Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The broadcast zooms in on the crowds filtering into the building. World leaders, aides, security personnel, and the last few nations, hurrying to the entrance. The noise is constant and muffled, chants from the protest barricades a block away, bleeding into one another. Speckles of reporters still attempting to shout questions at the few remaining figures who haven’t yet slipped inside. In front of the camera, a reporter held her mic tightly, trying to edge away from spectators craning for a clean shot. 

“This is Farah Badour here, live in Midtown Manhattan in front of the United Nations Headquarters, where history is unfolding. In just minutes, world leaders will officially sign the Personhood and Autonomy Accord. A legislation that will release the world’s nation personifications from all governmental authority.”

The camera pans towards the main entrance. Catching the final group of nations as they disappear behind security doors, camera flashes strobe briefly across their backs before the doors seal shut.

“For centuries, these beings have operated as extensions of their governments,” Farah continues, “but recent revelations about the nature of their existence–specifically that their actions were bound to political leadership rather than personal choice–have sparked intense public debate.”

There’s a brief cut to B-roll, protest signs lifted high in rain-slicked streets, academic panels mid-discussion, trending hashtags multiplying across screens. The montage spans two years and half the globe. Chyrons flashing one after another as screenshots of posts scroll endlessly, flickering with blurred bars and images.

Legal scholars appear next in clips, speaking from lecture halls and court steps, quick to point out what many have called a fundamental paradox. Responsibility with agency, and power without consent. Protest footage follows immediately, with a sharpened tone, far less charitable in their argument. Immortality does not absolve harm, it only makes it fester.

“Some argue they should be held accountable for historic injustices committed under their names,” Farah says over the footage. “Others say that continuing to employ them in political roles would be ethically impossible, given that many of those actions were carried out without autonomy. But even so, the agreement is shared that they should not be in these government positions in the first place.” 

A clip follows with a political analyst from the BBC calling the decision ‘ethically necessary’; another from Fox News calling it a ‘logistical nightmare’. A South African constitutional lawyer appears next, describing the accord as “long overdue, but dangerously incomplete.” The montage continues with a French senator warning that “severing nations from state machinery will not sever consequence from history.” There’s a university lecture hall in mid-argument, a late-night host wildly gesturing at a blown-up diagram of immortality clauses, a shaky phone video of a nation being escorted out of a parliamentary chamber to cheers and jeers alike.

The broadcast changes back to Farah, the wind tugging at her hair as she attempts to smooth it down.

“Today’s agreement represents a global decision,” She says, measured, “that these nations should be recognised as individuals with rights, free from compulsory service. Once the documents are signed, they will no longer operate as political figures, though some governments may continue to seek voluntary consultation– ”

She pauses, listening intently to her earpiece. “We’re now hearing that the Secretary-General is moments away from beginning the session. Stay with us as we continue to cover this historic transition–”

“—Tell me you’re not watching the broadcast of the meeting we’re about to walk into.” England huffs as he stares at America, who lowers his phone, the live feed still buzzing.

“Dude, it’s totally awesome!” America grins. Undeterred. “They said it was ‘historic’. Us doing this whole thing,” He angles the phone as if England might want another look. “I swear, the second I stepped out of the car, it was like, boom, cameras everywhere! I felt like I was walking down the red carpet or something.”

“You’ve been on television thousands of times.” England deadpans, eyeing the device warily. 

America waves him off. “Yeah, but never as the main thing!” He whines. “Not like this, where they’re talking about me. I’m always the guy standing near the president, nodding like some patriotic bobblehead.” He sighs dejectedly in a way that is halfway theatrical and halfway sincere, pocketing his phone.

He glances over his shoulder, toward the entrance they’d just passed through, where the noise still leaks in, voices, shutters, and the restless energy of people who still want a soundbite.

“D’you think if I step out right now they’ll all try and interview me?” America asks half-joking. “I mean, I’m not gonna answer to anyone once this is over, so–”

England doesn’t even look at him when his hand comes up, lightly smacking the back of America’s head.

“Idiot.” England chides. “Worry more about not having a job anymore!” The words are clipped, but there’s an edge beneath them. Something tighter than irritation.

America just rubs the back of his head gingerly, pout softening into something smoother, “Right…” He says, and for once doesn’t argue.

His gaze drifts, tracking the other nations as they file forward into the chamber. England follows his gaze. Some look rigid. Some look relieved. A few look like they’re bracing for impact.

“It’s weird,” America adds, voice lower. “Seeing everyone this tense. It’s been a while since we were all this rigid.” 

England hums, noncommittal, which is as close as he gets to agreement. 

“Let’s just head in now,” England says, adjusting his coat. “And you’d better not have that phone out once we’re seated. This isn’t one of your congressional photo ops.” England preemptively scolds him, and America forces an eye roll.

“Wow, so no live-tweeting the end of my entire career?” He says with a smirk. Just to be returned with a burning look.

“I will personally curse all your electronic devices,” England replied with his arms crossed, and his face crosser.

America visibly considers this, then sighs. “Alright, mom,” but the jab lands softer than usual.

They fall into step with the crowd, heading toward the assembly chamber, swept forward whether they like it or not. The atmosphere shifts the closer they get. The open noise of the outside world fades, replaced by the sterile hum of ceiling lights and the steady whirr of air-conditioning spilling cold down the backs of their necks.

Greetings dim to murmurs, and conversation dies quickly. No one quite knows what tone to strike, with such an unfamiliar event unfurling at this moment. Nothing akin to their thousands of wars, treaties, and other accords. Not something that acknowledges their existence so plainly.

England straightens unconsciously, posture settling into something old and practised. America shoves his hands into his pockets, shoulders loose but eyes alert, scanning exits, and faces. There’s an irony that England can’t help but notice. For once, the nations aren’t here to posture, threaten, or negotiate. They’re here to be unassigned.

China walks a few paces ahead of them, hands folded behind his back, expression unreadable as ever. His stride is unhurried, measured like someone crossing familiar ground. He does not look at the crowd, nor the guards, nor the ceiling looming overhead. His gaze stays forward, distant as though this chamber is only the most recent in a long succession of halls he’s survived. His sleeve brushes past another nation’s arm. He does not falter.

Germany adjusts his tie for about the third time, his expression controlled but tight. His jaw works quietly, like he’s running every possible outcome of the next hour in his head. Italy trails behind him, wringing his hands, offering a shaky smile when he catches someone watching him, which morphs quickly back to something grim. The usual bounce in his step is slow.

Hungary lingers near the edge of the crowd, posture rigid, shoulders squared too tightly for comfort. Her hands are clasped in front of her, knuckles pale as if she’s holding herself in place through sheer will. Her eyes flick briefly to the flags lining the chamber walls, then away again, jaw tightening.

Security ushers them through the last checkpoint, past the final corner. Rows of blue-helmeted guards, the muzzle of their rifles tilted safely downward, but noticeably present. They watch with the rigid attentiveness of people asked to protect something they don’t quite understand. 

Liechtenstein walks close at Switzerland’s side, her steps measured to match his. When the crowd compresses at the final checkpoint, Switzerland’s hand finds hers without looking. His grip is firm and grounding, but there’s tension there, too. She notices it immediately in the stiffness of his arm and the sour look on his face. After a beat, she squeezes back, just as firmly. Switzerland’s shoulders ease a fraction. He exhales through his nose, barely audible. They do not speak. They do not need to.

The doors open to the vast chamber beyond. Inside, everything feels heavier. The dark wood, the rows of delegates, the rustle of papers, the sharp clicks of pens. The air hums with a kind of bracing tension, a static charge right before a storm. 

Malaysia moves with careful politeness, offering small nods to staff and passing nations alike. His expression is calm, practised, the kind worn by someone used to being underestimated. But his fingers flex at his side, restless, betraying a quiet vigilance beneath the composed exterior. He watches the guards longer than most. Not in fear, but in calculation, assessing and adjusting in his own way.

The UN staff line the walks in tight, disciplined rows, their backs straight but their eyes following the nations with a quiet, conflicted awe. Some smile politely; others avoid eye contact entirely, unsure whether to acknowledge the living embodiments of countries they’ve spent their careers studying.

Russia says nothing as he passes, his broad frame cutting a steady path through the crowd to his seat. His face is impassive, but his eyes track every movement. If he feels anything about this moment, it does not show. He has survived worse endings than this. Or so he tells himself.

Greece lingers near the edge of the flow, gaze drifting across the hall with idle curiosity that doesn’t quite mark the seriousness underneath. He takes in the chamber with a long considering look. The flags. The delegates. The rituals layered over rituals. His mouth quirks, not quite a smile. He has watched men declare themselves eternal before. He has watched eternity disagree. This is not the first time nor is it last time he will be forced to sit here. Still, when he takes his seat, his hands fold neatly in his lap. Respectfully quiet of the moment, even if he doubts its permanence.

The nations file toward their designated seats, all slipping into their rows. The murmur of other personnel rising and falling around them. None of the nations makes eye contact for more than a second. None of them joke. None of them speak.

It feels like a funeral, or a trial. Or both.

At the front of the room, the Secretary-General adjusts the microphone. Whispers die, chairs still, and folders close. Even the translators lower their hands, headsets resting idle against their collars. And the chamber settles into a held breath.

“Good morning,” the Secretary-General begins, voice steady and formal. An absurdly ordinary phrase for what it carries.

There’s a ripple of tension that moves around the room. Some nations sit straighter. Some sink deeper. Some stare ahead as if bracing for impact. America swallows. England feels his jaw clench. A nation two rows ahead folds their hands so tightly their knuckles pale. 

There are no cameras, no reporters. Just the weight of what will come next. The signing ceremony begins.

“Today, we enact a decision unprecedented in the history of global governance.” The Secretary-General straightens the stack of documents before him, his voice carrying through the chamber. The word unprecedented lands poorly. It always does.

“For centuries, the world’s nation personifications have served as political extensions of their respective states. Their existence, hardly concealed, and later misunderstood, raises questions of autonomy, ethics, and human rights that can no longer be ignored.” 

A flicker moves through the rows of nations, crossed arms, tightened shoulders, downcast eyes. Delegates and World Leaders hardly blink.

“After two years of negotiation, the Personhood and Autonomy Accord will formally recognise these beings as individuals, not tools. As of the moment this document is ratified, they will no longer be required to serve in political positions.”

A staffer steps forward with a leather-bound copy of the treaty, placing it open on the central podium. The sound it makes as it opens seems louder than any gavel. The paper does not look special. That somehow makes it worse.

The Secretary-General continues, reading key clauses:

“...no nation-being shall be compelled to perform diplomatic, militaristic, administrative, or political duties…”

“...legal personhood shall be granted, including the right to occupation, residence, and association…”

“...their governments may request voluntary consultation only with explicit consent…”

The weight of each line seems to settle over them like fog, yet to focus on all his words seems to be just out of reach, like grasping at air. America hears words. England hears implications. And Germany hears endings. None of them hears the same sentence. The clauses blur together, each one heavy enough to be understood, but too heavy to be held all at once.

The Secretary-General closes the folder partway, as if to remind them this can still be undone. He does not close it all the way. “Let us proceed with the signing.” 

The chamber echoes quietly, all small sounds of fidgeting and paper seemed to be sucked away.

“Afghanistan,” the Secretary-General calls. 

And so it begins.

One by one, nations rise with their leader, one signing before the other.

Afghanistan steps forward, posture stiff but dignified. Argentina follows, expression unreadable. Australia signs with a grim, almost bitter concentration. Austria’s hand trembles. Just once.

The alphabet rolls on. The scratch of pen on paper seemingly loud as countries sign away.

Nations walk like they’re approaching an execution, the unforeseen effects of this unknown. Others like they’re being pardoned, like past sins are being washed away and renewed. The rest look like they are already planning what comes next.

France is called while he sits smoothing the fabric of his sleeves. His expression is soft, but unreadable. He makes eye contact when he walks up, with an almost quiet, disappointed sadness. When he finishes signing, his lips press together, like sealing away an emotion.

The room seems to notice when India is called. He stands tall, and his expression is thoughtful, eyes steady as they sweep once across the chamber before settling forward. His signature is bold but measured, each line deliberate. He does not rush, nor does he linger. As he steps back, his face remains composed, but the weight can be seen. Centuries pressing quietly behind his gaze.

When Japan is called, he moves with careful precision, as if every step must be perfect. His face blank and composed, too composed. America glances over, frowning, but Japan doesn’t look back.

Latvia rises without fanfare. His movements are economical and precise. He signs without flourish, his pen strokes small and firm, the product of someone who has learned that survival often means not drawing attention. He pauses afterward, just long enough to breathe out, shoulders lowering a fraction before he returns to his seat. It isn’t relief. But it is something close.

“Kingdom of the Netherlands.”

The room continues shifting, rising and settling cyclically, like breathing.

When the Philippines is called, he rises slowly, shoulders squared but eyes bright with something unshed. He smiles politely at the Secretary-General, a reflex born of diplomacy and survival. His signature is careful, looping, almost graceful. When he finishes, he presses the pen down for just a fraction of a second longer than necessary, as if grounding himself before stepping away.

Seychelles’ feet barely echo as she walks forward, almost swallowed by the scale of the chamber. She offers a shy smile to the officials, hands clasped together before taking the pen. Her signature is neat, modest, and unassuming. When she steps away, she glances once at the rows of towering flags above, eyes soft with wonder and unease. For the first time, the ocean does not feel like her only witness.

Turkiye stands with deliberate confidence, chin lifted, expression composed into something statesmanlike and unyielding. He does not hesitate when he signs. The motion is smooth, decisive, practiced. Someone used to treaties that redraw borders and futures alike. But when he straightens, there is a flicker of tension in his jaw, a restrained acknowledgement that this agreement redraws something far harder to reclaim. Power relinquished is still power remembered.

When “United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland” echoes through the chamber, England stands. His chair scrapes lightly, too loud in the silence. He keeps his head high.

England signs with crisp, methodical strokes. He hesitates only once, barely, and only someone watching carefully would see the falter in his hand. 

He steps away without looking at anyone.

“–United States of America.” 

America nearly jolts. He strides up more confidently than he feels. The pen is heavier than expected. The air too warm. The silence too piercing.

His signature loops across the page. Big and Bold. The shakiest it’s ever been.

When he turns back to his seat, he lets the reality wash over him. It’s done. He sits slowly.

“...next, Uruguay.”

“Vietnam.”

And finally–

“With all signatories present and accounted for,” the Secretary-General says, closing the binder with a solemn thud, “the Personhood and Autonomy accord is hereby enacted.”

Applause rises. It’s polite and hollow. A ceremony for the cameras, despite the cameras not being allowed inside. 

The nations don’t clap. Most simply sit, absorbing the truth of their new lives.

America stares at his hands. England sits very straight, as if any slouching would cause him to crack. Japan keeps his eyes down, China looks more composed than he’s ever been been. Germany looks calculating, Italy has gone eerily still.

Their world has changed.

Effective Immediately.

Chapter Text

Germany looked over his kitchen again, with grim dissatisfaction. He had cleaned the counters no less than five times and mopped the floors, and wiped grease from the oven. But it was not enough to leave him content.

It’d been weeks now, since the accord had been signed. He still wakes at the same hour he used to, before sunrise, when his inbox used to be full. Now he brews his coffee in silence and stands in the doorway of his office, not sure whether to sit down or turn away. 

His body hasn’t adjusted to the absence of structure. His hands twitch for something to organise. His brain searches automatically for tasks that no longer belong to him. Every morning feels like the same blank page he doesn't know how to fill. Every night feels like he’s wasted another day. He was not made for sitting still. Not when it leaves him with no company but his thoughts, his regrets, and his past actions.

He chose to shift his focus to cleaning his house. And when he was done, he did it again. And again. And again.

He cleaned until his knuckles ached, until the cloth frayed, and until even the dog bowls gleamed like polished steel. Sometimes he cleaned without thinking, wiping the same surface three times before realising he had already done it. He knows it’s pointless; the house isn’t dirty. It hasn’t been for weeks. But movement is better than sitting still long enough for memory to catch up with him.

He’d also spent some time behind his computer. Waiting for an email. An ask. Or something to do. When he’d finally cracked and emailed his now old workplace asking if there was anything he could do, his only response back was nothing.

And the days went by painfully slow. Time pools in corners of the house. Minutes stretch out unnaturally, hours sag under their own weight. Germany starts measuring his day not by tasks, but by how often the sun shifts across the wall. 

Even the dogs seem restless, pacing with him, confused by the sudden change in rhythm. He owes them a walk, but the last time he’d gone out, he’d been recognised since the sudden publicity of the accords had pushed him and the many other nations into the limelight. It was an uncomfortable interaction. One he doesn’t want to occur again.

The chemical smell of cleaner lingers in the air. He’s already done enough here. He moves into the living room, past the perfectly reorganised bookshelf, in alphabetical order. He hesitates over the shelf. He considers rearranging them again by genre or publication date this time. Anything to pass the next ten minutes. But even he knows that would be overdoing it. Even if his fingers hover over the spines. He had been teased once for arranging them so strictly, by his brother— “Germany, nobody cares if Dante is before Dickens!” He jerks his hand back. He will organise it another time. Maybe in an hour.

