Chapter Text
“So there I was, standing on the red rocks at Devil’s Den, when suddenly these Southern soldiers started storming out of the nearby forest! We shot at them with all our might, and as the survivors approached, we met in fierce battle on the rocks,” America spoke, waving his hands as he wove his tale.
“Right.” Russia grunted. He was mildly interested, but he didn’t want to talk to anyone at the moment. The lights overhead were too bright. They made his head hurt.
“I shot all the men who approached, their bodies falling to the ground. They couldn’t touch me— but then I got a bullet to the arm! I howled in pain, but I shot them back with even more vigor, toughing it out till the end.”
“That’s insane,” Russia said flatly. He was wondering how he could get out of this conversation.
“Right?! After the battle, I went and got the bullet taken out, and thankfully with my countryhuman body, I healed before it was an issue. Look, I’ve got a scar!” America pulled up his sleeve. A bystander oohed. Russia noticed the light mark on his lean arm, then looked back to stare into America’s eyes.
“I need to use the restroom,” he excused himself. Russia turned and walked away.
“Oh, okay!“ America called after him, all too cheery for Russia’s demeanor.
Russia strode through opulent halls, the rugs a long road of red. He opened the door to the restroom, and he was met with viridian tile and several stalls and urinals. It was not a single-person bathroom, but thankfully, it looked clean enough, and no one else was inside.
He approached one of the urinals, spacing his feet just so. He had just unzipped his fly when the door opened, and an irritating voice clawed his ears.
“Hey, man!” America greeted him, coming up to the urinal a space away from his.
Russia stood, unpissing, and wished to die.
America kept talking, even as he began emptying his bladder next to him, even as Russia was just standing there holding himself and doing nothing because nothing would come out.
His clipped responses and uninterested grunts weren’t deterring America like they would others. What should he do? Act like he was finished already? Wait for America to leave? Or—
"What, shy?" America's voice came, glancing over at Russia's face which was high over the divider. His hips and such were hidden by it, but it was clear from the lack of sound that he was not using the urinal.
Russia ripped his gaze away from America.
America was teasing him now. And what was horrible about that was that he's right.
Shy. Him? Of peeing next to another person (his political rival)? Impossible. And America was there, emptying his bladder, no problem in his confident, zero-shame self, and Russia could not bear it anymore.
America smiled slightly, finding this funny.
Russia uncomfortably fixed himself, zipping his pants, and walked out of the bathroom.
He didn’t need to go that badly, anyways. His bladder was only a little insistent now that he'd paid attention to it. But it was never bad enough for him to actually leave a conversation—he'd just wanted an excuse.
Russia could feel America's eyes on him as he passed the sink, instead pulling out hand sanitizer from his pocket and rubbing it on his hands. He would prefer to wash his hands, but right now, he just needed to be out of there.