Hello! I'm entirely new to writing fan fiction, but I've enjoyed so many other works on this site that I feel obligated to give all of you something in return. This will be a multiple-chapter story, if people seem interested in it.

I try very hard to be historically accurate, but if I do miss something, please let me know!

If dialogue is italicized, that means it is spoken in a different language and translated to English for your convenience! By the way, I don't speak any language other than English. Thank you, Wikipedia and Google translator!

Enjoy the story!

England sat impatiently in his largest airport. First his vacation had been delayed, then his taxi had been delayed, and now his flight was also delayed. His mood was sour long before the cell phone in his jacket started vibrating.

Expecting sarcastically that the caller would tell him his hotel room in Venice was somehow delayed as well, England kept his eyes on the departure gate while he flipped open his phone and answered, "Hello, this is Arthur. With whom do I have the pleasure of-?"

"Yo, England, what's up!"America's voice was so loud that England briefly pulled the phone away.

He lowered the volume on his phone and replied, "Why are you-"

"Dude, you've got to come to my house! We're getting ready to reenact my revolutionary war next week, but we still don't have any Englishmen to beat up!"

That comment fired the wrong electrons in England's head, and his face twitched with belligerence and shame. "A-absolutely not! I'm at the airport right now and my plane is here, I have to go."

"But England! Without you, I'm just a farby amat-"

England shut his cell phone. "Wanker."

Hmm, maybe he should go buy a magazine. After all, his plane wouldn't be here for another forty-five minutes, at least.

China had been working very hard lately to please his boss, which made his personal time all the more valuable, even if that personal time had been delegated lately to just his hours of sleep.

He had been away on business all week, so his bed was exceptionally warm today. Nestled in his favorite pajamas- which he would sometimes wear outside of his house, like many others from around his home- he embraced sleep.

A cell phone in the kitchen, and then the home phone by his bed, blasted his dark slumber with an unwelcome light. Groaning, he pulled the home phone from its console.

Before he could even talk, the speaker on the other end shouted, "Hey China! Let's hit the movies!"

"America, I am trying to sleep, aru!"

"Please! Please, please, please! It'll be fun and- is this a home phone? Ha, get a cell phone, China!"

"I have a cell phone, aru! I have more cell phones than anyone else, aru!" China took a deep, restricted breath to compose himself. "How you can even consider such luxuries is beyond me, with all the debt that you owe-"

"Luxuries? What luxuries? You mean going to the movies? Those aren't luxuries, I need those to live!"

"Good night, aru!"

"Hey, wait, I-"

China ended the call, docked the phone in the console, and sighed. Why were Westerners so frustrating?

France awoke to find himself sprawled on the floor, alone in a bedroom that was not his. In an attempt to help himself up, he hit the bed stand and knocked off an empty bottle of wine. He was almost insulted when the bottle merely bounced on the floor instead of shattering into pieces. He had drunken wine from a plastic bottle?

The ring of a cell phone on the bed pierced his hangover. Grimacing for a moment, France ran his searching fingers along the sheets, hunting for his pants. He found a sock, a shirt, a smaller shirt, and then a pair of tight blue jeans. He pulled his pants off of the bed and removed his cell phone from a pocket. After a quick slide of his hand through his own hair, he flipped it open and answered, "Alo?"

"France, man, I haven't seen you in forever! C'mon, you and me, movies, now!"

"Ah, America," France began to look for his underwear somewhere beneath the covers. "Forgive me, mon cher, but I am not available on such short notice."

"C'mon, Frenchy, I'll come to your place! Or you can come to my place, on me!"

France paused when he heard someone-two female someones?- laughing near his room, and he grinned. "Not today, America, I am in the middle of something… Or, I am about to be!"

"What do you mean by-?"

France shut his phone and discarded it, along with the underwear he had located.

Russia sat on a couch, watching an old movie in his dark living room with a bottle of vodka glued to his hand. He was finished with his work, his sisters were occupied in Europe, and the weather was not cold enough to penetrate his apartment. This movie wasn't bad, either, even if it was in black and white. Today was a good day.

His cell phone rang in his overcoat, and Russia checked it. The caller ID revealed the culprit to be American, so Russia answered it with, "Hello, I am Russia."

"Hey, commie, you've got snow at your house, right? Well, I've got an itch to go snowboarding!"

