~ Powers of Nations: A Countryhumans Chronicle

▶Chapter:75◀

The chapter:

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3rd person pov:

Russia stirred awake slowly, his mind groggy and his body heavy with the weight of exhaustion. It took him a moment to realize where he was—curled up against America’s side on the couch, the blanket still draped over them both. The room was dim, the only light coming from the flickering television screen that cast shadows across the walls.

For a moment, Russia’s heart raced in panic, memories of the day before flooding back to him. He remembered the dog, Canada’s visit, and the oppressive feeling of America’s eyes always on him. He recalled the suffocating smoke and how it had made his head spin until he passed out. And now, here he was, still bound to America, still trapped in this endless cycle of tension and unease.

America shifted beside him, noticing that Russia was awake. His arm, which had been loosely wrapped around Russia’s waist, tightened slightly as if to remind him of his presence. “You’re up,” America said, his voice low and rough, as if he hadn’t spoken for hours.

Russia didn’t respond immediately. His throat felt dry, and there was a dull ache in his chest that made it hard to breathe. He blinked a few times, trying to clear the fog from his mind, but the sense of dread lingered, making it difficult to focus on anything else.

“Hey,” America said again, his tone more insistent this time. He reached over and turned off the TV, plunging the room into near silence. The only sound was the faint ticking of a clock somewhere in the house and the distant hum of traffic outside.

Russia finally looked up at him, his eyes still dull and weary. He didn’t know what to say—what could he say? The fear and exhaustion had sapped him of any will to argue or resist. All he wanted was to disappear, to be anywhere but here, in this suffocating space where America’s presence loomed over him like a dark cloud.

America studied him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “You’re pale,” he finally remarked, as if just noticing Russia’s condition. He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from Russia’s forehead, but the touch felt more like an inspection than a gesture of comfort.

Russia flinched slightly at the contact, his body tensing. The memories of America’s rough treatment, the way he had yanked him around and forced him to interact with Champ, were still fresh in his mind. He couldn’t shake the feeling of being constantly on edge, like a small animal waiting for the next blow to fall.

America noticed the flinch and frowned. “Relax, Russ. I’m not gonna hurt you,” he said, his voice a mix of irritation and something else—something softer that he quickly masked. But Russia wasn’t convinced. The pattern of their interactions had been too volatile for him to believe those words entirely.

For a moment, they just sat there in silence. America’s arm was still around Russia, holding him close, but the tension between them was palpable. The quiet should have been comforting, but instead, it felt like the calm before the storm, an uneasy truce that could shatter at any moment.

“I’m sorry,” Russia finally whispered, his voice so quiet it was almost inaudible. He wasn’t sure what he was apologizing for—maybe for passing out, maybe for being so weak, maybe for simply existing in a space where he clearly wasn’t wanted. The words slipped out before he could stop them, a reflex born out of desperation.

America’s frown deepened. He didn’t like hearing Russia apologize like that—it made him feel something he wasn’t prepared to deal with. “Stop saying that,” he muttered, almost to himself. He shifted his position, pulling Russia closer against him as if to ward off the creeping guilt that gnawed at the edges of his mind.