okay so my history teacher found out i write fanfiction and made a joke about me writing a cold war fanfic between stalin and truman.

so here we are.

(i hope he likes it lol).

(i'm so not sorry this is fucking epic).

***

Stalin exhaled, leaning back in his chair. He was exhausted.

Stacks of paper sat heavily on the desk before him. Each was covered in words upon words upon words; words that scratched behind his eyelids and left black stains on his fingers. Words that he had been trying to make sense of for far too long and with little success.

Because this wasn't Harry Truman. Because his Harry would never want to dominate the world.

Stalin remembered the first time they'd met, in Potsdam.

It was such a small thing - an accidental bump in a corridor, Stalin on his way to a meeting, Harry going the same way.

They'd collided, papers flying everywhere at the impact, Harry falling to his knees to pick them up.

Stalin couldn't forget the cold blue eyes that looked up at him behind those large glasses. Eyes that softened ever so slightly when Stalin offered his hand and helped him up. 

Those same eyes seemed to haunt his sleep, a sweet smile attached to them.

That had been almost fourteen months ago. And here, before Stalin's tired eyes, sat a telegram from Novikov, his ambassador in America. A telegram with far too many words and not enough explanations.

Someone like Harry would not want this. Harry, who had come to see him after the first meeting. The man who had slipped his fingers into Stalin's hand, who had laughed nervously and tried to apologise for his earlier rudeness, who had left with a shy smile lingering over his shoulder.

Harry, who later sent him letters of threat under the title 'President' and letters of love under the title 'your Harry'.

It was too much.

Stalin rested his head on the table, furrowing his brow in an attempt to block out the words. He couldn't forget him, he couldn't, and yet he had to.

He had to, because there were too many papers with too many words, and they all landed on two different sides of his heart, and even if Stalin loved Harry (and maybe, maybe Harry loved him back?), facts were facts.

Sighing, Stalin picked up his pen, and continued his letter to the man who he had to hate and loved all the same.

***

When Truman first saw Joseph - the man who he had been poisoned against from the start - he expected more hatred. Perhaps a kick to the man's face, or something a more reasonable, like running him over with a train.

What he didn't take into account was that Joseph might fall in love with him. Or, worse, Truman might fall in love with Joe.

He leaned against a window frame, watching the fading sun dye the sky a tired yellow-blue. A few birds had already started to rest, the soft rustle of their feathers drifting beside the breeze.

Although it hurt, Truman knew he had to stop sending letters. Joe didn't deserve to have his heart broken, not like this.

And yet... maybe this was how it was meant to be. Maybe Truman was meant to capture the gaze of a man like Joe, to distract him from the facts.

It was a sickening prospect, but that was life.

On his bedside table was a growing pile of letters from the man that lived too far away. Letters that Truman held with delicate fingers, reading late into the night as the rest of America expected him to destroy the man who he had come to love.

It was a funny thing - he should have been sleeping, but he dreamt of Joe instead.

A new letter had arrived that morning. Truman hadn't read it yet: he preferred to savour the cramped loops of writing alone, away from prying eyes.

He opened it now, hating the joy that bubbled inside his heart.

Joy that soon gave way to despair.

Stumbling back, Truman felt his eyes scan over the words on the page, again and again and again, and he willed his mind to make sense of them, even though he understood perfectly.

... this isn't right... no longer wish to continue this... I love you... forgive me, please, and forget me... I'm sorry...

It was difficult to breathe.

Truman let the letter slip through his fingers and onto the floor. His back hit the wall as he tried to calm himself, but he couldn't, he couldn't, it was too much and he didn't want to say goodbye to this man, this man who challenged him so and placed every piece of his heart into those deep pockets-

Shoulders shaking, Truman started to sob, pressing his hands against his face.

***

I never expected you to be such a coward... don't know why, you're Stalin, after all... I will not forgive... how dare you...

Stalin flinched at the memory, feeling his eyes burn. How dare he? How dare Harry to suggest he was doing the wrong thing.

He was not going to regret this. He would not allow himself to regret ending this - this - ridiculous thing they had with each other.

Enemies were enemies. There was no room for love in a world so thick with hatred.

The gloom of his bedroom seemed to consume him, and Stalin stared blankly at the ceiling, willing time to move a little faster so that he wouldn't be able to think about the letter he had received.

The letter, which lay in scattered shreds across his carpet, like limp pieces of confetti.

***

What's left to say? They both learned to hate each other. Learned how to forget the other's eyes and smiles, their sweet written words.

Truman took a stand against Stalin, Stalin retaliated, and they both swallowed back the hope that perhaps the other would step down and that maybe, they could be joined once more.

Of course, neither did. There are fine lines between love and hatred, and they had stepped every single one.

And if Truman needed sleeping pills more often, so that he wouldn't be allowed to think about the man who had broken his heart, then what of it?

And if Stalin increased his work load so that there was no time to remember a certain pair of blue, blue eyes, then what of it?

War was war. And any hope of sitting side by side and letting life slip away was gone.

***

"Harry?"

Truman sighed, leaning back in his chair. "Yes?"

His wife smiled at him, handing him the morning's newspaper. "Something you might like to read."

Taking the paper, Truman scanned it with bored eyes. His retirement from office was maddeningly dull - excitement was hard looked for.

Then he froze. Because the paper said that Jo- Stalin, had died a couple of days ago.

Dead.

The man he once loved was dead.

There was a few seconds where Truman felt that love again, that burning fire that had been ignited beneath his skin for the man so far away.

He hadn't forgotten him, as much as he wished he had. And now Stalin was dead.

Something sat heavily in his throat and pressed upon his eyes. Was this grief? It felt like grief to him.

"Harry? Are you okay?"

He blinked, and felt the fire give way to ash.

"Yes, I'm fine."

Folding the paper, he laughed, setting it to one side.