It was London, 10 am, September 17th, and America hadn't the faintest idea what she was really doing here.
London would always be a sprawling metropolis dusted under a weight of grey. A place full of words and ideas. Words, like pieces of paper, flitted through her mind as she stared at the ceiling.
London was solid compared to the nation's own humdrum of New York. Her capital kept buzzing in the back of her mind. By nine in the morning, the dew that crept in overnight with bustling taxis and street lights always evaporated like the tail end of a dream. The streets— the bottoms of an old, fortified canyon made of concrete grey and endless skyscrapers—wavered, and the tops of cars gleamed, and broke down, in the insufferable dust of the lower East Side and Times Square.
America's fingers curled into the white of her bed-sheets.
She had known about the summit meeting for weeks now, and the sickly tan of documents stamped with her national seal was an eternal weight on her left arm; hanging in one hand like a boulder. She poured over the black lettering of sections and subsections at ones and twos and threes in the morning with coffee and a bouncing knee. The words, or what was left of them, floated up behind her eggs and bacon at breakfast. Dripped into her sugar filled coffee. Stained the pristine white of hotel bathroom towels, and the billowing, crisp bed-sheets.
America realized how stupid she had been; packing the small collection of light blouses and pencil skirts and trousers, all hanging like a group of limp fish in the closet. How all of her successes fizzled out beyond 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, tinged with holiday parties and correspondent dinners. Men and women of the political pool drinking martinis in imitation silver lamé evening gowns and black suits. The cool air of open windows led out to magazine picture gardens and steps of grey underneath a sky full of stars. An influx of pale, all American bone structures hired or loaned for the occasion since 1776.
A real whirl.
Look what can happen in a country like this, they'd say. Look at what she can do. Thriving. Falling. Really, truely, something.
America felt very still. An oxymoron. Moving from dinner to work to hotels to meetings like an old trolley up and down the hills of San Francisco in the middle of the surrounding hullabaloo.
Her phone vibrated. America's fingers tightened and then released before she picked up her phone and looked. Her lips twitched in a bit of a smile at the message that was on the screen.
You gonna let me in?
Canada. Her brother was a godsend for any lingering, unsavory future thoughts. The only one who wouldn't give a damn at the fact that she was still in pajamas an hour before she had to go downstairs to that big room in the historic Browns Hotel and face the rest of the world. Her reply was lightening-quick.
You have a key.
The familiar shiver of electricity down her spine alerted her to his presence. America rose and moved across the room. She opened her door to see one of his hands in the middle of pocketing his cell phone, while the other was just poised to knock.
The first thing that soothed her aching mind was the sight of his red sweater. She loved him in red. It was a familiar certainty between the two of them. A color that came with a shared childhood of scraped knees and long corridors to years passing by and their own blossoming nationhood. That old brown duffel bag was hoisted over one shoulder, carrying his laptop and a notepad. She stood in the doorway, grey t-shirt and black pajama bottoms. He was first, as usual.
Amelia, at the very least, held the title of elder. Most days anyway. It tended to waver depending on mood.
Matthew was, at the very least, dressed for the day. He held the advantage of being on time for seemingly anything and everything outside of their political existence.
Simply put, better at wearing genuine normalcy.
"Are you just going to stand there like a weirdo?" Amelia asked, raising an eyebrow. She opened the door wider to let him inside, and moved back over to the scattered mess of papers and files left on the desk. . "Shoes!" she reminded him, smirking softly. He grumbled under his breath, removing the offending articles and placing them by the door.
He went to sit by the window, not before rummaging through her purse and pulling out a carton of cigarettes. America reached over him to open the window. The cool September air made the light curtain billow and dance in the grey of the mid-morning.
Matthew lit up and took a long drag. Passed it over to his sister, watched her inhale smoke and exhale thinly veiled fatigue outside into dissipating grey, before giving the cigarette back. He flicked the loose ashes onto the windowsill.
Outside, the goings-on of London increased as the minutes passed. People dotting sidewalks, cars moving by, buses stopping and going to fill and spill out people like some set of strange, mechanical beasts. The twins watched with only vague interest.
"Is the state thing Thursday?" Matthew asked.
