Chapter Text
“That really doesn’t matter,” the Russian empire argued. “The stage here in Europe has barely changed at all.”
Two other countryhumans in the room exchanged looks. “Perhaps so,” Spain murmured, “but what happens there will affect us.”
“No, I think it will be the opposite. What happens here, in the current centre of this world, will affect them. And now that we have some new people to… consider in out deals, that just makes things better for us.”
“Isn’t that what I just said?” Condescension fit Spain’s voice like a glove. “You are proving my point. It will affect us, a lot or a little, for better or for worse. Don’t you agree, Portugal?”
Portugal looked up from the maps he was studying. “Cala a boca e deixa-me em paz. I’m losing India, so if you don’t mind, you and the Slav can get out and leave me be.”
Spain gave her brother one of her sly smiles. “Where else do we go? A meeting is being held here in a quarter-hour, and we are all in it.”
Portugal sighed. “Just don’t ask of me anything until everyone else arrives.”
“Honestly, I don’t think everyone will come,” Prussia, who had been watching this in an disinterested, slightly amused silence, interjected. He ignored the looks of annoyance that everyone else gave him and continued. “The Dutch Republic is in an instability, Britain sent us a strongly worded letter blaming us for all his problems, and France is-“ he paused. “We all know what is going on with him.”
“Going to run back and tell your mother how well you spoke today?” Spain said, her voice dripping with mockery.
“At least my mother cares about me,” Prussia shot back. The Austrian Empire, who had been silent, hissed at him to shit up.
“ I never cared about my mother either.” Spain shrugged lightly. “And besides, you are nothing but a pawn to your senile, cranky mother.”
“Do not slander the Holy Roman Empire.”
Spain smiled. “I’m not. I’m simply pointing out the truth.”
“If that is your version of a truth, than is what do you consider lies?”
“Whatever your dear mother tells you.”
Prussia’s lips parted in a scowl. “What do you know about greatness? You lost your power over this world so easily.”
“At least I was powerfully and not some puta who doesn’t even come to her own meetings-“
“Spain, stop trying to stir everyone up-“ Russia tried to cut in.
“Oh, shut up, Russia. You’re barely modern. You cannot talk about anything.”
“Who are you to-“ Russia stopped mid-yell, then sighed. “Stop starting pointless arguments.”
“This entire meeting is pointless,” Portugal mumbled.
“Then leave,” was what Spain replied with, ignoring the door’s protests to being opened. “You are barely contributing to this anyway.”
“You leave, then,” Prussia rested his chin in his hands, the silver double-headed eagle on his eyepatch glinting in the afternoon light. “No one wants you here.”
“Tch. No one wants you here, either, so why don’t you go crying back to your mother like a-“
A glass sailed through the air, making a graceful arc before it shattered seemingly supernaturally, shards of glass raining down on the table like sharp flakes of snow. The bang of a pistol echoed around the room, coming from the now-open door.
The countries all turned towards it, and the young man standing in the doorway.
He was tall and made of lean muscle, which was a build that suited him. His hair was the golden blond of the princes and heroes in old romantic tales, the kind of colour that was rare to see in real life. It was messy but fashionably so, waves of spun sunlight framing his face perfectly. His eyes were the clear, bright, almost startling blue of cloudless summer skies, and they still shone with the pale dawn light of youth. He was wearing an embroidered blue coat with a while silk lining, a cape which lended to him an air of dramaticism, white breeches with polished gold knee buckles, and short black boots with buckles to match. Nestled in his hair was a tri-cornered chapeau bras, and he was holding a smoking pistol aloft, and even from a slight distance one could see how finely crafted it was. On his belt rested a seathed sword, and an empty holster. The light seemed to particularly like him, turning his hair into liquid gold and making the blade of his sword shine, and his eyes sparkle in what looked like amusement, though his mouth was set in a determined line.
The young man looked at the remains of the glass, than back at his strange audience. “Aren’t you supposed to be the civilised ones?” he asked in English. There he laughed softly and rubbed his hand on the back of his neck. “Sorry about that glass. I was convinced that it would hit me.”
The Russian Empire raised his eyebrows. “What are you doing here?” he asked in English. “That was quite an entrance.”
The youth looked surprised. “Spain invited me, I think.”
Everyone looked at Spain, who looked defiantly back at them.
“What?” she asked. “The topic of the discussion- our original discussion, that is- should be here.”
Prussia hummed softly. “So you are one of those two, no?”
The youth nodded, flashing a smile at Spain. “Yes. I’m Union, by the way, and my brother is back home sorting things out. Lots of change happening, as you can imagine.” His voice was formal, restricted. One could feel that he was actually a very laid-back, friendly person, but in the presence of so much suspicion, it was better to act respectfully.
“Oh, we all know your name.” Russia spoke up again, and like everyone else he was looking at the disruption that was Union. “You’re Britain’s son.” He shot the briefest of looks at Spain, a question she left unanswered.
“Yeah, though I’m told I don’t look much like him.” That was true. His hair colour was fair, and his eyes were a darker shade of blue. He held a cheerfulness that was so different from his father’s constant gloominess. There was, in fact, an optimism in him that the Europeans lacked. Perhaps it was because he had been raised far away with the strict rules and customs of Western Europe, or maybe it was because he belonged to the bright green fields and blue skies of the New World, at least partly. But at the same he did bear a strange resemblance to UK, in the way he talked and walked and the little things like how he was standing and how he held his gun. His eyes, too. Their shape made his expressions look like UKs. But they were so, so different still. He also- in ways indescribable- looked like Spain.
Union lowered the pistol, blowing on the smoking barrel in a show of nonchalance. “Where’s Netherlands and my father? Wait, no need to answer that. Netherlands is upset at me for some reason and my father doesn’t want to see my face.”
“No one knew that you were coming, actually.” Portugal’s voice still held a note of surprise.
“Oh.” Union huffed another short laugh. “That’s- that’s a shame.”
“May I see your pistol?” Russia asked. Union gave him a confused look, but crossed the room and handed the still slightly warm gun to him.
“If you don’t give it back, I might have to shoot you with another,” he joked awkwardly.
The pistol was beautiful in the way weapons should not be. Its grip was a polished dark walnut wood, the entire weapon- bar the barrel- engraved with a complicated design of flowering branches that curled gracefully around the grip and climbed their way up to the magazine, the smaller details around the magazine in a bright gold, with the carved silhouettes of two people visible among the branches. Its barrel was long and thin, and a ring of thirteen stars were engraved in gold around the tip. On the barrel itself, the words In God We Trust were engraved, the motto of this new country.
“A dueling pistol,” Russia observed, handing it back to Union. “Where is the other one?” He seemed genuinely curious.
Union waved his question off. “Confederacy has it. Quite strange, because the pistols will never be used against each other.”
“Unless, of course, the two of you-“ Austria slapped Prussia’s arm gently, a wordless command to shut up.
Union gave him a very familiar look of annoyance. “Who are you supposed to be again?”