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“Ivan, you've got nothing to prove,” Yao consoles the Russian with a soft tone, “Alfred's running his damn mouth — per usual."
“But— But what if he's right?” Ivan asks him, desperation leaking out in his accent. “What if he's right?"
“Rou-Rou, listen to me,” Yao cups his beloved face just hard enough to force him to make eye contact.
"I love you, and that’s what's important."
“So," Ivan whimpers, "you don't think I'm overweight?”
Yao doesn't hesitate, "Why would I?"
His voice deepens, but stays silky-smooth. He undoes the knot in the strip of fabric keeping his ponytail together, allowing his hair to drape down to his his shoulders. He closes the space, moving towards him until they touch.
"I've always considered you to be fat." Yao purrs, emphasizing that last word. He tugs Ivan's tightly wound scarf down to reveal a double chin hiding within. Ivan feels his blush getting searing hot.
Ivan train of thought jumps on the word. Fat. Fat. Fat. It sounds more sexually charged than he remembers. Thoughts string together faster than they appear. Despite shoving them down, they keep floating back to the surface.
Ivan feel's Yao's warm hand slowly creep up his arm.
Not only that, No. He can feel the wool pulling around his midsection — straining against his fatty stomach with every. Single. Breath. He can't hide his steadily increasing gains behind a thick, woolen coat any longer — because everyone can see his weight piling on from a distance.
Yao's fingers walk up his arm, feeling how tight the space is between his thick forearm and his coat sleeve.
He feels his undershirt crawl upward on it's own, recalling just how much he shoveled down his maw before Alfred even noticed. Seconds? Please. It was his third portion — God, no wonder the American said something. Ivan was stuffing his face in full view of other countries, no doubt.
"Your accent really comes out when you're flustered — you know that?" Yao flirts with a low bit of laughter.
Oh, but if hadn't gotten into that argument? He'd still be at lunch, eating — no— gorging on everything he had. Was he even tasting anything? Ivan can't recall. Ivan just needed that feeling — the desperate feeling of being overfed.
"Oh." Ivan blurts out a response - something to stop the run away train of thought.
"Oh!" Ivan repeats, finding himself back into reality.
Ivan buries his face into his scarf, coving the redness that wont go away.
"Since when were you the shy one?" Yao asks, playfully slipping his fingers behind Ivan's tight waistband
"We can't do this right now!" Ivan yells awkwardly.
Yao takes his hands away, startled by the sudden change of plan.
"Did I say something?" Yao asks. Concern tints his voice.
"No! No! — It's just! — we're probably minutes away from the meeting reconvening." Ivan finds his words.
Yao pulls out his pink-covered phone, tapping the screen twice to get the clock to display.
Twelve fifty-five. Five minutes until the stupid meeting starts.
"Tā mā de!" Yao swears. He looks up to a still warm faced Ivan.
"Splash your face with cold water, it will reduce the redness." Yao quickly comments, frantically pulling himself together for the others.
Yao tries re-wraps Ivan's scarf to the best of his abilities, before turning his attention to himself.
"I'll field the dumb questions, don't worry about responding." Yao tells Ivan the strategy, without missing a beat.
The shorter of the two picks up his fabric strip from the counter, bitting on to it as he pulls back his strands of hair. Taking the strip out of his mouth, he ties it near the base of his head. A few usual pieces of hair frame his face.
"We can continue this fun, later." He purrs, running his right and down Ivan's soft face.
Yao smooths his clothes as he walks out into the hallway, leaving Ivan behind, holding the place where Yao's hand once was on his cheek for a moment.
Ivan proceeds takes his advice, splashing a bit of water on his face to steady himself. Think of good things! Ivan repeats in his skull — sunflowers, warm sunlight, mild weather…sunflowers, warm sunlight, mild weather…
Ivan looks into the mirror, rubbing the water off his face with his sleeve. He moves his scarf closer to his face, covering his — no, lets not even start on that. Ivan leaves the room, put together as he'll ever be on such short notice.
He catches up with Yao in the hallway and the pair is able to enter the meeting room one after another. Arthur is finished drawing up his new figures in white chalk. Alfred is messing around on his smart phone to keep himself awake. Francis is calm, cool and collected — smiling wide with closed eyes about something the two countries missed.
Francis opens an eye as Yao sits down, waking up a bit.
"Ah, there you are!" He smiles, wider for some reason.
"It's a just a meeting, for god's sake calm down." Arthur scolds without turning around.
"Oh shit, are we back on?" Alfred asks the room, straightening his posture.
"Alfred, do you think I like writing political shite in chalk? Yes, the meeting is 'back on' as you put it."
"You don't have to be bitch about it, man."
"You didn't have to be independent, but here we are!" Arthur counters, turning away from the chalkboard.
"Oh, Angleterre, you don't have to be so bitter today." Francis interrupts, twirling a pet-curl around his index finger.
"I can be as bitter as I want." Arthur snaps back. "And get that stupid smirk off your face before I slap it off."
"What smirk?" Francis smiles even wider, laughing a bit.
"That one." Arthur growls, pointing at the Frenchman's stupid face.
"Oh, this one! This has nothing to do you Arthur." He says, eyes gliding across the table to Yao.
"You're damn right it's nothing to do with me." Arthur grumbles.
"What was the rush during lunch, Yao?" Francis asks him.
"I didn't see you two but for a mere second."
Ivan looks over to Yao, trying to control his heart rate. Follow the plan.
"Unlike yourself, we were doing our jobs." Yao answers.
"At the same time? I doubt it." Arthur joins in on the side of Francis, of course.
"Hey, yeah! I didn't see jack of you guys after I sat down." Alfred adds on.
"Since when do you people care about my business?" Yao defends.
"Look," Yao continues, "I hate these meetings with a passion. The more we focus on something irrelevant like this, the longer it takes for me to go back to my hotel room and forget how much I hate you all."
"The man has a point." Arthur growls, "I'd rather be anywhere else then this meeting room right now."
Francis quiets down, but that smile stays plastered on his face. America continues where he left off while Francis whispers something to the Englishman that makes him scowl — the plan worked.