Oneshots (countryhumans)

Scrapbooked History (Pt.1)

This includes some historical references but is definitely not 100% accurate!

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"Sir! Sir! Over here!"

The nameless photographer's —or maybe a journalist, it was all the same to him—called out from a blurred crowd of people, his sleek camera aimed with deadly precision, like that of a sniper. America's eyebrow twitched, annoyed, uncomfortable as is in his double knit suit, cheeks aching from the wide smile that put his bleach-white teeth on display. Fleetingly, he hoped Soviet's young and quite irritating emissary was as miserable as he was. Alas, he was unable to spare a glance at the other's—hopefully discontent—face just to his left before the piercing flash of the camera blinded him.

-

All these years later, the faux, plastic smile was painfully obvious in that grainy, black-and-white photograph. America wondered if the man in the photo would be able to recognize himself today.

Russia shifted beside him.

"I forget your hair was like that."

It wasn't an insult, just a mere comment, but America frowned anyway.

"I look like a member of the Beatles..." His hair was longer and cut in shaggy layers that were painfully representative of the sixties' mop top. "Still, I was a hit with the ladies." Russia exhaled audibly and America grinned with satisfaction, gaze shifting to the other in the picture. "You've changed too, almost hard to recognize ya," he began to tease, but the last few syllables were spoken softly, distantly. Russia, as always, made no reply.

At least America had tried to smile sincerely all those years ago, forever the performer, never a bad angle if he could help it. Russia, on the contrary, had made no such effort. The young man's eyes were steely with ire, as if he not only wished to curse all that had been present in the room, but every other soul that would dare lay eyes on the image. Aside from the same light eyes, rigid nose, and thick eyebrows, there were a few stark differences in his past appearance. Even in the monochrome photo, the flag marking his skin was bicolored, not the recognizable tricolor. His hair was trimmed short, with little visible beneath his fur hat—America had found it to be quite amusing that the young man adamantly refused to take the thing off. And finally, but most significantly, was the symbol engraved just above his eye. America remembered the striking color of the gold hammer and sickle. And how it only fueled his contempt.

"What year was it? Could not be seventies," Russia leaned closer to the large scrapbook on the desk scanning the various scrawls of text surrounding the yellowed pictures for a date. He huffed and made a comment about the American's less-than-acceptable penmanship—which, naturally, resulted in an elbow to the side—before America pointed to a set of numbers to the right of the photo.

"January of 1962. First time we met," He hummed with a playful grin. Russia rolled his eyes.

"I have never known peace and quiet since."

America snorted and flipped the page. Pasted on the thick paper were a few letters, ink faded and pages yellow with age, but the memories were as vivid as the day they were written. The first communication between them, before their meeting in the following year.

"Oh... I forgot about these."

-
America had been so inconceivably angry. Soviet refusing to answer any and all of his attempts at communication was like chucking a gallon of gasoline on a bond fire, and America fervently scribbled out a letter to the next person he thought of.

August 14th, 1961

Russian SFSR,

I hope this letter finds you well and in a favorable enough condition that this message is able to reach you unchanged: