"Dad! You're always going on business trips. You promised you'd come to Key West with me next week." Florida complained. They were sitting on America's bed, watching him toss clothes haphazardly into a suitcase and enjoying being in the way. America was packing for the flight tomorrow, and it turned out that packing for two weeks of vacation in Siberia was not an easy task. For one, he had to pack a ton of winter clothes, which he didn't have because he was at his Florida beach house. He'd brought some from his Michigan house, but he wasn't sure if it would be enough.

Oh well. He could always steal Soviet's coat again. He had to bite back a smile at the thought.

"Did I?"

Florida frowned, crossing their arms. "You did."

America sighed. Admittedly, he'd forgotten all about that. He was so bad at plans, his schedule always packed. He was always pushing off some appointment or another. "I'm sorry baby, I forgot. I promise I'll go to the Keys with you when I get back."

"It'll be November when you get back!" Florida complained, flopping down on the bed. America's phone vibrated on the nightstand, and they raised an eyebrow. "Who's texting you?"

"Doesn't matter. Touch my phone and I'm not going with you to the Keys at all."

Florida stuck their tongue out. America shook his head, smiling despite himself. Florida had always been a rambunctious child, quite the chaotic neutral. They seemed to enjoy finding every weird activity and then doing it with glee. Their energy was one of the many reasons America enjoyed hanging out with them.

Florida eyed the pair of skinny jeans and plush grey sweater America had tossed on the bed. "Bit sexy for a business trip, no?"

"You're not allowed to judge my outfit choices, sir Let Me Wear Booty Shorts in December." America retorted, ignoring the blush that creeped up his neck. It was a little sexy, but that was the point. The outfit was sexy without being too slutty, and that's what he liked about it. Skinny jeans made his thighs and oddly feminine hips look nice. Not that Soviet would notice. The man was oblivious. It would be more productive to flirt with a rock.

"I'm not a sir," Florida said playfully.

"I haven't found a gender neutral term yet." America tried his best to treat his LGBT kids well, being that he was bisexual himself. Florida was non-binary, and while he tried his damndest to find gender-neutral terms, he hadn't found a version for sir or ma'am yet.

"Lord has a nice ring to it," They replied, picking at their nails. America rolled his eyes, shoving a coat into his already full suitcase. "Anyways, who are you seeing that requires an outfit like that?"

"You know I can't tell you that."

"Hmph. Fine. Be boring then." Florida pouted, picking up a navy hoodie that said 'US Coast Guard' on the back in white . "This is cute. Where'd you get it?"

"Bought it a few years back, in Cape May." America was only half listening, scrolling through his phone. Soviet hadn't sent him messages today, but Colorado and Michigan had gotten into another hockey argument in the family group chat. Michigan had mentioned him repeatedly, trying to get his take on the 1997 Bloodbath.

: TELL COLORADO THAT IT WAS DESERVED

: ONE PLAYER DOES NOT DESERVE A FULL ON BRAWL. A YEAR LATER NONETHELESS. HOW DO YOU HOLD GRUDGES THIS BAD?

: YOU KNOCKED OUR BEST PLAYERS TEETH OUT, YES IT DOES. DAAAAAAAD WHERE ARE YOU

: Jesus Christ you two. It's been decades, let it go. I'm not getting involved. I'm busy.

: Fine. @Minnesota HEY CANADA 2.0 SETTLE THIS

: ?? Don't drag me into this!

America chuckled. His kids were great, but they were a handful. Always asking him to solve one argument or another. Sports were a hotbed for arguments, and it didn't matter which sport. Football, basketball, hockey, you name it. Once, he'd had to split Texas and Kansas up from a fistfight over who had the better football teams.

Speak of the devil, Texas burst into the room, shouting something incomprehensible in Spanish. Thankfully, he wasn't wearing his beloved cowboy boots, so his entrance wasn't as loud as usual. He was, however, dressed as country bumpkin as ever in flannel and jeans. "Pa! I'm makin' ribs for dinner, and can't pick a sauce. Savory or spicy?"

"Spicy, you know me. Now both of you, out. Some private time would be nice, thank you."

