Chapter Text
Latvia’s eyes were watering. He wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was the new romance novel he had picked off the shelf and started reading the night before… or was it just a few hours ago? Come to think of it, he barely recalled the title of the novel in front of him. All he really remembered was his very futile attempt to sleep after a recent session with his government on the current plan moving forward to remove the remaining Russian soldiers still stationed in the country. Negotiations between the Russian and Latvian governments were still in the works (and had been for a while), but his President (who was set to meet with Russia’s boss in Moscow soon) had insisted on hearing the opinion of his Nation on the matter — despite how aloof and notorious for poor comments his Nation might be.
Plus, Latvia was worried that his removal from his homeland for so long would cause a rift between his opinions and his people’s. He never stopped feeling their will, so to speak, but he last lived in a Latvia 50 years younger. There was a very real possibility, in his mind, that he might misspeak or say something to raise tensions. After all, he was still quite shaken up after living with Russia for half a century, and animosity during negotiations had already heightened quite a few times (Latvia also remembered several letters from Mr. America expressing his support and mentioning that his boss and many of his fellow Nations’ bosses were resolved to help). Latvia himself did not want to cause himself any more pain (as his words often did), especially at the hands of Russia’s so-called “magic metal pipe of pain,” nor did he want to potentially put his people in danger as a result of any reaction from Russia’s boss.
So, anxiety ate at him all night. Instead of restful slumber, he found himself in a state of fading consciousness — unable to truly sleep but somehow still plagued by vivid nightmares of Russia’s reactions to the upcoming negotiations. Every possible horrific scenario, many reminiscent of his previous treatment in Russia’s house, flashed through his mind on repeat as soon as he laid his head on the pillow. By the time he gave up on sleeping, his whole body was trembling.
He tried to call Lithuania or Estonia, but they were both either incredibly busy with paperwork (to be fair, he thought, which of them wasn’t right now) or asleep. Although, come to think of it, maybe he dialed the wrong numbers. His hands weren’t exactly steady. There had to be some way to help himself, and, as if on cue, he spotted his next attempt at calming down.
On one of his shelves laid a book of poems, contents copied from other such books. He recalled being gifted it a few months ago by the parents of a lost young boy he found and returned to them. They gifted him this book of poems in gratitude for bringing their son home, despite his insistence on not needing something in return. He hadn’t thought much of his decision to help the child, of course, for any Nation would help one of their citizens on a whim, but something about the interaction warmed his heart on that cold winter’s day. Perhaps it was because it felt like the dissonance he felt between himself and his people after living away for so long mended slightly, even after such a small interaction. They had felt comfortable around him, enough so to give him a gift for a simple action.
Shaking his head to break that train of thought, he raised a trembling hand to the shelf and pulled the book off. The poems themselves were quite endearing, or at least he thought so as he sucked on the fresh paper cuts littering his hands (opening books while trembling is never a good idea).
As he continued to read, a bunch of little mistakes scattered throughout the books stuck out to him: typos, ink smudges, and the occasional slanted print.
Samizdat. He had been somewhat aware of the efforts made by his people to fight against the repression of free press while he was living with Russia, but to know that the family had given him such an important relic of such a brutal time… it warmed him on this milder spring night. Perhaps it was because the family reminded him of the resolve of his people during his time as a Soviet state, though he himself was not there to see it.
And suddenly he was right back to thinking of Russia, and the warmth quickly dissipated. He closed the book shakily and set it to the side.
No, he needed something relatively mind-numbing that could instill in him any emotion besides fear, and that was how he landed on his current choice of novel.
And so, Latvia sat on his bed the rest of the night, blanket placed atop the messy mop of hair on his head and draping down his back to keep him warm, eyes glued to the pages as the tragedy played out. By the time he noticed his tremors were gone, his room filled with the first rays of the morning sun, and his eyes were glistening with unshed tears — from the novel or the nightmares, he couldn’t say.
This routine wasn’t exactly unusual, especially not since he moved out of Russia’s house. When was the last time he got a good night’s sleep, anyway?
Well, it didn’t matter too much to him. So much still needed to be done to integrate back into Europe and to leave Russia’s influence for good, so he didn’t see himself resting well any time soon.
He just hoped he was doing a good enough job for his people.
He sighed, finally lifting his eyes from the book that started falling into his lap. The phone he tossed to the side earlier in the night still lay atop his nightstand. He eyed it slightly, debating whether or not to try calling his fellow Baltics again. Ultimately, he decided against it, fearing what they would think of him if he pathetically recounted his terror-filled night to them.
It took a while for him to finally stop staring at the phone, though. To be completely honest, he couldn’t break out of the motionless state himself.
The incessant ringing of the doorbell was what ultimately jolted him back to consciousness.
Latvia inhaled sharply as the rings of the doorbell continued to echo throughout his house. Instead of getting up to answer, however, he pulled his blanket tighter around his body, balled his now sweating hands, and checked off his list of who could possibly be at his door today:
- The neighbors or local residents who noticed a 15 year old living by himself in a relatively nice house in Old Town. But that couldn’t be an issue, because most people kept to themselves and minded their own business, and if they didn’t, they assumed that his parents had died or were otherwise separated from him during Soviet times, potentially on accounts of disloyalty. So long as they never questioned him, he wasn’t too worried.
