23Title: Watercolors
Warnings: None so far.
Disclaimer: Sadly, I own nothing.
AN: Yeah, I rewrote this chapter. The previous version bugged me for some reason.
America stifles a yawn as he gazes at the plain metallic doors that mercifully block him from the stuffy old codgers of Europe. He doesn't know whether to feel sorry for himself for having been invited to a weeklong conference of the European Union, or the unfortunate building that has the displeasure of serving as the EU's official headquarters. Rubbing his right eye briefly with his right hand, which was free, he decides that he deserves more pity. Normally, the American is quite punctual with his appointments, but he really does not want to attend a meeting for a Union he has no membership in. The old farts of this continent had invited the younger nation to discuss the proposed free trade agreement between the European Union and his far more awesome federated republic. Originally intending to blow off the whole affair, his government had other ideas.
Apparently, it would be a good opportunity to help improve foreign relations. Of course, that's what they told him. What they really wanted was a high level official to attend a trans-Atlantic conference to divert attention away from the actual free trade talks taking place elsewhere. The European public seems to be rather uncomfortable with the talks, not that America could blame them; this 'diversionary' tactic was apparently some European minister's idea anyway.
"Hurray!" America thinks sarcastically as the full weight of realizing that he will be spending the next seven days in pointless meetings listening to nations squabble about matters he really has no interest in hearing sinks in. Taking a quick glance at his watch, America notices that he is nearly two hours late. Not that he, or anyone else cares. Pushing on the door's bar shaped release, the blonde nation enters into the main conference room. Despite what most people would think, the meeting looks terribly uneventful. Someone is speaking at the front of the conference room, while the others are seated in the various rows of seats, fenced off by small cubicle like walls raising from the table top. Some were giving their undivided attention to the presenter, others appeared to be doing paperwork; and some, like Prussia, lean back in their ergonomically designed chairs while resting their feet on the work place provided to them.
Despite the boringly mundane scene before him, the American can't help but notice an excited buzz in the air. As he walks down the aisle hugging the wall on his way to the guest area in the back, the blonde nation periodically glances over the assembly and notices that several nations appear to be communicating with each other via smart devices. Clearly, something interesting had occurred while America was busy battling the lethargy inducing sofa in his hotel room. What kind of innkeeper places sofa's in their establishment whose comfort level exceeds that of any mattress?
Finally reaching the back row, the North American spots his 'assigned' seat and moves towards it. He sets his briefcase down on the desk as he pulls his chair out and prepares to hunker down for the most mind numbingly boring seven days of his life.
"America?" a familiar voice pulls the blue eyed nation from the pit of tedium induced coma he was about to jump head first into. The American adopts a small, genuine smile, as he leans back in his chair so that he can see his ally on the other side of the barrier separating them.
"Turkey? What are you doing here? They finally let you in?" America asks even though he knows that Turkey is sitting in the guest area with himself.
"No, they want to discuss the terms of my membership… again," the Turkish nation states as he rolls his eyes. At least, that's what America thinks the other nation is doing, it's rather difficult to read someone's facial expressions while they wear a mask. "Which reminds me, since you're here, could you do me a favor and help argue my point when they finally get around to putting forward the motion of discussing my membership? You and England are the only ones here that would actually champion me."
"Sure," America scrunches his face in amusement at Turkey's phrasing. The American can't help but think of knights championing some lord or lady during a medieval jousting tournament... or a race, Turkey liked having races during that time. At least he thinks Turkey liked racing back then. Maybe he was thinking of Morocco.
"Speaking of England," Turkey continues as he leans in closer towards his ally. "Did you know that he and South Italy are dating?"