Florida grumbled something along the lines of 'but I wanted to hang out with my dad' and followed a very enthusiastic Texas out. America could hear Texas singing in rapid Spanish from across the house. Finally, some alone time.

He sighed. What if he was going wrong with the clothes he was packing? What if something happened while he was there? What if he started a fight? What if he'd misread everything and Soviet just wanted to be friends and he was just making himself look like an idiot? Hell.

He shook his head. Surely, if Soviet just wanted to be friends, he would've swatted America's hand away that night. He was panicking over nothing. Besides, there was no one that America's flirting skills wouldn't work on.

He tossed a few more clothes in the bag, mostly pajamas. He was more excited about this than he'd been in a long time. Wait, no, there was that SpaceX launch. He'd been pretty hyped for that.

It took him all of two minutes to pack his toiletries. He paused at his pills, specifically his Olanzapine. He had plenty of Temazepam, his sleep medication, but he was running low on his schizophrenia pills. He didn't have time to schedule a refill, either. He frowned. What was he supposed to do? He'd have to save one for the flight back, and he only had 12. That would be 3 days overseas without his schizophrenia medication, and with an approaching election season, that wasn't a great combination. He'd just have to hope that the voices didn't get too rambunctious.

He'd finished packing and was about to text Soviet when Texas called him to dinner. Texas was a good cook, and he'd made a fantastic dinner. Ribs with spicy barbecue sauce nearly falling off the bone, lush mashed potatoes with homemade gravy, and perfectly buttered green beans.

"Oh, hell yeah," America said as he sat down at the four person table. "You outdid yourself, Tex."

Texas beamed at the praise. "Thanks, Pa. Learned it from the best."

Florida was already digging into their ribs, sauce all over their face. Ribs weren't a clean meal to eat, but they made it look like a bloodbath.

"Good God, Flor, were you raised in a barn?" America asked, taking a bite of the heavenly mashed potatoes. Florida grinned.

"Nah, I was raised by you."

America's phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out a little too fast to not be suspicious. He was careful to keep it under the table. He couldn't let his nosy kids figure out who he was talking to, lest they slip up and mention it to another country. Florida, specifically.

: Question; favorite kind of cookies?

Only Soviet would use semicolons in texts. What a nerd. America shoved another bite of potatoes in his mouth and typed with one hand.

: yes.

: in all seriousness, I love those stupid peanut butter cookies with the Hershey's in the middle

: Peanut butter blossoms?

: YES THOSE

: Don't shout at me.

"What are you smiling at?" Texas asked.

America's gaze snapped from his phone to his kids, who were both staring at him. The smile fell off his face, replaced with something akin to a child being caught with candy.

"Nothing. No one." He shoved his phone in his pocket and plastered a fake grin on his face.

Florida raised an eyebrow, somehow done with their food already. "Uh huh. So that's why you're blushing so hard, you're texting no one."

He was blushing? Oh lord. "I am not blushing. Eat your food."

The two obliged, Florida going in for seconds. America didn't check his messages for the rest of the meal, even when he went to do the dishes. He couldn't risk one of his kids coming over and messing with his phone. He doubted either of them would rat to NATO (or even worse, the UN) that he was texting someone named Sovi, but it was too much of a risk.

After he did the dishes, he was dragged into a game of Mario Kart by Texas. That took another hour because America got very aggressive again, so by the time he had showered and been able to text Soviet was already asleep. Despite this, America still sent him a text.

: so excited to see you tomorrow. night sovi

————-

Miami International was a busy place despite the fact that it was early Sunday morning. Chatter filled the hallway, everything from TSA agents waving people through security to mothers shushing their children. Everyone was trying to get their post-COVID travel in while the flights were still cheap. Because of this the line for security was a mile long. America sighed. Even with his express security pass (thanks, government officials) it would take forever for an agent to deal with him.

"Don't forget which gate you're at," Texas said on his left. America groaned. Ah, time for the nagging fest. Lovely.

"I won't, I won't."

"I'm not picking you up if you miss your flight."

"I won't! God, for a 4'11" man you've got a lot of complaints."

