American Mask

Sharing their pot of icky sticky goo

It was an odd feeling. Alfred could never quite put a word to it, but it was always there. A churning pot full of boiling black goo slowly seeping out the sides and leaking into his bloodstream. The pills would flush it out, just for a bit, like a plunger unclogging a toilet, or a vacuum disposing of unwanted, and unseen things. But it always returned, the pot always boiled up and overflowed, just as the trees always rotted and burned. With a soft sigh, he sat up in bed. Only 5 am, there was nothing much to be done except sleep. But he couldn't really do that seeing as he was already slipping out of bed, pale blue sheets cascading down the bare skin of his shoulders. Trudging down the stairs, he caught a whiff of cinnamon, dousing the candle he realized had been lit all through the night.
While he absently listened to the bickering inside his head, occasionally interjecting, he began brewing some coffee. That odd feeling beginning to bubble up as searing water flowed out the nozzle, permanently stained be the blackness of ground coffee beans. It wasn't even necessarily his boiling goo though, America was the one who had the most trouble dealing with those dark emotions, so Alfred supposed that their connectedness was what allowed him to feel it too. Allen never really mentioned feeling that way, but Alfred could only assume he felt the same, or perhaps even worse.
He was always protected by America and Allen, since they took the light whenever countries were around. But while they exhausted themselves, Alfred had convinced himself that he could bare the weight, he would bare the weight. With a silent nod he went about his daily routine, starting laundry, putting up dishes, all that stuff. He could see America laying in his room, sleeping soundly, Allen across the hall doing the same. Alfred however, had left his room, which lay locked inside his subconscious. While the two slept he had taken the spotlight, and was thus in control, for the time being that is.
China was the first to descend the stairs, raising a brow at the busy American. Alfred turned, smiling silently at the Asian man before going back to washing a large pan he had let soak overnight. Sort of like the unspoken issues that he left to soak in hatred and self pity, before picking them up and emptying them in the form of nine cuts on either arm.
His eyes widened. He was wearing a tank top. A tank top. He paled at the thought of the others finding out, and quickly finished the pan before dashing up the stairs, the Asian man he left behind watching in utter confusion. He changed into a hoodie and returned to cooking. Thankfully he hadn't started the eggs, and the biscuits were just perfect! It all seemed too good to be true, and it really was. It really really was.
The door slammed open, a flustered Brit and a groggy Frenchman entered loudly, shouting about how they almost died because of 'Wankers driving on the wrong side' and 'lack of beauty sleep.' Alfred smiled a bit, though he was nervous since he had never interacted with the others. Ever. Sighing, he let a content smile grace his lips as he returned his attention to cooking, letting the early risers do the welcoming.