Let's Just Be Human (Finished)

Chapter 3: Mildly Homosexual, In An Argumentative Way

"I want us to be friends again."

America gaped at him. Were there drugs in his tea, because he had to be tripping balls right now. No way Soviet, the man who'd hated him, spied on him, blackmailed him, left him, wanted to be friends. This had to be a lie. No way in star spangled hell.

But Soviet's expression (or at least the parts America could see in the dark) showed nothing but vulnerable honesty. America didn't know how to respond. How could you respond, when your worst enemy asked to reconcile? Was there an appropriate response? An even better question- why? Soviet didn't do anything without some ulterior motive, so what was the reason behind this? It's not like the commie had any real power anymore, so blackmail was out of the question. Was he just trying to get in America's pants? Ew, no, bad thought. It was entirely too late for this.

His phone vibrated in his hands, yet another text from Minnesota. He ignored it. "I...what?"

"I want us to be friends again. I hated the fighting, and there's no real reason to fight anymore."

America knew he was right, but did he want to admit it? Definitely not. America was many things, but honest was not one of them. He wasn't even honest with himself.  "You...want us to be friends again. After 40 years of constant fighting, you want to be friends." He said this drily, trying to work through what he'd just heard. There must've been something in the tea.

Soviet huffed. "Yes, I do. I- look, just forget I asked. Good night."

"No! I mean..." Why he'd exclaimed like that was beyond him. All he knew was that some obscure part of him wanted to reconcile. Maybe it was his natural idiotic nature, or maybe it was the fact that Soviet looked like a kicked puppy right now. "I want to fix things. I promise I do. You just caught me off guard."

Soviet chuckled. It was a nice sound. "Sorry. One in the morning probably wasn't a good time to drop a bomb like that."

"No, it wasn't. It's not like I was sleeping anyways, it's fine."

Soviet glanced at the phone in America's hand, which vibrated again, this time with a news alert. Riots Continue in Minneapolis, National Guard Called In. America grimaced and shut the screen off. Not now. He'd deal with it in a moment. Minnesota could wait a hot second.
"What's going on?" Soviet asked. Of course he did. Damn his curiosity.

America inhaled before speaking. "More police violence. There were protests, and now there's riots. It's fine, I can get it under control."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive. Go to bed." He snapped this, voice weary. America didn't like people caring for him. It made him feel weak, like he needed a babysitter. He didn't. He was a strong independent gay, he could do things himself. He could handle some riots.

Really, he just didn't want to talk about this with the commie.

Soviet seemed to take the hint and said his goodnight. Once he was out of the room, America laid back down and let himself deal with Minnesota. Sleep could go to hell, he'd be fine. He had a kid to take care of.

—————

Much to his dismay, America fell asleep a half hour later, and woke up with his phone on his cheek and his glasses ajar. He swore (those glasses were expensive. He'd replaced the last pair because he'd slept in them), took off his glasses, and sat up. Last night still felt like an acid trip.

Instead of dwelling on it, because that's what cowards did, he decided to be proactive and make breakfast. That was a friendly thing to do, right? Even if it wasn't, he was craving American food. He loved Russian food, but sometimes a carb overload was nice. That's exactly what this meal was. America had named it "Heart Attack On A Plate", and it was his signature breakfast. Gravy with homemade biscuits (because true Americans made their own damn biscuits), hash browns, eggs, and if he had it, sweet iced tea. Heart attack and capitalism all in one go.