Trip to Moscow [Serion]

Date: Sometime in March of 1948
Tags: Serbia
Location: Moscow, Russia
Word count: 346
Notes: This took far to long to write.

This was insanity, absolute insanity. It was inevitable that someone's leader wouldn't get along with her own, these things happen, but the tension was coiling tighter and tighter. The fact that she was being given orders to reveal nothing made her more anxious. This wasn't how things were supposed to go. Not at all.

At least there were meetings going on, leaders trying to create some kind of solution. But meetings and patience can only go so far.

She hissed softly, wincing at the bite of wind. She was finally headed home after a day that had dragged on for ages. The meetings today had been nothing but disputes and her patience was a thin thread. Moscow thought for a moment, and then changed her course, ducking into a bar as opposed to heading right home.

She took a seat in a quieter part of the bar, grateful when a glass was set before her. Moscow took a sip, savored the sharp burn, and hummed a bit as she took a deeper sip, draining half the glass.

Okay, so Sveta wasn't there just to get drunk. Despite the instructions she'd been given, to watch who she spoke with, she was meeting with Serbia. It was highly unlikely anyone would recognize her here, in the shadowy bar, and she refused to stop speaking with one of the few people she trusted, no matter what was happening politically. After all, even if Moscow wasn't allowed to be friendly with Serbia, Svetlana could always be friendly with Stefan.

She glanced around and shifted a bit in her seat. The heating in the bar was awful, almost as bad as being outside. Sveta couldn't help but burrow herself more firmly into her coat. She probably looked odd, a woman in clothes to expensive for such a shoddy establishment, nursing a large glass of vodka, sitting alone. The glances she was getting from the bar's other patrons were unsettling, but she was forcing herself not to care. Really, she was lucky Serbia was even here, with how tense things had been.

Tensions were clearly high. Though he relished being with friends and family again, his boss had warned him to stay away from the Russians as much as possible. Naturally, Stefan objected and insisted on spending time with those he loved regardless of what anyone said. Nations weren’t supposed to get in arguments with their bosses, Sure, leaders didn’t always get along, but it didn’t always end so horridly.

After a long drawn out meeting which soon devolved into an argument, Serbia wanted to get away. He pulled his coat close to him, still not fully recovered from the aftermath of WWII. He didn’t want to go back to Tito. Today, he hated the man passionately. He also hated Stalin, but no one ever openly declared hating Stalin if they wanted to live to see morning. He had made arrangements with Moscow to meet in a rather quiet bar where no one would disturb them.

It wasn’t hard to spot the Russian girl. All the men looked like hungry beasts and she, a juicy slice of meat. Moscow was his and he would have no problem with knocking the teeth out of anyone who dared touch her. He confidently strode towards her, the only sound being his boots on the hard floor and his breathing, still a bit rapid and shallow. Thankfully, most of the personal injuries had healed fully shortly after the war was over. The national injuries had scarred, the most obvious one being the cut along his neck which looked exactly like it was—someone had tried to cut his throat. Of course, he knew that Croatia was responsible for it.

He approached her table and sat down opposite. “Ceca, it’s been a few years. Unfortunate that we have to meet in secret and during such troubled times, though.” A bottle of vodka and shot glass were set before him and Serbia nodded in thanks. He poured himself some and threw it back in his throat, wincing at the sharp burning taste. He too was dressed well given the rather run down appearance of the place and a few people were clearly staring at the couple. Serbia reached forward to take Svetlana’s hands. “You’re cold. Did General Winter not treat you well this year?” Stefan was well aware of General Winter and who couldn’t be as a friend of Russia? In silence, he yearned for the day when he could be with friends and family with a sort of carefree innocence that even if for one day, everyone could be happy in the world. He planned on savoring this moment of time even as relations fell miserably.

Serbia rubbed at the scar on his neck out of habit. It itched horribly at times and people tended to look at him with sympathy when they saw it. Serbia considered himself to be one of the lucky ones. He knew how many people had died, his own people whose souls left a void in his own heart. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I can’t follow your model exactly. Yugoslavia is going to be a country of South Slavs. We are not Russian and I need to do what’s best for my people. Our issues are different from yours. Please, try to understand. I could never hate you, but my people need to do what’s best for them.”

Moscow smiled when Serbia entered the bar. It was a relief; she had worried he would not come. The fact that he showed up given how things were going was quite near a blessing. That his joining her also discouraged the leers of the bar's male patrons was also rather nice. It wasn't that she couldn't handle herself (she could, she had fought worse than drunken men), but being watched so keenly wasn't a pleasant feeling. The cut along Serbia's neck drew her attention, and she frowned a moment.

“Stepka, it's always good to see you, even in times such as this.” She greeted in return, her mouth forming back into a small, gentle smile. The mention of General Winter made her blink. She forgot, sometimes, that not all the world was ignorant of him. “Nyet, he was harsh this year. It doesn't help much that formal clothes aren't very warm. “ It had been very cold and snowy this year. Something to be expected, but even someone with a cold tolerance as good as Moscow's could only handle so much. Her meeting attire wasn't much help. Although her coat was long and warm, her clothes for meetings like this were generally on the fancier side, because impressions were so important. But they also failed to retain warmth very well. She focused once more on his neck. “What happened?” She asked quietly, her expression saying he only had to answer if he wanted to.

Sveta gave him a long, sad look before turning her head away to stare into the smoke gloom of the bar. “I understand. No matter what, I will care about you. We can't agree on everything all the time.” Her tone seemed to shift from it's fond and gentle note to the voice she used in meetings. A bit cold, falsely pleasant, accepting and passive. This wasn't how she wanted things to be, but she would accept them. There wasn't much she could do about it. Deciding between her government -her lovely, wonderful government-, and Serbia -here friend, one of her best friends-, it was with an odd epiphany that she realized her friendship with Serbia was more important.

Even though times were peaceful, it felt that true peace was impossible. America had promised that the first world war would be "the war to end all wars". It had been a lie. The world was a harsh place, but by now, he was well aware of that fact. Screw the government, Stefan would see those he cared about authorized or unauthorized. He knew that Moscow was fine, would be fine. She had Russia, after all. If nothing else, Russia would make sure that his capitol was safe. "A war. We all bear the marks of fighting. It was my fault. I let my guard down, let myself succumb to weakness. Enough of that. The war's been won and life...can return to normal."

Some believed that it was best to talk about one's problems. Serbia disagreed. There were some things others couldn't fathom. He had seen a lot, but every nation knew that times were tough. Stefan grappled with the knowledge that Mr. Tito wasn't entirely Serb. The nation had chosen his friends over his leader. He could trust his friends, but not this guy. "Excuse me." He stood up and pushed his chair in, leaving Svetlana by herself for several minutes.

The waiter came back and set a bottle of vodka down on the table for Stefan. Shortly after he left, a couple of the regulars stood up from the bar. They were clearly drunk. Like the vast majority of humans, these two men had no idea what Svetlana and Stefan represented. They represented the Russian proletariat. Believing themselves to be handsome and good at picking up women, the two men sauntered over towards Moscow and leaned on either side of the table. "Hello, miss. What's a pretty thing like you doing here? This bar hardly seems appropriate for someone with your looks." Their Russian was heavily slurred and vodka could be smelled on their breath.