RUSAME - one shots

𝐝𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 (I)

[ This chapter was a Google Translate WORKOUT and although I do everything I can to vet my translations, there's going to be some grievous errors.  If you speak the languages at all and have any corrections/suggestions for me i will be SOO grateful and happy. k enjoy<3 ]

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"This is the greatest day of my life." Before Russia's car had even stopped moving, America had flung the door open and leapt out, tearing through the snow to the squat, dark, warmly glowing front door of the host house. Gritting his teeth, Rus threw the car into park and grabbed America's wrist, stopping him short.

"Get back in here."

This was a terrible idea. America's perpetual pleading had gotten the best of him at long last, and Russia had agreed to let him attend Christmas dinner. Every moment since then, he had existentially questioned his sanity. Really. Had he been possessed? Temporarily insane? Too late for exorcisms or medication now, he supposed. America had already sat in the passenger seat in a huff, never tearing his eyes from the golden light spilling from the door. Russia steeled himself to teach an etiquette crash course to the least mannered person he knew.

"America. Look at me. No. Actually look at me."

"I'm looking, I'm looking!"

"All... right," Rus said, faltering a little as America turned enormous, unblinking, star-spangled eyes on him in full force, sarcastically intense. "Alright. You will get in there, you take shoes off. Coat off. Gloves off."

"What if it's cold?" America asked, scoffing.

"Even if it is cold, it is not. Okay?"

"Frankly, I don't think that's okay."

"You will trust me on this one, then. No—" Russia grabbed America's shoulder as he made a break for the door again— "We are not finished. You will shake hands— nicely— with everybody. Yes?"

America scratched his forehead. "I thought you guys kissed and hugged each other."

"Tchh, no. Only old and close friends."

"Am I not their old and close friend?"

Russia considered lying, decided against it. "Luchik, they do not especially like you."

"What?!" America threw his hands up, disgusted. "How can anyone not like me? I'm the best! I even brought mozzarella sticks." He opened the lid of a— shoebox? Saints, please tell me he didn't put the food in a shoebox— to take a reassuring look at the contents. "Does your family like mozzarella sticks?"

"Ehm." What in Heaven's name was a mozzarella stick? "I—"

"TRICK QUESTION!" America yelled. "Everyone likes mozzarella sticks!"

He leapt out of the car, neglecting to shut the door, and plunged through the three feet of snow in his unseasonable sneakers toward the house of the Slavic countries, clutching the shoebox in one hand.

"You will take two toasts only," Russia yelled after him, slamming the doors, grabbing the Russian Standard, and locking the car. "By then everyone will not notice if you pretend to drink the rest. And keep cup half full, or else they will keep refilling—"

"Hiii!!!!" America gushed, snatching the hand of Serbia, who had answered the door and was now looking very baffled, and pumping it up and down. "Good evening!!

"Uhh," Serbia began, too stunned to be confrontational, before his eyes landed on Russia. "On je sa tobom?"     [Is he with you?]

Russia's sigh came out as a cloud of pale vapor. "Da."     [Yes.]