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James eyes shifted over across everybody. He hated these meetings, because they usually ended up in somebody becoming maimed. Not that any of them could die; but it didn’t stop the rest from trying.
He didn’t go by his country name, because to other people his country name defined a small man with soft violet eyes, who didn’t speak up hardly at all; and when he did he was mostly ignored. James was none of these things. He was hard and foul mouthed; never seen without his hockey stick. For some people, that bloody hockey stick was the last thing they ever seen at all.
He just didn’t like to be around people though; especially the people here. There was Italy over there, stabbing the table every few seconds with some of his knives. On his left sat his brother, Romano, who was trying to get Feliciano to get up a conversation with him. Romano had recently colored his hair another funky color, this time instead of just pink he’d added a few purple tips to it. James thought it looked better with his natural color.
James eyes flashed around the room, before he tilted his head to the side to miss a sword being thrown at his head. Japans red eyes flashed at him, before disappearing behind a chair. Most likely to antagonize the high chinese man with the hat tipped over his head. Somehow, China had ended up on the floor. His eyes were glassy per usual and his lips were drawn back in pants. James didn’t really want to know what he was doing down there.
With that, a heavy built Russian man stood up, putting a cigarette between his teeth and lighting it. The cigarette was instantly yanked away from his parted lips, and pressed into Ludwig’s. The German just stared at Russia, then turned away, puffing out smoke. The Russian just flushed slightly and grabbed another from his pocket; glancing around carefully before he pressed it between his lip again to light.
James carefully turned his head, looking over at the American beside him, and James raised his eyebrows. Now usually by this point James and his brother were in the midst of a mini war in the room. By this time usually they had chased out Russia and Romano each, sending them scurrying away from the flying baseballs and hockey pucks going throughout the room.
At this particular meeting, Alfred’s head was stooping forward every few seconds and soft snorts were leaving his nose as he started to fall asleep.
James lips twisted up and he reached out, grabbing to yank at the piece of hair that just didn’t go down on Alfred’s head. He was curious, per usual, on whether that piece of hair could be ripped out. Yes it would be bloody and painful for the American, but James couldn’t seem to care. The many scars and bruises that lined his body were mostly caused by Alfred anyways. Though not once, James had noticed, Alfred had made a fatal wound on him.
“I wonder why.” James mumbled to himself, licking his pale lips. He tilted his head down to peer over the black sunglasses that rested on his nose. It revealed tired, cold violet eyes; with black bags underneath them.
Alfred’s head shifted over, and his cheek rested lightly against the fluffy part of his jacket, his lips parting slightly. His eyelids were fluttering every so slightly. His own sunglasses, red, shifted back as they rested in his hair.
“Hey, Dumbass.” James whispered, reaching out and prodding Alfred in the chest with his pointer finger.
“Leave m’alone.” Alfred mumbled, slumping down in his chair and yawning; though he did not open his eyes.
“Can’t, you’re drooling on my notes.” James snickered, looking down at the blank piece of paper in front of him. Not that he ever took notes... not that any of the people in the room got to anything that they wanted to take notes in. This was about as far as the meetings usually got before somebody died.
“You seem to be under the impression I care; you are mistaken.” Alfred's’ voice was getting slower and slurring slightly.
Being worried was not something James did. He didn’t like to worry about others, and he didn’t care to worry about himself either. Needless to say though that little emotion swept up through him at his ‘brothers’ slurred voice. James had only seen Alfred like this once, and that was when the Great Depression had hit. He didn’t really want to relive that moment anytime soon.
“You will care when I shove a hockey stick down your throat.” James said, reaching over and pulling his arm away from the others chair; grabbing the hockey stick he had resting behind him against the wall.
“Baseball is better.” Alfred mumbled out, before his head tilted to the side completely; his body slumping to the side. It just happened to be the side that James was sitting on. In which case, Alfred was now completely leaning on the blonde Canadian,
James gritted his teeth, looking down at the brown head that rested against him.
“Get up.” He snapped out, trying to pull his arm away, only managing to make Alfred's head slump further against his shoulder. Alfred didn’t make another noise except for a small hitch in his breathing as he slept.
James glanced around. Russia had managed to get China up off the floor, and was holding him up with a large smile on his face. Feliciano was all over Ludwig, though a knife glinted in the hand that was behind the Germans back. Silently sitting in the corner like James, sat a small Prussian man. Gilbert glanced over at James, raised an eyebrow at him, but made no further move. He didn’t talk, and James knew that.
James sighed; nobody to help him. He glanced back down at Alfred. From this angle he could only see Alfred's parted lips, and his glasses there were pressing roughly against James shoulder.
