RUSAME - one shots

𝐡𝐢𝐠𝐡 𝐬𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐥 𝐦𝐮𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥

[ obligatory highschool au ]

Beep.

"Mggrh."

Beep.

"MMMGH."

Beepbeepbeepbeepbeep—

"SHUT UP!" America's hand clawed free of the tangle of bedsheets like the Loch Ness Monster, gripped the offending alarm clock, and threw it like a missile at the opposite wall. Sadly enough, it did not shatter, unlike the pleasant dream Ame had been in the middle of— the one with the chocolate factory and the bald eagles. The hands continued to peer accusingly at him from their odd angle on the floor— he was fifteen minutes late to first period Trade, which he was already pulling a D in. He rolled over into his pillow and muttered an unkind word.

Five minutes later, the breeze was tangling his hair as he half-trotted, half-ran down the deserted halls of the high school, flashing disarming smiles at the imperious looks from stray teachers. Trade. Trade. Where was that again? Right. America swung wide around the corner and ran immediately, decisively, headlong into somebody else. He bounced off of whoever it was, stumbling to the floor just in time to watch his binder split open and vomit messy papers across the hallway like it was hungover.

"OWW. Agh. My bad, dude, but could you hel—" America looked up from gingerly feeling his tailbone to lock eyes with none other than Russia, hands deep in fur-lined pockets, gaze dark and stormy and exuding the general impression that there was a stick somewhere very far up his ass. Why'd it have to be Russia, he wondered. Why'd it have to be one of the only countries that was actually taller than him? Looking up into his face from the floor felt like standing at the foot of a tree.

"You should look where you are going," Russia said as he bent to retrieve a sheaf of the papers. His accent was dark and slurry, sharp around the consonants and slick over vowels. Ame bristled somewhat. Probably in the dialect, but did he really have to be rude? Scary ass guy.

"What if you look where you're standing? Ha."

His straight face didn't waver as he held out the papers he'd gathered, eyes boring into Ame's soul like they were fracking for oil in there.

"Or not, weirdo," he muttered under his breath, getting unsteadily to his feet and wishing that Russia would look somewhere else.

"What did you say?"

"Hm? Nothing."

Russia stepped closer and braced one hand against the wall as he leaned down. "Good. Stay like that."

"Wh— uh, wh— HUH?" Ame, feeling sweat gather on his forehead, ducked to shove Russia's chest, heart pounding in his ears. "What's your problem, buddy? Hey! If you want to fight I can help you out! Say the word!"

The other country had already turned for the classroom door to Trade, and America fumed at the sight of his back.

"I would not fight you," Russia scoffed without looking at him. "I like my fights fair."

"Nobody is fighting anyone!"

Both looked up, startled, as the door swung open, and U.N., the Trade teacher, loomed out, his face severe. "If you arrive to class belatedly, I expect you to join us inside as soon as you can, and not disrupt us by squabbling two feet from them door."

Ame pressed his lips together as he undertook the walk of shame to his seat through the snickering classroom.

"Hey guys," he greeted, sliding his sunglasses off his face. "Morning. How's it hanging." Canada buried his laugh in his hands. Russia was silent and stony as ever, ignoring the dirty look America threw his way.

"Since you were both late," the teacher said, flipping through a folder with inhuman speed, "I'm sure you'll not object to being partnered on the project."

"Partnered on the project?" America hissed, sliding his hands down his face as he stole a glance at Russia. "Professor. Professor, hear me out—"

"I'm not a professor," U.N. sighed, thrusting the packet of work into America's hands. "I'm an underpaid high school teacher. And you are being inconsiderate. Goodness, what are they teaching in International Relations these days?" For a long, uncomfortable moment, U.N. stared into space, a crease between his brows, vague and glassy horror on his face. Ame coughed, and he seemed to shake himself. "Go and do your work, United States."

"Great job." America whirled to find Russia, arms folded across his chest, standing a foot behind him. "Noble attempt. Incredibly executed."

"...Thank y—" America squinted hard at Russia's face. Damn it. The bastard was being sarcastic. "Ugh. What-the-hell-ever. Come on. Let's go sit down."

The packet was long and complex, some ridiculous hypothetical about taxes on foreign imports and other bull. Russia plucked it out of America's hands, sat down heavily, and began to write in harsh, cramped handwriting, cheek propped on his fist. America blinked, standing over his shoulder.

"Uhhh—"

"Do you need something?"

"Are you— I mean, like, are we going to do it together?"

Russia looked up at him, suspicion written all over his face.

"You never do work."

America glowered. "I d— hang on." He tilted his head. "How did you know that?" Group projects be damned, America doubted he'd ever spoken two words to the guy before now.

"Eh? I—" Russia's hand tightened on his pen, and he turned back to the paper, shoulders rising like hackles. "Is lucky guess. Knowing you."

"...Huh." There was something in that that America couldn't quite pick up on. The air had grown tense around them, consolidating like clotted cream. "Wacky. But I'm gonna help. For real."

Without a word, Russia tore the packet in half and slid one of them onto his desk, eyes fixed on his own as if it were fascinating. Ame, tearing his eyes away from Russia's weird behavior, started on his own ripped packet, and the rest of the period passed in silence.

— [] —

"So.... Russia, huh?" Canada offered as they walked to their lockers together. "What's he like?"

"Pfft, like I'd know," America scoffed, fumbling with his combination lock. "He's so strange and mysterious and troubled."

"You could figure him out." Canada nudged his shoulder. "If anyone could, I mean."

"Ha! What are you saying, brother?" Ame made his voice high and fluty. "I can fix him! For real!"

"You could change him," Canada joined.

"Like a dirty diaper."

"Cheers." They knocked fists and parted ways, shouldering through the packed hallways, America grinning still. It was a good joke. If he were really honest with himself, though, he doubted there was anyone who understood Russia. The country probably wouldn't let them.

— — — 

a/n MY FUKKCJCIIFFNG KEYBOARD BROKE💀💀 VERY CWRINGE this one was fun to write bcs i have seen like probably 14 separate rusame fics that follow this plot point by plot point formula (fight at skool > forced proximity > vulnerability usually america getting PIISS DRUNK > reciprocated vulnerability in which we learn russki boy is depressed emo🖤🥀 > angst via friend drama or internalized Homophobia > SHREEXYY TIME) . the golden equation of rusame if u will. i figured it was time to earn my spot amongst thr greats. the brain rot is real and it's spreading to the lungs i need medical attention rn👺 

guys also Enemy Territory continuation getting SAUR spicy i did not do it on purpose but the angst is driving me insane i literally just need to find a cover for it so bad 💀 and then i can start publishing!! exclamation point