RUSAME - one shots

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥

Russia jerked awake, every muscle tensed and twitching, and thrashed over in bed to face the phone on his bedside table. It buzzed hideously and frantically, slowly migrating across the surface of the nightstand, and he blinked against the harsh, painful light until he could read the name sliding across the screen.

Amerika. Obviously.

He picked it up, clumsy with sleep, fingers fumbling over the accept call button, and threw off the bedclothes, dragging himself upright. Fingers skittering in a nervous rhythm across his thighs, he let the cold sap the sleep from his body.

Finally the lines connected, and the forthcoming grainy wall of sound assaulted his ears like a freight train— the noise of a large group of people, a crowd. Was that screaming? Laughter?

"Da?" he asked, throat rough as sawdust.

"Russia!"

"Is me. Vsyo harasho?!"¹

"Russia I called you like six million times and you didn't answer you butt head," America slurred in one long string into the speakers, and Rus drew a hand across his eyes.

"It is three AM. You are okay?"

"No," America replied, mouth so close to the phone it sounded like he was trying to eat it. "You have to— you— you gotta answer a really important question, okay?"

"What?"

"If I was a girl do you think I would have big boobies?"

Russia blinked twice, three times, eyes following the grain in the hardwood floors, utterly uncomprehending.

"Eh?"

"I mean like huuuuge honkers," America continued, passionately. "Absolute jugs. Triple— quadruple. No. Five-uple D."

"You would not," some voice near the speaker scoffed. "That isn't how it works."

"Jamaica doesn't believe me! Or Canada. You have to back me up here Russie."

"Give me ten seconds," Russia muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose until it hurt, "to get this straight. You drunk dial me at three in morning to ask—"

"I mean like humongous," America interrupted earnestly, and Russia ground his teeth together. "So what do you say, Russie-Rus?! Yes? Say yes."

"You are unbelievable."

"You didn't answer my question."

"Ya hochu bombit tebya."²

"Uh huh. Eto malchik."³

Russia sank his teeth into his knuckle, breathing deep through his nose. Be calm. Be calm.

"I, ehm. What is word. I am breaking with you. We will never see each other ever again. Goodbye."

"RUSS—"

As soon as he'd ended the call, Russia clasped his hands together so hard his knuckles turned white and fixed a Kubrick stare on the opposite wall that could have torched a hole in it. Something was wrong with America, he decided. Something severe and unfixable. The incessant buzz of texts cascading over his home screen was making him feel somewhat murderous. It was actually terrifying how fast Ame typed. Over his shoulder, Russia read the words pouring in through narrowed eyes.

'NO'

'CRINGE!!!!!'

'RUS PLSSSS i didn't mean it i will never say b**bs again'

'Russia'

'Russia'

'Russia'

Stifling a groan, Russia silenced his alerts and fell back on his pillow. Little asshole. Making him look stupid and soft in front of other people. Just that— why in hell would you call someone at three in the morning unless your house had just caught fire and burnt to ashes? Unless your car had broken down in the snow? He mused, tiredly, on the emergency degree of circumstance that would compel him to wake somebody up like that, half-listening to the wind pick up outside. Idiot move to expect common decency from Ame though. No, all he could expect from him was inane degeneracy and questions about his hypothetical—