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

Act I, Chapter Eleven

"Gimme that."

"Meri, no. You've already had four glasses of champagne. You're going to get alcohol poisoning if you keep this up."

"Oh, good idea! Then, we'll have to leave!" America grinned and lunged for Russia's glass. The taller country placed a large hand on America's face and smirked, holding back the smaller while he made desperate grabby-hands for the bubbly, golden beverage. For probably the first time in his life, America was glad he didn't have his sunglasses on; Russia would've crushed them with his strong, warm, smooth hands-

"Russia, please!" America whined. "I long for the sweet release of death."

Russia snorted, "shut up, drama queen. You're making a scene."

America giggled into Russia's hand, pulling it down to stare at his 'date' in the eyes.

"That rhymed~"

Russia felt his cheeks heat up as he met America's stare before pushing the smaller away with a huff.

"You are such a child."

"Naww, you love me."

Russia shook his head with a slight smile, surveying the crowd to avoid looking at his tipsy mess.

His?

Russia took in the ballroom properly. The hall was magnificent; full of towering pillars and intricately carved patterns in the walls. There were two ginormous chandeliers of crystal emitting waves of yellow light, shrouding the room in a homely feel despite the crowd. Over near the french doors to the castle-like balcony was an extremely long table draped with a pure white tablecloth that was laden with all sorts of sweet and savory treats. Situated in front of a large, floor to ceiling window, overlooking the pristine garden was a tall champagne tower that Russia was sure America was just itching to mess with.  

"You really lived here, Meri?"

America stopped rubbing his eyes and tilted his head. "Uh, yeah? Why?"

Russia shrugged, taking a sip of the bubbly liquid in his hand before continuing. "This place just seems so...uhhhh, what's the English word for большой?"

"Grand," America answered without even thinking about it, messing with his eyes again due to the constant irritation they were exposed to.

Russia spun on his heel to stare wide eyed at the country who was too busy staring at the ceiling and blinking furiously to notice him.

"...Вы можете меня понять?" (Russian: You can understand me?)

"да. (Russian: Yes.)" America answered in almost flawless Russian, casting a sidelong glance at the baffled Russian, which was accompanied with a smug grin.

"Surprised?"

Russia nodded mutely, unable to craft a proper response to the new information.

"Let's just say I know a lot of cultures," America sighed, a bitter edge to his words which simply confused his friend more. "So, I know a lot of languages as well."

"...okay?"

America chuckled and smiled up at the Russian, before his face fell at the figure approaching them, slightly to the left of Russia's face.

"Hello, Britain," America scowled as the figure drew nearer, crossing his arms over his chest and pushing his weight onto one foot, sticking out his hip. Russia busied himself with downing the some of his glass to hide from the awkward situation and tried his best to be invisible. America's father winced slightly at being addressed by his first name and cleared his throat.

"America, how are you doing? How's university?"

 America scoffed, narrowing his eyes at the top-hat wearing phony, "Cut the niceties, old man."

Britain gulped and stared at his glossy, polished, black shoes.

"Son, I really am ashamed of my past behaviour."

"Bullshit," America hissed. "And I'm not your son, remember?"

Britain flinched at his own flesh and blood's hostility.

"America, please-"

"Save it," America held up a hand to stop his father from continuing. "I came for my family. Not you."

Without another word, America spun around and stalked off, plucking Russia's near-empty glass and gulping down its small contents as he headed towards the shut doors leading to the balcony.

The other two countries stood in silence, watching him leave. When America reached the door he swung it open and slammed it shut behind him, causing them both to jump. Britain sighed, exasperated - rubbing his temples with practised movements.

"I'm...I'm sorry, sir. He can be a bit...difficult," Russia started to try to ease the tension of the situation, suddenly hyper-aware of his accent.

Britain gazed up at him with a look in his pure white eyes that made it seem as if this was the first time he had even noticed Russia in the room. Russia clenched his fist instinctively, expecting the empire to kick him out of the party right then and there. But, to his surprise (and relief), Britain offered him a warm smile and held out a gloved hand for him to shake.

"Ah, you must be America's boyfriend. I'm his father, Britain. It's lovely to meet you."

Russia reciprocated the shake with a ferocious blush dusting his cheeks, "oh, no no- we're not- um, dating, no - he just brought me along to make you uncomfortable-"

Russia cut himself off quickly once he realised what he was saying. He was so focused on dodging the relationship thing, he completely forgot he wasn't supposed to tell him that.

But instead of getting mad or offended. Britain surprised Russia again with a hearty laugh.

"Ah, of course. He's still the same little rebel, isn't he? I hope he hasn't given you too much trouble, son."

Russia shook his head, peering longingly at the balcony with a soft smile.

"Not at all, sir."

"Oh, no need for the formalities, son," Britain insisted, giving Russia a friendly slap on the back, startling the poor country.

"What should I call you then?"

Britain hummed thoughtfully before declaring, "just Britain is fine."

A mischievous smirk made its way to the shorter man's lips as he winked, "although, you can call me dad when you two get married."

Russia choked on air as his face was once more engulfed in warmth. 

"I'm just kidding, son!"

A relieved sigh escaped the taller of the two's mouth.

"However, I wouldn't mind having you as a son in law-"

Russia melted into a puddle of embarrassment again, resisting the urge to cover his face and book it out of there. Luckily for him, Britain's attention turned away from his love life and returned instead to his son.

"I really am sorry," Britain murmured, his gaze lingering on America's darkened silhouette. "But, I'm afraid he just won't listen to me."

The empire's expression darkened as he lowered his eyes. 

"I don't exactly blame him. I can't say I deserve forgiveness after what I've done."

Russia stared at him amiably, frowning. His eyes searched the ground in thought before he lifted his eye-line back to the broken father.

This could work.

"...I...I may have an idea for you, Britain."