Pangea Academy's Number Two! (BOOK 2)

A Rose Without Its Thorns!

In the midst of the flurry of confusion, two feet walking downstairs can be heard. And a meek voice calls out, "Is everything alright?"

It wasn't.

But neither was America, so it would be best not to bother him with it.

"Everything is fine, dearest." Russia responded, his eyes softening the moment America could be seen.

America raised a brow, "Don't give me that bullshit. I could hear yelling from upstairs." His striking gaze befell the entire group, looking for answers. 

Of which, none were provided. Everyone looking any other way than the American.

Russia made his way to him, "I'm being honest, we weren't arguing." America's eyes scanned him for any deception but could, subsequently, find none.

"Well, if you're sure." America huffed. "What were you guys talking about then?" Russia gently placed his hand on the small of America's back.

"My love, shouldn't you be resting though?"

America chuckled quietly, "I don't think my body can rest anymore, I've rested for days straight. I think I'm atrophying." Russia had a nervous smile on his face. Despite the banter between the two, America could sense something was off within the group. There was a tension, so very fragile, and oh-so easily pushed over the edge.

The atmosphere was charged, and every occupant of the room was acutely aware of the palpable discomfort that permeated the space. Faces wore strained expressions, and conversations were hushed and guarded.

Amidst this delicate equilibrium, the shrill ringtone of a phone shattered the uneasy silence. The disruptive sound echoed through the room, prompting anxious glances at the Russian. As if on cue, the atmosphere shifted from tense to downright agitated.

America's eyes narrowed, he looked directly into the Russian's face that looked downright terrified.

"Why don't you pick up this time, Russia?" He suggested, his agitation made clear.

"I-"

"With me in the room." There was no room for argument. To Russia it sounded more like, 'pick up now or break my trust completely'. It was the last straw for America.

Russia's hand hesitated for a moment over his buzzing phone, the incoming call displaying an all-too-familiar caller id. His finger hovered over the screen as he wrestled with the decision to accept or decline. 

A wave of nervousness washed over him, and his mind raced, anticipating a potentially tense conversation. 

Despite the apprehension, he took a deep breath and, with a reluctant determination, slid his finger across the screen to accept the call. 

The connection was established, and there was a brief pause before his voice came through, laced with an air of formality. 

"Hello, Mr. Moscow."

Initially, America's eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed, indicating his irritation. 

However, as the speaker greeted, 

a disturbing revelation of who it truly was, 

his eyes widened in disbelief. The color drained from his face, leaving behind a pallor that starkly contrasted with the flush of irritation that had characterized his features moments earlier. 

Lines of concern etched themselves across his forehead, and his jaw slackened in stunned silence. The subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth, which had hinted at her annoyance, morphed into a dropped jaw as the weight of the shocking information settled in. The once-irritated gaze transformed into a haunted stare, and his eyes, once sharp and focused, became distant, reflecting the surprise that had seized him.