Chapter 21: Back in the USSR

It was early morning when Joseph finally arrived in Moscow.  At the edge of Red Square, the wind itself held its breath as the crowds of admirers poured into the street to catch a glimpse of the irresistible dictator. But he wasn't there for them...

From the Kremlin's shadowed archways, Vyacheslav Molotov emerged, his overcoat buttoned tight, glasses over his forehead. He approached with careful, deliberate steps, a faint smile barely tugging at the corners of his mouth - a mixture of relief, reverence, and something unreadable. Something different.

'Comrade Stalin,' he said, bowing his head slightly in greeting.

Stalin led Molotov into his bedroom...there was no time for formalities. The bed was strangely warm...

'There have been... developments, Vyacheslav,' he sighed, hating the slight vulnerability creeping into his voice. 'There is much you should be aware of.'

Molotov nodded. 'Yes, comrade Stalin?'

Stalin's masculine lip curled. 'You know little, I presume?'

Molotov raised an eyebrow, impenetrably.

Stalin continued. 'Of my whereabouts in the last week, I mean...'

'Oh ermmmmm-'

'Of course. There has been no reason for you to know such things. But now-'

Suddenly, panicked voices shrouded the corridor like vinegar in oil. Stalin got to his feet. 

'What is this?' he demanded, his dark, possessive, seductive gaze lingering on the half open door, before flickering towards his most trusted comrade, 'Molotov, has something happened while I was away?

'Oh...uhhh that,' Molotov pressed his hands into the duvet, blinking hesitantly. 'They've been bothering me. From the Commissariat for Agricultural Oversight? There's famine...in Kstovo. Or was it Kurnilsk? Uhhh... 5 million expected casualties because of-'

But Stalin was already in the corridor. 'Yes?'

A man stepped forward, shakily, avoiding his gaze. 'C-comrade Stalin, we thought you were away...'

'There's a famine?' Joseph's voice was sickle sharp, like his delicious jawline.

Relief seemed to flood the man's patchy complexion. 'Yes, comrade. In Kurst, the local granaries - well, they were emptied too quickly, and the quotas - some party officials there may have fabricated numbers. There are reports of...' His voice dropped. 'Cannibalism.'

'What's your name?'

'Sorokin....comrade Stalin.'

'Sorokin', whispered Stalin quietly. 'Is this how we handle matters of the state?'

The men were perfectly still, trapped in the eye of storm. Inside the room, Molotov got up to take a piss in Stalin's luxury en suite.

'Guards,' said Stalin, almost casually. The two Red Army men posted at the far end of the corridor stepped forward.

The men shifted nervously. Sorokin opened his mouth as if to protest. Stalin held up a hand.

'No. You will listen now. That is your role.'

A pause.

'You come running to me with stories of famine. Of disorganization. Of cannibalism.' He spat out the last word out like a curse. 'You have convinced yourselves you are being responsible. Dutiful, even. But what you have done is to undermine the unity of the Party.'

They squirmed helplessly, submitting unquestionably to Joseph's authority. Against his better judgements, he found himself thinking of Adolf. Too bad not one of these men was attractive...

'This is how Trotsky operated,' he continued, his raspy voice almost gentle now. 'Panic. Disruption. False urgency. Creating the illusion that the Party is failing, that the State cannot feed its people. You think you are messengers. No. But what you are doing is counter-revolutionary agitation.'

Molotov began to piss loudly.

Stalin leaned in slightly. His voice dropped, conspiratorial. 'You know what Trotsky did during the Civil War? He spread confusion. He created fear where discipline was needed. He put doubt in the minds of soldiers, of workers. He used facts to undermine truth.'

Another pause.

'Now tell me: how is barging into a meeting between myself and Comrade Molotov, without clearance, with unconfirmed reports, in front of witnesses, any different?'

'You believe yourself to be acting in service to me. But you are undermining the structure that protects the very bedrock of our Soviet Republics. This,' he said, gesturing vaguely toward the corridor, 'is how counter-revolution begins. With whispers. With reports. With doors opened at the wrong time...'

Molotov emerged from the bathroom, struggling with his front zip.

'Vyacheslav, are these the sort of men we entrust with the revolution?'

Joseph thought he saw something strange momentarily flicker behind Molotov's expression. A flicker of unease as he whispered: 'No, comrade Stalin...'

Stalin nodded. 'As you say, my comrade. They must be removed. Quietly. Completely. As Trotsky was. As Zinoviev was. As all the others were, in time.'

He didn't raise his attractive voice. He didn't need to. The guards stepped forward again. The men began to beg, to plead, but Stalin had already turned his back to them, closing the door with a light tap. Molotov let out a sigh as the footsteps left the two alone once more.