- His boss or a bureaucrat in the know about Latvia coming to collect him for his duties. His schedule was supposedly free today, and it wasn’t exactly uncommon for his government to get him on a whim in the event of an emergency or important decision. What if he missed a notice, or wrote his schedule wrong? What would they do to him then? Didn’t they already hate him for being so young?
- …Russia.
If that last option were the case, he realized he had two choices: ignore him and cower in fear or answer immediately. Both would result in him getting hurt, he reasoned, though which would be worse, he couldn’t say.
He released his breath and uncurled his fists, quietly noticing tiny, prickling marks caused by his nails.
Blanket still over his head, Latvia made a swift motion from his bedside to the front door, where he heard a strange muffling in what sounded like incredibly loud English. No doubt the neighbors would notice soon, he thought, grimacing at the idea of more people noticing him in this tired state. He pressed his ear to the door, attempting to make out the slur of words coming from the other side, but to no avail. It was exactly that, unfortunately — a slur of words in a dialect of English he didn’t understand.
At least it definitely wasn’t Russia, who preferred a stealthy intrusion over… whatever this was. Erring on the side of caution, Latvia raised himself up on his tiptoes (cursing his short height and Russia’s strong hand) to see out of the peephole, only to see…
…startlingly blue eyes — nearly the same hue as the sky above him — staring right back into his with sheer determination.
Latvia let out a little yelp and stumbled backwards. Luckily, he managed to catch himself and stayed upright, though his blanket fell off his shoulders, and he stood there for a good few seconds before slowly trudging back to the door.
He grasped one of the locks on his door and sighed, reassuring himself that whoever it was, it was certainly not Russia. Russia would never have such an enthusiastic look in his eyes, lest they were gleaming with excitement at the prospect of hurting Latvia or his friends, and his eyes weren’t blue, rather an unnatural shade of purple.
As soon as he turned the locks with a satisfying click, the door burst open to reveal two figures instead of just one as Latvia initially assumed, causing his eyes to widen a concerning amount.
“DUDE! Latvia,” the taller of the two (and the one with those bright blue eyes) yelled. “My man! Took you long enough to answer the door! We thought you were dead or asleep or something!”
That comment was met with a solid punch to the arm by the other man (who had the biggest eyebrows Latvia had ever seen). “Watch your words, you twat. Regular names only in public, we’ve been over this.”
Latvia stared between the two men for some time as they began to bicker, and it finally dawned on him who they were, though it had been a few decades since they’d had a proper conversation, not that Latvia hadn’t wanted it.
“Ah, Mr. Englan-” he started meekly, only to delve into a very dry coughing fit when his throat began to feel scratchy from his total lack of speaking (or hydrating) over the past several hours.
At the very least, the coughing caught the attention of one England and one America, who were currently having a “right old row,” as England might put it. America was gripping the collar of England’s sweater, fist raised above his head in indignation. England adorned a very taunting face, though he used both hands to try to remove America’s from his clothes.
At the sound of his coughs, they both turned to face him, and Latvia could feel his heart beat in his chest. Oh dear, he must’ve done something wrong. He clasped his hands together and wrung them.
“Ah, I’m sorry, Mr. Kirkland, sir,” he scrambled, glancing at England’s face to make sure that was the right name. No bad reaction, he thought, so he continued. “It’s just… you might draw more attention fighting and yelling in loud English like this…”
America released his grip, and England dusted off his clothes once he firmly had two feet on the ground. “Right you are,” he sighed, before pausing as if waiting for something.
“Oh, uh… right! Why don’t you come inside and we can talk about… whatever you both are here for,” Latvia finished, opening the door fully and stepping out of the way to let the two through. It then struck him that two powerful Nations were standing right in front of him and he had no clue why. “I’m not in trouble, am I?” he added under his breath, suddenly becoming all too aware of his accented English.
“What, dude, no? You haven’t done anything wrong!” America exclaimed. To be able to hear such a quiet comment…
“You must have superhearing, Mr. America, I barely even whispered that!”
America grinned widely. “You think Superman says ‘the American Way’ in his catchphrase for nothing? Nah man, he was totally, 100% based on yours truly.”
England rolled his eyes at that, muttering something about a damn Yankee, to which Latvia quietly giggled, before gasping and glancing between the two, making sure he was allowed to laugh at that.
No one lashed out, but America did announce “anyway, thanks for inviting us in! I was literally freezing my toes off out here!” particularly loudly.
“Literally,” England remarked as he walked in the door and took his shoes off, “as opposed to — what? — figuratively freezing them off? And for that matter, it’s only 7 degrees out here. How did you ever survive living in New England?”
“What-ever, limey, don’t start with me and that Celsius BS,” America scoffed as he followed England inside. “It might as well be 7 degrees Fahrenheit. You Brits love to complain about 76 degree weather, anyway, so you’ve no right to criticize me and my perfectly justified hatred of the cold. Install some AC in your buildings, and then we’ll talk.”
The two continued fighting as Latvia closed the door and leaned against it, letting out a sigh of relief as he physically relaxed.
“Uh,” he began, speaking measuredly so as to reel in his accent, “you can have a seat on the couch. It’s a bit early, so I don’t have any non-alcoholic…” What was the word, what was the word? “refreshments — that’s the word, I think — prepared for you. Sorry,” he added.
