Chapter One — All That Glitters Is Not Gold
...
The year was 1992.
The nations had held an Earth Summit on Environment and Development in the June of that summer. The meeting itself had only lasted two weeks, but for a meeting that didn't have Germany, it went surprisingly well. The people of Rio De Janeiro had been kind and hospitable, welcoming the foreign, accented strangers with sanguineness and geniality. The nations didn't take this act of kindness for granted, the pleasantry soothing their slight disquietude.
Nations and representatives communicated rather than shouted, and it seemed though as if they got just a little bit closer to achieving their goals. And of course, the after party had been amazing as well with plenty of embarrassing stories to be told.
Yes, the nations were exhausted from the excitement that Brazil brought. That is why a month later, they would much rather be in front of a fan, in a pool, on the beach — anywhere else other than boarding a plane to New York City for another dull meeting. Even if the average temperature only reached a peak of 73 degrees Fahrenheit in the day, for many of the Northern Europeans, this weather was still much too hot. With no errant winds to cool them down, hot, thick asphalt soaked in every ray of sunshine and melted it back into their black suits and ties. Body heat, they knew, could be the difference between comfortable and intolerable.
So when they landed, the sun felt sweltering through their black slacks and white, stiff collars. The heat followed them like a warm breath, and while some basked in its gift, many others cursed at it and hoped that at least traveling to New York again would be worth it.
Yes, that July sixteenth was the most average day to have a meeting.
Or so they thought it would have been.
...
"I swear if I hear My Achey Breaky Heart one more bleeding time, this meeting will have one less nation on the roster," England griped with clenched teeth, getting out of the taxi with France. The taxi drove away to the oh so wonderful sound of morning, New York City traffic.
"You seem to be rather disturbed today. Or is that you're sexually disturbed as always?" France asked with amusement.
"What the —! Get your disgusting hands off of me and let me walk through this door already! Why do I even bother with your beastly presence," England complained, pushing the double doors open to the elegant U.N. headquarters.
He gave the blonde receptionist a small, awkward smile as they went through the same routine of standard safety procedures. It wasn't much, just flashing the woman some ID and confirming the appointment date was set to that date specifically.
She smiled at them and wished them luck for their meeting. She motioned them to proceed as she always did. The blonde nations walked down the long hallway, their polished, black shoes making click noises as their heels hit the tile floor. France sashayed his hair a bit. "You say you cannot stand me, but yet you still travel with me. Admit it, you cannot resist this."
England just gave him a look.
"No one else can put up with you for so long either. I'm the one who is being selfless! Like last week when we were —"
"Will you just shut your wretched mouth already!" England huffed, his ears tinted red with embarrassment. France laughed and opened the door for England to walk in. England muttered a thank you and saw that not many countries were there yet.
France sat down next to England, both of them still quarreling over small things. Why they were fighting about whose Tamagachi was better fed was a question no one really bothered to ask them.
"Yo dudes, you guys fighting again? You two can never get along, haha!" America said loudly strutting in through the doors with a horrible, neon pink cap on his head. It was placed on backward, the bill facing away from his forehead to protect him from the sun that wasn't even there.
Many of the nations blinked in surprise but with no real shock. He wasn't wearing nice dress shoes like the rest of them either. Oh no. He was wearing fluorescent white Nike sneakers that squeaked with every step he took and a ridiculously patterned collared shirt that looked like it belonged on a hotel carpet rather than on a body. His slacks were still black at least.
England was just glad the shoes had laces this time. He was not going through the hell of America and velcro again.
His outfit was a horrendous mix of the current street fashion and the half-assed effort to look presentable to the world. England sighed heavily, wearily, and had to pinch his nose from exploding on the young man. The amount of stupid in America never really stopped amazing him, not even after two hundred years.
France looked like as if he had just been struck with a heart attack. He slumped in his chair, head cocking back and body loosening in shock and England had to smack him to see if he was still alive. France fell to the floor from the imbalance his turned face caused, his legs and arms crumbling in a way that only an unconscious man could withstand. England blinked slowly and uncaringly as his neighbor sprawled on the floor.
"Will you look at that. You killed France," he said poking him with his foot to make sure.
Everyone else just ignored America's odd sense of style and went back to bugging their fellow neighbors. America slid next to England, whom at the moment was debating on whether to perform CPR or to just let him stay there and wake up with a horrible crick in his neck. America set his things down on the table and loosened his black tie a bit. It was in that moment England remembered something and set to turn France over and revive him.
