RUSAME - one shots

𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐬

A fan of gray slush sprayed out from Russia's tires as he yanked his truck to the side of the forlorn road.

"I just still don't understand why you want a real tree."  America pulled his candy cane out of his mouth to squint at its deadly point.  "I mean, we could go to Walmart like normal people.  Plastic Christmas trees may be ugly and inauthentic but at least we could get a red one!"

Christ Almighty.  A red one.  Rus rolled his eyes.

"What if you stopped being raging consumerist for five seconds?  What then?"

"I'd explode and die.  Ooh, speaking of which— the Amazon Christmas commercial song this year—"

"Shut up and hold this."   Russia, emerging from the mercurial chaos of the backseat, thrust a massive rusted saw into America's lap.  He recoiled with a yelp.

"WH— What in the low budget slasher movie is THIS?!  Russia.  Russia, are we here in the middle of nowhere so you can kill me?!"

Rus gave him a hard look.

"How do you suggest we cut down a tree, hm?  Chew it down like beavers?"  He flung the door open, and cold air washed into the truck at once, icy flakes clinging to the breeze.  "If I did want you dead, I would find better way than that."

"Charming."  Ame pulled on his gloves.  "You know you love me really."

Rus grunted noncommittally and chalked the flush in his cheeks up to the cold.

It was a gorgeous place; that much no one could deny .  The dark, thick tangle of evergreens stretched on as far as the eye could see, furred over with a sprinkling of fresh powder.  Snow lay in thick, pillowy drifts over the ground, pristine.  America's eye followed a solitary set of deer hoof prints that entered the tree line and disappeared.

"Haunted," he commented admiringly, and fists on hips, took a step in the direction of the woods as Rus reached for the tarp in the truck bed.  Suddenly, the serenity was split down the middle with a bloodcurdling yell.  "WHAT THE FUUUU—"

Russia, mind full of blood and disaster, whirled back in his direction and found Ame biting down on his gloved fist, nearly thigh-deep in soft, yielding powder.  "IT'S SO COLD I'M GOING TO DIE.  KILL ME.  KILL ME RIGHT NOW.  PASS THE SAW."

"Holy sh1t," Rus murmured, and leaned over America as he writhed in agony.  "You know, if you beg for death at every minor inconvenience somebody will eventually give it to you."

"RUS!  IT GOT IN MY BOOTS!!  Help me out help me out help me out," Ame pleaded, and clawed at the hand Russia offered like he was drowning.  When he stood on his own two feet again, somewhat bedraggled, America peered down at the thin film of snow clinging to his coat and pants.

"Urghhhh.  Gross."

"Gross?!"  As he so often had to do when conversing with America, Russia sputtered as he fished for the words in English.  "It— it's snow."  

"It's cold and wet!  Like a dead fish or, or a booger or something!!"

"Heavens almighty," Rus muttered as he stepped into the snow himself, and opted to leave this one alone.

As soon as he broke the tree line, the cold grey light grew dim and dappled.  Rus turned back to find America, arms flung out to either side for balance, tongue poking between his teeth in concentration, as he stepped into each of Russia's footprints to avoid the powder.  Russia inhaled slowly, teeth sinking into his lower lip as he grappled with the fact that that was really, really cute.  Adorable, even.  Damn it.

"Hey," Ame panted, nearly falling over after a particularly big lunge.  "I know you're the size of scientific Bigfoot but could you try and take normal-people sized steps pretty pleeease?  For my Christmas present?"

"No."  Rus turned back to the trees, ignoring America's protests, feeling unaccountably warm and jittery.  "Keep doing that."

- [] -

"This one?"  

"No."

"This one?!"

"Mm-mm."

"UGHHH."  Ame swiped a hand over his nose, which had been running uncontrollably for ten minutes now.  "Listen.  I'm not wearing socks and I have this wicked side cramp.  We don't need to recreate a Norman Rockwell postcard, man!  I mean, I like ugly trees!  Haven't you ever watched Charlie Brown's Christmas?  Huh?"

Russia blinked several times.  He would guess he comprehended about 20% of what Ame was saying at any given moment— an admirable percentage, given the way he rattled on.  Whoever on God's earth Norman Rockwell was could remain a mystery for all he cared, but—

"Why the hell aren't you wearing socks?"

"Huh?  Well, you know— bet with Canada, um—"

"Mm.  I think I do not want to know."

"Good!  I'm saying, like— HEY!"

Rus turned over his shoulder to see Ame, flushed red across the cheeks and nose, standing stock-still in the crater of one of his boot prints and stabbing a finger ahead.  His eyes were huge and bright.  

"Wh— oh."

Standing before them alone like a sign from God was a tree of perfect proportions, reaching straight up to heaven.  Rus spread the tarp at the root of the tree and pulled out the cheap slasher movie saw.

"I wanna do it!"   

He turned to America, whose hands were balled into fists as he practically vibrated with excitement.

"You want to do it?"

"Yeah, yeah!  Give it to me."  Rus pressed his lips together.  Through some serious misgivings about handing America a tetanus-riddled weapon, he handed it over.  Surprisingly, Ame made quick work of the thin trunk, and the tree hit the snow with a muffled thump, bleeding dark sap. "Boo-yaahhh!"

Despite himself, Rus smiled, his hand brushing America's as he knelt to lash the tree to the tarp. "Right.  Let us head back, then."

America turned to the dark forest behind them, blue shadows gathering at the bases of the trees, the eerie silence broken by the occasional harsh croak of some unseen bird.  

"Right.  I forgot about that part."