In which even knowing about that Genderbend epidode is kind of gay.
"Okay, okay bro. Let me get this straight. So you like, waved her down, sang her an Adventure Time song in a declaration of your eternal love, and then ran away like you were being chased by that dog from Paper Boy?"
"She really liked that episode, okay? We watched it together all the time, so I thought—"
"AHA HA HA HA HA HA! God, you are such a fucking dork, Mattie!"
Matthew sometimes wondered if Amy would be less of a dick if she had, in fact, possessed an actual penis. But then he always imagines a douchey male America trying to invade Montreal with a popped collar and a can of Pabst, and well, he always just gets nightmares for a while so he tries to avoid it as much as he can.
Finally, America's laughter dies down, and she lets out a fond sigh as she wipes the tears from her eyes. "Oh, Mattie," she says, "you are too much. Too too much. Tell me you at least used one of your guitars, and not…"
She trailed off as a growing, uncomfortable look spread across her twin's face.
"Oh my fucking god!" she howled delightedly. "You didn't! You used that gay little lute thing Aunt Mairie gave you, didn't you?"
"It's a mandolin," muttered Matthew dejectedly. America laughed until she slid off her chair and under the conference table. Matt listened to the thud of his sister's feet kicking the underside of the wood dispondantly. The other nations encircling the table ignored her dutifully, and France continued on with her presentation without missing a beat. To Canada's dismay, this kind of thing happened quite often.
"I can't breathe!" came Amy's muffled, giggled shouts. "Oh My God! Hahahaha…!"
Matt sighed and clicked his pen. He might as well write his suicide note while he waited for her to calm down. Or lunch. You never really knew which would come first with Amy.
Eventually, Amy's head peeped up from under the table, her hair all askew, and rested her chin in her hands while leaning her elbows on the chair.
"Hee~" she grinned up at her brother. "That was great, Matt. You're such a lady killer."
"What is this about my Mathieu and ladies?" Marianne purred, having finished her presentation on the pros and cons of her boss's latest economic proposals shortly after America had finished kicking the table in glee and started pounding the floors with her fists. Elegantly, she leaned over Matthew to fix Amy's hair fondly, and Canada grudgingly had to admire how gracefully she pretended he wasn't there.
Amy snickered as France gently tucked some wayward strands behind her ears. "He's trying to woo England with Scotland's gay little guitars and my awesome childrens cartoons."
Matthew wondered which would take more time to regenerate from, flinging himself from the roof or hanging himself in the washroom with his shoelaces. He would of smothered himself in Kumakuchuchutrain's fur, but she had felt a bit sick this morning, and after putting her little flower pin away he had tucked her in bed and gave his boss a polite suggestion to not stuff her and put her over his mantle while Canada was away, thank you very much.
Presently, was Marianne staring at him blankly, as if he had just suggested they all go club seals and shoot endangered wildlife for sport and damn it Harper.
"Oh, my beautiful Mathieu," she said pityingly. "You are an everflowing fountain of disappointment."
"Ooooh, burn," whispered Amy excitedly.
France sighed rather dramatically, and placed her hand on her face in a wistful manner. "First you butcher my language, then you consort with that dreadfully pale Ukraine and his sister, and now you want an English woman. It is as if I had never raised you."
"Um," corrected Matthew politely, "you, you didn't. If fact, you called me a 'Dreadfully cold wasteland' and dumped me on England, who dumped me on Scotla—"
"Just dreadful," interrupted Marianne vaguely, and, oh, she was pulling Amy away towards the hall again. America looked back at him, gave him a the devil horns and a pleased, 'I am so getting some tail tonight, so fuck this meeting hells yeah' look, and then left with the older woman just as South Italy tried to jump across the table and strangle her sister.
England was looking at him from a few chairs down, but once he caught her eye she turned red, huffed, and then stormed out of the room as well.
Bewildered, Canada slumped back in his seat, stared up at the ceiling for a few seconds, and then picked up his pen again. He thought rather hopefully that if he finished writing his note, something productive may just happen during this meeting for once.