RUSAME - one shots

𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐲 𝐛𝐮𝐝𝐝𝐲

[] more college au that no one asked for []

Midterms.

Russia could count all the hours of sleep he'd gotten in the past week on one hand. The sky was permanently stained a soupy, hazy gray, and the never-ending rain turned the campus walkways to mudslides. There couldn't have possibly been a worse time to get your umbrella stolen, but apparently fate had a disliking for him. He wished disgruntled, bitter curses on the thief in time with his bootfalls (Я надеюсь, что ваши дети насрал вам в суп) as he tried and mostly failed to avoid the deeper puddles, bookbag clutched to his chest because these horrible textbooks were worth more than two or three kidneys. Gah. Родился через жопу.

Japan ran by in a poncho, hands thrown over her head, just as Russia stepped under the eaves of the stately brick library, shaking rain out of his hair and watching water drain out of the cupped hand of the brass statue outside: a Greek woman draped in a toga, and in the storm she looked as if she were crying.

The hush and sudden golden warmth as soon as he passed through the door were like manna from heaven. Russia sidestepped tables crammed with students, identical dark rings stamped under all of their eyes, and tuned into the library sounds— scratch of pencils, shuffle of chairs, the occasional cough, but the silence was sufficient that if you really listened you could hear the thick electrical buzz of the overhead lamps. As a literature major, he was legally obligated to like libraries, but this one in particular— its arched windows, classic Roman pillars, marble floors— was pretty nice. He guessed he'd rather be confused and sleep-deprived and frustrated here than anywhere else on the earth.

'Here,' as in, the little table tucked into a corner, pressed up against a streaming window, within reaching distance of the D shelf, a curious little study lamp perched on the side. Only problem: someone was sitting there already.

"Hey, dolboyob," he muttered, still sort of pissed thanks to the rain. "You took my seat."

The guy twitched like Rus had startled him out of some stupor, pushing his hood back distractedly.

"I don't see your name on it," he began, snarkily, before double taking at Russia's face. "Oh, hey! It's you!"

"Da." Rus dropped his bookbag on the floor, feeling unaccountably weird. America. This guy again. "Hello."

"Cat friend!" Not the name he was hoping to make for himself in college, exactly, he thought ruefully, but America had already plunged on. "How's midterms treating you?"

Russia gave a black, fatalistic shrug, and America laughed, too loud for the library by half.

"That bad?"

"Eh. без муки нет науки."

America nodded sagely, pretending to understand. "So real."

"Listen. Good talk. But, ehm—" he passed a hand over the back of his head— "will you give me my table?"

"What if we share! Get one of those chairs."

There was no good reason for Russia to refuse— other than the strange, skittery feeling in his stomach at the thought of sitting so close to America for so long. How was he going to say that out loud? Unspeakingly, he got the other chair, never taking his eyes off of the other boy. The watchfulness bordered on a nonsensical wariness. What, was he afraid?  Pathetic. Russia slouched back on the chair, arms folded, and waited for it to pass.

"You..." America locked eyes with Russia and snorted in the back of his throat. "How come you look so mad?"

"That is just my face."