America's face takes on a neutral expression as the revelation sinks in. His former caretaker and one of his closest friends were in a 'romantic relationship'. Having no reason to doubt his ally, the American still searches for his brother, father, whatever the hell their complicated familial relationship would be called. It only takes a split second to recognize the messy blonde mop. Sure enough, the island nation is seated next to Romano Italy and he can't help but notice how close the two are sitting next to each other. It wasn't side by side, or very obvious to outsiders, but those two nations enjoy their personal space and although they were focused on their own paperwork, the space between them was much shorter than would be permitted to anyone else, even immediate family.
"No one tells me anything," America says with a small pout as he gazes at the two nations. Although it will no doubt be a bit awkward at first, the American concludes that he is just happy that the two cantankerous nations have finally found someone that enjoys hurling verbal abuse at the World as much as the other. They are like two porcupines, all barbed, infection inducing quills on the outside, but adorable softies once you get past the defenses. It isn't long before America is imagining two cartoonish, Disney style porcupines trying to give one anther a kiss but are having difficulties getting past the spines.
"That is so adorable," the American comments softly to himself before he is reminded of something else. "Is that what all the 'buzz' is about?"
"Part of it," the Turk says with a knowing smirk but refuses to say anything else.
"Well, what's the rest," America half asks, half demands. When the older, infinitely older, nation continues to maintain his smirk, the American adopts another pout and threatens: "Don't make me whip out the puppy dog eyes."
"Alright," the Republic of Turkey says with a chuckle. "What has everyone's rumormongering in overdrive is Spain."
"Spain?" The wheat blonde nation questions as he gazes over the room to search for the nation in question. It takes a few seconds, but he finally spots the nation in question in the front row, slumped over, looking a complete mess while resting his forehead against the top of his section of table. It is quite the pitiful sight to behold. What strikes the American the most is the stillness of the Mediterranean nation's form. It's as if he is a sculpture of misery frozen in place and put on display in some fancy French museum.
"Well, England and South Italy had walked through the door holding hands. That alone was enough to set everyone off, yet the 'best was yet to come', as they say. Spain had almost immediately approached the pair," the Turk pauses for a moment. "You should have seen it, the assembly had gotten so quiet you'd think that they had just received a declaration of war from Russia."
"It was a seemingly civil conversation, and the next thing anyone knew, the Italian and the Spaniard were shouting at each other… I swear the walls were rattling," Turkey states.
"Do you know what they were arguing about?" America inquires; giving his ally only his partial attention. He still hasn't taken his eyes off the Spanish male. Something about the sight of such a despondent looking Spain was difficult to turn away from.
"No." the masked nation says flatly. "Spain was using some variant of his language that I couldn't quite follow, and South Italy was using some weird cross between Italian and I swear Arabic. Most likely Sicilian or something. Whatever Romano Italy said really tore through Spain."
"Huh," America grunts as he continues to take in the sight of Spain's defeated form. He stares for a while longer before he is distracted briefly by Turkey. He vaguely hears his ally mentioning getting back to catching up on his paperwork and commenting about how they'll talk again later. To which America gives a brief, distracted "Yeah".
America can't quite explain it, but for some reason, the sight of seeing Spain be anything but cheery, feels so very wrong. Spain was like him in some ways, a chatty, 'Stepford Smiler' and it bothered the American greatly to see him so defeated and unresponsive. A frown forms and America soon begins to feel an all too familiar 'itch' begin to form in the back of his mind. It was an urge, a feeling, if you will, that has gotten the young nation into far too much trouble lately. That itch, that urge to try and help fix something. He tries to ignore it, but he can't seem to tear his eyes away from the Spaniard's back. The longer he looks at Spain, the greater the urge to 'help' becomes.
"Stop looking," the North American says to himself. After a great deal of effort on his part, he manages to remove his gaze from Spain's miserable form and onto the table top in front of him. He's slightly irritated with himself. America can't understand why this is upsetting him so much and that need to fix things, which causes him so much grief, isn't helping. Deciding that he needs to distract himself, the American grabs the headphones that are hanging from a hook on the miniature wall at his left. Placing the device on his head, the blonde nation adjusts them before reaching for the knobs at the top of his table. He switches them on and is amused to find that this meeting is offering translation services. Messing around with the knobs, the American finds the 'English' channel and gives his attention to the nation currently presenting.
