RUSAME - one shots

𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐥𝐮

There was nothing on the planet America hated more than missing work.

"Let go of me, you foul demon," he rasped, writhing under Russia's heavy hand, pinning him by the collarbone to his mattress. "Sickness isn't real. It's just made up by the government."

Preoccupied, Russia flicked the disorderly hair off of America's forehead with one finger and deftly swiped the thermometer across with the other four. "The government gave you temperature of 43 degrees?"

"Forty—" Abruptly, America stopped struggling, eyes going wide and disturbed. "Oh my gosh. I should be dead." He clawed up to a kneeling position and pressed one clammy, burning hand against Russia's cheek. "Am I that cold? Rus! Did I already die?!"

"Forty-three degrees Celsius," Russia said dryly, and pushed him back over into the nest of pillows. "America, please will you bite bullet and learn the system? Save you a lot of—"

"I would rather gouge my eyes out with Slim Jims." Ame's pale, flushed face and watering eyes gave him a mournful, noble, pious appearance, reminiscent of Catholic sculptures of the Virgin.

"Very helpful. I will go get Tylenol."

"Yes, sure." America waited with a pained, fake smile until Russia was out of the room, and then gritted his teeth together. "And I'll go to my work shift so I can make more money," he mumbled, and made to get out of bed and head toward his closet. Something, however, happened between these two steps that he didn't quite follow; before he knew it he was on the floor with bedsheets around his ankles, the ceiling undulating in graceful ripples and waves and a dull ache crystallizing to a point in the back of his skull.

"Ow," he murmured. America's vision seemed to be lagging several seconds behind real time, which made him think of cavernous cinemas and flickering film strips and the wavering projectors of drive-in movie theaters on muggy June evenings until Russia leaned into his field of vision.

"Did you fall?" he asked.

"I think, um. That's probably what happened, yeah."

Russia squatted next to him, head tilted. "Why?"

America blinked. "Uhm. The government?"

"Nyet. You fell because you think you are not sick, blyad, but in fact you are. Severely. Now stop pissing me off and get into bed."

America had no reply for this, and as he sat up, black spots flooding his vision in waves, and blindly clamored for the bedside, he begrudgingly pondered how cool Rus sounded when he swore.

Restored to the mattress, having downed two Tylenol in a large glass of water, America flopped out at full length and scowled at the ceiling.

"Now what?"

"'Now what?'" Rus repeated, raising an eyebrow. "Luchik, you have flu. You tell me now what."

"Can you call my manager and say that I kilt myself?"

He didn't look up from his book. "I am not doing that."

"Well— I'm out of ideas. What on earth should I say?!"

Very slowly, Rus turned the page. "Possibly insane, but perhaps that you have the flu."

America furrowed his eyebrows, investigating this idea for a long moment.

"You can do that?"

Russia closed the book on his finger and looked sideways at his boyfriend. They played this game, and its variations, a lot, the two of them— Abusive Workplace, or Is America Stupid? A lot of times the answer was Both.