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The sound was deafening. Like a loud boom, but not necessarily the bad kind. The crowds were cheering, happy for their victory.
And for once, America wasn't sore that he lost. No. Not when Russia was also standing and cheering, along with his people, in one of his rare displays of unreserved emotion.
He shouldn't have been there in Moscow in the first place, but America has always been a spontaneous lover. It had taken the full force of his trademark kicked-puppy-eyes look to get Russia to play hookie from work that day, dragging his disgruntled boyfriend out of the Kremlin all stealthy-like. He would have taken him to watch the movies, but he wouldn't have understood anything anyway, so he went to something way more manly albeit less romantic--Mixed Martial Arts.
It was all worth it.
Russia finally sat down, still giggling from the high of his victory.
"Coming out to play ain't so bad after all, huh, big guy?" he teased.
The man just smiled at him, cheeks still flushed, and leaned down to peck his lips. "Nyet. Solnyshko was correct." He pecked his lips again. "You are not mad for losing?"
America stroked his chin and pretended to think it over. "I dunno, man. I mean, maybe if I get to top tonight..."
Russia merely laughed and pecked his lips a third time. "Amerika is always sore loser."
America was about to pinch his big ol' Russki nose when the other's face suddenly turned pale and ashen. And something told him that it had something to do with the hushed whispers from the other members of the crowd around them.
Before he could ask, Russia's head snapped back to the ring, eyes wide in dread. America decided to look towards the ring too.
Russia's PM was climbing up the ring--hold on.
"The hell is your boss doing here?" America hissed at his boyfriend, who seemed to have stopped breathing.
The man was supposed to be at work. If Russia gets caught here--well.
He didn't really know what would happen. Russia wasn't really one to share whatever goes on at work, just like America. It was something they agreed on after the Cold War.
The man took the microphone from the announcer and stood next to Eme--Emi--the Russian fighter dude, smiled for the crowd and started speaking some mumbo jumbo America couldn't understand.
There was a moment of silence.
Then the unthinkable happened. The crowd started booing. Loudly.
America blinked in surprise. This was common back in his home turf when some sleazebag politician decides to take somebody else's limelight to promote himself. But he was in Moscow. Where everybody was supposed to love their PM and shit.
At least that's what he thought until he heard a very distinct boo from his left side.
He stared at Russia, surprised. The larger man was howling very loud boos at his boss, along with the rest of the crowd.
He knew he should've told him that it was a bad idea because his boss might spot him, but he couldn't do it.
The sight of Russia protesting against his KGB-spawned-human-rights-violating-son-of-a-bitch boss was such a turn-on, he couldn't even explain.
"UHODI!" his boyfriend shouted while the other fans booed.
He didn't know what the hell that meant, but he hoped it was russki for fuck you.
Oh his Russki bear was so getting plowed tonight.
The jeers then suddenly turned to applause, leaving America confused as Russia started clapping as well.
"Dude, what's going on?"
"He is to be praising Fedya," Russia grunted, voice a little rough.
America raised a brow at him. "Uh..."
"Is short for Fyodor," the other explained. When America still looked confused, he added "Is Emelianenko," pointing at the Russian fighter.
"Ah." he nodded, looking at Russia with a smile, and then turned his attention back to the ring.
Putin was looking straight at them.
"Aw fuck," America swore under his breath.
"I am thinking dorogoy should go," Russia said, not taking his eyes off his boss as the man slowly made his way through the crowd towards them.
"But--"
Russia looked at him grimly. "Go."
America gave a loud exhale of disapproval, before standing up reluctantly. "You still owe me," he muttered.
"Da, I am aware," his boyfriend said, softly this time and squeezing his hand. "For next time, da?"
America pouted and Russia pecked his lips one more time.
"Go," he whispered against his mouth and then gently pushed him away.
He left.