"Yo is Germany ditching out on another meeting? That guy's a real pain in the ass, but dealing with Italy's rambling is worse," America asked while looking down to see what England was doing.
"You bearded fuck, you still owe me money, you bleeding, no good — ! Oh?" England stopped pumping and looked around. "I don't know America. He wasn't here when we arrived. That wasn't much before you, I'm afraid." England then gave up on the Frenchman, letting him stay on the floor as he kneeled back up.
America huffed. "So not cool man. He's always telling us not to miss any of the meetings too! 'Tardiness is not acceptable.' 'Making it to the meetings is not an option, but mandatory.'," America mimicked in his horrible impersonation of Germany's voice.
"It is strange, though. Germany isn't one to miss out on a such an important event. You know how he is," England replied a tad bit worried that Germany was going to miss yet another meeting. It left an uneasy feeling in his stomach, and he could tell that it did for America as well.
"Who knows! Maybe he suddenly snapped and went mofo, or I don't know. Got laid!" America said with a false laugh.
"Will you please stop talking like that. I highly doubt Germany just went and bonked someone...That's just not like him."
"Bonked? What the hell does that mean? See, I'm not the one talkin' funny. You're using Iggy English again," America said while waving excitedly at Japan.
"It means to have a good shag."
"What?"
"A bang?"
"Like the hair? It's bangs, dude."
"It means to have sex!" England finally said to America frustrated.
"Did someone say sex?" France asked, his heart conveniently pumping blood right after England had shouted.
"So, now you wake up."
"Anything for you," France cooed sweetly, clutching his head and sitting up from the floor. He stumbled back into his seat next to England and avoided looking at America in fear that he would collapse again. He grabbed the glass of water in front of his name tag to drink and calm down.
"Oh! You should have just said that jeez. But yeah, it is weird. This is what, the fifth time? I know that Austria and Switzerland have already tried barging into his house, but he wasn't there either. Germany can't quit on us, man. He's important," America said eyeing the empty chair next to the fidgety Italy.
"Poor lad, he must really miss Germany," England remarked when he saw America's line of vision.
America turned to him. "Who? Italy?"
England nodded. "It's written all over his face. Can't you see? Though I will admit that something has been fishy around them for a while now. Odd considering how much they fancy each other."
America looked at Italy talking rapidly with his twin. Romano looked less than pleased as usual, but he seemed to listen to Italy's useless ramble with a little bit less hate than others. Even with all of Italy's wild wrist motions and joyful exclamations, he did not seem truly happy. His eyes, flickering to the wooden door hoping for something, anything, to emerge and placate the growing restlessness within his body that he could not display, held a hidden longing. America sensed that Italy was hiding how despondent he was for the sake of others, and America could only send him sympathy as he knew that feeling all too well.
"He looks happy. They aren't always together, ya know," America said, choosing to ignore the growing heaviness of the topic.
"He may look like he's full of beans, but take a closer look and you'll see how his eyes dart to his left and how his hands twitch after talking about pasta," England said leaning forward in his seat just a bit so his elbows rested on the table.
"Full of beans? You gotta cool your jets with that funny talk, bro," America snickered. America didn't think Italy was talking about lies, but then again, Italy did have a tendency to exaggerate things just a tad.
"I keep forgetting you don't use that kind of language here. Sorry, I'll try to not make it so blatant."
America grew concerned. "You only get like that when you're worried about something. You're usually really good at hiding your weird Britishy terms. Something up?"
England sighed. "No, no, everything is just going splendidly. This bloody meeting mess has gotten my Parliament in a horrible disarray, they threw a tantrum when I left like little children. I swear I should sack all of them, those bumbling pillocks. They are now badgering me to find Germany, and how am I supposed to know where he is? I know less than they know, those little..."
America blinked and had to hold his mouth from laughing out loud. He couldn't hold it in and he burst. His loud laughter did not attract as much attention as one would think as America practically laughed at everything.
"Oh my god. Oh my god! Haha! That is the most British thing I have ever heard! What the hell did you even just say?" America said wiping a tear from under his glasses. England just groaned and did not flinch when he felt France caress his thigh from under the table as a means of comfort.
"That's not the point. My point is if we don't figure out what happened to Germany soon, my government, and everyone else's, will get extremely fussy and annoying, and I don't feel like dealing with them more than I have to," England said, trying to avoid the instinctive use of his country's slang.
