|《{$ } A Cold Nuclear War { $}》| SOVBRIT COUNTRYHUMANS

Chapter III

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Soviet walked down the stairs an hour later. He hadn't gone back to sleep. Soviet walked to where Britain lay on the couch. The large country knelt down and gently held his hands on the smaller's shoulder, shaking it.

Britain mumbled and groaned. His eyes slowly opening. "Oh, godddddd! The Russian stood up. "It will hurt."

"I figured!" Britain shouted while holding his swollen nose. He stood up and stumbled to the kitchen.

"Need to carry you?"

"Most certainly NOT! I prefer to have my freedom of WALKING!"

Soviet shrugged.

"Ok."

*insert holy moly of greatness, my amazing writing skills of a scene where the two make a Russian breakfast, but I can't bc I'd have to do research, but I'm out of data, so yeah!*

The two sat at the table. The pistol from the night before lay motionless on the table's surface. Soviet picked it up and balanced it on his knee. How he does it, Britain will never know. . . The large country had changed his clothes before coming downstairs. Now, Soviet was dressed in a navy long sleeved turtle-neck, black pants, black high laced boots, and his kaki coloured trench coat. His ushanka hat sat next to him on the table.

Britain looked away from his food, transfixed on Soviet. He stared at Soviet's pastel crimson hair that was tied back in a messy ponytail. Britain took in his friend's features. Soviet's face was always in a dull expression. Never a smile but also never in tears. His right eye was obstructed by an eyepatch that had the hammer and sickle symbol on it. Soviet's hair, Britain took note of, was  surprisingly messy in the mornings. He looked tired. As if he doesn't sleep at all!

"Soviet?"

The russian perked his head up and looked the Brit in the eyes.

"да? (Yes?)"

"Did you. . . Sleep?"

Soviet stopped eating, and silence filled the room. He cleared his throat.

"Sorry?"

"Did you. Sleep. Last night, after you helped me with my nose and all. Did you go back to sleep or not?"

"да. (Yes.)" Soviet lied. The words just rolled down his tongue. So clean. So smooth. So. . . Believable.

"A-are you sure? You look-"

"I say I'm fine!"

Britain jumped and looked away from Soviet back to his plate of food.

"I have work." Soviet stood up. "Enjoy breakfast. . ."

The USSR walked off, putting his empty plate in the sink to wash later. Britain didn't move until he heard Soviet's office door shut.

The Brit let out a shaky breath he didn't know he had been holding in. He quietly finished eating and rose from his seat. Britain turned the water in the sink on and prepared himself for ice chilling water. He began washing Soviet's and his plates. After five minutes, the Brit packed the two plates away in a cupboard.

Britain felt bored. There was nothing to do around, so he did the only thing he could do. Clean. Cleaning was the posh male's therapy. Whenever he was bored, stressed or unhappy, he clenaned. Britain sighed and began digging in the cupboards for the cleaning supplies.

He found them!

The Brit put the chemicals on the kitchen counter and got up from off the floor. He began cleaning the kitchen and wiping down the counter tops, the table, and the bottom cabinets. He spent two hours making sure the kitchen was absolutely clean from his eyes. Then, he moved to the bloody hand print that was still on the wall.