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This is the era of airhead douchebaggery, and it has no place for him, that soft-spoken young nation. He’s Canada, and he’s callow as he ever was, with that typical ineptitude for articulation, unable to compare to the windbag prowess of the others. He’s sitting in a conference room on a late summer’s day, deathly bored. He usually has patience, but it fails him this time, and he blames it on the sticky humidity that's seeping into the low ceilinged conference room from outside. He’s not alone; everyone else appears to be affected by it too, looking antsy and agitated, those who obviously want to sleep not quite able to. That's a decent enough excuse to tell himself as he allows himself to drift halfway to unconsciousness in his own folded arms.
He wakes up again when his forehead is pummeled with something with the power of a bullet. You rise with a jolt, hissing in pain.
"Don't think I didn't notice you taking a little vacation there, maple boy," says his neighbour, America, whose hand is hovering before Canada’s face with his hand in the follow-through position of a flick. "You’ve all got to be awake for my very important presentation." he says, strolling away, walking around the table. Matthew’s eyes trails after him, slowly blinking.
"
Don't think I didn't notice you
," America said. Oh Alfred, Matthew thinks. Unsurpassable in his ebullient obnoxiousness and charm. He watches as his friend initiates the so-called very important presentation wholeheartedly, not hearing the words, only feeling the energy. Matthew wishes that they were out of the miserable confines of the room and alone together like they should be, isolated from the rest of the world, perhaps on some vast tract of land.
He draws out a sigh and rests his chin in his palm, finding the speech making the conference little more bearable. He traces the outline of his neighbour with an imaginary hand, and wishes Alfred would react to the apparition, at least blush at its groping, stutter in the middle of his sentences.
Under the layers of pretend-business monkey get up the boy's body should flush under his northern neighbour’s hard gaze, if he really did notice him. He should stop speaking altogether, knowing that enough was enough. Matthew, with the flick of his wrist, imposes upon Alfred the reticence required preserve his bearability. All the white noise of normative statements and arguments, rendered useless on a whim. God, those lips. Matthew’s rapt at the image of that pink mouth, fixed in obedience under the will of his thumb.
This is it. He's sexualizing one of his kin, shamelessly. He's also grinding his teeth and letting a droplet of drool escape the corner of his mouth like he's almost lost part of his mind.
Then he's picturing stringing wildflowers between Alfreds fingers when his attention is captured by them waving around in superfluous gesticulations, while, in the same picture, Matthew’s shoving his own into the boy’s mouth.
He's drawn to the neck, which is stocky, trunk like, and unflatteringly masculine. He mentally grips onto its form, as if to avoid being swept away by frightening, mundane forces.
There’s a waxing flutter of sounds about the table breaks his attention. When he glances around, he becomes painfully aware of his boner. He makes out the hushed snickering of the various other delegates. They look amused as they watch the presentation; Italy appears ecstatic and Japan wears a secretive smile, England's expression is an awkward cross between agony and hilarity. To Matthew’s right, Cuba is in tears trying to stifle his laughter. Matthew raises an eyebrow, and Cuba points a brazen finger at America. "Have you ever seen something more beautiful?" he whispers.
Matthew pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and squints. And as Alfred turned from the crowd to write on the whiteboard, there it was, glistening bright and pink in its sublime moisture, a large wad of gum stuck on his ass, like a zit that had grown and burst out through the seat of his pants.
America's loud voice was grating on the ears if you bothered to pay him attention. His carelessness also risked costing you second hand embarrassment, if you cared at least a bit about him. Matthew should've laughed out loud along with the rest of his company, but fate had it that he was enduringly a man of compassion. And of course, his biggest soft spot was reserved for Alfred. So he sat there for the rest of that speech, taking it upon himself to bear the pain of humiliation for his clueless neighbour.
The prank wasn't designed to entertain forever, so soon enough the nations quieted down. Somehow, that made the rest of America's speech more agonizing for Matthew.
But still, the heavy, morbid atmosphere of the room had been replaced by something more peculiar. The others, most of who held strong feelings for America, and not in a nice way, appeared close to achieving some semblance of happiness as they watched and listened. And in that moment, Matthew couldn't help but feel that they were achieving a type of peace that transcended whatever was accomplished by merely rounding up the nations of the world in a room. Next to him, Cuba sported a resplendent mood, taking care to admire the presentation, rather than subjecting the notebook before him to his usual absentminded death glares.
So sure, he was suffering from a mild case of blue balls and second hand embarrassment, but at least that late summer humidity wasn’t feeling so shitty anymore.
When the meeting’s adjourned, Matthew slips away from the room, but to his mild surprise Alfred catches him.
"Hey," he says. "Where're you rushing off to, bro?"
Matthew was off to his hotel room to sleep off what's left of the day. But he shrugs, and mutters, "I don't know."
"Going where your heart takes you?" Alfred says. He gestures with his hand, and they continue to walk together.
"Hey Matt," he continues. "What do you think about my presentation?"
"Alright," states Matthew.
"I don't... I think everybody was laughing at it, but I'm not sure what was funny about it. I mean, I didn't intend for it to be funny. I was being really serious about it!" He pauses to let out a dramatic sigh. "Ah well. I guess it's because I'm a natural entertainer, huh?"
Matthew’s looking straight ahead of himself, and doesn't need to look at his companion to know he's doing that self-entitled smirk again, that one that always gets on his nerves. Out of spontaneous exasperation, he grabs Alfred's ass. The superpower lets out an undignified squeal. To Matthew’s horror, the piece of gum is still there, and the feeling of the still somewhat sticky wad pressed to his palm makes him shudder in revulsion. As Alfred knocks his hand off, he plucks the gum off as well. They stop in their tracks, Matthew holding the pink bud between the tips of his forefinger and thumb. He holds it between their faces.
"They were laughing at
this
. Some jokester put it on your seat, you sat in it, and then paraded around during the presentation displaying it gloriously on your ass."
He states it bluntly, because Alfred's reaction is what makes him finally get a good, self-satisfying chortle. The American's redder than ever, forcing out chuckles and mumbling, "Aw, fuck."
Then Matthew feels drawn to him again, and reaches out to rest his hand on his lower back. They walked out of the building together into the warm city streets, mollified, tame, and tentative.