"I know you're rubbing my leg France! Fucking Christ, do you have no shame?" He whacked France behind the head. He had turned his head to speak with Belgium, and he winced when he felt the smack against his crown.
"Hmm, true. Well, it looks like all the countries are almost here. We're just waiting for —?"
"Hungary. Aside from Germany, Hungary has yet to appear."
"Oh yeah. That's weird, though, she usually comes with Austria," America said doing another headcount.
"America, will you take off that hat already. It looks bloody ridiculous," England said eyeing the neon pink cap warily.
America gasped. "No way! Will Smith gave this to me, and I gotta look fresh! Hah! Get it? Fresh Prince of —"
"Yes, I get it."
"No need to be such a biotch. Even if this meeting is a buzz kill, I have to present with style. You wouldn't get it. Your sweater vest is probably being dry cleaned, pfft," America snickered.
"You think wearing a rug is fashionable. I'm not going to listen to you about fashion."
America waved his hand dismissively at him. "Yeah, yeah, whatever."
England sighed and muttered. "Why do I even bother."
"'Cuz I know you totally have a crush on me, dude. It's okay, I would date me too, I mean I am all that and a bag of chips," America said cheekily.
England vehemently denied that. America kept bantering with England, neither of them noticing that Italy watched with sharp eyes from afar.
Italy could tell just by England's body language that England was enjoying his time with America immensely. England's eyes showed a plethora of emotions when talking to America, and he seemed to never stop paying attention to him. Even when he was annoyed, he seemed to have a fond, aggravated sigh, or when he was pensive, his eyes would furtively flicker to his to see what he opinionated.
England loved America. Italy wasn't sure to what extent America felt about England, but America wasn't pushing away those affections. If anything he was just letting himself be basked in it, taking for granted England's unwavering, sure attention. To America, England's attention was a given to him.
Such a spoiled country he is...
Italy sighed as he placed his palm on his right cheek. Spain had clung onto Romano not too long ago and now they were doing their weird form of flirting far away from him. Yet another country that couldn't appreciate the persistent attention.
Italy looked to his left and saw Germany's seat once again empty. The first time this happened, he had full-blown panicked and cried. He cried and cried, but his tears did not bring Germany back, so he just sniffed and tried to think positively.
The second time, he couldn't ignore how his heart dropped and how his curl drooped sadly. Without Germany there, who would listen to him? Who would be there to sigh and tie his shoelaces that he purposely didn't knot up? Who was he supposed to hug and feel their body tense, only for them to relax with red cheeks?
He called, wrote, and did everything he could to contact Germany and think positively.
It had worked for a couple weeks, and he really thought that by the third meeting, he would be there to apologize in his overly formal and genteel way. Italy thought he would get to hear Germany mutter about "Italians and their damn pasta", but still join him for lunch when he took his larger, paler hand in his thinner, tanned one.
When he wasn't there for the third time, he really thought Germany had died, and it took the nations several hours to calm him down. Germany's bowl of pasta had gotten very cold...
By the fourth meeting, Italy had started to become a little less shocked at the idea of a frowning blond not by his side. His crisp suit and gelled hair were becoming a fading memory he could not swallow down. The others called him clingy and over-emotional, but if he didn't touch or hear Germany, he'll vanish forever right through his nimble fingers just like smoke.
He'll fade into his memory, blurred to a mere feeling with no face.
He didn't want that — oh no. He knew that this had to be the meeting he had to come. No one was sick for that long, especially not Germany who was a workaholic and perfectionist. Germany would be too embarrassed and guilty to miss over fifty-five days of work.
Germany hasn't talked to Italy in one hundred and twenty-four days, five hours, and twenty seconds.
Not that he's counting or anything.
"I'M SO SORRY FOR BEING LATE, BUT I CAUGHT TWO HOT GUYS MAKING OUT AND I COULDN'T LOOK AWAY FROM IT BECAUSE THAT SHIT WAS HOT," Hungary shouted, her hair having twigs and leaves in it.
Everyone gaped at her and winced at her loud voice.
"That's nice, just sit down Hungary," Austria said uncomfortable, yet used to the notion of Hungary going on random hunting trips of "boy's love."
"Sorry, sorry," she apologized taking her seat next to Austria. She gasped.
"Where's Germany? Is he not here again?" She immediately looked over to Italy whose curl was drooped down to pathetic levels. His mouth was quivering, but his eyes were still shut like normal. She heard sad little ve from him, and she wished she could go to him and hug him just like she had done long ago.
