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Chapter Text

“Father?” Belarus’s voice broke the silence as she pushed open the heavy oak door. The hinges creaked sharply, the sound echoing through the dimly lit study. The room was empty—eerily so. Dust danced lazily in the stripe of fading sunlight that cut through the curtains.

She swallowed, taking a hesitant step inside, her feet hitting softly against the floor. Behind her, Russia followed, his usual confident stride subdued as he glanced around the room. The faint smell of whiskey and old paper hung in the air, thick and heavy.

Belarus’s gaze caught on the desk—one of the drawers was half open. That was odd. Their father was never careless with his things. Curiosity tugged at her. She hesitated only a second before crouching down.

“Woah…” she breathed, eyes widening.

Russia leaned over her shoulder. The drawer was filled with letters, photographs, and an old ring box. None of it looked like anything their father would normally keep—each item felt personal, almost sacred.

“What are you doing?”

The voice struck like thunder.

Both of them froze. USSR stood in the doorway, his expression unreadable, eyes shadowed with exhaustion. His tone wasn’t loud, but it carried that sharp edge—the kind that made the air feel heavier.

Belarus jumped to her feet, trying to compose herself. “We were looking for you,” she said quickly, though her voice wavered.

USSR crossed the room in a few long strides. He slammed the drawer shut with a force that made both of them flinch. “I’m busy right now,” he said, voice gentler now, but strained—like he was fighting to stay calm. “I apologize. Now… out.”

The smell of alcohol was stronger up close, mixed with something else—grief, maybe. Regret.

He guided them to the door, one hand firm but not cruel on Belarus’s shoulder. The door shut behind them with a soft click.

For a long moment, they just stood there in the hallway, staring at the closed door.

“…So that was weird, right?” Belarus finally whispered, her brows furrowed.

Russia nodded slowly, still staring. “Yeah,” he murmured, voice low and uneasy. “Really weird.”

Behind the door, they could faintly hear a chair creak, then the sound of quiet, muffled sobbing.

—-------

“So… what exactly happened?” Ukraine asked, tilting her head slightly, her brows knitting together in curiosity.

Belarus’s voice trembled with lingering shock as she answered. “We went to ask Dad about something, but he wasn’t there. And then… we saw one of the drawers half open. Inside there was this photo…” She swallowed, as though saying it aloud made it harder to believe. “A boy sitting on Dad’s shoulders when they were kids. And they were both smiling. Actually smiling.”

Ukraine gasped, hand flying to her mouth. The sound was sharp in the quiet room. She shook her head, almost as if the thought itself was impossible. “No… that can’t be right. We’ve never— I’ve never seen him smile. Not really. A twitch of his lips, maybe, or a flat ‘good job’ when he’s in a rare mood, but…” Her voice trailed off, softer now, as though she was speaking to herself. “A true smile? Never.”

The weight of the revelation hung between them, strange and heavy, as if they’d uncovered something forbidden.

“That guy in the photo…” Ukraine whispered, her tone shifting with a fragile kind of hope. “He must have been really important. Maybe the only person who could make him… human like that. We have to find him. Don’t you think? We have to at least try.” She spoke quickly, excitement bubbling up, though her hands trembled in her lap, betraying her nervousness.

Russia, who had been silent until now, raised an eyebrow, his deep voice carrying more skepticism than interest. “So, let me get this straight. We’re going to snoop through Father’s things… to track down some man in an old photograph. A man who might not even be alive anymore.” His gaze lingered on them, cool and steady, as if weighing their sanity.

Belarus broke into a small, daring smile—something sharp, determined. “Exactly.”

—------ later that night—----

The three teens moved like shadows through the silent halls, hearts pounding in rhythm with every creak of the floorboards. Their father’s study loomed at the end of the corridor like a forbidden vault. Russia crouched down, slipping a pocketknife into the lock. The soft click echoed louder than it should have, but then the door gave way. He pushed it open slowly, careful not to let the hinges groan.

All three of them froze. No footsteps. No booming voice demanding what they were doing. The house stayed heavy and silent, as if holding its breath with them. They let out a quiet sigh of relief and stepped inside.

The study was larger than they remembered, but colder too—distant and oppressive. The walls were lined with photos, grim reminders of a life lived in power: their father shaking hands with officials, standing tall behind podiums, a sea of faces listening as he made speeches. Every image radiated the same stern, iron mask.