"An itch? Where, America? Is it in your nose? If so, you will be drinking soon. Is it in your eye? If it is in your left eye, you will be sad, but if it is in your right eye, you will be happy, da?"

"Uh, no, I'm just saying that I should totally whip your ass at snowboarding! I can be there tonight!"

Russia smiled. "'Whip my ass'? That sounds unpleasant, comrade."

Something fell in the kitchen. "Big brother~!" A woman's voice haunted the house. "I'm back from the United Nations, big brother, why are we speaking in English~?"

A shiver rattled Russia's spine. "Kol kol kol kol..."

"Ha, stupid commie, I mean-"

Russia quickly closed the phone and sneaked out of the room, forgetting the television but not the vodka.

Italy skipped around the house, giggling like a school girl. When he had finally decided on what suit to wear, he was faced with the even greater challenge of deciding what gift to bring for this special, momentous occasion. Of course, when that was done, there was still the pasta to be made for breakfast.

He was just boiling the water when his disheveled brother stomped down the stairs and into the kitchen, searching for a quick bite to eat.

Italy greeted his brother. "Ve~! Good morning, Romano!"

Romano sneered. "Cosa stai facendo, Veneziano?"

"I am practicing English because I am meeting England at the airport, fratello! Big brother Francia-"

"Humph. Fratello? Francia? You sound like a prick when you speak both English and Italian at once."

"Huh? Oh, sì! Brother!" Italy beamed, and Romano rolled his eyes. "Big brother France told me that England was coming here on vacation. So I will surprise him at the airport!"

"What? That's it?" Romano scoffed Italy's notion of an important event, and muttered curses in Italian as he took out a tomato from the pantry and ate it raw.

Italy's cell phone vibrated loudly on the counter. If it were Italy's choice, he would have it ring, but Romano had insisted to keep it on vibrate so that it would not wake him up-which was a useless precaution, since Italy's voice was louder than the ring, anyway.

Italy left the stove and picked up the phone. "Pronto~!"

"Italy, you're not busy, right? Do you want to hang out?"

"Hello, America!" Italy returned to the pasta. "I'm meeting England at the airport today! But don't tell, it's a secret, ve~!"

"Well, hey, can I meet you guys there?"

Romano grabbed the phone from Italy's hands and shouted into it, "Leave my brother alone, bastard! He's not interested!"

"Oh, hey, Romano! Do you want to-"

Romano ended the call and returned the phone to a pouting Italy.

Germany typed away on his laptop outside of the Reichstag, waiting for his taxi to come. He was particularly upset today; the government meeting he had come for had ended one half hour ahead of schedule.

A whole half hour ahead of schedule!

Someone would surely be made to lose his job over this unforgivable blunder in time management.

His cell phone disrupted his work with a quick ring inside of his dress pants. Germany took the phone, opened it and answered, "Beilschmidt, guten Tag."

"Sup Germany! Let's hang out! What do you guys do for fun?"

Fun? How could America be thinking of such a thing at a time like this?

Oh, that's right, this was America, the nation with the least capacity to take things seriously. Except, maybe, for Prussia, or Italy.

What's Italy doing right now?

No, that's distracting, get back to work.

Germany wedged the cell phone awkwardly between his neck and ear so that he could continue to type. "Now is the time for work, not the time for play."

"Uh, I mean like, how about after work?"

Germany flipped through the day planner in his mind. "I have no vacations scheduled after work."

"You're uptight, man. Hey, why don't we get together as nations, then? You know, strengthen political bonds and all that jazz? You like that stuff, I think."

"Very well. I will consider your proposal and have it forwarded to my boss."

"Huh? No way, I want to hang out now! C'mon, why don't we just get a bite of disgusting German food to eat, maybe catch a movie?"

"Erm, maybe later."

"Pfft! This is the thanks I get for giving you all that money and stuff after the war?"

Germany clenched his jaw. It was, in fact, Germany who had paid America large amounts of money after the war, much more than America had paid Germany. In fact, Germany had paid a lot more than that-

"Ah, screw you! I don't need you, I've got plenty of stuff to do by myself."

Germany's brow twitched. "Very well."

"H-Hey, wait, don't-"

Germany removed the phone from his neck and closed it.

Japan blushed as his eyes deviated away from the moderately-rated fan fiction categorized under 'adventure,' 'hurt/comfort,' and 'humor,' and toward the less-moderately-rated fan fiction labeled as 'angst' and 'romance' on the computer screen. He even chanced rolling his mouse over the first link that caught his fancy and clicking it.