America shook her head. "Wednesday. Then back here."
"We'll just go until we get sick of it." Canada said. He stubbed out his cigarette on the base of the window-frame, immaculate white, save for the small collection of dust and a dead bee. He leaned back in his seat, cocking his head at his sister, the side of his mouth turned upwards in what America could only decipher as sarcasm and amusement.
"Those after-dinner parties are more like school dances in the gym." Matthew shifted again, resting his chin in his hand. . "Why do they have to invite the Yale party candidates? It's stupid."
Amelia shrugged. "Old things win out, I guess. Wiser."
"We're old," her brother replied, and they shared a smirk. "Not very wise."
The problem with her sphere of existence and the white academia that inhabited it was not pride; it was stupidity. Sure, those men conducting meetings had all done their degrees and written their essays. Balancing work alongside six-month affairs with women from the Cape sporting names like Gladys and Rosemary and June did little to help them understand the bigger picture of-
What of, exactly?
She looked at her brother again. The word floated to her fogged-up mind like an old bottle and cork lost in the depths of the sea. Intuition. Matthew had intuition. Everything he said seemed to be like some secret voice speaking straight out of her old, foolish bones. Not that she minded. Certainly not.
America moved back over to the mess of papers scattered on her desk.
"We have an hour-" Canada looked at his watch,"ish." He observed America again, noting the way she toyed with the pen, clicking it and driving the point into the smooth mahogany of her desk. "You didn't sleep." A glance at her trash can. Canada counted at least ten empty cups of coffee. "Haven't been sleeping, then. You know you can't run on caffeine and patriotism alone." His tone was teasing but she could feel the unspoken concern and seriousness in his words.
His twin only hummed, taking a seat and tossing an empty paper cup (presumably stained with late night coffee) into the trash. He watched her bare feet move over the carpet. Curling and uncurling her toes over themselves in some pseudo ballet position.
" Do you want to talk about it?" Matthew ventured.
"Talk about what?" Amelia's voice was clipped. He didn't have to put two and two together to know she was on edge, and it wasn't just from the ungodly amount of caffeine.
"What's bothering you. Or rather, what has been bothering you for weeks considering you're drafting up an outline on the expenses for renovations at Lynden-Aldergrove that, one, are a maybe, and two, if pushed forward, won't go into full effect until 2021,"he said, a bit curt.
"Thanks for the info dump, narrator of my life. Any other exciting events you'd like to share?" She didn't know where her sudden aggression had come from. They drew out things out in each other, that was obvious. But right now, everything seemed to be exaggerated to the point of breaking some tenuous string that held them together.
A muscle in Matthew's jaw tensed for a second. "Yeah, the narrator would like to know when his sister will stop the bullshitting and actually talk to her brother."
She hated this. They both did.
America shoved away from her desk, nearly knocking over a pile of files, angrily rummaging through her suitcase on the other side of the bed.
"Maybe his sister thinks that her brother would already know what's going on, since he's so damn insightful about every aspect of their mutual existence and shouldn't have to ask a stupid question like 'what's wrong'!"
She was gripping a light blue dress shirt in her hands, knuckles turning bone white.
"I'm not a mind reader, Ames! And maybe, just maybe, you could stop deflecting for five seconds so I can actually help?"
"Yeah, like that's supposed to make me feel any better!" she spat.
"Would it make you feel any better if you know I'm not asking this out of political intrigue but personal concern and, oh, I don't know, maybe because I love you?" he snapped, pale blue eyes blazing.
"Much better!"
"Then feel better!"
Silence. Slowly, her hands loosened their death grip on the fabric. He ran a hand through his hair, nervously clearing his throat before speaking again.
"Do you want me to leave?"
"No." She slowly sat down on the edge of the bed, half turned from him. "No," she repeated, softer this time.
In the moments that passed, she felt the bed shift as he sat down opposite. Shifting closer, both of them to lie beside the other. Stared at the ceiling. Then her hand first (always first when she lost her temper) pale as the billowing white of the suite's comforter, laid against the sheets.
His fingers, barely brushing her own, before he traced down the curve of her index finger to her palm.
America didn't move away when he interlocked their fingers. The air went from her lungs in a slow exhale.
