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The loud dash over the pavement with a flustered Countryhuman—America, glasses half falling off his face, and a swinging messenger bag. Wasn’t his prettiest moment he’ll acknowledge, but he hadn’t expected to be this late. He set multiple alarms, but his phone hadn’t charged at all that night. And he woke up thirty minutes before the meeting was scheduled to start, along with an extra five minutes to allow each country to settle down.
He lives thirty minutes away on foot. His car just so happened to have gotten a problem and a couple of taxi drivers were trying to get him to pay. Double.
So he’s running in today! A lovely start. He was a small bit pudgy on his stomach, so it’s best he picks up cardio whenever he can! He’d rather however have it when he specifically plans for it. Scheduled and planned a week in advance. Not so unexpectedly!
He had everything pre-packed, and clothes at the ready, he even showered the night before. Still only had five minutes before the meeting actually began. He was so close to the building it hurt! He would most certainly be late because of course it was at the seventh floor! God curse his poor luck!
Nearly pulling the push doors, and just dashing by the greeter behind the wooden Podium—already knowing how late he was. She could only wish him luck in his mad dash up the stairs because of course the elevator needed repairs!
What. A. Day!
As he runs up the stairs and knows, the meeting has since started without him, checking his barely charged phone, he can see the seconds passing, reminding him how many floors he has left. Going up each stairwell was a pain, but finally, he reached floor seven and after one last dash, he made it to the scheduled door, now officially ten minutes late, he took one last breath and knocked, announcing his presence.
He tried twisting the door handle but strangely found he couldn’t. He knocked once more and after a second of waiting, he tried twisting it again. It opened, to a darkened room, with no one in there. It was more of an empty auditorium, but all the main seats seemed to be movable, not attached to the floor and were more stacked on top of one another. Like foldable chairs, but they were more solid. And were shaped in just the right way to interlock once stacked.
A weary step clues him into the fact that the stacks seemed perfect to hide someone or something. He tightens his grip on his messenger bag. Anxiety rose in his chest despite the logical part of his mind letting him know that someone was in here. At least, someone, it could’ve been a whole group of people. He takes another couple of steps in the room. He feels pairs of eyes watching him.
He might have gotten the meeting room wrong, the date wrong, or something could’ve—
The lights flash on as a couple of countries sprout out all excited, there were even flashing lights, as if this was some fucking rave, everyone’s cheers blending on top of each other as a couple of party poppers go off. He flinches from all the noise, and covers his ears—he felt so overstimulated.
Nobody noticed his momentary lurch from the unexpectedness of the loud noise, and instead, all happily greeted America or slapped him on the back in order to celebrate whatever occasion occurred. He just awkwardly flailed his arms a bit, trying to be as unnoticeable as possible with the small arm flaps. No one cared or noticed his stress—everyone was far too busy partying.
As more countries slip out and greet him or celebrate, he just awkwardly stands in the center of the room, holding his messenger bag, he suddenly felt too hot, as if he didn’t belong there, at all. He just excused himself to leave, knowing the restrooms were close to the meeting room…
After a small bit of wandering to keep his mind off the debacle, he eventually finds the very much unoccupied restroom and chooses one of the larger stalls. He feels bad for taking one of them, but he just needed a bit of space. Letting his bag slide off his shoulders he takes off his glasses and feels the texture of the glass, the texture of the probably somewhat dirty tiled wall, and eventually his racing heart.
What a mess!
He just sighs and lets himself flap and flail his arms as much as the bathroom stall would allow. It was one of the larger ones of course—he knows that. His heart rate calms as he takes one last deep breath and wishes he’d brought his noise-canceling headphones.
Checking the date on his phone, he almost choked, he had slept through the New Year countdown. And hadn’t realized that New Year’s had already occurred! His face turned a shade darker, his face looked dark red, with none of his white stripes visible. He had completely forgotten, too hyperfocused on some documents he needed to finish. About cleaning oceans and new stems of genetically altered bacterium that can aid in that—he mentally stops his internal monologue all about that paperwork.
His heart rate had finally calmed down reminiscing on what he’d been so interested in. But then he’s back to thinking about everything. How he was the last countryhuman to arrive based on everyone else being there. Hell even countries that didn’t even use the Gregorian Calendar were celebrating—like Ethiopia.
He feels so close to sniffling, so close to bawling his eyes out, but he instead doesn’t and gets out of the stall, all the while grabbing his messenger bag, as too not forget about it in his small stimming session. He needs to get a better grip over, well, everything.
Washing his hands with soap and water as his mind races with thoughts all-consuming. He knows they would notice him being gone for so long, so he prepares himself, drying off his hands by just wiping the material on his clothes and exiting the restroom. He makes a small face feeling the water seep into his clothes, and it will continue to bother him for a while, but he has other more pressing matters to attend to.