Ukraine shivered, rubbing her arms as she whispered, “It’s so… sad in here.” Her voice cracked slightly, like she already regretted crossing the threshold. “We shouldn’t be doing this. It feels wrong. As much as we want answers, this is… his. We’re digging through his life.”

Belarus ignored her hesitation, eyes sharp as she moved with purpose. “Found it.” Her voice cut through the unease as she crouched by a drawer.

Ukraine stepped closer reluctantly, her breath hitching when she saw what lay inside. It wasn’t cold like the rest of the room. Bundles of photos tied with twine, the edges yellowed with age, spilled over one another. And resting among them… a dead sunflower, its petals fragile and brittle, as though it had been kept there for years. The drawer seemed untouched by the suffocating sadness of the room—as if it had been a pocket of light preserved in secret.

Russia’s large hands reached in first, plucking up the same photograph they had glimpsed earlier. Belarus carefully lifted a stack of tied photos beside him. The air grew heavy as their father’s past spilled into their present.

Ukraine leaned over, her chest tightening as she saw their father—not the man they knew, but younger, softer, with a teen perched on his shoulders. Both of them smiling, wide and genuine.

“My sunflower…” Russia muttered, his voice low and trembling as he read the neat cursive scrawled across the back.

Belarus’s stomach turned. Her throat felt tight as she stared at their father’s unrecognizable joy. “Damn… he loved him?” she asked, almost sick with disbelief.

“Wait.” Ukraine’s eyes darted to a newer-looking photo tucked near the bottom of the drawer. She pulled it free carefully. “He has the same colors as you, Russia…”

It was a boy—older now, maybe late teens—standing on a balcony. The sun poured down over him, catching hair that shimmered with half-blue bangs, the rest striped red and white. His pale skin was marked by a single red stripe around his throat. He was smiling so wide it nearly blinded the viewer, sunglasses slipping down his nose as star-shaped freckles lit up his cheeks. His joy was infectious, radiant. Beautiful.

Ukraine’s breath caught. She turned the photo over, her heart racing. In their father’s familiar handwriting it read: “United States of America, 1776. I’m so proud of you, my sunflower.”

Belarus’s hand tightened around the photos she held. Her voice was soft, uncertain, but heavy with possibility. “...You don’t think?” Her gaze flicked to Russia.

He didn’t answer right away. His stare was fixed on the boy in the photo, a strange pull tugging at his chest, something deep and unexplainable. “…Maybe he’s… our mom?” Ukraine whispered, hesitant and scared of her own words.

Silence pressed down on them, broken only by the faint rustle of paper. They had never met their other parent. Russia was the only one who claimed to remember anything—their warmth, like the sun… and a smile so bright it chased away every shadow.

His voice was quiet, almost reverent. “We have to find him. To get answers.” He began placing everything back exactly as it had been, careful not to disturb a single detail. His hand brushed against a stack of letters tucked in the corner, the paper yellowed, some decorated with doodles, all addressed to their father. For a moment, he almost pulled one free, but shook his head and closed the drawer.

“Even if he’s not our mom or whatever…” Belarus said, her voice steady now with conviction, “he mattered to Dad. And he still does.”

Ukraine nodded slowly, lips pressed tight as though sealing in her racing thoughts.

Russia locked the door again with methodical precision before leading them back down the silent hall. Each step toward their own rooms felt heavier than the last, their minds circling endlessly around the radiant boy in the photos and the father they had never truly known.

—-------------- 

They had a plan.
Look up the United States.
Find his address.
Show up at his doorstep.
Demand answers.

Simple as that.

At least… it was supposed to be that easy.

And, in a way, it was. They had found the address. They had slipped in past security, nerves taut but resolve sharper. And now—now they were standing in front of the man who might very well be their long-lost parent.

The three of them froze in the doorway, staring.

America sat at a wide desk, his suit jacket crisp and black but worn like armor. The top three buttons of his shirt hung loose, no tie to soften the sharp lines of his chest and collar. He leaned casually in his chair, long legs kicked up on the polished wood, a phone pressed to his ear.

His bright eyes caught sight of them. He stilled.

“Canada liste—” His words cut off mid-sentence. He tilted his head, squinting at the sight of the three siblings crowding his doorway. “Imma call you back.”

The muffled voice on the other end screamed protests—a brother, maybe?—but America ignored them, ending the call in one sharp motion. He swung his legs off the desk and leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, gaze fixed squarely on them.

“Ummm.” His voice was deceptively casual, though his eyes flickered with calculation. “Can I help you?”