As Latvia spoke, the older Nation carefully sat himself on the left most corner of the couch, cringing as America promptly seated himself right next to him, which was probably done to annoy England even more (that suspicion was confirmed by the piercing glare England shot at America, who just smirked in response). Those two had a very odd relationship, Latvia remarked.
“You’re not wrong about that,” England sighed, causing Latvia to jump at the realization that he said that aloud. “No need to worry about the refreshments, lad, though I can’t say Alfred over here isn’t disappointed that he can’t hasten his diabetes diagnosis.”
“Hey! I’m not that rude. And no, Raivis dude, it’s totally fine! Don’t sweat it.”
Latvia swallowed and nodded, taking his place in an arm chair a bit to the left of the two. He supposed the use of the human names inside was to instill a sense of informality, but it only made him more nervous. Russia always had a special way of saying his formal name when he did something wrong, so he couldn’t help but wonder if the human names were the same for England and America.
They sat in uncomfortable silence for a few agonizing moments. Latvia ran his clammy hands up and down his legs while America glanced around the place in awe, taking in the way the few beams of sunlight peaking from behind the curtains lit up the warm colors of his wallpaper and reflected off the framed photo of Riga Black Balsam (which he quietly laughed at when he noticed). England closed his eyes and crossed his arms, as if deep in thought.
America was the one who broke the silence first.
“Silence is totally not my thing, so I’ll just start.” He turned to Latvia, leaning forward and placing his arms on his knees. “You remember my last letter, right?”
“Ah, yes Mr. Am- Jones. I read all of your letters thoroughly and make sure to forward them immediately to my bosses in order to get the most appropriate response and then…” Latvia’s palms started sweating and he felt his arms get heavy. “I hope that is where you meant for them–”
“Woah dude! Chill, you’re allowed to do what you want with them!” America interrupted, waving his hands in front of him frantically. “I was just curious if you remembered what I asked you about in it.”
Latvia’s eyes darted to the side as he racked his brain for the letter. When all he could make out in his memories was a very fuzzy version, he brought a hand up to his chest and ran the nails under each other, focusing on the clicking sounds they made when he released them.
“Oh, um, I guess I did not read this one well enough before sending it to my boss. It has been a very, um, horrible past few weeks you see — with all the negotiations for military removal and… well…”
“You guys are actually going through with it? Heck yeah! I can’t believe my-”
Ahem, England coughed, fist positioned right in front of his mouth as he stared America down. The latter quickly went still, much to the satisfaction of the former, who then exhaled slightly through his nose.
“Raivis, when did you last sleep properly?” England asked.
Latvia paused, then let out a dry chuckle as he brought his arm back to his lap. “I am wondering that myself.”
The older Nation hummed in acknowledgement. “Yes, well, I suspected as such. Trying to remember what you’ve learned while sleep-deprived isn’t exactly… optimal, so to speak. I have some sleeping draughts if you’d like to try them. Not on me right this minute, of course, but I could mail them to you rather quickly.”
Was that even legal? Latvia wondered. He guessed it didn’t matter to a Nation such as England.
“You do not have to go through that trouble for me. If you gave me the instructions, I might be able to do it myself!”
England frowned. “It’d really be no issue, and I’m sure you already have your work cut out-“
“Not that I’m saying you are incapable of it! I know you are a very capable Nation who can handle all sorts of difficult tasks!”
America elbowed England. “There you go with your magical nonsense again. Dude, be realistic. In what world will that watered-down juice help him? Honestly, maybe we should get you checked out-”
“There will be no checking out. How can you say this when we are about to invite him to a magical sports game?” England remarked, forcing that last part out through clenched teeth.
America dismissed that statement with an eye roll and a hand wave. “Ah, tomato tomahto. Sports are sports!”
Latvia blinked. What exactly were they trying to do? “Uh, what are you talking about?”
“We want to know if you are free the week of August 18th!” America exclaimed.
When that comment (was it supposed to be a question? Latvia wondered) was met with nothing but shaky silence, England side-eyed America. “Well done, you muppet. You can’t just say that without elaborating! Who would respond to just that?”
“You do it then, if you’re so smart!”
“That I will!”
England straightened his posture and turned to face Latvia. “That week, there is the final for the Quidditch World Cup. Because it’s an international event, it’s only fitting that us Nations attend as well, so I took the liberty of inviting you, especially since it’s hosted in my country this time around.” He had a small smirk on his face as he said that last part.
“Oh, it is?” Latvia had almost no idea what he was talking about, but it must be a good thing if England seemed proud (or at least, he hoped that was pride). “I am glad you are so happy about it, Mr. England!”
England’s face suddenly flushed as red as the Latvian flag, much to America’s amusement, who snickered. Seeing his compliment land so well, Latvia’s cheeks also became dusted with a light shade of red.
“R-right. Anyway, Alfred had mentioned he was in touch with you through letters, so I figured it would be a decent way to get your availability for that week to reserve the tickets…” He paused, sucked in his lips briefly, and sighed, “...though I can’t say it was the most efficient. If you ask me, inviting you to a sporting match in an official letter was not the smartest of moves, but he’s never been the brightest–”
The snickering stopped. “Hey!”
“I probably should’ve just asked you myself, but, as they say, hindsight is 20/20.”
America shot England a nasty glare. “At least I made it so that we had a way to talk to him!”
“Yes, I suppose I can offer you credit for making the process somewhat easier…” Seeing a cheeky smile start to spread across America’s face, he added, ”...but not by much. Don’t let that compliment get to your already oversized head.”