He does one last breather. He could do this!
He swears, he just needs to—a couple of countries knock into him and suddenly his voice is so soft—he’s embarrassed.
Japan and Russia—who look at each other for a second while he tries recomposing himself. Staring down at his shoes he apologizes to them both—in hushed tones. His bag slides a bit, but adjusting it back on his shoulders stops his staring.
“Oh—you don’t need to bow Ame.” Japan says, assuming he was trying to be polite.
America realizes his mistake and shakes his head no—“I just.” His voice was so quiet, he doubted they could hear him, but he could faintly hear noises of the partying. “I needed to wash up, because, the party. uhm. Surprised me.” He was subtly avoiding eye contact for he never knew how to do it when it was so incredibly awkward.
Russia nods, his voice smooth and deep, like how one would almost describe dyed silk. Precious but oh so rare and expensive. “Oh, yeah. Sorry, I guess you did look a bit confused and worried seeing no one.”
Japan finished for him. “We just wanted to scare the last country. As a harmless joke!” He adds, a touch louder, almost making him jump. “UN went along with it. Thinking it was silly. And wanting to let loose for a bit.” Russia nods and points at Japan.
“Да, what the dot said.” Japan makes a face and grumbles at him while walking away.
“I will go back to Sakoku you asshat!” He stomps a bit as Russia snorts and heads in the direction back to the party. Letting Japan blow off some steam, possibly to go complain and debate on actually going back to the isolationism it used to. He walks in step with America and seems so nonchalant.
There’s nothing but silence between the two of them. Most outsiders would consider this awkward. Even Russia—but he isn’t Russia or any of those outsiders. So he doesn’t mind. However, he does mind when Russia enters the party and leaves him at the door frame, having given up waiting for a conversation to start.
His hands shake, he just lets the anxiety slowly begin to smolder out, like a dying fire, some sort of chemical combustion reaction. He is excluding energy in the form of anxiousness. He is a combustion, he would call himself exothermic if he was in his home lab, where he could test reactions and learn.
Instead, he’s standing outside a loud and obnoxious party. Where his body feels like jello and he is thinking about chemical reactions and hydrocarbons instead of what to say, or what script he should use.
He gives it up and just enters the room, letting his eyes search for anyone he’s close to, someone quiet, or not willing to pester him about his silence and subsequent deer in headlights moment. Most if not all hadn’t noticed or cared.
But it was the principal—and the subsequent embarrassment he felt afterward.
Canada is, however, the one to approach him. His easy-going grin and raccoon hat are unmistakably unique, so much so that he almost cried seeing his brother. The room was obnoxiously dark and too bright at the same time. With so many smells and so many countries—nearly forgetting how 193 countries, in the end, is still a lot of countries.
He swallows whatever saliva has built up in the back of his throat. And hugs his brother, feeling every, single, fucking, texture on his brother’s clothes and feeling the parts that aren’t soft—which feel so rough on his skin. Once the hug is broken up. He could still feel the phantom feelings of that hug. But he was also now aware of the small beads of sweat clinging to him, from feeling so so warm, so claustrophobic in what felt like such a cramped and full room.
Canada has pure bliss on his face, his bright white teeth showing themselves as he excitedly chats about the Party and has spotted WHO. He just nods, letting the words pass him by, while his brain struggles to even hear him and his own thoughts.
He just tries speaking. “Have you—have you seen a chair I could sit at—?” Canada makes a face and he just makes a face of disappointment. He raised his voice and he was still too quiet? He swallows back the saliva that had built up and repeats himself. “A chair Canada!” He even cupped his mouth and Canada’s face lit up in recognition. Spotting the lack of headphones, he nods and points to a free chair. It had a small bag on it signifying someone had taken it, which means that bag was most definitely Canada’s.
He looks at him, just to be sure, and points at the chair, and Canada nods at him. A soft smile on his face. While he walks to the chair and sits down, removing the bag and putting it under the chair. He places his own after some breaths. Best not to hold his bag he’s so attached to, if only to not look any more pitiful than he might already. He’s notably far away from the loudspeakers blasting music and some of the now more visible food on some tables near the speakers. He lets his mind numb as he just stares at his leg since his phone is most certainly dead.
He’s focused far too hard on the small details, and the obnoxious textures and noises, making him feel ill. He wishes he wasn’t like this, as if he was normal and could enjoy parties, or could enjoy clothes textures in the way others would. Could be okay after water soaked into his clothes and stuck to his skin in the most uncomfortable way making him feel gross and wouldn’t bother him so much.
But here he is, at a party, in a chair, in the corner, only staring at his legs, while uncomfortable energy leaks from him. Pooled out of him in gallons, all the while he was wearing uncomfortable clothes, “presentable” clothes. He would start bawling if he wasn’t used to this. He swore he wrote how uncomfortable he was with loud parties and the like to UN. Wrote how he had traits similar to that of autism in civilians through email.
