De-anon from Kink Meme. The request was that the nations aren't nations at all; they're humans who are unhappy with themselves/their lives, and pretend to be nations in a sort of therapy club role-play thing...it was better phrased in the request.

I'm possibly continuing this, but who knows?

His day goes like this:

1) He awakes at six o'clock every weekday, dresses - typically a pair of faded jeans and a sweatshirt with long sleeves pulled over his wrists - and heads downstairs for a quick breakfast. If he's lucky, his father will still be drinking his coffee and will nod at him once before leaving. If he's not lucky, the kitchen will be empty and silent and the clinking of his spoon will sound as loud as gunshots.

2) He grabs his keys and drives to school; upon arriving, he sits and waits in his car until a minute before the first bell rings, compulsively switching radio stations every few seconds. When it is time, he heads straight to his class, unwilling to linger in the halls like fellow students do.

3) He keeps his head down and focuses on his work. His teachers know better than to call on him and the occasional substitute that doesn't learns the moment he opens his mouth.

If it's a good day, he can go the whole day without a word to anyone or from anyone and moves straight on to step four.

4) He goes back to his car the minute the final bell rings and heads home as soon as possible. Sometimes he meets his mother in the hallway and he nods to answer her question of how the day went. Sometimes his father is home early and waves a little from his spot in the family room. (Family room. How inappropriately named - they never spend time together any more.)

5) He heads straight up to his room and finishes his homework usually around five in the afternoon. He waits another hour before he comes downstairs and eats something by himself at the table - his parents have already eaten by that time - before heading back to his room, wasting time until he goes to bed.

If it's a bad day there is another step added between three and four.

3.5) He is forced to talk; his voice is soft and quiet and barely, barely there and st-st-stuttering.

(It is not his fault. He can't help the way his voice backtracks halfway between words and phrases.)

There's a pause after he speaks - or tries to, at least - before the noise explodes around him. He shuts his eyes tight and pretends he can't hear the hyena laughs and witchy cackles of his fellow classmates. (It's childish logic: if I can't see you, you can't see me.)

It's better than home, he reminds himself, trying hard not to listen. Better than home where it's like a museum - you can look, but don't you dare touch - , so cold and impersonal and so, so, very quiet that it's frightening just to breathe too loudly.

The laughing, at least, lets him know he's still there. They can see him, they can hear him. They may be laughing at him, but, god, at least that means he hasn't disappeared yet. (It's so different than home, for dear Mom and Dad, bless their souls, seem to forget that just because he doesn't like to talk doesn't mean he's deaf.)

.

.

It isn't important how he hears about the meetings. Some classmate or acquaintance gave him a card with an address on one side and a short list of rules on the back. A chance to pretend he's someone else? He'd be lying if he said he isn't interested.

Typed in small font below the rules is a list of available countries, and he picks one, startling himself with the choice. He can hardly say one sentence properly, how does he expect to play a superpower? There are other countries listed there that would work for a stuttering mess of emotions like him, but he can't - for some strange reason - bring himself to change his mind.

So he sticks with his choice and reads up on his history - if he's doing this, he's doing it right - until he thinks he can recite over half of his textbook by memory.

There is a full body mirror in the corner of his room; he spends a half hour in front of it every day that week, trying to see something of the proud and confident nation in his reflection.

He doesn't.

.

.

On Saturday, he heads to the location on the back of the card, praying to God this isn't some cruel joke.

It takes him ten minutes to convince himself to leave his car, and upon reaching the conference room - room 108 it says on the card, but he doesn't need to look; he's had it memorized for days - it takes fifteen more to convince himself to actually open the door.

He hears voices coming from inside the room, loud yells and shouts and insults; there must be some sort of argument going on. The butterflies in his stomach seem to be on steroids, and he's so scared he thinks he might throw up. He can't speak. He can't yell. How is he expected to survive this?

His hand grabs the doorknob thirteen times and pulls back twelve. It's on the thirteenth time that he takes a deep, shuddering breath - god, even his breath stutters - and shoves the door wide open. All eyes are on him in an instant, and it takes all his courage to keep himself there. He wants to run; every instinct is screaming for it.

But something holds him there in the doorway, some small, stubborn desire for change that blocks his exit and forces him to flash a confident, cocky smile he knows he's never worn before and say, "No need to fear, the American hero is here!"

