yogurt. The kettle whistles and he’s quick to pour out the contents into a mug, before dipping a tea bag in. By the time the porridge is done, the tea should have simmered well.
And it is so. He lets out a satisfied hum as he sips at the beverage at the table, eating the slurry with satisfaction. Simple foods never get old, no matter how many times you have them. The warmth of the tea and porridge almost make up for the cold outside, a stark contrast to his inner body and the apartment— to which the heating had only just been switched on. He finishes the evening meal with ease, packing the current plates and ones from this morning to join the other dirty cutlery in the brand new washing machine. Certainly a useful item to have in the household, but Moscow still struggles to work the damn thing. It takes him a couple minutes to get the machine working and feel confident enough to leave it to do its job overnight.
He heads to the bathroom afterwards. A good shower later, he’s changed into his night clothes. An old fashioned night gown hangs on him, topped with a much more modern looking dark red fluffed up robe. He may go through the trouble of keeping up appearances when outside, but the night is the true time to get comfortable. He takes care to set the house right for the night, closing all the curtains and making sure all the lights are turned off. He slugs off to bed after the bedtime routine is complete, shuffling in under the heavy duvet. Not yet tired, he takes the time to read through a couple of chapters of the book on his bedside table. A classic, Tolstoy, Moscow always did prefer those. Despite his best attempts, sleep catches up to him quick. He puts down the book after only two chapters and turns off the nightlight, settling into the soft covers.
The room is dark, only the faint light from the street lamps outside filtering in through little cracks where the heavy curtains meet. Tomorrow, he will see the same white ceiling again, and the day will go on as usual. Until it doesn’t. But that is far away, and Moscow doesn’t like to stress about such things. The future holds many surprises for the still burgeoning nation and its old capital.
fandom: Countryhumans.
pairing: Russia & USSR.
summary: A glimpse into Russia's home life and what really happened that day.
genre: Hurt no comfort, angst.
warning(s): Child abuse (physical and emotional), alcohol abuse.
word count: 1,194 words.
authors note: For information: the Russian grading scale goes from 1 to 5. 1 is the worst and is essentially never given, 2 is unsatisfactory and a fail, 3 is satisfactory, 4 is good and 5 is excellent. If you want to know more, there's a wikipedia page that explains it pretty well. I'm not super happy with how this turned out so I appreciate suggestions and criticism on how to write abuse.
ao3 link.
Russia clutched the flimsy piece of white paper in his hand, straightening his uniform slightly. The entire house was dead quiet when he finally arrived back from school, which could only mean his father had been drinking. Russia glanced down at the piece of paper again, guilt flooding him. If he’d just studied harder, if he’d just paid more attention, nothing was worth this, he was so stupid, he didn’t know how to prioritize and now-
He took a deep breath, nervously walking forwards. Spiraling wouldn’t help convince Soviet not to punish him, he’ll only get punished harder if he cried. He could sink into his self pitying thoughts later. He stepped into the kitchen, looking up at Soviet sitting in front of a shot glass and large transparent bottle, the stench of alcohol permeating throughout the tiled room. Russia couldn’t wait to tell the news about his grade, the risk of Soviet finding out he had gotten such a horrible grade and hid it from him was greater than any the current situation posed. He stepped forward, “Papa?” he called out gently, quietly. The guilt was weighing on him. His father was tired, stressed, and here he was adding to it. Soviet slowly turned to him, a neutral expression spread across his face, “Yes?”
Russia looked away, swallowing thickly and shaking slightly. He was such a coward. He needed to bite the bullet. His child hands extended the paper as high as they could towards his father, “I got a three in mathematics.” this was slightly a lie. He’d barely gotten a three, but the teacher was too afraid to fail a child of the Soviet Union. Russia tentatively looked up at his father as he took the paper, immediately regretting it. His face had dropped into a deep, dark scowl of disappointment. He looked over the paper, a glare forming in his eyes as he did. Suddenly, Soviet pulled Russia forwards by the arm, putting the paper aside on the table. Russia did his best not the flinch. Soviet hated when they were visibly scared of him.
“Is this what I send you to school for?” the question hung heavy. Soviet had redesigned the entire education system, funded it from the ground up so all citizens may have equal access to basic education. And Russia, even from a considerably privileged background, couldn’t do something as simple as maths. He shook his head wildly, starting to babble excuses in panic. He was tired, he didn’t study enough, he’ll study more next time, he’s sorry, he rushed, it’s his fault. Soviet interrupted with a firm commanding voice, “I don’t care for your excuses. You fail your country, you fail me, each time you are careless enough to let your future slip.” he started. Russia couldn’t bear to listen to most of his reprimand. He could feel the pressure mount behind his eyes already. “What will I do with you? How do I help you, how do I fix you?” the despair in Soviet’s voice finally rang through his blockade, making Russia feel as if the guilt was choking him.
Before he could answer, a harsh slap landed on his cheek. The movement jolted him, shocking the tears that had been threatening to spill out of him. A sob broke through his carefully constructed barrier, immediately caught off by another back handed slap, dragging another wet sob out of him. Soviet inhaled sharply at the sight, “I will not have a useless son. This way, you will remember your lesson.” another slap. Soviet was right. Russia would. He’d never slack off again, he’d study until he was sick if he had to. He’d never have friends, never talk to anyone ever again. He’ll do anything, he’ll be good. He did his best to hold back any remaining tears, even if he had to hold his breath for it. He felt his mind being pushed away, muddying, disconnecting from the situation. It was better that way, he could get through more easily.
He jolted back to reality when he fell back, landing butt first on the harsh tile. His cheeks felt sore, they were certainly red. Good, that’ll be a reminder for him. He deserves this. Soviet looked down at him, contempt in his gaze. A few slaps and Russia was already on the floor, he really was weak.
“Go to your room.” came the gruff order. Russia wanted to sob and scurry, run to his room and cry his heart out. That would only earn more disapproval. He slowly got up, brushing off his uniform, “Yes, papa.” he mumbled softly. His body shook from the effort of holding back his panic as he walked up to his room, closing the door as gently as he could. The oldest and youngest of the many siblings always got their own rooms.
The moment his door closed, everything burst through. He couldn’t even try to hold it back. Quiet, rushed and panicked sobs escaped him as he gasped for air, crawling into his bed. It was so hard, almost painful to hold back any sound, but he couldn’t let Soviet hear him. He gripped his pillow tightly, sobbing into it with so much force it felt like his muscles were seizing. The guilt swallowed him whole. He felt like he was drowning. He desperately wanted to claw his way out, yet there was none. There was no exit, all he could do was endure. The desperation wracked him even more as his thoughts spiraled, finally let free in the safety of his room, feeding his guilt.
He was a bad son. A terrible, terrible son. He was a useless human being. He was nothing. The thought filled him with despair, his hands clawing at himself harshly in an attempt to ground himself. He should die, he was good for nothing, he’ll never be anything good again. He was overreacting and weak, a disgrace to his strong, wise father. He felt like the world was collapsing around him. He deserved more hits, harsher hits, to bleed, to bruise, to be beat into the ground to learn his lesson. Why won’t his father hit him more, why was he so kind? Russia didn’t deserve any of it.
-----------
He wasn’t sure how long it took, but his sobs slowly died down, his thoughts fading off into a quiet melancholy. A deep, aching exhaustion seeped into his bones as he laid in bed. His previously miserable mind became filled with a comfortable, warm numbness. His eyes stared out into his room, looking out his window at the branches gently swaying in the wind. The storm had finally calmed, leaving him with an empty, yet heavy feeling that would linger for a couple of days, as it always did, before slowly evaporating. He’ll study more this time, get better grades, learn from his mistakes.
Russia took a deep breath, sinking into his bed further. His cheeks still felt snore. He sniffled slightly. His nose was uncomfortably clogged too. He took comfort in how familiar it was instead. Everything happened exactly as he knew it would. After all, not much changes in the USSR.
fandom: Countryhumans.
pairing: Russia & USSR.
summary: A reflection on Russia's childhood and his relationship with Soviet through his memories and mind.
genre: Angst, hurt no comfort, unreliable narrator.
warning(s): Child abuse (physical and emotional), PTSD, alcoholism.
word count: 1,214 words.
authors note: I COMPLETELY FORGOT TO POST THIS. I literally wrote this in January and completely forgot to post it here, omfg.
ao3 link.
Russia always had a complicated relationship with home.
Then again, most of his siblings had a complicated relationship with home. It wasn’t that unusual really, many people complained about their parents or upbringing. Between his fellow countries, it was quite common to have a rough childhood. It wasn’t like he was ashamed of it or that it particularly affected him, he lived life like everyone else.
And really, how bad could it have been? Ukraine always goes on and on about their father, about the ‘cruel punishments’, the ‘starvation’, and the ‘terror’ of living under the same roof as the global superpower. Sure, he can remember some harsh punishments that Soviet dealt, some spankings and slaps would leave small bruises sometimes, but that was common place back then. Besides, when Russia is drunk, he can’t judge the strength of his hits either, and their father needed the drinks to keep his sanity, just like Russia does now. His siblings were always soft cry babies anyways. They always cowered and wept after punishments or in the face of them, but Russia stood and faced the consequences of his actions, whatever those were.
