"Brother, wake up."
Silence.
"Big brother, the meeting's over." A hand touched his shoulder and shook him lightly.
"Mm… Canada, five more minutes."
"W-what?! Why do you call me that?! Brother, wake up!"
SLAP!
The painful sound echoed through the, almost, empty meeting hall, along with an exclamation of surprise coming out from the male's lips. He shot up immediately, one hand covering the reddened cheek as he looked at the girl who just slapped him.
"What the hell Belarus! Why'd you do that!?"
Suddenly he froze. Whose voice was that? He craned his head to the side, scanning around the room. There was no one in there but him and the Belarusian.
Strange, he was sure he had heard a familiar voice. He frowned.
Belarus eyed him, looking concerned with her brother's odd behavior. She placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Brother, are you okay?"
"Huh, what?" His head snapped back to look at her incredulously. Did she just call him brother? As long as he remembered, he was only related to a certain nation which everyone always seemed to forget – Canada – and not the crazy, creepy nation with a brother complex problem.
"I'm not–" There it was again, the voice that wasn't his. Only now did he realize that it came from his own mouth. Why did he sound like Russia? And why was Belarus calling him brother? Everything didn't make sense.
"Brother? Why do you talk like that?" Belarus noticed that her beloved brother did not have his usual accent when talking. Something felt off, not to mention how strange her brother was acting. He wasn't even shaking – in pure happiness, she decided – when he saw her.
It roused her suspicion and worry. She wanted to know what he was thinking.
America didn't answer. He was too preoccupied with a lot of musings and deductions. He remembered having a dream of him and Russia talking before a drunken, and pissed, England wobbled about, swinging his white stick with a star-shaped plastic jewel on its edge wildly, and then the world turned black.
It was weird, and somehow felt too real to be a dream.
America didn't know why he suddenly remembered it, but he had a hunch that it had something to do with the situation he was in now.
Suddenly, he felt lightheaded and had to sit back down on the seat. Belarus looked even more concerned than ever.
"What has been bothering you, brother…?" she gently held his hand with her own as she looked at the taller nation, her big eyes anxious.
America looked down at their hands, and at that moment he realized it wasn't his own.
Sure he felt the physical contact, but something – a lot of somethings – felt wrong. Like the size of his hand; the glove which he was sure didn't belong to him, then when his gaze trailed from his hand to the sleeve of his coat—
Coat?
"What…" again with that voice. It came out from his mouth, but he sounded different, like he was dubbed by someone else—
By Russia.
"Holy shit!" the loud swearing made Belarus flinched in surprise.
In the blink of an eye, the taller nation had disappeared from the meeting hall. Belarus only then understood when she heard the door slam closed.
-x-
Rough breaths.
Hasty steps.
A panicked look written all over his face.
America managed to stumble his way into the male bathroom. Without so much as a second to rest, he made his way towards the mirror.
He held his breath as he looked at his reflection in pure horror.
Instead of seeing the frame-wearing, wheat color haired, young man with a strand of hair sticking out, defying gravity, he came to see his ex-enemy looking back at him with a similar expression – horror.
"R-Russia! What are you–"
Why was Russia imitating his actions?
America raised a hand. Russia did too. America stuck out his tongue, Russia also did the same. America made different weird poses, stupid faces, flailing his arms around wildly and even danced, still Russia followed through without missing a beat.
Now he wasn't sure if he was facing Russia, or merely his own reflection.
America stopped what he was doing, standing up straight and tense, his hand slowly reached up and touched his cheek. "Russia" did the same.
"…Shit."
It took him a while to understand, but once he did, he fainted.
-x-
Russia groaned. He turned around in his half-sleep state to find a comfortable position, but couldn't. The bed seemed so hard and cold, there was no pillow underneath his head.
He should wake up now.
Eyes slowly fluttering open, he tried to focus his gaze, but what met his eyes was blurred world. Russia closed his eyes again for a moment, thumb and index finger rubbed his eyelids gently, hoping it could make his vision clear again, before opening his eyes once more.
Yet nothing changed. Everything and everywhere was still blurry.
He sighed. Sure, it was strange to suddenly be almost blind, but he had been through worse—not to mention weirder—times of his long life that he wasn't going to be unsettled by this so easily.
From what he could make out, he wasn't in his bed, but on the floor.
How odd. How could he be here?
Russia was going to stand up when something fell off from his dress shirt. He picked it up and inspected it closely.
Oh, glasses.
Deciding to wear them, Russia was thankful now he could see more clearly with them. He observed the empty room. It looked like he was still in the meeting hall.
Standing up, the nation walked out from the room. He noticed that somehow, everything seemed taller than him. For instance, the painting of an 18th century noble woman on the wall. He saw her as he walked out of the room. He remembered when coming here, he didn't have to look up to see the painting, but now he had to so he could see her face.
Then the small table in the hallway. He was sure its height was below his hips, but now that he passed it, the height had increased to his waist – just slightly below.
Had he gotten shorter, or was the world was getting taller?
Ridiculous, he chuckled silently. Russia stopped in front of the door to his room, about to reach for the handle when something stopped him; a vibration coming from the pocket of his bomber jacket.
Wait…
His thoughts were forced to stop and be pulled back to reality, when the phone once again vibrated.
Russia fished out the device from his pocket, reading the name shown on the screen.
England, huh?
He pressed the answer button and put the phone to his ear.
"Privet, Britain."
Only now did Russia notice his voice sounded different.
"America. It's you, is it not?"
"Nyet, it is Russia."
"Stop imitating Russia's accent. No matter how many times you alter your way of speaking, I can still tell it's you."
"But, Britain–"
"Shut up! I'm calling you to remind you about tonight."
"Tonight?"
"Bloody hell, you've forgotten already?" England sighed heavily. "Tonight, nine o'clock, at our usual pub. Don't be late."
Before Russia could say anything else, there was a beep sound and the call ended.
Russia was wondering why on earth England had mistaken him as America, but it was all answered when the phone's screen turned off, showing the face of his used-to-be enemy. It sure was not a video call for the screen was black. He glanced behind him, and found no one.
He looked back to the device in his hand, and America's face was still there, staring back at him.
KOLKOLKOLKOLKOLKOLKOLKOLKOLKOLKOLKOLKOLKOLKOLKOLKOLKOLKOLKOLKLOKOLKOLKOLKOL
No. way. No freaking way. This was not happening.
Russia threw his (America's!) phone on the wall, breaking it in half before pushing open the door in front of him with so much force the lock snapped. He didn't even need to use the key.
The voice of an angry Belarus could be heard thereafter.
"What the hell do you think you're doing, America?!"
To his surprise, he found Belarus in his room…
On his bed…
Straddling himself – well, his unconscious, shirtless self over there…
Like she was ready to ravish him.