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52 ‎ ‎ ‎ A Runaway Promise

COLOMBIA
The pages felt like a weight upon her hand, growing heavier and heavier as she continued flipping. It was a strange nostalgia, a fervent saudade, for the memories ─ for the life she and many others no longer knew how to live. Neo Orbis had once been a haven of safety, a bright and brittle hope in a feeble warzone. The hallways were decked with cheer, no animosity that she had grown so accustomed to now, and words were exchanged with a quiet respect for nation and heritage she could only desire. 

And most of all it was a time when they all remembered. Of transgression and truth, tools that preserved the knowledge of how advance forward. Now growth was stunted. 

She peered at the pages. People who would do anything to see each other fall to the ground now were tied at the hip in these old photos. Even she made appearances in the occasional photo, laughing and running with her friends, who seemed to be similar across both timelines. There was a nicely edited pair of photos side by side, the first of Romania before she dyed her hair, and the second of her flaunting fiery red locks. 

Vietnam's difference was staggering. Whereas he was all lean muscle that he was growing back now, it looked like he had worked out frequently back then, more than enough photos of him hitting a spike across a badminton net scattered across the pages. Paired often with a photo of China on the court. It looked like he truly loved the sport. 

She continued to turn the pages. A leaderboard often showed its presence in some of the photos, fluctuating ranks of nations vying for the top spot. Her eyes narrowed. The final photo of the yearbook was America with a plastic crown nestled in his hair, a photo that was supposed to be independent if not for South's foot and Poland's hand photobombing. 

The book slammed shut. She hadn't even meant to close it that hard. So this is what it was, a global ranking that turned Neo sour? 

Her lip began to tremble. Such trivial things, these were. Why did they rise so high, peaking at the zenith, where the winds blew ferociously and the sun blazed, just to be shot down? A tale worthy of Icarus, a beautiful craft crumpled up and thrown aside. 

Maybe Vietnam sat in his hospital room, playing with the ghost of a shuttlecock and a racket. Maybe America and Russia wondered why it felt so familiar to touch, even if the punch was laced with hatred. Maybe Romania had ran her hand through her hair and tried to recall the decision, having forgotten why it had added to the identity that had shone through the cracks and made it unbearably her. Maybe UN, too, sat in his office and wondered. If the history books could've told the tale differently. 

Her eyes glistened with a steady flow of tears, but not to mar the yearbook, she pushed it to the side, wiping the saline with the back of her hands. 

Maybe if you shred the layers you would be left with what Neo was meant to be. A promise. 

★

RUSSIA
America was yelling at China and Canada and someone was laughing and he was just standing outside, unable to process what had just happened.

He grazed a hand across his lips. It almost felt as if it wasn't worthy enough of being there, not when a linger of America's kiss remained. The electricity had still not died down in his chest, crackling each time he heaved in a breath and shooting sparks across his veins. 

Fuck it, he thought abruptly, and grasped the doorknob, pulling the door open. The scene inside: South was trying to run from a headlock and America had a pillow in his hand and everyone had been enveloped in raucous laughter, too much involved in their art to point out his flushed cheeks. Even Germany, who normally sat composedly, had just initiated an unsuccessful sneak attack on poor JE.