Russia frowns to himself. At least, that’s what he remembers. He tries to conjure up an image in his mind, a memory from one of the harsher punishments for one of his stupider mistakes, but he can’t. He can feel a light, yet oppressive, feeling spread through his chest, a weird version of panic crawling over him. His limbs feel tense and an energy surges through him. He can feel his back tense as he looks around the kitchen, then the cup of coffee, long gone cold, in front of him. The phone lays discarded next to it. He tries his best to remember, now concerned with the lack of memory. Since when couldn’t he remember his childhood? Wasn’t that a sign of something serious medically? It’s weird because up until a minute ago, if someone had asked him about the instance, he would have been fully confident and able to recite the events. He’s sure of that, even now.
Yet as he tries to concentrate on the details, everything grows vaguer. Instead of only the details being blurry or remembering the punishment more clearly, the blurry feeling spreads across the memory like rapidly growing vines, infecting the whole of it. Details he previously thought assured now fluctuate rapidly between different versions. The whole memory fades into uncertainty.
It was at his childhood house, it had to be. The one on the edge of Moscow, with a wide backyard and a forest nearby that he and his siblings always messed around in. He was in the kitchen— no, the living room. Maybe. He remembers seeing their leather couch, he is extremely sure of that. It was a brown couch that was there since before he could remember anything. It always had a dull shine to it and stuck to his legs if nothing separated his skin from the processed one, even if it wasn’t summer and he wasn’t sweating. It was shining that day too, the dull copper colour complimenting the rest of the decorations in the room. But he could have seen that from the kitchen too.
Soviet was approaching him, or maybe no, he was approaching Soviet. He tries his best to remember his fathers face, even glancing at a picture on the wall for help but it doesn’t, the face remains blurry as it stares down at him, looming over his short stature. Somehow, despite the blurriness, he knows the expression on the familiar face. He can’t remember, yet he knows, as if feeling the image deep in his soul. How does that even work? Regardless, the image fills him with unnecessary unease and anxiety. He wants to run, hide in his room. His hand extends to grip the coffee mug subconsciously, not for purpose, but just to be holding onto something.
He’d done something, something he knew was wrong because he was tentative to approach his father. Or maybe Soviet was just drunk again. Russia was always careful around him when he was. He thinks he remembers the stench of alcohol radiating from the kitchen, but he didn’t remember it a minute ago, so maybe Ukraine’s words have just gotten to his memories now that he’s questioning them. He tries to concentrate, he strains to, to remember the next moments. He says something to his father, no doubt confessing whatever he did, because his father’s expression sinks into a somber glare. Russia can feel an unwilling panic start to settle in his chest.
Soviet had grabbed his wrist, reprimanding him with some harsh words or other. He doesn’t remember the words, although he knows they amounted to the usual lecture. The memory blurs further, changing between multiple versions in his head. He can’t see the image clearly, he doesn’t even remember what it felt like apart from the oppressive dread, but he knows that a back handed slap had followed the reprimand. Then another. And maybe another, or was that a punch? Maybe Soviet just let go and Russia had fallen to the ground instead, he was weak like that as a kid. The hits and potential memories blur into a quick cascade, multiplying with the anxiety rising in his chest and the speed of his breaths. His eyes dart around the kitchen, he’s not sure what he’s looking for, but he feels like he’s begging for help.
And then he stands up, knocking the chair he was sitting on over with a loud bang. He heads to the liquor cabinet, angry and annoyed, every movement decisive and well practiced. Absolutely fucking ridiculous, really. Ukraine must have really gotten to him in that phone call if he’s reacting like this to a few slaps. He scoffs as he grabs the Absolut bottle from the lower shelf and pops it open. Besides, even if Soviet had hit him, he had every right to! Russia had clearly done something wrong. He grabs a shot glass from the pile. And every hit he endured made him stronger, a few punches can’t shake him no more. He smirks to himself as he downs the shot of vodka, then another quickly to drown away the lingering panic and flashes of memories.
Ukraine is such a bitch, making him question something he knows so well, he thinks as he slumps onto the couch with the bottle and glass, lazily turning on the TV. And Soviet always cared for them, did what was best for them. Maybe he messed up sometimes, but every parent did. He had the best intentions, it’s not his fault. And given they know how Soviet was raised, they should really cut him some slack. Russia had a much better childhood than Soviet, thanks to the latter’s efforts. The gentle rugged hands dappling betadine on his cut were much clearer than the harsh hands that hit him, which if anything just goes to show that Soviet’s care affected him a lot more than whatever others consider ‘abuse’. People are so soft nowadays. Russia is quick to take another shot, then another, until whatever doubts he had are melted away under the buzz of the alcohol. As usual.
note; these are my personal experiences. i am clinically diagnosed with complex post traumatic stress disorder and also study psychology, and PTSD in general shows up very differently in all people. please be mindful of this information.
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anywho! many a times i see PTSD in whump and in general being represented as flashbacks, nightmares, avoidant behaviour, and so on which isn't wrong or exaggerated, just coming on here with some more symptoms or issues i don't see often, mainly physical manifestations. feel free to give your whumpees an even harder time <3
1. Trauma literally rewires the brain and its no joke. The amygdala is in overdrive constantly. Whumpee's always on edge. The hippocampus reduces in size, and boom, eventually you're losing your mind and your memories of what happened. Now whumpee has little to make sense of why they are the way they are, and whatever they recall is so blurred it's driving them insane.
2. Getting triggered by a smell, sound, even a sensation on the body, like the wind on the skin 'rubbing off' the wrong way and Whumpee's suddenly spiraling. What's worse is the moment itself is so distressing they disassociate before they can help it. It takes hours to come back to their own body and realize that they can't remember anything except feeling lost and terrified that they can't even calm down. And they don't even know or remember why.
3. Following up on the previous prompt, outsiders will have a hard time telling if Whumpee is upset, sleep-deprived or tired (could be!) or simply out of it. Eyes glazed over, expression slack. Maybe their eyebrows are furrowed slightly. They stare into the distance and only hum back responses or a few syllables. Later into the day, somebody asks them what they're angry about. Whumpee stops, and thinks. What are they even upset about? They don't know.
4. Just fucked up hormones in general :/ Effective for female whumpees, intense stress levels interfere with hormone production and can infact halt your menstrual cycle. I struggled with this & when my cycle actually resumed the cramps were like 10x worse than what they were before lol. Additionally, some studies also report that PTSD symptoms worsen during the menstrual phases. Not fun.
5. The immune system of a Victorian child. Falling sick way too often. Headaches that don't go away. Digestive issues that give a Whumpee stomach cramps every time they even try to eat (this varies a lot). AUTOIMMUNE DISEASES OF ANY SORT!! Alot more things that can wrong. LOTS of potential for non-whumper whump.
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all from me for now. based on some unfortunate experiences i've had in the past year :'). hope this helps someone or so
fandom: Countryhumans.
pairing: Katipunan x USSR.
summary: Aleksandr and Andres visit Aleksandr's old home and son.
genre: Fluff, nostalgic past.
warning(s): Slight mention of daddy issues.
word count: 2,006 words.
authors note: I was originally gonna make this have some flashback's to Soviet's past, but the last chapter was already so heavy with historical stuff and callbacks, I wanted this one to be lighter. Plus, this fic kinda ended up being from Kati's perspective so it wouldn't really fit. Also heavy reminder for this chapter that we have an unreliable narrator.
Andres is Katipunan, Aleksandr is Soviet, Ivan is Russia.
ao3 link.
Trips don’t last forever.
As the date of Andres’s flight draws closer, the two men start running out of activities to do. And so, it’s only natural that the idea of visiting Aleksandr’s old house and his son is revisited.
Bundled up in many many layers once again, the two pile into the car, and Aleksandr drives smoothly towards the old house on the edge of the city. Andres is visibly much more excited than Aleksandr, asking questions about his son, the house, and whatever else pops into his mind about the Russian’s past. The latter does his best to answer, although sometimes Andres can see him tense and his words come out like a vague summary that is trying to avoid spoiling the movie. It doesn’t deter Andres’s excitement. If anything, the mystery piques his interest. Aleksandr is a reserved and private man, he doesn’t talk as much about his past, so really the visit is simply an opportunity to get to know where Aleksandr comes from— and by extension him— much better.
It doesn’t take long for them to pull up in front of the house. Just as mentioned, it rests on the outskirts of the city on a green hill, next to an extensive forest that leads into the countryside. When they step out of the car, Andres swears he can hear the dull murmur of a river in the distance. The house itself is clearly old, and Aleksandr informs that it is at least as old as him— although it has clearly gone through a good couple of renovations. The house has two stories that Andres can see, with big windows plastered on it. It’s a pleasant mix of wood and brick, painted a dull red. As they approach the house, Andres can’t help but think about how warm the building looks, the type of house a kid would describe as the ideal childhood home. Unsurprising, really, given that fifteen kids were raised in it.
Andres smiles to himself as they step onto the porch, and Aleksandr steps forward to knock on the intricately carved door. There is a welcome mat in front of it, and a wreath carefully nailed to it. The door draws back, revealing another tall man behind it and Andres almost makes an audible sound of surprise. Aleksandr’s eldest son is a carbon copy of him. Only slightly shorter than his father, Ivan retains the same bored and judgemental expression, the same build, the same face and eyes, and, when he greets Andres, the same monotone voice,
“Welcome, it is nice to meet you.”
