The maps have always been my friends; laying in my bedroom, on the floors, on the walls, strung over my desk and taped to my ceiling. I don't see my "brother" on them anywhere, but I draw him. One small dot between the British fool and the Troll lover, sometimes ranging in color from blue- he loves blue- to purple to red, depending on when my crayons would break and would become too dull to use anymore. The room always remains locked and bared, for it is my only sanctuary from the Russian and the Ukrainian and the Lithuanian words that would ask me questions.

"Is he safe over there? Are you sure he's alright?"

"Shouldn't he go home to his father? That's where the boy belongs!"

"America will come for him some day; he'll come and take his brother from you."

But I ignored it.

He came to me. He said hello to me, and he accepted my offer. He wouldn't be here unless he wanted to be here, and he did. I never knew why, but he saw something in this fragile skeleton that made him feel safe and secure in her home. Under my careful gaze, under my watch, in my arms that were forever cloaked in midnight blue that stung my bitter heart. Soon, I stopped wondering why he chose me. H took away a lot of my loneliness, and I took away his need to be noticed. Though he never yelled about being a country anymore, he sometimes ended up sobbing painfully loud at night, assuming I could not hear. But I did hear, and I did find him, and I held him tightly to my chest, as if my heart was going to break along with his.

He picked up on learning the small Russian words I used, calling Ivan and Amerika "braht" and calling Ukraine and me "sestra." So, braht came one day and left with him; he went with Amerika, and I was left to wallow away in the bed sheets of his room, the sailor blue and the white walls reminding me of the little blonde boy who had been my sole companion for years. The Prussia who I sought comfort with couldn't- wouldn't- understand my pain, because he still had a little brother, he still had someone to see and talk to and who cared for him as much as he cared for them. Germany was big and sturdy and strong, but I knew he was still a child under his brother's foot. But even Gilbert soon tired of me. I used to dance with him; we would dance for hours, childish banter thrown back and forth between us, as we had never cared for one another because of the Union. But he soon tired of my company replacing me with the Canadian who would always make him pancakes and never complained. Was that why he disliked me once again? It didn't matter, I didn't need anyone. I could roam the years without a single friend, our names never once escaping the other's lips as we stared. Friends spoke to each other, they laughed and smiled with one another, but what we did was a taboo. It couldn't even be considered platonic, could it? But everyone aside from a single micro-nation, no, not even a principality, saw Him as nothing more than a curse. But He was strong, and He was older, and He was just as lonely and disliked as I, and it was almost as if we could have built something from the twisted relationship we had then. But I was terrified. How do you ever make a man who was still torn over his Ex to love you instead? How do you start a conversation with a man you've slept with, but never spoken to?

What on Earth was I to say to Him when we had only exchanged a trivial amount of words; the only amount needed to let Him comfort me by holding me, and let me comfort Him through taking what remnant of innocence I had had?

It continued on like that. Years, the maps were yellowing and tearing, the paper weak and stale from how long they were in the room. I soon had to throw them away; though I wept terribly as each one fell into the fire, the brothers and sister I had burning not only on my paper but also on the map of my heart. These maps were why we were always at His house; I didn't want what pitiful comfort I had found for centuries to leave me. But no; I needed more than physical touch, more than just a person to hold me. I shook as I lead Him along, our hands awkwardly and automatically clasped together, my delicate appendages bravely intertwining with His. The house was old; it was decorated in all oak, the walls painted lightly and the wooden floors shining brightly. I saw that He seemed impressed by the decor, and I held back a slight smile of giddy glee; perhaps He would forget that pesky woman, and make me fall in love with Him, and He could fall in love with me?

But walking down the hall to that bared off room was forgotten, as the scent of the ocean filled my nostrils. The way my footsteps faltered must have caught His attention, as my eyes were drawn and hung over the door knob to that pesky room; I at times had to stop seeing it, because I would cry in my loneliness. We never got any further than that moment there, and I told Him I was sorry, but I couldn't keep doing such a thing with a man that did not love me and that I did not love in return.

The years fly by too quickly, as I could never remember what month or day or year it was. Gilbert was gone, so was He, and Ivan was only a faint memory. America was a friend, though, he was my friend. But he took away my little brother, and I never did see the child again. I seemed to grow into myself again, the loneliness so normal that it was a mere part of life.
What was a life, explain to me once again, Alfred?
And he would whenever I asked. It was almost ironic how I had to ask the capitalist to explain life to me these days, when my own history and life extended so much further than his. But he would be gone, too, and I would be alone once again, and I was okay with that.

