RUSAME - one shots

𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐝𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐤 (part ii)

Rus realized he wasn't lying about drinking that vodka when they started back and Ame stumbled face-first into a tree.

"What the hell was that for?" Rus demanded, pulling the idiot up by the back of his sweatshirt, and Ame swung to face him, laughing.  Russia coldly observed the steady drips of his bloody nose, dribbling down his face and clothing.

"It was... an accident," Ame said grandly.  "Hey, did you ever, uhh, did you realize our flags have the same colors?  Cause I didn't!"  Rus snorted and made for the golden-lit door. 

 "I am taking you inside.  Britain can deal with you."

"NO!!" America took both sides of Russia's jacket in a fist, shaking it.  "SCREW Britain, intransigent— tea-drinking— I'm staying out here."

"What?  You want to be my problem?"  Irritably, Russia disentangled his coat from Ame's hands as he shrugged, smirking.

"'T was your vodka."

Russia clenched his jaw and looked away.  "Fine.  Be my problem."  Jerking the fur-lined scarf from around his neck, he pressed it to Ame's bleeding nose hard enough to knock him backwards a step.  "How in hell you are hammered after one mouthful of drink, I don't understand."

"Hammered?  I dunno about hammered."

Impatient, Russia grabbed Ame's chin and tipped it upwards.  He hiccuped and stood still for once— quiet, moonlight— until Rus looked away and dropped it, half-stepping back and shoving his hand in his pocket.  

"Bah.  Yes, hammered.  Eyes bloodshot like American stripes."  He added something else in Russian, rapid and throaty, and Ame, with a sudden grin, flipped his sunglasses back down, swinging the bloodstained scarf to and fro.

"Your accent gets stronger when you're nervous.  Did you know that?  I don't think you knew that."

"Nervous?"  Russia scowled, lifted his chin to hide warming cheeks.  "What have I to be afraid of, hm?"

"You tell me.  How about commitment?"  Ame threw Rus's scarf around his own neck with an intoxicated flourish.  "Knowing you and all."

Good grief.  "Careful, little pig," Russia said through gritted teeth.  "Don't say something you'll regret."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"I feel you're dreaming of many things," Rus replied roughly.  America threw his head back and laughed.

"You know what I'm dreaming?  I'm dreaming that the vodka wasn't really that bad.  D'you have any more?"

"Are you stupid as you look?"  Russia barked a disbelieving laugh, shaking his head.  "If one sip gets you like this?  Any more will kill you."

"I know you have more," America said, pushing his glasses up into his hair.  Without warning, he plunged a hand into one of the pockets on Rus's overcoat.

"Bastard!" Russia spat, grabbing a handful of America's scarf, halting him mid-flight with the bottle in hand.  "Give it back."

"Make me," America cackled, leaning on the scarf like it was relaxing.

"You don't want me to do that," Russia growled, and pulled him in further like reeling in an anchor.  "Give it back."

"This is very sweet of you, Russie," America slurred— he really was very drunk— and ran a clumsy hand down Russia's cheek.  "It's almost like you don't want me to die of alcohol poisoning."

Russia felt his heartbeat in the back of his throat.  "Mm.  Almost."  He leaned over and took the bottle by the neck, flicking the cap off with his thumb and swigging from it.

"Was that just to rub it in?" America demanded, and Russia snorted in spite of himself.

"No, that was because I need to be tipsy at least to deal with you."  Russia released the scarf slowly, but Ame didn't pull away.  "Your nose is still bleeding," Rus added faintly, before America grinned and took his face in both hands, fingers sliding under the flaps of his fur-lined hat, and jumped to kiss him.

Russia caught him on instinct, arms sliding up and under his body, sharp inhale lost in America's mouth.  Fingers fisted in Rus's hair, legs wrapping around his waist, Ame laughed drunkenly, and Rus pulled away.

They regarded each other, breathing hard.  America wiped a smudge of blood from the other's nose where it had rubbed off, looking pleased with himself.  Russia's mind was blank, his hands on America's legs shaking, high-pitched harmonies crashing in his ears, and it took him almost a minute to become aware that  Ame was swinging his heels like he was sitting at a too-tall chair.

"No more vodka for you," he heard himself breathe as he lowered his arms.  "Never again."

"Wait, Rus.  Russia.  Russki."  America buried his face in Rus's thick overcoat to hide his stupid chuckle.  "I think I'm in love with you, Russki."

Rus's face flamed.  "One of us," he began, and looked down at the top of America's head, sunk into his chest.  "One of us is piss drunk and it is not me."  He couldn't let himself ignore that, no matter how much, how blindly, parts of him wanted to.  America shifted against him.

"I may be piss drunk, it's true, but love—" he hiccuped— "love is even pissier.  Love wins.  Wanna kiss again?"  Russia did.  Badly.  

"Let me sit down," he said hoarsely, "so you can reach."