RUSAME - one shots

𝐬𝐮𝐛𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐚𝐛𝐮𝐬𝐞

[] tw for threats of violence []

America, somewhat slack-jawed, watched Russia drain the dregs of a bottle of Russian Standard with the unblinking attention of a puppy to a bite of food on a fork, and cleared his throat.

"When are we going to talk about your drinking problem?"

Russia wiped his mouth, hard, with the back of his sleeve.

"As soon as we discuss your cannabis problem."

"My huh?! I don't have a cannabis problem!"

"Over-counter medication problem."

America scoffed, crossing his arms. "I don't have that EITHER."

"Opioids epidemic, then."

"Nuh uh!"

"Alright then, svinya, if you are in delusional mood—" Russia pushed the large, empty bottle into Ame's chest with vigor— "let us discuss your drinking problem."

"MINE?" America slammed the bottle back on the table between the two of them. "Russia! I just watched you finish this entire thing in ONE sitting."

"That is not drinking problem." He hiccuped, pressed his fingertips together, and leaned across the table toward Ame. "That is drinking victory."

"You tankie dunce." America braced both elbows on the table and closed the space between them at once. "What do YOU call a drinking problem, then? Since you're so all-knowing?"

"Drinking problem is when you have one shot and puke it back up into my trash can. See, luchik, if that happened to me—" he spread his hands philosophically— "I would not drink alcohol any longer. But you—"

America was bouncing one foot up and down in an excess of energy, rising to his knees to press even further into Russia's personal space. "It's— It's like at least two— three shots!"

"You continue to drink it," Rus continued vindictively, driving a finger into America's collarbone, over-enunciated English lifting his upper lip in a kind of baring of teeth. "Because you are not— it does not help you cope. You are just afraid to look wimpy."

"And what?!" Ame exploded, pushing Russia's hand away. "What if I was?! Does that make it more of a problem?"

"No." Rus's smile spilled out of the range of self-control, twitching the corners of his mouth, and he tipped his head forward until their foreheads touched. "Just makes it significantly less cool."

America stood with a frantic creak of chair legs, wobbling as he shoved Russia's chest away and then braced one hand on his shoulder for balance. "I'm gonna nuke you."

"Not if I nuke you first, blyad."

America cupped Russia's face in his shaking hands, fingernails sinking into his cheeks. "You don't even have the testicles for that, liar, liar, pants on fire."

Russia stood, too, much slower. "And how much would you like to bet on that?"

"Obviously the entire globe."

"If you wish."

There was a beat of silence in which they stared at each other, America's pupils dilated, Russia tongue in cheek. Without breaking eye contact, America raised both fists in the air.

"Cold War Round Two!"

Russia stepped away, rubbing a hand across his mouth. "Na khuy, svoloch."

"English!"

"No, I think not."

"Fuck you!"

"Other way around."

"I—" America cut himself off, eyes going wide. "You—"

"Da, ya." Russia reached into the cupboard behind him and groped through the dust until he yanked out another bottle of vodka by the neck. "So are you nuking me, luchik? Or should I get us dinner?"

America stuck the tip of his thumb in his mouth, blinking at the floor, as he processed this recent turn of events. "Uhhhhhh. Ramen sounds good."

— — —

a/n: don't do drugs kids