America felt like a creeper.
The railing underneath him was icy cold, and the brisk wind had long since turned his nose into a vivid crimson blob stuck to his face. The day was a nameless shade of grey, dull and unremarkable. The air carried a taint that hinted at snow, but the skies, for now, remained clear.
His coat was bright red, a blur of color in a colorless world. America's hands were numb and his back was starting to ache from the way he was hunching up so he could bury his nose in the coat's fluffy collar. His boots were soaked from a puddle he'd trudged through earlier without thinking that he wouldn't be able to dry off and he couldn't go home just yet to change them.
He felt like a creeper because he was sitting across the street from a high school. His car was busted, so England offered to pick him up from this spot and take him out for a meal – though why he picked a place right by a school filled with underaged kids, America didn't know. Some sort of revenge, maybe – making America look like a pervert by shivering outside a school for a few hours was something England would do.
America was never more grateful for the fact that he looked nineteen.
It was noon. Teenagers huddled around the building, blobs of color in their winter coats, laughter and arguments ringing in the crisp air.
There was one group that drew America's eye, though he tried to look like he was minding his own business. Standing as close to the street as they could get without being out of bounds, the kids in this group looked like freshmen – tiny and somehow less imposing than the other teens.
They weren't obviously special to anyone just passing by, but they were Americans and so America could see the differences and why they were worth noticing. And really, once he began seeing them he couldn't stop seeing something amazing, small as the tiny miracle might be.
A girl with blonde hair streaked with darker gold and gray eyes the same color as the icy sky but somehow warmer was laughing. She looked like a child of Germany's, or any of the Nordics, but she was loud and tiny, her energy levels up there with Italy's, her voice affected by a slight Spanish accent overpowered by something undeniably American.
A tall, gangly boy with dark black hair and eyes so brown that he didn't appear to have pupils berated the German girl to stop talking. His graceful movements and exotic coloring reminded America distinctly of India, but his voice was strongly British, so much so that America smiled and recalled that England was twenty minutes late and his feet were starting to go numb.
Then there was a girl who looked so much like France that America almost went over to ask him what he was doing there. But no, it wasn't France – the girl was too small, her hair more straight than wavy, eyes more green than blue. Her accent was French, and her movements spoke of France, but there was some sort of unique calm to her that most French people lacked.
They were all different, and with obvious ancestry from opposite ends of the globes, and yet they stood there as equals, as friends, even though in the past their families might have painted the ground with each other's blood.
The murmurs of students is split when a sharp ringing sounded. America flinched as students groaned and huffed, complaining all the way back to the front doors of the school. The small group of students, the small group of mixed races and mixed cultures, stream along with them, and America watches them go.
He is a mixing pot, he reminded himself. He allows cultures to mash together and he revels in the crazy mess that follows. His culture allows for a Northern European girl to be as loud and expressive as a Italian, a Indian boy to be British, a French girl to be as serene as the Nordics.
England pulled up five minutes later and America hurriedly hustled inside into the warmth of the automobile. England grunts hello at him as he starts off. "Sorry I was late. Were you bored?" America did note the malicious hint in England's tone. It had been some sort of revenge, then. For what, America didn't know nor care.
"Nah." He doesn't elaborate as he unbuttons his coat. "It was okay. Thanks for getting me."
England's eyes betrayed flickers of surprise. For such a old country, he is far too easy to read, America realized. Everything England is feeling is there, on his face, in his gestures, in his words. He thought of the Indian boy with the British accent. He was easy to read too, body language saying what his words weren't.
"You're welcome," England said finally as they merged onto the highway. "Where do you want to go to lunch?"
America pondered that. He was out of character as it was today, so why not go all the way? "Mexican food. There's a good one at the next exit."
The shock on England's face and the hesitant question of whether he was feeling alright made it worth it. And besides, he secretly really liked fajitas.
Author's Note
I have no idea. I was thinking about how my friends and I - we're all from very different ancestry - are so similar and how our races don't matter. Race is still a issue, and there is still tons of discrimination, but it's slowly getting better.
Anyway. Please critique.