It was just another completely normal day in a completely normal world. Another completely normal meeting in the same old conference room. But it was still a day Russia always remembered. The meeting was supposed to start soon, but it hadn't yet, and he'd never been gladder.

It was the first world conference of spring, meaning that although the snow had mostly melted, it was still cold enough for most of the countries to ditch their normal clothes in favor for something warmer. Russia, however, was always warm. After all, his daily attire consisted of the thickest coat man has ever known and a just as thick woolen scarf. They were necessities for traversing his own country land.

But this wasn't his country. Sometimes he had to remind himself of that.

Nevertheless, he kept the coat and scarf. He'd be lying if he said the warmer temperature didn't bother him, but the items made him feel somewhat at home.

Many nations, including Russia himself, were just arriving at the conference. They weren't late, but they definitely weren't early either. The feeling could be described as the awkward in-between moment where there's still plenty of time, but not enough to do anything with.

Well, except for America. He always found something to do.

Russia had hoped to avoid him in the short time it took to walk from the front doors to the meeting room. Unfortunately, Russia found him somewhere along the way. He didn't particularly like the exuberant nation, but being on America's good side seemed to mean that he was on the world's good side. If he wasn't friends with America, he wasn't friends with anyone.

He hated America for that.

Well, good thing America didn't seem to have a bad side. Though, the Cold War had gotten awfully messy. It got to the point, Russia remembered, where disagreements were being made for the sake of disagreeing. He remembered the first time America slammed his fist on the table; the first time the country had visibly shown his anger during a World Conference. Of course, Russia had done the same. Yes, the nations had been quite angry with one another. And after…

After?

Where did all that hate go?

Sometimes Russia wondered if he was the only one who bore a grudge. If it wasn't for the lasting anti-Russian sentiment found throughout America's people, he would've believed he was. He never would've caught the way America's lips were tinged with a frown when they spoke; the way his dominant hand subconsciously shaped itself as if it were holding a gun, ready to pull the trigger at any moment. The way America's vibrant blue eyes dulled with ice as he shot Russia silent glances during every meeting. The young nation spoke with Russia the same way he spoke to anyone else: excitedly, passionately, and honestly. To the point of brutality. But, perhaps, that might be what separated Russia from the other nations. America was never honest about his spite.

This made Russia dislike him even more.

He found America hassling England like usual. Well, technically he saw nothing first. As he turned the corner he was greeted with an obnoxiously bright flash along with an equally obnoxious voice.

"Oops, sorry Iggy, I forgot the flash was on."

Russia blinked the spots away. He stood a few feet behind England while America stood pointing a camera to the latter nation's face.

Ever since its invention in 1888, the camera had become America's obsession. Russia had only been in the man's home a small number of times for business expenditures, but it bore a special kind of significance in the his mind simply because of the sheer amount of photographs he saw lying around. They often covered the surface of the coffee table in America's living room in its entirety as well as found in stacks upon his kitchen counters. Desks, shelves, and other furniture of the like were adorned with framed photos; often much more than what was meant to fit on their veneer. Despite all this, America managed to keep his home presentable to the public; however, his room was another matter altogether. Russia had once caught a glimpse of the disaster on a visit to the restroom. Photos practically made up the walls. It was obvious America had long since given up on framing them and trying to place them nicely in favor of using hundreds of tacks and placing them wherever he felt they looked best. America had pictures of rainy days and sunny days. All four seasons could easily be found at a glance; and, of course, there were pictures of every nation America could find. Caught unawares or otherwise, they always found themselves a place on his wall. There were even a few taped to the glass of the large window that stood directly across from the entrance. It was open that day. A thousand small pictures ruffled in greeting to the light breeze and the few birds who had found comfort on the windowsill chirped cheerfully in response to the afternoon light. The scene itself was picturesque. Undoubtedly, if America had saw it he wouldn't spare a moment to grab his camera.

Yes, America took pictures of everything.

