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The glass curtain wall of the United Nations headquarters mirrored the winter twilight of New York. Alfred F. Jones loosened his tie and haphazardly stuffed documents into his briefcase. Five hours of Security Council debates had left his temples throbbing, especially when those Slavic violet eyes across the long table watched him with mocking amusement.
"Freedom!" he shouted into the empty lounge, the word bouncing off the walls. No response. Alfred pursed his lips and grabbed his coat from the chairback. At least he wouldn't have to listen to Ivan Braginsky's saccharine anti-American rhetoric tonight.
Snowflakes spiraled beneath neon lights as Alfred pushed open the wooden bar door, its bell jingling crisply. Warmth and whiskey fumes enveloped him, and then he saw the figure at the end of the counter - platinum hair glowing almost white in the dimness.
"Damn it," Alfred muttered, yet found himself striding forward.
Ivan swiveled on his barstool, vodka glass refracting amber light. "If it isn't Mr. World Police," his lips curved in that familiar arc, "Care for some milk?"
"Shut it, vodka freak." Alfred dropped onto the adjacent stool, raising two fingers to the bartender. "Double bourbon, rocks." He studied Ivan's flushed cheeks and scarf slipping off his shoulders. "How much have you had?"
Ivan shook the nearly empty bottle. "Enough to forget today's speech." He leaned closer, breath heavy with alcohol. "'Russia should cease its aggression' - such tired lines, Al."
Electricity shot up Alfred's spine. He jerked back, colliding with the bartender's arriving glass. Cold liquid splashed his knuckles. "Hey!" he protested, unsure whether to the bartender or the infuriating Slav.
"Nervous?" Ivan chuckled, gloveless fingers wiping bourbon from Alfred's hand. His skin felt colder than normal, like snow from his homeland. "Afraid I planted missiles here?"
Alfred snatched his hand back. "Dream on. Your missiles rotted in Ukraine last year." He gulped half his bourbon, fire trailing down his throat. Oddly, Ivan's gaze burned hotter than the liquor.
The vintage jukebox in the corner suddenly played Back in the U.S.S.R.. Ivan raised an eyebrow while Alfred rolled his eyes. "Fucking coincidence," Alfred grumbled, watching Ivan sway to the rhythm.
"Remember 1964?" Ivan asked abruptly, staring at his glass. "You threw your speech binder at me in the UN."
Alfred grinned. "You mocked Apollo Program!" Memories flooded back - his younger self raging, Ivan clutching his forehead while laughing. "Served you right."
"Then 1971," Ivan traced his glass rim, "We brawled in that Vienna bar, smashed Khrushchev's crystal gift."
"You threw the first punch!"
"You called me 'a ballerina in combat boots.'"
Alfred laughed, ordering another round. They clinked glasses like regular drunks, though their drinks represented Kentucky sunshine and Siberian frost. "Cuba almost got real," Alfred murmured, voice dropping unexpectedly.
Ivan's gaze sharpened. Ice cubes clinked as he rotated his glass. "Thirteen days. You parked fleets at my doorstep." A pause. "Never saw you like that."
Alfred remembered. Satellite photos in the Situation Room, encrypted cables from Moscow, and - though he'd never admit - the strange hollowness mixing with victory when Ivan conceded. Like now, with Ivan's eyes wine-dark in bar light, tightening his throat.
"Your only surrender," Alfred tried for his usual taunt, but found himself staring at the pale column of Ivan's neck above the scarf.
Ivan suddenly reached out, thumb brushing Alfred's lip. "Whiskey," he murmured, then casually sucked the droplet from his finger. Alfred's heart thudded violently.
"I won the space race," he blurted, gulping more bourbon. Why was the bar so stifling?
"Did you?" Ivan tilted his head. "First man in space? First space station?" He counted on fingers. "Gagarin, Tereshkova—"
"But I reached the moon!" Alfred slammed his glass, drawing stares. He lowered his voice. "And your Union's gone while I'm still here."
Ivan's smile faded. He turned back to the bar, pouring his last vodka. "Yes, you're still here." It sounded less like mockery than confirmation. Alfred drank in silence.
