✿ Forget-Me-Nots - A Sovame Story ✿

Chapter 4 ~Envy.~ USSR P.O.V

There was a shift. He was not supposed to feel it. Not ever. Especially about him. He is the Fatherland. He is the greatest country, powerful, . . . stable.

But, he was not. There was always someone ahead of him. He was always ahead of him. He would always take one large step forward, then He would take a larger one. No matter how hard he tries, somehow, He is always more likable, successful, and full of freedom and confidence.

Soviet could fix it. But it'd cost a few lies. They say if you tell a big enough lie and tell it frequently enough, it will be believed.

He forgot that things come apart so easily when they have been held together with lies.

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"Soviet." Soviet turns. It's Estonia. "We can't live like this anymore." Soviet gives a cold narrow look. "What do you mean?" He replies.

"You know what I mean. All of us. Me, Russia, especially Kazakh work day after day for you, yet you can only give us nothing. Barley even food to eat. Thinking about it, I've noticed that you've been eating perfectly. I am starting to think you're just a big lie." Estonia's little speech is filled with courage.

It's true. He can not even put dinner on the table, yet they work relentlessly every single day to provide for him.

"You're cracking," Estonia observes. He says nothing. "You won't last long." He hears Estonia scowl before exiting the room.

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    He's been avoiding America since the night he picked the capitalist up from the bar. He tells himself it never happened.

He's the last person to walk out of the meeting room, or so he thought. He hears the annoying American run up from behind. "Hey," America begins. "Look, I've been thinking. I'm sorry about that night. I-" He cuts him off. "It never happened," he says with a grumble. "What?" He glares at the American. "It never happened," he repeats, beginning to walk faster.

America pulls him back, stopping him so he's right in front of the capitalist. He steps away, reminded of the way America had pulled him in for a- oh right, it never happened.

"What happened to your face." America was demanding. "Nothing," he replies, turning away. "Bullshit." The American rips the bandage off his face.

"Holy shit. . ." He sees America back away, running his hands through his loose curls. He puts a hand over the cracks on his face, ashamed. He was ashamed. He was exposed. He was weak. . . America was completely stable; he hardly faced any threatening rebels or complaints from his states. He was envious.

"You're collapsing," the American stated. "Fuck!" he exclaims in his native language, looking around desperately for a way to escape. He pushes America out of the way and hastily makes his way to an emergency exit before America could chase after him.

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    The next time they meet is the next day, in France's bar. The American takes the pleasure in invading his personal space.

He hears America order from France before turning back to him. "You should try a Pepsi," America suggests. Right after his suggestion, France hands him two cold bottles of Pepsi and America slides one to him. "You're just trying to kill me." He doesn't hesitate popping open the bottle and taking a sip. It was good. Real good.