"You git!" England groaned, still rubbing his burnt eyes, "Who the hell said you could take my picture? Leave me be!"

"Aww c'mon Iggy, I said I was sorry—" America tried to protest.

"That's not my bleeding name you twit!" England attempted to flash America a dangerous look, but the lights that illuminated the hall blinded his already sensitive eyes even more and he was forced to glare daggers at the ground instead.

"Alright, Britain, I'm sorry," America offered, "I forgot the last pic I took was last night so I had to turn the flash on. Here, let's try again." He raised his camera in preparation.

"What? Hell no! You think I'd let you take my picture after—"

Click.

The flash was still on.

"Grah!" England groaned in equal amounts of frustration and surprise. He covered his damaged eyes in order to rest them in a more complete darkness. "You did that on purpose!" He accused. Using his free hand, he made a blind grab in the general direction of America and his camera. Well, he grabbed more for the camera than anything. Needless to say, America easily sidestepped the temporarily blinded nation.

"Woah, hey! Careful this was expensive!" America warned, though his suppressed smirk betrayed his concerned tone, "It's made of the highest tech I can afford!"

"I don't care if it's made of gold! Give it here, I'm going to rip it to shreds!" England squinted between his fingers and made a second, more accurate attempt at grabbing the camera, but America pulled it out of his reach. They continued like that until England was practically trying to climb the taller nation who was taking full advantage of his height and holding the camera just out of the British man's grasp.

England ranted, America laughed, and Russia was thoroughly amused; he even felt like laughing as well.

Finally, when it was apparent to America that England had fully recovered from temporary blindness, America caught England's arm and forced him to stand side-by-side with himself.

"What are you—?" England started but America slung his arm around the other's shoulder and pulled him close. With a quick, fluid motion, America turned his camera towards himself and England and took a photograph.

There was no flash that time.

Immediately after the deed was done America went to view the digital image. After pressing a few buttons he pulled it up and showed the still-confused England. With the camera still raised, Russia was also able to see it clearly.

America took up two-thirds of the photo frame. It was easy to tell that the camera was indeed expensive. The high resolution captured America's deep, cerulean blue eyes almost better than they could look in real life. Russia wasn't sure, but he could've sworn they sparkled like sapphires. Being his photogenic self, of course, America dazzled the camera with his perfect American smile; one that could easily be found on orthodontist ads that promise pre-teens the same look as long as they suffer through braces and other dental procedures. He threw in a wink and probably would've flashed a peace sign if both his hands hadn't been occupied holding both the camera and the British man next to him.

England however, looked like a sack of potatoes caught in the headlights of a car driving on a dirt road.

The photo caught England's face transitioning from anger to surprise with a hint of confusion, resulting in a particularly constipated look. And although the camera had captured his eye color much like it did America's, it didn't do him any good when his eyebrows were furrowed enough to look as if they were supposed to be eyelids. Luckily for him, he had his head tilted back just slightly so his flared nostrils were the center of attention rather than anything else.

It wasn't just a bad picture, it was a horrid one.

"I like this one Iggy," America mused, "Wanna take another?" America's voice snapped England out of his stupor and his face began to turn a bright shade of red. Whether it was out of rage or embarrassment, neither Russia nor America could tell.

"No," he growled, shoving America away, "Get away from me arsehole!" America stumbled away, still wearing the bright smile that was present in the photograph.

"Alright Iggy," America threw his hands up in surrender, "I am away from you."

"You snarky little brat," England seethed, "Delete it."

"What?"

"Delete. The. Picture."

"No!" America held the camera closely in mock protection, all the while his smile never fading.

This set England off.

"Listen here you gormless cock-up," The Englishman fumed, "You think it's funny to take the piss out of me, but I've had enough of this nosey parker business and you will delete that poxy excuse for a photo before I take that manky camera and smash it over that thick head of yours and turn you into even more of a grotty pillock than you already are!" England panted. He stared down at America with his fiercest glare while America only returned it with a stricken look.