Russia swallowed hard, but it was Belarus who stepped forward, her chin high, eyes unflinching.

“America,” she said firmly. “What do you know about Solivet?”

For the first time, America’s easy posture faltered. His body went taut, his jaw clenched, and his tone when he answered was no longer light. It was ice. “Who’s asking?” His voice was lower, sharper—almost another person altogether.

A chill ran down Belarus’s spine, but she stood her ground, refusing to flinch under the weight of his stare. “His kids,” she said.

The room seemed to shift. They all watched as America’s face cycled through emotions—shock, disbelief, pain, anger—before a smirk, brittle and forced, settled into place.

“Oh?” He leaned back slowly, forcing a relaxed slouch into his frame. “Don’t tell me he got remarried. What poor soul did he knock up this time?” He barked out a laugh, sharp and humorless, taking a sip of the soda at his elbow. His hands, though, were tight around the cup, the plastic groaning under the pressure.

Ukraine stepped forward then, her voice soft but desperate. “Look—it’s hard to explain. But we want to know what happened between you two. Please.”

America’s brows lifted, mockery curling his lips. “What happened?” He scoffed. “I made friends with the wrong person, that’s what. Simple as that.” He waved them off with a flick of his wrist, like they were nothing more than children chasing stories.

“No.” Belarus’s voice cracked like thunder, startling even herself. She glared at him, trembling with both rage and fear. “No, that’s not it. Then why does he have a drawer full of pictures of you?!”

America froze. His soda hung halfway to his mouth, the straw hovering just beneath his lips. A single breath slipped out of him, heavy and unsteady.

He set the cup down carefully, too carefully. “Not sure,” he muttered. “Maybe guilt finally got to him.”

He laughed once—dry, bitter. His eyes glinted, hard. “If you’re really that curious, maybe you should ask him what happened. Ask him why he chose his fucking father over me!”

The last words tore out of him, raw and loud. He shot to his feet, the chair skidding back with a screech. His anger filled the room like fire, heat prickling at their skin.

Then, as quickly as it came, it cracked. He choked down the fury, his shoulders stiff, his breath ragged. “I’m… sorry,” he muttered finally, voice quieter now, wearier. He tugged his sunglasses down, rubbing at his eyes before slipping them back into place. He slumped into the chair, retreating into himself. “But this conversation is over.”

“But—” Ukraine tried to step closer.

“Out,” America snapped, his tone final.

“No!” Belarus snapped back, her defiance sparking bright.

But Ukraine grabbed her sister’s arm before it could spiral further, tugging her back. Belarus resisted for a heartbeat, her eyes locked on America’s, but then Ukraine pulled harder, and the heavy door shut behind them with a thud that echoed down the hall.

The two of them stood in the corridor, Belarus shaking with fury, Ukraine pale with fear.

“Where’s Russia?” Ukraine asked suddenly, panic flaring in her chest as she glanced around the empty hallway.

The space where their brother should have been was silent.

—-----------------

Russia lingered behind while his sisters were pulled from the room, his heavy footsteps carrying him to America’s desk.

America looked up sharply, jaw tight. His sunglasses hid his eyes, but the tension in his body betrayed him. “I said leave,” he snapped. “Or do I need to call security?” His voice was firm, clipped, but not quite steady.

Russia didn’t flinch. He planted his hands firmly on the edge of the desk, leaning down so his shadow fell across the man. His eyes, normally cold and unreadable, burned with something desperate. “I’ll leave when you answer my questions.” His voice shook—low and hard, but trembling like it was holding back something fragile.

America finally met his gaze. Behind the glasses, Russia could see the faintest flicker of fear… or guilt.

“You’re my mother, aren’t you?” Russia asked, the words tumbling out like stones too heavy to keep carrying. His voice cracked, watery despite the steel in his tone. “You gave birth to us… and then you left. You ditched us. Why?”

For a heartbeat, the room was suffocatingly silent.

Then America’s voice came, low, breaking at the edges. “…No.” He shook his head faintly, but his hand on the desk curled into a fist. “No, that’s not how it—”

“You left us!” Russia roared, slamming his palm down on the wood so hard the desk rattled. Papers slid off the edge, a soda can toppled and rolled, fizzing weakly. His chest heaved as he leaned in closer, eyes blazing. “You left our father! You left me! WHY?!”

The sound of his voice cracked through the air like thunder.

America shot to his feet so fast his chair slammed back into the wall. His face tilted up toward the much taller man, his sunglasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. For once, the walls around him shattered.

