~ Powers of Nations: A Countryhumans Chronicle

▶Chapter:74◀

The chapter:

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3rd person pov:

The morning sun barely touched the kitchen as America stood with a furrowed brow, the kitchen's silence stretching between him and Russia. The tension was palpable. America’s frustration had been simmering for days, and he was struggling to contain it. His patience with Russia was wearing thin, especially as Russia remained distant and unresponsive.

Russia, barely functioning on the remnants of his energy, moved with an almost mechanical precision. He was preparing food, a task that had become increasingly difficult given his exhaustion. Each step seemed to drain him further, his movements slow and labored.

America, leaning against the counter, watched with growing irritation. His frustration with Russia’s lack of engagement was evident, and he couldn’t help but vocalize it. “You know, Russia, it wouldn’t hurt to show a bit more effort. You’ve been like a ghost for days. Are you even trying?”

Russia, not meeting America’s gaze, whispered back, “I’m just tired.”

America’s expression hardened. “Tired? That’s it? You’ve been saying that for days. You need to snap out of it and put some real effort in.”

As Russia moved about the kitchen, the weight of America’s frustration seemed to press down on him. The clatter of pots and pans felt unnaturally loud in the tense silence. America’s impatience was growing as he watched Russia struggle, his eyes constantly shifting between Russia and his own phone.

Just as America was about to confront Russia again, his frustration peaked. Russia, who had been standing and stirring a pot, suddenly swayed. His face went pale, and before he could react, his legs gave way. He collapsed onto the kitchen floor, the thud echoing through the room.

America’s immediate reaction was one of shock. His anger flared, but it was overshadowed by concern. “What the hell?!” he exclaimed, rushing over to Russia. “Are you okay? Wake up!”

Russia’s eyes fluttered open slowly, his face pale and eyes unfocused. “Just... tired,” he murmured weakly.

America’s frustration momentarily shifted to worry as he helped Russia sit up. “Damn it, Russia! You should have said something. You’re clearly not well. What the hell am I supposed to do with you now?”

Russia leaned heavily against America, his strength almost gone. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

America’s expression softened slightly. He helped Russia to a nearby chair, settling him down. “Stay here. I’ll take care of the food. Try to rest.”

Russia nodded faintly, closing his eyes as he tried to steady his breathing. America, though still visibly frustrated, moved to the stove. He had little idea of what he was doing. The pot on the stove began to hiss and splutter, and the aroma was anything but appetizing. America fumbled with the utensils, his attempts at cooking resulting in a mess of burnt and undercooked food.

The kitchen, which had started as a place of tension, was now filled with the sounds of America’s cooking disaster. He dropped utensils, spilled ingredients, and even managed to set off the smoke alarm at one point. Each misstep only added to his mounting frustration.

As America struggled, he occasionally glanced over at Russia, who sat silently, too exhausted to react. America’s irritation was palpable, and his attempts at cooking were growing increasingly chaotic.

When America finally managed to serve a barely edible meal, he set the plates on the table with a huff. “I don’t know how you can eat this,” he said, his tone a mix of frustration and exasperation. “But it’s all I’ve got.”