Footsteps clicked against the floor of the kitchen, almost echoing with how little furniture there was to fill the space. UK was that of a minimalist and loved having space in his home despite its grand size, and so you'd find that there was lots of empty parts in places most would rather have filled in with decoration. But to Britain, it was just right. His pastoral. He was used to each and every part of this kitchen; the click of the cupboards or where the kitchen towels would be, the exact arrangement of cutlery inside the cupboards, the exact amount of cups, forks, bowls, spoons, knives, spatulas, whisks, sieves.
Each night, before Soviet came here with his drumming feet down the stairs, yawns bouncing off the walls as he lurked down here for his nightly drink, he would creep downstairs and fix the entire place incase there was a speck of dust on the counters, or a fork missing, or any other disruption in his eyes.
To him, it was perfection.
On this morning, he gently cracked an egg upon the edge of a sizzling pan and poured its sludgy contents into it. He was making breakfast for Soviet, who still slept with unusual fatigue, but he didn't feel hungry so he would make himself tea. Or coffee. Both were equally as refreshing to him. Taking his fork, he stirred the sludgy gel around the pan and made it break apart with each swirl, scrambling it. Then the salt, and some pepper, and eventually, it was ready to end up on a golden slab of toast. But something had been throbbing at the back of his mind, and he hoped to God that Union wouldn't pry any further then he tried to last night.
Unfortunately for him though, his troubles would only escalate. Because when the familiar thump of feet came heaving down the stairs, his heart began to beat erratically, and his hands tremored as he scooped the egg pieces onto the steaming bread with the fork.
"Oh- honey, Good morning! I made some egg and toast, just for you.. I do hope it's what you would've liked!"
In a bright, sing-song voice, strange for the time of day, Britain began to usher the plated food onto the table, a loud bang echoing through the place as ceramic hit marble.
"All I would like to know is what happened last night. Why you were crying, of course." Soviet's stare was hard and concentrated, boring straight into his soul yet carefully peeling his secret away like a meaningless banana peel, ready to be tossed away.
Instantly, the pair fell silent for a few moments, and the little birds chirping outside perched on their branches and the crisp leaves fluttering about in the wind was all that could be heard. But not for long.
"I.. mm.."
It felt like all the energy in Britain had disappeared, like his mask had fallen apart and into dust. Slowly, he took a few steps toward Soviet, who had completely ignored the cooling food and stared at the other. His throat was dry like chalk, scratchy, burning, and he couldn't even speak without taking back his words and utterings.
"I.. I-I did tell you it was just.. a bad dream! I-It wasn't anything serious, really-"
"Don't give me that shit, Brit. Don't do it."
Through gritted teeth, the taller and burlier man had began to speak.
"Nobody, and I mean nobody, cries for almost ten minutes because of a bad dream-"
"But I did. I was frightened, okay?"
Internally, Britain was panicked. Had Soviet truly been awake that night and been aware he was crying? Was he lying currently? Or was he being honest, did he truly watch him for ten minutes? Why didn't he help him a few moments after he began crying? Did he even care about him at all?! Each thought shook him up and made the itch in his throat worse.
"Over what? It can't be that frightening, all roused up like this." He made a mocking gesture, holding back the urge to scoff in his lovers face, and Britain's stomach sank in response.
"Tell me. Now."
...
"I.. It was France. That is.. it was why I was crying that night."
In disbelief, Union shook his head and looked away, his lips pressed together in a firm line. But eventually, he had to come to terms with it.
"You have me now, don't you? So why cry over the past-"
"That is not how love works, you cannot just get over the past with a few words.."
Soviet made a few fast steps toward UK, and he was enveloped into an embrace. So it was serious. Not some embarrassing nightmare..
"Look at me. I'm gonna be here for you. You can talk to me whenever and I swear to whoever is goddamn up there, that I'll make you feel better. Okay?"
These words made the thick lump in Britain's throat leave and the persistent itch had started to disappear, so he was thankful for that. His mouth was salivated, and he found that he could finally swallow, his muscles relaxing. Slowly with hesitation, he wrapped his arms around the others neck and pulled him close into a light kiss. Not a gap was left between them, and he could feel the other reciprocating the kiss. His eyes fluttered closed..
...
The pair stayed like that for a while until UK had noticed that the food was colder. Time to heat it up. Reluctantly, he willed himself away from their small moment and Britain had gestured toward the chair where the food was.
"Your food, honey."
And with a nod, Soviet got in the chair and picked the toast up, taking a bite. Chew, chew, chew..
"Thith tatheth.. mm.. gooth."
"Do not eat with your mouth full-!"
Even through their passion, the smaller man was still able to be critical.
"Mm.. nn.." At his snappiness, he immediately obeyed.
"... but thank you very much. Enjoy it, I'll be upstairs in our room." His footsteps receded as he left the kitchen...
Soviet, with a smug look on his face, knew just what he would be eating with his mouth full..
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909 words ^^