And he almost, almost freezes right there in the doorway, blue eyes wide and face set in shock because that was him, wasn't it? That loud, prideful voice came from him, didn't it? (Two full sentences, nine words, and he didn't stutter at all.) But he doesn't act as if he's bothered because America doesn't stutter, never has stuttered, and shouldn't be surprised that he didn't.

The other people - no, they're nations now, aren't they? - roll their eyes, but there is something very welcoming in their gaze; Alfred - no, no, he's America right now and will be until three o'clock - takes a seat by a blond-haired, blue-eyed man - the name plaque before him reads "France" - oozing confidence he wasn't aware he had.

Two hours later, America is gone and Alfred returns to a silent house and laughing classmates and st-st-stuttering words.

.

.

He meets England on the second Saturday. The man - not much older than him by the looks of it, but certainly out of high school - had been absent the meeting before for unexplained reasons, and immediately dislikes him. It probably has to do with the fact that America high fives him when he extends his hand for a handshake. (Or maybe the fake English accent he uses to spite him.)

Not even ten minutes into the meeting, they start an argument about tea - tea, of all things, as if it were the most important problem in the world, more important than car accidents and ashamed parents and st-st-stuttering - and America - no, Alfred? - feels his heart beat fast and he thinks, he thinks oh. Oh god.

He knows right at that very moment : he's in love. (Or something similar, at least, even if it isn't quite there yet.)

But for once it's perfectly okay, because America and England have the famous Special Relationship, don't they? (And why would nations care about gender, anyway?)

If he hadn't already been convinced to keep coming, he certainly is now.

.

.

Alfred wants to know England better, and during every meeting he sits there, sees those beautiful, green eyes flashing in the heat of an argument, and thinks today, today, today.

But then two hours is up - and how very unfair it is, for time to move so quickly when he finally wants it to last forever, God please? - and he feels America and all the strength and power and confidence leave him with a swoosh, and he's left empty and weak and so, so small because he's not, and never will be outside of these meetings, a superpower.

England - no, not England anymore; just some stranger Alfred doesn't know - is still there, speaking with the man who was France just moments ago. He's just a few feet away and so very close, but Alfred doesn't say a thing. He keeps his mouth shut tight and hurries out of the room before anyone can hear him talk.

.

.

It's strange how very easy playing America is. Alfred doesn't even think he had to create the character; it just came naturally. Which is incredibly odd, for America is every single thing that Alfred F. Jones is not: loud, confident, and cocky.

And as the weeks continue, America becomes more and more familiar, the role as easy to slip into as his grandfather's old bomber jacket. It's so very easy to go there every Saturday and insult England on his cooking and laugh at France's flamboyant clothes and annoy his 'brother' Canada. It's as if he's been doing it all his life.

Maybe America - all this bravado and laughter - is how he would have been, could have been. He thinks he can remember a time - was that just two years ago? - when he was just like this. But his sister was there then, wasn't she? Maybe that's it, he decides. The reason he can't be America all the time is because Amelia is gone and six feet under - all thanks to him and his old car and a patch of ice. (She would have liked these meetings, he thinks, but she wouldn't have needed them.)

It's sort of funny how little bits and pieces of himself slip through the tiny cracks of his disguise. (Is America scared of ghosts, or is Alfred?)

Maybe it should be frightening. What if he becomes something - someone - he's not?

God, I hope so, he thinks.

.

.

After about a month and a half's worth of Saturdays, it happens - the one thing he tried so very hard to hide.

It's like any other meeting. At three, the strength of America disappears and Alfred sits there quietly, staring at the table before him. All around him people are standing and leaving, occasionally talking to others, though it isn't often - no one wants for others to see what they really are.

Alfred is the last one left in the room and just as he is about to leave, his cell phone rings. A check on the caller ID tells him to prepare himself and he answers with a, "Y-yeah, M-m-mom?" She's trying to play the good parent for once and wants to know where he is and when he's coming home, but she's a few Saturdays too late. Has she really just now noticed he's gone three hours every Saturday?

He stutters out a reply and hangs up. As he turns towards the door, however, he sees Canada standing there watching him. His heart drops into his stomach and he wants to melt into the ground. How, how, how could he be so very careless?