“I NEVER WANTED TO LEAVE!” America shouted, his own voice breaking, raw and desperate. His chest rose and fell in ragged bursts as tears welled in his eyes. “Solivet left me! He took you from me! Do you understand that?!” His fists shook at his sides. “I loved you. I loved you all. But he didn’t love me—not more than his damn work!”

The fury in his voice cracked apart into pleading. His shoulders sagged, and one tear finally slipped down his cheek. “Now… please. Please, just… get out.” His voice dropped to a whisper, so soft it barely reached across the desk.

Russia stared at him, the anger still hot in his chest but now tangled with confusion, grief, and something else—something he wasn’t ready to name. He swallowed hard, forcing his voice steady. “I’m going to figure out what happened,” he said quietly but firmly. “But whatever the truth is… my father loved you.” The certainty in his tone was unshakable.

America let out a strangled, watery laugh, bitter and broken, before collapsing back into his chair. He dragged his hands through his hair, breathing unevenly as the weight of years pressed down on him. The door clicked shut behind Russia, leaving him alone in the suffocating silence.

Slowly, America pulled the sunglasses off his face, turning them in his hands. On the inside of the right arm, words had been carefully etched in neat handwriting:

“To my sunflower.”

His lips trembled. The glasses slipped from his hands onto the desk as he finally broke. Sobs wracked his body, tears streaming freely down his face as the past he had buried clawed its way to the surface.

Chapter Text

Russia stepped out of America’s office, the door shutting firmly behind him. He froze for a moment in the hallway, the faint sound of muffled sobs still bleeding through the wood. His throat tightened, but he forced himself to swallow it down, his expression hardening.

When he turned to his sisters, both Ukraine and Belarus looked at him with wide, searching eyes. They wanted to ask—desperately—but something in his face told them not to.

Russia’s voice was steady, but low. “We’re talking to Father.”

Belarus bristled, her fists clenching at her sides, still fuming with the heat of unanswered questions. Ukraine nodded quietly, worry creasing her brow, but neither of them spoke. Instead, they followed in silence, shadows trailing behind their brother.

The flight back felt longer than usual, the weight of everything they’d learned pressing down on their shoulders.

When they finally entered their home, the sharp, familiar scent of onions and boiling broth drifted toward them. Their father’s deep voice came from the kitchen, gruff and unimpressed.

“Where have you been?” USSR asked without turning, his large hands steady as he chopped potatoes on the cutting board. The knife struck hard, the rhythm sharp and unyielding.

Russia stepped forward, his boots heavy against the floor, until he stood across from him. “We visited America.” His voice was flat, but his glare burned. “He had a lot to say about you.”

The knife slowed for just a heartbeat. USSR’s broad shoulders stiffened, but he did not look up. “Oh? Still bitching about wars again?” he asked, his voice low, clipped, and full of disdain. His knife struck the board harder this time, the potato splitting with a crack.

Russia’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “Actually,” he said, his tone sharpening, “he talked about how you abandoned him.” His words hit like an accusation, slicing through the air. “We have questions. And we want answers. Now”

Finally, USSR turned. His expression was cold, unreadable, though a faint shadow flickered in his eyes. “You don’t understand,” he said simply, his voice a blunt wall of ice.

“Then make us understand!” Belarus snapped, her voice raw and furious. Her fists trembled as she stepped forward, the heat of her anger breaking through the cold silence of the room.

For a moment, USSR’s gaze locked on her, hard and measuring. Then, slowly, he set the knife down.

“Fine.” His tone was final, unyielding, but heavy with something that sounded almost like resignation. He turned back to the pot, stirring the bubbling stew with slow, deliberate motions. “Talk over dinner.”

The siblings exchanged looks, hearts racing, but there was no room for argument. They moved to the table quietly, the scrape of chairs against the floor sounding too loud in the tense air.

Behind them, USSR exhaled deeply, his shoulders rising and falling with a weariness he hadn’t shown before. He stared into the simmering stew, the steam rising around him like ghosts of the past.

It was finally happening.
The truth he had buried for so long was clawing its way to the surface.

—-------------------

They sat around the dinner table, bowls of stew steaming between them, but no one truly ate. The clink of spoons against ceramic echoed in the silence like distant thunder. Every movement was slow, heavy, charged with the weight of what they were about to hear.

“Go on,” Russia finally said, his deep voice cutting through the tension.