“It’s really so wonderful to finally meet you, kid. Aleksandr has told me a lot about you.” he replies, extending his hand for a shake. A familiar strong hand grasps his. Really the only thing separating the two is the clear difference in age and the dirty blonde hair on Ivan. The young man steps aside to let his father in, who ducks to not hit his head, and Andres follows, excitedly chatting to the quiet son who simply watches him like he is growing a second head and keeps glancing between him and his father.
They take their shoes and coats off before piling into the living room, where Ivan politely offers tea as they sit down onto the couch. A short silence settles onto the group, before Andres speaks up,
“Ivan, tell me about yourself! How is that work Sandro always says you are busy with?” he asks, a bright smile on his face.
Ivan glances at his father questioningly, for reasons Andres doesn’t quite understand, but eventually answers, launching them into a long back and forth. From his studies to his current career, Andres makes sure no topic is untouched as Ivan diligently answers every question. The Filipino is amused to remark that he has the same short and simple manner of answering that his father has.
“Ivan, do you have a girlfriend? Fiancée?”
“I think it is time for lunch.” comes the answer, as Ivan looks up at the clock and gets up without a chance for Andres to push further, walking away into the kitchen. Aleksandr simply shakes his head disapprovingly and pats Andres’s knee.
Soon enough, the trio is piled into the kitchen. Ivan has clearly cooked some kind of feast, most of which Andres doesn’t recognize, but still looks delicious. Soups, bread, and other are abundant on the table. Lunch is spent silently, apart from the occasional compliment on the cooking by Andres. When he doesn’t hear Aleksandr agree, he quickly nudges the younger man with his foot, earning a grumbled, “The meal is wonderful, Vanya.”. Aleksandr and Ivan occasionally exchange a couple of remarks in Russian, but Andres is too occupied by the home cooked soup to really pay attention. He catches only their tones passingly, filled with tension and frustration. Still, nothing comes of it.
Once they are done with lunch, Andres helps pack the dishes into the sink. He insists on helping out with the washing, and Aleksandr excuses himself to some part of the house, declaring he wants to dig up some old pictures and such for their guest. It takes a couple of minutes, but Ivan and Andres fall into a comfortable rhythm with the dishes. The Russian’s quiet voice cuts through the clatter of dishes and sound of water flowing from the tap,
“You seem quite close with my father.”
Andres smiles, a friendly, foreign smile, “Of course! We are good friends after all!” his voice is cheery, light, seemingly oblivious to the suspicious eyes trailing on him.
Ivan looks a bit surprised at that and nods, “Right, right.” and he hesitates, just for a second.
Andres takes advantage of the hesitation, “You know, he is very proud of you.” he hums, taking the dish from Ivan’s motionless hands, “We both are.” Ivan looks at him incredulously and Andres continues, “I know he’s not the type to actually say it, but I can see it in the way he brags about you.” he offers a kind smile to Ivan, who looks absolutely starstruck, “ And I can see why! You are a handsome and smart young man, just like my sons. Much to be proud of and brag about.” And before the Russian can say anything, a deeper, gravelly voice calls out from the living room for Andres, informing him of the photo albums waiting on the living room table. He excuses himself politely, wiping his hands and leaving Ivan in the kitchen, frozen over the dishes. He takes a deep breath and continues washing the dishes. Whatever thoughts may be running through his head, there are no signs of them on his face anymore.
In the living room, Aleksandr has a pile of photo albums next to the coffee table, and one open on it. Andres sits down next to him and for the next few hours, they pour over them together. Ivan joins at some point, silent, watching the two interact. Andres watches the pictures with close attention. The similarities between Ivan and his father are even more apparent when the pictures of Aleksandr at his age surface. Spitting image, truly. Most of the time is spent by Aleksandr telling the stories behind every image. Ivan glares at his father has he recounts one more embarrassing childhood story, shaking his head when Andres laughs, putting a hand on the other man’s arm. If Andres notices the lack of photos and stories pertaining Aleksandr before the revolution, he doesn’t mention it.
“It took us thirty minutes to manage to get them all to pose for this one.” reminisces Aleksandr as he points to a large family picture. It takes up the entire page, and it seemingly has all the kids with Aleksandr and another, older looking man in front of the house. They are all dressed in formal clothes, and Aleksandr has in his hand a young child who clings onto him. As Andres leans against the other man to look at the picture better, Aleksandr puts a hand on his knee, squeezing softly. He pays it no mind, and they flip to the next page. The hand stays. Ivan almost misses the flicker of pride in his father’s eyes when they pass onto his and his siblings graduation pictures. He’s never noticed it before, it’s certainly easy to miss. He’s not sure how to feel about it.
As they come to the last album, Aleksandr glances at the clock, “It is going to get dark soon, we should go if we want to have a walk around still.” he murmurs, closing the album and putting it on the pile with the others, the dates on each inscribed with large golden letters. Andres nods enthusiastically and gets up, ushered by Aleksandr to go put on his many layers. He catches the faint sounds of Russian flowing between Aleksandr and Ivan. He can hear that Aleksandr’s tone shifts into something akin to nagging, and Ivan in turn sounds frustrated, before the sounds die down all together and heavy footsteps come towards the hallway.
By the time Aleksandr is putting on his coat, Andres is ready to go. Ivan stands in front of him, bidding goodbye politely,
“Thank you for coming.”
“Nonsense, thank YOU for the lunch and hospitality!” Andres smiles widely again.
Before Ivan has time to react, he launches forward to hug the boy, a large, tight, friendly and warm hug. Instead of flinching away or standing tensely, Ivan awkwardly hugs back and pats Andres’s back. Aleksandr glances at them, a flicker of surprise on his face before he’s back to tying his shoes. Andres lets go, reaching up to pat Ivan on his cheek, “Take care of yourself, son!” Ivan only nods. Aleksandr bids his goodbyes as well, in Russian and with a firm handshake.
When the door closes behind them, they start walking off on the beaten path towards the forest, with Aleksandr insisting they can’t go before Andres sees the surroundings too. And so, they walk along the beaten path through the forest. It’s calm and quiet, silence between them as Andres stares off at the tree crowns and lets himself be guided by their intertwined arms. They come upon a small lake just as the sun starts setting, filtering in through the break in the branches and reflecting in the water. Aleksandr guides Andres to sit on a clearly hand constructed bench nearby, and together they watch the orange, pink and blue hues play on the water as the sun retreats and the cold starts to set in.
Andres shuffles closer to his personal heater and looks up at said heater, observing his face carefully. The golden rays bathe his face in an angelic light, bringing out the colour of his eyes and the light freckles across his face. The shining eyes look down at him, holding his gaze. They watch, just as careful, amazement reflecting in them. After a few minutes of silence, when the sun passes, Andres looks back at the water, “This summer, you’re coming to the Philippines.” he declares. Aleksandr can’t help but chuckle,
“Am I?”
“Yes, you are. If you can freeze me, I can melt you.”
A hum. “Sounds fair.”
“We are going to visit Manila and then I’ll show you where we used to live.”
“It better be as beautiful as you say it is.”
“Of course it is!” comes the outraged response.
“Then it is settled; this summer will be in the Philippines.” a soft smile accompanies the promise.
Tomorrow, when Andres is accompanied to the airport by Aleksandr, he won’t be able to stop himself from looking back while he walks towards the security line and stopping when he sees Aleksandr standing, waiting, staring at him. He’ll be staying longer, he needs to get some affairs in order and help his son after all. Then, he’ll keep walking, heart beating a little faster, one thought repeating in his head over and over,
fandom: Countryhumans.
pairing: Katipunan x USSR.
summary: Andres has recovered from his sickness and the pair take a small tour of some museums around Moscow, with Aleksandr being the helpful guide he is.
genre: Fluff, historical documentary essentially, travels.
warning(s): Mentions of war, WW2, violence, death, rape, and power imbalance.
word count: 3,132 words.
authors note: OKAY, warning, this will be a historically heavy chapter. This is a glorified history lesson, essentially. Sorry not sorry guys. In the comments of the post, I'm gonna go over the historical references and explain which ones are tainted by Soviet's propaganda view and such.
Andres is Katipunan, Aleksandr is Soviet.
ao3 link
It takes a week or so, but Andres recovers from his cold and can finally breathe again. He’s still coughing occasionally, but that is to be expected after such an illness. Regardless, the Filipino man finally feels ready to explore the city again. Despite his insistence that he does feel completely fine now, Aleksandr also insists they take it easy and not spend too much time outside in the cold, lest Andres get sick again. After pouring over some flashy tourist pamphlets, they settle on going around a few museums before stopping by Aleksandr’s old home.
Once they each get their respective clothes on, Andres’s now including the proper amount of layers, they make their way down with the elevator, flustering Andres once again. They make their way outside and Aleksandr grabs a window cleaning tool to quickly scrape the snow off of the windshield before they get into the car. It’s cold, and Andres doesn’t even bother to take his coat off. With a glance, Aleksandr quickly turns up the heating, relaxing into his seat as he starts up the car and pulls out of the narrow parking spot. The streets are busy as always in the bustling capital, but the taller man navigates them skillfully, avoiding a patch of ice here and taking a short cut there. Andres takes the time to stare out the window at the tall buildings, some of them carved with intricate patterns while others remain a smooth concrete grey.
