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The first morning dawned bright and unequivocally American. Sunlight, bold and unobstructed, streamed into the minimalist bedroom, painting sharp, geometric shapes on the pale floor. Soviet awoke to the unfamiliar sensation of warmth seeping into his bones, a direct result of the central heating set to a temperature he would have deemed decadently wasteful back home. The space beside him in the large, low-slung platform bed was empty, but the indentation on the pillow and the faint, lingering scent of expensive cologne and sea salt confirmed his companion's recent presence.
He rose, his movements as quiet and efficient as ever. The silence of the mansion was different from the profound, heavy quiet of his Moscow apartment; here, it was punctuated by the distant, rhythmic crash of waves and the occasional cry of a seagull. It was a living silence, not one of isolation. He dressed in his usual attire, the dark, high-collared tunic feeling like a suit of armor in this environment of open spaces and light fabrics.
Finding the main living area, he discovered the source of a new sound: the aggressive whirring and gurgling of an elaborate espresso machine. America stood before it, frowning intently at a complex panel of buttons and levers. He was barefoot, wearing only low-slung jeans and a faded t-shirt with the logo of a rock band Soviet didn't recognize. The casual display of skin, the easy posture—it was all so unguarded.
"Ah! You're up!" America announced, finally managing to produce a cup of dark, fragrant liquid. "Coffee? This thing is a menace, but it makes the good stuff. None of that weak tea you guys drink." He pushed the small cup towards Soviet. "It's an espresso. Bottoms up."
Soviet picked up the delicate porcelain cup, examining the dark, syrupy liquid within. He took a cautious sip. The flavor was intense, bitter, and powerful, a jolt to the system far removed from the steady, warm familiarity of tea. It was, he had to admit, effective.
"Strong," he commented, his voice a low rumble in the sun-drenched room.
"Right? Gets the heart started!" America grinned, leaning against the countertop and watching him with undisguised fascination, as if studying a rare specimen in its new habitat. "So, agenda for today. First, we lose the uniform."
Soviet's gaze sharpened. "This is what I wear."
"Not here, you don't. You stick out like a sore thumb. Part of the experience is blending in, comrade." Before Soviet could protest further, America had already bounded off, returning moments later with an armful of fabric. "Here. Try these. They're mine, so they might be a bit... roomy in the shoulders, but they'll do."
He thrust the clothes into Soviet's arms: a simple, grey cotton t-shirt, a pair of khaki-colored trousers made of a soft, unfamiliar material, and—most egregiously—a brightly colored, short-sleeved shirt covered in a garish pattern of palm trees and parrots.
Soviet held the shirt away from his body as if it were contaminated. "I will not."
"Oh, come on! Live a little! It's called a 'Hawaiian shirt'. It's a staple of the carefree capitalist lifestyle!" America's eyes were sparkling with mischief. "Think of it as... reconnaissance. Understanding the enemy through his fashion choices."
The argument was absurd, yet it held a twisted logic that, against his better judgment, Soviet found himself considering. The goal was to observe, to understand. To remain in his usual attire was to maintain a barrier, and hadn't he, on some level, agreed to lower them, if only for seventy-two hours?
With a sigh that conveyed the weight of a thousand ideological compromises, Soviet retreated to the bedroom. He changed into the soft trousers and the plain t-shirt. It felt strangely liberating, the lack of structure, the lightness of the fabric. He stared at the floral shirt for a long moment before finally, with a sense of profound resignation, putting it on. The colors in the mirror were an assault on his sensibilities. He looked like a tourist. He looked... ordinary.
When he emerged, America let out a low whistle, followed by a burst of laughter he quickly tried to stifle. "Wow. Okay. The pattern is... a lot. But you know what? You look almost... approachable." He came closer, his laughter softening into a smile. He reached out, his fingers gently smoothing the collar of the shirt, a surprisingly intimate gesture. "See? Not so bad. Now you're ready for your first American breakfast."
He led Soviet not to a formal dining table, but to a diner a short drive away, a chrome-and-vinyl relic from a bygone era. They slid into a red leather booth. America ordered a stack of pancakes dripping with maple syrup, crispy bacon, and scrambled eggs, a plate of overwhelming, synchronized abundance. Soviet ordered oatmeal.
The waitress, a cheerful woman with a name tag that read "Dottie," called them "honey" and refilled their coffee mugs without being asked. The clatter of plates, the easy chatter of other patrons, the sheer.
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