America stood up from his chair abruptly, England quickly swiping the cap away as he stood up. America had his right hand clenched into a fist and his left palm flat on the table sturdily, shaking the long slab of metal.
"Alright! Another world meeting has commenced! First of all, welcome to the lovely Big Apple, New York City baby! It's the home of the hamburger! And the American mafia, but anyhow," America ignored Romano's heated glare at the word mafia, "hamburgers. That's German. And you know what's German and not in the great ol' US of A? Germany. The main dude. Anyone know where that guy went?"
This brought worried chatter to the table.
All we can do is talk, talk, talk, talk and never do anything. It's annoying me.
"Wasn't he just in Switzerland?" Mexico piped up.
Everyone looked at Switzerland.
"That was four months ago. I haven't heard from him either since then," Switzerland replied neutrally. Liechtenstein nodded to make this statement valid.
"Well, that's a clue at least. Four months ago, he went to Switzerland..." America said, question marks floating around his head.
"He came to me three months ago to talk about the Earth Summit," Brazil said shyly. She barely ever had her voice heard, and she was glad to have something to contribute to with the leading powers of North America and Europe.
America blinked. "Who are you? Are you even a country?"
France gasped and rushed to hold Brazil. Brazil fidgeted uncomfortably. "How dare you forget about the beautiful Brazil? She's the one with the oh so lovely bottom~"
"France, focus! This isn't the time for that," England barked with his eyebrows twitching. "Now, Brazil, what did you discuss with Germany, and did he tell you what he was going to do next?" England asked kinder to the dark woman.
Brazil peeled off France's hands and straightened in her seat. She spoke with a clearer voice. "No, he did not. He came to me to talk about the preparations for the Earth Summit."
Her voice held confusion now, "It is odd, though. He seemed so worried and meticulous about everything going smoothly. He was concerned if it was imposing on my resources a lot, or if things would be ready on time, and he was generally worried about small things that I can't remember now, but he wasn't even there when it happened. This was such a big event and he just left," she made a gesture with her hands, "just, poof. Gone."
Many agreed and wondered what could have made Germany just leave like that.
"Alright, so we know he went to Swiss cheese over here, then to Brazil, but where to next?" America said tapping his chin.
Switzerland seethed, and Liechtenstein had to remind him that machine guns weren't allowed in the meeting room.
Nobody else spoke up and so America tried, "You can't tell me that Germany didn't at least call one of you guys in these past three or four months."
"He did call me to ask something important," Austria stated after a pregnant pause.
America looked at him excitedly, his ridiculous shoes squeaking a bit from when he turned.
Austria nodded and said to the mirage of faces, "He called me to ask about something important, but hung up immediately after I had said yes. Quite rude, but disturbing. Something was troubling him deeply, it had seemed." Austria looked a little troubled as well and Hungary squeezed his hand in assurance. Austria's cheeks tinted a bit pink but wrapped his hand a little tighter around her thin fingers.
America made a humming noise and looked to England. "What do you think England?"
England bit his lip. "I don't know. All this behavior indicates that he was erratic about something. I have a feeling it wasn't about the Earth Summit either. Either someone in this room is choosing not to share, choosing to sacrifice valuable information for the well being of this organization, choosing to endanger a fellow nation, or, Germany was upset about something else. But since I know no one in this room would do that, I can't really say," England stated coolly.
Some fidgeted in their plastic chairs not liking the glint in England's green, piercing eyes.
America completely ignored the threat and focused on the data he had just been told. Snapping his fingers, he pointed over to Italy. "Italy! You're always around Germany so you must know where he is!" England smacked his palm against his forehead.
"If I knew I would tell you. I haven't seen Germany either lately...It's been very lonely without Germany...He hates me! He hates me! I just know it!" Italy tumbled out, quick to sob into his palms. These weren't comical tears, tears that would leak out of his eyes from small things, but fat, thick droplets of water running down his reddening cheeks.
Romano immediately took defense. "Woah, woah. Look here you damn highlighter head bastard, you know how much of a little bitch Veneziano is, so can you not make him cry? He already cries enough without you reminding him that the mayo on a stick is gone! And Veneziano stop with the waterworks already!" Romano said hugging his younger brother by the side. Italy clung to the side of Romano's nice, crisp suit and sniffed pitifully.
"Well, it seems the Mario brothers don't know shi —"
"I told you to stop fucking calling us that, you damn clogged artery!"