Texas frowned. He hated it when people pointed out his height, which was exactly why America did it. He loved pushing people's buttons. "What did my height have to do with that?"

"Nothing, I just wanted to point it out," America said, watching the security line get longer and longer. What was so special about today that people mass booked flights? God. "I should probably get through security now, before the line gets any longer."

Texas nodded, giving his father a one-armed hug. "Course. Love ya, pa."

"Love you too, kiddo. Make sure Florida doesn't get themself into any trouble for me."

"Not sure if I can do that, but sure. Bye!"

"See ya, Tex!" America waved as he walked away, pulling his suitcase behind him. He had a carry on with his various flight entertainment things and then his giant suitcase. When you were packing for 2 weeks in hellish cold, it was go big or go home. Or go freeze, rather.

Sure enough, security was painfully tedious. His TSA agent had insisted on patting him down after he'd forgotten to take his wallet out of his pocket, and then America nearly forgot where his gate was. He hated airports. They were always so crowded, the security and service so impersonal. That wasn't something you wanted to see the moment you came to a new country. He made a mental note to push Homeland Security toward more friendly TSA training.

He collapsed into a chair in his gate, taking a long sip of his chai latte he'd bought from the terminal Starbucks. He couldn't wait to get to Yekaterinburg. A 14 hour flight seemed like too long to wait. He already knew what he was going to do when he saw Soviet. He'd wanted nothing more than another hug for the past two months. Or was it three? Hell if he knew. Keeping track of time was not one of his strong suits.

Bored out of his mind, he pulled out his phone and texted the only person who would be up at this hour.

: m bored

: M?

: it's 5:30 in the morning. leave me alone

: It's never too early to have proper grammar.

: You get here at 16:00 yes?

: yessir

: Good. I'll have a surprise for you when you get here.

America grinned. That was adorable and sweet. Soviet seemed to be more sentimental now that he didn't have the Kremlin nipping at his heels like the hounds of hell. It was a nice change, definitely one that America wouldn't complain about. If anything, the only thing he didn't like about Soviet now was how withdrawn he'd get. Sometimes, in conversation, if America said something alluding to Ukraine or another bad memory, he'd go quiet. He'd rather have Soviet scream at him than radio silence.

After what felt like ages but was really just a half hour, they opened the plane to board. America, being first class, was one of the first on. The seats were plush and cozy, built for long international flights. He sank into it, sending Soviet a just-boarded-see-you-soon text before settling in for the long flight.

He couldn't wait to see Soviet again.

———-

America, once again, slept through most of the flight. There was a brief hour-long interval when he woke up to Democrat monologuing to herself about "finding a good swing state", but she went quiet shortly after he took his medication. He fell back asleep after that, the lull and relative darkness of the plane keeping him under.

Someone shook his shoulder, murmuring in Russian about "we're here, sir." America opened one eye to see an attractive blond attendant shaking him awake.

It took a moment for her words to set in, and when they did, he jolted up. I'm here. I'm here!

The attendant looked startled as he frantically grabbed his carry-on and rushed towards the exit. He was one of the last people off, excluding the attendants and pilots. How long had he kept Soviet waiting? Oh lord. "Thank you!" He shouted at the attendant, giving her a rushed salute. She looked bewildered but smiled nonetheless.

His heart thudded in his chest. Finally he was here! Months of waiting, months of texting, months of pining, even, and he was finally able to see Soviet. He had to restrain himself from sprinting down the jetway, instead settling on speed walking. He was smiling wide enough it hurt.

Soviet was standing in the gate, by a tall table. He had two cups of coffee in his hands, taking a sip out of one. He was wearing a brown, fluffy trench coat, jeans, and a simple white t-shirt. His classic brown ushanka had been replaced with an unmarked black one. America's smile widened when Soviet saw him.

It all happened in five seconds. America dropped his carryon with a thud, and sprinted to Soviet like a madman. Before Soviet could react, he tackle-hugged him. They both fell to the ground, Soviet letting out a loud "oof" as he hit the floor. The cup of coffee went flying, the lid popping off and spilling all over the tile floor.

America laughed, burying his face in the commie's shoulder. "I missed you!"