He moves on. Sitting on the couch that he had spent much too long vacuuming the other day. Sitting stiffly on the edge, not to give him another reason to clean it all up again.

His phone lies unassuming on the coffee table. He waits for a buzz he knows will never arrive. He picks up the phone and stares, as if that will manifest something, anything, to come through. An email from his old boss, a request from his brother, a text from Italy– 

His phone’s screen reflects his face back at him. Tired eyes, a pinched line between his brows. A man waiting for orders. An obedient soldier with no commander left.

He checks his signal strength, even though it’s perfect. He toggles the Wi-Fi on and off. He refreshes his inbox twice. It doesn’t matter. His notifications bar remains empty. 

He opens Italy’s contact. He hasn’t talked to him since the meeting. And Germany is not usually one for reaching out. Not without purpose. And he doesn’t. 

He doesn’t have any purpose in texting Italy. What would he even say? That he misses the noise? The warmth? 

It’s senseless. He’s a nation, not a sentimental fool.

The typing bar blinks at him mockingly.

Hello.

Wie geht– 

Are you–

He deletes every start before it even forms.

Italy is probably fine. Italy is always fine. Germany repeats this like a mantra, though it does little to settle anything in his chest. Not when he knows how untrue those statements are. 

He puts the phone down and stares ahead blankly. The silence presses in from every wall. He rubs the bridge of his nose, trying to dispel the tight ache creeping behind his eyes. The TV is off. And it will stay that way. There are still too many news anchors talking about the accord. Each headline he’s glimpsed in passing feels like a blow. He doesn’t want to hear strangers debate his existence like a policy decision more than he already has in the past two years. 

He shifts gaze. Willing to think about literally anything else. He shifts the small house plant on the coffee table a millimetre to the left, so that the cube-shaped pot is straight facing him. This is getting ridiculous. He should call someone. He should do something. Yet he stays perfectly still, unable to commit to either action.

He can hear his brother’s voice ringing in his ear. “You need to get a hobby.” Germany ignores this because he does have hobbies, contrary to popular belief. “Having dogs is not a hobby.” The imaginary Prussia responds. Germany internally argues that cleaning up after them is. 

He remembers faintly, a time when he enjoyed reading history, repairing old radios, and baking, but it all feels different if he did them now, as if he’d be further proving his humanity, with such mundane activities. Being similar to humans was what forced the accord to happen in the first place. He is not human. After everything he has done, how can he consider himself to be?

He imagines telling Prussia he’s spent the week cleaning and waiting for an email. He can already hear the mocking laughter.

He doesn’t move until he hears banging on the door.

He freezes. Nobody knocks like that unless they want something. Nobody has wanted something from him in weeks. He stands, heart thudding far harder than a knock should justify. 

Another knock. And a voice. Bright and unmistakable. 

“Germany! It’s me! Open Up!” 

Germany closes his eyes. Of all the people he couldn’t handle seeing yet. Italy is at the very top.

He opens the door slowly, he gets a second to comprehend Italy’s smiling face before he is tackled into a crushing hug. Before Germany can make a move, either to return the hug or push him away, Italy releases him and launches straight into motion, voice spilling out as he nudges his way inside.

“Ah—sorry! I know, I know, you weren’t expecting me, but guess what? My house is completely and totally dark.” 

Germany blinks owlishly. His body hadn’t caught up with the idea that Italy is physically here. His limbs feel locked in place, as if movement might make the moment real.

“Honestly, it’s not even my fault this time, well, okay, maybe a little, I might’ve forgotten to pay the bill, but in my defence, the envelope looked really boring, and I thought it was another ad, you know how they send ads that look like bills now? It’s so rude, who does that? And then everything in my house just fwoosh–totally dark!—”

Germany should tell him to slow down. Or stop. Or something. But his throat refuses to participate. Italy’s pushed in further, and all Germany can do is hover by the doorway stiffly.

“—Even my fridge stopped humming, which is terrible because that means all my leftovers are probably warm by now, and it was really cold, and really lonely—” Italy’s voice fills the room easily, automatically. It pushes out the silence Germany has been sitting with all week, and for a second, he almost resents how effortless it is for him.

“—And then I thought, ‘Well! Before all this accord stuff, you’d always let me stay over when things went wrong– like that time with the pipes, remember?”

He remembers. He remembers every time. The words land in his stomach like stones.

“You grumbled a lot, but you still made space for me. I figured you wouldn’t mind because you always take care of everyone, even when you say you don’t want to, and I-um–I just didn’t want to sit alone in the dark. So I packed a few things– actually a lot of things, in my bags–these ones, see?– and I think I panicked and came here!”

One of the bags rolls into Germany’s shin. Instinctively, he steps back, making extra room without meaning to. Italy just waltzes right in.

“I was going to call but then I thought ‘he’s probably busy!’ and then I remembered you’re not busy anymore—” Germany resents that he’s been very busy–

“—which is sad, but also good, because now you can help me! But also I can help you! We can both help each other! Oh– can I come inside?” He’s already inside. Germany can’t bring himself to point that out. “I hope you don’t mind if I crash here until the electricity people stop being mad at me.” 

Italy’s presence fills the house like sunlight forcing itself into a closed room. Germany can’t decide if he feels relieved or cornered. 

“Wow, your entryway is so clean.” Italy marvels, Germany realises he’s also stopped speaking. 

“Ja… I have had a bit more free time to… clean up” He’s a little dazed. He always is when he sees Italy again after a long while. It takes him a bit of time to recalibrate. To get used to Italy’s quick and long-winding rambles. He always needs to adjust.

Italy drops his bags right in the middle of the hallway, already toeing off his shoes. Before Germany can reclaim a single thought, Italy is wandering further in, humming, peeking into rooms like he’s already moved in. He disappears into the living room, and Germany is forced to walk after him.

“Your house smells like lemons! But the fake scented ones in the cleaning products… Did you just mop the floors? You always clean when you’re stressed, don’t you?”

Germany stiffens. “I– that is not…” But Italy has already moved on, drifting toward the kitchen before Germany can catch up to him. He follows him automatically; he always has. Always ready to clean up after him before his mind has registered it at all. The old habit of cleaning up after Italy is a reflex he cannot unlearn.

Germany exhales, slow and controlled, because if he doesn’t regulate his breathing, he will snap at him. And he does not want to snap at Italy. Not when this is the first living sound in his house that isn’t fridge hum since the accord.

“I’m hungry. Are you hungry? You look hungry”  

Germany notices how Italy fills the silence instantly. Like he can’t bear to let it settle. Germany can bear silence. Too well. Silence is all he’s had for days. He sighs. “I am not–” 

 “We should make lunch!” Italy announces, already opening cupboards. Germany can’t even get a word in. “Do you have basil? No, wait, of course you don’t. I’ll make do. Do you have tomatoes? Wait, don’t tell me–”

Italy opens the fridge. His voice stops. Germany awkwardly hovers to his side. Inside the fridge, every item is symmetrically lined up, labels facing perfectly forward. Nothing looks touched. Nothing looks eaten.

“Why is your fridge organised like a psychopath?” Italy picks up a jar, looking at the expiry date. “Have you even eaten any of this stuff?”

Germany almost snaps out a defensive explanation. He swallows it, covering his mouth with his fist as he avoids eye contact. “I have not… been very hungry.” 

Heat prickles at the back of his neck. He hates this. Being observed, being read so openly. Italy isn’t trying to shame him. But Germany feels flayed open anyway. He didn’t even realise how clinical the fridge looked until he saw it through Italy’s eyes. Rows and Rows of order masking the fact he hasn’t cooked a proper meal in weeks. 

Italy’s expression flickers, concern, guilt, recognition, all in a second. He masks it with a bright smile. Too bright. Too rounded at the edges. A shield, not a gesture. Germany has seen him use it after battles, funerals, treaties gone wrong. This one lands in his chest with a dull ache.

“Then it’s a good thing I’m here! Sit, I’ll cook.” He says, waving Germany away as he unloads the fridge with more confidence than he had any right to have.

Germany does not sit. But he doesn’t argue either. Germany is grateful but uncomfortable. It’s been years since Italy just… took over his kitchen like this. The familiarity hurts and soothes all at once. He stays on his feet out of instinct. Obedience to routine more than defiance. If he sits, he’ll have nothing to do but watch. A loss of control over his kitchen, and he’s never done well without control. 

Italy simply walks around him, like water around a stone, unbothered while bustling around the kitchen, pulling out a pot, chopping tomatoes, humming something half in tune. As though the kitchen has always been his. Germany doesn’t know whether that familiarity warms him or twists a knife. Italy’s rambling picks again naturally, like it never left him, as he slides pasta into the pot of boiling water.

“So! How’ve you been since the accord? You look like you haven’t slept in two weeks. I’ve been alright, I think? It’s weird, right? Being free? But also not free? Free from governments, but it was not like I was doing much for them anyway, you know?”

Germany knows, to an extent, that he took on more roles for the government that other nations did, voluntarily, he might add. He understands what Italy says, but his situation feels… different. Germany wipes a water droplet off the counter. He wipes again, and again. Italy doesn’t notice. He keeps stirring the pasta while talking, hands moving fast, his thoughts faster.

Germany inhales. “I have been… fine.” He hears how stiff that sounds. “Just restless.”

“Restless?” Italy repeats, surprised, pureeing the tomatoes into sauce now. “Why? We’re basically on vacation forever! You don’t like vacations?”

Germany falters. Vacation. The word alone makes something cold settle in his stomach. Germany doesn’t know how to rest. Rest feels like abandonment, like failure, like temptation. Italy says it like it’s a gift. Germany feels it like a life sentence. The idea of “vacation forever” is horrifying. But he doesn’t know how to articulate that without sounding pathetic.

His jaw works silently for a moment before he manages, “I do not have much to do outside of work.”

Italy tilts his head, thinking idly. “You should get a hobby.”

“I have hobbies,” Germany mutters.

“No, no, real hobbies,” Italy insists. “Not ones that involve freakishly reorganising your fridge like a serial killer.”

Germany pretends he didn’t hear that.

Italy brightens suddenly. “You could be like Japan! Have you seen what he’s been posting lately? It’s on that secret art account on.. Er… something..”

Germany freezes. “I am ignoring everything Japan posts lately.” 

Italy nods. “I think it’s pretty cool, if not a bit out there, there’s this one drawing I saw with these two guys–”

“—I think I can see it for myself later.” Germany cuts in, before he can move the subject away Italy speaks again.

“Oh! Did you see what Spain posted?” Italy slides right back into his long-winded thought train. “He visited France a few days after the accord, Romano joined him a bit after and they took a picture with this dog they found and people online thought the dog was theirs so now they have like six different dog brands trying to sponser them– which is weird because we don’t even need the money since we’re still getting compensation for being us, but we’re pretty popular now after all that, so I guess we could be one of those internet influencers pretty easily… d’you think that’s the next step?”

Germany was a second into washing the knife that Italy had just set before he realised Italy had stopped to let him answer. “Influencing? I’m pretty sure America was already doing those sorts of things before… I don’t think I’d be any good at it, but it might be a good way to pass the time”

He’s trying to humour him. But the whole idea of influencers feels absurd to him. Something far too modern to really be considered. He tries to picture himself pointing at a camera and saying, ‘Hallo Leute, welcome back to my channel.’ He decides that it’s better left as a passing thought.

Italy nods, one hand on his chin as he looks deep in thought, or as deep in thought as he could be. “I could maybe have one of those channels where they cook things. I could show people how to make really good pasta!”

“Italy, I have watched you cook pasta too many times, and I still can’t follow your method,” Germany admits quietly.

Italy hums in response. “Maybe I can just teach people art instead.” 

Germany doesn’t have the heart to tell him he can follow Italy’s art process even less. 

“Anyway,” Italy continues, momentum returning instantly. “I’ve been thinking a lot, you know, about the conference. And how strange it was. Well, not strange, but well, weird to see everyone so serious.” He stirs harder. His gaze focused solely on the pot, yet he doesn’t seem to realise his quickening pace.

“I never saw you serious until the accord. Or well, I’ve never seen you milder, in a way,” Germany adds on, murmuring. Italy pauses the stirring. For half a heartbeat, he’s completely still. The silence thins between them, like something soon to tear. Germany regrets the comment immediately, he hadn’t meant it as anything bad. He never intends to harm when it comes to Italy. He just always lands heavy without noticing.

“Guess everyone else’s seriousness rubbed off on me, too,” Italy chuckles. But Germany can tell it’s not genuine at all. 

Italy drains the pasta and plates it up. Germany dries the sink. He doesn’t get to finish before Italy takes his hand, warm and gentle, and all too familiar, and guides him to the table. Warm. Italy’s hand is warm. Always warmer than his. Always pulling, never pushing. His reflex is to pull back. His instinct is to follow. The confusion between the two makes his breath hitch, just barely. Italy doesn’t notice. Or pretends not to. Germany realises, with a sharp, unwelcome twist, how starved he has been for simple human contact.

Germany sits silently, his gaze to the plate in front of him. Perfectly made, like he expected anything different. Even while distracted, Italy had never made a failing dish. Italy eats with enthusiasm. Germany pushes pasta around his plate, pretending.

The smell is inviting and familiar. Comforting. Not because he’s hungry. But because it’s what Italy always makes. A meal they have shared together one too many times. Italy eats so simply. Unthinking, joyful, alive. Every scrape of Italy’s fork against the plate sounds almost unbearably loud in the quiet of the kitchen. He fills the silence without even talking.

 Italy launches into another tangent without breathing.

“You know I was really worried about the accord thing when it happened, mostly because I was scared that since I wouldn’t be connected to the government anymore, my old bosses would stop handling all my other stuff like utilities and paying me money, since we’re technically ‘private civilians’ now.. But nothing changed at all, I still don’t really do any work for them, and they still handle most of all that stuff, it’s just that the paperwork from the government—”

The actual meaning of Italy’s rapid-fire monologue washes over him like static. Germany only catches pieces, worried, private civilians, utilities, but mostly, he hears the cadence of Italy’s voice. Familiar. Steadying. He hadn’t realised how much he missed being talked at until this exact moment. He missed the noise. The distraction… Wait.

Germany pauses. He deliberately sets down his fork. “...Italy”

Italy freezes, mid-ramble. Germany studies him. “The government handles your utilities.” 

There’s a beat. Italy blinks. His brows furrowed. As always, Germany has to spell it out for him.

“You said you forgot to pay your electricity bill. But your government handles your utilities.” 

For half a second, neither of them responds. Staring blankly at each other, before Italy gives Germany the guiltiest little smile in all of Europe. He’s seen it centuries over. The smile that means I am definitely lying to you, but I do have a silly reason. His stomach sinks, not out of anger, but out of a weary, inevitable fondness he refuses to name.

“Oh! Wow, the pasta’s getting cold, you should eat it, it’s really—”

“Italy,” Germany repeats. His voice exasperated. Italy winces.

He wilts in his chair, shoulders curling in, like a child caught stealing biscuits. Germany closes his eyes for a slow inhale. He doesn’t want to be annoyed. Not when this– when Italy is in his kitchen, talking too fast, smelling like nutmeg and warmth. Like the first real grounding presence he’s needed for weeks. 

Still. He opens his again. “You lied,” Germany restates seriously. His frustration rises, then fizzles. Hollow, before it can spark.

Italy fidgets with his fork. “A little bit.” 

Germany stares. “Italy.”

“A medium bit.”

A beat.

“A lot,” Italy finally sighs, deflating.

The frustration should come easily. It usually does. Italy has been a master of testing his patience for over a century. But instead, Germany feels tired. Not the bone-deep exhaustion of war, but the hollow quiet that’s been echoing his house for days.

He rubs a hand over his face. “Then why are you here?”

Italy’s posture softens, his voice lowering in a way Germany rarely hears outside truly sincere moments. 

“Well… you didn’t write. Or call. Or message. Not even a little text.” He swallows. “And I know things are different now, and you’re probably busy trying to figure yourself out and all that serious stuff you’re always doing, but I just… I missed you.”

Germany stiffens. Something in his chest gives a single heavy thud, like a warning. The words hit him like glass shattering. Unexpected and loud. Impossible to ignore. Something inside recoils on instinct. He is not built for softness delivered so plainly. He remembers all the times Italy had said similar things in the past, breezy and careless. But this one is earth-bound. Real and genuine. He straightens his spine, trying to force every emotion back into its proper, controlled compartment. They don’t fit.

Italy continues before he can answer. “And I know we don’t really have to see each other anymore because we don’t work for the government, but now there’s also nothing stopping me from staying with you either. And Romano said he didn’t care, and my bosses said they didn’t care, and my house kind of… wasn’t that great to begin with, I just thought… well.” Italy pauses. “I figured I’d come stay with you for a bit! Like old times! Just… less working”

Germany processes this. Very slowly. “You came here,” he says, “because you missed me.”

Italy nods, small and earnest. His hands twist the fork like he’s tying knots just to keep from fidgeting. Germany didn’t expect to be someone anyone would go out of their way for. Especially not now, when he can barely manage himself. 

