Choosing not to dignify that with a reply, Russia swigged another mouthful of spiced mead, the taste of honey spreading out smooth over his tongue. There was a window on the opposite wall, high, thick-glassed, draped in heavy flannel curtains, and he reached across to steer America out of the way and pull one of them back so he could rest his elbows on the sill.
"Pretty," America murmured, standing next to him and doing the same, for all the world like he was wanted or invited here. Rus looked at him sideways, lost for a moment in the fine, sharp shape of his profile while his stomach did slow, suspended flips— indignant flips. At Ame's bottomless audacity. Coming here, bothering him nonstop, calling— (him?) what?— pretty. Holding his breath, Russia followed America's wide-eyed gaze out the window and to the cold, leering moon.
Of course.
"I've been up there," America continued suddenly, turning to him. Rus nodded, cheek muscles twitching into a smile against his will.
"I know."
"And so have you."
Russia sipped from his cup, appraising the moon once more.
"I know."
America cupped his chin in his hands to stare too, mesmerized. "Do you remember, Russia? What it was like?"
He didn't reply at first, holding up the mead to scrutinize it— something was wrong with this stuff, clearly, because his throat had tightened, dizzying, when America said his name.
"Cold," he murmured, and coughed into his collar.
"Yeah. Cold and dark."
America turned to him, disturbingly close, setting off alarm bells in Russia's head. "Were you afraid?"
"I am never afraid," he replied in an undertone, and inhaled sharply when America splayed his palm flat on his chest, over his thundering heartbeat. He smiled, insolent, inevitable, tessellating into a blur of distinctive features— large, shining eyes, wicked teeth.
"Are you afraid now?"
"I—" Rus set the beer stein down, hard, liquid sloshing out the top as he backed away. America seemed to have left a white-hot handprint on his chest, burning through his clothing. "I need. Get home."
"Dude," America protested, throwing his hands up. "You're sloshed. No way you can drive."
"'S long as you do not touch me, I will be fine," he said, groping feverishly for his coat. The beginnings of a headache were gathering at his temples.
"Let someone else drive you home!"
"I know you are a Godless pagan, Amerikos." Russia slid the last of his mead across the sill to America with numb fingers. "But have a little faith."
Shouldering through the dancing, laughing crowd, the noise echoing hollowly through his head, Russia stalked for the door, conscious of America's glittering eyes boring holes into his back. He needed to get outside, get some deep breaths, shake the heady, confusing warmth of the mead from his mind. At the door, breathing in the inky October air, he turned back one more time and locked eyes with America, seated on the windowsill, wiping his mouth of the last of Russia's drink. He smiled, broad and toothy. Rus swallowed and let the door slam shut, knowing otherwise he wouldn't pull his eyes away.
———
a/n: sorry guys i was in MAXIMUM silly mode when i wrote this and i never confirmed that americas costume is in fact a cassette tape and by extension a Nixon tape. he is a nixon tape for halloween. ok