RUSAME - one shots

𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲𝐠𝐨𝐞𝐫𝐬

Gossip is a sin, and America was in the very act of sauntering down to hell.

It never started out that way. But these friendly country get-togethers almost always involved an outpouring of alcohol in all of its myriad forms, and—

("Why can't America hold his liquor?" France whispered, scandalized, to a sympathetic Britain.

"Still recovering from the Prohibition Era, I believe," he replied, adjusting his glasses.)

— that didn't tend to go well. Flashing his trademarked capitalist smile, Ame had delivered at least three gun jokes, burst into a rousing chorus of the Star-Spangled Banner, and kept trying to put his arm around a scathing China's shoulders. Canada's graceful expertise at de-escalating situations was truly admirable but even he was beginning to sweat a little.

"The new king is getting settled into his role, after the passing of our last monarch," England commented, and America hiccuped.

"Ha! Sucks to not have democracy. Hey, did you guys know I made up democracy all by myself?"

"Like hell you did." Greece rolled her eyes in the corner. "I was on that a hundred years before you were born, neanias."

"Oh yeah, that's right." America scratched his forehead, considering. "It's vintage."

"America," France cut in conversationally. "Why does Russia never come to these little fêtes?"

"What?! How should I know?" America scoffed, throwing down a handful of M&Ms. "It's because he's antisocial and thinks the music you play sucks. Which is so not even true. I mean, who doesn't like The Beatles?" Dubious murmur, though Britain sat up a bit straighter and preened. "Better than Slavic trap, anyway," Ame concluded.

"He listens to Slavic trap?" Finland raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

"Yes, America." France leaned forward, legs crossed at the ankles. "Tell us more about Russia. We never see him."

"You want to hear more about Russia?" America crossed his legs at the ankles and grinned, relishing the prospect of widespread attention. "Well, it's not like we're close-"

"We caught you two making out in a broom closet at the last treaty conference," Germany deadpanned.

"Oh yeah, I forgot about that. Well, he's a pretty good kisser."

France said that she doubted that, and also that those weren't particularly the details she was after.

"Oh, what? Other stuff?" Ame stared, concentrating, at the far wall. "I saw Rus in a fight once. He had this gash on his arm, eight inches long, bleeding like hell, and he pulls out this bottle of Stolichnaya— I don't know how he never runs out of those— tears the cap off with his teeth, and he takes a swig and pours the rest over his arm. So it won't get infected, right? And then he just kept going. Laughing." America squinted at nothing in particular. "Wild."

"That is not wild." Everyone present swiveled to face Russia himself, still in traveling coat and hat, arms folded across his chest. "Alcohol kills germs. Nothing weird."

"Sure, but why did you laugh?" Ame slurped the foam out of the bottom of his beer stein. "Also— hey. HEY!! Its you!! Guys, Russia's here!!" A half-hearted cheer went up around the gathering, expressions ranging from enthusiastic to wary to hostile. "We were just talking about you!"

"So I heard."

"Why are you here?" Italy asked dubiously, and Russia gave a fatalistic shrug.

"Making sure this dimwit does not get wasted and start World War III."

"Just in time," Canada muttered, and America guffawed.

"You're my ride home! I forgot!"

"You were not answering your phone."

"Haha. It's dead." Whistling something dreadful, America clumsily extricated himself from the overcrowded couch, gripping random shoulders for support. France hissed as he stepped on her foot.

"Quel idiot."

Russia turned to her, steadying Ame without looking at him. "C'est vrai."

"May wee! Goodbye, dear esteemed compatriots! Til next time." America fisted one hand over his heart and nodded solemnly to the remainder of the party, who were no longer paying any attention, before pivoting on one heel and striding off.

"Wrong way," Russia called, shoving his hands deep in his pockets as he headed into the cool, quiet night for the car.