It wasn’t the first museums that they were dropping by. When Andres was already almost recovered, only some minor coughing left, and was feeling restless, Aleksandr drove them down to the Pushkin State Museum of Fine Arts. It was leisurely, the whole day being spent slowly wondering down the halls of the museum and sitting on the benches. Andres insisted on stopping beside every painting, observing every brush stroke and intentional placement of colour the author had placed to communicate the world they imagined. Standing in front of ‘Blue Dancers’, Aleksandr stood behind him, observing the various shades of blue tumbling together,
“Beautiful, is it not?”
“Gorgeous.”
A heavy sigh, “Beauty comes with great sorrow. Ballerinas were, essentially, prostitutes at the time. Degas did not participate in that, he forced them to pose for hours on end and cracked their joints painfully instead. He saw them as animals, nothing more than entertainment.” his gaze shifted from the painting to Andres, “Is it not surprising such beauty can come from that environment?”
Andres looked up a bit quizzically and paused, his eyes shining in the dim but illuminating light of the gallery, “Poor girls…”
Soviet preferred the historical exhibitions and sculptures, standing around and watching the grooves carved into the delicate marble with great appreciation or talking to Andres about the cultural and historical significance of an item.
While the fine arts tour was entertaining, Andres was craving some real substance and some more elongated and passionate rants from Aleksandr. And so, at his request, the first stop was the State Historical Museum. The ornate red building and green rooftop looms over them as Aleksandr finally pulls into a suitable parking spot. A gentleman as always, he helps the other get out and lets him link their arms together as they walk to the door.
“This is an incredibly large museum, it contains most of Russian history. It has forty halls” the taller man explains as he pays for the tickets.
He hands one to Andres, who takes it and observes it carefully, nodding as he unzips his coat. And so, the long, winding road down the halls of the museum starts.
The halls are filled with items and exhibits from all times of the spanning Russian state. The traditional clothing of Russian peasantry and royalty alike, paintings of the Romanov family, and an extensive and varied collection from the Soviet era. The audio guide offered at the entrance seems more and more obsolete as Aleksandr launches into new explanations for every item and every time frame. Andres watches him with sparkling eyes, still holding onto his arm as he talks about the Romanovs and their reputation among the population while they stand in front of a large painting of the family,
“It was also quite upsetting for the Russian people, even offensive, to have a Tsarina of foreign decent. It did not help that she was quite withdrawn and did not fulfill many of the duties expected from her. Her relationship with Rasputin also raised concerns. Nicholas was not any better of course, he was incompetent. He suffered from a very obvious inferiority complex that dragged the country into the ruinous world war. At his coronation ceremony’s celebration, more than a thousand people even got trampled to death when they tried to get drinks and food. A bad omen, you do not want your coronation to start by a period of mourning. Regardless, the whole royal family was utterly uncaring and frivolous, and unfit to rule too. They spent and lived in luxury while everyone else starved…” he glares at the painting and Andres for a moment wonders if he’s going to spit at it, but the Russian man just shrugs,
“So we shot them.”
His point about luxury is punctuated by the various jewels and expensive paintings around them.
The rest of the tour continues in a similar fashion, small anecdotes and cultural context added to the already rich in information exhibits of the museum, until they reach the beginning of the Soviet era. Andres doubts he’s ever heard Aleksandr talk so much in one sitting, but he really doesn’t mind. In fact, he considers telling Aleksandr they should visit a museum tomorrow as well, and the day after, just to see him talk endlessly. Not that Andres retains more than a quarter of the actual information, but Aleksandr doesn’t mind repeating himself anyways. They stand in front of an exhibit on only Lenin, and Aleksandr takes the liberty to extend the lesson into some ideological background in honour of it,
“And he was so passionate about everything he said Andres. You should have seen him when he gave his speeches. There are recordings, I suppose, but nothing comes close to the feeling of standing in front of that stage and watching him speak. It really gets you fired up. You’d understand why so many people believe in him. He truly believed in the equality of people, the education and rule of the working class. His teachings were revolutionary and genius, they were followed and cited the entirety of my lifetime. It was just what the people needed; along with bread, peace, and land of course.” he sighs, looking at the hat in the glass case.
He stares wistfully, full of nostalgia. Andres doesn’t think he’s seen Aleksandr this happy to reminisce about the old times before, although it is clear the man is proud of his past and accomplishments, and only guilty for some obscure parts.
The rest of the halls of this section go by almost achingly slow and much the same. The Russian man is full of personal anecdotes about seemingly every mildly important figure of his own history. Andres doesn’t tire of it though, not when he’s heard about the redistribution of housing and land from kulaks to the true workers ten times, and not when he’s heard it a hundred times. The historical items themselves are of great interest too. Aleksandr helps him practice his Cyrillic reading on an odd letter or address, even though he struggles like a kindergartner. As he goes through more and more of the items, Andres comes to two real conclusions; Aleksandr very much still dresses like a Soviet man, and the Soviets were really really fond of the colour red. His own flag is mostly red and he hasn’t seen this much red before. Although, the obsession with the star symbol is a close second on that list. As with any history, it is impossible to avoid the darker sides of history when talking about the positives. Aleksandr talks only briefly about the more painful periods and Andres doesn’t push. It’s a sensitive topic, and the man must feel terrible for all the suffering of his people.
Overall, it takes them more than half a day to get through the museum. By the time they exit, lunch time has passed and they are both famished. Leaving the car at it’s previous parking place, they take a walk down to the Red Square, window shopping the various restaurants on the way before settling on a cozy looking place in one of the side alleys. Aleksandr takes care of the talking, both for his knowledge of Russian and to have mercy on Andres’s still sore throat. The Filipino gets served a tea for the latter, long before they even decide on a dish. The taller takes his time to translate and explain all the dishes on the relatively short menu before Andres settles on some borscht, egged on by his partner,
“Choose this one. Soup will do you good.” he says, although Andres still doesn’t quite understand what borscht is made of.
The lunch goes by calmly and uneventfully. They mostly eat in silence, looking out of the window and enjoying the temporary calm. The food is good, and Andres interrupts the comfortable silence a couple of times to praise the borscht and nag Aleksandr on why he can’t cook like this,
“It’s just so perfectly seasoned. I guess the cook is just more experienced than you!” he smiles mischievously,
Aleksandr frowns, “You’ve never complained about my cooking before.”
“I had nothing to compare it to. Now I should start.”
Aleksandr frowns deeper and despite his large stature, Andres can’t help but see a hurt puppy in his place.
After the lunch, they head to the second museum of the day— the Museum of the Great Patriotic War. Aleksandr parks the car outside Victory Park, and the two link arms once again for the short walk to the museum itself. On the way, Andres takes the time to appreciate his surroundings once again. The light snow on the branches, the blanket covering the ground and crunching under his feet, it’s all so foreign to him, yet he’s starting to really understand why Aleksandr loves it so much. He looks back to the man, catching his eye momentarily before the head quickly moves to look at the trees again as well. He smiles slightly and sighs, returning to look at the trees again as well, although he leans in just a bit closer to the Russian.
The atmosphere of the museum is much more solemn and heavy than their previous stop. As they stepped inside at the State museum, he could see Aleksandr vibrating out of his skin with excitement to introduce Andres to his beloved and cherished history. Yet here, his steps are heavy, almost hesitant, like he doesn’t want to go in. It’s no surprise, of course. The entire building is dedicated to the most brutal war Aleksandr has every fought, and he’s not keen to revisit the memory. Regardless, he assures Andres it’s an important museum to visit and buys the tickets, handing one to the smaller man as they advance in.
This museum is equally as large, yet it feels more taxing. They advance through, mostly silent this time as Andres reads the English explanations for all the battles and various awards or soldiers used as examples. Aleksandr seems taken by the photographs specifically. He stares at them, almost too long, before shaking his head or looking down and moving on. Andres makes sure to hold onto him during this museum too, although it’s less for himself now. After an exhibition showing a scene from a war ridden part of the countryside, dirt dug up by bombs and hardened by the freezing temperatures, Aleksandr finally speaks up,
“We were brave and we won, that should be celebrated.” he suddenly declares, but Andres knows him and waits patiently for the rest, “I saw some very brave men out there. Braver than me. They send me out to the front, so what? I only die if my country dies, and it was not dead yet. But my people, they died from random bullets, from diseases, from cold. They were more vulnerable, it was braver of them to venture to the front.” he speaks quietly, almost as if he wasn’t speaking to Andres at all.
The other man waits but nothing more is said. The conversation picks up after that. The weight of the situation is not lifted, but Aleksandr seems… more open. He tells stories at some of the battles, of the things he’s seen. The images of starving women and children, no bodies piled up because it wasn’t worth retreating them. Most importantly, he tells the stories he heard from the women and children. The bitterness in their voices when they talked about the war taking a husband, or sons, or both. The anger and vitriol towards the Germans, not only for invading their land and killing their loved ones, but for forcing the young girls into prostitution, for raping the young and old as they passed through the countryside, and looting the villages for their own gains, leaving others to starve. Andres simply listens, although horrified by the tales.
