RUSAME - one shots

𝐜𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐩

"America." Russia walked in the door, distractedly buttoning his suit cuffs as his eyes swept the room for any last vestiges of clutter. "The others will be here in half hour for conference. Is the dinner ready?"

Ame, lying on his stomach on the spotless floor, miles deep in an intense game of Geometry Dash, rolled away from Russia's shiny shoes. "Huh? Yeah. No. I meant— HAH! Gotcha! Whatever."

"Why are you down there?" Rus squatted to squint at him, shaking his head. "Couch is like five feet away."

"You're distracting me, tall man. Leave."

"Yes, alright. Try to find some manners before China gets here, anyway." Rus paused, a certain suspicion beginning to rankle in his heart. "Say, Ame— what did you make for dinner exactly?"

"Did you just say dinner?"

Russia sucked in air through his teeth.

"Yes?"

Bleeeooop. Ame's game ended with a pixelated whine.

"You— you wanted me to make dinner?!"

"Did you not make dinner?!"

"I thought you said find Thriller!!"

America gestured frantically to a haphazardly opened Amazon box, out of which Michael Jackson's pale face grinned from a slick CD case.

"WHAT??!"

"I DON'T KNOW!" America scrambled to his feet, fisting his hands in his hair. "WHY ARE YOU YELLING AT ME?!"

Russia bit down on his fist until he tasted blood. "Why. Why am I yelling at you." He paced in a circle, muttering in fevered, rapid-fire Russian what could have been a prayer or a very elaborate curse. "Because in twenty-five minutes important people are coming here, дурак¹," he replied through teeth gritted hard enough to crush diamonds. "And the one thing we have to feed them is THIS MICHAEL JACKSON CD." America blanched as Russia gripped both his shoulders like a vise, eye twitching as he stared down into his face. "WHY would I ask you 'find Thriller,' America? Hm? How is that sense?"

"I— I— good song—?!"

"НЕТ! Невероятный²!!" Rus made a drawn-out, strangled sound, bowing his head to the floor as his fingernails dug into Ame's collarbones with vicious intent.

"You— you——" Ame spluttered for the words, wriggling free. "You really thought I could cook, Russia?!! Do I look like some kind of house-husband to you? Huh?"

Russia's eyes flicked up and down America's body as he massaged his temples.

"Yes?"

"NO! The answer is no!! I can't even— I can't even make ramen, Rus!"

"Heavens above." Turning his eyes skyward, Russia crossed himself feverishly. "Alright. Da, da, da. Okay. Come here." He grabbed America by the collar and dashed into the kitchen, dark wood countertops scrubbed to a psychotic shine, and passed a hand over the shelf of cookbooks at top speed. Ame yelped as he slammed the largest, oldest one down on the table and splayed it open to page 55.

"Cabbage soup."

"Cabbage huh?" America bent down over the ancient, water-rumbled page, nose wrinkled. "Listen, I don't, uh, want to be rude—"

"Then stop talking." A balled-up apron, pale yellow, smacked him in the face across the table. "Step one, ehm— sauté onion."

"Wha—" Fumbling with the apron strings, America glared at Russia across the room. "Russia. Can you cook?!"