Narrator:
When England returned from showing Canada to his bed, France and America were nowhere to be found. He searched the kitchen and living room and the upstairs bedrooms, to no avail. He was just starting to wonder where they had gone when he noticed that their shoes had disappeared with them. He looked around, wondering why they would leave without any notice, seeing the glasses washed in the sink and the bottles in the recycling. His brow furrowed in confusion and he inhaled deeply. He smelled the usual odor of his house along with the scent of his guest and their drinks, but also something else. Smoke.
He opened the front door curiously, and upon doing so he saw his missing guests, staring somberly out at the front lawn, smoking deeply. Each had a lit cigarette, glowing brightly in the night. The scent was as strong and heavy as the silence. He stood in the doorway watching for a moment until France noticed him. He smiled half-heatedly and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, offering them to the Brit. England accepted, a little reluctantly, now forced to join in the heavy atmosphere of the gathering. He held the cigarette between his fingers, rolling it slowly between them and enjoying the familiar feel. France put the cigarettes back and offered him a light. With the cigarette between his lips, England leaned in, puffing softly to get it burning. The tip grew black in the glow and then caught red, burning as a small speck of red light. He inhaled deeply, holding the smoke in his lungs, feeling its scratchy warmth inside him. The smoke was thick and strong, and the cigarette was good. He exhaled slowly, his eyes closed in silent concentration. France watched him and smiled softly, touching him gently on the shoulder. They turned back to the yard, leaning gently against the porch railing. England was the first to break the silence.
"You heading home, America?" He was silent for a moment, his eyes cast downward.
"Yeah…"
"I figured."
"Hmm." They fell silent yet again.
"…when's your cab coming?"
"He called while you were upstairs, so it should be here pretty soon," France replied for the American who was lost in thought.
"Oh. Yeah. It'll be here soon," America added, brought back to attention after a moment's pause.
"…well, it was nice seeing you."
"Nice seeing you guys too, England. It was real nice…." The men fell silent yet again as the sound of tires scraped down the street, finally stopping in front of them. America inhaled deeply for a final time, lifting his left foot and rubbing out the nub on his heel. He put it in his pocket and walked toward the cab, the other two trailing him. He turned to France and smiled, his eyes still focusing on something far away.
"Thanks, France. I…" He stopped, unsure of what he wanted to say. "…Treat England well, he can be pretty temperamental," He smiled his winning smile. England looked away, embarrassed and refusing to catch the younger man's eyes.
"Hey…." He fought back weakly, completely unprepared for the jest and focused on other things.
"See you later, old man," Alfred smiled affectionately and climbed in to the cab. He gave his directions to the driver and they drove away slowly, but not before Alfred saw France touch England's arm affectionately and guide him back inside. America's eyes softened for a moment, but soon hazed over as he stared out the window, not really seeing anything at all.
America:
On my way back to the hotel, I called my nation's authorities, explaining my plans to a very frustrated official who seemed quite tired of treating me as a human. There's a strange line separating myself and my country, but it is much more difficult to control me than it is my land. My land can be toiled, and houses build on steady bedrock, but unlike the dirt and earth which make the physical boundaries of my country, I live like the spirit of my people. We are strong, individualistic, capable and proud, much to the ironic chagrin of my country's administration. Regardless, I got as I wanted, and my flight home was scheduled on a public plane early the following morning. I didn't care to waste time bringing a private military jet to bring me home; I was ready to be drinking my beer, and sitting on my sofa as soon as humanly possible. I could care less about formalities at this moment.
The flight was planned and I was driving back to my room to gather my things, soon to be at the airport and heading home. Everything was going well enough until I saw a large figure, wobbling down the street with a drunken gait. I was only two blocks from the room and a flight away from my beloved home when I stupidly called to the driver.
"Wait!" He slowed the cab quickly, used to unexpected stops. He waited patiently as I stared for a moment, my heart making decisions without my mind. I steeled my resolve for just a moment before digging in my pocket for a wad of twenties. I handed them over the front where he had been waiting, expecting this action I could barely fathom and preparing to expertly count out the change.
"Just keep it," I said, climbing out of the car with my heart racing. The plan, or lack thereof, became more and more ridiculous as my heart explained it to my mind, but as I stood, staring at the place on the road where the cab once sat, I was committed.
