Work Text:
Originally, the plot of land had been called Russian America. It had been settled by promyshlenniki: men who started up the fur trade, bringing the RAC (Russian America Corporation) with it. When the RAC received a charter to hunt for fur, the rest should’ve been history: that wasn’t the case. Ivan watched as leaders rose and fell throughout the years, watched as Tzars replaced Tzars after Tzars. He wishes he could’ve said the historical moment felt life changing–it didn’t. Yet it had been life changing.
In 1821, the current Tzar Alexander I had issued an edict declaring Russia’s sovereignty over the North American Pacific coast: declaring that their shorelines near America were forbidden, untouchable to the American world. It wasn’t incriminating: America was becoming something of a powerhouse itself, come the early 1800s. Ivan had first heard that word, America, used in the early 1600s—it hadn’t meant much to him until 1760. It was thirteen colonies owned by the British. It wasn’t much to fear. To say Ivan was observing was an understatement: he was obsessed with knowing which world powers were lurking in the distance. Or about to be lurking in the distance. He had heard of the Stamp Act, albeit years later when the colony's tension was at its highest point, a war daring to brew.
The Boston Tea party spilled into the revolution, spilled into America’s own independence in 1776. It was no longer a colony. A piece of British property. The nation behind doing that; well, Ivan assumed he was strong. Assumed he was powerful. Assumed that maybe, just maybe, he’d be catching a glimpse of a nation, a powerful nation, that would one day reach the greatness Prussia too had reached. Yet, he was also doing it wrong, playing some strange card called Democracy.
Democracy. Ivan had never quite heard of an idea like that before.
In 1812, there was a war. Yet another war, which Ivan could have paid no mind to–he was not allied with any of the nations involved. If anything, he should’ve been paying more attention to his own front, where he was battling against France. Against Napoleon. Napoleon, who had also pissed off America—it was safe to say that France’s leader was not a fan favorite when it came to the neighbors he lived near. The Americans fought against England yet again, and Ivan looked at that and saw a possibility.
When the current Tzar at the time, Alexander I died in 1825, he was replaced by Alexander the Second, replaced by family. A year before his death, Alexander had signed off on the Russo-America treaty: which agreed to open up Russian Ports to US Ships. The Americans and them were on positive terms, then, at least: and despite this, Ivan had yet to see the young new nation known as America.
Instead, he received a letter.
September 7th, 1857
Have you ever considered selling that hunk of land Ice that sits near my (America’s) border? You call it something like Siberia Siberia, right? Or well, I guess, not you, but your Country? I think I've heard it called Russian America, too, but I don’t know if you guys coined that term or if we did. Anyways, that chunk of land–I don’t imagine it’s getting much use: I've heard it’s cold in Russia, but that chunk of land is even too cold for you. Your people aren’t really living there, right? I’ve heard about your fur trade, but I'm sure that’s giving you nothing but chump change.
Ivan. I heard you got your ass kicked by England and France and the Ottoman Empire and that you’re in need of some spare change. Well, we’ve struck gold in America. Literally. Has anyone told you about the gold rush? If you’re thinking about selling that land mass—and you should be thinking of selling that land mass—send me a return letter. We can discuss prices: it’ll be worth it for you. I’ll get a chunk of land to invest in, you’ll get a check of at least five million US dollars. Worth a lot more than whatever currency you’re working in.
Alfred. F. Jones
When Ivan read the letter the only question that came to mind was what did F stand for: he didn’t truly acknowledge what Alfred had to say. As far as he was concerned, the RAC was doing good enough: any little bit helped. Yet, if his spirits were down and his defenses weak, then could he be truly blamed for keeping the letter in a drawer within his desk?
It was in 1859 when Ivan realized if he did not get rid of the territory, England would gain hold of the plot of land. He had no resources to put enough men and soldiers in that land to keep it defended: it was a fragile part of himself waiting to be attacked, waiting to be cut off. If that happened, he’d be able to see the United Kingdom just across the sea: selling was the only option. Tsar Alexander II had come to the same conclusion, and when asked who Ivan would consider selling to, the nation had only listed one Country's name.
