Crossing Borders [Hetalia]

три - clumsy americans and baffled baltics

The air is buzzing.

It's all Valentia can hear: an unyielding buzzing. She tilts her head, looking decidedly (and justifiably) perplexed, a soft frown curling the corners of her lips down. "Did you say... personifications... of countries?"

Toris grimaces, dipping his head in a begrudging nod while his brothers render a certain American quite immobile with their menacing glares. He laughs sheepishly, scratching at his cheek, inching towards the door for a quick escape, only to have Arthur clap a hand on his shoulder from behind, staying him.

"Oh no, you bloody git, you're not going anywhere," he growls, shoving Alfred forward so that he stands center stage, alone in the middle of the room, perfectly within Valentina's uncomprehending sights. "It's all your fault that we have to explain this mess! Don't think you can just walk out of here like nothing happened!"

"Hey, you're the one who pushed me out the window, Iggy!" Alfred huffs, shaking out the last remnants of snow from his hair, brushing it off his jacket.

"You arse, you tripped!"

"Did not!"

"Stop acting like a bloody child!"

Toris exhales a soft, unnoticed sigh as he settles himself at the edge of Ivan's bed. Valentina had originally insisted she'd take a guest's quarters (which are considerably less inviting) but Ivan thought it better that she have pleasant accomodations while still in recovery, and allowed her to stay in his own room while he bunked with Toris (much to the Lithuanian's horror). 

Eduard still can't quite accept that the looming Russian could act in such a civil and compassionate way. 

"Mr. Alfred really is an idiot," he murmurs, an attempt at speaking his thoughts only to himself that's foiled when Valentina slides closer and whispers, "But a funny idiot, da?"

Now, backtracking to what's started this troubling situation, it was indeed Alfred who brought up the subject of personified countries. He and Arthur had been arguing (as per usual), this time about where Valentina would go should she grow tired of Ivan's (and his faithful servants') company: England or America. 

The girl in question had been within ear-shot of the argument while she lounged in the Russian's room, picking through a book she'd discovered in his bedside table's drawer. It detailed the successes of Russia (noticably leaving out any and all failures, especially those of the Soviet Union). She enjoyed it, to an extant, but had been unable to fully explore it due to the raucous bickering going on just outside her door.

Curious, she abandoned her reading in favor of learning the cause of Arthur and Alfred's discord and went to find them in the hall, only to bear witness to the American catching his heel on the edge of the drooping drapes (so yes, he tripped) slipping and catapulting himself out the window while Arthur watched on, indifferent, unamused.

Valentina had immediately rushed the window, nearly succeeding in throwing herself out along with Alfred as she strained to catch sight of him in the sea of white below. There he was, spread-eagle among the mounds of deceptive snow (she knew enough that, just because snow was soft, it wouldn't necessarily break one's fall), glasses askew, eyes rolled up as a groan slipped past his lips and he curled in on himself, bringing both gloved hands to cradle the back of his head.

"Damn!" he moaned. "That freakin' hurt! Stupid Black Sheep of Europe, what'd you do that for?!"

Arthur pushed past Valentina (uncharacteristically ungentlemanly in his rage) and bared his teeth in a grim snarl, "Don't call me that bloody name you arse! And I did nothing; that was all due to your own stupidity!"