Black Coffee
A Canada x Reader Oneshot
Hey there readers, it's MisstiqueRose here! So I wrote this for my Literature class basing the main character of my favourite Canadian, and thought to myself, why not publish it? You guys might like it more than my teacher did :P
Italics refer to a flashback, which is in third person.
Regular text refers to the current day, and is written in first person.
I don't own Hetalia, in case you were wondering.
She'd always hated black coffee. It tasted far too bitter, too strong, too overwhelming for her rather childish palette. Each morning played out the same way. "It has a full bodied taste," He'd retort to her whining complaint about the drink, taking a long sip of the hellish liquid whilst grinning at her. She'd roll her eyes drinking her tea, not even bothering to look up from her novel.
"Of crap." Even though the jokes were always the same, every day he'd laugh. A smile would grace her face and after a while she'd laugh too. He'd lean over and kiss her gently, and though she hated the taste of black coffee she couldn't deny she adored the taste it gave him. Maybe that was why she got up just that little bit earlier every single day to make it for him.
The sunlight filtered through my curtain, and I rolled over to escape the harsh light snuggling deeper into my blanket cocoon. The alarm began to trill at me, in tones I have now begun to associate with my mother, and so rightfully I gave it as solid a punch as a semiconscious person can. Ah silence, how I love thine soothing melody... Though the destruction of my alarm clock would allow me to sleep an extra hour I rolled out of bed, careful to avoid the now-broken remnants of an alarm. I shuffled like an old man through my house, careful not to wake anyone up. The only sound that could be heard was the padding of my feet on the carpet, and I rather liked it that way.
First things first, I needed to make his coffee. He always gets so grouchy when I don't. Reaching up as far as my still-half-asleep frame would let me, I grabbed the accursed bag from the top shelf and the scent launched a full scale assault on my nostrils. Why did he always like his coffee so ridiculously strong anyway? It tastes disgusting. I grabbed his favourite mug from the sink. It used to have a slogan on it but it's been through the dishwasher so many times the words aren't visible any more. Pity. Maybe I should get him a new one. He liked it so much. He always liked music too. I'll get him another one. This time with music on it. But what song?
Adagio. Mozart's actually, in E minor. For some reason he always loved playing that song on their old grand piano (probably because it was one of the three songs he'd ever learnt), and she always loved listening to it. It always seemed to flow so nicely into her art, each note a new stroke for her brush. Sometimes she'd bring her easel in just so she could hear better; and sometimes he'd move the entire piano just so he could watch her paint. Sitting together in a wide room with walls that should be white, but instead were a multitude of colours spilled and thrown, they seemed to thrive off each other.
"I need your opinion." There was no room for argument in her tone. She needed him there and now.
"You've got purple paint in your hair."
"Not on my appearance," She paused, touching the offending streak which only succeeded in spreading it further. "On my painting." His eyes wandered to the works that hung around the room, settling finally on her current masterpiece. For a piece inspired by the rain tapping on their window it was awash with colour. The warm orange glow from the streetlamps reflected in the puddles of water, as did the soft greens of the leaves. Some of the background scenery was smudged to give the illusion of rain falling. The long path was illuminated by all of this, gently surrounding the figure walking up away from the foreground, an umbrella hiding the figure's head. What was visible of the figure however, was their red coat – a bright colour reflected in the pooling rain around them. It drew the eye, and was stunning to look at. He could almost hear the figures footsteps muffled by the soft patter of rain. A genuine smile crossed his face, and he held her in his arms.
"It's beautiful darling, just like everything else you paint."
I have no time to paint unfortunately. Today I have a visitor. My mother arranged it. She wouldn't tell me why, only that it would be good for me. I don't mind though. I gave up trying to fight with her a long time ago. It earns me nothing but a ringing church bell in my brain for about a week. The kettle screeches it's time for tea, and I pour my cup before adding the steaming stream to his mug. Yes, I will by him a new one. He'll like that. I gently stir it around, before secretly adding a shot of maple syrup. Married nearly eight years, a cup every morning and I never had the heart to tell him I'd done that every day. I just let him have that victory, though I suppose he might have worked it out after a while. Where was I? Oh yes, my visitor. She won't even tell me who it is, I suppose it's a surprise then. I only know when they'll be here. Eleven sharp, she told me, her brisk voice crackling over my phone like a scrunched up newspaper. I heard someone else in the background, clipped and brisk with orders, like a parrot she echoed them her voice filled with what I guess was supposed to be sympathy, or compassion, or love, or something like that. Instead it simply sounded condescending. "It will be good for you dear." I hung up.
I finish stirring his coffee, leaving the piping hot brew on the corner of the counter next to the paper. His glasses are missing. I wonder where he left them this time. Time, what is the time? I check the clock above the stove, a family heirloom he'd told me when he brought it home. It's a wooden cuckoo clock, which thankfully broke so it doesn't cuckoo any more, and it bears an eerie resemblance to the home of one of his relatives, bland door, broken windows, slanted roof with tiles chipped like their broken teeth and all. I still think it's ugly, and that obviously it belongs in a museum with everything else from the Stone Age. He'd always argue that it's a family treasure. The thought of parting with it saddened him so deeply I begrudgingly relented. It's exactly twenty seven minutes slow. And no matter how many times we change it, it somehow always winds up being twenty seven minutes slow again. It does so to spite me, and only me. Right now it reads thirty three minutes past nine, which means it's ten o clock in actuality. Only an hour until my appointment. The last of my tea disappears down my throat, but his coffee remains untouched. I head back to the room. If I have a visitor I suppose I better look nice. Something catches my eye as I hunt through my ever messy wardrobe. I smile, pulling the offending article of clothing out. It's been far too long since I wore this anyway.
