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Without the shrill tone of his alarm, America woke up to the sun blaring through his window. He turned to glance at the clock and felt a wave of relief when it hit that it was finally the weekend and not just another day where no one would care what he had to say. Sure, he’s had some…not so brilliant ideas in the past (admittedly, the global warming robot was made in a complete panic the day of), but that didn’t mean everything he said was stupid.
With more effort than he hoped, America forced himself up and trekked toward the kitchen. Once his feet hit the cool tile, he faced the same problem that plagued him for weeks:
Absolutely nothing looked appetizing.
He went through the entire fridge and pantry, hoping some idea of what to cook would spring to mind as he tossed ingredients between his hands. After a solid half hour of rummaging through his kitchen, he chucked everything back in place with more force than strictly necessary. He threw himself onto the couch and dug his phone out, scrolling mindlessly through DoorDash and hoping something would jump out at him.
He was inspecting a little local breakfast place in Virginia when America realized how quiet the house was. He was normally on the road by this time on a weekday, resigned to trying to find something in D.C. for lunch at least. But now, he could even hear his heartbeat…and the voices of his population slowly filtering in with stress about his economy, his environment, their neighbors, their futures —
“I’m sure someone wants to hang and eat something, right?” He asked no one. The old house didn’t respond, not even with a complimentary creak. With a sigh, he opened the world group chat:
McFreakin UN
: anyone cookin’ something or wanna grab a bite somewhere?
America turned his ringer on and set about cleaning up a bit, just to give his hands something to do and make noise against the oppressive silence. The growls from his stomach weren’t welcome either.
When his phone dinged almost an hour later, he dove to the couch to see his savior.
McFreakin UN
Eyebrows: Make your own bloody food.
: wouldn’t wanna eat what you’re “cooking” anyway
Commie: China and I are cooking together; you can join us (⁀ᗢ⁀)
China and Russia were also at the bottom of his list for people to eat with, but given how long it took for anyone to respond, this was probably his best bet.
Commie
: so do you want me to like
: bring anything?
Commie: No
Commie: Just be nice |･ω･)︻デ═一
The idea of showing up empty handed and just mooching off of another Nation (especially those two), left him uneasy, so America dug out one of the fancier loaves of bread he had sitting around.
Teleporting halfway across the world to his embassy in Moscow was no easy task. It left him drained and spinning his arms around to find a wall to lean on. He gave some of his FSOs there a shock at his unexpected visit, but they still drove him to Russia’s house without alerting either of their bosses. The sun had retreated below the horizon by the time he landed on the doorstep. The mansion the icy Nation lived with was built to house practically all of Europe at least, but it was overgrown and unkempt. Too big of a building for just one Nation now.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” Alfred muttered as he knocked. There was a slight shuffle behind the door before —
“Wow, you look terrible!” Russia greeted, while…eating an onion like an apple, “But you brought bread, so all is forgiven!”
“Why are you — “
“Recipe said to throw it away, but that would be a waste. Want some?” Russia offered the half-eaten onion to him, and it took everything in him to not wave down the FSOs to get him away from this maniac.
“Hey, wait, what d’ya mean I look terrible?”
“Just an observation,” Russia’s expression didn’t change as he beckoned America inside.
He could tell that the onion had been put to good use before ending up as Russia’s snack. Bay leaf and chicken filtered through the air as well, accompanied by the fresh smell of various vegetables. After weeks of his kitchen being a void in his eyes, the scent was enough for him to actively bite back a compliment. America kicked off his shoes in the doorway and paused when he saw another pair of shoes there, too small for Russia. In his joy of getting some potentially decent food, he forgot all about China.
His stomach wasn’t going to let him back down now, so he threw on the nearest pair of slippers and followed Russia to the kitchen.
“What took you so long? Grab the carrots and get to work. It’s Siberian Borscht if you care,” China said when they entered.
“Food’s food, y’know,” America swiped the knife and the carrots off the counter and made a beeline for a free cutting board. But when he brought the knife down, he didn’t feel the familiar muscle memory kick in. The blade hovered over the root and it again took more effort than he would’ve liked to push it down. America felt eyes on his back, a quirk that hadn’t quite faded from his Cold War days, and his shoulders hunched. The fact that he had his back turned to his two greatest rivals wasn’t helping his nerves either. He could totally beat them in a fight, obviously, but he also hated to be taken by surprise in a 2v1.
The stress inevitably led to his hands shaking and his carrot pieces becoming rough and unseemly. He set the chunks aside and moved onto another one, but increasing his focus just led to America noticing the jagged edges more.
“You do know how to use a knife, yes?” Russia asked, yanking America out of his careful concentration.
“Duh, but it’s a special extra fancy technique you’ve never seen before,” The other just sighed in response and gave him a bell pepper, but America couldn't seem to get his focus back after that. Was he really messing up that bad? Would he even be allowed to stay for the final product or would they send him back to D.C. still starving? Maybe if he —
“I’ll handle the rest; could you add what you and China prepared to the pot?” Russia asked. The older Nation plucked the knife from his hands and swept the oddly-cut strips of bell pepper in a small bowl. He got right to work on the potatoes and beets, cutting them in perfect cubes.
At least he was still helping.
Or maybe he was just out of the way.
He walked across the way-too-big kitchen to join China by the pot, holding his masterpieces of culinary art in both hands. China’s face twitched when he saw what was about to be added, but he didn’t say anything.
“Gotta say, no one’s ever done it better,” America said as threw them in.
“No one in the past 4,000 years I’ve been alive comes close. Thank you for your addition,” China replied. He covered the pot to let it simmer and America let out a huff of a laugh. He was actually joking around with one of his rivals. Clearly, he was becoming delirious from hunger; that could be the only explanation.
