好的，這是這段故事的英文版本：

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The landscape outside the airplane window gradually shifted from the somber vastness of the Eastern European plains to the bustling, glittering spectacle of the other side of the Atlantic. When the plane finally touched down at a private airfield on the East Coast, the warm, humid air, heavy with the scent of salt and sea, flooded the cabin—a stark contrast to Moscow's dry, biting cold.

America took a deep breath, spreading his arms as if to embrace the entire nation. "Welcome to the land of freedom and opportunity, my dear Soviet!"

Soviet descended the airstairs in silence. He still wore his sharply tailored military-style tunic, standing out starkly against the bright sunshine and casually dressed ground crew. His sharp eyes scanned the airport facilities, assessing everything as if surveying a potential battlefield.

America had clearly prepared an "arrival ceremony." Bypassing lengthy customs checks, a sleek, luxurious limousine pulled up directly beside the aircraft. A chauffeur held the door open respectfully, and America gestured for Soviet to enter with evident pride.

"So? Not bad efficiency, huh?" America said, sliding onto the seat next to Soviet. The interior was spacious, smelling of leather and a faint perfume.

Soviet offered no comment, his gaze fixed on the scenery rushing past—wide highways, dense traffic, towering skyscrapers with glass facades, huge billboards flashing dazzling colors. It was a world brimming with vitality, wealth, and a kind of… chaotic flamboyance, utterly different from the order, gravitas, and collective spirit he was accustomed to.

The car eventually wound its way to a modern, ocean-front mansion. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed an endless vista of blue sea, with white sand beaches gleaming blindingly under the sun. The interior was minimalist and opulent, smart home systems operating silently. It felt like a different universe compared to the historic, utilitarian apartment in Moscow.

"Welcome to my 'safe house'," America said with a grin, tossing his jacket onto an expensive-looking sofa. "Completely private, guaranteed no CIA or KGB ears." He walked to the open-plan kitchen's refrigerator, pulled out two bottles of ice-cold beer, and handed one to Soviet.

Soviet took it but didn't open it. His eyes were drawn to the people outside—playing, sunbathing, dressed in bikinis and board shorts.

America followed his gaze and laughed. "Relax, Sov. Nobody knows you here, and nobody cares who you are. Just forget about the -isms, the blocs, the struggle for a while." He leaned in, pressing the cold beer bottle lightly against Soviet's cheek. "Here, you're just my 'guest'."

By evening, America insisted on a "first official American BBQ dinner" on the terrace overlooking the ocean. He fumbled clumsily with the steaks and giant lobsters on the grill, occasionally jumping back from spitting grease—a far cry from his image as a master strategist on the world stage.

Soviet sat in a nearby lounge chair, holding the beer he had eventually opened, watching America's flustered efforts. His face was expressionless, but the tight line of his jaw seemed to soften just a fraction.

"Try this," America finally presented a decent-looking steak to Soviet, his eyes shining with anticipation. "Way better than your stews, I bet!"

Soviet picked up his knife and fork, cut a small piece, and tasted it. The meat was tender, juicy, and richly seasoned—certainly different from his usual fare.

"Well?" America asked, nervous.

"Acceptable," Soviet gave a neutral assessment.

But for America, that was enough. His face broke into a wide grin as if he'd received the highest praise. "I knew you'd like it!" He poured himself a large glass of bourbon and sat in the chair next to Soviet, watching the sun sink below the horizon, painting the sky and sea in brilliant shades of gold and red.

"See? Much better than the snowy views in Moscow, right?" America's voice was slightly muffled by the evening breeze and the sound of the waves.

Soviet didn't answer, quietly sipping his beer. The noise, the freedom, the even slightly chaotic energy here made him feel acutely detached. Yet, undeniably, within that detachment, there was also a sense of relief—a temporary liberation from heavy responsibilities and complex relationships.

Night fell, leaving only the sound of waves crashing against the shore. The lights in the mansion were warm and soft.

America, having drunk a bit too much, shifted closer to Soviet. His breath, smelling of bourbon, warmed Soviet's neck as he naturally slipped an arm around Soviet's waist, resting his head against his solid shoulder.

"Look," he pointed towards the clear Big Dipper in the night sky, his voice slurred with drink and contentment. "Even the stars are upside down compared to back home… It's good. It's just us here."

This time, Soviet didn't push him away immediately.

Here, in this foreign land far from all familiar eyes and responsibilities, on

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