Unsurprisingly, it is Germany. The American tries to pay attention, to keep himself from dwelling on the Spaniard, which the North American has once again set his gaze towards. Shaking his head, seemingly in an effort to clear his mind, the blonde male focuses on the German's presentation. Although, about food, the German is discussing the pros and cons of protecting the unique cultural heritage of a type of Italian cheese with maggots in it… and Europeans accuse his people of putting strange food items into their mouths. Despite the interesting topic, the presentation isn't enough to distract the American from Spain. His mind is starting to turn into a battlefield of competing thoughts. Images of the slumped over Spaniard flash by, only to be quickly replaced by the stubborn American with something else. It was like someone had spliced two movies together and was playing it on fast forward.
As his internal struggle wages, America starts bouncing his right leg up and down on the ball of his foot. He's starting to have difficulty concentrating and he is becoming more and more aware of his heart beat as the beginnings of a heavy sensation sinks into his chest. The American's mind is starting to scream at him that he is the hero, and heroes help those that are in need. It is taking every ounce of the young nation's willpower not to look towards the man that set a full blown war of thoughts in his mind.
In a last ditch effort, the blonde reaches for the dial and switches through the 'channels' until he finds one with a female interpreter. It momentarily amuses him to see Germany presenting with a female voice, but he soon recognizes the language as Spanish. The realization hits him with the strength of a mac truck and the American's leg looks like it's about to jack-hammer its way through the flooring. He feels as if he's on the verge of an anxiety attack, the feeling in his chest is getting more and more pronounced and his heart is racing.
"Ugh," the American groans as he finally gives into the urge that he has been fighting. Looking at Spain, America realizes that the Mediterranean nation has been in that exact same position, unmoving, the entire time he has been there and the last pieces of resistance in his mind crumble. Spain should be laughing, and smiling, and cooing over cute tomatoes, not looking like he has been shattered into a million pieces and hastily put back together with cheap ninety-nine cent store scotch tape. America has, no, needs, to do something, anything to help bring that sunny smile back.
"Alright, something small, you always go overboard," America cautions himself as he starts to come up with a plan to try and get Spain to smile again. Already, he can feel his heart start to slow to a steadier, more comfortable pace. The heaviness in his chest begins to lift and the American briefly wonders why he always has to try and help 'fix' things.
Maybe he could get Spain a giant tomato shaped cake. With bright red frosting, and sparklers… and a giant Spanish flag coming out of it. That would be totally awesome; everyone loves cake!
"No," America stops that train of thought. It was ridiculous; Spain must receive tomato themed gifts all the time, he would probably like something different for a change. The American tries to recall more about what he knows of the Spanish nation. Although their governments are on amiable terms, that hasn't always been the case. Add in the fact that America hasn't personally interacted much with the Spanish avatar, the blonde nation was having great difficulty trying to come up with anything that might cheer up the usually sunny man. America vaguely recalls that he had read an article online that the Spanish liked ham, not that he could really blame them; ham was freaken delicious.
"Fact check time!" the North American thinks to himself as he pulls out his smartphone. Pulling up his search browser, America types in 'Spain and Ham' and is amazed at the seriousness in which the Spanish approach ham. It also gives him a new found respect for the Spanish people, anyone that takes that much effort into producing something so delicious must be good people. However, America soon runs into a bit of a road block. Apparently there are several types of Spanish ham; many of which come with pedigrees longer than the pig that produced them. America was so, not dealing with that. Especially when national avatars can be absurdly particular about any culturally significant, national food item.
"Besides," America says with a slight grin as he momentarily remembers a video game. "The 'am tastes of despair."
