Dispute | Countryhumans AU | RusAme/AmeRus

4

Russia wouldn't look at America. America sighed, trying to focus on the lesson. "Colour theory, as I'm sure all of you know, is a combination of science and, of course, art. Take a look at the colour wheel here..."

America barely registered the words, blindly jotting down the notes, hoping he wouldn't be in any other classes with Russia before he got the chance to apologise. He had to apologise soon, before the tension worsened. He thought about what he could do, doodling and scribbling in the margin of his notebook.

The bell rang, a shrill, loud noise that startled America. He grabbed his books and shoved them in his bag, not caring if they were neatly packed, wanting to reach Russia. He dashed to the door, squeezing through the crowd of his classmates leaving the room.

"Excuse me," he grunted, catching a few elbows in his side. When he got out, he looked around, hoping to catch a tell-tale glimpse of Russia's ushanka. Russia had somehow disappeared, and now America was going to be late for his next class if he didn't hurry.

The American growled, running along the corridors and almost knocking into some teachers. He thanked his lucky stars that he was into track and field as a child as he slid into his classroom a few seconds before the next bell rang, signalling the start of the next period.

He scanned the classroom, he found Russia and clenched his fist. Damn, I haven't got to apologise yet, he thought, dismayed. He walked towards Russia, hoping to apologise before their teacher reached the class.

Russia noticed, and quickly took a seat beside Serbia as their teacher walked into class. America frowned, and took a seat a few rows behind Russia. The day continued like that, America attempting to catch Russia before and after their shared classes and Russia eluding all his attempts.

At the end of the day, America was spent, but he wasn't about to give up. He cooked some dinner for both of them before Russia returned to their dorm, since his classes ended earlier.

He looked up some recipes for dishes he knew Russia had eaten at home. He smiled at the memory of Russia telling him the food his father had cooked when they were kids. He remembered how Russia's eyes had always lighted up when he talked about pelmeni.

He looked up a tutorial for pelmeni, writing down the ingredients and leaving the dorm to get them from a nearby minimart.

When he got back, he put his things down, washed his hands and immediately got to work, making the dough and kneading it. America mixed the ingredients for the fillings and cut out circles in the dough, folding the dough over the meat and setting it aside.

Continuing until he ran out of dough and the filling, he dusted some flour over the uncooked pelmeni. He filled up a pot with water and salted it before bringing it to boil. America put the dumplings in and dusted his hands, waiting for them to float to the top while cutting some dill.

Taking out two small bowls, he spooned some sour cream and mayonez out of their jars and into the separate bowls. He looked at his watch. He didn't know Russia's timetable, but classes ought to be over for him soon.

America quickened his pace, fishing the cooked pelmeni out of the pot and onto two plates. He would have cooked plov, but he didn't have much time left. He heated up some frozen meals he had bought earlier, feeling slightly guilty.

Anxiously, he set the table and sat on the sofa, waiting for Russia to return.

Russia walked back to the dorm with his siblings after class, dreading opening the door. He had no reason to stay out, and he wanted to revise the notes he had taken to pick out things he didn't understand to clarify the next day.

As they walked, he thought about America's behaviour in class. Why was he so insistent on talking to him? He knew he shouldn't have purposely avoided the American, but he couldn't bring himself to talk to him right now.

He didn't hate America, but he was afraid. America had seen him show his weakness, and America could hurt him again. He crossed his arms, frowning. "Russia? Are you okay?" Kazakhstan asked.

Russia looked up. "Yeah, I'm good." He put his hands back down to his sides. "This is my block," he announced. "I'll get going first, see you guys tomorrow."

He climbed up the stairs, one step at a time. He could've gone two steps at a time, or even three steps at a time, but he was procrastinating having to return and being in the same dorm as America.

When he reached the door, he fumbled around a bit for his keys. When the door lock clicked, America stood up from the couch, taking out two cans of kvass from the fridge.

A wave of food smells rolled over Russia as soon as he opened the door. He almost dropped his bag in shock. For a moment, he felt like he was back home with his family again. Then the illusion cleared, and he furrowed his eyebrows in confusion.

"Welcome back," America said sheepishly. "I, uh, made some pelmeni... as an apology for what happened." He held out his hands, gesturing at Russia's coat and bag. "May I?"

Russia handed them over, confused as America bustled around, hanging his coat and putting the bag in Russia's room. Russia washed his hands and sat down. He wondered how America had known that he liked pelmeni.

A memory resurfaced in his mind, of when they were kids. They were in a neighbourhood playground, America on the swing and Russia beside him.

--

"What's your favourite fruit then?" America had asked, his hands holding the chains of the swing.

"I like cherries," Russia said, smiling.

"Why?" America questioned, tilting his head.

"Because they're sweet, and they remind me of you when you smile, because your cheeks turn red like cherries," Russia replied absentmindedly.

America stopped swinging for a while, and blushed. "Okay, how about your favourite food then?"

"I like pelmeni," Russia grinned. "Especially the ones my dad makes when he's in a good mood. I help him sometimes, he lets me roll the dough and put in the meat."

"I hope we'll get to make pelmeni together one day," America grinned. "It sounds like fun."

"Yeah, maybe one day we'll get to make it together."

--

Russia snapped back to the present. America had just sat down opposite him. They ate in silence for a while before Russia realised he could make it happen. He could make pelmeni together with America.

It may not be a big action but maybe he could repair the friendship he had broken. He looked up from his plate. "The pelmeni is really good," he complimented.

"Thank you," America replied. "Do you remember when I said that maybe we would get to make this together?" Russia brought up.

America's eyes brightened, a hint of a smile on his face. "Yeah, I do."

"Do you still want to make pelmeni with me?"