"I will once you stop calling me type two diabetes with legs."
"No way, you fucking chee —"
"This is getting us nowhere! Stop arguing and shut up!" Mexico said glaring at America with burning intensity.
"Romano, stop being a little bitch and suck it up. Do I have to sing you a lullaby to calm you down like when we were living under that puta? And America, you're getting us nowhere, and you're the host of this meeting," Mexico sniped.
Romano shook fearfully with his brother clinging to him just as scared. He nodded quickly, while America just stuck out his tongue childishly at his southern neighbor.
Italy let go from Romano and straightened up, saying he was okay now and that he was fine.
"The last time I saw Germany was four months ago too. He was very stressed, so I made him some good pasta! It was delicious, but he didn't eat it. He said he wasn't in the mood. He always eats my pasta." Italy paused. The whole room was silent as they heard Italy's voice try to steady.
"He kept on looking out the window. It was like he was looking for something, or remembering something bad. I don't like it when he remembers because it always leads back to..."
The heavy stillness didn't sit well with Italy. He continued to talk to fill in the eerily attentive countries.
"He sighed a lot and spent a lot of time in his library. He didn't like to be in the same room with me for very long either. It was like whatever I said — whatever I said, upset him. I up-upset him a lot it seems. But when don't I annoy him, right?" he asked the muted room with a watery smile.
"Germany and I went to walk his dogs. We stumbled upon an old training field, and Germany looked sick, so I asked him if he needed to go to a clinic, but he harshly said no. I didn't know what I did wrong, I-I was just trying to help, but it seemed to make Germany more distant. We — We didn't talk for the rest of the way back. He fed his dogs and said he was going to bed early. He said that he had important things to do the next day, so I let him sleep. He had looked at me in the eye and said to not to go to bed with him. It was scary!" Italy said, his curl spazzing out a bit.
Italy swallowed, his parched throat needing water. He looked at his empty glass of water by his doodled name tag with regret.
"I guess, I guess it's been like this for a while. I don't know why, but one day Germany stopped being so nice to me. He's still nice! Just not as nice as before. I don't know how to explain it, but he felt — feels more distant. I don't know what I did on that —"
"Hold on a second, when was this 'one day'?" France asked seriously.
Italy looked deep in thought. "Maybe...maybe the general assembly in 1990? The one two years ago? Or was it three?"
"Woah, for two years? How did you not notice that he was, like —" Poland was cut off by Italy's eerily blank voice.
"No. No, it wasn't two years ago. It's been like this since 1945."
"That would have been forty-five years ago," Japan said, trying breaking the tense atmosphere.
Italy looked down. "I know."
"Okay, so Germany hasn't been total homo for you in forty-five years. That is bad news, shit," America said now furrowing his brows in worry.
"Homo? Homo as in homosexual?" Italy asked with his eyes wide open. America felt his nerves jump at how deep amber Italy's eyes were, and how aged they looked. They just seemed to have seen so many things. It was intimidating, those clear, sharp eyes on you.
"Yeah, you know gay?" America said trying to see what the big deal was, wondering if he had offended Italy somehow.
"Homosexual. Gay, gay, gay. No. I'm going crazy," Italy said, his eyes drooping down shut again, his face once again forming into the natural goofy expression.
"As much fun as it is to talk about how obvious that Germany is into kinky shit and likes cock, can we actually move onto where the cock sucker is? No one has really said anything useful, and my ass has been sitting in this uncomfortable chair for thirty minutes too long," Romano griped, the one to voice everyone else's thoughts.
"You won't find him."
Everyone turned around to the sharp voice.
"Prussia? What are you doing here?" Hungary was the first to speak from the shock of seeing Prussia so melancholic.
Prussia didn't answer. He walked toward the table and placed an old leather-bound book. The brown binding was chipped and frayed, the spine disconnecting with the yellow pages a bit, leaving a noticeable gap. The cover was bending upwards jaggedly as if someone had been holding onto it for dear life. There were many pieces of dried crusts of blood scattered on the cover and binding. There seemed to be a stain, a stain that the owner clearly had tried to get rid of in useless effort, of a thick blood trail. It wasn't just blots or stains of red like the other dried drops, but a vivid gushing trail of brown from three-quarters of the cover, to the uneven pages on the side, dipping down again to the back cover.
It was in horrible condition, yet the title had a clear engraving of Tagebuch. Whoever owned this journal made sure the cursive letters were still legible.
