For people like my friend, who constantly criticise America and his weight, I get fucking pissed off when you always fixate on it. He's a fricking nation. He has to feed like fifty whole states, and if they're not separate entities, then he has to eat for them. Even besides that, he's not that fucking stupid. So, you know what? Here you fucking go.

Russia watched them all, faces contorted neatly into scowls and mouths working furiously as they screamed at each other. What a monumental waste of time; he yawned boredly and looked for something else to occupy his attention.

America! Perfect. The rambunctious young nation was always the center of every argument and petty dispute. He could watch him and while away the few minutes they had left.

America sat calmly in his seat, slouched casually and wearing a bored expression. He rolled his eyes and rested his head on his arms, oblivious to the older man watching him.

He squinted slightly. Something was different about him.

The soft, babyish curves of his features seemed to have sharpened, become more angular, and his jacket hung loosely on his hunched shoulders. Tired eyes watched the fury before them, holding a sort of longing and bitter dislike. His own scowl was that of distaste and aloof-ness. Russia gave a humorless laugh. Compared to his 'gentlemanly' brother, he was the epitome of propriety.

He was perfectly fine, of course, to those who couldn't compare him to his former state. He looked thin, almost too thin, and paler than usual, and exhausted, almost annoyed with the proceedings. But to other eyes, he was perfect.

No, something was very wrong with his America. The bright former enemy that he knew was not this calm, collected nation that sat at the head of the table. He had changed, and he wasn't sure he liked it.

"Alright!" Germany roared over the din. "Meeting over."

He stood swiftly, following America out the door.

"America?"

"Yes, Russia?" His voice was thin and cool, businesslike and lacking its usual obnoxious quality.

"Are...you okay?"

He laughed darkly. "Of course. I'm perfect now. Isn't this what you all wanted?" He strode off before he could respond.

No, America. It's not what I wanted.

He watched him go and made no motion to follow him.

*dies* I didn't want to torture poor America, and now Russia's heartbroken. If you want the backstory that I never wrote, Russia thinks their relationship is onesided, but America is so fed up with the criticism that he's pushing them all away. I think I might continue this. Eh. I'll think about it.

That's right, you know who you are, I'm torturing poor Alfie because of you. You know who you are. You know.