By now, a bemused smile had formed wide across the Russians face and he was thoroughly involved in the two sibling nations' ordeal (excuse me, ex-siblings). The look that America bore was a bit uncharacteristic, but Russia assumed he was having flashbacks from when he was just a child. After all, he imagined that as a child, America had instigated England's wrath numerous times and it was probably ingrained deep into the recesses of his mind.

"Do you even speak English?" America asked at last, proving Russian's suspicions incredibly wrong.

It wasn't that great of a comment, in fact, one would even find it childish. But in addition to the picture, the British rant, and England's increasingly enraged expression, it was impossible not to laugh. Russia's low bellow echoed throughout the hallway; not his usual menacing chuckle, but rather one of genuine amusement. Something the other two nations were surprised to hear. They turned towards the sound, and while England flushed an even deeper shade of red, America was encouraged to laugh just as hard.

Click.

The meeting went on as usual. The countries bickered, Germany tried to maintain control, Italy talked about food, America was always poking fun where he shouldn't, Japan was quiet, Russia was quiet, and Canada was forgotten.

Just one completely normal day.

When the World Conference was over only a few nations stayed at their designated hotels. Most were more than eager to get back to their individual countries and boarded the first flights back home. The sooner they get out of the States the better.

Unfortunately for Russia, he was the former of the two.

As if attending a meeting in America wasn't enough, he had business with the man himself. It was just the renewal of some trade contracts, but was nevertheless something that couldn't be put off. Especially when the timing was so convenient.

He appeared on America's doorstep first thing the next morning. Well, he wasn't extremely early, but early enough for the nation to answer the door while still in his pajamas and looking extremely tired. His glasses were thrown on haphazardly, the rims barely concealing the dark circles forming under his eyes. Hair stuck out every which way; it curled in unusual places around his face and still held some dampness from a late night shower. The neck of his white tee shirt hung lopsided off his shoulders while the rest of it wrinkled every which way as if mimicking America's uncomfortable sleep patterns.

"Hey Russia," he practically yawned while rubbing the sleep from his eyes, "Man, you're lucky I passed out on the couch last night. I probably wouldn't have heard you come if I didn't." He tried to laugh but his voice was still hoarse and unused, giving it a deep croaking sound. Russia only offered a smile.

"May I come in?" the Russian held up his business case. He could practically see the American cringe inwardly.

"Business? So early in the morning?" he complained, "Why don't you come in and just visit for a while?"

"I would love to," Russia lied, still wearing his signature smile, "But I have business to attend at home. You understand, no?" America rubbed the back of his head, seemingly contemplating the comment's validity. Finally, he gave a dejected sigh.

"Yeah, I guess so"

The first thing Russia noticed when he entered the American's abode was the pile of shoes that had conglomerated behind the door. It was then evident that not only did America own several pairs of shoes, but that he also took them off before officially entering the house. Japan must be starting to have an effect on America, Russia thought. He knew the two were close, not because he'd ever actually seen them together, but because Japan was a prominent figure in America's photographs. In his room, right next to the windowpane, America had several portraits of the Asian nation doing various things: drawing, eating ice-cream, watching T.V. cooking…

Okay, maybe Russia did a little more snooping than just a quick glance.

"Ya'know," America's voice drew the Russian out of his thoughts, "When I said that you could come in, I meant that you could, like, come in." Russia looked up. America was holding an already half-drunk glass of water and gesturing to the rest of his home. Russia had barely noticed that he was still standing in the doorway.

"My apologies," he said politely as he moved into the living room, "Even though I was the one who wanted to finish quickly."

"No worries," America brushed away the subject with a swig of his drink, "I just gotta sign some papers, right? Give them here and I'll have you out of here in no time." Russia nodded and unclipped his case to reveal three stacks of official documents.

America cringed physically this time.

