Russia came home from the meeting. He was feeling somewhat pissy, so he barged into his colorful home and slammed the door behind himself, dumping everything on the floor. "I'm home." He called out to no one. The Baltics were on a visit to the Netherlands, so he'd be pretty much alone for the rest of the weekend.
"Good. Get out."
He looked around for the source of the voice, his eyes landing on his big, squishy couch loveseat combo thingy. In his spot (you know, that one spot that's been sat on by you so many times it becomes YOURS and no one else is allowed in it because it is perfect) sat a head of black hair. Given his mood, Russia strutted right up behind the stranger and yanked his hair. "Who are you to tell me to evacuate my own house? Out! OUT!" he yelled, pointing to the door.
"You must be delusional." The person turned around in his seat, displaying a face much like Russia's own, plus a few scratches and dents. The red eyes put Russia off as the person spoke again. "Hello? I asked you to—" He paused and studied Russia's face. Russia, in the meantime, was rambling to himself.
"Who is he? He's me. But I'm me, too. How can there be two Russias? That's not scientifically possible. YOU are not scientifically possible!" (If you get the reference I love you)
"Huh?"
"So who are you?"
"I'm Russia."
"NO YOU AREN'T!" shouted Russia, his hair sticking out in a few places.
"Fine. My name is Viktor Braginski."
"I'M IVAN BRAGINSKY! BUT YOU CAN'T BE RELATED TO ME BECAUSE...?" he trailed off, his finger, which had been pointing in the air, falling to his side. "Viktor" shook his head and rolled his eyes.
"Well, either way, you're in my spot." Russia leaned on the couch back, suddenly much calmer. Viktor sighed and scooted over, allowing Russia to sit.