The meetings were still just as obnoxious, the nations fighting and arguing and screaming and I was staring, consumed in the pattern of threads that came together to create the fabric of my dress. But to tear me away from my empty minded solitude, two arms wrapped around my shoulders and a head lay atop of my own. But it frightened me; to be touched with so much familiarity was a foreign thought to me. I threw the person back and stood from my chair, my knife in my hand, pointed at the terrified eyes that were wide, full of blue clear confusion. I stared at him, emotionless, apathetic, expressionless, but sincere fear was writhing through me. I was terrified. But he only held up one of his hands and pushed the blade away from him, my hand trembling under the gentle and cautious touch. His eyes were so sea-blue that they held me captive in their stare. My violet orbs were shivering under the non-existent touch of the gaze. How had he grown so much taller than me? I don't remember ever seeing him at the meetings before that day, and I didn't remember having anyone tell me he had finally become a nation. But he had grown to an age that was physically older than me; I was still a nineteen year old teenager who was supposed to spend time with nineteen year old Amerika, or I was supposed to be closer to eighteen year old Switzerland, or be kind to twenty year old Italy. How did his hands become so cracked; full of sores from cracks and cuts in his hands being filled with sea water. He had spent so many years working his home into something more than what it had ever been before. He was not strong or sturdy like Ludwig or Him, or tall like Ivan and Alfred. He was more like the Italians, though he still towered over me enough that if he were to merely brush his lips against mine, he would have to bend down, not just look at me.
What am I thinking?

"Natalia! It's good to see you after so long." He mumbled, wrapping his arms around my waist and holding me close to him. I wriggled free of him, though, and nodded my head. "Da… You've grown since the last time I saw you." He was following me home, it seemed. The wind wasn't as bad as it had been that morning, but it was still blowing enough that I had to pull my hair back to keep it from my face. He hadn't said anything and I had thought he went away; but when I was stepping onto the plane and took my seat, he scooted in next to me. He looked excitedly out of the window, before turning back to me with a bright smile on his face. My heart jumped into my throat; but instead of returning his smile, I looked away, my harsh atmosphere returning. The plane ride was awkwardly silent. He didn't talk, but rather he looked out the window while I lay my head back on the chair. I closed my eyes in attempt to sleep, and felt my composure return in only moments after I'd slipped from consciousness. But too soon he was shaking me awake, a small smile on his face when I finally decided I was going to open my eyes. I stood up and pushed past him, leaving the terminal in a hurry. If he followed and ended up lost, it wasn't my problem; he was an adult now, and I somehow no longer felt that sisterly connection with him. But he kept up with me, following me home, walking next to me without saying a word; did he even sense that in a heartbeat, I could or would stab him through the chest? Did he simply not care? I felt this disturbing churning in my stomach. I unlocked the small wooden gate that surrounded my home and then my door, throwing my overcoat onto the floor carelessly. He took his off and hung it, and mine, on the small coat rack. I went straight to the kitchen and started grabbing logs of wood from beside the door and heaved them into the living room, and he rushed over to grab them from me. "Let me help, Natalia!" He shouted when I snatched them away. I threw them into the fireplace violently before turning sharply towards him.
"Why? Do you think you can just waltz in here and act like you're my brat or something, Peter?" I shouted at him furiously, my pointed nail digging into his chest. He flinched, but did not back down.
"No! I think I have the right to come in here and be polite and maybe get to know you in a new way! I'm not a kid anymore, Natalia. I want to be a man now. Treat me like one!"

What?
"I don't even know what to say to something like that, Peter." I shook my head, turning from him. He gripped my shoulders tightly, and the corners of my eyes burned. But crying was not something a hardened woman like me would do. I simply ignored the fact that he was trying to keep me in place, and shrugged his hands from my shoulders. He let out a sigh, understanding that due to my difficult personality, there was no way he was going to get through to me right now. I watched him walk out the door of my house as the moon hung high in the sky, and grit my teeth.
I sat in the office room of my city's courthouse, where many important things were discussed and other countries would report to talk with me and my boss. I was in my designated seat, the clock ticking away, though it was only two in the morning. I finally let out a shaky breath, and looked around. I dug in the drawer of the desk in the corner until my hand slipped over what I desired; the little pistol kept.
"I won't be lonely anymore." I whispered quietly, and held my breath, pulling the trigger.