“Stupid Americans...” James grumbled out, but his fingers gently pulled up at the glasses, pulling them away from Alfred. He stooped down down onto Alfred’s dog-tags that hung from his neck. With his free arm, James pulled his own glasses from his face. He put them beside Alfred’s, his red plaid shirt he had on not having any pockets big enough to hold them.
He crossed his arms over his chest and looked away; for some reason not bothering to push Alfred away. His eyes glanced over at the TV int he corner of the room, watching as Breaking News flashed across the screen, and James felt his stomach turn uneasily.
Apparently the United States stock market had crashed earlier today; about the time that Alfred had passed out against his shoulder. James arms tightened around themselves, glancing around. He had about two seconds before the other people in the room realized this and decided to have a little bit of fun with the unusually weak America.
“You owe me a beer, bastard.” James whispered, reaching down to push his hands down under Alfred's armpits. He pulled him up roughly so that Alfred was out of his chair completely.
“Hey!” James heard a voice scream, and he stiffened, glancing at Alfred’s tired face. He could see the lines starting on it, and the paleness of the usually so tanned skin. He could see the eyelashes flutter over what he knew would be blood red eyes if they opened; and the bags that were underneath them almost as bad as James’ own.
“Fuck.” James grumbled. His thoughts went back to when they were children; when Alfred had walked up to him at first and told him that he wanted to be a hero. Two years later that same Alfred who had changed so much had come up to him again and told him that hero’s were stupid, and he was a villain. He was a villain who killed people, simply because it was fun. He remembered one time when Francis had beat James so terribly for getting kicked out of a movie theater, and James had woken up on his bed completely bandaged. Alfred had been sitting next to him then. asleep. Though Alfred never admitted it (and never would) he had been the one to help him then.
He didn’t even want to know how the others would carve Alfred up until not even he could recognize him. He’d seen it happen to Prussia when his country had fallen.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” James panted out. He reached out, pulling his hockey stick up and swinging it over so that it was attached to his back by his belt. He grabbed Alfred and pulled his limp body over his shoulder; his red converse shoes knocking together.
“Hey! Look, the American idiot’s banks are dropping!” Feliciano screamed, out of the corner of James eyes he could see him pull away from Ludwig abruptly. He still had that silver knife in his hand. It made rainbows dance across Japans red eyes that appeared behind him silently.
“Good.” Kiku whispered, stepping forward. Somehow he had pulled his sword out of the wall. It whistled through his face as his wrist twisted around.
“You come near him and I’ll skin your ass raw.” James said, a smile spreading across his face slowly. He almost wished Alfred was awake now so that he could fight somebody.
“Oh fun, fun!” Romano yelled, going for the window seeing as James was now blocking the door, “Time to leave!”
“Oh dear, I think you’re right.” Arthur called out, sitting up and out of his pockets fell out a dozen bottles of poison, “Surely we will have lunch first though? I don’t want to bloody the plates before we even get to use them!”
“Shut-Up.” A grumbly Francis said, reaching out and picking up a thing of poison. He thrust it back into Arthur’s pocket quickly.
“But I made cupcakes for you all.” Arthur’s face took on a deadly tone, fingering the poison bottle in his pocket once again.
James shook his head. The idiots couldn’t stay focused on one thing for any moment of a time, and he wasn’t about ready to let this instance go. He bumped his shoulder, Alfred moving oddly on it. He still hadn’t woken up, and James could feel the feverish skin even through Alfred’s jacket to know that he was sick.
“Two beers; now you owe me two beers.” James was speaking now just for his own benefit. He huffed, grabbing ahold of the door handle and wrenching it open.
“No! We should have some fun with him first, don’t you think?” Feliciano, the scary little Italian danced forward, his feet tapping on the ground. James felt something snag at his red shirt and his eyes narrowed. Damn Feliciano and his knives; he liked this shirt.
“Not today, fucker. I don’t have to justify ripping somebody’s head off.” James snapped out, swiveling around and his eyes seemed to grow even colder. Before Feliciano could even move a hockey puck was jammed between his teeth, knocking a few loose in the act.
Feliciano let out a howl, clamping his hand over his lips and his eyes flashed horribly.
By the time he had unlodged the hockey puck from between his lips, James was already completely out the door and on his way to a shack where he lived. Maybe he couldn’t care for Alfred properly, but dammit he didn’t care.
Not that he liked the American, or even cared for him. No, in James mind, this was his way of simply doing something that inabled his own economy up.
Because that’s all he cared about, right? They were meant to fight, the two. They wanted to kill each other on the best of days. Yet, James arms tightened over Alfred’s legs and his eyes flashed warmly for a moment like they used to before his father trained him into being a merciless killer.