SO UH HI GUYS. I've been busy with some things (school, writing with Ruby...), so I haven't updated HTWAT. Sorry. I haven't given up on it, though. SO. I made this! It's going to be a series of one-shots, ranging from short to long, about life at HETALIA COFFEE SHOP. It's probably been done before, but, yeah. People in Hetalia either work at this coffee shop or they're customers, as you can probably guess. Updates for this will also be irregular. I'm just going to do this when I get bored. The genre of each might change, too, for future reference, though I'm pretty sure it will be mainly humor and a bit of romance.

Mondays were slow (mostly because Starbucks and Dunkin Donuts and whatever stole the majority of their would-be customers). They were the snails of the week; no one ever wanted to do anything on Mondays. Mondays were unexciting, boring. Well, mostly. There were a few bright sides to it. For one, everyone could goof off at the coffee shop until customers came in. They sometimes built forts behind the counter and popped up whenever someone came in, running a hand through their hair and fixing the green apron that was their only uniform. It was hilarious when someone actually got stuck in the fort, which had happened roughly a dozen times.

And, Alfred thought, a smile coming to his face as he turned to look at someone, there was always Arthur. You see, he and Arthur had a rather complicated relationship. Sometimes they loved each other; sometimes they hated each other. It was kind of confusing, especially since he had to remember what they were before walking inside because if they had had a fight the previous day, then Arthur would throw coffee at him at some point of the day if he acted like they were still on good terms.

Arthur had ruined more than five shirts and pairs of pants that way.

His smile abruptly became upside-down and he hastily turned away in time for Arthur to look at him. He resisted the urge to run very far away. He tensed in anticipation for Arthur to pounce on him. Instead of Arthur, it was Gilbert who grabbed his shoulder. "Hey, Al," the albino greeted. "Mind helping me in the back? Feliciano made a pasta fort, and it's blocking my beer."

"Haven't you tried kicking it down?" Alfred asked incredulously. Gilbert loved his beer and would do almost anything for it, even make his favorite Italian cry.

Gilbert shrugged helplessly. "I tried that. He cried. And then rebuilt that section before I could get to the beer. And then he was all, 'GILBERT, DON'T KICK DOWN MY PASTA FORT OR THERE WILL BE DIRE CONSEQUENCES!' So I was all, 'Hey, Feli, chill,' but he did not chill because he kept crying, and then West had to come in and comfort him! AND THEY ARE STILL BLOCKING MY BEER."

Alfred stared at him. "What makes you think I'd be any help? Ask Antonio or Lovino. They could just ask, and then Feliciano would be like, 'Oh, sure,' and let them get the beer for you, whereas I'd have to negotiate with him. I might have to give up hamburgers for a day again for you. You don't want a relapse of that."

Gilbert opened his mouth to reply, but closed it. This occurred several times before he finally jerked his head in a nod. "Good point." He released Alfred's shoulder and turned away. "Now, where the fuck are Toni and Lovino?"

Arthur deigned to include himself into their conversation, sounding as condescending as condescending could probably sound. "They're at a table right in front of you, twat."

"... Oh, right. Haha." Gilbert laughed awkwardly and got onto the counter, sliding to the other direction and leaping off. "Thanks, Eyebrows." He hurried over to the brown-haired pair.

Alfred quirked a smile at his remaining companion. "You didn't have to be so mean."

Arthur scoffed. "That wasn't mean. It was simply me pointing out the obvious." The corners of his lips lifted, and he looked away. "You do realize what this means, right?" When Alfred remained mute, he shook his head. "We have to make our own fort to rival Feliciano's. It will be bigger and more fortified. We will put it in the middle of the room, successfully blocking Feliciano's fort and Gilbert's beer simultaneously." He looked back at the taller man, his smile never leaving. "What do you say?"

The American had to grin. "I've gotta say that this is one of the best ideas you've ever had. What should we make it out of? Coffee containers? Union Jacks? Hamburgers?" He sounded very enthusiastic when he reached the last suggestion. "Oh, maybe we could use your and Nikolai's books. You've got a lot of them here. I dunno why, though; from the amount of novels you've got back there, a few of us think that you guys practically live here. I mean, you know Herakles? The Greek? He hypothesizes that you and Nikolai sneak in here in the middle of the night and just read your books because you've got so many that you don't have any more space in your houses."

Arthur stared at him. "That," he said carefully, "is the most ridiculous piece of shite I have ever had the misfortune of hearing."

"Hey, don't shoot the messenger." Alfred shrugged. "I'm not one of the people that say it. You know. Just for your information. I mean, of course it's ridiculous. Who would do that? Ha ha ha. Herakles has the funniest theories." He mentally winced at how stupid he sounded. Ugh! Arthur already thought he was an idiot; he just had to sound like one, too!

Arthur looked down at the floor, and then off to the side. "You aren't the best of conversationalists." His mouth was quirked, and there was a hint of humor in his voice. Perhaps more than a hint. Maybe it was more like a tablespoon or half of a cup. He sounded like he was both amused and exasperated. The bother sort of canceled out the entertainment, but that technicality was worth ignoring.

Alfred's scratched the back of his neck, smiling awkwardly. "You aren't the first to tell me that."

"I should hope not," the Briton drawled, glancing back at him. "I'd hate for you to have lived your whole life thinking that you were the best person to talk to in the entire world. It's okay, though. We can't all be as great at conversation as I. Anyway, we should probably make that fort now, while there aren't any customers in sight. We'll use whatever we can get our hands on..." A smirk graced his face, and his voice lowered. "That includes Feliciano's pasta."

Alfred's answering beam could light up the room, and, in a way, it did. "I always knew you were my favorite Brit for a reason."

"I'm the only Englishman you know."

"Yeah, but still."