That was apparently not why America began smiling. “Oh. Em. Gee!” His eyes glimmered in a way that scared Latvia even more. “Raivis, dude, this is so exciting. If you come, it’d be your first game in, well, practically forever! It’d be a special one, regardless of who is playing… though Arthur here has a pretty good hunch Ireland might be there.”
It seemed even a gentleman such as England couldn’t ignore that comment. “A hunch is just that — a hunch,” he muttered under his breath, though his expression held an inkling of complacency. “But he has a point. It’d be a shame if you were to miss out.”
Latvia just stared at them, eyes suddenly very heavy. “So you are here… because I did not give you a full response?”
England nodded. “Yes, that’s the gist of it. So, what say you? Fancy taking some time off and joining us that week for the Quidditch World Cup final?”
Latvia’s chest warmed a bit to finally see someone not angry at him for missing a small detail, but he couldn’t relish in that warmth for long. Something wasn’t clicking in his brain. It felt foggy, like a window designed to obscure the world had suddenly been constructed in between his ears and his mind.
“Uhm, I was wondering about… well, that. Quidditch… World Cup? It sounds familiar. Is it similar to the World Cup for football, like an extra thing? Are you inviting me because my football team did not qualify this year?”
That was apparently the wrong thing to say, given how America’s face fell abruptly and his eyes narrowed. He parted his lips to make a comment, but England stuck an arm out in front of America and shook his head, as if telling him not now.
“No, it’s got nothing to do with the FIFA World Cup,” England began, a serious tone coating his voice as he lowered his arm and rested it back on his legs. “Say, Latvia, you lived with Russia while the Soviet Union took over your home, right?”
“Yes.”
“And how heavily would you say they restricted your people’s expression?”
“...”
“To put it simply, do you think it’s possible that…”
Oh. He understood where England was going with this. He had picked up on small stories of the attempts by Russia’s bosses to suppress his people’s culture — at least, as they were told by Poland, Hungary, and Romania when they stopped by for meetings with Russia on behalf of their bosses, since Russia himself would never tell Latvia anything. They had mentioned magical and mythological studies as a part of the many, many things banned by the Soviets. Latvia had just never imagined that magic would be real.
But then again, what is suppressed in the people is suppressed in the Nation.
The voices of those who practiced magic had already been slowly disappearing from his consciousness, to the point where he soon forgot they were ever there. They had always been few and far between since his people were Christianized, but now that magical urge had quelled, becoming no more than a tiny puddle in the driest of deserts.
He supposed that since the magical communities of many other countries were in hiding, his would be similar, at least before Soviet occupation (though his current amnesia made it hard for him to discern if that were true). He was sure he lived and interacted with them once upon a time, but Russia had made it so difficult to feel his Latvian identity, and the separation did not help (in this moment, he thought back to the book of poems still lying on his bed, cast aside from the night before).
Since his magical population was once in hiding, it would be impossible for even Latvia himself to say why or how they disappeared. He did not know what happened to his people, but they and their practices were gone, and so too was his and their magical identity.
“It would certainly explain why you aren’t as familiar with even global magical culture, as you should be,” England finished.
Latvia lowered his eyes and reached a hand for his chest, bunching up the fabric of his shirt. It felt heavy, despite the fact that his pajamas were relatively light.
It made the most sense to him, and he briefly thought back to Russia’ treatment of him. Every time he spoke up about his culture, he was met with another crush to his spine. Every time his spine was crushed, he could feel his Latvian identity slip away slowly. He could feel the terror of his people as if it was his own, and maybe it was. To know that that extended farther than he initially assumed… to know there was a whole part of his people that were lost… it weighed on him heavily. He wanted to do something to fix this.
Suddenly, America gasped and snapped his fingers, causing Latvia to whip his head back up to face him. “Dude! That’s even more of a reason you should come to the match!”
Latvia tilted his head at that. “How come? If it is like you have said, I would not really fit in.”
“Think about it! Your country wants to reintegrate with the rest of Europe and the West, right? You want to shake off the shackles of Russian influence, right? Well, what better way to do that than to immerse yourself in a global event that’s totally a part of your identity that you lost!”
Latvia felt his face lighten and his heart start to flutter. “Oh! Oh! I get it! I could report back to my country and help bring magic back! Maybe I could even help teach them, or help them connect with your magic…”
As Latvia continued to ramble, England eyed America and mumbled just loud enough for the other to hear, “I must say, I’m quite surprised you actually had a good idea for once, especially considering this one involves magic.”
Before America could retort, he turned back to Latvia and said, “I must inform you that due to the hidden nature of our magical communities, you cannot go to your government with the information you glean from this match — if you decide to go, that is. You need to make your own effort to locate any remaining members of the magical community to help spread what you’ve learned in the appropriate place and hopefully reignite that part of your people. It is not a total substitute for the more Latvian magic you may have lost, of course, but perhaps this reintroduction to our shared wizarding culture may prove to help light that fire.”
Latvia nodded enthusiastically, releasing his grip on his shirt. It sounded like a wonderful idea to him. He finally felt like he could play a decent role in helping his people recover. To fulfill that role, he’d work as many sleepless nights as he needed to (not that he could sleep, anyway).