“And because I didn’t message.”

Another nod.

“And because your house—” he pauses. “Italy, your lights are working, aren’t they?”

Italy hesitates.

Germany glares. “They are working.”

“They… were working,” Italy corrects, smiling sheepishly.

Germany’s voice drops. “Italy.”

“Okay, okay!” Italy blurts. “No, they’re not. But not because of the bill! I actually… I sold the house.”

Germany’s hand meets his face before he even thinks about it. “Italy–”

“It wasn’t very good!” Italy insists quickly. “Romano said it was a ‘death trap built by an idiot landlord’ and I didn’t even like the neighbourhood, and you have a spare room, and I’ve basically lived here before, and we shared a bed—” 

“You sold your house,” Germany interrupts, “To move into mine.” 

“Yes?” Italy offers, like he’s guessing the right answer for a quiz.

Germany wants to scream. Or laugh. Or put his head on the table. Instead, he just… lets out a long exhale. Only Italy would treat selling a house like misplacing socks.He should say no. He knows he should say no.

But the house is quiet. Too quiet. Every footstep an echo. Now the silence is gone, and he can breathe again. He hates how grateful he feels. And Italy just looks at him like he never left, like nothing in the world has actually changed. 

Germany gives up. He knows he is going to say yes before he even opens his mouth. Italy probably knew too. Manipulative bastard.

“Fine,” he mutters. “You can stay.”

Italy brightens instantly, like the sun poking through the clouds. “Really!?” 

“Yes. But if you make a mess of anything in my kitchen–”

“I won’t!” Italy beams. “I promise.”

Germany looks away, because if he meets that smile right now, he’ll start feeling things he absolutely does not have the emotional infrastructure to deal with. The brightness of the smile feels like someone throwing open a window he didn’t realise had been shut. Too much light, too suddenly.

Italy fiddles with his fork again, suddenly shy. “Oh, um… You know, since we’re not really countries anymore, you can stop calling me Italy.” Italy meets his gaze, and Germany feels his throat go tight. “My name on everything is Feliciano… You can call me Feli, though…” 

Germany pauses. Human names? Most of the countries had one, since it was easier on documents. But none of them had ever really used them at all. He’d personally never been called by his. He doesn’t exactly enjoy the implication of further distancing himself from his country. But the look in Feli’s eyes. The easy way he’s already adjusted…

Feli. His name rolls through his mind with a strange weight. Human names meant vulnerability. Mortality. A life outside statehood. A life he does not know how to have. But Feli is looking at him with a hand extended. Not a closed door.

“...You may call me Ludwig.” He says, after a beat. Feli grins in a way that blinds him like sunlight.

The name feels foreign on his mouth, like a coat that doesn’t quite fit yet. But Feli’s smile makes the discomfort soften, it doesn’t fit because it’s large, like a warm protective blanket. His name is a small thing. Insignificant on paper. It feels enormous to wear now.

Feli tests the name, “Ludwig…” He rolls it around in his mouth like he’s tasting it, then brightening up all over again. “It suits you! Strong, but also gentle… Like a big dog who looks really scary but actually just wants hugs!”

Ludwig chokes on air. “I do not— need hugs.”

“Everyone needs hugs,” Feli says with sage seriousness. “Even big dogs,” He taps Ludwig’s shoulder with the handle of his fork. “Especially big dogs, if you know what I mean.” 

And Ludwig… lets out a helpless exhale that might actually be a laugh. Despite not really understanding what he means at all. It’s a familiar conversation. One he usually tries to brush off, but Feli beams at his reaction like he’s just been encouraged. He leans forward and offers his hand across the table, like this is a proper introduction and not two people sitting in a cramped kitchen.

“Nice to meet you, Ludwig.”

Ludwig hesitates, then takes the hand. It’s soft, missing all the hard edges and rough callousness his own have. He intends to shake it, but Feli squeezes once before letting go, the friendly pressure lingering like an aftertaste, and Ludwig is left staring at his empty palm as if it’s holding something delicate he’s afraid to crush.

“See? Not so scary,” Feli says lightly, Germany just stares blankly, uncomprehending.

“I… I didn’t think my name was scary,” He murmurs.

Feli simply laughs. “You weren’t scared of the name. You were scared of using it, but it’s not so bad, right? You’ve been acting all stiff and awkward since the accord. You sit like you’re struggling to take a number two”

Ludwig blinks before muttering, “Old habits.”

“Maybe you don’t need them anymore,” Feli says in response, suddenly firm, it takes Ludwig by surprise. The suggestion settles like a weight and a buoy all at once. It’s heavy, but it is lifting, somehow. He looks down at his hands to ground himself. Feli watches him for a moment. “Oh, Ludwig, you’re not clenching your jaw,”

Ludwig startles. “I… was I supposed to be?”

Feli tilts his head, “No, it’s just that normally your face looks like this–” He scrunches up his face dramatically, with an expression that made him look constipated.

Ludwig sputters, “I do NOT– look like that.”

“You do! But right now you look…” Feli tilts his head, studying him with startling softness. “Happier. Maybe ‘Ludwig’ fits you better than you think.”

Ludwig looks away, ears red. He has no idea what to do with Feli’s words, so he settles for adjusting his plat unnecessarily. Feli reaches for the salt, absent-mindedly as he returns to eating lunch. His fingers brush Ludwig’s knuckles. 

Ludwig jolts like he’s been struck, but Feli just smiles and murmurs, “Scusa.”

The room feels hotter. Ludwig supposes it’s just the awkward atmosphere. Feli goes back to eating, humming contentedly as if the silence between them was anything but uncomfortable. Then he glances back up again, new conversation already sparked in his head.

“Do you remember that picnic we had after the energy summit? When you yelled at me for lying in the grass?”

“I did not yell,” Ludwig insists. The new subject washing away his previous embarrassment. 

“You used your stern voice!” Feli persists.

Ludwig pauses. “I… spoke firmly.”

Feli shakes his head. “You yelled, ‘It’s damp! You shouldn’t be rolling around in the dirt and mud! You will ruin your trousers, dummkopf!’” 

“That is a perfectly reasonable concern!” Ludwig retorts, gritting his teeth.

“Well,” Feli leans his cheek into his palm, smiling at him over the table, “you haven’t used your stern voice today.” 

Ludwig falters, caught mid-breath. “What are you talking about?”

“You haven’t told me off, the whole time I’ve been here. Even after I lied to you about my house.” Feli explains. Ludwig knows he’s been uncharacteristically amiable over the whole ordeal. But that was only because of the crippling loneliness. And his tolerance for Feli’s antics growing after so much time. 

Obviously, Feli doesn’t think so, because his next words are. “You don’t feel like you need to be Germany right now. The accord took that stick out of your butt.” 

Ludwig stares blankly. He doesn’t know how to reply to that. He only knows it settles somewhere in his chest. The words are offensive to him. Yet he doesn’t rise to the bait. As Feli aptly said, he feels no need to react the way he usually would. He doesn’t get it yet, but he knows the change has been executed irreverisbly. Feli keeps watching him, waiting for him to deny or argue or bark an order. 

The things he used to do. 

But Ludwig can’t muster anything to say in return. For a moment, there’s a strange quiet equilibrium between them. Feli’s foot swings under the table. Ludwig’s fingers idle against the rim of his plate. The conversation is stagnant. But it is unsettlingly peaceful.

Ludwig searches for something appropriate to say, to defend himself, or to admit that Feli may be right, or to change the subject entirely. When a sudden buzz on the table cuts the moment cleanly in half.

Ludwig blinks, pulled abruptly back into the real world, and reaches for his phone. A message from his brother.

‘Hey Broseph, I won’t be home for a while more, I’m going to Hungary’s place, so.. Don’t wait up or whatever’

Germany sighs. Out loud, he says, “It appears we will have the house to ourselves.”

Feli grins. “Oh, Perfect! That means we can—”

The knock isn’t really a knock so much as a warningly loud bang. But it startles the both of them. The door shifts violently, as if someone has decided that knocking was ineffective and brute force was the superior language. Three sharp concussive kicks ram into the frame,  followed by an unmistakable voice shouting something muffled and furious in Italian through the wood.

Ludwig shoots to his feet on instinct just as the handle jerks, rattles, and then flings open with enough force to hit the wall. Romano barrels inside with winded force. Cheeks windburnt, hair tousled from the cold, eyebrows permanently set in a frown, and jacket half-buttoned as if he dressed himself angrily while walking. 

Romano doesn’t even make it two steps down the hallway before his foot collides with a suitcase. He stumbles, arms flailing, catching himself on the wall with a grunt.

“Feli,” he snaps. “Did you seriously leave all your crap all over the hallway?” Is yelled through the hallway before he storms forward to the living room. He stops dead in his tracks.

His eyes land on the dinner table. The pasta. Feli’s smile, Ludwig's exasperated expression. The neat little domestic scene.  And his face curls with disgust. Glaring at Ludwig with a scowl that could curdle milk. Like having to be here is all his fault.

“Romano,” Ludwig says, eyes narrowing.

“Romano,” Feli echoes, much more cheerfully from his seat.

“Oh, fantastico,” Romano says flatly. His eyes flicked between them. “So I leave you alone for one day, and you crawl back to your emotional support German.” His glare sharpens, landing squarely on Ludwig with so much focused repugnance that Ludwig feels more uncomfortable than he has this entire day. 

Romano throws his hands up. “I knew it. I KNEW you’d be in here with all that–” he gestures vaguely between them, “–homoeroticness. I could smell your stupid codependency from down the damn road.” 

Ludwig opens his mouth to retaliate, but Feli beats him, beaming sweetly as if he didn’t catch a single insult. “Lovi! You came to join me!”

“I came,” Lovino interrupts, “to make sure you didn’t do anything STUPID.” he gestures around wildly. “And look where we are now! Homeless and living with this stupid sausage-fest because you sold our house to live your stupid will-they-won’t-they situationship hallmark movie.”

Ludwig’s jaw tightens. Speaking with an air of finality as he pushes his chair back with deliberate weight. “You broke my door. You can’t expect me to just allow you to live here–”

“Oh shut up,” Lovino cuts in immediately. “We talked to your  brother and he was fine with it, and you have room. So don’t get all bossy with me, wurst sucker.”

Ludwig blinks. “My brother said what?” As if on cue, He feels his phone buzz a second time. He glances at the notification bar, and his expression darkens.

‘btw the italys kinda want to crash at our place for a bit so dont be shocked when they show up k’

Slowly, Ludwig lifts his gaze to Feli, who smiles back at him with the fragile, trembling innocence of a man who knows exactly what he’s done. Ludwig inhales dangerously.

“Oh yeah!” comes another voice from the hallway. Seborga wanders in like he’s on a house tour, hands in pockets and grin easy. “Sweet place,”

There’s a blanketed pause, silent, taut, and electric, that none of the three Italians seemed to have caught. Unaware of the way Ludwig’s blood pressure spikes. Where any new movement might cause him to combust.

“No, this is not– I only agreed for Feliciano to stay, the two of you will need to find someplace else.” He says steely with weaponised politeness. His arms crossed. 

Lovino sneers, throwing an arm around Seborga like claiming territory. “We don’t answer to you, asshole.”

Before Ludwig can snap back, Feli rises abruptly, sliding between them like a barrier of anxious peacekeeping. He places his hands gently into both their chests, pushing them a step apart.

“Alright! Enough!” His eyes turned to Ludwig, guilt already gathering like mist, teeth catching his bottom lip.

Ludwig stares back. His face carefully blank, and then he glances back towards the other two Italians. Both loudly lodged in his living room. His eye twitches. He remembers the quiet of this same room just this morning. The predictable scene, without the smell of lingering pasta in the air. He inhales the death of his peace like smoke.

His thoughts have careened in several directions at once. A storm behind his usually disciplined expression. His door is broken. Two extra uninvited houseguests have materialised in his house like pests. His brother has apparently been making unilateral housing decisions again. Feliciano… Feliciano is looking up at him with those soft, guilty eyes that Ludwig had never, not once, had the willpower to resist.

He feels frustration simmering through his ribs, but underneath it sits something older. Relief that Feli is here at all, shame that he’s relieved, and a sharp sting of betrayed routine. It’s all terribly distracting, messy, and uncoordinated, and not at all his preferred environment.

Lovino is still muttering profanities under his breath in two dialects. Feli’s grim expression still lingers. It makes Ludwig feel uneasy.

“Luddy,” he starts, his tone softening into that disarming syrup that Ludwig is biologically powerless against. “I know I didn’t exactly do this in the best way. I mean… suddenly selling my house, and lying… and kind of forcing you to take me in…” He pauses. “Was a bit… much.”

Lovino snorts quietly, but Ludwig drew his eyebrows together as his focus shifts, as Feli himself shoves Lovi back further with one arm. “Not helping, Lovi.”

Lovino rolls his eyes, arms crossed now as Seborga has wandered to the edges of the living room, looking in every direction except the unfolding scene. 

Ludwig redirects his attention to Feliciano. His jaw flexing. “Feli. When I agreed you could live here, I did not mean for them to come along too. And to go to my brother without telling me first?” His voice tightens. The one thing he seems to have control of right now.

Feli winces “I know,” he starts. “I didn’t think any of this through… I just wanted to see you, and I made a couple of stupid decisions, and then made more stupid decisions to cover up the other stupid decisions.” 

“That’s nothing new,” is grumbled behind them. Feli pointedly steps hard on Lovino’s shoe without turning. Lovino yelps, before he simpers away like an injured cat.

“I know I handled it badly,” Feli continues, quieter now. Earnest in a way that doesn’t ask to be forgiven so much as understood. “I just put my house up for sale so I would have an excuse to see you. It was an impulsive decision, but it was one I could have backed out on at any time. But I didn’t.”

He looks around the room, the corners of his eyes crinkling with familiarity. “I came because I was worried, about you.” Feli takes a step forward, and reactively, Ludwig takes a step back. Feli’s face faltered slightly, but he was not deterred. 

“You don’t do well with change,” Feli states, not accusing. He takes Ludwig’s hand, which Ludwig himself hadn’t noticed was stiffly clenched at his side. “And this was one that I knew you would struggle with. You work too hard, you live on being led and leading others, that structure. It’s what you thrive on.”

Ludwig feels a lump in his throat. Feli, for all his care-free obliviousness, had always read Ludwig better than he could himself. Whether purposefully or accidentally, Feli has been behind many of Ludwig’s revelations about who he was. Feli forced him to acknowledge his feelings. And to acknowledge who he was as a person, which now, more than ever, is exactly what Ludwig needs.

Lovino, who had moved onto the couch, opened his mouth to speak, but Feli turned and shot him a sharp look to shut him up. It was sharper than Ludwig had ever seen from him. In fact, on this day and the accord, Ludwig has seen more to Feli than he had in the decades they have known each other. 

Before Ludwig can speak, Feli beats him to it. “I didn’t want to wait until you were worse until I could check in. And I didn’t want to just visit quickly and be told you were fine and sent away. I know you, Luddy.” Feli said steadily. “So, I panicked. And sold my house… and lied. And I made it messy. But I wasn’t trying to trap you… I just didn’t want you to be alone, pretending you had everything under control.”

Softer and almost embarrassed, he adds. “You always take care of everyone else. I thought maybe I could do that for you, just this once.” Feli awkwardly pulls away. “I know it didn’t end up that way.” 

Ludwig stares at him for a moment, quietly contemplating. Was this really the Feli he’d always known? When had he changed? Was he always this way? Feli seems to recognise Ludwig’s expression of thought, and curtly begins again.

“They won’t be here long,” He continues, his hands twisting as he steps back from Ludwig. “Lovi doesn’t technically need to live with me anymore, because of the accord, and Seborga is… his own thing entirely.” 

He gestures vaguely to Seborga, who is now testing the couch cushions for bounce, settling and throwing his arms behind his head comfortably. Lovino sits on the end of the couch beside him, his gaze not leaving the two standing. 

“So really it’ll just be a temporary thing until they find a place together,” Seborga beams. Lovino blanches.

“Hey— HEY– wait a second!” Lovino snaps, shoving Seborga aside. “Don’t lump me in with him. I can find my own place, on my own. I don’t need any of you idiots’ help.”

Seborga rubs his arm like a kicked puppy. “Bro… harsh…” 

Ludwig can’t bring himself to answer immediately. He watches them both, feeling a headache blooming behind his eyes. He presses his thumb to the bridge of his nose. The room has descended into complete disorder, and he is just a man who values order so sharply that he’s just spent weeks grasping for it. He’s already catalogued the damage. He always does. His plans are derailed, and his control is compromised. He’s already reached this conclusion. But, unwillingly, he catalogues something else.

The way Feli stood between him and Lovino without hesitation. The way he’d noticed Ludwig in things he didn’t think were visible. The fact that, for the first time in weeks, the silence that had plagued his home was gone. And he could not bring himself to hate it. 

Control has always kept him functional, organised, and safe. But it has also kept him alone. He realises, with a jolt of something dangerously close to clarity, that this isn’t Feli taking control away from him. This is Feli asking him to share it. And the thought terrifies him more than chaos ever has. He exhales a long, doomed breath. 