After the first hour or two Russia took to wandering through the house and inspecting the pictures. America didn't mind as much as Russia thought he would, rather, the western nation looked pleased that someone was appreciating his art. And they were art. It was a common thought among the nations that America's photographs contained no regard for basic artistic principle's and were, in fact, just trash. But the more Russia looked at them, the more he realized that this wasn't the case. America had either an excellent understanding of the elements of photography, or he was just incredibly lucky with a camera. Though, it wouldn't surprise Russia if it were the latter, America did have a ridiculous amount of luck.

Eventually, Russia found himself wandering upstairs, but when he did so he saw something he hadn't seen in any of his last visits. At the very end of the hall where the door to the guest bedroom had been, there was, instead, a black curtain. Russia regarded it with curiosity and approached it in much the same manner. Is America hiding something? He wondered as his fingers curled eagerly around the cloth. The thought of finding some dirt on his rival made his heart race. Would he find something that could hurt America? Could he blackmail him with it? Would he finally get a glimpse of America's dark side?

Would it be something to hate him for?

"Don't go in there!" the voice was so urgent that despite Russia's readiness to find and expose America's secrets, the European nation stopped in his tracks. He turned to look at America for an explanation.

"Sorry," the blond chuckled, "It's just, I have some photos developing in there."

"Photos?" Russia inquired. Sure, he knew America had been taking pictures for a long time, but this was the first time he had heard of the American developing them himself.

"Yeah," he explained, "The pres. said he was going to stop funding my 'photography campaign,'" he made quotes with his fingers, "So I kind of had to invest in a darkroom."

"Oh," Russia frowned in confusion, "You had to invest for a dark - room?" he further questioned. America blinked a few times then broke out in a cheerful laugh that reminded Russia of the chirping of birds on one summer afternoon. "What is it America?" he asked, slightly worried about the poor nation who was buckled over in fits of laughter, "Did I say something funny?"

Although the nations spent years learning each other's languages, there were still language barriers, and the thought of America spending money for someone to turn off a light switch confused the Russian and humored the American.

Everything seemed to make him smile.

"No, no, it's not you don't worry," America managed to say, another fit of laughter threatening to burst out after each word. He wiped the tears forming in his eyes and elaborated as soon as he'd calmed down, "It's the place you use to develop photos. It's a difficult process, but I've managed to get some pretty sweet shots, I think you'd like them."

"You think?"

Sure! But, hey, I'll show you some other time," America held out the signed documents, "You gotta get back, right?" Russia took the papers, fingering through them to make sure they were signed properly. When he looked back up America was beginning to climb down the steps.

"America," He called

"Hm?" America looked back towards him, "Is there something wrong with the documents?" Russia shook his head.

"I was just wondering why you used your guest room. Where will your visitors stay?"

"Oh that," America scratched his ear in thought, "Well, no one really comes over anyway and Japan's fine anywhere as long as I buy a futon." He shrugged, "What's the use of a guestroom if no one uses it? I'm saving space this way."

"What about your brother?" Russia prodded.

"What? You mean Canada? He says my country's too loud; he's the soft-spoken type, you know? Prefers it if I went up there." America chuckled, "But every time I try he seems to already have plans with France. Sometimes I feel like the forgotten brother." The mood changed. America bit his lip and shifted uncomfortably. "Ridiculous, right?" he tried to say it in a joking manner to recover from what he just let slip, to Russia no less. His smile faltered when he received no reply he cleared his throat awkwardly, "You should know how much my airports suck by now, if you don't get back soon you'll miss your flight." Then he quickly descended the steps. Russia looked down at his papers once more and couldn't help but smile fondly at them. Ridiculous? He thought.

"Net, Amerika. Ya ponimayu, I understand perfectly well."

