Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or 2P!Talia.

Author's Note: Feedback is appreciated.

Summary: In which Oliver believes that he and his 'brother', Arthur, deserve their happy endings with the French princes. Playing Cupid, he creates a solution to cause each of the proper Frenchmen to fall in love with them. What happens when his potion-making is brilliant, but his unfortunate victims are not?

Modern Day Cupid

All it took was another fairy's handful of rose thorns, two stir counter-clockwise, and another five seconds of brewing before Oliver found himself with his desired creation. The British man was swift to bottle up the contents of his cauldron before he even dared to celebrate, Adam's apple bobbing as each drop of the precious liquid was deposited into four vials. Although most would have been relieved and radiating exhaustion from the anxiety of such a staining mission, the young man was neither. Instead, he released a loud squeal of complete joy. "Oh! I was so certain I could do this!" he cried, looking over to his magical companions for their opinions. A pixie looked at him with only mild interest before continuing her grooming of a wing.

Oliver, far too in an excited state to notice, gathered up his four vials and placed two in the pocket of his sweater vest. The other half was settled under lock and key of his storage, a place rarely used due to his habit of having a potion blow up in his face rather than actually turning the precise color and texture it was expected to. In fact, he typically left Jean in charge of any magical mixtures that required brewing. "I did it! Aren't you proud, muffins?" the man gushed, trying to gather Chocolate Bunny into a hug despite the animal's obvious reluctance. "This is perfect... Now they'll never be able to resist us~"

The Brit's eyes locked onto an image of two blonds, both doing their best to keep a distance apart from each other without being scolded. One had lank, darker hair that was swept into an haphazardly made ponytail. He was scowling at the photographer, arms crossed in front of a pale dress shirt that screamed for an ironing almost as much as his wrinkled trousers. The other, brighter blond and wearing a grin that matched Oliver's at his best, was dressed impeccably with an impressive blazer and matching bottoms. His dress shirt and light scarf matched beautifully. Other than their physiques and few habits, there was one thing that the two definitely had in common.

Both were about to return the love of their British neighbors.

||-||-X-||-||

"Germany, Germany!" cried a loud Italian voice. It wasn't a rare occurrence, so the majority of the surrounding nations hardly paid any heed to Northern Italy's frantic cries. The worlds personifications continued with their discussions, most light and friendly rather than economic; "Save the politics for the meeting room," they would comment. "Germany! H-he's in my seat!" North Italy wailed, running an abundance of laps around the lobby as though his life depended on it. "Fratellone!" Finally finding somebody in his comfort zone, even if it was the foul-mouthed elder Italian, Italy clung on and began to sob.

"R-Roma! Roma, he's in the meeting room, and he was sitting in my chair, andthenhelookedupatmeandsmiledIdon'twanttobechased withthegunsAGAINRomaI'msc-"

"Veneziano, shut your damn mouth and stop spitting on me!" South Italy growled, doing his utmost best to tear the younger man off of him. Spain was quick to jump up and try to calm the twins, but his cheer up charm only worked to further encourage Italy's frightened sobs. "Roma, Roma, he's going to kill me this time! And he'll probably try to poison the pasta again!" It took North Italy a few moments to realize that his brother had gone still, the room had gone silent, and even Spain's cheer up charm had ceased. "….Roma, I think I broke everyone!"

||-||X-||-||

The beginning of the meeting started out in a very tense atmosphere. France, the other France to half of the nations there, had made it rather clear that his kind were having a joint meeting. When asked why, it took the joint efforts of Sweden and America to keep Germany from the other end of a hidden dagger. After that, all of the nations had taken their seats quietly.

"….Well~! It's lovely to see all of your darling faces again!" the other Britain, Oliver, chirped when it was his turn to speak. "I just adore the smiles! Before I begin, won't you all have some tea?" The pale man waited for a chorus of weak confirmation from the original nations before starting right on serving out his delicate china. With twice the customary amount of nations, this task seemed impossible to accomplish before recess.

"Please, allow me to help you," Japan offered, standing from his seat. When met with gratitude rather than any sort of sadistic treatment, other nations followed his example. In sufficient pace, Japan, Finland(and, by extension, Sweden), Canada, and both Britain represents had managed to serve each nation of tea cup. Next came the actual tea, which Oliver insisted to pour by himself, and the extras, which Finland cheerfully set in careful distance from each other so that everybody would have access to their creams, sugars, milks, and syrups.

Nobody noticed the bit more of attention Oliver placed on two Frenchmen's drinks.

"Thank you all for your assistance and/or patience! I have nothing else to say!" The Brit sat down and giggled before he took a long sip from his cup. Most would have lunged at the man had it been anybody but one of their very deadliest. Oliver kept certain to keep an eye on each and every nation until he was pleased that they had all at least tasted the drink.