“Right,” England began, standing up and patting out the wrinkles in his clothes. “If you say you’ll go, I’ll see to it that your admissions ticket is reserved and we’ll be-”
“Ah! Wait, Mr. England, Mr. America,” Latvia started as he too stood up. England raised an eyebrow, prompting Latvia to continue. “Well, to make sure I can go, I was just wondering if it would be possible for you both to come with me to ask my boss if it is okay… if you would not mind, of course, because… you know…” he trailed off and looked up at England.
“Ah, right, yes… that would make sense,” England said, putting his chin between his thumb and index finger. “Though I don’t see why we must come with you.”
“It’s not that I can’t, I think it might just be easier convincing my boss if I had… er… trustworthy witnesses, I guess you could say? And I am not really sure how to go about asking…” He hated how unsure that last part sounded.
England looked the smaller Nation up and down for a moment, taking in his words, then nodded. “That’s fine, then; we shall join you. President or prime minister, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“This is probably a more ceremonial foreign thing… so president. I think he is in today, too... I mean, either way, my leave should become known with those in the know.”
“Sounds alright. Though, we’d probably need an appointment–”
“Oh, no!” Latvia exclaimed. “We have a sort of system in case I need to see an official in case of an, ah, emergency. I will just say you both are foreign ambassadors… or something along those lines.”
“Yeah! We’ve something similar in the states, so I totally catch your drift, my dude,” America — who had suddenly appeared at Latvia’s side — chimed in, reaching a hand for Latvia’s head as if to ruffle his hair–
“Do not!”
Instead of accepting the touch, Latvia yelped loudly, crossing his arms over his head and squeezing, as though to protect himself from foreign entities that would press down on him more.
When he was met with a concerned look from the other Nations, he lowered his hands and clasped them behind his back, offering only a small “please do not touch my head,” as an explanation.
For a good few moments, the house descended into a heavy, hanging silence as Latvia’s guests tried to discern what just happened.
It soon became far too much for Latvia, who started faintly trembling. “Before we go, let me go change into something more, ah, suitable,” he finally stated, turning on his heel and making his way to his bedroom.
America snickered. Latvia barely heard him comment, “good pun, dude,” before shutting the door and muffling the noises behind it.
He paused for a brief moment, grabbing at the hem of his shirt to rid himself of his shaking as the sounds of yet another argument picked up. When he strained his ears to listen, he caught bits and pieces of what sounded like “good work, you absolute dolt. We’re trying to make him feel comfortable…” and, “you know I have, like, no elevator! He’s so small and cute-looking! How was I supposed to know!?”
Latvia winced a bit at the word “small,” before taking a deep breath and backing away from the door to start sifting through his drawers for a more appropriate outfit than the pajamas he had on.
--------------------------------------------------
Before they left, Latvia called his president’s office to make sure he was in the clear to come (he did not want to interrupt a staff meeting or otherwise disturb him, though he himself had no knowledge of one occurring today), and notified them of the presence of “foreign ambassadors.” They had agreed, and so, the Nations set out for Riga Castle.
America wasn’t wrong about the weather being chilly, it’s just that Latvia was quite used to it (it is the climate of his homeland after all), so he wasn’t particularly bothered.
The group walked in a somewhat triangular formation: Latvia and America (who was currently trying desperately to warm himself up despite having several layers and his signature bomber jacket on) side-by-side with England trailing slightly behind. That way, any passersby would be able to easily continue their journey without having to step off the pavement or force the trio to move themselves. England didn’t seem to mind being the one lagging behind — he probably preferred it given his more solitary tendencies in peacetime.
Latvia and America themselves maintained a somewhat comfortable silence, though Latvia couldn’t help but notice the very slight, concerned glances America threw his way. He suspected it had something to do with the way Latvia would ever so slightly skip every few steps so as to catch up with America’s much longer, more powerful strides. The over half-a-foot height difference seemed to cause more trouble than just a crick in Latvia’s neck.
On that note, the difference also reminded the smaller Nation of something that had been bugging him since America’s comment about his small appearance earlier.
He took a deep breath, the cold air stinging his lungs, and looked behind him, making sure England still had his attention set on kicking the rocks in the streets like mini-footballs instead of the two Nations in front of him.
Yep, all good. Latvia thought. Okay, it’s now or never.
“Say, Mr. Jones-”
“Alfred is fine, my guy. Formalities aren’t really my thing.”
“Yes, sorry, Alfred…” Latvia found the name to feel heavy on his tongue. “Mr. Alfred,” he amended.
America gave him a soft smile and nudged him slightly (slightly being used as a loose term here, considering Latvia staggered a bit upon impact). “Meh, close enough. You’ll get the hang of it eventually! So, what’s up? Something ya wanted to ask me?”
“Um, say… you grew up pretty fast, right?” He swallowed, and at the blue-eyed Nation’s puzzled look, continued further. “I mean, you did not spend much of your time as… well… a younger person did you?”
“Nah, by the time I gained my independence from my brother here,” — he jabbed a thumb back towards England — “I was probably just a bit physically older than you. I guess I barely even knew what it was like to be a smaller guy; I grew up pre-tty fast.”
“I see…” Latvia turned away from that startlingly blue gaze, suddenly finding the ground much more interesting. “Do you know why it happened like that?”