A beat.
Matthew squeezed her hand ever so gently. His thumb moved, ghosted over the curving outline of her hand to her wrist.
Okay?
Amelia gave a steady nod when he ran the pad of his thumb over her pulse.
Okay.
And the great white north looked to the land of the free, offered a small smile, and pulled his sister closer.
"Sorry." That word murmured into her hair. Matthew thought it funny. Such a small word carrying so much weight.
"Sorry." America pressed her face into the curve of his neck. Their hands were still together, him making sure that she felt his heartbeat against the back of her own hand. It was quiet before she spoke again, breaths fanning against his skin. "I'm coming down, I-I just-things are not in order. And I try to put everything in order , to sort stuff out, but-" She stopped. Squeezed her eyes tight. "I'm coming down. But if I go down, I-I think about doorknobs and thunderstorms and what the number three would taste like."
Matthew couldn't help but chuckle a little at the notion. At the sound of his soft laughter, she relaxed even more. "Tart, I think."
"Grapefruit?"
Canada wrinkled his nose. "No. Cherries." The nation's free hand began to card through his twin's hair. Heaved a long, low sigh. "It's an hour and forty-five minutes, tops."
"Two hours," she corrected him. Lifted her head and shifted herself up to look down at him. "Accounting for arguments, clarifications, possible stabbings. The usual."
He laughed at this. "The usual. You can fake sleeping in late. That much is believable." Her fingers began to trace slow, nonsense patterns along his arm. "15 minutes late, accounting shower and clothes."
"Fourty."
"No."
"Fifty?"
"Ames."
"Forty-nine."
Matthew rolled his eyes and made a move to lift himself off the bed. She sat there, cross-legged in her black pajama bottoms and, what he only now realized, with some amusement, his old grey t-shirt. There was a moment, he thought, that there was something in her eyes, but he couldn't quite name the emotion that ran between them like a live wire.
"Fifteen minutes," he said to her. She rolled her eyes.
But when he started to leave, her hand shot out to grab his wrist with such an intensity Canada nearly fell back onto the bed.
"What-" he began. Looked at her. "You're crying."
America blinked and touched her cheek before staring at her damp fingertips in confusion. "I-" she started, and then stopped. Bit her lip. Suddenly, Amelia looked up at him again. "Promise."
"What are you talking about? Ames-"
" Please ," she said again, desperation creeping into her voice. "Just-" Her hands came up to cup his face and pressed their foreheads together. "Promise."
Matthew didn't know what else to say, and instead, managed a soft nod. "I promise." The ache in his chest lessened considerably when she exhaled slowly, eyes drifting shut for a moment.
"My brain's on fire," America muttered.
"That would be the cheap coffee and lack of sleep." He pulled back, arms hooking through her own to grasp her wrists. "Hey."
Their eyes met. Matthew gave a reassuring smile. His thumb made soothing circles over her skin. "We'll figure it out, okay?"
America returned his smile. "Yeah." Something in her demeanor softened. "I love you."
That made the other nation's smile only grow more. He pressed his lips against her forehead. "I love you," the words murmured against her skin. "Now," he said, fixing her with a look of no arguments and encouragement. "Twenty minutes late."
"Thirty-eight minutes."
He smirked. "…twenty-five."
"Deal."
She watched him leave, all calm and softness that made the rumbling train of thought slow down for a moment. Don't be late. Don't be late. Don't be late.
The train of her thoughts sped up, wheels sparking, and the whole cabin caught fire. She winced. Ran a hand through her hair and moved off the bed to look out the window at the sidewalk below. People. Cars. Wretched. Travel. Moving. Stupid. Trains. Pushing open the door and moving out into the garden. Sunlight. Roses. The attic. Weak. His pocket-watch slipped out of her hands and onto the floor. Time breaks, time break, time breaking -
Amelia lit another cigarette.
She was late.
England's fingers ran over the smooth curve of his pen, absentmindedly tapping the object against his notebook. She was late; even by world meeting standards, where more than half of the nations came milling in five, ten minutes after the official start time. The hallways were mostly empty, save for a few random hotel guests and workers passing them by on their way to the conference room.
Italy was complaining to Germany about shoes.