USSR sighed, shoulders sagging slightly as if the years themselves had settled back onto him. Belarus leaned forward, her eyes sharp. “Start from the beginning,” she said firmly. “We want the truth. The whole truth.”

USSR set his spoon down, hands folding in front of him. His gaze drifted past them, as if he were staring into another time entirely.

“America was hired to be my bodyguard,” he began.

Belarus nearly choked. “That short, scrawny thing?” she asked incredulously, brows shooting up.

Her father shot her a glare sharp enough to slice. “Do you want me to finish the story, or are you going to keep interrupting?” His tone was cold steel. Belarus fell silent, her lips pressed into a thin line.

“No?” USSR huffed when she didn’t answer. “Good.” He leaned back slightly, gathering his thoughts. “As I was saying… America was hired to protect me. Mostly to get back at his own father. He attended every meeting, stood by my side, always against him. And after a few years…” His expression softened slightly, the icy mask cracking. “…I fell in love with him. We did everything together.”

For a brief second, there was a ghost of a smile on his lips, quickly buried beneath the weight of memory.

“But my father saw,” USSR continued, voice lowering. “He began pushing America further and further away. Until… until I couldn’t take it. On his birthday—1776—he finally broke free from his father. Became his own person. I was so proud of him.”

His hand trembled faintly as he lifted his spoon again, though he didn’t eat. He stared at the stew as if seeing something else entirely. “That was when my father gave me an ultimatum. Him… or America.”

“And you chose America,” Ukraine whispered.

USSR nodded once. “Yes. I chose him. We left, started a family. For a time… I was happy.” His voice faltered, and he swallowed hard before continuing. “But then an emergency came. My father was dying. I had to go to him. I took you three with me. America wanted to come as well, but his own father needed him then. So he stayed behind.”

The silence thickened, the stew growing cold between them.

“A few weeks into my stay,” USSR said, his tone quieter now, “I received a letter. From him. Saying he couldn’t do it anymore. That he wanted to break up. That he was letting me keep you three.” His jaw clenched, and his hands tightened in his lap. “And… I didn’t see him again until years later. At a country meeting. We argued. And then we left.”

The words hung heavy in the air. For the first time, USSR’s composure cracked, his throat tightening as a few tears welled and spilled. He brushed them away quickly, as though ashamed to let his children see.

The siblings sat in silence, staring at him, the story settling like ash in their bones.

Then Russia spoke. His deep voice was firm, but filled with something raw, insistent. “No.”

USSR blinked, startled. “Excuse me?” His tone sharpened, but there was unease in his eyes.

Russia leaned forward, his stare unyielding. “I only saw America for a few minutes. But I know he wouldn’t leave with just a note. He told me you left him. He cried his eyes out over it. You even admitted yourself—he wanted to come with you. So why would he walk away like that?”

USSR’s jaw tightened. He opened his mouth to argue, but nothing came. Finally, all he managed was: “You don’t know him.” His voice was cold, but unsteady.

“Something’s not right,” Russia said, standing abruptly. His chair scraped harshly against the floor. He turned and began walking toward his room, his heavy footsteps echoing. “And you know it.”

Belarus and Ukraine exchanged a glance before rising too, following their brother.

At the doorway, Ukraine hesitated. She looked back at her father, whose broad frame suddenly seemed smaller beneath the weight of the years. Gently, she laid a hand on his shoulder.

“I don’t think he would leave like that, Dad,” she whispered softly.

Her father didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on the simmering stew, though his mind was far away.

Ukraine gave his shoulder one last squeeze before following her siblings down the hall, the unspoken truth hanging heavy between them.

—-----------------------

“Something’s definitely not right,” Ukraine whispered. She sat on the edge of her brother’s bed, knees pulled tight to her chest, her head resting against the wall. Her voice was soft, but the weight behind it was heavy, pulling the room into silence for a moment.

“I don’t think America would leave his kids and husband with just a note,” Russia said firmly. He was seated at his desk, fingers drumming nervously against the wood, his brow furrowed so deep it made him look older. He kept replaying his father’s words in his head, and none of it fit.

Belarus paced across the room like a storm cloud, her boots clicking against the floor with every sharp turn. “We have got to find that note,” she announced suddenly, her eyes lighting up with the spark of a dangerous idea. A crooked smile spread across her face, the kind of smile that promised trouble.

Ukraine frowned. “Don’t you think we’ve gone through his privacy enough?” She hugged her legs tighter, guilt flickering in her chest even as her curiosity gnawed at her.