Thus, when his cell phone began to shake in the pocket of his jeans, Japan was nearly positive that someone was aware of Japan's indiscretion and was calling him out. Convinced that this unknown person had planted cameras in the room, Japan immediately quit out of the fan fiction tab and opened another one with a blank search engine. Flustered, he hastily opened his phone. "M-m-moshi moshi?"

"Listen, Japan! I need someone to hang out with, and you're usually a loner, so why don't we get together and watch anime?"

"America-kun?" Japan involuntarily let out a relieved sigh. "Are you here now?"

"No, but I can be there in a jiffy! I'll meet you at the airport, or even better, I'll parachute down to your house! C'mon, we can watch movies and stuff!"

Japan was reminded of the time he had watched horror movies with America. "I am deeply honored, America-kun, but I cannot, et, eto, have you come on such short notice. My house is not prepared for guests."

"Then come to my place, I'll pay for everything! Please, it'll be fun!"

Japan thought he heard a note of uncharacteristic desperation in America's voice. "Eto…"

"Well, what are you doing at your house right now?"

The otaku's cheeks tinged pink again, and he was glad that he was alone in the room. "Reading."

"Oh, that's boring! See, you're not doing anything. So, will you come over?"

"…Yes, America-kun… next week."

"Yay! Yay- Oh, next week? Well, all right, I'll get you a ticket and everything."

Japan heard America's sudden happiness fall with sudden disappointment as he spoke, and wondered if something was wrong with the world's greatest power. "Arigato."

"See ya soon, ha ha-"

The cell phone disconnected. Japan wondered if his service had failed or if America had hung up, but since America did not call back, Japan assumed the latter.

England covered his yawn with one hand while he stretched out in a first class window seat of the airplane. He wanted to look out the window, but the lights in the plane were dimmed so that the passengers could sleep. He, however, could not sleep anymore, so there was nothing to do except listen to music.

Thankfully, he knew he wouldn't pass much more time in the boredom of insomnia. Venice was only two and half hours away from Great Britain by plane. Well, it was actually flight to Milan, but that was close enough. He would take a train to Venice.

That's not to say the trip wasn't satisfactory so far. Granted, there had been problems when the plane landed and eventually the man at the gate had to direct England to board a different plane at a different gate. But the man had been nice about it, and even upgraded England to first class.

Even so, it felt like the longest two and a half hours of his life. How long has it been so far?

Feeling silly for his impatience, but curious anyway, England quickly turned on the screen built into the seat in front of him to check the time.

Four hours and fifteen minutes had elapsed since he had first boarded the plane.

"Ah, bloody hell!" He turned off the screen, unbuckled himself from his seat and went down the aisle. He asked the first stewardess he encountered, "Ma'am, where's this plane going?"

She smiled knowingly. "We're landing in JFK, sir. Is there a problem?"

England's eyes popped and he grabbed his hair to suppress his frustration. The stewardess laughed.

China was rudely roused from sleep a second time. Someone was banging at the door. Was it the police? No, the knock sounded polite. Maybe someone needed to use his ladder, or something.

All China did was comb his hair down before rushing down the stairs in his pajamas. He opened the door to meet a Western woman dressed in a navy blue uniform, with a helicopter at rest waiting behind her.

"Hello," she began in English, "We need you to come with us, Mr. Wang Yao. Don't worry about your dress; we have attire prepared for you."

"What now, aru?"

"The American government believes a financial crisis is imminent, and has requested to talk in secret with a diplomat of your country in order to prevent the problem."

China groaned at this inconvenience from America. That incompetent America, that lousy, lazy America. That America who depended on China to keep the world economy alive.

And vice versa.

China now figured that America must have called him earlier in order to talk about this, but had avoided addressing it directly. After all, China had hung up on him. Maybe he should've let America finish talking. In any event, it was China's duty to handle matters like this. "Fine."

The woman in the uniform nodded stoically and immediately escorted China to the helicopter.

A drowsy China rubbed his right eye as he boarded the helicopter.

France perked his eyebrows up when he noticed, through the kitchen window, that a peculiar stretch limousine of the black variety was parked outside of the residence.

A seemingly-distinguished American gentleman exited the vehicle and came walking up to the door.