"Whose is that?" America asked, not liking the look of the antique book. It gave him eerie vibes, and he couldn't help but think that the book will cause more questions than answers.
Prussia looked at all of them, one by one — to Spain's faked cluelessness, to Russia's curiosity, to Hungary's pleading eyes, to France's guilty gaze, and to Italy's shaking body. He stuck his hands in his pants and spoke to them with a rasp in his voice. "It's Germany's. That kid — he kept a journal. It's the only real journal he's ever had."
"What are we supposed to do with this? This seems rather personal," England said suspiciously and uncomfortable at the prospect of reading directly into Germany's thoughts.
Prussia tried to laugh but it didn't come out right. "You're going to read it and bring my little brother back, you little shits."
He looked back up and stared directly into Italy's eyes.
"Because I know you guys will."
Prussia tried walking out of the room, but Hungary caught his attention.
"Wait," she called almost scooting back from her seat to face him directly, "why are you giving us this?"
Prussia turned his head back annoyed. "You're already complaining? It's only been five damn seconds."
Austria was highly doubtful as well. "You would never be inclined to simply place a highly valuable piece of evidence in front of all the countries in the world. You rarely act civil around me, how are we supposed to believe you have a gained a sudden change in heart?"
"So you're telling me that you don't actually care about finding Germany," he stated unamused.
Austria became flustered. "That isn't what I was saying at all, but you know a well as I do that this highly unordinary."
"But what is ordinary is you sitting back and doing nothing," he accused with lowered, harsh eyes. "And since none of you will actually do anything unless someone hands you something, forces you do to do something, this is what I'm doing. So there you go. Maybe now you'll actually start to give a shit."
Prussia left and no one tried to stop him as he slammed the door closed.
There was a slightly awkward air now, and Austria pushed up his glassed undignified but not necessarily hurt.
The nations just stared at the book as if it were an illegal alien. (Well at least America was looking at it like that). The book just sat at the table, the pungent scent of smoke surrounding the book like a bad perfume. The book was doing nothing, it was saying nothing, yet the nations stared at it, to each other, back to the book, to each other, and back to the book in a complete lack of knowledge of what to do. It was as if they expected the inanimate object to disappear just as quickly, just as spontaneously, as it had appeared.
The room was filled with heavy silence, this time, a confused and turbulent silence. No one knew how to proceed. They didn't understand why Prussia seemed so calm and sad, or why Prussia had entrusted this private piece of property to the world. It was nerve-wracking — the answers, the possibilities, in those musty pages. How much history did this one book have?
"I think it's only fair that Italy has this," France finally said after getting tired of the fidgets and quick eye movement. It was just a book and they would find Germany with it, so he didn't understand why everyone was being so hesitant and nervous to open it. Even America looked apprehensive about the small antique journal. He felt a dark sense of foreboding as soon as he looked around once more. He couldn't shake off this strange feeling...
"M-Me? I can't take this!" Italy quickly denied, waving his white flag around.
"You're the only one who really deserves it, lad. It pains me to say this, but France is right. It's only fair," He pushed his chair back, the wood making a horrible scraping noise against the cold floor as it moved. The noise echoed harshly throughout the room. He went around the edge of the table, where the table faced the entrance and picked up the book daintily. The book felt heavy, and he felt a shiver go down his spine when he saw the foreign spelling.
This could be possibly the words of a dead man.
Britain walked over to Italy and placed the book directly in his trembling hands. Italy's eyes were once again open. He was staring directly at England with a look of terrible fear, his eyes reflecting the same sadness in the others green ones.
"It's time to read the first entry, no?"
...
Full of beans — British slang meaning hyper, bursting with energy
Sack — British slang to fire someone from work
Pillocks — British slang for a person who is an idiot or has done something stupid
All That and a Bag of Chips — "I'm the best and then some."
Puta — Spanish for slut
...
I'm aware that probably no real English person speaks like that, but as stated before, when England gets really stressed out, I feel like he would pull out all this weird slang that he has at his home. This is the only chapter that he really goes off like that, so do not worry English readers, you won't have to read that cringy attempt again.
ALSO: I will put this in the next chapter once we start to get reading the journal, but none of the entries will be in German. I'm not German, I don't speak any German and probably never will. If somehow Google Translate failed me with the simplest of tasks like translating journal, then please just drop kick me in the head.
That is all. Thanks for reading and see you in the next chapter!