The taller Nation shook his head and shoved his hands in his pockets. “Nothing about us really makes sense, at least not in any way that I’ve looked at it. It could be tied to anything, though I’ve mostly chalked it up to how free and numerous our people are.” Yet another big old grin spread from ear to ear as he pointed at himself, “I mean, obviously you’ve got me, Mr. Freedom himself, being the strongest Nation to ever walk the planet!” He sighed, and continued, “but really, there’s not a definitive answer.”
Latvia made a small noise of agreement; he could see some truth to his theory, despite how self-righteous it sounded. His people only had a select few times in his around 1500 years (or so, he couldn’t remember) of existence where they themselves had sovereignty over each other, and, well, he clearly wasn’t older than 15 nor taller than 160 centimeters, while America, whose people had known popular sovereignty for some time, was much stronger and taller despite only existing for (probably) around 500 years at most.
(He wasn’t exactly sure how well it held up against other Nations, of course, but some explanation felt nice to have. Maybe since Estonia is like me, he’s a contradiction, he thought, but Estonia had lived longer than Latvia… it wasn’t impossible).
“Do you think… I will be able to finally grow soon?” He winced, not expecting those words to fall out of his mouth so naturally. They sounded so utterly pathetic, especially coming from him and being directed towards a much more powerful Nation.
Instead of making fun of him, however, America simply clapped him on the back, causing him to nearly fall face first yet again from the sheer force of the action. “Dude, of course! You’ve already got the makings to grow now that you’re free from that communist bastard! And you know I’ve got your back with your sovereignty ‘n’ all — so really, you’re all set!”
Taking a hand to his shoulders to try and rub out the pain, Latvia managed a small laugh, muttering “I hope you are right.” This caused America’s smile to return. England, however, did not seem as cheery as the other two, sadly exhaling from behind them.
Oh, he was actually wondering about that. “Another thing, if you do not mind.”
“Go for it, dude.”
“How do you manage to stay close to Mr. Kirkland given how… mentally young you must be? I mean, you are… very childish? I guess is the word? And you seem to annoy him quite a bit.”
America frowned. “That’s a funny way of putting it.”
Latvia nearly stopped in his tracks, trembling, hands wringing together yet again. “Ah, I am sorry, sir! I should have phrased it better. I mean to ask how you maintain such a good relationship with your brother since you two seem to not get along very well… is all.”
“It’s alright…” America sighed. “There’s just not much I can or want to say. Again, dude, it’s really weird with us. Brotherhood is… a weird choice. You kinda just gotta make it happen. We had that rough period, sure, but we get along in our own weird way.” A nervous laugh escaped him as he ran a hand through his hair. “I can hear him now: ‘say weird one more time and I’ll shove you into the biscuit tin.’”
Latvia winced at the poor imitation of a British accent. As America brought his hand down from his face, Latvia noticed a bit of dirt get caught on America’s cheek — probably from some bit of dust lingering on him from earlier.
Latvia could not get a word in to tell him, however, as the taller Nation seemed hell-bent on finishing his little tirade. “Who does he think he is, anyway, using preposterous words like ‘biscuit tin?’ Seriously.”
“I don’t say that! And do you even know what preposterous means?” The subject of the conversation questioned angrily from behind them.
America twisted around and stuck his tongue out. “I don’t care what your stupid fancy words mean, limey!”
“It’s my language, yet you insist on butchering it! I should have you locked up!”
“I can’t hear you over my FREEDOM OF SPEECH TO NOT SPEAK YOUR ANNOYING WORDS!”
“Mr. Alfred! Please quiet down,” Latvia cried frantically. “We have almost made it to the castle, and I can feel the glares of the people we have disturbed!” When America turned around to face him, he looked back at the ground and quietly added, “I am sorry if that was too assertive. I thank you for the answers. I feel a bit better knowing that it can work out even with our growing differences.”
“Who-”
Latvia’s two feet came together in a halt before he could let America finish. “Ah, look, we are here!”
“Did I say something bad?”
England came up behind him and swiftly decked him in the arm for the second time that day. “No, you complete muppet. He means exactly what he said. If you paid attention to your surroundings for once in your life, you’d realize that.”
Only a small “yeah, yeah” escaped America’s mouth as he rubbed the soon-to-be bruise.
In front of them, right on the River Daugava, stood Riga Castle, home of Latvia’s president. Though it is not as grand as perhaps the Palace at Versailles (the very palace France himself loved to brag about in world meetings, much to the annoyance of practically every country with a castle), it had served its purpose well as a military base and was now beautiful in its own right. Every time Latvia had come to visit, he couldn’t help but stop and reminisce about its first stones laid back in the 1330s, about how many times he had seen it trade hands as his people came under foreign powers and how many times it had been destroyed due to the warring state of his lands. He had been there for all of it, but perhaps the most wonderful thing about the castle — the thing that got him to stop and stare — was that after all that history, he could now finally see it in the hands of his people, used for a government not of foreign origin.
He must have been staring at the castle for too long, because he suddenly came to at the sound of England clearing his throat.
“A lovely sight, indeed. I can see why you’d be proud of it.”
Warmth flooded Latvia’s face as he turned his gaze towards the pavement.
The quiet didn’t last long, as England clapped his hands together. “Right, then. Lead the way, Raivis. Alfred and I will follow you.”
The smaller Nation nodded, already fidgeting in his many pockets for his identification card.
