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

Act I, Chapter Thirteen

America wasn't ready.

He wasn't sure if he ever would be.

He wasn't ready for the crowd. Or the lights. Or the noise.

And he especially wasn't ready for Britain to be standing in the centre of it all with his twin baby sisters, baby brother and mother.

But despite America's lack of mental preparation, Russia silently coaxed him forward by simply pulling him along; their hands still connected in some sort of delicate tango, the other's fingertips trailing over the sensitive skin leaving goosebumps and shivers. Under some sort of trance, Russia led America through the crowd towards his family, nodding for Britain to put their plan into action as soon as they reached the front of the flock.

Britain cleared his throat, gaining America's slightly dazed attention. The crowd hushed to allow the man space to talk; to be heard.

"America, son, I want to let you know..." Britain paused, his eyes dancing over the words he had wrote in advance. He shook his head, crumpling up the paper in his trembling grip and burying it deep within his trouser pocket. "Oh, to hell with it."

Britain took a step forward and stared at his son with all the intensity and sincerity of a grieving father. He lifted his hand to America's face, and when his son flinched from his touch, his frown deepened. He ran the hand over his face and through his facade hair in shame as his eyes fell to the floor.

"America, I've been a terrible father. There is no denying it. I hurt you, emotionally and physically - I scrutinised you for being yourself. For being gay. For being different. That was wrong of me, I know that now. You are my son, my baby boy. I love you with all my heart, despite how bad I am at showing it. You meant - mean - so much to me, more than I could possibly say. I used to compare you to Canada and that was terrible of me, you are splendid and talented in your own way. I never gave you enough credit for that."

Britain lifted his gaze to America once more, whose eyes were glistening behind his sunglasses.

"But I can now. I know I'm a bit late to the party, but I want to take it upon myself to make you feel loved and accepted by your family again - because you deserve to be. I want you as my son; who cares if your gay, or different. We all have a past. We're all a little fucked up in our own special way."

America chuckled sourly at his father's language, frankly surprised.

He had changed a lot.

They both had.

"So," Britain continued, voice wavering as he pulled something concealed out of his pocket. "To show my acceptance (which really should have always been there), I brought you a gift."

America scowled involuntarily at that - he took it back. His father was as superficial as ever, always using money and bribery to slither away from his responsibilities.

But instead of some bullshit expensive watch or cheque or something else equally as useless, Britain uncurled his fist to reveal what he had been hiding, and America's breath hitched in his throat.

Cradled in Britain's blue hand was a single, vibrant rose. Each petal had different colour, painstakingly and evenly painted on, all adding up to a complete rainbow. Britain reached for America's face again (this time without America's resistance) and gently slid the rose behind his ear, the flower sitting snugly between it and his glasses. The petals were unbelievably soft and the stem was free of thorns, though it had bumps where thorns once were.

"I grew these roses myself, and it took a while to figure out how to make the damn things work, but I did it," Britain claimed proudly, as he dipped in his pocket once again to pull out a second flower, slipping it in his breast pocket so it was in view of anyone who laid eyes on him.