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The Word 'Home', 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐔𝐃𝐄

"But Neo Orbis doesn't feel like home anymore," Colombia says as Romania tightens her embrace on her friend and they sit for a moment, immersed in their leases of comfort. Vietnam takes a step back in respect, his lips pursed as if holding back a wound.

If Neo Orbis isn't home, what is?

★

"Hey, dude!" Vietnam grins, offering up a hand for a high-five. The gym sparkles with tiled floors and the heady buzz of competition."You ready to absolutely murder everyone here?" 

Switzerland frowns. "Either you are just really good at metaphors or you are a serial killer and I would not like to ponder the possibilities of both."

Vietnam's face. "What's wrong with metaphors?" 

"Nothing." A smile. "C'mon." They race forward, hurtling past brightly colored dodgeballs and making ridiculous turns mid-air to avoid the whistle, and before they know it they're the last ones left, having missed the deafening smack of defeat despite all the other red-jerseyed Representatives having faced the same torture. 

"How very daunting," Vietnam comments lightly, wiping sweat off his forehead with a sleeve. 

"Pack it up, you're going home!" Canada chants teasingly from the other side, waving a ball in his hand. Laughter choruses across the gym and NATO watches on appreciatively.

THREE YEARS LATER

Vietnam is whistling, flipping through the pages of a book, his gaze flitting from word to word as Romania clangs at the pots and pans and attempts to concoct a substance worthy of lunch. 

"Good morning," Switzerland greets, having eased into their routines of homeliness. "What are you reading?" 

"Metaphors 101," Vietnam says cheerfully. "People tell me I sound like a psycho." 

Switzerland rolls his eyes, because he cannot fathom reading a book filled to the brim with metaphors, out of all content that could possibly fit into literature. "A serial killer, even," he sighs, and he is only given a soft, almost accepting grin in return. Romania is yelling about fire and extinguishers and it's only when Vietnam puts the book down does he realize he's smiling as well.

★

"So this is where oh great Germany keeps all of his stuff," Poland laughs. "Is that North? Oh my god!" 

"Poor South did not know how to wield a camera back then, I'm afraid," Germany says, shaking his head. "Ah, but I was convinced he did it on purpose just to spite his poor brother." 

"Typical," Poland replies, his eyes wide and sparkling, grasping at the threads of any old photography he can see of his friends. Perfect blackmail, he surmises, for the time China fed him the incorrect test answers just for the sake of teaching him conventional study habits. "Is that a guitar?" 

And indeed it is; a timeworn, rich shade of sienna, mellow strings stiff against the wooden board. It sits unresponsively at the side of his bed, unused from busy schedules and more prioritized dedications. A faint pink hue creeps up Germany's cheeks as he meets his gaze. "I used to play." 

"I've always wanted to." 

"I'll teach you," Germany says, offering a hand to the boy always eager to take it. "Promise."