“Fine,” Ludwig says, defeated. The word lands like a gavel. The Italians freeze. Feli’s head snaps up, Lovino’s scowl only deepens with suspicion. And Seborga nods enthusiastically at nothing with his hand holding his chin.

“Temporarily,” Ludwig clarifies. “Get them out of here by the end of the month.”

Feli’s expression flickers. “Ah, well… you know how hard it is to find a place that quickly in this economy…”

“Yeah, the housing market is a hellscape.” Lovino agrees, chiming in.

“You don’t pay rent.” Ludwig deadpans. 

“That is beside the point.” Lovino scowls.

Ludwig clenches his fists. “Fine. Two months.” 

Feli grabs Ludwig’s arm, staring up at him whilst chewing his bottom lip, a weaponised cherub. Ludwig looks away.

“...Six months…” He offers. Feli leans slightly closer, the final blow. The coup de grâce.

Ludwig groans into his palms. Deflating like a punctured tyre “Fine! A year.” 

Feli’s lips curve up into a smile. And Ludwig can’t force himself to return it. The decision settles into his stomach with unfamiliar weight. He expects regret to follow, or anger. The sharp itch of self-reproach. Instead, what follows is an easing hollow ache.

His home will be louder now—Messier, and unpredictable. But it will also be occupied. He looks at Feli, and understands, perhaps for the first time, that this isn’t about indulgence or weakness... It’s about choosing presence over precision.

Control has shaped his entire existence. Letting go of it, even slightly, is standing over unfamiliar ground. But Feli is there. Watching him not with triumph, but relief. Ludwig’s life has been a never-ending fight for order. And yet.

Ludwig straightens his spine. If he is going to lose control, it will be on his own terms.

Seborga swings an arm over Lovino’s shoulders. “Man… the chicks are gonna love this place!” 

Lovino shoves him so hard that he hits the armrest. This time, Seborga bounces back like a spring toy.

Ludwig snaps his face toward them, lips pressed into a stern line. “Now wait just a second. We are going to need to establish house rules–”

Three heads turn to him in varying degrees of innocence and confusion, and Ludwig realises with quiet resignation that he has really lost all control. Absolutely and utterly.

Chapter Text

The place was busier than it looked online. The Philippines stopped just inside the doorway, his momentum stalling as the sound hit him all at once.  Plates clattering somewhere behind the counter, ceramic on metal in sharp, overlapping bursts. Music threading through the space, something upbeat and bass-heavy, nearly swallowed by overlapping conversations, a laugh breaking out too loud near the bar, cutting through the sound.

It was warm, busy, and very alive. Exactly what he’d thought looked nice on his phone. Bright photos, cosy lighting, people smiling with drinks raised just out of frame, but in person, pressed closer, it was much louder and less curated. And standing there now, with the echo of the UN chamber still buzzing in his bones, it felt like too much.

His shoulders pulled in a fraction without him meaning to. “Um,” the Philippines says, half-turning back toward the others. Thumb hooking awkwardly into the corner of his pocket. “This is the place. It looked nicer online.” The words came out lighter than he felt, the corners of his lips quirking up into something sheepish, pre-emptive like he was apologising for misjudging it.

Thailand glanced around, taking the noise in stride. He looked relaxed, but not careless. There was a difference the Philippines knew well. After a beat, he rested a hand on the Philippines’ shoulder, warm and grounding.

“It’s okay,” Thailand said easily. “We’re already here, right? He gestures vaguely inward, toward the maze of tables and bodies “Might as well find a table.”

Vietnam didn’t comment immediately. Her gaze moved past them instead, cataloguing the room with quiet efficiency. The waitstaff weaving between tables with practised precision. The loose queue forming near the host stand. The way people lingered after finishing drinks, reluctant to give up space.

“We might have to wait.” She cuts in, gently but firm. “It seems pretty packed.”

The Philippines straightened immediately. “I have a reservation,” he said, a little too quickly. “I’m not that unprepared.” 

Malaysia snorts behind them, arms folded loosely, “You’re unprepared most of the time,” he teases not unkindly.

“That’s hurtful,” The Philippines replied dryly, without missing a beat. The tone was familiar and well-rehearsed. Like they’d had this exchange a hundred times already, and probably would a hundred more.

“But true,” Singapore added from somewhere near his elbow. The Philippines glanced down, caught sight of him, and reached out automatically, ruffling his hair in retaliation. Singapore allowed it for exactly one second before swatting his hand away.

Indonesia flits easily between them, already waving the host over with a polite smile. Thailand gently ushered the group forward, keeping them from clogging the doorway, his hand lingering briefly at the Philippines' back before dropping away.

The host greeted them, and after checking the reservation, led them past the worst of the noise, tightly packed tables, a couple clearly mid-argument over dessert, and a birthday group cheering loudly as a cake was set down.

By the time they reached the booth tucked along the side wall, the music had dulled to a background thrum and the clatter softened, blurred by distance. It wasn’t private, but it was buffered enough to let them breathe.

They slid in almost at once. Settling instinctively, in the way people drop when they don’t realise how tense they were until they stop moving. Shoulders lowered, backs leaned into cushions, hands stilled where they’d been fidgeting.

The restaurant buzzed around them, oblivious, vibrant, and utterly indifferent to the fact that just a few hours ago, every one of them had signed away centuries of obligation. The Philippines let out a slow breath, barely audible, and rested his head against his hands on the table. He hadn’t even noticed he’d been clenching them.

Menus appeared with a soft thump against the table, the server sliding them into place with practised ease before rattling off a few specials and vanishing back into the noise. For a second, no one reached for theirs. Thailand was the first to break the stalemate, flipping his menu open and scanning it, slightly perplexed. “These menu item names are… creative.”

Singapore leans in closer from Thailand’s side, peering over the laminated page. His eyes flicked down the list, pausing on one entry. “The—” he stopped, squinting. “That’s a dated reference.”

Malaysia glanced up from his phone, curiosity piqued. “What’s it referencing?” He asked, already leaning in to look.

Singapore folded the menu onto Thailand’s hand without ceremony. “Nothing relevant.” He says flatly, already moving on.

“That’s not an answer.” Malaysia pouted.

“It’s the only one you’re getting,” Singapore replied blandly.

Thailand hummed, amused, but let them be, turning the menu back over. Indonesia had already started comparing dishes aloud, pointing out what he recognised and what he didn’t. While Vietnam listened with half an ear, gaze drifting briefly toward the kitchen, then the exits, then back to the table.

They ordered without much fuss, pointing, asking brief clarifications, with nods of agreement. The Philippines participated when he had to, but his attention kept slipping back to his phone, still glowing faintly in his hands. He hadn’t realised his thumbs had gone still until the server walked away and the table fell back into its own low conversation.

Only then did he glance down again. The notification sat there, obnoxiously bright. He pulled a face before he could stop himself. Lingered over his phone while the others spoke, thumbs still, screen glowing. When the server left, he finally glanced down at a new notification and immediately made a face. 

Malaysia noticed immediately, “What are you looking at?” He asked, peering far enough over to try and peek at the screen. 

The Philippines shut his phone off and gently nudged Malaysia back into place with his elbow. “There’s a party at America’s place,” he said, keeping his tone carefully neutral. “I have an open invite. I was planning on going after this.”

Malaysia blinked. “Aw, why didn’t I get an invite?” He slumped dramatically into the booth.

“Because you always stink of Tiger Balm,” Singapore mutters, next to him, not even looking up.

“That’s mean.” Malaysia pouted.

“It’s an observable fact.”

“It’s medicinal,” Malaysia mutters, put out.

The Philippines cleared his throat lightly, cutting between them before it could escalate.”It’s not a strict invite thing… Anyone can go,” He said slowly. “It’s just that I don’t think America was going around making everyone aware.” He hesitated, then shrugged. “Which is a little out of character for Alfred, but who am I to judge? The accords got everyone out of sorts.”

That landed heavier than he meant it to. The table didn’t go silent so much as still. Not awkward, simply weighted, they had all collectively brushed up against the same bruise. 

Thailand exhaled, shoulders loosening as he leaned back. “I’m just relieved it’s over.”

No one argued with that.

Conversation resumed in fragments. Indonesia, pointing out a drink he wanted to try, Malaysia, complaining about portion sizes, and Singapore correcting him. But the Philippines only half followed along. The restaurant moved around them regardless. Cutlery scraped softly against plates nearby. Someone laughed too loudly, then quieter and embarrassed. A chair leg screeched against tile and earned a sharp look from a nearby table.

Normal sounds and ordinary life. It still felt faintly surreal, that his life could now be deemed just as mundane as the rest of the crowd. The Philippines picked his menu back up, eyes skimming the drinks section without really absorbing it, when something tugged at his senses.

He glanced up. The two teens at the next table were trying very hard not to look at him. They were failing. Every few seconds, one of them would flick her gaze over, then immediately look away, shoulders hunching like she’d been caught doing something embarrassing. There was a pause in their conversation, a whisper behind a hand. One nudged the other under the table, eyes darting back toward him. 

The Philippines’ fingers curled tighter around the edge of the menu. He told himself not to read into it. Recognition had never really bothered him before. Usually, it came with smiles and excitement. A sense of warmth that made him feel seen, in a good way. But today had wrung something hollow out of him. After so much time under cameras and headlines and legal language that dissected his existence into clauses and footnotes, the thought of being noticed made his chest feel tight.

He tried to ignore it, his focus back on the menu. Drinks, specials, anything else. But then a chair scraped softly. He didn’t look up until a shadow fell across the edge of the booth.

“Uh— sorry,” the first girl said, hovering awkwardly near their table, hands clasped together like she wasn’t sure what to do with them. Her eyes flicked over the group before settling on him again. “This is gonna sound weird, but… are you–?”

Her friend leaned in beside her, grinning nervously. “The Philippines? Like, actually?” 

The table went very still, attentive in a way that came from years of shared instincts. “Oh,” Philippines said, caught between an automatic smile. Practised but not fake. “Yeah... I mean, yes.”

Their faces lit up instantly. “Oh my god,” the second girl breathed. “I knew it. I told you I knew it,” she said, nudging the first girl hard in the ribs. 

“We’re Filipino,” the first girl said quickly, like that explained everything. “My lola would literally kill me if I didn’t ask– could we maybe get a photo?”

The Philippines hesitated. Just for a beat. Long enough for the weight of the day to press in again. Long enough to remember the chamber, the silence, the sound of his name being called. 

Then he nodded with a smile, already sliding out of the booth. “Yeah, sure.”

The picture was quick and a little clumsy. Someone fumbled with the phone. An arm was slung lightly around his shoulders, careful, like they weren’t sure if touching him was allowed. Peace signs went up. Someone whispering this is crazy under their breath. A phone clicked. Then again, just to be safe. 

“Thank you,” they said in unison, giddy and a little reverent all at once. “Seriously. Thank you.”

“Of course,” he said, and meant it.

When they left, still buzzing quietly to each other, the Philippines slid back into his seat, scratching the back of his head with a sheepish laugh, a sound meant to smooth things over. It didn’t quite manage.

“Well,” Indonesia said eventually, resting his chin in his palm. “That didn’t take long.”

“They were nice about it,” the Philippines replied, evenly, “most people are.” He hadn’t had many bad experiences being recognised, until the discourse about their existence had been blasted as a trending discussion point for the last two years or so. “It’s just been happening more lately.”

Vietnam nodded, her gaze thoughtful. “You’ve always been pretty recognisable,” she paused. “From socials, I mean. But now it’s not just that.”

Singapore hummed in agreement. “All of us have been getting more attention.” He affirms, “Especially after that book.” He said vaguely, but everyone knew what he was talking about. 

The Book. An unassuming catalyst, in what became a global change. Intending to inform people of history and the nations that were intertwined with it. It started trending quickly with its treasure trove of primary sources, archived letters and journals from people and nations alike. That incidentally pushed the globe to think just a bit more deeply about their existence.

Thailand tapped the edge of his menu absentmindedly. “I read it,” he said after a moment. “Back when it was trending for its contents, and not about whether we should exist independently.” He glanced up briefly. “It was actually good. Well-Written. It’s a shame it got swallowed by everything else.

Malaysia let out a short huff of a laugh. “It’s funny, though, how suddenly everyone started recognising us after it came out.” He mused. 

“It wasn’t sudden,” Thailand replied, already shaking his head. “The more the argument shifted toward government stuff and ethics, the more people started looking into us. Faces to attach their arguments to.”

Indonesia nodded slowly at that. “We went from background to public figures.” He said, eyes trained down at the specials.

“I guess that means we’re still going to have attention,” Malaysia added, leaning back into the booth. “Even after retirement.” 

Singapore nodded in agreement. “Probably worse,” he said lightly, though his eyes flicked toward the restaurant around them. “With how public everything today was.”

Vietnam looked down at her own hands, then back up, something small and contemplative, lips pulling into something small and resigned, but not unhappy. “I guess this is just part of our new freedom,” she said. “Being seen on our own terms.” A pause. “It’ll die down eventually.” 

No one rushed to answer that. The Philippines leaned back in his seat, eyes drifting toward the window, the street beyond it still bright with people. People who, for all he knew, could have been part of the loud noise that had expressed all sorts of opinions towards him and the nations around him. Their existence, their governance, and whether or not he should be allowed to freely sit here like this, laughing over dinner. 

The idea of this new freedom still felt strange in his head. Vietnam was right, being seen was part of it. But being talked about so impersonally, photographed without consideration, and argued over, as if he wasn’t a person at all. despite the same people fighting to give him the rights to officially become one.

Freedom. 

He wasn’t bound to a job anymore. He’d been promised proper compensation to keep him comfy with no work, he was without a schedule to follow, concerns to stress over, and worries to press on about. It was one of the upsides of the accord. The worst part was over. Now, he can spend the next few years, within reason, simply doing whatever he wanted. He didn’t want to waste this moment.

With no mandatory meetings, seeing his fellow nations, and importantly, his friends, would be rare, if not initiated. He’d already placed bets on which nations would fade away in obscurity and isolation, and which nations would keep themselves surrounded by others. Immortality came with loneliness, so he always made a point of keeping contact with people, planning group activities, engaging in social media, he was not oblivious to his desperation for connection. He didn’t want this group to end up breaking apart because they no longer needed to see each other.

The quiet conversation at the table lingered, until it was broken by the arrival of food. Plates crowded the table, steam curling between them, rich and fragrant. Bowls were shifted, dishes nudged to the centre, and cutlery clinked softly as hands reached out on instinct. There was something grounding in the motion of eating and sharing, that settled the remained tension in the air. Bringing them back into the present after hours of being talked about and looked at.

Their conversation had thinned to small talk, a muttered comment on portion sizes, a quiet laugh when Thailand nearly dropped a spoon. The Philippines, already halfway through his plate, leaned back with visible satisfaction.

“Speaking of freedom,” he said casually. That got their attention. “We don’t actually have to rush back anywhere anymore,” he continued. “Not for a while.” 

Singapore raised an eyebrow. Indonesia paused mid-bite.

The Philippines grinned, warming to it. “So, what if we used that? Like… actually used it.” He gestured vaguely around the table. “A real break. All of us. No schedules and meetings breathing down our necks.”

“A break,” Thailand echoed, amused. “From what exactly?” 

“From everything,” The Philippines said easily. “Or– okay, not everything. But from being stuck in one place and losing our minds to boredom.” He leaned forward. “What if we did an ASEAN tour? Properly, just our countries, on our pace. We could show each other around for once, instead of just talking about our places and not doing anything with it.”

Vietnam placed her fork down, swallowing her food before responding. “How would we even plan that?” she asked, not dismissive, but practical. “That’s a lot of logistics. We’d need to sort ourselves out now that we don’t have diplomatic status, and even without…” she gestured vaguely, “Everything else, it wouldn’t be that simple”

“We’ve survived a lot worse than immigration policies,” the Philippines brushed off. “And whatever issue we come across will be worth it for the trip, no?”

Thailand tilted his head, gaze drifting between them. “And what about the others?” he added. “Cambodia, Brunei… and Timor-Leste was officially inducted not long ago.” His tone stayed light, but the question landed heavier than intended.

The table went quiet in a very specific way. Cutlery slowed. Someone cleared their throat, and, almost as one, several pairs of eyes shifted toward Indonesia. He froze as the attention shifted, immediately forcing his food down. His jaw tightened for a second before he sighed, pushing his plate away.

“Timor-Leste went home already,” he said. “Left pretty much right after the signing.” He hesitated, then added, quietly, “We talked a bit. We’re amicable, but she doesn’t want anything to do with me. Not now, when we don’t have to keep showing up to the same international rooms anymore.”

No one jumped in immediately to fill the silence that followed, but Malaysia was the first to nod, cutting in lightly, just to ease tension. “And Brunei probably wouldn’t be interested,” he responded mildly. “Even on a good day.”

Thailand let out a small sigh, leaning back in his chair. “Still, it’d feel wrong to leave them out. Laos, Cambodia, Myanmar, too.” He glanced around the table. “We should at least offer invites. Even if they say no.”

