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

Act II, Chapter Twenty-Nine

"And that's the story of how my father left me to inherit his massive drug ring and I became a kingpin even though all I want to do is open up a restaurant."

"What??"

"You weren't listening, were you," Italy chuckled, kneading the dough on the counter that had flour peppered over it.

"Well, now I am! That sounds like an insane story!"

"Oh well, you missed it," Italy shrugged.

"Duuuuuude," America whined. "I wanna hear the story!"

"There was no story, Amy," Italy rolled her eyes affectionately. "I was just telling you about my day because you asked."

"Oh."

Italy gave him a silly smile and held out her hand. America grabbed a container of flour and placed it in her hand, not even needing to ask what she needed.  She grabbed a few pinches of the white powder and sprinkled it over the kitchen island before continuing to knead the dough.

"Okay, I'm listening now, what's up?"

Italy raised an eyebrow, "Are you now?"

"Yes! What kind of question even is that??" America asked indignantly, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Alright, what's 12 times 40?"

America narrowed his eyes at her, poking his tongue out, "First of all, maths? That's a low blow, even for you. And second: how the hell does that test how well I'm listening?"

"Well if you weren't listening you would have panicked and tried to answer it as quick as you could, but if you were listening you'd be your usual, sassy self and ask too many questions." 

America laughed loudly, uncrossing his arms and resting his hands on the counter he was sitting on, "Touche, Missy!"

It was a Sunday, the one day of the week where Italy wasn't working her ass off running her company. She had started a business selling homemade jewellery and clothing when she was still in high school and now owned one of the biggest fashion industries in the market. America and Italy, being cooking buddies, decided a long time ago to meet up every Sunday to cook whatever they liked. Every second Sunday, America was in charge of what they were going to cook, while Italy had every other Sunday. Today was Italy's day and since America was going away the next day on a trip his father had arranged with Russia's family, she had decided to make a classic: pizza.

"No, but really, what's up with you? Usually, you're dying to talk about your week and all the crazy things going on in your life," Italy smirked, sliding her fingers across the surface of the counter to collect some flour and tapping America playfully on the nose, causing him to sneeze as some flour tickled his nose. "But lately you've been so...quiet."

America sighed, rubbing his nose with the back of his hand and flicking some basil that he had picked from one of Italy's window-side plants at her, making her squeak in surprise. America snickered at her confusion and plucked a mint leaf as well, popping it in his mouth and chewing on it smugly. Italy rolled her eyes and walked to the sink the wash her hands, flicking some water from her hands onto America, succeeding in making him shrink away and hiss like a cat.

"How dare?"

"Quite easily," Italy snickered, flicking some more water on him and almost making him slide off the counter in surprise. 

"I hate you."

"You know you love me."

America sucked in through his teeth, pouting dramatically, "Sorry, sweetheart, but you're the only straight person in the room!"