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Capturing the Flag with Hetalia! ~ AmericaOnce the game started, you watched the rest of your team head out into the woods. You had volunteered to stay behind and guard the flag; let them run around and get sweaty, you were going to enjoy this lovely day by relaxing in the shade. Your eyes closed in contentment. You paced around the tree, trailing your feet across the grass as you left wide circles in your path. Cool air danced down through the sky, making the leaves tremble in the tall trees as sunshine poured out over them. It was a thoroughly pleasant day. The blue flag fluttered gently in the breeze, hanging off the giant oak behind you. The sun was bright and the birds were noisy, chattering in the bright green of the woods. The wind put a low howl in your ears, which soon picked up on another, fainter sound. You cocked your head curiously. Was it...rustling? You turned around quickly; the noise was coming from a leafy bush that sat on the edge of an arch of trees.
You peered at it inquisitively. Was it an animal?
Letting Loose Pt.1 -- GerItaSilence.
It was the first thing Germany noticed as he woke up in the morning.
Silence. And too much of it.
Not that the German didn't enjoy the rare moments of time to himself; on the contrary, he longed to have much more of them. If it wasn't paperwork, it was a certain Italian clinging to him, and if it wasn't Italy, it was his brother up to his antics, and if it wasn't Prussia, it was a Frenchman subtly hinting on him, or a much more angry Italian screaming at him, or an Austrian scolding him, or an endless amount of possibilities.
But this moment of silence left him wary. Yes, he often didn't know what to do with himself when he actually had a moment alone, but to wake up alone was a completely different feeling. There was no Italian in his bed, which was rare but not unlikely; the man did go home on occasion, but it was usually heralded by an unprecedented amount of clinging and tears (and a lot of begging for hugs and kisses, but thinking about those aspects only made him blush).
The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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