A civil war prevented the trade for a handful of years: America fought with itself, and Ivan thought it silly, though he never wrote to Alfred to tell him so. He observed. Observed like he’s always been good at doing. Watched and waited, and finally in 1867 the land had been sold. Seven point two million US dollars, and suddenly Russia had enough money in its pocket to momentarily breathe again. It was on May 28th when the treaty had been signed: on the 18th of October in the same year, Russian America was being transferred over to the United States.
Ivan could remember the day like it could've been yesterday.
October 18th, 1867.
It was cold as ice on that day.
Ivan had not slept quite right the night before. The normally calming wind that hissed against his Cabin walls screamed and shrilled all night, white bursts of mist–snow–shooting all around. It was loud, his nation privately waging a war in disapproval: while he knew the money was needed, that this deal would help them crawl out of the trench that they had dug, it was not often that a nation enjoyed parting with itself. It was possible that Russian America developed its own nation, just like the American Colonies originally had. If so, it’d be on the hands of America to deal with.
His country pouted, Mother Nature raging a fit that would fall upon deaf ears: Ivan had been there when the treaty had been signed in May, watching with greedy and hopeful eyes. He had more than enough land for his people. He had been there in May, had been the only nation present–Today was likely to be the same way. It seemed that Alfred F. Jones did not like conducting his own business. Not publicly in person, at least. Ivan knew why all too well: to him it was clear as day that the American had heard the horror stories of Russia and had decided, oh well, perhaps not.
Russian and American soldiers stood side by side alike: Ivan wore the same as the other Russian soldiers, though he still had his white scarf wrapped around his neck. A shiver ran up his spine as the cold air hit him, and he silently wished he had taken a sip from his flash before the ceremony began: in the corner of his eye, he saw an American man that probably needed it more than him. Blond hair and bright blue eyes: eyes that looked like the heart of the sea, deep depths of water. He had plain slicked back hair–he was not a soldier, despite being in uniform. Or, at least, he was not an average soldier. He shivered in his standing place, teeth silently chattering—unlike other American soldiers who were surprisingly holding it together, this blond did not.
As the ceremony began, he slipped away from the scene, heading towards some other room, perhaps to go and find a way to warm up. Yet, they currently stood in Saint Petersburg conducting politics—so reluctantly, Ivan followed the American soldier, attempting to make sure nothing geopolitical was being arranged underneath his nose. He slips out and away from the transfer ceremony of Russian America to fully American-owned land, walks across marble floors. When he turns a corner, he nearly bumps into him, the soldier he had seen before.
Those dangerous eyes staring into his own again.
For a moment, Ivan let himself observe the other man. He was tall, but not as tall as Ivan himself–yet he could look eye to eye with the American soldier without really needing to look down. He had nothing on his face, no birthmarks or glasses, and said American soldier was still shivering. Ivan was nothing but a polite host, just like his older sister had always been. He dug his flask from out of his military owned pockets, outstretching it towards the blond.
“Here.” He said. Though he squinted at the sound of his own voice, gently frowning. His accent was harsh, brutally thick–he rarely had reason to speak English, and while he had been continuing on with his studies, it was safe to say that he could read it better than he could speak it at this point. Yet, the young blond soldier did not seem to mind. Instead, he just grabbed the flask, tipping it towards himself to inspect it.
“What’s this?” The American said, and while he attempted to keep his voice at a normal tone, he was naturally far too loud. Yet his voice sounded nice, despite being at an outside tone.
“It is-.” Ivan began to say, cutting himself off. He wasn’t quite sure if the American was questioning the flask, or the liquid inside of it. Eventually, Ivan calmly settled on: “drink.” He paused a second, observing as the American stared at the flask, and then up towards him, and then back towards the flask again. He was still shivering, and his skin looked like ice. “Warm.” Ivan said, rubbing the sides of his arms with a small, almost encouraging smile.
“Warm.” The American said back, glancing up. His eyes sparkled in the light, or at least Ivan swore that they did. The American nodded, speaking a sentence Ivan did not fully understand. He spoke too fast, too quickly–Ivan most likely knew the words he had said. He was just not used to someone spewing that much information at him at once. The American seemed to wait for a response, and as Ivan began to open up his mouth to give him one, the American blurted out more words as well.
This time, he managed to understand what the blond had said.