“That seems fair,” the Philippines hummed, tapping his fingers against the table in an idle rhythm, the wood faintly damp where his glass had been sitting earlier. “But let’s be real. Those guys don’t usually indulge in our meetups.” He shot Vietnam a look, pouting exaggeratedly. It was a miracle getting you to start hanging out with us regularly, too.”

Vietnam didn’t even look up at first, focusing instead on scooping the final spoonful of her plate into her spoon. When she did glance over, it was flat and unimpressed.“We only started hanging out because our meetings were so casual they stopped being meetings.” She said dryly, “You can’t blame me for skipping ones where nothing ever got done”

Thailand let out a soft sound of agreement, halfway between a hum and a laugh, nudging food around his plate with a fork, absentmindedly. “Half the time we’d meet, we’d talk for two hours about nothing, and go home in the same state we arrived in.”

“Everything still got sorted well enough,” the Philippines countered, folding his legs. “Even if it was by our bosses”

There was a brief lull, filled by the clink of cutlery and the low murmur of the restaurant around them. “Well,” Singapore cut in smoothly, setting his spoon down, “if we’re going to do this, and that’s still a big if, we should start somewhere manageable, like my place.” He said, beaming.

Malaysia scrunched his face, the polite version of a full rejection. “Your place is the smallest of all of us.” He waved a hand. “It’s a finisher, you don’t start there, you end there.”

Singapore didn’t look impressed. He tilted his head slightly. “And where do you suggest we start?” He asked flatly.

“My place,” Malaysia said without missing a beat, confidence settling comfortably over him. “I’m in the middle, so logically it makes sense.”

Thailand frowned, gaze drifting upward. “Shouldn’t it be Indonesia, then?” he asked. “By your logic, it’s the biggest.”

Singapore glanced sideways at Malaysia. “You did say I should be last because I’m the smallest.”

Before Malaysia could respond, the Philippines perked up, leaning forward over the table, elbows brushing the dishes between them. “I mean, I wouldn’t mind starting in Indonesia,” he said brightly. “Bali’s huge these days, right? I keep seeing it all over my feed.”

Indonesia winced. “Bali’s way too busy,” he said immediately. “It’s overrun with enough tourists already,” He paused. “There are much nicer beaches on other islands, with less traffic.”

Malaysia seized on the opening. “Exactly,” He started triumphantly. “Traffic alone is reason enough to come to mine first. Plus,” he added, leaning back into the booth with a slow, satisfied grin spreading across his face, “my food’s better.”

Across from him, Indonesia’s eyes narrowed. “That’s debatable.”

“It’s not,” Malaysia shot back sharply. “Half your food is basically just a copy of mine. We should try my rendang.” He asserted, thumb pointing to his chest.

The words barely left his mouth before Vietnam lifted her glass, unfazed, taking a measured sip. Ice clinking softly as she set it back down. “All of our traffic gets bad in certain areas.” She stated calmly. “Including yours.”

Indonesia nodded once. “And rendang is mine,” he added stiffly, pointing slightly with his fork. “You copied me.” 

Malaysia turned sharply toward Singapore. “Back me up here.”

Singapore didn’t even look up, as he stared at his plate, expression serenely detached. “I’d rather not get into this.”

“Fine,” Malaysia huffed, throwing his hands up briefly before dropping them back onto the table. “But cendol is definitely mine.”

“It isn’t,” Singapore said immediately. Indonesia leaned forward, elbows edging closer to the centre of the table. “It came from my place.” They both said together simultaneously.  

Malaysia slapped his hand lightly against the tabletop, the sound sharp enough to draw a glance from a nearby diner. “That’s impossible, gula malaka comes from my home.”

“Just because that’s the standard sugar used now, doesn’t mean it always was,” Singapore replied, unfazed and matter-of-factly, his tone maddeningly even. “And you talk a big game about food for someone who didn’t even rank in the ‘Top one hundred Best Food Cities’.”

“That list was biased, and you know it.” Malaysia retorted instantly. “In a more unbiased list, I’m twenty-ninth in cuisine globally.”

Thailand leaned back, arms crossed, an underlying frustration bubbling beneath his relaxed exterior. “You know, this argument is exactly why we stopped having meetings like this.”

The table dissolved into overlapping voices, protests, counterarguments, and pointed gestures. Singapore had brought out his phone and began making a show of different cuisine lists, while Indonesia brought up origins, with Malaysia profusely denying every claim. All three refusing to concede an inch.

Vietnam watched for a moment, eyes flicking from face to face, letting the noise crest. Then spoke over the noise, dry and precise.”Didn’t we agree to start using human names now?”

Malaysia blinked. Short-circuiting mid-rant “Oh. Right.” He looked at her, squinting slightly. “...What was your name again?” 

Chapter Text

England walks from the station instead of taking a cab, which is a stupid choice, and he knows it within five minutes. But when he’s made a decision, he rarely circles back.

Paris is loud, but that isn’t new, it’s a different noise though, not the strained clatter he remembers from after the first and second World Wars, nor the bustling order he’d noticed in the late Victorian era, and certainly not the rough, half-formed city he’d passed through centuries ago, when he’d seen it briefly while he had fought over Normandy.

He was no stranger to modernisation. He’d visited Paris more in the last century than in all the centuries before combined, and this version of the city is familiar enough. Cars idling at intersections, voices bouncing off stone, the distant clatter of dishes from somewhere open and warm. England moves through it silently, weaving like a ghost without a haunt. He keeps his coat buttoned even though the weather doesn’t demand it, rays of sunlight flitting between small wispy clouds. Old habits die hard.

Two weeks. That’s all it’s been since the accord, since the paperwork, signatures and the oddly anticlimactic moment where centuries of obligations were reduced to a signed page. A handshake before he was simply let go. He didn’t exactly know what he’d expected, maybe a cliche crack of thunder, a sensation of something lifting, or something dramatic. Instead, there’d been press, a long and drawn-out speech, and a quiet flight home where nothing felt different at all.

He hadn’t told anyone how strange it was, waking up and not immediately knowing what he was meant to do for that day. The freedom to choose wasn’t unwelcomed, exactly, but it’s unfamiliar in a way that leaves him slightly off-balance. 

He remembers the morning after the accord clearly: Tea on the patio, steam curling into the air, the feeling of his phone buzzing in his pocket. He remembers hesitating, exhaling from his nose, before checking it anyway. A photo, several, actually, slid into a group chat he hadn’t left out of stubbornness more than attachment. 

America, grinning with an arm slung around someone identical, Canada, maybe, though his mind blurs at thinking too hard about it. There are streamers and red plastic cups, with what he can only assume is alcohol. A banner declaring something about retirement with a cheerfulness that bordered on offensive. 

England hadn’t been made aware that there was a party at all. The sting is brief but sharp, like nicking a finger on a page. It probably wouldn’t have bothered him if it had been anyone else hosting. He’s used to being excluded. But America usually made a point to invite him to these things, if only just to be irritating about it. England tries to tell himself, honestly, that even if he had been invited, that he wouldn’t have gone. It would have been much too loud with too many people. Too many congratulations for something he wasn’t sure how to celebrate so soon, if it should be celebrated at all. 

Still, the images linger longer than they should. France is there, of course. Spain. Prussia. Japan off to the side, expression unreadable, Australia, drunk off his ass. He spots Poland and Lithuania in the background of one, frozen right before what he thinks could be a drunken kiss. They all look… fine. Relieved, maybe. As if this was something to toast. The photos only served to accentuate his own isolation, and the idea that now, without obligation, no one would have any reason to talk to him.

The Manor had been unbearable after the Accord. Not because it was empty. It had always been empty, really. But because there was nothing left to fill the quiet with. No stress, no responsibility over duties he’d had for centuries, no sense of what was meant to come next. 

There were no meetings looming, no reports arriving, no expectation that he’d be England tomorrow in the same way he’d been England yesterday. The walls had not changed, but the silence had. It stretched without anything to fill in between.

He’d patched his time the way he’d always patched his own wounds. Poorly, but with intent. He had spent time with archery first, wanting to spend time with hobbies he’d neglected. He had dug out his old bow, dusty from disuse, and took it to the field behind the house. He wiped it down, tested its strength, and used his rusting skill on makeshift targets, his arrows thudding into them with satisfying finality.

When that grew dull, he’d finally gotten back into reading too. Whole shelves in his library he’d meant to get to someday, when things finally got quieter. This, apparently, was that quiet he’d been waiting for. But it didn’t feel like a gift.

He was already feeling the fruits of boredom when Portugal had sent a message a few days ago, mercifully plain. ‘Come over. France is hosting a get-together with a couple of nations, and I think it’ll be fun!’

Portugal being the one to ask is part of why England said yes, more than anything. If any other nation had tried to convince him to go to Paris willingly, he’d have done more than just decline. Portugal asked him without expectation, no pressure or judgement. England’s presence is an actual choice, rather than a veiled obligation, that would be respected either way.

That, and England hadn’t wanted to admit how heavy the manor had been pressing down on him, how every familiar corridor felt like it was asking what he planned to do with the rest of forever. He’d told himself he was managing, that he was fine. He’d told himself that a lot recently.

France’s neighbourhood comes into view. England slows, just slightly. He doesn’t exactly know who else is there, but he can imagine the scene easily enough. France gesturing animatedly and going on and on about who knows what, some other country laughing too hard in his ear, some random argument or another already brewing, Portugal somewhere at the edge, always observant, amused at whatever seems to happen around him.

England stuffed his free hand in his pocket, while shifting his grip on the bag in his other hand. He fiddled with forgotten small trinkets and coins he’d left in the coat’s pockets, giving his hand something to do. Keeping himself busy. Something he’d been doing for two weeks now, since retirement. The word still feels distant, like it shouldn’t be used for him. It’s as if he’s stepped out of a role he never auditioned for, and yet isn’t sure how to stop playing. 

He thinks of his brothers, of the way distance had grown into something sharp and political, then calcified. He thinks of France, of centuries of rivalry that had been easier to sustain than intimacy. He thinks of the places he’d ruled, the things done in his name, and how neatly those ghosts lined the halls of his mind now that no new ones were being added. 

Choice, the Accord had promised. Autonomy. A future for them no longer dictated by governments and international affairs. England still hasn’t figured out what to do with that yet. But he supposes he has time.

France’s building looms ahead, familiar and infuriatingly welcoming. The windows are wide open, his delicate curtains breezing out of the frame. Laughter punctuates the air, warm and unapologetic. England stops at the gate, just for a moment. He lets himself feel the unease, the loneliness, the cautious thread of something like hope winding through it all. Then he straightens, squares his shoulders, and steps forward. After all, he’d been walking alone for two weeks. That seemed quite enough.

England reaches the door before he can second-guess himself a third time, and rings the bell. There’s a brief shuffle inside, footsteps that pause just long enough to suggest hesitation. Then the door opens with a swing as France stares at him for a moment.

“Oh,” he blinks. “...You actually came.” 

The words land heavier than intended. France seems to realise it at the same moment England does, because his expression shifts to something overtly sheepish, flickering across his face before a too-wide smile smoothes it over.

“I mean— bien sûr you did,” France amends quickly, stepping aside and sweeping an arm out in exaggerated welcome. “Come in, come in. Don’t just stand there like a lost idiot.” 

England huffs, but he steps inside, wiping his shoes on the mat and pulling his coat off to hang on the nearby rack. He holds out what he’s brought with him. A modest bottle of wine, dark glass, carefully chosen without thinking too hard about it. France takes one look before taking it out of his hands.

“Wine?” he scoffs, lifting it like it might insult him if he holds it too close. “From your side of the channel? Angleterre, you shouldn’t have bothered. Truly.” He comments dryly, averting his gaze as he walks ahead, keeping the bottle at arm's length.

England’s mouth twitches. “Right. I’ll make a note never to bring you anything again, you ungrateful twat.”

France simply gives him a grin before turning toward the open kitchen, facing the extremely busy-looking chic living room. “You say that every time.” He leaves the bottle on the counter.

England is one foot into the carpeted floor of the living room before he hears Spain yell over the coffee table. “I’m telling you, you cheated,” Spain whined loudly, cards clutched to his chest. “You can’t just keep pulling that—” 

He’s sitting on the other side of the short table, legs crossed, facing the couch. Prussia is across him, leaning on the couch seat cushions. “Hah! Loser,” Prussia shoots back at Spain, “Maybe if you were just as awesome as me, you’d actually have a chance this round.”

“That has nothing to do with this game—”

The Netherlands sits stiffly on the rug to Spain's left, cards fanned loosely in one hand, unimpressed at the commotion, leaning back slightly on his other hand. He glances up as England enters, eyes narrowing just a fraction in acknowledgement before returning to the game. 

Portugal is off on the couch, legs pulled up just behind Prussia, glass of tonic in hand, entirely removed from the chaos but still watching with a twinkle of interest. As soon as his eyes meet England, his smile softens, and he lifts his glass in a small wave.

“There you are,” he says warmly, patting the space beside him.

Spain looks behind him to see England moving in from the hallway, and breaks away from the argument he’d been having. “Oh! England! We’ll deal you in next round.”

England lifts a hand in polite refusal as he crosses the room. Maybe he’d join in later, but he’d rather sit for a moment before letting himself get too caught up in a game and argument he didn’t have the energy for. “I think I’ll survive sitting this one out.”

England manoeuvres himself to Portugal’s side as he shuffles to make room for him. “A shame. You arrived just in time to witness Prussia’s continued moral decline.” Portugal whispers jokingly, though it’s not very quiet.

Prussia snorts, without looking behind him, arranging his hand of cards. “Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Schnösel.” Before picking a card out and throwing it dramatically on the table, to be immediately met with more annoyed responses from the Spaniard in front of him.

England settles back, the noise washing over him; the indignant yelling feels strangely comfortable. If he blurs the words and closes his eyes, he can almost pretend he's back, sitting through another useless meeting. He glances at Portugal, then at the scattered cards, the raised voices, the familiar mess of it all.

“Funny,” he murmurs. “You actually got here before me for once.” 

Portugal laughs softly into his glass, eyes crinkling. “Retirement does strange things to our schedules.” England rolls his eyes.

France reappears, with a wooden board balanced on one hand, laden with cheese and something else that smells aggressively French. He sets it down near the centre of the table with a flourish, almost knocking down the discard pile, and drops onto the rug next to Prussia, legs crossed, immediately reaching for a piece. 

France chews for a moment, before pausing mid-bite. “Oh, wait,” he says, glancing over his shoulder. “England, did you want something to drink?”

England pauses, caught off-guard by the sudden attention. He straightens slightly. “Ah. Some water would be nice.”

France nods, already turning back to the game, and without missing a beat, adds, “Well, you can go get it yourself.”

England stares at the back of his head for half a second too long before muttering “Prat,” under his breath. He doesn’t move to stand because listening to France would just go against his pride, and he really only asked so that France would have an extra thing to do.

The game of cards barrels on without him. Prussia shares his hands with France, spreading his cards too openly while Spain squawks about unfair alliances before merging his own hand with the Netherlands, shuffling closer as if physical proximity might improve his odds. The Netherlands only shoots him a cold side-glance that goes entirely unnoticed.

“You can’t just merge your cards like that,” Prussia snaps, rising onto his knees and wrenching their now one hand away from them, leaning forward precariously over the table. “You’ll ruin the whole game!” He complains as he gathers the pile from the table, and reshuffles the cards aggressively, as Spain argues back one-sidedly.

England watches the spectacle for another moment, lips pressing together faintly before turning his attention back to Portugal. “Is this everyone, then?” He asks, gesturing vaguely toward the room, as new cards are dealt out with unnecessary force.

Portugal tilts his head thoughtfully. “More or less. The Italies are working things out about a house, but those two always have something going on” He takes a slow sip of his drink. “As far as Spain and France are concerned, wherever those two go, Prussia’s right next to them,” He glances toward the table.

As if on cue, Prussia throws down another card. Spain makes an outraged noise. Portugal continues unfazed. “Poland and Lithuania are keeping to themselves. Apparently, there’s been a breakthrough in whatever relationship they have, though, that’s just what I heard from Romania,” his mouth quirks.

“And you somehow managed to get the Netherlands to join you? What could you have possibly bribed him with?” England jokes, hints of sarcasm dripping in his tone.

Portugal rolls his eyes. “It was no bribe. Belgium couldn’t make it because of a thing she had with Belarus of all nations, and she got her brother to come instead, which I thought was a great idea because he doesn’t seem to be all that social…” Portugal drifts off. “Anyone else who didn’t make it was busy with other things, or didn’t want to come.”

“And some weren’t invited at all,” England notes dryly. 

The corner of Portugal’s lip twitches into an almost amused smile. “That too, but really, what kind of European gathering would this be if we made a point to include everyone?” 

England rolls his eyes. They sit for a moment as the card game spirals toward its inevitable conclusion. Portugal glances at him sidelong. 

“So.” Portugal continues lightly. “How have you been?”

England scoffs, his jaw tightening. “Fine.” 

Portugal hums into his drink. It’s quiet and barely audible, but prickles all the same.

