Countryhumans One-shots!

Navy SEAL!Drunk!America x Drunk!Russia || Castle of glass

I must confess I took some liberties with this, but I couldn't help it. I took inspiration from a scene from "American Sniper"

Chapter requested by adorkablereadstuff 

Enjoy!

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«'Cause I'm only a crack in this castle of glass

Hardly anything there for you to see

For you to see»

He tapped his callous and itchy finger on the transparent glass, now tainted with fingerprints. The liquid inside - translucent, colorless, pure and wretched at the same time - wiggled slightly as the clash between his nail and the fragile material produced a soft trill that sounded like a bell to Russia's ears. Not that he could hear it properly, for the sound was immediately devoured by the jumble of noises that had taken over the bar. Laughs, cries, howls and the ever-present annoying sound of glass ringing in this dreadful calamity and smashing against the floorboards raged tirelessly, hitting his jaded eardrums and making him wish he had never gone to that bar in the first place.

The Russian boy hissed, bringing two fingers to his face, massaging the bridge of his nose in a fruitless attempt to drive away the burning sensation of his eyes being gradually coated in a dense veil of tears. He had lost count of how many times he felt the need to wipe away the salty water from his icy orbs, for the wavy fog made it so that he could barely see his own hand in front of his face. 

The alcohol didn't spare his cheeks either. He felt like they were on fire; they were probably as red as the lower side of his face, not blue like they were supposed to be. He was starting to look like that heartless, petty, vicious and bleak man he didn't even dare calling "father" anymore. 

At the thought, Russia felt the putrid alcohol gurgle inside his stomach and threaten to rise up his throat, but he fought the urge to pour it down on the floor in form of nasty vomit. He didn't want to ruin the night, he didn't want to have the judging gazes of the other clients pierce his sweaty and dirty clothes and his coarse skin, not now that he was finally finding his peace, drowning his thoughts in the sweet Vodka.

He hated himself.

He hated himself for being so ironically similar to his fa- No, to the Red Country. He used to drown himself in alcohol as well, his words and hands becoming as rough and bitter as the drinks he chugged without restraint. Russia didn't want to be like him, but his merciless fate had led his tired legs to a bar once again, to despise himself as was his custom and pour down entire bottles of Vodka, hoping to find some kind of answer, maybe even a hint of happiness, in the colorless drink.

What an idiot. 

In front of him, the barman's narrow eyes accurately scanned through the crowd as the dim lights caressed the clients' forms and faces. They were all wasted. Some were drooling, some were laughing their lungs out, some were clashing their glasses happily, some were trailing their prying hands on another client's curves, some others were rushing to the toilets - either to throw up or make out. 

Among the heterogeneous wave of people, there was also a category of customers that was known to sit down on a seat, order a bottle of whatever and spend the whole night sobbing quietly or questioning their life decisions, sometimes doing both things at the same time.