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66 ‎ ‎ Hold On Til A New Year

After the scandals, things changed.

The students helped to rebuild Global High, bit by bit, spending day after day to reconstruct the burnt surfaces and put together the wartorn classrooms. It's coming back together now, I can tell. It looks almost as good as new. Some people took to even graffiting the walls in memory of some of the things we had lost. Our old lives. Our memories, once. Lovers. Losses. We had written things that hung in the air and never saw the world past its residence in timid throats. Switzerland, in particular, got the biggest written sentiment.

His body was buried in the land in front of his house, and the area was enclosed in flowers and prayer. People visited daily to place letters and gifts at his grave, and not a day was missed where people would affectionately tell stories of how the dimension was changing to a soul enclosed eternally by dirt and grass. Vietnam and Romania, in particular, frequented the area often, and we all joked about how Switzerland himself would probably be getting tired of it by now. The two laughed along, but they continued to come, so when the stars threaded across the skies you'd always see a girl and a boy, laughing in moondust. 

All of us quickly mended terms with the Axis. They were admittedly upset, and requested still some time to be away from school, but after a month or two, they returned, and extended a fabricated kindness to everyone, knowing that they had never been recognized for innocence ever before, always guilty before the former. But I know they're warming up to us again. Sometimes, I see Russia and Ukraine at the frozen yogurt parlor with the trio, updating them on the state of the tentatively recovering student body. I like to join them when I have the time, but I tread lightly, because I can never tell if Reich appreciates my presence or not. 

Neo is a big dimension. Germany decided he wanted to embrace the nature, be away for a bit, and proposed a long road trip to feel a little more free for a little while longer. Poland convinced him to stay for two more weeks, so he could wrap up his studies, and the two have been gone for some time now. None of us like to bother them through texts: we've all earned the break. But they send photos occasionally, and South still remains the biggest hater of all matters of life (but he hearts the messages and we all know he wishes he could be travelling too). 

Speaking of South, he's gotten back into his sports legacy. Despite Poland gone, he's found his newfound love for volleyball again, and we all love cheering him on at his games, ecstatic when each spike is reminiscent of the action movies he loves. He misses the ball when he hears Japan's voice, which leads me to surmise that something's going on. Canada says that America's going to be sent back into comatose when he wakes up upon hearing the news. It would be hilarious in any other context, but... 

Canada and Ukraine are doing just fine. They're as close as they've always been, and they're offering support to grieving students all across Neo, especially Romania and Vietnam. We're trying to find documents (alas, we didn't take any from Tokyo or NYC) of their past names and occupations, too. It's an unsuccessful operation at the moment, because UN and a selection of other teachers, who are either jailed, doing community service, or are in solitary confinement, don't want to speak a word. Activities that France, Britain and Soviet watch over, by the way; they've become temporary parents to a couple kids by now. Isn't it ironic? 

The school environment changed, too; it's gotten quieter, more introspective, but that doesn't stop us. When has it ever? People pay attention in history now, headed by the few remaining adults entrusted with being out of bars and occasionally Britain (who always insists on spending ages on the period where his nation was the leading naval power). We listen on, with wide-eyed intent, and we learn exactly which cycles not to perpetuate. 

The libraries are open to all now, followed by a shameless rampage of the Central Tower and an attempt to pull out every piece of unread literature there is within. For that reason Japan barely eats with us anymore; she cut her hair again, that same wish to start anew, and she's educating herself like she was who she once was: Yuki Tanaka, aspiring fashion designer. Now with unrestricted information, she's trying to produce the onset of a life outside of Neo. 

There's a few people left, you might realize. Me? I'm doing fine. It's been some time, I've had my grace period, my time to heal. I picked up painting, photography, you know, the artsy lifestyle, which no one really expected because I'm supposed to be the genius who orchestrated most of this. That's what North says, at least, but he never fails to emphasize that I shouldn't care what anyone says. I spend more time with him now, away from the tumultuous revolt, and god, now I know why he wanted to wait, because simple things are so liberating. I know two more things about him now: that he keeps his promises, and that he's  a̶ ̶r̶e̶a̶l̶l̶y̶ ̶g̶o̶o̶d̶ ̶k̶i̶s̶s̶e̶r̶ still my best friend. 

Now there's just one. 

I don't know how Russia is feeling, exactly. After the peak of the event that day, he trapped himself in his house for a week and scarcely responded to messages and calls. Soviet told us half-heartedly that he finally got back into board games, somehow, and played Monopoly with a newfound incentive and a fury. He told us the news with Canada: a coma, they said, and no knowledge of its length. I was unbelievably upset too. I cared for America like he did, but it took an unprecedented toll on Russia, especially because the bullet was meant originally for him. 

He's changing, but I know he's healing too. We all are. We meet up all together at times, and it's almost as if things are back to normal with the daunting absence of a few members. I like this part of life: when things subside, the climax settles down into a conclusion, but I'd, then, be lying if I said I didn't miss it, running around the world, feeling young and invincible. 

But we felt the exhilarating freedom pried from another pair of hands already. I know, now, that it's enough to experience it when it's finally been given by honest means. 

Vietnam did this funny thing, you know, and he tampered with the dimensional settings so that it's set to close in two years. The students all agreed on the result: that we've spent enough time here, in this hellhole, and now it's time to disperse across the world, pursuing what we love. We'll gather our things and our memories and we'll take the Portal Path one final time to the real world before it closes for good. 

What's in store for the future, then? I can't know for sure. We'll finish our education. Maybe South and Japan will get together. Hopefully, America wakes up. Maybe UN and NATO will try and atone for their disastrous actions. But I've asked too many questions these past years, and I've always tried so desperately to find the answer.

I think that I don't need to do that anymore. I'm ready to just... wait. 

 ── China

★

RUSSIA
He hovered near America on the nearby visitor's chair, playing with the linen fabric and feeling his heartbeat echo in tow with the monitor. I still love you, he mouthed, to no movement from the comatose boy on the hospital cot. And he could almost hear a voice speak back, hazy with alcohol or bright with ecstasy or quiet and just enough to be real. He knew it so well now, the voice that housed so much hatred and desire in varying, indecipherable times. Do you though?

Russia smiled sadly. Do you want me to be?

America hated how he was always so cryptic with his advances; he'd complained, even before they had even expressed any sentiment other than friendship, that he was too 'mysterious' in his words. But over time, he had picked up those mannerisms himself, so he would cock his head and give a half-smile and say something Russia could never quite decipher – all's in nature – like maybe.

"Yeah, maybe," Russia said out loud this time. He laid his head down softly – just enough not to put weight – on America's heart, and wished desperately that the soft thump of life was enough to revitalize him.