England shifts, shoulders tightening. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Portugal shrugs, easy and unbothered. “You don’t take being alone very well. You never have.” He keeps his tone mild and observational, not accusatory. “Your work was what kept you from isolating yourself, it kept you… present.” He lowers his glass. “Without it, you tend to disappear.”

England opens his mouth, then closes it. Flicking his eyes away as he searches for something to respond with.

Across from them, the Netherlands places his last card down with quiet finality. “I win.” He says flatly.

Spain and Prussia erupt at the same time.

“How did you get rid of your cards so quickly?” Spain asks incredulously, shuffling to sit on his feet. “You had a full hand just a moment ago—” 

“I was one card away!” Prussia cuts in, slamming both hands onto the table hard enough to rattle the cheeseboard. “I didn’t even hear you say uno—”

The Netherlands just looks between them with the dead-eyed patience of someone who has endured their antics for centuries.

France scoffs at the two, pinning his own deck to the table with one hand. “Really? Neither of you can handle anyone else winning, can you?”

Prussia butts into him with his shoulder. “You’re only saying that because you’re losing.” 

“I am not!” France asserts, chin lifting. “You three just happened to keep targeting me because you knew I would win if you didn’t.”

Spain holds up his hands placatingly, his fight seeming to have left him.“Aye, fine, we’re all getting a bit worked up. How about we just play a different game?” He suggests.

“I’m not letting you finish this game, because you know I’m gonna win second!” Prussia declares as he tosses his final card on the deck.

“You can’t end on a power card, idiot.” France sighs. Resting his head in his hand.

Prussia waves him off. “Yes, I can. It’s the right colour. You just can’t handle my awesome strategy—”

England leans back against the couch, deciding to tune them out again. Beside him, Portugal laughs quietly into his fist, shoulders shaking just a little. England watches him for a moment longer than he means to.

“You’re not playing with them,” He says, finally.

Portugal smiles, lowering his hand. “Am I not?”

England gave him a deadpanned look. “I’ve only just gotten here and there would have been plenty of opportunities to jump in before I got here.” He replies, nodding toward the table.

Portugal glances down at his tonic, rolling the glass slowly between his fingers. The melting ice clinks, soft and unhurried. “Mm. I prefer this.”

A stillness washes between them. “Watching?” England asks, sceptical.

“Watching,” Portugal agrees easily. “It’s easier to enjoy what’s happening when I don’t have any stakes in it.” His eyes flick back to the table, where Prussia is loudly insisting that any rule that applies to him is stupid.  “I get all the fun of investment, and don’t get all wrapped up in my own win.”

England snorts. “Coward’s way to put it”

Portugal smiles at that, unbothered. “I think it’s just being practical.” He sighs, his gaze moving back to the scene in front of him.

“Spain,” Prussia barks from where he sits, “It’s your turn. Get off your phone.”

Spain doesn’t even look up, his cards rest on the table as he taps away. “Give me a minute, Romano’s texting me.”

France slaps his cards down dramatically onto the table unceremoniously. “You wound me, truly. Is our carefully cultivated card game not more important than talking to your very spoilt ex-child?”

Prussia squints. “Is he an ex-kid because he used to be Toni’s territory, or because he’s not a child anymore?”

France barely pauses. “Does it matter?”

The Netherlands makes a low hum from beside Spain, a noncommital but universal noise to show his displeasure of being here, or to hide his growing impatience and investment to the game.

Spain finally looks up, blissfully unaware. “Hey, you don’t mind if Romano comes to join us?”

France pauses, his eyes narrowing slowly. “Why is he suddenly able to come over now?”

Spain shrugs, closing his phone. “Something about needing a break from his brother…”

“Ah,” France nods sympathetically, crossing his arms. “Tell him it’s too late.”

“What?” Spain drags, scandalised. “Come on, why not?” He asks, leaning over the table.

“He’s annoying,” France says flatly. “And grumpy. Which reminds me of a certain someone—”

“Oh shut up, frog,” England cuts in, kicking the back of his head from the couch. 

France whirls immediately, nursing his head. “I didn’t even say your name! My god, you barbarian.” He turns his attention back to Spain. “Fine. Tell him he can come.”

Spain beams. “Sweet! Also, we might be here longer than a day. Staying at your place for a week to relax sounds good right?”

France’s eye twitches. “When you say my place, I hope for your sake it’s the country and not my house because you will be kicked out.”

England tries not to seem too invested in the conversation, though beside him Portugal seems not to mind as he reacts accordingly to every small thing. There’s a strange feeling he can’t quite place in his gut, over the extra guest, but what he can place is the curdling envy that Spain can somehow remain so close to an ex-territory. But he knows why he can’t have that for himself.

There’s a pause before the Netherlands coughs into his fist, clearing his throat. “Prussia’s been tucking his extra cards away.”

Prussia looks down at his hands, and looks back up to see the other three staring right back at him. He is, inexplicably, holding a single card.

“...Uno?”

The argument explodes all over again, Portugal’s lip perks with the faintest curl of amusement, glass resting loose in his hand as he sips slowly. He watches the scene for a moment longer than necessary before he speaks up again. 

“It’s nice that the accord has given us more time for ourselves.” He says casually.

England shifts his focus back to him. “Yes… It is…” He trails off, he can feel Portugal already pivoting to the next thing.

Portugal offers him a small smile, before it morphs into something more serious. “The accord’s given me a lot of time to think,” he starts slowly. “And a way to look at things from a… different perspective.”

England turns his head, frowning slightly. “Different how?”

“Well,” Portugal says, tilting his head. “Everyone who talks about the accord seems to fall at one extreme or the other. Either thrilled about it, or absolutely miserable. But for most of us nations…” He shrugs lightly. “I don’t think we’ve quite figured out what to do with it yet.”

England considers that. “...I know what you mean,” he admits after a beat. “I’ve tried not to let it change too much. But you can feel it. The difference.” His mouth twists. “It’s strange, not having to do anything.”

Portugal chuckles quietly. “It makes sense you’d be wary of change. That’s very you, England.”

“Oi,” England says playfully. “I’m not the only one who prefers everything staying the same.” He says as he gently nudges Portugal’s side.

“No,” Portugal agrees easily. “But don’t you see the opportunity in it?” His eyes brighten just a fraction. “We can be people now. Properly.” He takes another sip of his drink. “I’ve started reintroducing myself as João. Been reconnecting with my people outside of being their nation. Doing things I’d never have considered before.”

England stares. “João?” 

João smiles. “Human names, yes.”

“You can’t be serious,” England responds.

“I’m not the only one,”  João replies. “America’s quite determined to separate himself from his country entirely. He made a very loud announcement about it at his party.”

England grimaces. “Right. Well,  I’m certainly not doing that.” He crosses his arms. “The accord’s getting to people’s heads. It doesn’t change the fact that we’re not human. Being England is still—” He taps his chest firmly, “—a core part of who I am.”

João lets that pass. “We all carry pride for our countries,” he says instead. “Our people do, and we feel it through them. With all our culture, history, and language… That will never go away,” he takes a sip of his drink. “But we are not our people.”

England frowns. “You’re going to have to elaborate on that.”

João nods, always expecting pushback from him. “Our people inherit stories,” he says. “We actually lived them. They grow up with myths and polished versions of events of what came before them… historically. But we were there to see it as it was. Messy. Ugly. Violent. We should know better than them when it comes to glorifying the past.”

England shifts, folding his hands. “You’re saying we should be ashamed of ourselves.”

João furrows his eyebrows, lips pursed. “That is not what I am saying,”

“You’re talking about our old actions and the people we hurt.” England says blandly, “like that wasn’t what all of Europe was doing at the time. And telling me I shouldn’t be proud about what I accomplished as just an Island.” He says proudly, though he curls into himself, guarded. His knuckles whitening as they press into each other.

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it,”  João replies calmly. “I’m saying romanticising it helps no one.”

When England doesn’t respond, he keeps going. “Not them, and certainly not us.” His gaze drifts, unfocused, though still pointed at the card game. “How many times have you, or your people, talked about the ‘golden years’? About empires, glory, and influence, like all that power just came from honest hard work?”

England presses his lips together thinly, not daring to speak up just yet. Not with João.

“Our people didn’t feel the consequences,” João continues. “They are just mortals. The youngest of them weren’t there when lands were stripped, families were broken, and languages were erased. But they get to live with the results of it, wealth, infrastructure, and stories told from one side.” 

He exhales slowly, “We cannot expect all of them to understand the full extent of where that pride stems from, my people, for one, love to reminisce about when we held ‘true’ power, without acknowledging where it came from.” He paused. “But there are still people, and nations, who feel the pain we caused, right now.” 

The room feels quieter somehow, even as Spain slams a card down and France yelps in protest. 

England rubs a hand over his face. “You’re making it sound like we’re personally responsible for every bad thing that happened.”

João turns to him fully now. “We are,” he says simply. “In part. We lived through it. We made the choices.”

“That’s—” England cuts himself off, jaw tight. “That’s unfair.” 

“Maybe.” João allows. “But pretending otherwise hasn’t helped.” He sighs. “We feel what our people do. Their pride is ours. But we are not just nations, we are also people, who are more than capable of thinking and believing differently than our average citizen. The accord has taken away our excuse of shielding our pride and ego by disguising it as just the voice of our people.”

England stares at his hands. His voice comes out rougher than he expects. “And what am I supposed to do with that, then? Hm?” He looks up, eyes sharp. “How am I meant to fix a thousand years of blood and theft and—” He gestures helplessly. “You can’t just apologise that away.”

João doesn’t answer immediately. He considers England the way one might consider a storm cloud. Dangerous and heavy, but nowhere malicious.

“You can’t fix it. What’s done is done.” He says eventually. “But you can ease the leftover hurt. You start small.”

England lets out a bitter laugh. “That’s it? That’s your wisdom?”

João’s mouth quirks. “A strongly worded letter to the British Museum demanding they return their stolen displays wouldn’t hurt.”

England freezes. “You cannot be serious.” He deadpans.

“I am,” João says, utterly sincere. “And they’d listen to you too, with all that leftover buzz of the accord, how would it look on them if they still refused after being scolded by England itself?”

England scowls, folding his arms. “Is this really the time for jokes?”

João meets his gaze, unflinching. “I’m not joking. You can’t tackle everything at once, Inglaterra. That’s what makes you procrastinate making any changes. You start with something… tangible. Something real.” He tilts his head. “When was the last time you spoke to your brothers about anything that wasn’t work or an argument?” 

England immediately turns his head. “I’m not answering that.”

João laughs softly. “Of course you wouldn’t”

England bristles. “Don’t”

“But I get it,” João continues gently. “Believe me. Things with me and my brother were… strained, for a long time,” His voice warms with memory. “It took centuries to get where we are now. And even then, it wasn’t easy.”

England mutters, “That’s easy for you to say, you never conquered your brother, or half the world for that matter.”

João’s expression doesn’t change. “No,” he agrees. “But it was my people who started the slave trade. And France wasn’t far behind you in carving up the world, while Spain and I were ruthless competitors.” His eyes flick briefly toward the table. “And the Netherlands…” He huffs a quiet laugh. “Well, ‘ethical colonisation’ didn’t exactly save any of the hundreds of people who died in his forced labour. But the world didn’t end after all that. And that pain still carries on, we’re in a position that calls for us to at least try to make sure that we do not condone those actions any longer.”

England goes still. “...You’re oddly well informed about everyone else’s sins.” He says after a moment.

João smiles faintly. “What kind of immortals would we be if we didn’t keep track of our own damage?”

England exhales, sinking back into the couch. “It’s a lot.”

“Yes,” João says softly. “It is.” He rolls his glass slowly between his palms. The ice has melted enough that it no longer rattles when he moves it.

“There are a lot of people I owe apologies to,” he says, not looking at England. “Places I passed through and never really left. People who remember me for what I took, not what I gave.” A breath. “I’m trying to be better about it. To listen more, apologise where I can.” He smiles. It’s faint and crooked. “With the understanding that forgiveness isn’t something that’s owed to me… Some doors won’t open again. That’s just how it is.”

England doesn’t answer. His gaze drifts, unfocused. Past the card table and the raised voices rising over his and João’s conversation. The noise dulls, merging into something indistinct, and his mind fills the silence for him, names surface, uninvited.

His brothers, first. Always them first. Scotland’s anger, sharpened by centuries of being spoken over, bargained away, and folded into compromises that never favoured him. Wales absorbed piece by piece, culture pared down until the language itself had to fight back to survive. Ireland—God. Ireland makes something cave in behind his ribs. The plantations. The famine he stood by and watched happen—made happen as it unfolded with ink-stained hands and tidy justifications where starvation was morphed into policy. Northern Ireland, still caught in the aftermath of everything, paying for the decisions England had made and walked away from once they became too volatile to manage.

Further out, the list only grows. America, brash and loud. Shaped by rebellion England provoked. Canada, much quieter about his hurt, but still carved up all the same, just for being part of his territory. Australia and New Zealand, lands he’d looked at and seen emptiness where people already lived, bodies classified as obstacles until he could turn them into something palatable and familiar. India, drained and divided, borders drawn with careless hands and another famine while wealth was siphoned away as millions starved beneath British rule. China, forced open at gunpoint and addiction. Opium for silk, treaties signed with one hand and enforced by the other. 

Africa fractures in his thoughts. Nigeria, Kenya, too many others. Borders carved without care, labour extracted until entire generations buckled beneath it. Islands too. Seychelles, names small enough to forget, but the damage large enough to last. The countless colonies he’d cursed with his god while he and his people stripped land bare in the name of his Bible and crown alike.

And the wars. Endless ones. France, Spain, and the rest of Europe, enemies to allies, to enemies again. Fields turned to mud and bone, cities burnt and rebuilt, just to be burned again. It was all pushed as necessity, as glorious, and every bit heroic. Anything but what it was, truly. A push for power from kings who never left their kingdoms.

Even Sealand flickers through his mind, unexpectedly. A child he’d dismissed because his government hadn’t recognised it, because it was easier to laugh it off as ridiculous. He’d left the boy alone with Finland and Sweden, treated him like a passing thought instead of anything that mattered, no effort to connect with the boy who resembled himself in ways he can’t face. 

What right does he have to apologise now?

The question coils tighter the longer he sits with it. What good is regret when it is expressed too late? When it comes after centuries of pride, of doubling down, of brushing blood off his hands and justifying murder. How does one apology even begin to touch famine, slavery, ignorance, and cultures fractured beyond repair? 

Would anyone believe him as genuine if he tried? Or would they just hear another empire insisting it was all for the greater good.

England swallows, throat tight. His hands curl against the couch cushion, nails pressing into fabric like he can anchor himself there. Pride has been his armour for so long that stripping it away feels like he’s being exposed to vulnerabilities that he’s only brought to himself. Without it, there’s just the weight, the reckoning, the awful certainty that no amount of remorse can undo what he’s done. 

João watches him quietly, giving him space, but not too much. 

“I don’t want you drowning in it,” he says gently. “You always do this. You stew.” His eyes crinkle into something soft. “You wrap the guilt up in pride and convince yourself that doubling down is the same as standing strong.”

England huffs out something humourless, barely a laugh. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

“Probably,” João sways. “But I’ve watched you do it for centuries. Push people away before they can leave on their own.” He tilts his head. “You don’t have to carry it alone. And you don’t have to pretend it didn’t happen either.”

England stares at the ceiling, jaw tight. “I don’t know how to face them,” he admits quietly. “Not without feeling like every word I say is too little. Or worse— self-serving.”

João nods. “It probably will be, at first.” A pause. “That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try.”

The argument at the table erupts again, something about cheating, and something else about rules. But it feels distant now, like a buzzing from another room. 

João nudges England lightly with his elbow. “Just… don’t disappear, Arthur. That’s all I’m asking.”

Arthur doesn’t answer right away, But he doesn’t pull away either. His eyes move back to the table again. France has an arm around Prussia’s shoulder, while gesturing wildly with his other hand, his cards no longer seen as he argues a rule he definitely made up. Prussia seems a bit more subdued. He leans into France’s shoulder, settling, while he focuses intently on his hand. Spain’s laughing too loud, protesting France’s ridiculousness even as he leans closer from across the table, while the Netherlands has laid his cards flat down on the table as he leans back on his arms with a long-suffering sigh.

There was a time when scenes like this had been impossible.

There was a time when every gathering like this had been sharp with calculation, every laugh edged with suspicion, every alliance temporary, every kindness weighed for what it could be traded for later. Arthur remembers rooms thick with tension, where hands hovered over weapons rather than each other, where treaties were signed with masked glares and crossed fingers. He can recall these scenes as if they were yesterday. France, across from him, smiling too wide, Spain’s scrutiny and cruel words hidden in between charismatic conversation. The Netherlands measuring profit, even in war. 

And now. Now they bicker over cards and rules that didn’t matter. Over games that end with groans and laughter instead of bloodshed. They sat with each other casually, unguarded. As if this were always the status quo. As if all that history and hatred and animosity were nothing but small hiccups. He feels something ache, low and unfamiliar.