He didn’t even know countries could have disorders. He wouldn’t have known until he sat down with Britain and Canada. Tears so close to pooling out of his eyes as he explains everything, and his chewing as a kid, and how he never grew out of it. His aversion to certain things and tastes, everything. Marking him as a weird kid, a weird Colony. A weird country.
A confusing.
Thing.
He closes his eyes and lets his mind wander, trying to block out the music and the noise. He was just going to leave when Canada left and took his bag. Based on his excitement, however, that wasn’t going to be for a while. He took off his sunglasses if only to rub at his eyes and groan.
Amidst his rubbing of his eyes, he could feel someone’s eyes on his own. He pretends to not feel the almost burning, and boiling feeling of being watched. The way his leg twitches, springing up and down rapidly as he bites his lip. Attempting to be ignorant. But it doesn’t last for long before he feels someone sit next to him, in a chair. Russia seems to be unbothered by the party but only passes him a pair of headphones which shocks him for a second. His hands quiver, as he looks at his unreadable expression. He nods his head thankfully and places the headphones on his head.
Suddenly, the biggest problem, how loud it had been, was dimmed significantly. There were other things of course, but that feeling of silence, was so calming, he leaned back in his chair and audibly sighed in relief. Russia seems to smile at his reaction and pat him lightly on his shoulder. He rubs his eyes once more and lets his mind drift.
He hasn’t been this overstimulated—for this long in a while. (Memories of war and violence ring out in his ears, some caused by him, some from his reaction, and some he just joined in just because he fucking could. He wishes he could be better, he’s such an imbecile, such a ret—).
He feels so tired. So sleepy, but he keeps his mind awake, keeps his sleepy mind from drifting off. Even when it feels almost painful to do so, he keeps his mind awake, for he needed to either pester Canada to drop him off or pay double for a taxi, from it being literal New Year’s Day.
He knows he’s so choosing the former rather than the latter.
So he stays awake, even as some countries begin to slowly leave, as some countries wave their slow goodbyes and their excitement over a new year. Even as the lights slow down and the music begins to soften, he stays awake. With Russia there by his side. He could ask Canada or Russia to take him home early—but he wants them to enjoy this party for as long as possible. He could maybe ask WHO? He knows they’ve given countries rides before.
His answer is made for him when Canada walks back to him, a small smile on his face. He too looks tired and crouches in front of him. Grabbing his bag while patting his back softly. “Did you end up enjoying the party considering you ended up staying for who knows how long?” He blinks tiredly, through his sunglasses and thinks real hard about this damn simple question.
He could be honest—and frankly, he doesn’t have much of a filter after how obnoxious this party was. But at the same time, he doesn’t want to seem so immature—years of masking, learning proper social norms, and proper scripts he could reference tell him to lie. Tell him to say yes. But at the same time, Russia was just sitting there letting them enjoy their moment. He would notice.
What does he say in this situation?
“I uh. It was some party, Canada.” He decides after the silence stretched on far too long for a normal response. He bounced his leg looking away. He really needs to talk to UN, but talking could up Canada. And he doesn’t even know if Russia would be willing to wait. Canada smiles and nods.
“Glad you spent time here at this party then.” He nods. His friends will reference this as an excellent party down the line. This will be a memory they have for ages, with photos of their excited and favorable party that UN allowed, letting countries celebrate after a tough year everyone has had.
And yet, he will look at that experience with scorn, dread, and unnecessary anxiety.
And he will be in none of those photos, for he was too different, too fucking stupid to tolerate a damn party that everyone must have enjoyed. He clenches his fist as Canada waves him away and he forces a smile that’s all too similar to the smell of burning plastic. Something disgusting, and unbearable to his nostrils. And bad for everyone else down the line.
He rubs at his eyes, and lets Canada go, for he isn’t angry at him. Just tired having to lie so often, having to pretend he is something he is not. To fit in. To then have those same people distrust him, because, ‘just something about him is off.’
If he isn’t perfect, to an exhausting degree, then he is nothing.
He will acknowledge his country his a major asshole, his government, and even his own damn people. But that doesn’t mean he agrees with it. That doesn’t mean he condones it, even all the way back when in his early years as a republic.
He just sniffles a small bit. But no tears cascade down his face. For Russia is still sitting next to him, letting him mentally adjust himself. “Hey Russia,” he starts, “could I ride with you? Unless you’re with someone else.” He shakes his head no.
“I’m riding with no one, so sure I guess.” He utters. “Just need to talk to UN for a minute.” He nods, letting them sit in silence before the very last countries all walk out, just leaving him, Russia, UN, and WHO. EU and ASEAN would’ve been there, but have their own things to attend to or something of that sort. The party has since been considered over, with the music now off and UN deemed it good enough to begin cleaning.