Alfred prepares himself and waits for the laughing and taunting, but it doesn't come. Instead, he's met with a smile and the boy who is sometimes Canada says, "I'm Matthew Williams."

There is a pause while Alfred tries to sort through what has just happened, completely thrown off. Eventually, he realizes he's leaving Canada - no, wait, Matthew is it? - waiting for a reply so he says, "I'm Al-Alfred." And dammit, the stutter won't leave him be for two short words even. Alfred lowers his head and bites his lip hard enough to draw blood.

"Nice to meet you. I'm hungry and there's a nice diner up the street. Do you want to come with me?" Alfred jerks his head up to look at him, staring in shock. Completely confused, he nods and follows the other teen out the door, still waiting for the laughing that has yet to come.

.

.

There is silence between them once they reach the diner. Matthew is waiting for Alfred to talk and Alfred doesn't want to.

"Ah, so…" Matthew begins awkwardly, desperate to break the silence. "Why America?"

Alfred doesn't want to speak; he doesn't want to show Matthew how much of a failure he is; he doesn't want Matthew to start to pretend he's not there like his parents do. Alfred doesn't dare look at Matthew, so he stares at his hands as they sit in his lap, tracing the scars and burns on his left wrist with his finger.

But Matthew still sits, waiting expectantly, and Alfred has been waiting so very long for someone to acknowledge him without laughing, hasn't he? So he takes a breath and tries his best to keep his voice steady as he answers. "America-ca is strong," he says, hating himself for the stutter. "And…c-c-confident…so I wanted t-to be like th-th-that. W-wanted to be br-brave."

America is a hero, too, and makes sure everyone knows it, and Alfred wants so badly to forget the wreckage and blood and flashing lights of two years ago and be a hero; but he won't tell Matthew that. At least not yet; he's not ready.

Alfred nervously looks up from his scarred wrists to see Matthew's expression. The other boy is still smiling reassuringly, no judging expression on his face. It gives Alfred the confidence to ask, "W-w-why Canad-da?"

Matthew sighs and this time it is he who lowers his head to avoid Alfred, as if he expects Alfred to judge him. "I wanted to be ignored for once, and everyone always seems to forget about Canada."

It's a concept Alfred can't hope to grasp. For someone who begs people to notice him - so that he can be assured he's still there, still alive and breathing even when his other half is missing - it simply makes no sense.

"W-why?" he asks. "Why do y-y-you want t-to be ig-ig-ignored?"

Matthew refuses to look up, and fumbles with the drawstrings of his red sweatshirt, silent and thinking. Alfred's heart beats faster - traitorous thoughts whispering he didn't hear you, he didn't hear you, he doesn't know you're there- and he wants to scream and claw at the scabs on his wrist and bleed just so Matthew looks up and notices him.

But before he can do anything, Matthew looks up with a sad smile and says, "I was tested at the age of six and told I had an IQ of 165. I'm only 18, but I'm a junior in college and officially classified as a genius." He chuckles but it is sadly lacking in humor. "I'm my parent's shining treasure, the envy of my siblings, and I should be happy about all the attention, I suppose, but I'm not. I guess it's just nice to fade away into the shadows every once in a while." He smiles wider. "Do you understand?"

Alfred shakes his head, says no, no he doesn't. Why would you ever enjoy being ignored?

Matthew raises an eyebrow at him, waiting for an explanation, and Alfred's not sure where the confidence comes from but he gives him one. "I don't ever wa-wa-want to be forgo-gotten. My pa-parents don't…th-they don't talk…talk to…th-they're ashamed, I kn-know. They do-don't talk to m-me because they d-don't want t-to hear m-me talk. S-so ashamed they pr-pretend I'm n-not there."

Matthew doesn't laugh, doesn't pity him, doesn't judge. He just nods like he understands and grabs hold of Alfred's scab-covered wrists, pulling them up onto the table and into plain sight. He pushes back the sleeves of the bomber jacket, leaving the marks and scars exposed.

"Is that why you do this?"

Alfred nods, rubbing a finger over one of the fading burns. He thinks maybe he should be ashamed of these marks, but he's not. They're the one thing he's not ashamed of; they're the one thing he can still control. "I w-want them t-to notice," he whispers.

Matthew gives his hands a squeeze and smiles. "I notice."

Alfred stares at him in shock before smiling as well - the same smile he used to have before the accident. "Thank you, Matthew."