I took a breath, shakily. After nearly 200 years of all my pain and suffering hidden under layer upon layer of distrust and hostility, I've finally got the chance. Finally, that hamburger-loving American will get why I'm still so sore over the Revolution, over him…

I jump out of my skin as a large, pale hand comes to rest on one of my shoulders. Slowly, absentmindedly holding my breath, I turn face the owner of the ice cold appendage.

"Oh. It's only you Russia" I say quietly, breathing out a sigh of relief. I look up at Russia's ("Call me Ivan, Da?") face. Skin pale as fine china and softer than rose petals. A small half – a large difference to his "creepy" smile – graces his face. However, the pure, unhindered concern in his amethyst eyes makes me stare, questionably.

"Are you feeling okay? Ve vill not taunt you if you aren't up to zis, Da?" he slowly releases his grip on my shoulder.

"No. I want to do this. Thank you for the concern, Russ… Ivan" I manage a weak smile back at him, it seems to convince him. As he goes to walk back to his original stance leaning on the wall, farthest away from the crimson curtain where I am, he lightly taps my head with the drumsticks in his other hand. It is only then I notices that he isn't wearing his usual uniform, instead he is donned in a plainly designed, straight legged, dark washed jeans. A deep purple, long-sleeved top, which made his already bright eyes stand out. And his ever present, cream scarf – wrapped securely around his neck. On his feet are his normal black combat boots.

I look to my right, where soft strumming of an electric bass is coming from. France. Blonde hair as soft as usual, azure eyes focused on the neck of the bass in his hands where he is reciting chords. He also was dressed differently than usual. His favourite cape ("It's a cloak, Non?") was replaced by a untucked white shirt, no tie, and the first two sets of buttons left open. Light wash baggy jeans sit on his thin hips. On his feet, simple black trainers.

I look to my wrist, and gulp nervously. "Five minutes" I say, loud enough for the other two occupants to hear.

"Relax Angleterre, we are all in the same boat, non?"

"I guess so, but what I don't get is why in the name of the Queen I'm dressed like…" I gesture up and down, pointing at myself "… This" I finish lamely. Francis scoffs "is simple, non? You want Amérique to listen to your side, oui? Well, because you aren't dressed in your tacky millitary clothes and dressed more… c'est magnifique… He is also more likely to fall 'ead over 'eals in l'amour avec you!" He finishes triumphantly, Russia chuckles softly.

"Arthur, if ve vere not also trying to express ourselves to former colonies, do you think ve vould be dressed like zis?" before we could continue our… Erm, conversation, Italy stuck his head through the gap in the curtain, curl bobbling excitedly.

"Ve, are you ready? Me and Romano are gonna introduce you!" He turns to look at each one of us. "England, you look so… so… CUTE!" A bundle of Italian then launches itself at me, knocking the both of us to the floor, struggling for breath. Russia - I guess it's Russia - pulls the hyperactive Italian off me and sets him down on his feet. I hear Veneziano mumble something like "Even with such abnormal eyebrows he still looks adorable"

'This is it' I think to myself. I grab my guitar from the sofa next to me, pull the strap over my head and wait.