~ Powers of Nations: A Countryhumans Chronicle

▶Chapter:32◀

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3rd person pov:

Russia woke early, the first rays of dawn casting a soft glow through the window. He lay still for a moment, feeling the warmth of his father’s body against his. Carefully, he slipped out of Soviet's embrace, his movements slow and deliberate. He pulled up the covers around his father, ensuring he stayed warm and undisturbed.

His heart ached with a mix of emotions as he looked at his father’s sleeping face, lines of stress etched deeply. The night had been rough, the alcohol-fueled rage and subsequent breakdown leaving Russia bruised both physically and emotionally. With a sigh, he left the room quietly, closing the door behind him with a soft click.

Downstairs, the house was eerily quiet. Russia moved with practiced efficiency, starting on breakfast. The familiar routine was comforting, grounding him in the present moment. He cracked eggs into a bowl, whisking them with a practiced hand, and set a pot of porridge to simmer on the stove.

As the smell of cooking filled the kitchen, Russia’s mind wandered. He couldn't shake the image of his father’s eyes, wild and haunted, nor the pain of the kicks and the sharp edge of the broken glass. His wings still throbbed where the bottle had struck, and he could feel the bruises forming.

Determined to keep busy, he wiped down the counters and tidied up the living room. The shattered glass from the vodka bottle was a stark reminder of the night before, and he swept it up with care, disposing of it quietly.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs broke his reverie. His siblings were waking up, their sleepy faces appearing one by one in the kitchen. They greeted Russia with sleepy smiles and mumbled “good mornings,” rubbing the sleep from their eyes.

“Breakfast is ready,” Russia said, his voice steady despite the lingering pain. He watched as they sat down, grateful for the distraction their presence provided.

After breakfast, the house buzzed with activity. The younger ones, dashed outside to play in the yard, their laughter echoing through the house. Others stayed indoors, some reading, others helping with chores....

Russia found solace in the busy hum of the household. He washed the dishes, his mind wandering back to the night before. He replayed the events in his head, trying to understand his father’s outburst. The guilt and anger in Soviet’s eyes haunted him, and he wondered what had triggered such a violent reaction.

Sitting down with a cup of coffee, Russia allowed himself a moment of stillness. The house was quieter now, the sounds of his siblings’ play faint in the background. He cradled the cup in his hands, the warmth seeping into his fingers, and took a deep breath.

His wings ached, the fall from the previous day still fresh in his mind. He winced as he shifted, feeling the sting of the bruises. Despite the pain, he felt a glimmer of pride. He had flown, if only for a moment, and that small victory gave him hope.

His thoughts drifted to his siblings. He could still see the fear in their eyes from the night before, their tiny bodies huddled together for comfort. The memory brought a lump to his throat, and he blinked back tears.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs jolted him from his thoughts. Soviet appeared in the doorway, freshly showered and looking composed.

“Good morning, dove” Soviet said, his voice calm and steady. “I see you’ve been up early.” ( yeah, that's a nickname that soviet used to call russ, because his wings are white and similar to a dove)

Russia looked up, surprised by his father’s demeanor. “Yes, just making breakfast,” he replied, his voice careful. “Did you sleep well?”

“Well enough. Thank you for taking care of everything.” Soviet’s eyes softened slightly as he looked at Russia, but there was an undercurrent of tension.

“It’s nothing, Father,” Russia said, offering a hesitant smile.

Soviet sat down at the kitchen table, and for a moment, they sat in silence. Russia busied himself with cleaning up the breakfast dishes, stealing glances at his father. The normalcy of the scene felt surreal, given the chaos of the previous night.

“Father,” Russia began tentatively, “about last night…”

Soviet held up a hand, cutting him off. “We don’t need to talk about it. What’s done is done.”

Russia swallowed hard, nodding. “Alright,” he said quietly, turning back to the sink. The weight of unspoken words hung heavy between them.

As the morning wore on, the air of normalcy gradually returned. The siblings came and went, filling the house with their chatter and laughter. Russia did his best to keep busy, helping with chores and playing with the younger ones.

Despite the lingering tension, there were moments of peace. Soviet joined them in the yard for a while, watching the children play with a faint smile on his lips. Russia caught glimpses of the father he remembered, the one who had been kind and loving before the weight of the world had hardened him.

The day passed in a blur of activity, the events of the previous night slowly fading into the background. But for Russia, the pain and fear lingered, a constant reminder of the fragile peace they lived in.

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End of chapter...

Well, that's a short one, hehehe-