“The most horrible part was never the battle, although that was hell on earth too. No, the most horrible part was when the adrenaline wore off and you walked through the field, taking in the remnants of your men. An arm here, a leg there. A dead horse, a dead man.” he shook his head, “The look on the faces of men forever changed, men who have seen hell and just want to die for some rest at last stays burned in your memory. Especially when they were all so young.” his face looks pained at the last sentence.
Aleksandr talks about the good too, the heroic and light. He recounts some of the jokes commonly told in the battlefield, a darker type of humour but humour nonetheless,
“The Germans would try to taunt us on the radios sometimes, but they also made jokes. Like, ‘Rus, do you wanna swap an Uzbek for a Romanian?’. We had jokes in between us too. Our pilots, they were doing their best, but they had a nasty habit of bombing everything that moved, including us. So the joke went ‘Ours, ours? Then where’s my helmet?’” he chuckled to himself, sighing softly.
He continues with small anecdotes of how everyday life continued on regardless of the war, of men chasing women, and heroic tales from some soldiers. Although there is no personal anecdote attached to this one, Andres is particularly taken by the stories of the Night Witches. He can’t fully imagine climbing out of a plane and turning an engine on and off in mid air while also bombing Nazis, so his respect for the women is immediately at an all time high. Seeing the look on his face, Aleksandr continues with the story of Lyudmila Pavlichenko, one of the deadliest snipers in history. He tells it with pride, Andres can see it.
The silence falls upon them once again as the halls transition to a long list of commanders. Aleksandr takes his time, stopping at the ones where he recognises a face and pays his respects silently. Andres lets him have the time and simply watches patiently, patting his arm once he comes back. Finally, the weight lifts and only it’s shadow stays as they exit the museum. It could have been longer, but Andres doesn’t want to keep Aleksandr in more distress than he need to be.
The way back to the car is dark, the street lights and Christmas lights around the park and surrounding buildings being the only illumination for them. Andres shivers slightly, the drop in temperature brought on by the darkness chills him down to his bones. It’s been dark for a while now, it was already starting to get dark when they had gone to the museum, the sun isn’t a good indicator for time in Russia in the winter. Despite this, the darkness carries the same undertones as the dead of night, and Andres sticks closer to Aleksandr with a yawn. He might be aware it’s only late afternoon, but his body sure isn’t. The prickly cold and walk helps them both wind down, and Aleksandr visibly relaxes by the time they arrive back to the car. Andres looks up at him, taking in the features of the other under the warm street light. He is clearly still preoccupied by his thoughts, a slight frown on his face, his eyes looking into the distance like he is somewhere else altogether.
Andres shivers and slips into the car as Aleksandr does, the latter immediately turning up the heat as he leans back in his seat. Andres yawns again, sighing at the warmth starting to fill the car and warm up his frosted body. Aleksandr looks over to him, observing the almost curled up body on his passenger seat,
“Let’s head home.”
Andres looks up at him, frowning, “We still have to go up to that house you wanted to show him, no?”
“You look tired and cold.” comes the retort, as if it was the most obvious thing.
“I’m fine. Lets go”
Aleksandr stares for a while as Andres straightens his back and fights off the exhaustion in his limbs to look more energised. He might be recovered from his illness, but it still took a toll on his body and he will tire more easily in the next few days.
Still, there’s no hope arguing with Andres. Instead, Aleksandr turns on the radio, the soft classical music filling the car as he pulls out. The soft hum of the car, warm air, and music make it hard to keep awake for Andres. He leans his head back against the seat of the car, watching the buildings pass them outside on the street. His eyelids feel heavy, and they keep closing on their own, his head lulling to the side before energy strikes him again and he straightens up. Well, if his body requires it so much, it cannot be that bad to just close his eyes until they get to the house. He’ll feel refreshed when they’re there that way! And so he does, leaning his head onto his own shoulder.
He doesn’t wake up when Aleksandr pulls in in front of the apartment instead of the house, nor does he wake up when the other lifts him in his arms and carries him up, taking off his clothes with care and tucking him into the bed the same.
fandom: Countryhumans.
pairing: Katipunan x USSR.
summary: As it turns out, Andres is not invincible and comes down with a nasty cold. Luckily, Aleksandr is there to play nurse and make sure he doesn't accidentally give himself pneumonia.
genre: Sickfic, mild hurt/comfort, domestic fluff.
warning(s): General sickness stuff.
word count: 2,175 words.
authors note: Everyone take a deep breath right now and be glad your nose isn't clogged. Does anybody notice that I gave them each a speech quirk??
ao3 link.
Andres had never been good at admitting defeat.
His pride would never let him, and he rarely had to anyways. The body shaking coughing fit he is currently experiencing might prove to be one of the rare things that does make him resign. He clutches his knees, doubled over as the coughing finally subsides. Aleksandr is in front of him, a concerned look on his face.
“We are staying home today, you cannot go out like that.”
“For the last time, I’m fine! It’s just a little cough”
“It sounds like you have the Spanish Flu.”
“My lungs aren’t even-” another rough cough, “They’re not even crackling.”
“Fine, pneumonia then. Either way, you’re in no state to leave the apartment.”
The argument has been going for about five minutes now, and neither of them were budging. Before Andres could reply, Aleksandr puts a hand to his forehead, eyebrows drawing together,
“You have a fever too.”
“I don’t feel like I do.” he says, a cold shiver running down his back while he sweats buckets.
“Okay, then I have a fever.”
“What?” Andres’s expression twists into a deep confusion as Aleksandr stares back down, his own expression unreadable.
“I have a fever. My throat hurts. And I am not feeling up to going out. So we are staying home.” he declares, letting a moment pass before giving a terribly unconvincing fake cough.
Andres stares back, at a loss for words. Without a word, he kicks off his untied shoes and sheds his thick coat, trying his best to hang it on the coat rack, but he keeps missing. Aleksandr reaches up and puts it up for him, taking off his scarf too before gently herding him deeper into the apartment. Andres grumbles to himself, too easily defeated but he doesn’t have the energy to argue more than that. Truthfully, Andres feels like death. His skin is overly sensitive to every material it touches, including the air. Every breath feels like someone is water boarding him, and every consequent swallow makes him feel like his throat is being stabbed with a thousand needles. He sniffles a little as he sits down on the couch, glaring up at the Russian — the very healthy looking Russian — who simply drapes a blanket over him,
“I will run you a warm bath. It’ll help.” he declares before sauntering off towards the bathroom.
Andres doesn’t even bother to comment, leaning back on the couch and drawing the blanket closer to himself. He stares at the turned off television, letting his mind drift and his thoughts empty, focusing on simply surviving and not drowning in his own mucus. He’s not sure how much time passes before Aleksandr comes back to the living room and helps him up. Every movement makes his joints ache and he can already feel a dull pain building in his head, no doubt from the pressure in his sinuses, which feel like they’re about to explode. Aleksandr guides him to the bathroom, closing the door behind them. Reluctantly, Andres lets him take the blanket, feeling cold without it despite the thick sweater and general layers he is now boasting.
“I will be right back. Get comfortable in the bath.” instructs the taller man before slipping out with the blanket.
Andres looks behind him sluggishly at the white tiled bathtub. It’s filled with water and steaming, so inviting if it wasn’t separated from him by the hurdle of having to get undressed first. He sighs deeply, slowly undressing himself. Every movement feels painful in that distinctly sickly way. After lots of effort, he’s finally undressed and can slide into the boiling water. He sighs deeply, slipping in until the water touches his chin. The steam immediately starts working on his clogged nose and mucus filled lungs, and he sniffles slightly before opening his mouth to take a deep breath. This proves to be a counteractive movement as it’s immediately followed by a deep cough. It sounds disgusting and wet, clearly coming from deep within his chest, but he feels relieved as the spasm finally liberates some of his bronchioles and doesn’t just exhaust him. He closes his eyes, letting his aching body relax, trying his best not to fall asleep.
He doesn’t bother opening his eyes as Aleksandr comes into the bathroom, only doing so when he hears the clatter of a plastic tray being placed on the floor next to the bathtub. He looks down at it, a steaming hot cup of tea, a few snacks on a large plate, tissues, and various medications of which he only recognizes the nasal spray and pain killers. Aleksandr’s is cleaning his foggy reading glasses as he sits down next to the tub, leaning against it,
“It’s chamomile tea, with lots of honey. You can take some Strepsil if your throat hurts too much, and I have some antipyretics too, but the fever is good for you, only take them if it gets too bad.” he instructs while opening his book and flipping a couple pages.
Andres stares, blinking before closing his eyes again, not bothering to respond. It hurts his throat too much. He can feel himself relax more, propping his head up against the side of the bathtub and slowly drifting off. Aleksandr glances up from his book occasionally, making sure Andres is still alive, before his eyes drift back to the pages. He occasionally steals some of the snacks too, it’s not like Andres is eating them anyways. Andres spends the next hour or two drifting in and out of sleep. He’s deathly tired but cannot seem to stay asleep for long. Aleksandr uses the moments of lucidity to force the tea on him, insisting he drink it before it goes cold. Andres is reluctant to agree it does help. It’s a miracle he even got the other into the bath, so Aleksandr doesn’t insist on Andres eating, for now. He stares at the wheezing figure with a frown, he must be really sick, letting Aleksandr take care of him like this.