Russia deems it fine enough to discuss with UN and gets up, stretching, and walks to where the representation had begun to start cleaning up, a small smile on their face. He would want to sit in the chair, but Russia looks at him expectantly after only getting a couple of feet, and he awkwardly picks up his bag and joins him, if only a couple of feet behind him. He worries this will concern him and he’s just made a mistake.
He worries for a second, but he just remembers the headphones over his head. He takes them off and passes them to Russia who too, forgot but just took them, thanking him silently. He’s now right in UN’s space, standing there, expectantly. “Ahem.” He starts, to get UN’s attention.
UN looks up from their sweeping and blinks confused at the two of them. “Yes…? Is something the matter you two?” He swallows up the bile and shrinks back, he’s hoping he didn’t do anything to bother Russia. This is embarrassing. He feels sick, for no reason in particular.
“So UN, did you happen to know your surprise scared Mr. United States here?” His cheeks are red as he looks down, he didn’t expect Russia to confront UN, about his sensory issues. He would’ve preferred to have done this alone where he could just think about what to say in advance—
“Did it now? Apologies United States, I didn’t know it bothered you so much, that you needed someone to alert me of your lack of comfort. You can always speak to me privately next time this happens hopefully.” He blushed a small bit more, he looked so flustered. He was so comfortable in even the craziest of situations, like standing on horseback, yet here he was, flustered UN was apologizing to him. Maybe the sheer comedy of this situation was making his mind do loops internally.
Russia lifts his eyebrow up, now questioning him. He’s left wondering if UN was being disingenuous? He was completely right though. He shouldn’t have let Russia do this for himself, yeah he didn’t plan it, or even know but still. He had a small feeling this involved him and he just— “I did it myself. Because even I, who doesn’t have any experience with those who have mental disorders could tell he was uncomfortable. Could tell he was experiencing a sensory overload.” He feels so caught, so stupid, of course, Russia could tell he was too overstimulated, of course.
He tried so hard, and he was still found out.
He nods, flushing his head, and looks away from the both of them, his sunglasses make his lack of eye contact more or less a little harder to spot.
UN nods, “I see, well, again United States, I apologize once more, and promise to do better next time there is a celebration, or to at least warn you of the loud noises in the future.” UN seemed like he’d rather be anywhere but there, talking with them. While he just nods, and accepts the second apology. Even the first one was acceptable. But still.
Russia squints his eyes and begins to speak once more. “Did he alert you to these possible issues?” UN pauses and thinks about it. Russia looks back at him, wondering the same thing. He just nods, embarrassment in his features. Russia then turns back to UN which seems more or less to be feeling the same emotions he was feeling.
“Russia” He starts, while waving his hands similar to what one would call ‘jazz hands’ from the nervous energy he felt. “It’s fine, UN probably just forgot or it was sent to his junk—” UN’s aggressive nodding still isn’t enough for Russia to not look disappointed in UN.
“America,” he starts, more or less done with both of the representatives. “It doesn’t matter if you didn’t mind, for this could happen again to someone who isn’t as forgiving. Also.” He points one finger before poking UN right in the chest. “It’s still very unprofessional of you to do that.” He looks away but nods.
Holy shit. He just watched Russia.
Russia.
Scold UN.
UN.
Russia then finds the situation done with and nods satisfied. He turned away from the two of them, waving at them. He feels as if this is some movie—and he’s some side character saved by the asshole protagonist. What the fuck.
UN sensing the tone still seemed genuinely uncomfortable. “I’m sorry United States—again, not minding what sensitivities you had was still incredibly unprofessional. I promise to do better in the future.” He nods, that was again, still suitable for him. Maybe not Russia, but he isn’t Russia. He is the United States of America.
He shrugs, still trying to gather his bearings. “It’s fine. Call it, I don’t know. Karma for being a shit country or something of that sort.” UN seems more relaxed after his acknowledgment.
“Maybe, but I think you’re better than the United States. Just a hunch of course.” He nods a small smile on his face from that comment.
“Thank you for that. But I really must be going, I think Russia is waiting for me outside.” UN nods and waves him off before getting straight back to cleaning the room.
Russia is waiting by the door frame with his phone in his hands. Tapping on his phone as if he was playing some game, only heightened by the illumination of some flashing lights seen on his face and reflected off his eyes.
Russia doesn’t look up, from his game, only tapping a couple more buttons and ‘winning’ it seems by his smile. Putting his phone away, his phone is shoved in his pants side pocket, and he’s walking off, making him scramble to follow. He for sure, now that he has a ride guaranteed isn’t losing it. He for sure isn’t paying double for some New Year’s tax.
Russia only snorts seeing his sudden panicked dash to keep up with him.