Borderline.

Bulgaria might just be a little jealous of her. A little. Bulgaria/Romania/Hungary.

Bulgaria really, really disliked not being able to categorize things.

It was one of his biggest flaws. He wouldn't say that he was obsessive compulsive about it, but it bothered him when he couldn't see things in black and white. Perhaps this was why Romania always bothered him so much. His northern neighbor was never easy to put into words- he was playful and mysterious and idiotic all at once, and those three words combined still couldn't offer a decent description of Romania.

Bulgaria had to admit that Romania was his closest ally, closest friend, but sometimes just that idea alone irked him. Romania did nothing but cause trouble for him, after all. Their friendship was one born out of convenience more than anything. Or so he told himself.

He sits in the corner of the room, watching the two of them bicker like little children. Romania has done something stupid again, Bulgaria imagines it was some trivial thing like spilling a cup of coffee, and Hungary is laying into him as though he has just begun World War III. This is not an abnormal occurrence, nor is it particularly interesting to him.

But he can't help the way his eyes are drawn to those two, his ears tuned to their escalating voices as if on instinct. He blames it on his company. It seems everyone around him was always fighting. If it wasn't Hungary and Romania, it was Greece and Turkey or Serbia and Macedonia. None of them seemed to quite grasp the concept of letting bygones become bygones. So Bulgaria watches and Bulgaria tries to pretend he isn't interested at all in their mindless prattle, even though he thinks some part of him secretly is.

Now Romania is bringing up the topic of Transylvania for the umpteenth time, in gloating. Bulgaria notes with no small amount of trepidation the scarlet color blooming on Hungary's puffed out cheeks. She's either embarrassed, angry, or some perilous combination of the two. Romania must notice too, but he doesn't backtrack as any sane nation would when faced with Hungary's wrath. Instead, he puffs out his chest and continues speaking.

Bulgaria hears himself sigh. Romania has never been the smartest of them all. Clever, yes, and perhaps even resourceful, but his brains never quiet passed the measure of his mouth. How long have they known each other now? It feels like an eternity. They've gone under different aliases throughout the centuries. Borders have changed, and so have names. But how many times has Bulgaria seen those blood red eyes, the light blonde hair, those arms pulling him into a tight hug? Too many times to count.

He exhales as the two continue to bicker.

Bulgaria bears no ill will towards Hungary. They are on strictly neutral grounds. She doesn't bother him and he doesn't bother her. He likes it like this. He likes most of his relations like this. There are no wars between neutral countries, save the ones he is drawn into by others. Romania is really the only nation he's ever been close enough to for any such problems to crop up, and he can hardly remember the last time they did. His relationship with Romania is far from perfect, but on paper, it's the best a nation could possibly ask for. Perhaps this is why the fighting bothers him.

Hungary has him in a headlock now, and Austria and Moldova have come in to intervene. Their intervention is hardly worth noticing, though; all Austria does is fuss about what a commotion Hungary is making, and all Moldova does is try halfheartedly to pry her off of him. She has her frying pan out, Bulgaria notices. How she manages to conceal that thing so well is beyond him. The other nations around the room are staring now. America wonders aloud somewhere halfway across the room who those 'two foreigners' are, until England pointedly berates him for his ignorance.

All Bulgaria cares about all of a sudden is that Romania, instead of looking frightened as any sane man would, was actually smiling. Genuinely, too. It's still a striking sight to him. Those eyes, of such a dark brown that they almost appeared red… they look so happy, so alive. And even though Hungary is still trying to get at him, Bulgaria can see the lightest blush dusting her cheeks that certainly isn't from sheer excitement alone. Honestly, they're such masochistic people.

Bulgaria gets up to stretch, but by the time he's at his feet he doesn't quite feel like it anymore. He looks around, at the expensive décor of the London meeting room, at the nations watching Bulgaria and Hungary go at it, at Bulgaria and Hungary themselves. So bothersome… But all of this troubles him more than it usually does. It touches upon some deep, buried part of him that aches at even the slightest trace of feeling. Something beating in his chest, hurting. It hurts, it hurts…

He shakes it off. He doesn't care, he tells himself. He never has. He is himself, and that is all that matters. Carefully he collects his folders, his books, his pens, and he exits the room, in search of a quiet place. All the while, the aching in his chest subsides until he can feel absolutely nothing at all.

Just as he closes the door, he hears Romania call his name. He doesn't turn back.

This'd be my new otp. Uh, Romania/Bulgaria, I mean. I'm okay with Romania/Hungary too, don't get me wrong, but the latter is more appealing to me. Ah, this story is short, though. I kind of just came up with it. I hope you at least kind of enjoy it, though. Thanks for reading, and please review!