Arthur takes a deep breath. He thinks of all the ways he’d learnt to equate distance and safety. How every betrayal had taught him to build higher walls. How power became armour, and then his identity. How it stopped being about survival and started being about control. He’d convinced himself it was necessary. That to protect himself, to protect anything, he had to be untouchable. 

And somewhere along the way, he’d stopped noticing who was no longer standing beside him.

His brothers, edged out by politics and pride. Former allies turned into obligations, and former friends turned into liabilities. He’d isolated himself so thoroughly that when silence finally followed him, it felt like punishment, not peace.

João cuts through his thoughts. “You don’t have to fix everything,” he says. “You don’t have to spend the rest of your life trying to earn forgiveness from the world.” He pauses, exhaling slowly. “That’s how I started. I thought if I kept tallying my wrongs, if I punished myself enough, I’d earn the right to live with everything without resenting myself.”

“If you want this—” he nods toward the table, toward the noise and the warmth, the careless closeness, “—then you have to let yourself be seen again. Even when it’s uncomfortable.” His voice softens. “You have to face yourself, everything that concerns you and your guilt. Not to undo it, because you can’t. But just to stop letting it sit between you and everyone else around you.”

Arthur stares at the table. At France, who throws his head back now in laughter. At Prussia, who was now loudly crowing victory prematurely. At Spain, who leaned across the table and into Prussia’s space without fear. And the Netherlands, who sat along with them, staying despite being unused to the group.

Arthur feels something stir in his gut. It’s been a long time since he’s allowed himself that kind of closeness without mentally detaching himself, without quietly convincing himself it wasn’t real, or wouldn’t last, or just wasn’t meant for him anyway.

João’s words echo, uncomfortably precise. Let yourself be seen. 

The guilt he’s buried under pride and habit isn’t new. That’s the worst part. It’s only now that he’s stopped outrunning it long enough to feel its full weight. He’s a little stunned at how cleanly João named it, how gently, even. There’s no accusation there, only recognition, from a friend who was in a similar position. And somehow, the realisation of guilt doesn’t weigh the way Arthur expects it to.

“I don’t know if they’d want me back in their lives,” he says quietly, thinking of his brothers, his old colonies, of the places he left burning behind him. “Not my family. Not… anyone.”

João rests his head at Arthur’s side, the contact is easy and unforced. “You won’t know until you reach out. You’re the one who has to make the first move here.” His smile when Arthur glances sideways is small and earnest. “And if they don’t, then at least you’ll know you didn’t hide behind your pride and actually faced it.” 

Arthur sits with that for a long moment. The room hums around them, cards shuffle, there’s a laugh from the table. The world keeps going, inconvenient and alive.

“I suppose…” Arthur starts, then stops. He huffs softly through his nose, hanging his head like he’s embarrassed by the thought. “I suppose it makes sense to… try.”

It feels strange, saying it aloud. Like stepping onto unfamiliar ground without anything to fall back on. He turns his head just enough to offer João an awkward crooked smile, one that doesn’t quite know what to do with itself yet.

João blinks, then lets out a quiet laugh, muffling it against his knuckles. He slips an arm around Arthur’s side without ceremony, pulling him in just slightly, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. 

Arthur doesn’t stiffen.

He exhales instead, long and slow, and lets himself settle back against Portugal’s hug. The tension in his shoulders eases by a fraction he didn’t realise he was holding. It’d been a long time since he’d allowed this kind of closeness without immediately cataloguing reasons it wouldn’t last, or couldn’t be real. 

For a few seconds, the noise fades. There’s just the warmth, the steady presence beside him, the simple fact of being there. Then—

“Absolutely not,” France snaps, slamming his hand down. “That move was illegal, and you know it.”

Prussia scoffs loudly. “You’re just mad because your ‘brilliant’ strategy fell apart.” He asserts as he turns his head.

“You’re both ridiculous!” Spain throws his hands up, frustrated. “Neither of you have even finished your cards–”

The Netherlands pinches the bridge of his nose.

João straightens suddenly, eyes lighting up. “You know what?” he says, cutting through them. “New game. Fresh start.” He leans forward, shifting his position, to get up. “Deal two new hands.”

Before Arthur can protest, João slides his hand to hold Arthur’s wrist and hauls him off the couch with a laugh he doesn’t bother hiding. 

“Hey–” Arthur starts, but he’s already being tugged down onto the rug, wedged between France and Prussia as the cards are shoved into his hands.

France grins at him. “Took you long enough.” 

Arthur leans away, before Prussia snorts next to him. “Try not to lose immediately, yeah?”

Arthur looks down at the cards, then to João on the other side, who’d sat himself between his brother and the Netherlands. He looks at the mess of them. Bickering, laughing, alive. And something in his chest shifts.

He settles in, and just this once, doesn’t pull away.

Chapter Text

Alfred’s consciousness comes back to him in pieces. 

First, there is taste. His tongue is sour and metallic in his mouth, like he’d just spent the night chewing pennies in his sleep. Then touch. Cold tiles on the floor, cool porcelain of whatever he is leaning his head on. And then the smell. Beer and vomit, rolled into a nauseating mix. 

He cracks his eyes open and immediately regrets it. White blurs fill his vision, fuzzy and swimming. The world tilts unpleasantly as he tries to focus, his stomach lurching in protest. He groans and squeezes his eyes shut again, pressing his forehead forward against the cool and unforgiving—

Toilet. He was hugging the toilet. 

That tracked.

Alfred shifts, a mistake. His head starts throbbing as if someone had started banging drums just behind his eyes. He stumbles blindly for balance as he tries to stand up, one hand scrambling over the tile that was much colder than he expected. His other arm slipped, elbow knocking against the tub with a dull thud.

“Ow—fuck,” he mutters, voice hoarse. Even speaking feels like too much effort. And the new pain in his funny bone does nothing to help his mood.

He drags himself upright inch by inch, blinking blearily. His glasses are missing. That’s immediately a problem. The bathroom is an abstract painting of shapes, light, and colour, bleeding into one another. He can make out the vague outline of the tub, the sink, and the mirror looming over him. His reflection stares back at him, a pale blur as he hobbles toward the sink.

Something crunches under his bare foot. He freezes.

He looks down, squinting. Whatever it was, it has now shattered. Jagged shapes scatter across the tile. Glass, probably. A bottle? A cup? His brain obligingly supplies a quick montage of clinking, cheering, and someone shouting his name.

The party comes back to him in fragmented clips.

Music too loud, bass rattling the walls. Red plastic cups stacked into precarious towers. Someone— Australia, probably— standing on the coffee table like it was a stage, gesturing wildly with a drink sloshing dangerously close to the edge. The sharp smell of whisky; the sweeter burn of something mixed with soda. Laughter that went on too long, bordering on something unhinged.

Alfred winced as he shifted his weight carefully, lifting his foot. A sting thinly flared across his sole. Great, another thing to add to his list of pain. He reached for the sink, steadying himself, then twisted the tap on too hard. Water roared to life, startling him, and he fumbled to turn it down.

The mirror caught his attention again. He leaned closer, peering at his reflection as if it might explain how he’d gotten here. His silhouette cleared just enough so that he could see his hair stuck up in at least three different directions, and the faint smudge on his cheek, which could have been marker… or maybe some sort of face paint.

The accord. The memory hits him harder than the headache.

Desks upon desks in rows and flags lined up against the wall. The humming of simultaneous translation buzzed before they were forced to stand. Pens scratching on paper, formalities that felt foreign on the faces of all the nations he’d known. Alfred remembered leaning back in his chair, jaw tight, while he tried to look relaxed as clauses were settled into place.

Someone had slapped him on the back after and told him he’d done well. The congratulations had felt more rehearsed than anything, ringing heavily in his ear. Someone else had raised a glass for a toast, declaring one thing or another. The party hadn’t really been planned. It was not what he usually did, where he would meticulously arrange something grand and loud, making sure that everyone would know and what they would speak about for ages. But it still felt inevitable that he would celebrate something. If it could keep his morale high, it was worth it.

Alfred turns away from the mirror and staggers out of the bathroom, navigating without his sight, using muscle memory. Though muscle memory does not help with the minefield that is strewn about his hallway. He nudges something soft with his foot, a leftover jacket, or something, and nearly trips over a chair that absolutely had not been there yesterday. 

The living room comes into view in bright shapes, but what he notices first is the smell of citrus cleaner that lingers in the air. The room is mostly clean, or at least cleaner than it should have been. He can feel the difference as he steps into the living room. He can see strings of bright colours, streamers, his mind provided, drooping sadly from the ceiling, forgotten casualties of the night before.

His head filled in what his eyes couldn’t see clearly now, with the night before.

Czechia arguing with Slovakia near the window, voices overlapping familiarly. Cameroon stood awkwardly by the wall, nursing a drink, more of a responsibility than a pleasure. Someone— France? Laughing too loudly in his ear over blaring music. Canada hovering at the edge of it all. Always too easy to overlook unless you know how to find him.

Alfred pauses, hand bracing against the couch, only to feel someone there. He jumps slightly, but the person doesn’t react. He can faintly make out the curled figure, but he can’t quite catch who it may be. He lets them rest as he tries to get a grip on the changes in the room. The faint smell of pancakes wafts in from the kitchen now, layering over the ghost of alcohol and sweat. Someone had opened a window and cold air seeped in, raising goosebumps along his arms.

His glasses. Right. That is priority number one. Everything else can wait until the world stops being a mess of fuzz.

He follows the smell and the soft, steady noise trailing from the kitchen, one cautious step at a time. The floorboards creak under his feet, protesting each shift of his weight. The house feels too quiet for how much his head was throbbing.

The kitchen is brighter than the living room had been. Sunlight streams in through the window, bouncing off pale countertops and making everything an ache to look at. Alfred hisses softly and lifts a hand to shield his eyes, squinting as he crosses the threshold.

That’s when he spots them. The blurred outline of his glasses sitting on the counter, folded neatly beside a mug. Exactly where he would’ve left them if he’d been thinking clearly. A small, lightening wave of relief washes over him as he puts his glasses back on. The room snaps into focus, and starts to give him a mildly less painful hangover headache. He lets out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding and leans his hip against the counter, grounding himself.

Then he looks up. Behind the counter, someone stands at the stove. The warm and buttery smell of pancakes completely fills the space, rich and unmistakable, and the soft sizzle of batter meeting the hot pan feels strikingly loud in the face of the house’s silence.

Canada, who has already half-turned at the sound of Alfred’s uneven footsteps, smiles, spatula resting loosely in his hand.

“Nice nap?” he says mildly, as he flips the formed pancake with practised ease.

Alfred stares at him for a second too long, eyes tracking the pancake as it lands neatly back in the pan. Then his gaze snaps to Canada’s face.

“Dude,” he groans, voice rough, “you left me sleeping by the toilet.”

Canada’s smile twitches. He slides the pancake off the pan and onto the growing stack, then pours fresh batter without looking, the motion automatic. “Did you really expect me to haul you to a bed?” he asks, tone light. “You are double my size, and I wouldn’t want to risk waking you up unless I was looking to get a punch to the gut.”

Alfred crosses his arms, shifting his weight as the movement sends a faint pulse of pain through his skull. “I am not that heavy,” he responds, unamused. “And when have I ever tried to hit you?”

Canada frowns, eyebrows scrunching together as he nudges the plate closer to the stove. “Last night,” he replies. “You wanted to fist fight me to see who would win in a ‘fair match’” 

Alfred opens his mouth, then stops. “That doesn’t sound like me.”

“It really does,” Canada states calmly, with a hint of concern.

He slides the last pancake onto the stack and turns off the stove, the sudden quiet almost jarring. Then he turns back to Alfred, lifting the plate slightly in offering.

“Breakfast for dinner?”

There was a beat. “Dinner?” Alfred echoes.

“It’s… a quarter to five.” Canada sets the plate down on the counter next to Alfred. “You’ve been out for a while, which is what happens when you party ‘till dawn.” He adds with a considerate smile. “I cleaned your living room and kitchen while you were busy hugging your toilet.”

Alfred blinks, then looks past him, scanning the noticeably spotless kitchen, before pausing again. “It can’t be that late, there are people still here–”

“Just one,” Canada cuts in. He gestures vaguely down to the living room with his chin. “I felt too bad to wake Japan up. He drank a lot last night.”

Alfred grimaces in sympathy. “Oh… Yeah. Probably best to let him wake up on his own.” He hesitates, then asks, quieter. “So… everyone else already left? Why are you still here?”

Canada shrugs, a small and easy motion. “Everyone else had flights to catch. I’m in no rush,” he hums. “I figured I’d stay and help clean up most of the mess. Here, have these.” He pulls painkillers out of his pocket, passing them over.

There was a brief pause. Alfred picks up what he assumes is his own mug, which had been sitting by his glasses earlier. “Oh,” Alfred nods. “Thanks.” He tilts his head back as he pops the pills in, taking them dry. When he finally brings the mug up to drink, the scalding coffee burns the bitter taste from his tongue.

“You realise that coffee is bad to have during a hangover?” Canada explains, his voice attentive.

Alfred places the mug down, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Then why’d you make it?”

Canada’s frown fell flat. “Because I made it for me.” He answers blandly.

“Oh.” Alfred responds, pushing the mug that was now half empty towards him.

Canada sighs. “No, you can have it. I’ll just make another.” His expression shifts back into an amused smile, one that made it obvious he didn’t take much of Alfred’s actions to heart anymore. He swiftly made himself another cup of coffee.

“I should get one of these machines for my place… It’s really quick.” Canada comments, the steam from his coffee fogging up his glasses. He moves back over and nudges the plate of pancakes a little closer across the counter as he pulls forks from the drawer with his other hand. “Are you gonna eat or what?” 

Alfred picks up his mug and the plate, careful to balance the stack with his hand. “And what are you gonna eat?” 

“Half of that stack. I didn’t cook eight pancakes so you could have all of them.” Canada huffed quietly.

Alfred looked down at the plate. Then back to Canada. “If you think I’m not gonna be hungry after four pancakes, you’re wrong.”

“Will you save me two?” Canada asks tiredly.

“Maybe.” Alfred responds.

He turns, already walking, careful not to tip the plate as he threads past the edge of the counter. Canada followed behind him with his coffee, their footsteps soft against the floor as they move into the dining area tucked just behind the couch.

Japan is still where Alfred had semi-seen him. He’s sprawled across the cushions, shoes kicked off somewhere unseen, one arm dangling toward the floor. His hair is loose, face slack in sleep, chest rising slowly and steadily. He looks… younger, somehow. Less composed and less guarded.

Alfred slowed without intending to, but he can’t help it. He glances down at him, foggy memories of empty bottles filtering through, but they’re nowhere to be seen now.

Canada sets the mug down on the table first, pulling out a chair with his foot. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him drink that much,” he whispers, like he’s afraid volume alone might wake him.

Alfred sets the pancakes down, plate thumping softly on the table, and lowers himself into the chair opposite. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Normally he isn’t this bad.”

Canada looks at him over the rim of his mug. “You’ve seen him drunk before?”

“Nothing like this,” Alfred says, before thinking it over. “Well, not often. He likes alcohol, but only when it’s like… in a controlled space and with no company.” He pokes at the stack of pancakes with his fork, nudging them into alignment. “I’ve seen him drunk off his ass, sure, just… not around lots of people.”

Canada hums as he takes another sip of his coffee.

“He probably needed it,” Alfred adds after a beat, his voice quieter, gaze drifting back to the couch. “After the accord.”

There’s hesitation in Canada’s movements, just slightly, as he places his mug back down again.

“The whole accord thing dredged everything up,” Alfred continues, words coming heavier. “Stuff his government buried, about his history and all that. They don’t educate his people, and so it all gets repressed. You know how it is.” Alfred sighs, and Canada nods slowly.

Many nations knew how it felt; to forget things because it was lost to history, or purposefully erased. Their memory is not infallible. There was a period of time when Alfred had absolutely no recollection of his life before British rule. It had taken decades for the memories to come back, and even then, he knew it was hardly much.

“Cutting governmental ties probably forced all of that imperialist crap back up to the surface,” He runs a hand through his hair. “So, yeah, I don’t blame him for drinking it all away for now.”

There’s a moment where neither of them speaks. Japan snores softly from the couch, barely audible.

Then Alfred clears his throat and reaches for his mug, breaking the silent spell. “Anyway,” he says, much too casually. “Where’d you disappear to last night? I swear I lost you after, like, ten minutes.”

Canada blinks before relaxing. “Oh! Uh, me and Zee locked ourselves in the guest room and watched Superman on my phone.”

“Oh.” Alfred furrows his eyebrows, looking down at the pancakes. “Breakfast for dinner.” 

Canada nods, perfectly serious. “Exactly.”

There’s another beat before Alfred speaks again. “New Zealand was here?”

“Yeah,” Canada says. “He came with Aussie.”

“Oh, yeah, that makes sense.” He nods, staring down at the pancakes again, before he finally spears one with his fork and takes a bite.

Canada watches him chew for a moment before speaking again. “Even with the door closed, we could still hear most of what was going on outside. You’ve got really thin walls.” 