“You don’t speak much English, do you?” The American mused, curious smile pressed against his thin lips. He looked towards Ivan as if he had something else he wanted to say, perhaps a question he wanted to ask—and seemed to decide that asking was not worth it.
Ivan simply shook his head in response to not speaking much English before watching as the American soldier flicked the flask open, taking a quick swig from it. Ivan watched as he swallowed, watched as his face contorted with slight pain. ‘“Shit– it burns.” The American said: speaking slow enough so that Ivan could understand what he was attempting to say. It was almost kind, all things considered. Ivan was almost impressed. He didn’t prefer speaking to many of the American soldiers he had met: America as a whole seemed a bit too prideful for his taste, though they were a new Country. Perhaps that arrogance would disappear in a few years. Yet, this specific soldier–Ivan could see himself getting along with him. He gently laughed at the American’s slight pain, only earning back a strained: “Was that alcohol?”
Ivan couldn’t have imagined a Russian soldier who would ask such a ridiculous question: he frankly didn’t know many other American soldier’s who would’ve asked a question like that as well. Not the ones that had ended up in his nation, at least. This soldier looked young—yet, his surprise at the liquid in a flask made Ivan laugh again. This time, the American gently scowled.
“Da.” Ivan said, tilting his head to the side. “It warms.” He says, gesturing towards the American. He had sure stopped shivering, which Ivan by all means counted as a win in his books.
“Oh.” The American said—pausing as if to take those words into consideration. At the time, Ivan had no way of knowing that the American likely thought the drink
was
warm. Like coffee. Or tea. He rarely enjoyed those beverages, after all, preferring to stick to what his Country was the best at making: vodka. Vodka
warms.
From the inside, at least. It dulls the cold enough to deal with it, or at least that’s what Ivan had always found. Still, the American seemed to be thankful, offering a small smile up—which Ivan thought weird, because
his
people did not smile for such silly reasons—before speaking again. “Huh. Thanks.”
Ivan shook his head, holding his hand out upright and flat in front of him. “Keep.” He stated, tilting his head to the side. He hesitated, looked around—and since he could see no one near them, he himself even offered up a small awkward smile.
It wasn’t really normal in his Country by any means to smile at strangers: just like it isn’t really normal to randomly walk up to people in the streets of London and start up a conversation. Though, of course, exceptions always existed. The pretty blond in front of him—he was an exception.
“Really?” The American asked, flashing a grin that spread across his whole face—a wide violent smile that Ivan would likely never be able to get out of his head. It had been a long time since he had found a human so attractive—finding a human attractive always ended in heartbreak. After all, he was a Country. Immortal, technically, in some way shape or form. He’d see this human die if he let himself. Thank God they’d be separated by the sea.
Ivan simply nodded, that small smile growing more prominent on his face. Shy, that smile was. Dangerously shy.
“Gee, thank you!” The American mused. “That means a lot to me.” He admitted, pocketing the flask into his own Military owned pocket. If it takes Ivan’s breath away, he’s good at regaining his composure. After all, that American is staring at him, bright blue eyes drowning him—and Ivan’s always been horrified by the sea, of the deep blue unknown.
So why does he suddenly want to take a leap of faith? What even is this emotion?
The American paused. Tilted his head to the side. He takes a moment to breathe, not particularly rushing anything. Though when he finally does speak, it’s nice and slow—slow enough for Ivan to understand the first time around. “What’s the Russian word for great land?” The American said softly, lips puckered ever so slightly—almost like he was wearing a permanent pout. He raised his brows, looked ever so slightly confused.
“Alyaska.” Ivan replied almost instantly. “It is Alyaska.”
“Alaska?” Blue eyes stared, darting from the left to the right before focusing in on Ivan’s face again. Almost as if the word had reminded him of something nice. His pronunciation was off, just ever so slightly—but Ivan couldn’t help but smile and shake his head anyways.
“Da.” He said.
“That’s a beautiful word.” The American mused. “Thank you, Ivan.” The soldier said—and began to walk away, back towards the ceremony. Moments after, Ivan followed.
It wasn’t until after the ceremony did Russia realize that the blond soldier shouldn’t have known his name. It wasn’t until years later did he realize just who that blond soldier was.
He still has zero idea of what the F could possibly stand for.