Ivan looks completely out of place, and not even the dim lighting can obscure that fact. He's too pale; his pallor is the lightest in the room. His bulky uniform looks far too hot, almost obnoxiously so, and the scarf was really just overkill. The few people around him feel themselves getting heat stroke whenever they look at him.
Then again, perhaps the most affronting thing about him at the moment is his drink of choice?
"Drinking vodka during the Havana carnival? That doesn't fit the atmosphere!"
Russia doesn't jump when a large hand claps him on the back and a loud, friendly voice greets him. He just turns to look over his shoulder as his friend took a seat next to him at a bar, the name of which he probably won't remember in the morning.
"It doesn't? It's just like drinking water, really." Russia's expression is calm and a little cheerful; he isn't quite being swept away by the festivities, but there is really no way to resist the infectious joy of the locals.
"Water is hardly any better," Cuba says with a sigh and waves over the bartender, orders a drink for himself.
"You've just got to have something with rumin it, or you're not in the spirit of things." As if to illustrate his point, Cuba drinks deeply from his thin, tall glass. Almost immediately he feels warmth burn down his throat. He sighs in a pleased sort of way; no matter how much rum he drinks, Cuba never enjoys the initial kick of it any less.
"The spirit of things?" Russia tilts his head to the side most innocently, as though he doesn't understand why his beloved vodka doesn't match the mood of carnival.
"Yeah! Vodka's relaxing an' all, but it doesn't give you even a buzz. Well, at least it doesn't for you. What's the point of drinking alcohol that doesn't do anything for you, anyway?"
To this Russia just shrugs, because he doesn't really know how to explain why he drinks it so avidly. It's his fuel, and there isn't much to say aside from that. Well, maybe there is, Russia thinks as he stares at his drink in an almost fond way.
"…It's warm. It's warm and that relaxes me." It also makes him a tad less restricted in his anger, but that only matters when someone upsets him, and Cuba simply doesn't do that.
"Hah, if that's all you'd love my stuff. 'S like drinking liquid fire, really." Cuba's swirling the liquid around in his glass idly, looking at Russia with a happy smile; the way eyes narrow warns the taller nation of what's coming.
"Two mojitos, please," Cuba is quick to order once the bartender is unoccupied. It's not long before two drinks in tall glasses are passed down the counter to them.
"It's not straight-up Cuban rum, but the mix of sweetness and mint is something I think you'll like."
Russia stares at it the same way he stares at water when he doesn't know its origin: with suspicion. But he reminds himself that it's just a drink and he'd seen everything that went into it.
Cuba is patient, silently waiting for him to take a sip. Feeling the other's stare on him and deciding it would be offensive to waste a good drink Russia sighs and lifts the glass to his lips. He takes a swig, feels the pleasant burn of alcohol as it makes its way down his throat; it's nothing he isn't used to, though the feeling is different from vodka, which he hardly feels any longer. Aside from the burn there is a pleasant taste; sweet and minty, just as Cuba had described it. It was quite the interesting flavor when combined with the bite of the liquor.
At first there is just that burning at it moves through him, but that changes quickly. He feels it when the drink hits his stomach and heat moves right back up his chest, spreading like a wildfire through him. Just as steadily, a smile spreads over his face. It feels warm.