Sneaking a quick peak at the nation occupying his mind, the American stuffs his phone into a pant pocket. He needs to come up with something quick. Spain's going to give himself some sort of back condition for how long he has remained in that slumped position. America notes that the Spaniard most likely has a giant red spot on his forehead from where it is connected to the table top. Pulling out a pen and note pad from his briefcase, the American tries to scour every recess of his impressively heroic brain for anything that will aid him in his mission. He taps the pen against the corner of his mouth as he lifts his chin contemplatively. This was far more difficult than he had hoped. With the exception of Portugal and Italy, the Latin nations were also so finicky around him. Friends one decade, than bitter enemies for the next five. It was quite stressful.
A minor memory of Spain cooing over something adorable at the last United Nations meeting worms its way into the American's head, causing a small smile to form. Spain had seemed so happy and was blinding everyone nearby with a sunny smile that rivaled America's own. Well, that settles it; cute things seemed to make the former conquistador incredibly happy, so that was the route America needed to take. Now, all America needs to do is somehow find something cute to lift the Spaniard's mood. Trying to think of what to do, the American stares down at the argent paper of his note pad. He had earlier run out of line paper and raided the printer in the hotel lobby instead of going to the store to purchase more; far less effort… and money. It turned out to be a fortuitous turn of events as the blank expanse has given the American a marvelous idea. He can just draw Spain something cute.
Although the North American is set on his course of action, he can't help but feel a small kernel of doubt plant itself in the back of his mind. America is a decent artist, though he never really considers his works as art. He mostly produces landscapes, or pictures of plants and/or animals which always look too technical and accurate. To him, they always look like they belong in a scientific journal, or some travel book, not an art gallery. The last time that he had tried a new art style, back during World War II, the other nations had laughed at his creations and America never really tried a new style since.
"I'll just have to draw something naturally cute," he thinks as he uncaps the pen and sets out sketching a kitten. Kittens were always adorable, especially when playing or being curious, or scared, or doing anything really. Even though he had decided against the tomato cake, he can't help throwing in a tomato plant with a ripe fruit on the vine. The plump looking vegetable/fruit/whatever, has somehow managed to attract the attention of the kitten which is trying to be fierce, but failing epically since it is only radiating cuteness all over the page.
It isn't until America has finished his sketch of the tomato and kitten that he realizes that the conference room is now entirely empty, save for himself. He had missed the call for a lunch break and with a quick glance at his watch and event itinerary, is able to determine that the lunch break is half way through. Popping the cap back in place on his pen and stuffing it into his briefcase, the American takes a moment to look over his work. A small frown briefly appears on his face. Once again, his attempt at art has turned out more realistic and accurate than he had hoped for, but he is satisfied with its adorableness.
After setting the sketch off to the side, America quickly gathers his things and neatly places them in the briefcase. Once finished, he stands up, briefcase in one hand, adorable tomato kitten in the other. As he makes his way from the back towards the front where Spain's assigned seat is located, the blue eyed nation periodically gets the urge to look at his sketch, as if the cuteness will somehow fade before reaching Spain while no one was appreciating it.
It doesn't take long for him to reach his destination. He ponders the best spot in which to leave his gift to the depressed nation. Smack-dab in the center is the obvious choice, one in which the North American seriously considers. However, he soon scrunches up his face in momentary displeasure as a thought occurs to him. What if there's a draft that blows the kitten off the desk and onto to the floor. He doesn't want the poor thing to get trampled. Instead, America decides that it would be best to leave the sketch under the rather thick event itinerary that Spain has left on his desk. After leaving his present in the suitable spot, with a large chunk of the corner poking out for easy spotting, the American takes a moment to appraise the set up. The strange urge that he should look at the sketch one more time to make sure that it was still adorable washes over him. He pulls the paper out from under the stack of papers, bringing it up to his face.
Yup, still cute. He slides it back under, corner sticking out, and heads towards the exit. America can't help but feel a little giddy. He can't wait to see how his gift will be received.