“We’re already in too deep,” Russia said, standing from his chair. His tone was steady, almost grim, as if he had already decided this was the only path forward. “I want answers. I’m going with Bel.”

Belarus gave him a sharp, approving nod. “We’ll check the drawer tonight.” Her voice was low, determined, almost conspiratorial.

Russia mirrored her nod once, jaw set. “Alright.”

Ukraine groaned, dragging her hands down her face. “Okay…” she muttered, though her voice was filled with reluctant dread. She knew better than to try and stop them—when Belarus and Russia were locked into something, there was no pulling them out.

The three of them sat in silence for a moment, the weight of the plan hanging heavy in the air. The ticking of the clock on the wall suddenly sounded louder, like each second was counting down to something dangerous.

—---------------

They had snuck into their father’s study again that night, the heavy silence pressing down on them as they sifted through drawers and scattered papers. Every letter, every folded scrap was gently pulled open and checked—but still, the note wasn’t there.

“Come on,” Belarus groaned in a low whisper, frustration curling in his chest as he pushed another drawer shut. “He kept every note but not  that one?!”

The siblings froze when a deep voice echoed from the doorway, smooth but carrying the weight of old sorrow.
“I kept it.”

Slowly, almost fearfully, they turned to see him standing there. USSR leaned against the doorframe, the dim light from the hallway outlining his broad figure. His eyes were unreadable, shadowed.

“Uh…” Belarus faltered, his throat tight. “Then… where is it?” Russia asked cautiously.

Without a word, USSR lifted his hand. The paper was pinched between his fingers, fragile and yellowed at the edges.

“Are you sure you want to keep digging?” his voice was quiet now, carrying a weight that made the air colder.

“Yes,” Belarus and Russia said together without hesitation.
“Maybe?” Ukraine added, her voice trembling, glancing nervously at her siblings.

USSR sighed heavily and moved into the room, flicking on the lamp. The golden light spilled over the study, catching the dust in the air as he walked to the desk and lowered himself into the large chair. His hands weren’t steady when he unfolded the letter. They shook just slightly, but enough for the children to notice.

America’s breakup words lay before him, written out in black ink. The children leaned closer, and in the quiet, they could see them too—the smudged lines where dried tear stains had blurred the ink, like scars that would never fade. USSR’s jaw tightened as he read, though he didn’t really need to. The words were already carved into his memory, each one still stinging as if fresh.

“No,” Russia whispered suddenly, frowning. He leaned closer, eyes narrowing. “That’s not his writing.”

The words jolted USSR out of the painful fog of his memories. He blinked, startled, and looked at his son sharply. “What? He was upset—that’s why some parts are off…” The excuse sounded weak even as it left his lips, brittle and false, like he wanted to force it to be true.

But Belarus was already reaching for one of America’s old love letters, pulling it from the pile and holding it up side by side with the so-called breakup. “Look,” he said firmly. “America always wrote in scrawl, not messy cursive. And every letter—every single one—was in blue ink. Not black.”

USSR took both papers into his trembling hands. His eyes scanned them desperately, searching for a reason, an explanation—but the differences were undeniable. His throat went dry.

“Look at the end,” Ukraine whispered, leaning closer. “He started writing ‘Colonies’ before scratching it out and replacing it with ‘America.’ Why would he… why would he get his own name wrong?”

The room went cold. USSR felt his blood turn to ice, his breath catching in his throat. “He wouldn’t…” he muttered, his voice breaking.

How could he not have seen it? How could he not recognize that the handwriting wasn’t his sunflower’s? He had been blinded by grief, so quick to believe the cruelest possibility—that America had abandoned him. He had only read the note once before shoving it away, but still… America was the love of his life. He knew every curve of his letters, every quirk of his phrasing. And yet, he hadn’t seen.

Guilt rose up like a tide, choking him. Every argument, every sharp word, every cruel thing he had written in anger when he thought America had left him—they came flooding back, burning his chest.

“We need to see him.” USSR’s voice was low and hoarse, but the resolve in it was unmistakable. His hand tightened around the false breakup letter until it crumpled slightly. He pushed himself up from the chair, fury and regret sparking in his eyes. “Get your shoes.”

He strode toward the door without looking back, his heavy steps echoing in the silence. The siblings exchanged a stunned glance, hearts racing. Then, without another word, they hurried after him.

Chapter Text

They flew to America, the city lights glowing faintly below as the plane descended. It was around seven in the evening, and they knew America would be off work. USSR drove toward the house, the address etched in his memory from one drunken night spent searching for it online—half a wish, half a fantasy of seeing him again. Back then, he never had the courage to go. But now… now he was here.

