Word Count: 498
Pairings: None
Warnings: Trigger warning for self-harm
America's Jacket
The heat was unbearable. Not a single nation would deny that fact. Many of the men had shed their suit jackets and ties, and the female personifications had rolled up their sleeves in order to withstand the oven-like room. Even Russia had removed his long coat and loosened his scarf. The only nation who hadn't even begun to strip down was America, who sat sweating in his signature bomber jacket over the suit he'd been required to wear.
As most conferences this meeting had started off as usual. Chaotic conversations and even a few physical altercations, the most serious being England punching a flirtatious France, had been calmed by Germany who now stood up front trying to silence a whining Italy. It had been just after the lunch break when everyone returned and noticed the heat in the room. Germany had called the front desk, only to find the AC had gone out and maintenance was working on fixing the problem. So the meeting continued, much to the dismay of the uncomfortable nations.
"Bloody git, you're going to die of heatstroke if you don't take that damn thing off," England hissed at his former colony.
America flashed him a cocky grin. "Dude, heroes don't get heatstroke! This is my favorite jacket, no way it's coming off!"
England rolled his eyes. "I didn't raise you to be such an idiot but if you want to die of heat exhaustion that's fine with me. The world could use the silence."
America cringed, an action not caught by his former brother. He shrugged the comment off with a laugh. "Yeah, whatever, dude."
Slouching in his seat and tugging the sleeves of his jacket down, America spent the last miserable hour of the meeting paying more attention to random lines on his notepad. He was out of the building before Germany could finish adjourning the meeting.
By the time he got to the hotel, America knew the dampness on his arm was not just from sweating in the heat of the room. He slammed the door, flipping the deadbolt into place as he tore off his jacket. America stepped into the bathroom, carefully pulling the red-stained dress shirt off and tossing it on the floor. He would deal with it later, he'd packed several others just in case.
Slowly and gently he unwrapped the soaked bandages from his arms, dropping them into the trash. The first aid kit sat ready on the sink as America began sopping up the blood, grimacing at the pain the torn open battle wounds caused him. He stared at the lines covering his arms, various shades of pinks and white, the newer much darker hues of red. His mind drifted back to England's earlier words. The insults and hatred took over his mind and his hand drifted to the blade kept near the first aid box. Another battle wound was made.
Nobody knows, America thought, his eyes traveling to the well-known bomber jacket. And nobody ever will.