"I-I missed you too," Soviet replied, and America savored it. It had been so long since he'd heard his gravelly voice in person, and it was wonderful. Even better was the feeling of Soviet's arms around his shoulders. God, he'd missed him.

Seemingly uncomfortable with hugs longer than three seconds, Soviet patted America's back. "America. People are looking. And this floor hurts."

America sat up but didn't get off him, instead smiling down at an obviously flustered Soviet. "How does the floor hurt? And there's like no one here."

"Get off," Soviet said with a laugh, shoving America off and standing. He held out a hand to help America up. He stared at it for a moment, oddly nervous. "Well? Should I leave you on the floor?"

America laughed and let Soviet pull him to his feet. America ended up nearly chest-to-chest with him. His face burned at the proximity. America caught himself staring at Soviet, specifically his lips. They were close, so close. If he leaned forward just a little bit...

Soviet appeared to have the same bad idea. For a moment, he raised his hand, and America entertained a fantasy of the commie pulling him closer, but then Soviet dropped his hand and turned away. "There goes my coffee," he said, staring at the puddle on the ground.

America fought back the disappointment in his chest. What was he even disappointed about? He hadn't expected Soviet to kiss him. It was just a fleeting, foolish fantasy. "Oops."

"Oh, wait! Almost forgot," Soviet reached into his coat pocket and handed him a little baggie of peanut butter blossom cookies. "Here's these, too. If they're a little smushed that's your fault. I would drink your coffee too, but I'm sure you want the caffeine."

It was a small gesture, but America appreciated it like he'd handed him a diamond ring. Soviet had made him his favorite cookies. It was an unbelievably sweet gesture. Literally. "Aw, Sovi, thank you. I would hug you again but I think you'd slap me."

"Yeah yeah, let's go," Soviet replied. America shoved one of the delicious cookies in his mouth, grabbed his coffee, and followed Soviet out of the empty terminal. As he walked, he noticed that Koltsovo International seemed to be a very low traffic airport, compared to Sheremetyevo International and Miami. Odd, given that Yekaterinburg wasn't a small city. It wasn't quite New York sized, but it had a decent population. Hell, even Detroit's airport had more foot traffic than here. He wasn't complaining- he preferred less people. Less people to see him knocking his former enemy to the ground and making a fool of himself.

After retrieving America's suitcase from the baggage claim, they were ready to go. The moment they stepped out of the sliding doors, America was battered with a gust of frigid wind. "Holy hell, it's cold!"

"Yeah, it's October in Siberia. What did you expect?"

"Not this!" America grumbled, digging into his suitcase for his coat with one hand and holding his hair out of his face with the other. Soviet just watched in amusement, hands shoved in his pockets. "Alright, fine, lets go, jerkbag," America groused, tugging his coat on.

"Your insults are deteriorating in quality." Soviet said matter-of-factly.

"Bite me."

"Is that an offer or a command?" Soviet asked with a smirk. America briefly entertained a fantasy of slapping it off his face. How did I let myself fall for this asshole?

————

The drive to Soviet's house was only an hour, even with picking up food from a Teremok on the way. America kept up a steady chatter the whole drive, describing everything that had happened over the last two months and the flight itself. He skipped over the riots, not wanting to bring that up again. He stuck to the positive side of things, talking about the space launch and his children's antics. Soviet didn't have much to say, instead munching on his chebureki and nodding along. America didn't mind this one bit. He was perfectly happy to just talk and let Soviet listen.

It had started pouring halfway through the drive and it kept up once they'd gotten to Soviet's dacha. America rushed into the house with his luggage catching his heels, suitcase crunching over the gravel. The rain was coming down so hard he was soaked in the minute it took him to reach the door. It was wonderfully warm inside the dacha, and America plopped down on the couch with a sigh. "Finally, a comfortable seat."

Soviet raised an eyebrow, putting their coats in the small coat closet. "Are the Aeroflot seats that bad?"

"No, but your car has awful seats."

Soviet laughed. "Don't insult Svetlana like that. Since Russia isn't here, you can sleep in the guest room. The bed should be made already. I'll make us some tea, yeah?"