The house was a two-story building, designed to look cozy and welcoming. But to USSR, every flower, every carefully placed decoration felt hollow, like it was hiding the loneliness and sadness underneath. The home seemed like a mask, trying to appear cheerful while concealing the quiet ache inside.

They approached the front door, and USSR raised his fist to bang sharply. The sound echoed in the quiet neighborhood.

“IM COMING! Geez!” America called from inside, footsteps thudding down the hallway.

The door swung open, and the world seemed to freeze. America’s eyes widened as he took in the sight before him—the love of his life standing there, flanked by his children. He stared up at USSR, and USSR stared down, a faint, almost shy smile on his lips.

He noticed America without his usual sunglasses, his beautiful, star-shaped pupils staring directly at him. One of USSR’s old long-sleeve red shirts hung loosely over his frame, hiding the blue shorts underneath, white socks peeking out at his ankles. USSR took in the short ponytail, the red streaks along his wrists, biceps, and thighs stark against the pale skin. He looked exactly as beautiful as the day he had left.

“Wha—” America began, but Russia stepped forward, snatching the note from his father’s hands and pressing it into America’s.

“This was the note Father got that day,” Russia said, his voice steady.

America’s brows furrowed as he took the paper, holding it up to read. He shook his head slowly, confusion and disbelief clouding his features. “What… I never wrote this.”

Ukraine huffed a laugh, relief and a touch of mischief in her tone. “We figured.” She smiled, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly.

“Can we see the one you got?” Belarus asked gently.

America nodded, stepping aside. “Sure, Follow me,” he said softly, leading them upstairs to his room. He reached into the closet trying to pull down a dark blue box from the top shelf. USSR helped him grab it, and America blushed faintly, shifting to sit on the edge of his bed.

He opened the box carefully. Inside were letters, scattered notes, and photographs, each one a fragment of the past. Atop them all, a wedding ring glinted faintly in the light. America sifted through the papers, finally pulling one from the bottom of the pile.

“Here it is…” he said, handing it to USSR.

USSR’s hands trembled slightly as he read over the note. “I’ve never seen this…” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion, before letting America take it back.

They sat side by side on the bed, the weight of years pressing down on them. “I never wrote that,” USSR said quietly, turning to his sunflower, his eyes glistening.

America’s hand brushed against his, firm and warm. “And I never wrote yours…” he whispered back. He leaned into USSR, letting his head rest against his shoulder, a soft sigh escaping him.

“Why didn’t you come back?” USSR asked, his voice barely audible, resting his head gently atop America’s.

“I was going to, the second I got it… but Dad wouldn’t let me. And… I guess on some level, I was scared,” America admitted, fingers brushing softly over USSR’s hand.

America lifted his head slightly, searching USSR’s eyes. “What about you?”

“I was angry. And… Father needed help,” USSR replied, voice low.

America nodded, understanding flashing in his expression. “Who would have made fake breakup notes?” he asked, confusion furrowing his brow.

“Your father’s,” Ukraine said softly, stepping closer. “You two said it yourselves. They hated that you were with each other, so they stopped it from happening.”

“UGHHH!” America groaned, rubbing his eyes hard. Everything was finally clicking into place—the sly comment his father had made, every jab and crude remark. He sank against the bed, letting the weight of it all press down.

“I never wanted to be like my father… and yet I wasn’t even there to see my own kids grow up.”

America wanted to scream, to cry, to throw himself into the world in frustration—but instead, a wet, shaky laugh escaped him. Tears clung to his lashes, shimmering in the soft lamplight.

“It was my fault,” USSR admitted quietly, laying back on the bed, turning his head to look at America. “If I had looked at the note longer… or—hell—used my head, I would have realized the truth. Instead… I let you slip through my fingers.”

A heavy silence settled over the room, broken only by the faint rustle of paper and their synchronized breathing.

“That’s Dad’s shirt, right?” Belarus asked from her spot on the floor, flipping through old letters their father had sent.

“Yeah… I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of it,” America admitted softly, his hands absently smoothing the fabric against his skin.

“If it makes a difference,” USSR said, sitting up, “I kept my wedding ring.”

America’s eyes flicked to the sleeves, surprised. USSR pulled a gold chain from around his neck, the simple but elegant ring looped through it. He took it off, holding it out to America. America’s fingers brushed the cool metal, and then he gently closed USSR’s hand over it, pressing it back against him.