Greece, half asleep across from him.
The humming noise of the world, moved to the back of his brain at the sight of a certain Canadian from across the room and the lack of a certain American normally by his side.
Canada was leaning against the wall, thumbs moving at lightning speed over the keyboard of his phone. The nation was muttering something underneath his breath, pocketing his device and moving to his seat with a sigh.
"They've argued," France murmured from his place beside the Englishman, blue eyes following Matthew's movement to his seat.
England said nothing.
It was fifteen minutes to the end when America entered the room. Same quiet steps and shuffling of her bag as she put it down onto the carpet, taking her assigned seat and pointedly ignoring the set looks of annoyance from some nations across the table. Canada looked at her from the corner of his eye before continuing to write his notes.
England saw a muscle in her jaw twitch, her face setting into the space of impassivity that made his stomach churn in a mixture of distaste and irritation.
Could she at least try to care?
Afterwards, with final words and schedules for next meeting time, the world dispersed. Nations wandered into the hallway, conversations about afternoon activities dulling to the back of England's brain as he placed his notebook into his bag. America was staring into space, dark blue eyes hazy. The sight of near boredom was only offset by how tight her grip was on her pen as she clicked and unclicked it.
It was a few seconds before she noticed he was looking at her.
"Do you need something?"
England frowned. "You were late."
America blinked, and then rose from her seat and ignored the deepening scowl from England as she fluidly sat down in Canada's lap. The only acknowledgment he gave to his sister's close presence was the arm he loosely wrapped around her waist as she crossed one leg over the other.
Francis couldn't help smirking at the intimate, yet obviously defiant action. Matthew nudged his twin, her head bending as he murmured something into her ear. Whatever it was prompted a sharp, barking laugh from America.
"He doesn't row ?" she asked.
"No. He doesn't row."
"Ah. I see what you mean." Her gaze traveled again, listless to the Englishman in his pressed dark green trousers and starched collar.
She wanted to wrap her hands around his throat and squeeze.
She settled for concentrating on the lightness of Canada's fingers from his free hand, tracing along the lines of her palm, unseen from under the table.
England crossed his arms and leaned back in his seat. "You have a chair."
"Evidently. Congratulations, you have eyes." Amelia said, inspecting the nails of her other hand.
The cabin, filling with black, choking smoke.
"I would expect insipid comments like that to come from your bland idea of family television, but unfortunately it seems to bleed into every aspect of your life."
"You didn't ask me about stuff I cared about, so I guess it's my fault you're unable to come up with more decent conversation?"
Her brother's arm tightened ever so slightly around her waist.
"Conversation, indeed. I'd be afraid to distract whatever is going on in that head of yours during meetings instead of actually doing your job."
She snorted. "Job? Sitting in a room for three days listening to problems and hearing a bunch of men yelling at each other? If I wanted that, I could just turn the television to any of your local news channels."
"I'm surprised you even have the energy to watch the news considering you can't get out of bed fast enough to be present to a meeting in the middle of the day."
"My God, could we just have one day?" France exclaimed, rising from his seat and hoisting his bag over his shoulder. "It's not even 2:00, l'Amérique." America said nothing, sinking back into her brother with a huff at the Frenchman's pointed look. "You were late. He wants to know why. C'est tout."
"I didn't realize my life was up to everyone's scrutiny." America grumbled.
"Perhaps," England cut in, "you wouldn't feel so scrutinized if you gave up this childish habit of coming and going as you please."
America's eyes locked onto his own, and her words were icy. "Funny. I thought you'd be used to me leaving by now, Arthur."
There was a moment of silence. Then, with one fluid movement, England picked up his bag, rose from his seat and exited the room without another word.
France sighed, sent both younger nations a look that they pointedly ignored, and followed after his friend. There was silence between the siblings for a few seconds before Canada spoke.
"You were-"
"Late. Yes."
"Care to explain?" he asked.
She bit the inside of her cheek, and her other hand moved to brush non-existent dust from her trousers. Canada was patient, as always, and it made her stomach hurt more than anything else.
"Sometimes you gotta do something bad in order to stop yourself from doing something much worse."
He opened his mouth to speak before being cut off by the blare of the fire alarm.