RUSAME - one shots

𝐛𝐚𝐥𝐤𝐚𝐧 𝐯𝐨𝐝𝐤𝐚

"This place sucks ass," Russia murmured, scowling as he waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim, throbbing purple light in the nightclub.  

"It looks shrill in here," Ame gushed, shaking his hands out as he stood on tiptoe to scope the dance floor.  Rus, watching him out of the corner of his eye, idly wondered how much of his vocabulary was real slang or whether he was just saying words.  "Should we go get something to drink?  Ooh, wanna get the same drink, Russki??"

"No."  Hand on the small of Ame's back, Russia nudged him toward the dance floor.  "Go and move, luchik.  Drink after."

America didn't wait for more encouragement.  The purple lights shifted nauseatingly across his form as he made for the mosh pit, tossing Russia a grinning salute over his shoulder.  Rus stood, hands in his pockets, until his body was lost to the seasick, writhing tide.  Then he turned for the bar.

By the time he made it to the front of the line, the smell of sweat and greasy food, combined with the sickly pulsing lights and the disco ball that spun faster than a ballerina on acid, had combined to give him a homicidal migraine.  He took his mediocre Balkan vodka to the most distant, isolated table he could find, wrinkling his nose at a discarded container of curly fries, and reflected morosely on what a good partner he was.

The powers that be couldn't stop America from trying to drink at nightclubs.  It was quite convenient how he always managed to forget that one shot would leave him fever-hot and high-strung, two made him cry until he got the hiccups, and if ever he made it to three he was vomiting into a trash can and the hangover next morning classified as a near-death experience.  Russia had discovered early on that if they ordered shots first they could go home within half an hour, but it also left his jackets snotty from where America had sobbed into them.  And— okay.  Okay.  Maybe it was sort of nice watching him dance.

Russia picked him out of the crowd now, foregoing the dainty little shot glass to suck deeply from the bottle.  Violet phosphorescence undulated across America's body, shadow nad light surging across the floor in waves.  The club music was inane as always, tripping drumbeats bleeding into each other and words so incoherent they were just bleating sounds, but watching Ame could almost have convinced him it was good.  He danced like he was all alone in the place, like he was the only one who could hear the beat— shoulders rolling to the slinky beat, head bobbing, feet stomping, shifting.  The only feature clear on his blurred face were white teeth bared in an ecstatic grin.  Rus's eyes drifted down to follow the snaky gyration of his hips, and he lifted the half-empty bottle to his mouth.

"Hey," somebody said, low and flirty, and an open hand was thrust into his vicinity.  "Would you dance with me?"

Rus tore his eyes away from the indigo chaos on the dance floor and cleared his throat.  "F**k off."

"Wh—"

"I.  Have a boyfriend."  He gestured broadly with the bottle to where America was locked in some kind of complex spin, a dazzled smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.

"You don't need to be rude."  The person— he'd never seen their face, hardly remembered their voice— stormed back into the blurry edges of his vision while Russia blinked, dazed, at the sentence that had just slipped from his mouth.  Damn.  That was cool.

"I have a boyfriend," he muttered again, and then laughed once, short and sharp.  He had a boyfriend, for heaven's sake!  Russia poked at the strange, elated fog hanging over his thoughts, suddenly suspicious, and turned the bottle around in his hand to squint at it.  

89% alcohol by volume.  Ah.  That would explain it. 

"Serbia, you blyad," he mumbled, moving the bottle across the table out of his reach and swiping two hands over his eyes.  This was not a good time to get drunk.  Why the hell was the image of America dancing fixed in his head?  Speak of the devil.  He was on his way to the table, stupid little bounce in his step.