The Russian also checks the temperature of the water every now and then, and when he feels it’s getting cold, he gently wakes up Andres. The latter stares up at him with a halfhearted glare but eventually gives in and lets him help him out of the bath. Aleksandr hands him a towel before gathering up the tray and sliding out with it, leaving Andres to dry himself. The small gust of room temperature air feels ice cold in the warm bathroom and is wholly unwelcome. It feels less painful to move after the bath, but Andres feels drowsy, so he keeps his movements slow as he dries himself. He looks around the small room, about to brave it and slide out with the towel before he notices the pile of fresh clothes on the toilet lid. Before he can put them on, Aleksandr slips back in, a tub of Vicks VapoRub in hand. It takes a bit of convincing before Andres allows the Russian to rub it on him, but Aleksandr swears by the damned thing like it’s the cure to cancer. Once he’s finished and Andres’s skin has absorbed most of the cream, he puts on the too large shirt and sweater, although they are quite comfortable and warm, before moving on to the rest.
Feeling a bit more prepared for the Antarctic conditions in the heated apartment, he opens the door and walks out, shuffling into the living room. Unlike before, the curtains are drawn, leaving the room in darkness. The couch has been supplemented with the foot rest to form a mini bed, complete with sheets, pillows and blankets. At the edge of it sits Aleksandr, who doesn’t look away from the television as he pats the space next to him. Andres moves in, immediately making himself at home with the pile of blankets. The headache hasn’t gotten any worse, but it thrums with determination in the background of his senses. He notices that the tray is now on the coffee table, with everything magically refilled. He moves to lean forward for the cup, but Aleksandr beats him to it, handing it to him gently,
“What do you want to watch?” he asks, his voice softer than usual.
Andres is about to respond when he glances at the television. He recognises the characters almost immediately; it’s an older episode of one of his favourite drama series. He’s not entirely sure how Aleksandr managed to find this, but he doesn’t question it too much,
“This is fine.”
Aleksandr nods and leaves the remote to him, getting up and sauntering off to the kitchen. Andres briefly wonders what he’s up to before his attention is caught by the events on the screen again. He can hear the muted sounds of plates and such clattering in the kitchen, so Aleksandr must be making lunch. Although the bath feels reviving, it’s not long before the need for sleep starts to creep back in. So, Andres puts the cup down and gets as comfortable as possible in the makeshift bed, pulling the blankets above him to keep him warm and propping his head up with the many pillows. He glances at the medication on the tray for second, as his throat does hurt more every time he swallows, but decides he isn’t that weak yet and he can make it through without any sort of help. Not that he is that sick, anyways. Although, he is grateful that the Russian has provided him with a makeshift trashcan for tissues so he doesn’t need to get up every ten minutes when his nose gets backed up.
He jolts awake slightly to soft shaking. He sits up reluctantly, looking around with confusion, before he finally gets his bearings. He looks at the television, frowning. That’s quite a lot of episodes forward, how long was he asleep? Aleksandr gently pokes him again to get his attention. He’s holding a bowl of some kind of soup. The older man sighs and gladly takes it, curling up again, and making sure not to spill any of the soup as the couch dips with Aleksandr sitting down. Instinctively, Andres leans into his side, partially to stabilise himself. Aleksandr shuffles occasionally as they watch the series, glancing at Andres eating and then at the screen. The silence makes him feel weird, and the lack of comments and quips from Andres worried. Hesitantly, he starts making small comments on the events. It’s occasional and short, but it gives the opportunity for Andres to nod along as commentary on the particularly juicy scenes. By the time he’s finished the soup, he’s making small comments of his own every now and then.
And so, this is how they spend the rest of their day. Andres swings in and out of sleep, taking long naps, while Aleksandr either takes care of him or watches television with him. Andres’s general well being deteriorates as it gets later and later, but that’s to be expected with any illness. However, by the end of the day, he’s actually coughing up the mucus instead of just killing his chest muscles. This is however accompanied by about two or three bags full of used tissues, which Aleksandr diligently takes out to the bigger trashcans in front of the apartment building.
The couch set up is repeated for their bed. A makeshift trashcan on Andres’s side, plenty of pillow and blankets, tissues, medication and tea on his nightstand. Aleksandr helps him to the bed, instructing Andres to pull up his shirt and sweater and lay down. The Vicks VapoRub container is once again brought forward, and Andres accepts his minty fate as large hands carefully rub the cream into his skin. The sharp, fresh smell does unclog one of his nostrils momentarily, which is great relief for those few seconds. And the massage of Aleksandr’s strong yet gentle hands generally always feels good. The real fight starts when the latter insists the Filipino should take at least a pain killer but possibly something to help him sleep too. Andres is vehemently opposed to this. Finally, they compromise and he takes the sleeping pill, but Aleksandr keeps the pain killer propped up on the nightstand.
“Just in case.”
“I’m not taking it. I’m not weak.”
“I did not say you were.”
Aleksandr is the last to crawl into bed, no matter how much Andres insists they should sleep separately lest Aleksandr falls sick too. The smaller man can feel the strong arms wrap around him as he’s tugged closer, his back pressed against the other’s chest. He sighs, coughing slightly before relaxing, already starting to feel the effects of the pill.
“You’re gonna get sick if you hold me so close.”
“I am already sick, remember?”
Silence.
“I’ll wake you up with my coughing and tossing and turning.”
“I will stay awake the whole night if you need me to.”
More silence. Aleksandr can feel his arms being hugged closer.
fandom: Countryhumans.
pairing: Katipunan x USSR.
summary: Set a bit earlier in their relationship, Andres and Aleksandr's usually drinking session leads to something not so usual but just as pleasing and rewarding..
genre: Smut and fluff, dry humping, plot what plot.
warning(s): NSFW.
word count: 2,139 words.
authors note: I hope the descent into the haziness was correctly transmitted for Andres. I have so much I could overanalyse about this but peep Andres being scared of intimacy and Aleksandr taking care of himself in the bathroom instead. The internalised homophobia with these guys go hard. I need to write about the aftermath of one of them having a wet dream about the other ASAP.
Andres is Katipunan. Aleksandr is Soviet.
ao3 link.
It’s not gay.
Really, it isn’t! They both agreed on that, and they’re both straight so why would they do something gay? It isn’t even full on sex! Neither of them are unclothed, no different than grinding with a pretty lady at the club. Except she has a dick. Maybe it’s a little different.
Andres’s thought process is interrupted by an electric chill that shoots up his spine, momentarily plunging his thoughts into a blissful pool of nothingness. He blinks, his surroundings sinking in once again, and he wonders why he’d even want to ignore them when every touch feels so good. The large hands on his hips squeeze him once before drawing him closer and the reaction is immediate— he bites his lip tightly and lets out an almost pathetic whiny sound, trying hard not to buck his hips. The room is quiet, yet full of noise at the same time, the panting from both of them almost bouncing off the walls of the living room. There’s a barely contained weight on top of him, he can feel how heavy it would be if Aleksandr just sank onto him even with the latter putting minimal weight on him. The feeling makes him shiver, a stark reminder of how easily Aleksandr can man handle him to do whatever he wants.
A raspy groan leaves his throat as the Russian rolls his hips again, the shock of pleasure from the movement bolts sharply through his crotch then thighs then belly before dulling out, leaving a pleasant warmth that makes his leg twitch. The feeling doesn’t have time to fade fully before the next shock comes and then the next, until the pleasure feels constant and Andres is gasping and clawing at Aleksandr’s back. It’s not long before strong hands guide him to flip around, forcing him face first onto the couch. No words are exchanged, but Andres doesn’t resist and that sends a clear enough message. He tilts his head to the side to breathe better. He can feel a hesitant kiss on his neck and the intimate gesture makes him freeze, even though he desperately wants to keen and ask for more.
Aleksandr doesn’t leave him much time to think about the gesture before his mind is occupied with new sensations, the hard tent pressing up against his ass roughly, one hand drawing his hips back to meet the motion and the other pushing him further into the couch by his back. A grimace crawls onto his face, such an embarrassing position, but once again his time of pondering is cut short by powerful roll of Aleksandr’s hips, pressing his own into the couch. His own crotch rubs against the couch with the movement, sending a blissful ever consuming tingling up his cock. The feeling makes his back arch instinctively, pressing up against the other man firmly, who lets out an appreciative groan in return and bucks his hips.
The movements repeat, Aleksandr rolls his hips or bucks, pressing or rubbing Andres against the couch, leaving both of them panting and groaning. Andres can hear Aleksandr panting above him heavily, it sounds almost desperate. The desperation flows into the way his hips move and the hold he has on the smaller man. The thought that Aleksandr, the big powerful former superpower, is desperate for him, the failed revolutionary, sends a spark through Andres unlike any other, and he can feel himself get desperate as well, pressing up against the Russian harder and whining into the couch. The man above lets out an airy chuckle before doubling his efforts, panting more heavily with the movements.