There was a clink beside him, and America looked down to see a plate of tea biscuits. He followed the hand to find China had somehow snuck them next to him.
“Eat! Relax! These have to stew for a bit anyway, so no need to starve in the meantime. And we need to watch and make sure Russia doesn’t sneak in weird shit again,” China said, nudging at the plate. America absentmindedly bit into one of the biscuits when China grabbed one. It rained crumbs onto the plate, sweet with small raisins littering it.
“Should we help him?” America pointed his head at Russia, who was still chopping away.
“He’s already set in his task, and you definitely shouldn’t come between him and perfectly cut potatoes,” Okay, ow.
“Yeah, well — “ America cut himself off. He couldn’t admit to them that he was feeling stressed out from..everything. It’d be a death sentence for his reputation. “Did you, y’know, bring anything?”
“I come by frequently enough that I’ve stopped. I’m surprised you dropped by at all; usually some of our friends join us instead but they were all busy today,” His skin crawled as China’s ancient gaze stared him down, almost daring him to admit his weakness.
“So you do this often? Like, cooking and then eating and stuff,” He tried navigating the subject back to the pair and a sharp left turn away from anything regarding his current mental state and why he came over in the first place.
“Well, we usually watch a TV drama or something like that after. Don’t you do the same?”
“Oh, yeah. Of course. All the time. But we play football or other sports. Or go on a hike,” He spitballed because in no universe did he ever have enough time to host dinners or hang out when he’s constantly flipping between overworking and collapsing like a metronome.
“You don’t have to lie to us, America,” Russia finally said, “It’s okay to admit that you’re lonely. Also, my work is done,” he came between America and China, taking the lid off to dump in the potatoes and beets before America could get a word in, “We’re heading to the living room to watch something if you want to join us,” The pair started walking away, and America followed a safe distance behind them. They entered a grand living room with a couch big enough to fit a continent of Nations on it. It was littered with blankets from what America assumed to be different indigenous peoples across Russia. The couch looked comfortable enough that he couldn’t fight the urge to sit down, but he did so a few sections away from the pair of friends.
“Come over here, don’t make me yell,” China said, and America reluctantly scooted closer.
“Since Iran isn’t here, we can’t start something new. Let’s rewatch Слово пацана,” Russia started.
“You just want to watch that because it’s one of the few decent shows in your country right now. I think we should rewatch 山河令,”
“Seriously? You want to get into something like that as a one off?”
“Well you — ugh. America, you pick,” China sighed. America paused, not expecting to be brought into the conversation.
“Something that you can watch without a plot or context is a good idea, so maybe…” America wracked his brain to think through every TV show he’s binge-watched, “Wipeout?” Wipeout? Really? That’s the best he could think of? Maybe throw in River Monsters while he’s at it.
“Which is…?” China asked.
“People going through obstacle courses designed to make them crash in a funny way,”
“Great; I love laughing at Americans. What’s it on?” Russia replied.
“Uh…try Netflix? I dunno,” Russia opened the app and America saw a familiar screen, “Wait, is this my Netflix? Dude — “
“America#1 was an easy password to guess. And I didn’t want to pay to watch the cooking shows there,” There was a stupidly wide grin on Russia’s face and America resisted the urge to smack him.
A loud ringer partway through an episode scared any sense of relaxation out of him. It was the same sound as his home alarm, which meant it was time for work. His stomach rolled when he saw the other Nations look at him like they were concerned, so he quickly schooled his face back to neutral.
“The borscht is ready for some seasoning, back to the kitchen everyone!” Russia said.
“You two go do it; I’m too old to get up. America, follow him,” China replied. He was wrapped in one of the blankets like a burrito, and snuggled in further when both stared at him. Russia sighed like he was used to it and got up. America trailed him; the alarm reminding his body that he needed to move and help out to deserve the final product.
Russia gave him a low hum as a greeting when America slid next to him. The slow stirring of the soup and the addition of garlic and black pepper mesmerized him, but…
“It needs something. Lemon maybe?” America said.
“Okay! There’s some in my fridge if you want to grab it,”
“So you’re just going along with it?”
“Yes? I have done worse, hence why China sent you over to babysit. Because he’s scared of bold flavors!” Russia said, raising his voice so it would carry to their companion.
“Just because I didn’t appreciate mayonnaise, jam, and caviar on blini doesn’t mean that and you know it!” China yelled back.
“Anyway, what else should we add while he’s not looking?” he asked.
“Well, maybe…”
Not that he wanted to admit it of course, but America had to practically wipe away droll from how good the finished project smelled. After weeks, there was finally a meal he was desperate to sink his teeth into. He was also surprised to see Russia scooping out the soup into three bowls instead of just giving him a Tupperware container, and leading him back to the living room.
China emerged from his cocoon to accept a bowl and resumed the episode once they were both seated. It wasn’t as difficult to settle down close to the pair this time around, and his smile came easier too. Watching some of his citizens bounce off of every obstacle imaginable into water or mud also helped, but so did the company.
He stared down at his half full bowl while the other two watched and cheered for their favorite contestants, but a question came to the forefront.
“Why’d you invite me if it’s your hang-out?” he asked. China paused the show, and America felt the room stand still. He didn’t want this to end, and now he broke the fragile peace.
“Because we get it,” China said.
“And it was an obvious cry for help,” Russia chimed in.
“Oh, come on, it wasn’t that — “
“You texted the entire world if anyone wanted to spend time with you; that feels a bit desperate,”
“But we’re all on top of the world right now, so might as well help each other out,” China cut Russia off, giving him a quick glare before turning back to America, “We can set up a separate time for us to all come together…as long as you set up the group chat. It never works when I try to do it,”
“Okay, grandpa,” America laughed.
“Shut up and finish your borscht, brat,”
He didn’t need to be told twice.