russia's preparations
The table was set, everything was in order. The family and their friends and spouses would arrive shortly. The food was ready.
Russia, however, wasn't sure he was.
It had been a few years since he'd seen a few of his siblings and there were several that he had no desire to see. He had nonetheless invited everyone, and if it sucked then he would just leave.
It was to be hosted at his house, for it was the old house, that he had inherited from the Soviet Union. The house was, for Russia, a place of an odd safety and comfort, like he could feel his dead father's eyes watching him even now. It was… reassuring.
He was also aware that, for the vast majority of his family, the house held nothing but pain, sorrow, and fearful memories, that surely they would have been content to simply throw away.
Russia exhaleda cloud of cigarette smoke, and it formed a halo round him as it mingled with the frosty air. There was no smoking permitted inside the house.
There was a variety of peculiar rules in the house, including one that stated, "if you are to cause a loud sound, you must first scream "LOUD NOISES" or folow the noises with "I'M OKAY". If this fails to happen then the family has reason to believe you are injured or in need of assistance and will come running."
Because apparently that wasn't normal.
But Russia had come to accept that hardly anything in their family was normal-- from the vampiric habits of Lithuania to Moldova's downright eerie ability to perfectly imitate birdcalls to the mysterious disembodied fox-paw that was always finding its way into people's beds and shoes (and on one particularly memorable occasion, a pot of soup)-- and, honestly, it was just part of their characters.
Russia extinguished his blunt on the wooden railing of the third-floor balcony, just off the Lemon Room. He absentmindedly tossed it down into the snow far below and retreated inside as he anticipated the arrival of his guests-- welcome or not.