'Nice one, comrade Stalin! You really showed those...Trotskyist capitalists! Anyway, you were explaining something to me...?'

Joseph felt something tighten within his diaphragm. He couldn't handle it anymore. 

'What is it Vyacheslav? Something has happened, I can tell. Your demeanor, it is not as it has been before.'

Molotov seemed to withdraw slightly. 'Joseph! I have no idea what-'

'Enough!' Joseph's face was contorted, the handsome lines decorating his skin thickening into a leather-like hardness, 'You mean more to me than anyone else in this wretched city, Molotov. But don't you ever think I'd let that cloud my judgement when it comes to matters of national secur-'

'Joseph...'

Molotov's eyes were wettened, not with fear but with a strange imploring. Pity? Regret? 

And just like that Stalin felt himself deplete, like a bouncy castle devoured by bullet holes. The gentle eyes of his most trusted comrade brought him back to those times, before the revolution when he had needed nothing else. The two of them, laughing together at some stupid joke Kamenev had made, delighting in the shared revelry that, unbeknownst to Kamenev, he was their punchline. Those conversations in Petrograd, cigarette smoke whispering beside them, when the city had been theirs and theirs alone. Stalin had pretended not to see the way Molotov had looked at him back then, but he had come to delight in it, delight in the power he could assert with the simple curve of his lip. But now that power was held over him, by a man hundreds of miles away, whose treacherous laughter could bring everything Joseph had built toppling. Adolf had put the grad into Stalin before laying seize to his furious heart...

'Vyacheslav, I haven't failed, have I?' Joseph allowed himself to succumb to the feeling, just for a moment, as he gazed hopelessly into his comrade's eyes, 'The revolution I mean...'

'Joseph! How can you think such-'

'I had a dream,' Stalin whispered. 'I hadn't thought of him in years, Vyacheslav. Trotsky - I mean. But he was there, he-'

Molotov clasped Joseph's firm hand in his own. 'Trotsky's dead. You dealt with it. He can't hurt you anymore. You have everything, Joseph. Everything. And because of you,' he smiled, 'The Soviet people have everything. It isn't for any of us to question that; it isn't for you to question that. Because the simple truth of the matter is that the revolution lives, Joseph. You have brought it to life with a masculine embrace, a passionate kiss of life. And it will live so long as-'

Stalin's expression was practically feverish. 'Trotsky is right, Vyacheslav...'

Molotov gasped.

'I would destroy all it for him,' he whispered softly, fervidly. 'I destroyed everything to get to where I am. I would sacrifice all of it in a heartbeat just to see him one more time.'

Molotov's expression was unchanged, even expectant. 'I have sent for my men to take us to Berlin, tomorrow. I'm with you, Joseph, your love for Adolf is beautiful, and whatever you choose to-'

'What?' Joseph stood up, blinking in alarm. 'Adolf? Berlin? How do you know all this?'

'You told me,' said Molotov nonchalantly. Almost too nonchalantly...

'I did?'

'Yes, comrade. The last time you were here. After you woke up. You don't remember? You were...a bit out of it.'

Joseph sunk into the bed, confusion permeating his thick brows. 'I see.'

A pause.

'You really are acting differently...'

'I'm just happy to see you, Joseph.'

For a second, Stalin eyed Molotov, suspicion lingering. And then he embraced the man, squeezing tightly, almost too tighly.

'Awwwww Joseph!'

They hugged silently for at least six hours. And then...

'Well Joseph, you never told me about your journey.'

'Oh yeah!' Joseph murmured gruffly, 'I was captured, by Churchill's men-'

He paused for dramatic effect, allowing Molotov to gasp. 'But didn't you have a gun?'

'It was a fake gun, Molotov. For the aesthetic...'

Molotov gasped even louder. 'O BOZE MOI!'

Stalin nodded gravely. 'If it had been some kulak in my place, they would not have stood a chance,' he held up a single finger to demonstrate, 'Not one chance. But me. I made it out of there in a day, Vyacheslav. Using only my proletarian cunning and a little rizzolutionary flair...'

Molotov clapped loudly for half an hour before adding. 'I'm coming with you, Joseph. To Berlin, I mean.'

'I would like that,' Joseph paused, 'But who will lead the Motherland while we are-'

'Do not worry. I have spoken to Beria-'

Stalin widened his gaze. 'Beria? He hasn't even been mentioned in the fanfic yet! How can we trust him?'

'Trust me, comrade?' Molotov squeezed Joseph's hand, tightly, 'I've been mentioned quite a bit...'

Stalin paused for a second, considering this. 'Thank you,' he whispered at last, burying his face into Molotov's thick overcoat, 'Thank you for everything, comrade.'

Molotov grinned . 'I guess...the real revolution....was the friends we made along the way.'