Snow intensified beyond the fogged windows. On Alfred's fourth drink, Ivan stood, scarf trailing across his hand.
"Leaving," the Slav said, voice softened by alcohol.
Alfred caught the scarf's end. "Wait, you can't—" He froze, realizing what he'd nearly said. Concern? For Ivan Braginsky?
Ivan looked down, lashes casting fan-shaped shadows. For a heartbeat, Alfred thought he might lean in - like that mad 1963 night in a Vienna safehouse when they almost— But Ivan simply retrieved his scarf.
"Worried I'll collapse?" He chuckled. "Don't fret. I won't fall until I see you vanish, Mr. America."
On impulse, Alfred grabbed his coat. "Don't flatter yourself! I just—" He faltered. "Don't want headlines about 'Russian envoy frozen in Manhattan.' Bad for my image."
Ivan turned at the door, snow catching on golden lashes. "Of course, all for your image." His tone twisted Alfred's gut - neither sarcasm nor anger, but something unreadable.
They walked Fifth Avenue together, snow crunching underfoot. Alfred, slightly shorter, felt Ivan's presence filling all space. He glanced sideways, noticing Ivan's bare reddened hands.
"Idiot," he muttered, tossing over his leather gloves. "Don't accuse me of abuse later."
Ivan caught them, stroking the wool lining. "American-made?"
"What else? Chinese?" Alfred rolled his eyes, yet felt absurdly pleased when Ivan put them on. He quickened his pace, letting cold air cool his cheeks.
"Al." Ivan's voice nearly dissolved in snow.
"What?"
"Nothing." Ivan smiled. "Just... been awhile."
Alfred wanted to retort - with taunts, questions, or something else - but a taxi splashed slush, interrupting. He instinctively shielded Ivan from the spray.
"Where's your hotel?" Alfred asked, ignoring Ivan's surprised look.
"Next corner." Ivan pointed. "You?"
"Opposite way." Yet Alfred remained rooted. Snow-dusted Ivan resembled a fairy tale spirit - if snow sprites drank vodka and commanded nukes.
Ivan brushed snow off Alfred's shoulder. "Flight time tomorrow?"
"Nine." Alfred frowned. "Wait, how'd you—"
"Guessed." Ivan withdrew his hand. "You always rush off."
The words stung. Alfred wanted to argue that Ivan left summits early, that they'd only ever clashed - but memories flashed: Ivan's conference smiles, last year's birthday gift to Washington, the glint in his eyes during confrontations that wasn't pure hostility.
"Conference ended," Alfred finally said, softer than intended.
Ivan nodded, stepping back. "Next time then—"
"Next time I'll shut you up in the Council," Alfred interrupted, reclaiming bravado.
"Looking forward." Ivan smiled, vanishing into snow. His shadow stretched under streetlights.
Alfred stood frozen until Ivan disappeared. Meltwater trickled down his neck. He should leave, pack, forget tonight - yet he pulled out his phone.
"Hey Siri," he told the cold air, "Search 'how to know if you like someone.'"
The AI responded calmly. "I found this Wikipedia page about 'emotional recognition disorder'..."
Alfred smashed the lock button, heart pounding. Absurd. Him and Ivan? Impossible. The palpitations, the attention, the endless provocation - just rivalry. Nothing more.
He turned away. Snow fell, lights twinkling gently behind white veils. Alfred F. Jones, embodiment of the United States, the Hero himself, would never - never - love his greatest foe.
One block away, Ivan Brakinsky stood at his hotel window, watching the retreating blur in the snow. He stroked the gloves' inner lining, thumb brushing the embroidered stars and stripes.
"Fool," he whispered to the empty room, smiling. No confessions needed. No changes. This was enough - clashing at conferences, sharing bottles in shadows, walking together through snow. Close enough. Safe enough.
He closed the curtains, carefully storing the gloves. Tomorrow they'd resume their roles. Next week's meeting would bring fresh accusations. Next month's UN vote would find them opposed. But there would always be another bar, another snowfall, another moment when Alfred instinctively shielded him from splashing sludge.
It was enough.
For two nations, it was already too much.