RUSAME - one shots

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐬𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫

Russia blinked several times, his heartbeat still thumping in his temples. It spoke. Vampires could speak, and they insulted you when they did.

"I— I studied you," he protested, inanely. "For two years. They never... told me."

"Weak!" Its eyes went large, and Rus noticed for the first time that they were slightly luminous, like a cat's. "Every year you poor schmucks get more brainwashed. How about this. How 'bout you tell me all the stuff they fed you about vampires and I'll say if they're true or not. It'll be—"

"NO." Passing a hand over his eyes, Russia fumbled for a cigarette in his coat pocket, unsuccessful in tearing his gaze away. "No. No, I should not even be talking to you. And you— you need to stop talking to me."

"Well, it's not like you gave me anything better to do," he muttered, crossing both arms over a lean chest, and Rus had to agree. Sweeping an eye over the bare, frigid iron cage left a bitter stirring of guilt at the back of his throat. With numb fingers, he flicked the lighter open, and the cigarette clamped in his teeth caught in a puff of blue-tinged smoke.

"So... hang on. I''m confused. Were you just scary enough none of the other vampires opened their mouths?" There was a crease between the vampire's eyebrows, an expression of perplexity that looked so human it made Russia lightheaded. "Or... or. WAIT a second. Am I the first one you ever saw?"

Meeting his big eyes in the mirror, Rus didn't think he could muster a lie right now. He exhaled smoke and nodded.

"No WAY." A grin split between his cheeks, both delicate fangs catching the light at the same time. Rus felt dizzy. "How do I look?! Do I look scary?" The creature wriggled backwards, putting himself on display.

Did he look scary? They'd taken the vampire's clothes, aside from one white undergarment, and his pale form seemed to glow like a ghost from the shadows, long-limbed, with this slinky grace to the movements that put Russia in mind of a big cat.

"No," he found himself saying faintly around the cigarette. "No."

"Okay, asshole," the vampire said, hunching his shoulders with— was that defensiveness? "Neither do you. Whatever. Can you hand me your lighter?"

"Wh—?" Rus's nostrils flared as he whipped around to stare at the creature again. "Like hell I am handing you my lighter. Did you... expect me to?" Vampires didn't smoke, did they? Which meant the only plausible reason for him to request a flame source was polite arson.

"Worth a shot," the vampire muttered. "See, I wouldn't expect you to know this, but—"

"You are cold-blooded," Russia finished, passing a hand over his mouth as he realized for the first time how chilly it actually was in this car. Of course vampires needed a heat source, though a small lighter wouldn't do much. Proper humane handling involved massive industrial-grade heat lamps, same as the ones made for pet lizards.

He was clapping sarcastically. "Top marks! Number one student!"

"Enough." Rus's brows drew together, and he pressed the cigarette to his lips again, studying the vampire through the rearview mirror. "Why—" he cleared his throat—" Why did they take your clothing?"

"Because when we're cold we're slow and in too much pain to do anything."

Rus coughed on smoke. He was talking to a vampire in a van at 1:29 AM on a stormy night in February— no, not just talking, but feeling pity for it. Saints alive. Hadn't the professionals warned him and warned him? Yet here he was.

Studiously avoiding its enormous eyes, he felt around in the backseat until his fist closed on fabric, which he tossed, underhand, at the iron bars of the cage.