They entered through one of the usual doors meant for visitors (hushing America, who grumbled slightly about his glasses fogging up) and walked up to the reception desk, waiting patiently behind the few tourists that chose to come on this chilly morning in April. Once it was finally their turn in line, Latvia motioned for the two to stay back and stood on his toes to speak to the receptionist, who was currently shuffling through a few papers, over the counter (which was much too high for him to see).
“Hello, ma’am,” he began in Latvian, handing over his card. “Uhm, I am Raivis Galante… I’m sure you’ve received some instructions on what to do if I show up.”
“Oh, yes, I was told that someone with that name might show,” the receptionist commented in surprise, taking his ID but not looking at his face just yet. “To see the President, since you are here at the castle?”
“Yes, I was told by his staff he is in today?”
“That matches with the available tourist information…” she started, raising her head. The moment she did, however, an unfortunately familiar look flashed behind her eyes. It was as if she could not believe the important Mr. Galante she had been warned and given specific instructions about was actually some too-short (especially by Latvian standards) 15 year old kid.
Latvia peeled his gaze away from hers, balling a fist to stop his shaking. He used his free hand to meekly gesture towards the two figures behind him. “That’s good, then. I’ve also got some, ah, foreign ambassadors… from the United States and the United Kingdom… along with me, if you don’t mind.”
She hummed in thought, turning the card over to verify its authenticity. “These are foreign ambassadors? They are dressed a bit too casually.”
“I get that,” he muttered, “but I believe the president should trust my judgement on them. It’s a matter I think he would like to know about.”
Her eyes darted to him momentarily before going back to the plastic in her hands.
This was the worst part of the procedure — it often took a bit of convincing. Latvia silently wondered if America ever had these troubles, given his lax demeanor. “I know this seems odd and I seem young, but if I am not who I say I am, they’ll escort me out without hesitation. It’s happened before.”
“Before?”
“Ah, uh… I mean that they’ve mistaken me for someone else, and well…”
The receptionist sighed, placing his card on the counter and sliding it towards him. “This is a bit suspicious, but all seems to be in order according to my instructions. If you’ll just wait, I’ll call someone to bring you and the supposed ambassadors to one of the representative rooms.”
“Thank you very much, ma’am.”
She nodded. Taking that as confirmation that he could walk away, he turned back to England and America, feeling her wary stare pierce through the back of his skull.
The other Nations had apparently just been watching him the whole time.
“Dude, who knew you’d have to convince them of how important you are! If it were me, I’d just show off something super awesome about myself to prove it.”
“Wait,” the green-eyed Nation began, taking his hands out of his pockets, “you understood that? You speak Latvian? That’s… quite impressive.”
“Psshh, of course not!” America waved a dismissive hand. “I just totally caught the gist of the conversation. Happens to me all the time.”
“Right, silly me. I should’ve known better than to think highly of you. And, wait, how do your–” He pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled dramatically. “Nevermind. I do not want to know.”
Latvia cupped a hand over his mouth and giggled quietly. “Mr. Alfred, you are quite ridiculous.”
“Ridiculously awesome!”
Fifteen or so minutes later — as was standard for visitors to the castle — a security officer walked down to retrieve them.
“You are Mr. Galante? ID, please,” he said monotonously. When Latvia handed the ID over to him, explaining (in perhaps too much detail) the circumstances surrounding the so-called “foreign ambassadors,” the guard simply nodded, allowing Latvia’s shoulders to relax almost instantly. To say he was grateful for the lack of questioning would be quite the understatement.
They were led to the North Wing of the castle — the place where the president’s representative and study rooms lay — and towards the Čakste Study. Latvia in particular was quite excited about that room being selected as the meeting point. England had expressed a small interest in some of his monuments, and so he had hoped, after all was said and done, that he might be able to explain a few of the memorial decorations in the study to the older Nation (if that was how diplomacy typically worked to be friendly, that would simply be another positive, he surmised).
The guard stopped by the door to the study and rapped on it a few times, announcing their presence. Upon hearing an allowance of entry, the guard grabbed the door handle and swung it open before stepping to the side to allow the three Nations to be the first to enter once the door finally opened.
Latvia took the door from the guard and glanced back at his colleagues, gesturing with his head for them to move forward.
Before the other two walked in, however, England paused, grabbed America’s shoulder, and spun him around. He ignored America’s protests and hand slaps as he took his thumb to the taller Nation’s cheek and rubbed off the bit of dirt that Latvia had noticed earlier.
“Dude! What gives!?”
England shot him an unimpressed look. “You should really mind your appearance before seeing someone else’s boss. I know I taug…” He trailed off, then sighed. “It’s quite impolite.”
“Whatever, man.” America’s eye roll was nearly audible, but it held no true annoyance. When England’s eyes moved back to Latvia, he added a small, “thanks,” so quietly Latvia could barely make it out.
They entered, and Latvia carefully guided the door into place so as not to let it make a sound. He soon made eye contact with his boss, who was perched in the chair closest to the bust of Čakste, arms crossed and looking his Nation up and down.
“Sveiks, Latvija,” the president began, before noticing the two much taller Nations following him in. A look similar to that of the receptionist flickered across his face, so quickly that only the most observant or self-aware would notice. “So these are the foreign ambassadors? To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“Ah, actually, sir, they are like me. This is Mr. America and Mr. England,” Latvia said, pointing to the respective Nation as he said their names. “I called them foreign ambassadors so I wouldn’t have to go explaining… all of that.”