Russia wasn't particularly disappointed that he didn't get to see what America was talking about. If he was disappointed in anything it was that the black curtain hid nothing but captured moments in time. After all, Russia didn't care about photography. Everything about it was expensive not to mention that it was an utterly life consuming hobby. He rested his head in his hand and looked out the window of the plane; he was flying above the clouds so the sky was a wonderful shade of cerulean. And although he couldn't see the sun from where he was sitting, it's rays reflected a brilliant golden off the clouds' uneven surfaces resulting in a scene that bore a similarity to sea foam as a wave met the shore.

It looked like something America would photograph.

Russia wasn't surprised when less than a week later he found a small package on his doorstep from the U.S. When he brought it inside to examine its contents he found that the package contained only two items: a photo and a note. At some point in time, whenever America took a photograph involving another nation it had become customary for him to send copies to the country in question. Russia wasn't entirely sure with what the other's did with theirs, but no one seemed to complain about it. He picked up both the items, holding the picture carefully so as not to leave finger prints on the front, and, as was polite, he read the note first.

When I saw this, I thought of you in a different light

-America

Russia's eyes shifted to examine the picture. The camera was held high but tilted down so all three nations could fit in the frame. America was in the foreground. His eyes were shut tight and he wore an enormous grin: how he ever managed to take a picture like that was a mystery to Russia. It seemed experience was the only viable explanation. Next was England in the middle ground. Arms folded and mouth open to no doubt give a disapproving rant: his eyes looked straight at the camera. If he had wanted to convey his disapproval through the photo to give a lasting sense of ornery, he had almost succeeded with flying colors. The only thing that betrayed his outward appearance was the slight flush still present on his cheeks which Russia now recognized as something different from anger and embarrassment entirely. Finally, there was Russia in the background. He had tried to cover his mouth with the back of his hand but the picture still captured his smile perfectly. He was laughing. The mouth wide, eyes shut tight, and tears forming kind of laugh. Except, while one eye was indeed shut and forming tears at its corners, the other was wide open and its gaze was directed right at America's back.

He stood with both picture and note in hand and took them over to the tool closet where he knew he would find a frame. He rummaged for a bit before pulling out a dark mahogany one that fit the photo's size and slid both item's inside; the note behind the photo. Holding it at arm's length, he checked to make sure the glass was polished so that no smudges obscured the image from a distance. Then took it upstairs to the picture room.

The picture room was just an old guest room that he had cleared out due to lack of use. Now, it worked like an art gallery. Photographs lined the walls in a well-thought-out arrangement. Each photo framed and placed at precise distances from each other, but what was probably most unique about the room was that almost every picture was one of himself taken by America. Some he knew about beforehand. He never stopped America from taking a picture of him, but when he saw one coming he would smile. Not the smile that was in the picture he just received, but the fake one; the one that hid a thousand secrets.

He was so tired of having things to hide.

So he was thankful, for the other kind of picture that populated his walls. The kind that he never knew about until they showed up on his doorstep. They often depicted him doing various tasks like working, walking, and looking at flowers. Other times they weren't meant to be of him at all and he had just gotten caught in the frame. But those ones found their way to his doorstep nonetheless. He liked how he looked when he thought no one was watching. Genuine.

Among all this there was a single photo set aside. It sat on the windowsill – this room's window was much like the one America had in his own room, which was undeniably part of the reason why Russia chose this room among all the others in his large household. It was the only photo in the room which he took himself. And it was one of America. He remembered how he had come out of the conference late one evening only to be surprised to see America still there. The young nation's back was turned to him and the bold number fifty blared at Russia who wondered for a brief moment if the bomber jacket ever became too hot to bear or if it always comforted America with its warmth. The blond had set his camera aside but it was turned just right so that its lens seemed to be set ablaze. America was leaning out the window, only slightly, to watch the sun set.

Russia remembered how the light shined golden around him.

And how it made him appear radiant.

Russia set his new photo down right beside this one and rested himself on the windowsill. He leaned against the windowpane and took in the room which was only illuminated by the fading light from outside.

Yes, America took pictures of everything…

And Russia loved them.

If you ever want to know what someone fears losing, watch what they photograph.

-Unknown