“It’s still as beautiful as the day I put it on your finger,” America murmured, voice thick with memory.

“So are you,” USSR replied, his gaze soft, not noticing their kids slipping quietly out of the room, leaving them a moment of privacy.

America blushed, glancing away. “You don’t mean that…” he said softly.

USSR cupped his face gently, tilting his head so their eyes met. “You’re as beautiful as the day I lost you,” he whispered.

“Not so bad yourself~” America replied with a soft giggle, pressing his face into USSR’s palm, looking up at him with a teasing, shy smile.

Time seemed to slow, as though the world had melted away, leaving only the two of them in a little bubble of warmth. USSR leaned in, brushing their lips together in a tentative, gentle kiss.

America sighed softly, wrapping his arms around USSR’s shoulders, pulling him closer, pouring years of loneliness and longing into that single embrace. They broke apart only for a moment, foreheads pressed together, breath mingling. A single tear slipped down America’s cheek.

“I missed you… I’m sorry,” America whispered, voice trembling as he looked into USSR’s eyes.

“I missed you more, sunflower,” USSR replied, his accent thick, voice low and certain.

America laughed wetly through his tears, then crawled into USSR’s lap, burying his face into his neck as the flood of emotion poured out. USSR held him tightly, murmuring apologies and gentle encouragement, letting the warmth and comfort speak where words couldn’t.

“I… love you… is that wrong?” America asked softly, voice muffled against USSR’s chest.

“No,” USSR replied without hesitation, heart full. “I love you too.”

“Do… you want to give it another try?” America asked, lifting his head to look at USSR, hope shining through the vulnerability in his gaze.

“It will take work, I'm a broken man,” USSR admitted, brushing his thumb gently over America’s cheek. “But yes… I would like that.”

A soft smile bloomed on America’s face. “Good… we should tell the kids,” he said, standing up carefully. He caught sight of them, still lingering just outside the room, smiles small but knowing.

“You should get cleaned up first,” USSR said, voice gentle but teasing.

America laughed, the sound light and free after so many years of burden. “Yeah,” he said, heading to the bathroom to wash his face, joy bubbling up in him like sunlight breaking through clouds.

For the first time in so long, it felt like they could breathe again. Like the world had shifted back into place, and this—this moment—was theirs.

—---------------

They left the bathroom together, the air lighter now, warm laughter echoing faintly between them. When they reached the kitchen, they froze at the sight before them—each of the kids was perched somewhere around the table, happily eating bowls of strawberry ice cream they’d found in the freezer. The hum of the old fridge filled the space, mingling with the sound of quiet spoons clinking against bowls.

America laughed, shaking his head. “Guess you found the secret stash,” he teased, padding barefoot across the tiled floor to grab a bowl for himself. He scooped a generous portion, hopping up onto the counter, his legs swinging as he dug into the first bite. The sweetness melted on his tongue, and for the first time in years, everything felt… right.

USSR leaned beside him, arms crossed, watching the scene with soft, unguarded fondness. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen America’s smile so bright—or heard his laugh so free of bitterness. He couldn’t help himself—he reached out, sneaking a spoonful of America’s ice cream when he thought no one was watching.

“Hey!” America swatted at him with his spoon, trying to sound indignant but failing to hide his grin.

USSR chuckled lowly, licking the edge of the spoon with exaggerated satisfaction. “You still like strawberry, I see.”

“Always have,” America said with a shrug, though his cheeks flushed pinker than the ice cream.

From across the room, Belarus tilted her head, a mischievous glint in her eyes. “So,” she began casually, “are you two back together yet?”

The question hung in the air, light but heavy all at once. America froze mid-bite, his heart skipping. He looked over at USSR, who had gone still too, uncertain, hopeful.

“I mean…” America started, rubbing at the back of his neck, suddenly shy. “Would that be okay?”

There was a long pause. Then Russia set down his bowl, meeting both their eyes with a steady, gentle look. “We have a lot of years to catch up on,” he said quietly.

Ukraine smiled warmly, nodding in agreement. “We’d like that,” she said, her voice soft but sure.

Something inside America eased—a tension he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding for so long. He smiled through the growing burn of happy tears, looking around at his family, his heart swelling with something too big to contain. USSR reached out, resting a reassuring hand over his.

Relief, warmth, and love filled the kitchen—soft laughter, melting ice cream, and the promise of a new beginning. For the first time in years, the house didn’t feel lonely or sad. It felt full.