Black Coffee :|: America x Russia :|: Countryhumans

Act I, Chapter Eight

Sorry for the shitty picture quality, my phone was being a bitch so I had to take a photo sideways :')

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"Are you even listening to me?"

"Oh, sorry, was I supposed to be?"

"Um, yes. No shit, Sherlock."

"I don't remember asking if there was any shit around."

America grinned as he heard his sister snort through the reciever.

"Oh hardy har har, mate. Real mature of you."

"Sorry, Aussie. It's kinda hard to pay attention to your voice - it's just so boring and gross."

"SAY THAT TO MY FACE, YA DINGBAT!"

Laughing heartily, America took off his apron and scrounged through his bag for some cigarettes - he had been needing some all day.

It was a pretty hectic shift; which was unusual for a Monday night. America had just barely been able to slip off to his break, and if the crowd didn't ease up he wasn't likely to get home until late. Not a good situation to be in, considering he had a final the next day.

"Right, so, what was this about again?"

Australia sighed dramatically, "Dad's thingymajig. A party or something, I dunno."

America rolled his eyes and continued searching.

"Knowing him it would be more like one of those old fashioned uptight ball things," America huffed. "Fancy cheeses, fancy alcohol that barely even gets you tipsy, fancy clothing, fancy dancing, fancy everything."

Triumphantly grabbing his pack of smokes that had been sitting at the bottom of his bag, America walked outside and leant against the brick wall, next to the dumpster. Kevin didn't like him smoking (claiming it was, "ruining a great country") so he often used the overwhelming scent of stale coffee beans from the bin to hide the smell of smoke. Which didn't really make sense, since the bin had a bright yellow lid and a recycling symbol on it, so there shouldn't be anything in there other than cardboard and plastic.

But hey, fuck Earth, am I right? Not like we need it.

In conclusion, it wasn't exactly the most pleasant place to be, but he didn't have much of a choice.

"I know you think of Dad's affairs as your own personal Hell, but this is really important to him!"

America stopped, took a sharp inhale of his cancer stick and exhaled slowly, mulling over the idea in his head.

"Did he ask for me to come?"

"Are you still smoking? Soda, you know that stuff's bad for you."

Soda. It was a cute nickname Australia called him for three reasons: one, he was always drinking the sugary beverages; two, they always made fun of what the other called the drink (leading to many nights of them yelling "soft drink" and "soda" back and forth); three, one of America's favourite books when he was younger was The Outsiders, and Soda was always his favourite character.

Whenever he heard the nickname he was pulled back into the blissful innocence of being a child again - listening to his father read books to him and helping his mother cook. Sharing his race car toys with his brother, playing video games with his "youngest" sister and doing virtually everything with Australia.

But he knew it was just a distraction.

"You didn't answer my question."

"Well, yea, 'cause I care about your health! Smoking's really bad for-"