Andres tries to suppress the whimper forcing it’s way out of his throat but fails. The only saviour of his dignity is the muffling of the sound by the couch cushion. The strength of the bucks moves his body further up on the couch every time, leaving Aleksandr to chase the sweet release of the friction with a frustrated huff. The feeling isn’t very pleasant, it stretches and twists Andres’s skin against the couch every time he moves. In a swift movement, he reaches forward and steadies himself on the arm of the couch, stuffing his face into the decorative pillow. Successfully, Andres isn’t pushed forwards anymore and can now fully feel the effort, the tent in his pants rubbing more firmly against the couch and the hard cock above him digging into his ass harder. The feeling makes him needier, shame burning lowly in his stomach mingling with the sparks of pleasure.
He bites his lip to keep quiet, unwilling to moan from another man simply grinding against him. The friction and pressure aren’t as firm or as defined as when he jerks off, especially through the thin layers of clothing, but the lack somehow makes him more sensitive and doubles the pleasure, creating a more than pleasant feedback loop. He raises his head from the pillow, his eyes landing on the wall in front of him in the dark room. His eyesight feels blurry, his mind feels blurry by now too, too overtaken by the desperation and lust to really think about his actions. Aleksandr slides forward slightly, leaning onto Andres’s back more, his chest pressing against the other’s back, his face in the crook of his neck. Andres sinks back into the pillow at the feeling, his body moving without a thought as he rolls his hips against Aleksandr.
The Russian groans a bit louder, stopping his movements for a second before carrying on, his hand sliding up to hold Andres’s shoulder instead of his back. Andres repeats the movement, earning himself more groans and even a whine. He smiles drunkenly, not just from the alcohol. The panting above him gets louder as Aleksandr leans further down, and the proximity drives Andres almost crazy, his fists clenching around the fabric of the pillow. His mind is still clear enough to register and be shocked at the kisses pressed against his sensitive neck, but he’s too far gone to care, leaning his head to the side, his mouth parting in a silent moan as Aleksandr licks the skin in a long motion. The wet feeling sends a bolt of pleasure straight to his dick and he bucks, although he can’t even tell against what anymore.
He can barley tell the rythmn Aleksandr is maintaining, the small bursts of ecstasy blending together into an infuriatingly sweet cocktail of want and need. Andres feels hot, and not just in the figurative sense. He can feel the heat from the man above him and he can feel his own body heat up as he sinks further and further into the pleasure. He whines a bit louder, squeezing the decorative pillow, frowning to himself. God, he wants more, he wants so much more yet he doesn’t at the same time. A confusing feeling really. He wants more of the same, he thinks, more of the grinding in this exact situation, more of Aleksandr, more of the pleasure and more of Aleksandr— a moan slips out of his throat and Andres doesn’t even care anymore. He feels like crying, the pleasure is so much, his legs keep twitching and shaking slightly from the effort of taking it all.
A muffled gasp, followed by a moan comes from the pillow as Aleksandr sucks expertly on the sensitive skin of his neck. He thought of the mark from this doesn’t even cross Andres’s mind as he vaguely pleads for more. Aleksandr is happy to oblige, sucking deep hickeys onto Andres’s shoulder and neck, following some up with playful teasing bites that have Andres quivering, wishing he was feeling the full force of those canine like teeth. He’s not sure how much time has passed, it feels like hours yet minutes at the same time. His head is swimming with a lust induced fog and he can feel his cock starting to twitch in his crotch every time it comes against any friction, so sensitive from the teasing grinding and humping of the poor couch cushion.
Despite the lack of more direct stimulation, Andres can feel the coil start to build in his lower abdomen as he gets hotter and the pleasure mounts more than usual. His mind, previously fogged by the need for more, now shifts its focus and the only thing Andres wants is to cum. He whines louder, rolling his hip more firmly and with more precise movements against Aleksandr in hopes of getting back more and harder thrusts and rolls. He feels his heartbeat and breathing pick up, the coil in his belly starting to tighten and his muscles starting to tighten. He bucks his hips erratically, and although he is sure Aleksandr can feel the signs, the strong muscly hand holds his hips in place, forcing his orgasm to build slowly and stronger.
Andres is gasping, moans spilling from his throat by the time he feels ready to cum. His legs are trembling from the effort and without thinking he raises his head from the pillow slightly and moans out Aleksandr’s name. The sharp thrust that responds sends him barrelling over the edge. The tension in him snaps suddenly yet his muscles tense more, his back arching almost painfully, and he can’t help the assortment of whimpers and desperate moans that flow out of him. The waves of hot and intense pleasure flow over him, spreading from his crotch to his thighs and fading into his stomach and legs as he grips onto the couch for dear life, gasping for a breath. All he can think about and feel is his orgasm and he swears his vision goes bright white for a second and a ringing sound spreads loudly in his hearing.
He doesn’t know how long it takes him to come down from the high, his vision and mind slowly clearing up, the remnants of his orgasm flushing a pleasant and dull warmth across his body as his now sore muscles finally relax. A feeling of unparalleled satisfaction accompanies the warmth, forcing a small smile on his face. The ringing sound slowly fades out and his arch drops down flat, a small grimace on his face as he is also made aware of the wet, hot pool near his crotch. That’s gonna be a mess to clean up later. The sound of heavy panting, both his own and Aleksandr’s is the next thing his mind decides is worth processing. His own muscles are slack, one of his arms fallen down the side of the couch, yet Aleksandr remains strong above him, still holding him, face still dangerously close to the sensitive parts of his neck.
Andres frowns at the realisation that he can still feel a hard, hot tent against his ass, and he tries to wiggle his hips against it but Aleksandr’s hands force his him to stay still. They stay like this for a while, until Andres makes a move to finally sit up. The movement feels like it takes the energy to run a marathon and Soviet helps him up. It’s late, and the drowsiness from the alcohol and his orgasm is starting to hit, but he still wants to return the favour. He looks up at Aleksandr’s, who’s pale face still clearly shows a red tint even in the dark room, and shoots him a questioning expression. The latter shakes his head and simply nudges Andres to stand up,
“Come on, you have to shower.”
Andres whines and doesn’t move, it feels too heavy and like too much anyways. He can nap on the couch like this, he doesn’t mind. Aleksandr minds, greatly so, but he still recognises how tired his neighbour is. With a heavy sigh, he gets up and shuffles off somewhere. Andres closes his eyes, they feel just as heavy as his limbs now, but before he can reach the sweet release of sleep, Aleksandr is back with a hot damp cloth and some of his own clothes folded neatly. He hands them to Andres wordlessly and the smaller man gets the message, slipping off his clothes as the Russian turns around to give him privacy.
The effort is monumental and Andres feels like he’s lifting sixty kilos but it’s worth it because he does feel much fresher after cleaning himself off and changing clothes. He sets the old clothes and rag in a pile at the bottom of the couch and keels over, eyes closing as soon as his head hits the pillow. By the time Aleksandr turns around at the slight thump sound, Andres is asleep. He barely registers as Aleksandr scoops him up and tucks him into bed (although he does immediately hog the warm blanket) and then returns to pick up the sullied clothes, tossing them into the hamper before retreating to the bathroom.
hi robinn you don't gotta answer this or anything and im just on anon cause im scareds but i do have a question i cant really google and you would probably have the answer ? maybe?
im making something that'll mention new zealand/aotearoa in it, is aotearoa not a name that should be used for the place if im not from there or is that alright? i know it's an indigenous word a bunch of people there use but i am v much not one and i thought maybe check with an actual person first . just in case?
again you don't gotta answer this is just info that's kinda hard to find or even trust if i do 😔
NO PLEASE GO FOR IT!!!!! the more people using it, the more well known it becomes and the more traction it has as a name [: I'm pākehā and I've only ever gotten positive reactions from māori people when I say aotearoa instead of new zealand. it's much appreciated!
if you want to go a step further, you could use the individual names for each island. aotearoa is actually only the name for the north island, it's just been largely adopted as a name for the entire concept of the country. the north and south island together can be aotearoa me te waipounamu, which basically translates to the land of the long white cloud and the waters of greenstone.
other names include te ika-a-māui for the north island and te waka-a-māui for the south island (the fish and the boat of māui respectively) [:
fandom: Countryhumans.
pairing: Katipunan x USSR.
summary: Andres and Aleksandr take a walk to vorob'yevy gory and end up starting a vicious war.
genre: domestic fluff, playing around in the snow.
warning(s): none.
word count: 2,132 words.
authors note: I don't know about this one guys, feels rocky. Sorry if it is, I'm not used to multi chapters but you gotta start writing them to get better at them right?
Andres is Katipunan, Aleksandr is Soviet.
ao3 link.
A fresh coat of crisp snow covered Moscow in the early hours of the day. The layer on the road already turning brown, loosing it’s crisp state in favour of a more liquid mush under the car tires. The two men miss the breathtaking sight by only an hour. Aleksandr was first to wake, right and early at six, ready to get their day going. As his eyes landed on the sleeping form of Andres, his chest rising slowly under the covers before falling again, curled into the warm escape from the cold apartment, Aleksandr decides maybe sleeping a little more couldn’t hurt. He tries to go back to sleep, but it evades him, his glances rounding back to the peaceful expression on Andres.