Jean skipped his turn, sneering at North Italy when the innocent man had whined that he was never permitted to not participate in meetings. France stood up next and began to speak of his own concerns, but it was some time during his speech that he found something.. queer to rumble in his lower stomach. Pausing in the briefest of moments, he simply shrugged it off. "As I was saying.."

"Your time is up, next." Though he absolutely detested anything that Jean had to say, France sat down. His many tumbles with his counterpart never ended well for him, and he wasn't looking to be caught in Arthur's garden yet again. Speaking of which, the Brit was next to stand up and start presenting. Arthur's voice was never too pleasant to his ears, but.. There was something about it that meeting that made it, dare he say, desirable. If it were a bit higher in pitch, in any case.

Beside him, he could feel Jean twitch to attention, and the man's fingers were soon on his shoulder. It wouldn't have been as terrifying if his counterpart's touch was iron; as it was, his hand was almost gentle. Francis shuddered. "What is it, mon cher?" he whispered, gazing into Jean's face with a mildly goofy confusion."Trade seats." Francis' eyebrows neared his hairline, but he supposed it wasn't too odd of a request. Most of the nations from both worlds knew about the other Britain's fixation on Jean, and he knew that Oliver did succeed in capturing a seat beside his sweetheart the time around. For some reason he didn't comprehend, the thought annoyed him. "Of course."

When Jean was properly settled between Francis and Arthur, the Brit had already finished his presentation. He seemed confused when he noted that the two Frenchman had switched places but said nothing about it. Oliver gawked at his new neighbor; was this how Jean expressed his romantic interests? Keeping as far as possible? In that case, the potion was really unneeded! Just the thought sent butterflies to Oliver's stomach, and he made small keening noises. They startled Francis, who turnt to his neighbor and felt the bottom of his stomach drop out from under him.

When did the Brit become so breathtakingly beautiful? When did his eyes suddenly twinkle appealingly rather than in a simply cute manner? When did Oliver's giggles seem to soar from between his lips than erupt, and when did Francis find himself starving to hear even more of them? These feelings and a thousand unexplainable more overwhelmed the blond, something that hadn't occurred so abruptly since his teenage years.

Francis , ever the romantic, wondered in a bizarre trance of mind if this was the infamous love-at-first-sight. Not the gradually building love he longed for, not the brief utterly infatuated love he found himself in on occasion, not the false attraction he saw so many others in, but love that made him want to hide his face in a pillow and cry over. It was so unexpected that he was struck flustered when the recess was called and Arthur was shoving rudely at his head.

"Oi, France! You said you'd pick up on our next luncheon, and I'm holding you to it." The crabby man seemed uncomfortable as several nations looked their way and immediately turnt to spread more of that gossip rubbish about. They could all sod off in his opinion. "Well?" Arthur didn't wait for an answer before he took the blond by his ear and began to lead the way towards the exit.

He wasn't oblivious to a pair of eyes trained on his back the entire time.

||-||-X-||-||

Jean had felt it going down. Something was in his drink, but then again, Oliver nearly always laced his tea with some sort of arsenic or aphrodisiac; the Brit claimed that it was arousing when he survived any hazards or resisted a sexual stimulation. The blond waited for something to happen, but his body seemed at ease for once. This was worrying.

Never had Oliver's drugs been unable to be diagnosed the moment they reached his tongue. Casting a suspicious glare at the sashaying Brit, Jean decided that he should wait for a possible side-effect before hopping to hasty actions. "I have nothing else to say!" Thinking of the devil, it seemed that he was finally finished wasting their time. Jean skipped his turn.

The man beside him, Francis, had stood next and began to speak in one great rush that was mostly about their parking arrangements not being kept. Aggravated by the topic seeming to be purely unproductive, Jean snapped that his turn was over. The darker Frenchman looked at his doodle of two swords when his heart gave a sudden lurch, as though he were about to be ill.

"If I could have your attention, I'd like to draw thought to.." That voice. British, but not ugly and pixie-like such as Oliver's. Without hesitance, Jean commanded his counterpart to trade seats with him so he could reach the owner's words with more ease. What was this..want? This desire?

Britain looked at him queerly, earning nothing out of his carefully apathetic expression. Of course, Jean didn't lift his gaze for anything, even if it made the other have a bout of discomfort. It seemed that the man, was his name Arthur?, was glad to escape his unrelenting gaze at recess time. Not once did Jean's eyes waver from watching Arthur and Francis leave, even as a sort of ice-hot, bubbly feel went through his stomach at seeing the Brit touch his counterpart.

"Hello, Jean~" Where were they going? A restaurant? A cafe? "I was thinking.." No name was dropped.. "Do you want some lunch? I brought.." They couldn't have gotten too far yet, correct? "Maybe a picnic!" Oh, Oliver was there. The blond looked at his companion and had an idea.

"Oliver," he grunted, receiving a far too attentive response. "We are going out for lunch."