Alfred rolls his eyes before trying to push the food down to speak. He ends up getting his throat blocked, so he grabs the mug to drink instead.

“Most of it was still muffled, so I couldn’t hear specifics, but I did catch what I think was you doing another one of your drunken speeches.”  Canada continues mildly, leaning his head on his hand.

Alfred swallows the food, hitting his chest for a second before gasping for breath. “Yeah?” He barely croaked out.

“Mhm.” Canada traces the rim of his mug with his other hand. “Something about not being called America anymore, and going by Alfred.” He offers a small smile. “The rest was a little hard to make out, you started slurring your words, and there was a lot of loud cheering.”

Alfred sets his fork down slowly, the sharp ends clinking against the plate. He keeps his gaze low, drifting somewhere unfocused. 

America. A name he has carried for ages, loud and proudly, a name earned.

He loves it, the idea of it. The mythology, The history, and the bones of it, it was all him, and it always will be. What it stands for was something he’d built, alongside every other notable American he’d shared himself with. America was Independence, fighting out of an empire through will and stacked odds, built on written promises of liberty, representation, and the determined bravery that came with declaring himself free and daring the rest of the world to disagree with him. He was raised on belief, but he was always born with defiance. 

Heroism was something that was supposed to follow naturally after. 

He had accumulated power and respect, enough to stand alongside the nations who all had influence for longer than he had been a thought. He wanted to give the rest of the world the freedom he’d found for himself, the solution he thought was universal, what he thought would make the world a better place.

But somewhere along the way, “liberation” started leaving rubble behind. He’d come in and leave countries worse off than before, promising freedom and democracy as his only goal, while silently taking what he wanted. He stood beside presidents and officials, smiling and nodding away, as he pretended that everything was as it should be. He was a mouthpiece. His leaders spoke through him, but never with him.

Freedom, liberty, and justice. His core and his creed. It has all only felt farther away with every passing decade, slipping slowly but surely.

He’s never truly been free, even when he’d won his independence. Who he is, and was, will always be bound to a government. He is a nation’s personification, not the nation itself or a person, but a being intrinsically tied to the land. Freedom was a value he couldn’t practice. Even now, with the accord loosening those ties, the idea of freedom still feels more theoretical than anything, Distant. Something he keeps reaching for and never quite touches.

The America he became isn’t the America he grew up believing in.

Alfred exhales slowly and reaches for his mug, using the motion to ground himself. 

“I meant it,” he sighs, quiet, but steady. “About the name.”

Canada tilts his head slightly, attentive, but not alarmed. “Yeah?”

“I’m not… I’m not leaving behind all that stuff, I’m still America,” Alfred affirms. “I’m proud of it. I always have been.” His fingers tighten around the mug. “But the America I was, when those ideals were written down, when freedom actually meant something tangible.”

He huffs a short and humourless laugh. “It feels wrong. Calling myself that, when the America I am isn’t the same as the one that’s still standing.”

Canada takes a second to nod, absorbing it. Not rushing to fill the silence. “So Alfred, then.”

Aflred glances up, surprised.

Canada smiles, small and sincere. “If that’s what you want to be called.”

Something in Alfred’s chest loosens, just a little. A knot he hadn’t realised was there, untying. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “It is.”

Canada hesitates, then adds, “Then… you can call me Matthew, if you want.”

“Mathew?” Alfred blinks

“Yeah,” Matthew shrugs, “Feels fair. If you're using your human name, I’ll use mine. I was getting sick of reintroducing myself as Canada every time anyway.”

Alfred snorts. “Dude, even with the name change, you’re still gonna need reintroducing.”

Mattie rolls his eyes. “You’re such a pain,” he huffs, but his lips still curl into a hesitant smile.

“Just being honest.” Alfred grins faintly, though it fades just as quickly, replaced by something more thoughtful. “Mattie suits you,”

“Thanks.” Is all Mattie can say in response. He shifts in his seat, staring into his mug, watching the surface ripple as he tilts it slightly, the reflection warping and settling again.

“So,” Mattie says after a beat, tone carefully neutral. “What are you gonna do now?”

Alfred stops for a moment. Then he lets out a breath through his nose. “The same dumb stuff I always do.” He ticks it all off lazily. “Video games. Junk food. Sleeping in. Enjoying not having someone breathing down my neck every second of the day.”

Mattie nods along, lips pursed, not quite convinced. And that’s fair. Alfred isn’t sure he’s convinced either.

Because it isn’t a lie. But it isn’t the whole truth.

Freedom, despite craving it for as long as he can remember, doesn’t sit right. It’s not light and soaring, like he’d always imagined, but heavy and solid. Real. It’s something that doesn’t come with instructions, that’s the whole point. 

For the first time since his independence, there’s no voice waiting to correct him, no hand steering him back into line, no expectation that he’ll just smile, salute, and stay silent. He doesn’t have to adhere to any command telling him to sit, roll over, fetch, or listen. He has a voice now. He can’t waste it.

“But I can’t just enjoy myself when I know things around me aren’t looking great,” Alfred states finally, more grounded.

He presses his thumb into the ceramic of the mug, letting the warmth keep him present. He thinks about the people who chant his name, America, like a promise, like their ideal version of him isn’t skewed in vitriol and hate. He thinks of the others, who still believe in the idea of him, even as the reality of what he has become keeps failing them. About how often he’s stood at podiums and summits and smiled, while knowing damn well he couldn’t do a thing to change what would come.

 “I keep calling myself a hero,” he continues, a bitterness woven in the word, “but sitting around and doing nothing while others get hurt isn’t saving anyone.” His gaze flickers toward the rest of the living room, toward the couch, toward everything beyond it, toward the streets filled with voices he hasn’t answered, toward lives shaped by decisions he’s been forced to stand beside instead of against.

“If I’m going to do anything,” he voices, firmer now, resolve settling in his chest, “it should be for the people who need me the most right now.” His jaw sets, determined. “My people.”

Mattie’s expression softens. “That’s…” He trails off, slightly dazed. “Really inspiring.” He affirms quietly but completely earnest.

“I owe it to them,” Alfred replies. “People all over are going missing and being killed by a system that’s meant to protect them.” His fingers tighten around the mug until his knuckles pale. “And I’ve been… complicit in it all, even when I hated every second of it.” 

He swallows, throat tight. “I want to speak up— to actually stand for something. Not as America, the country, but as me, the person.”

Silence blankets the air following his words. Across from him, Matthew only purses his lips, no rush to fill the quiet. He only watches, attentive and waiting. Alfred's thoughts ring through the silence, constantly moving.

He doesn’t have a plan. Not really. There is no clean roadmap or rousing speech ready to go, something that would make sense of his feelings. Just vague ideas. Protests he could show up to, words he could say without a script. Moments where he could use just his presence to shift the weight of a room, and letting that be enough. It’s all messy and unformed, nothing like the grand narratives he’d always stood for. But for once, it feels honest, as directionless as it may be. His attention pointed toward something better.

And then, inevitably, the doubt creeps in too.

Is it still heroic if he’s the main person benefiting from his own help? 

He’s spent so long equating heroism with self-sacrifice. It’s what every great hero does. Iron Man, Prometheus, Obi-Wan Kenobi. He’d like to think he would be up there too, that he would let himself bleed out quietly for the greater good. But when he looks at all the actions he has taken, not imagined in his own daydreams, he’s only ever chosen himself.

Maybe before, he would have blamed it on his bosses, or other countries, but when he looks at the decisions he wants to make now, when he has the freedom to choose, choosing himself feels like the fixed choice. And it all feels wrong in a way he can’t fully articulate. 

Heroes are supposed to save others first. They’re not supposed to pause and sort themselves out, because when the world is at stake, those things don’t matter. Heroes don’t get to step back while there are places still healing from damage they helped carve.

And so unavoidably, his thoughts circle back to the people he hurt. The places and countries that will never be the same. Still living in the aftermath of decisions he can never fully undo. The guilt creeps into his bones, settling heavily in his heart until his limbs feel like weights he can’t escape. Whispers in his ear about his indulgence, that it’s all just avoidance dressed up and pretending to be growth. That maybe, this is all just another way he’s running from what he’s done. He’s not a hero. He’s a coward.

Alfred exhales. “I know what I want to do. But I can’t help but feel a little… selfish for it”

On the other side of the table, Mattie places his mug down considerately, while raising an eyebrow. “Why?”

“I just keep thinking about the places I helped wreck”, Alfred admits lowly. “Countries that are still trying to heal, because of me. And here I am, concerned about myself. On fixing my mess first.” He laughs weakly. “Kinda feels like I’m dodging responsibility.”

Mattie shakes his head gently. “That’s not being selfish. You’re putting yourself first.” He leans forward, folding his arms on the table. “It’s like… Those airplane safety rules, right? Put your mask on first before helping others? You won’t be of any help when you need it too.” 

Mattie drew his eyebrows in, concerned, he rests his hand on Alfred's. “There will still be time to help out when you’ve done what you can for yourself.”

Alfred considers that quietly to himself. He doesn’t argue. Instead, his gaze shifts to the back of the couch, hiding Japan’s unmoving form. “I also… want to help him,” Alfred states haltingly. “But I don’t know if I’m the right person. I think I’d just make things worse.”

Following Alfred’s line of sight, Mattie knits his eyebrows. “I don’t think you’d be much help, Alf”

Alfred frowns slightly, turning back to him. “Hey—”

“I’m not done,” Mattie says mildly.  “Let him figure his stuff out. I may not know him well, but I do know he has enough self-awareness to figure out where his issues lie… He doesn’t seem like the type who would appreciate someone else trying to insert themself in and bombard him with solutions…” He pauses. “No offence,” Mattie quickly adds.

“I don’t do that…” Alfred huffs, crossing his arms.

Mattie gives Alfred a look of sceptical disbelief. “That’s literally all you do.” 

Alfred simply pouts in return. Mattie sighs. “He’s capable of handling this stuff on his own. Just… Make sure he knows you’re there. That he’s not alone with all this accord business, we’re all trying to figure ourselves out.” 

Mattie’s words linger for a moment. 

Then Alfred clears his throat. He reaches for his mug again, more for something to do with his hands rather than because he actually wants another sip. There is hardly any coffee left, and it has long since gone lukewarm. “Anyway,” he moves on, pointedly casual and deliberately light, “these pancakes are hella bland, by the way.” 

“Bland food is better for hangovers,” Mattie responds, tone flat. He tips his head toward the plate. “Also, they can’t have been that bad. You ate it all.”

“What? No I didn’t” Alfred squints down at the plate like it might have changed in the second he looked away. “See?” He nudges it forward. “I left you half a pancake.”

Mattie stares down at it, then back at Alfred. “Wow.” he deadpans. “Half.”

“Generous, I know.” Alfred leans back in his chair, chin tipped up, all in mock pride.

“Truly,” Mattie bites back sarcastically, unimpressed. He slides the plate back toward him anyway, tearing the remaining piece in two and popping one bit into his mouth. “A gift from the heart.”

Alfred grins, earlier tension in his shoulders easing just a fraction, moving on from the seriousness of it all, it gives him somewhere to stand that isn’t entirely raw. It’s nice, to open up to Matt, to put words behind his thoughts and feelings, instead of ranting to himself on a later date. But he wants nothing more than to put a pin through all the vulnerable mushy stuff for a second.

From the couch behind him, something shifts. Both of them freeze. There’s a soft rustle of fabric, the creak of the couch, followed by a low displeased sound, something like a half hum and a half goran. Alfred and Mattie exchange a look.

“Japan…?” Alfred ventures, voice louder than he realises.

Mattie slaps his hand over Alfred’s mouth. “Let him keep resting if he can,” he whispers calmly, eyes fixed to the back of the couch. “He doesn’t need to deal with you first thing after a hangover.” Mattie whispers.

Alfred peels Mattie’s hand off with exaggerated offence, but he doesn’t speak. What he does instead is cross his arms sulkily and turn away theatrically. Another sound from the couch follows, A slow inhale, then a sharper exhale, like someone surfacing from deep water.

Japan stirs, rolling to his side, one arm coming up to shield his eyes before they even open. His brow furrows, a quiet, irritated breath slips past his lips.

Alfred winces in sympathy. He’d mostly gotten over his own migraine, one of the few perks of being what he is. His body rebounds faster, heals cleaner. Being a nation of his own strength usually allowed him to get over most hangovers before too long. Other nations aren’t so lucky.

Mattie is already on his feet, having carefully pushed his chair back. He slips past Alfred toward the kitchen. “I’ll grab something for his hangover,” he murmurs. “Don’t—”

“—say anything stupid?” Alfred supplies under his breath.

Mattie gives him a pointed look over the shoulder. “I was gonna say overwhelm him, it’s a sensitive time for all of us.” He sighs mildly, after a beat. “But yeah, that too.”

By the time Mattie disappears back into the kitchen, Japan has already opened his eyes, blinking blearily and unfocused, before pushing himself upright. He barely makes it vertical before wincing sharply, pressing a hand to his forehead.

Alfred stands, hovering near the dining table longer than necessary, fingers hooked around the back of a chair. He watches Japan for a moment, the rise and fall of his chest, the way he’s gone still in that particular and disciplined way that means he’s bracing himself. Alfred weighs everything he could say against everything he absolutely shouldn’t, and finds the overlap alarmingly large. He moves closer, over to the couch, anyway. Apprehension has never stopped him before.

“Uh,” he starts eloquently as ever, suddenly very aware of the way he was towering over Japan, too tall, and much too loud by default. He shifts his weight back a step. “Hey.”

Japan’s gaze drifts toward him. It takes a second to settle, his eyes unfocused and glassy, like he’s looking through fogged glass. When it finally settles, his expression is worn thin around the edges, tired, but not because of last night's party. Still, there’s no surprise on his face, just resignation.

“...Good afternoon,” He replies quietly.

“It’s, uh. five-something.” Alfred offers. The number feels flimsy in his mouth. He’s not exactly sure how long he and Matt had been talking for. But it was definitely already 5 o’clock.

Japan breathes out slowly, turning his face away as if the motion alone costs him effort. “I see.”

There’s an awkward pause. Alfred rocks back on his heels, then forward again, restless. “You… went pretty hard last night.”

Japan’s eyes flick toward the window, where the late light filters in through the curtains, pale and dimming. “I didn’t intend to.”

“Yeah…” Alfred scratches the back of his neck, thumb irritating the skin there. He suddenly wishes he’d stayed by the table. Or better yet, stayed quiet. How was he supposed to help if his version of help was, well, unhelpful?. “I just— I wanted to check in. See how you're… doing.”

Japan hums noncommittal, one hand comes up to his temple, pressing briefly, like a flash of pressure would numb out the headache for at least a second. “I am alive,” he reports after a moment, lowering his hand. “That appears to be the extent of it”

Alfred grimaces. “That bad, huh?”

“I have endured worse,” Japan states. He pauses, the words hanging, then adds quietly, like an afterthought. “...But not so much recently.”

Alfred opens his mouth, then closes it again, thoughts tangling before they can line up into anything useful. Mattie saves him, returning from the kitchen, holding a glass of water and a small packet. He crosses the living room without fanfare and offers it to Japan.

“Hangover cure,” he says gently. “Or at least something to help take the edge off.”

Japan accepts it with a slight bow of his head. “Thank you… Er…” He tilts his head back up, squinting his eyes.

“Cana— Mattie.” Mathew corrects himself. “It’s… Mattie” 

Japan nods once, expression smoothing back into neutrality. Alfred exhales, relieved to no longer be the sole conversational pillar. Jumping over the back of the couch to take a seat next to Japan, the movement more restrained than usual, like he’s trying not to spook a wild animal.

Mattie glances back at the table. “You’re not gonna finish that last quarter of a pancake?” He asks dryly.

Alfred tilts his head back toward the plate. “Please take it before I eat it out of spite.”

Mattie covers a snort with his hand, he clears the table and settles onto the couch just a short distance from the two. Alfred eases down between them, leaving a careful pocket of space on either side. Close enough to be present, but not close enough to press into either.

For a moment, none of them speaks. The house is quiet enough that Alfred can hear the soft thrumb of the fridge, and soft movements from both Mattie and Japan on either side. Silence has never really been Alfred’s friend. He can feel every second of it. It gives his thoughts too much room to grow. 

He reaches for the remote, flicking through menus without really seeing them, muscle memory doing most of the work. Sitcoms blur past, some animated trailer, a violent-looking poster. He pauses.

“Saiki K?” he asks, glancing between them, keeping his tone light.

Japan gives a faint hum of approval, as he sets his empty glass down with care. Mattie nods around a mouthful of pancake, lifting the fork in what might generously be called a thumbs up.

Alfred presses play. Bright colours fill the screen between rapid dialogue crashing with absurdity. The noise buzzes in a way that doesn’t demand to be listened to. Alfred sinks into the couch, careful not to crowd Japan, but close enough to feel present. He doesn’t try to fix anything, he just… stays. 

He’s not forcing a solution, he’s not apologising, or explaining, or trying to turn the moment into something grander than it is. He just sits still, anchored by the weight of couch cushions and the thought that tomorrow, he’ll start fresh.

And that, he thinks, is a start.