The president uncrossed his arms and leaned forward in his seat. “Yes, that is fair enough. I remember my shock upon learning of this interesting secret… it does challenge your world view in a way many are… uncomfortable with.”
“I can attest to that,” England nodded, making his way over to the president and offering his hand. “As Latvia explained, I am England — more formally, the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“The pleasure is mine,” the president acknowledged, accepting his hand and giving it a firm shake. “Surely nothing of great danger has occurred out West for you to show here, has it? My Nation did not seem too desperate when he called, from what my staff told me. I’m sure he has explained some of the happenings of this country as it stands. I wouldn’t want to overfill his plate, though I’m certain he — and we of course, by extension — could handle it. It would just be a shame to see a wrench thrown into our plans like that, as I imagine you understand.”
“No, nothing of that sort, I can assure you,” England answered as he took a seat opposite of Latvia’s boss and placed his hands in his lap.
America followed suit, though he rested his hands on the table in a less formal manner. “This is more of a… cultural exchange, Mr. Latvia’s Boss… sir.”
“Oh? You are America, yes? Latvia has been sending us in the government some of your letters — I thank you immensely for your support, by the way.”
“Aw, shucks. Thanks a bunch, sir! Just doing the work of the hero!”
The president waved a hand. “You’re welcome. Now, if you would be so kind as to elaborate.”
And so England explained the details — Latvia would like to have the week of August 18th off for a global tournament event similar to the World Cup in an attempt to begin to restore a part of his culture lost while he lived with the Russian Nation. Though England could not spill the specific details of this tournament, he assured the Latvian president that many other Nations and their governments were involved, and that it would be held in Dartmoor, England, so it would be under England’s supervision. America concurred, adding that he knew (and would make certain) Russia would not be in attendance (he was never invited to these sorts of things, anyway), which seemed to allow the president to relax a bit. The conversation carried on for a few minutes more, with both parties asking and answering relevant questions.
Finally, the president let up.
“Yes, I suppose if this is widespread, it could be good for our reintegration efforts, though I do wish you could share more details,” the president mused, shooting Latvia a glance. Latvia nervously nodded upon returning the eye contact, silently confirming his statement and reinforcing that no, nothing more could be said.
“I wish we could as well — it would be much easier to convince you, and I’m sure you know that is all we want. We would leverage it if we could. But alas, as I’ve mentioned, this group is rather protected and prefers to keep to itself. I would not keep this from you otherwise,” England commented, spreading out his hands.
“I understand. However,” the president continued, sticking a finger up, “if negotiations between our government and the Russian government fail in any manner, my Nation will not be allowed to attend and will have to go another time, or not at all.”
America and England looked at each other for a split second, then nodded at the president in unison.
“We understand. Are there any other requirements from you for Latvia to attend?” England asked.
The president shook his head. “None that require your attention. Is that all you came to ask about?”
“Yes, that was all we needed. Thank you, as well, for your attention to this matter. We greatly appreciate it, and we confidently assure you that it will help your efforts to rejoin Europe.”
“I would hope so,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “I thank you both for your time. You are free to leave. I look forward to our future cooperation.”
The taller Nations shook the president’s hand one last time before exiting the room (another argument brewing between them as the door shut, something about America not sitting still the whole time). As Latvia stood up to follow, however, he heard his name from behind him.
“Latvija.”
He spun around, fist balled by his chest and faintly trembling. “Yes, sir?”
“I’m glad you came to me about this and brought the other two Nations. It is important we create ties with them, and you are just as important to this country as I or the rest of our government is, so I need to know your schedule and what is going on with you at all times.”
Latvia swallowed and nodded. “I understand that, sir. That is why I came to you.”
“It is for that very reason that I require a report of your experience, in person and on paper, when you return. You will call in when you return to organize it.”
“Oh, sir, you know I cannot tell you-”
He waved a hand. “Yes, I am aware of what you can and cannot reveal. All I need is the important details regarding the logistics of this… cultural exchange, as Mr. America put it. We are your bosses, after all. You, the rest of the government, and I must cooperate for us as a country to truly grow.”
“I understand, sir,” Latvia said meekly, eyes hovering at the floor. “Is that all?”
“That is all; you may rejoin your colleagues. Do show them the rest of the castle, if you get the chance.”
“Yes, sir.”
With that, Latvia turned and exited the study, taking a quick second to glance back at the president, who simply nodded.
When he returned to the hallway, he walked into yet another argument between the taller Nations, though it quickly died down as America ran up to Latvia, eyes shining brighter than the blue sky as he pumped his fist.
“Dude! We just totally got permission from your big scary boss man to take you! This is going to be so much fun! Say you'll go! You have to say you'll go!”
Though the blue-eyed Nation’s hyper demeanor tended to spook Latvia, in this moment, his excitement even after facing Latvia’s boss calmed something in the smaller Nation. It was nice to see someone so cheerful, especially after such a nerve-racking moment — even if it was the most powerful Nation on the planet who had little reason to be scared. It reminded him of the whole reason he wanted to do this in the first place: to return what was lost to his people.
Suddenly, he found himself feeling just a bit excited as well.
England, who had noticed the energy of the group increase, let out a satisfied sigh, and walked up to Latvia’s side, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder.
“So, now that that’s settled, I ask again: What say you? Fancy joining us?”
It was the easiest “yes” Latvia ever had to give.