At seven, Andres finally stirs next to Aleksandr, who thinks the travel must have worn him out, sleeping in so late. With both men are finally awake, sitting at the kitchen table and eating breakfast. Andres sits sluggishly, his back arching as he hunches over the eggs and bacon and sips the coffee — Aleksandr had gone down to the store to have something proper to eat in the morning. The latter sits straight, big bites already missing of the gluten free toast slathered with homemade peach jam, a leftover of the kindness of summer. They seldom talk during the meal, instead falling back into the previous evening’s rhythm, with Andre staring out of the window at the snow and Aleksandr staring at him.
With breakfast done, they clean up together (despite healthy amount of protests from Aleksandr, as guests shouldn’t be forced to clean) and start getting ready for the day. A great advantage of their height difference is presented in the limited space of the bathroom, as Aleksandr can easily stand behind Andres to allow both of them to see themselves in the mirror. As the Filipino man leans down to pick out his clothes for the day, noting with disdain that Aleksandr was right and all his clothes do feel way too thin for the current weather, he breaks the silence,
“Where are we going today?”
“Wherever you want.”
“This is your city, you pick! I don’t know what there is to see.”
This is met with a small hum of acknowledgement and another pause before Aleksandr replies with a curt nod, his voice still laced with the remnants of an early morning rasp,
“Very well. I will show you around.”
His response is too cryptic, leaving Andres to frown while the other turns around and struts out towards the front door.
After finally deciding on what to wear, Andres steps out of the bedroom to find Aleksandr leaning over a pamphlet or book, jotting down some things onto a paper besides him. He looks up, a weird subtle grimace etched onto his face as he looks at what Andres is wearing. He himself has on thick layers of wool, all working to insulate his body heat and protect him against the unforgiving Russian winter. Compared to that, Andres is wearing the equivalent of bed sheets. Still, with a pointed glare from the latter, he knows better than to comment on it.
Once they both have their coats and boots on, they head out and take the anxiety inducing elevator again. With disappointment, Andres notes that it feels much more spacious without the luggage there to take up half the space. As the front door of the apartment complex opens, the two men are hit with a strong wave of cold. It hits them like a clean, crisp slap in the face and Andres shivers at the thought of having to walk in this weather. Luckily, Aleksandr is smart enough to notice and offers to drive around instead of walk. Unluckily, Andres is a stubborn bastard.
“The city is just as beautiful from the car.”
“We could barely park last night. I’m fine, let’s walk!”
“You will catch a cold and I will have to become a nurse.”
“Don’t be ridiculous! I can’t be taken down by a simple cold anyways, unlike you, weakling.” retorts Andres, to which Aleksandr simply rolls his eyes and starts down the street. Andres wins every one of their fights anyways because for him, Aleksandr gives in too easily.
The snow crunches under their boots sharply as they walk, providing a fitting backdrop of the white and grey city. As they approach towards more historical parts of the center, the streets get narrower, clearly built for a different time, when horses hooves still accompanied the sound of wheels. With the narrow streets, the buildings start to change shape too, the architecture transforming into functional works of art. They are clearly old but beautiful nonetheless, their facades painted with detailed decorations carved out of marble, sometimes depicting full figures. Andres can’t take his eyes away, the residential buildings and the banality of being surrounded by art taking up so much of his attention that he doesn’t notice when he is about to walk into a pole and is only saved by a firm tug from Aleksandr.
From then on, Andres keeps his arm locked around Aleksandr’s so he is free to stare and gawk at whatever he wishes. They pass by landmarks, even stopping at a few as Aleksandr explains the history and context behind everything from statues to buildings. Sometimes, Andres can swear he sees a flash of something, grief or regret, as Aleksandr pauses in his story, before he picks back up again and continues with pride. Still, it is clear the views aren’t the reason they are walking through, although they are a welcome addition to the journey and the Russian promises to come back to them at a later date, perhaps a warmer day they can dedicate to sight seeing.
They follow the wide winding river that cuts across the city, crossing a bridge at some point. Andres wonders if it ever freezes over. For now, they slowly close in on the their destination; a park. It’s extensive, spreading out before them lavishly. The ground is covered in almost pristine white snow, the only disturbances along the man made paths forged to let commuters pass. Andres feels his breath catch at the sight. The gentle layer of snow on the branches of the trees, the blindingly white colour, and the gentle trickle of snowflakes that had started up during their walk was an almost completely new sight to him. He snaps out of his trance as Aleksandr nudges him forward, gently guiding him deeper into the park until they are fully surrounded by the trees and far extending powder blanket.
The two men walk along the path, their discussions swirling around various topics; from literature to science, nothing is off topic. Although, they both like comparing their homelands literature and history the best. Aleksandr is on one of his ‘educational’ rants about Trotsky and his role in the war against the Whites. Andres has heard it a million times, and while he doesn’t feel bored necessarily, his attention wonders slightly and catches again on the extensive field of snow below the trees. He smiles, in a way that makes it clear that mischief is on the agenda, and slips away as Aleksandr falls deeper into his monologue. He crouches down in the snow, staring at it. He’s never made a snowball before, but it can’t be that hard, right?
On his first attempt, the snow falls apart when he lifts it, leaving him with half of an unfinished ball. His second attempt goes better and he is now the proud owner of one snowball. Aleksandr isn’t paying much attention, assuming that Andres is just messing around in the snow for his own entertainment. Technically, he is. His attention focuses back fully on the Filipino man when mid sentence he feels a dull thud against his chest, accompanied by a vague feeling of cold spreading in the area. He stares for a bit before a smirk crawls onto his face and he chuckles, leaving Andres suddenly filled with dread and regret over his declaration of war.
In a much swifter motion than the inexperienced of the two could ever hope to achieve, Aleksandr bends down and picks up a batch of snow, hurling it directly at Andres and hitting him with a thud. The latter curses loudly in response as the snow falls apart and sticks to his clothes. The thinner clothes let the cold penetrate deeper, spreading across his abdomen and leaving him to try and brush it off somehow. Frowning, he quickly bends down and makes another, messy, snowball before throwing it at Aleksandr, hitting him in the arm this time. The gesture is returned eagerly, and their peaceful walk quickly deteriorates into a full on war at the side of the road, vague white blurs flying left and right, accompanied by the occasional yell and gleeful laughter from both of them.
In the flurry of attacks, one of the snowballs hits Aleksandr square in the face. They both pause, completely silence setting in before Andres bursts out laughing, pointing at Aleksandr mockingly,
“Hah!! You look like a snow man! A real snow man!”
Aleksandr attempts to shake the snow off his face, but it sticks to his eyebrows and stubble, leaving him with snowy facial hair that Andres doesn’t hesitate to compare to a greying old man,
“And they say Santa isn’t real!” he quips, giggling to himself while Aleksandr blinks dumbly.
A moment later, the larger man takes a step forward, snowball in hand, and approaches Andres, who’s bent over trying to stop laughing. He only has time to look up once, a questioning expression on his face before his collar is grabbed and Aleksandr quickly crumples the snow on the inside of his clothes. The reaction is immediate and Andres isn’t laughing anymore, instead jumping around like a flea and trying to shake the snow out, yelping occasional Tagalog insults at the Russian who is now quietly snickering to himself. After a few moments, Aleksandr takes pity and shuffles over, helping the other shake the snow out of his clothes, before they both burst out laughing, holding onto each other for stability.
The next few hours go by fast. Aleksandr teaches Andres how to make a proper snowball after the smaller man confirms he’s never actually made one. Now convinced that Andres MUST experience every snow related activity of his childhood, Aleksandr plops down in the snow and walks the other through how to make a snow angel. This was always his favourite. The cold but comforting grasp of the snow surrounding his body perfectly and completely, especially if done in deeper snow, like the arms of a mother cradling her child. For this one, Andres borrows Aleksandr’s coat, as his seems too thin to protect him from so much snow. His angel is a little crooked, and quite smaller than the Russians, especially when put together next to each other, but he does admit it’s fun. Finally, they set out to build a snowman next. It’s a team effort, as both of them are needed to roll up the base, but the end result is charming. The buttons, eyes, and mouth are made with stones from the path and it’s hands with sticks from the nearby trees.
By the time they are finished, the afternoon has rolled around, and both of them are starting to get hungry and cold — especially Andres. So, Aleksandr makes the executive decision to head to a nearby mall to grab lunch. He makes the excuse that it’s the closest place he knows offers gluten free options, which is partially true, but really it’s a carefully divised plan to sneak around Andres’s stubborn attitude and get him proper winter clothes. So, after a good meal, the now warmed up men take a stroll down the mall and ‘just so happen’ to come across a winter wear shop that Aleksandr forces Andres into. They come out with two whole sets of properly insulating clothes for him, although Aleksandr complains that the quality isn’t as good as back in the day. To make up for the terrible trauma of clothes shopping, Aleksandr lets Andres drag him around to a couple more stores around the (warm) mall before they end up in the bookstore.
As they browse the book the classic literature section, Andres becomes increasingly aware that his throat feels dry and almost itchy. Strange, considering he’d drunk with lunch just a few hours ago. A well timed patch of dust from Aleksandr moving one of the books makes him sneeze, which gives way to a deep cough that makes his throat ache and his chest rumble. Uh oh. Maybe he isn’t as resistant to cold as he thought.