She trotted briskly in the morning air, her breath pluming out like a steam train as she made her way through town. Winter breeze attacked, nipping at her entire body through her admittedly thin clothing; she hadn't expected it to be this cold today. Her eyes make out the words she'd been dying to read all morning, and her pace quickens until she arrives at the café. Practically throwing open the door she basks in the warmth the cosy room brings, her eyes drinking up the sight she'd been hoping for. He sat there in the far corner, pushing his gold half-moon rims up his nose, a nervous habit which only served to be utterly endearing to her. Trying to be as silent as possible she snuck her way over, watching him clean and reassess his glasses. Slowly he brought the glasses back up to his baby blue eyes, only to be confronted with the sight of her sitting right across from him giggling childishly. A smile crept across his face, and slowly he began to giggle too. Dates always more or less followed this pattern with these two. It was like watching a pair of big children.
As they walked home, each chilly breath of winter shot through her body like an electric shock. This didn't escape his notice, and he stopped her for a moment. "Here, take this. I'm not cold." Tenderly he wrapped his beige bomber jacket, lined with fur on the neck, around her shoulders. The smile he received in return was not the polite, uncomfortable smile he'd seen her wear in front of strangers. It was toothy, goofy and full of warmth. She stood up on her tiptoes and kissed his nose, her way of saying she was grateful. After a moment, in which he cleaned the steam from his teenage boy blush off the glasses, he smiled at her. "That jacket looks good on you." With those simple words it became hers, and with it so did he.
My visitor arrives. Eleven am sharp. He introduces himself, though I don't bother to learn his name. He has sharp eyes hidden by glasses and a long ponytail of brunette hair which swishes as he walks. We go sit down at the table and he asks me a few questions. He records my answers on a clipboard. There is a lilt of an accent in his voice, European, but I can't pick where. Geography isn't my strong point. He asks me another question, I answer. More notes are taken, and I get a flash of his neat handwriting. Mr European continues to speak. My eyes drift over to the cuckoo clock. It is now midday. Mr European continues to ask more questions. I fetch some more tea. As I begin to pour the hot water, I notice the coffee on the counter still untouched. Apparently the European doesn't. He continues to ask trivial questions. His voice sounds familiar…
"She'll need help, she's obviously in shock."
"What do you mean, 'in shock'? She seems perfectly fine."
"She is in denial, she will need treatment…"
I remember where I heard European's voice last. It was outside my husband's room in the hospital, the voices carried from the hall. It was Mother and the European, discussing me and my husband. I lay and held his hand. It was so cold, like metal. I look down to the metal ring on my finger, engraved with his name. They think I don't know. That I forgot, or I made myself not believe. But I know. I always knew. I kissed my husband's cheek before falling asleep. When I woke again, it was to my alarm. I got up and made his coffee as my muscle memory kicked in while my mind groggily tried to piece together the past. My lack of sleep in the weeks beforehand had made everything fuzzy. I left it on the bench for him, as always.
My mind was a blur. I waited and waited, thinking it had been a dream. He wasn't terminally ill. He'd come back to me. We'd be together again. But he didn't. He never did. And he never will. My mother came to visit me often and, finding my behaviour strange, enlisted many psychologists to try and 'fix me'. There was no need though.
I am not broken. Wasn't then, aren't now.
They tried many things, none of which showed any remote signs of impact. After a while they gave up. That's okay.
I didn't need their help anyway. I know he's gone. I was there.
It has been five years, seven months, two weeks, four days, eight hours and thirteen minutes since we parted, give or take a few minutes for the cuckoo clock.
My eyes fall to the coffee on the counter. It has gone cold. Before I tip it down the sink, I take a sip, a single tear dripping down my face. "It still tastes like crap, Matthew."
Taking her regular seat at the café, she sighs dropping her folio. She couldn't believe that her artwork had been rejected for the exhibition. She orders, a simple peppermint tea, and laments into her complimentary biscuit. He walks in soon after and takes his regular seat. It happens to be the seat next to her, but since neither of them are there at the same time they have never seen each other. He orders, a black coffee, and sighs. He had failed his last assignment on polar bears - his favourite animals, which left him absolutely crushed. His folder falls next to her folio, and as he reaches to grab it, he grabs the similarly shaped folio in his melancholy. He opens it, and much to his surprise it is filled with drawings, sketches, colours and scribbled notes. At the same time she reaches down to reassess her folio, only to find a folder full of polar bears, and a sheet of music for Mozart's Adagio. She softly hums the tune of the music out aloud, and he gently traces one of the sketches with his finger.
"Orders are here, you two." Thanking the waitress they simultaneously take one sip, before spitting out their drinks.
"I didn't ask for tea!"
"What is this crap?! Coffee?!" Their eyes turn to one another, both of them pulling disgusted faces at the mix up. After a moment he erupts into a fit of giggles. She turns to him cautiously.
"What's so funny?" He attempts to compose himself, but only laughs harder.
"You pulled such a cute face when you spat out my coffee!" Her eyes widen, a blush painted on her face and she begins to laugh too. "I suppose this is yours then?" He tentatively hands back the folio, shyly adjusting his glasses. "It's really beautiful." A smile plays across her features, and she returns the folder.
"Thank you, I love polar bears. And Mozart." He nods and a silence descends.
"Matthew," He begins cautiously, holding out his hand. She shakes it warmly.
"[Name]," She seems deep in thought. "Matthew, how can you drink coffee?" He begins to laugh a little, answering her.
"It has a full bodied taste."
"Tastes like crap, you mean."
She always hated the taste of black coffee. That was how she worked out she loved him.
I cried writing this. I did. Really.
Let me know what you think :D I am also happy to do second person "Reader x _" requests!
Please read and review :D :D :D