"America." Russia walked in the door, distractedly buttoning his suit cuffs as his eyes swept the room for any last vestiges of clutter. "The others will be here in half hour for conference. Is the dinner ready?"
Ame, lying on his stomach on the spotless floor, miles deep in an intense game of Geometry Dash, rolled away from Russia's shiny shoes. "Huh? Yeah. No. I meant— HAH! Gotcha! Whatever."
"Why are you down there?" Rus squatted to squint at him, shaking his head. "Couch is like five feet away."
"You're distracting me, tall man. Leave."
"Yes, alright. Try to find some manners before China gets here, anyway." Rus paused, a certain suspicion beginning to rankle in his heart. "Say, Ame— what did you make for dinner exactly?"
"Did you just say dinner?"
Russia sucked in air through his teeth.
"Yes?"
Bleeeooop. Ame's game ended with a pixelated whine.
"You— you wanted me to make dinner?!"
"Did you not make dinner?!"
"I thought you said find Thriller!!"
America gestured frantically to a haphazardly opened Amazon box, out of which Michael Jackson's pale face grinned from a slick CD case.
"WHAT??!"
"I DON'T KNOW!" America scrambled to his feet, fisting his hands in his hair. "WHY ARE YOU YELLING AT ME?!"
Russia bit down on his fist until he tasted blood. "Why. Why am I yelling at you." He paced in a circle, muttering in fevered, rapid-fire Russian what could have been a prayer or a very elaborate curse. "Because in twenty-five minutes important people are coming here, дурак¹," he replied through teeth gritted hard enough to crush diamonds. "And the one thing we have to feed them is THIS MICHAEL JACKSON CD." America blanched as Russia gripped both his shoulders like a vise, eye twitching as he stared down into his face. "WHY would I ask you 'find Thriller,' America? Hm? How is that sense?"
"I— I— good song—?!"
"НЕТ! Невероятный²!!" Rus made a drawn-out, strangled sound, bowing his head to the floor as his fingernails dug into Ame's collarbones with vicious intent.
"You— you——" Ame spluttered for the words, wriggling free. "You really thought I could cook, Russia?!! Do I look like some kind of house-husband to you? Huh?"
Russia's eyes flicked up and down America's body as he massaged his temples.
"Yes?"
"NO! The answer is no!! I can't even— I can't even make ramen, Rus!"
"Heavens above." Turning his eyes skyward, Russia crossed himself feverishly. "Alright. Da, da, da. Okay. Come here." He grabbed America by the collar and dashed into the kitchen, dark wood countertops scrubbed to a psychotic shine, and passed a hand over the shelf of cookbooks at top speed. Ame yelped as he slammed the largest, oldest one down on the table and splayed it open to page 55.
"Cabbage soup."
"Cabbage huh?" America bent down over the ancient, water-rumbled page, nose wrinkled. "Listen, I don't, uh, want to be rude—"
"Then stop talking." A balled-up apron, pale yellow, smacked him in the face across the table. "Step one, ehm— sauté onion."
"Wha—" Fumbling with the apron strings, America glared at Russia across the room. "Russia. Can you cook?!"
"No. Stop asking stupid questions and put butter in pan."
America bent at the waist to squint at the stick of butter before him, gauging the cutting-off point exactly with a hovering knife.
"Balls, I hate this. What if I chop my finger off?" Russia, stalking past him for the spice cabinet, reached over and smacked the top of the knife, sending it sinking neatly through the butter as Ame yelled.
"That is why you have nine others."
"So tender," America grumbled, scraping the pat of butter into the hot pan with a hiss.
"Da, is me. Now." Reaching around him to turn up the gas flame, Russia locked eyes with America and, inexplicably, smiled. "You stir. I chop."
Cascades of diced onions, celery, and grated carrot followed the butter into the pot, and America stood as far away as he could from the hellish heat, poking around inside the pot with a long wooden spoon. Behind him, Rus's knife was leaving gouges in the cutting board as he mutilated vegetable after vegetable.
"Is that piss?" America managed through watering eyes as Russia, eyes wild, tipped a too-full pitcher of steaming yellowish liquid into the container a second before it spilled everywhere.
"Is vegetable broth, идиот³," Rus replied, smacking Ame lightly over the back of the head, but he was coughing too hard on the vast billows of fragrant steam to reply. "Let that boil."
"Uh—"
"You know what boil means?"
"RUSSIA."
"Eh?!"
"AHHHH! WHAT DO I DO!" America clutched his head in both hands as the liquid inside began to froth, the bubbles climbing over each other in unrealistic architectural patterns and beginning to brim over the sides. Drops of soup fell into the blue gas flames with a wicked hiss. Russia muttered something spitty and guttural, yanked his dress shirt over his mouth and nose, and plunged through the steam to smash a lid onto the pot. Countless bubbles burst against the clouded glass.
"Turn it down," he commanded, and America ducked under his legs to wrench the gas knob by the stove the other way for dear life. The flame shrank to a quiet flicker, and Rus slumped down next to America on the floor. It took Ame a few seconds to recognize the sound he was making as hoarse laughter. "Cooking, eh?" Wiping his eyes with mirth, Russia elbowed Ame's side. "Woooo!"
The other country's good mood was contagious. Ame found himself grinning too, fumbling to his knees.
"Bet you're glad I got Thriller now."
"Ah, don't push it, luchik ⁴."
"You have onion skin on your jacket."
America bit his tongue in concentration as he brushed ineffectually at the papery shreds clinging to Russia's lapels, conscious of the full force of Rus's gaze on him. The other country's cold, rough fingers grazed his jaw, tipping his chin up to face him, and Ame's eyes grew large.
"That was pretty smooth."
"Shut up," Russia snorted, and kissed him, slow and hard, like he'd been waiting to for much too long now.
"Woah." America broke away sharply, hands braced on Russia's shoulders, and stared wide-eyed at the opposite wall, a look of utter concentration on his face.
"What?" Russia tilted his head, bemused, breathing hard. "What now?"
"The soup!" Ame pointed upwards at the gently simmering pot, looking down in awe. "It actually smells really good. Cabbage soup! Isn't that weird?"
Russia narrowed his eyes. "Why are you surprised, hm?"
"Look, I'm sorry that cabbage isn't exactly in my top 10 foods, but—"
"That is because you only eat mac and cheese and orange soda and seven forms of potatoes," Rus said dryly. "Funny diet for somebody with no free healthcare, eh?" He pinched Ame's cheek as he scowled. "Now get off me. We have soup to finish."
"Soup is very good," China offered at the dinner table that night, polite as always, and America grinned.
"Right? It's cabbage. I love cabbage. Favorite food, for sure."
Russia, looking demurely into his glass of water, kicked Ame, hard, under the table.
"It's splendid. You're a lovely cook." UK took another bite.
"Please do share the recipe," France added.
The small talk seemed never-ending, dull, the candles on the table wavering in time with the ticking of the clock. But the soup was hot and delicious, and America grinned every time his knee knocked with Russia's beneath the tablecloth. It was going to be fine.
- [] -
¹ fool ; ² NO! Unbelievable! ; ³ idiot ; ⁴ sun ray
I haven't personally made this recipe yet so i can't recommend it but here's the recipe i referenced for the soup: https://www.thespruceeats.com/traditional-russian-cabbage-soup-shchi-recipe-1135534