France used those valuable seconds before the unexpected guest arrived to put away the wine, set his hair right, clean himself up, and more importantly, put on a pair of pants.

The door bell rang, and France calmly opened the door.

"Hello, sir, sorry to bother you at night. Are you Mr. Francis Bonnefoy?"

How typical of Americans to speak English and make no attempt at French. This always bothered France just a little, but then again, it was just another chance for him to boast his own mastery of a foreign language. Lifting his chin up and flaring his eyes, France replied, "Do not speak so loudly, love, or you will wake up the house."

"Yes, well then, Mr. Bonnefoy, my boss in the United States is a prominent businessman who wants to establish his business here in France. However, he has been unable to do so. He needs your pull in the French government. We're asking you to come to America so that we might arrange a business deal."

France wasn't surprised. He wasn't much of a businessman, but he knew that getting permission to run a business in his country was slightly less difficult and impossible than beating Ireland in a drinking contest. Even so, France was not interested in business. "I gracefully decline your offer."

"Are you sure? My boss is holding a large party in a day and there will be several important American gentlemen and ladies-"

France was interested now. "Like the Christmas parties there every year?"

"Um, yes, like that. The French government is-"

France thought about the American women he had picked up last time he had attended one of America's parties. "I would be delighted to come."

Russia was intercepted by the Americans in a slightly different way.

A helicopter landed in front of Russia's place. The two men not in the cockpit of the aircraft waited in the seats that were affixed on one side of the helicopter.

Each man was in uniform, and both were fully qualified for their jobs as small-time politicians. However, neither was comfortable with the task of bringing a scary Russian to the United States for no adequately-explained reason.

"It's your turn, go get him."

"No, when did we establish a turn system? You speak better Russian, so you should go get him."

"But I've heard he's a bit intimidating in person. What's this all for, anyway? Are we running a drill? This isn't even a military aircraft. "

"Well, duh, we're not military! Learn the difference. Anyway, this is probably a drill, since the pilots aren't taking this very seriously, either. I don't know why we need the Russians to participate in our drill, though. Now, you go get him and I'll wait here."

"Eh, we should go together. I'm sure he's a nice guy."

"I should hope so, da?" A new voice popped in.

The two men stopped. Sitting across from them in the plane was Russia, smiling with his bottle of vodka.

It was all the Americans could do not to shiver under Russia's strange and unexpected gaze. One of them chanced, "M-Mr. I-Ivan Bragins-ski?"

"Da."

"Um," he gulped, "We were going to… W-we're practicing a m-military o-operation-"

"Da, da. We go now." Russia blissfully drank his vodka, seemingly unaware of the fear emanating from the American envoys.

Italy was very worried. In fact, he was just about bawling into his cell phone all over the airport. England hadn't disembarked with the rest of the passengers from the plane, and that was two hours ago!

"Romano, what should I do? He's still not here and I told the people at the desk and they told me that everyone was off the plane and what if England is in a different airport and what if he never got on the plane and how can I give him my gift now and did I leave any pasta on the stove and what if big brother France was wrong about this and what if he lied to me and where is England!"

"Oi, come home!" Romano kept answering, though half-heartedly. He had failed to convince Italy to calm down for the past two hours and now Romano was hardly listening to his brother, choosing instead to watch television while holding the phone loosely to his ear. "Forget the bastard and come home already!"

"Excuse me, are you waiting for someone?" A new attendant came up to Italy. She was noticeably different from the other staff, if only for the fact that she was American.

"Ve~!" Italy jumped with joy that somebody was finally paying attention to him. He closed the phone, disconnecting Romano. "Hello! My friend is hiding in the gate somewhere! Can you go get him?"

"Do you mean Arthur Kirkland, sir?" She asked with a comforting smile. "He changed his destination. He is now flying to America. But he left a message with us saying that someone would be waiting for him here. Are you Feliciano Vargas, then?"

"Sì! Sì!" Italy gave the woman a quick hug. England shouldn't have known that Italy was waiting here, but Italy was too relieved to notice this discrepancy.

"Um, good. He wanted you to come meet him in the States. He even paid fare for you, and don't worry about packing. He said he packed enough to last for both of you." She handed Italy a ticket. "Now, let me walk you to your gate, sir."

Italy nodded ecstatically. "Ve~!"

Germany lay on his back, bench pressing the weight to the level of his chest, exhaling deeply as he did so.

"Yeah, you can do it, West!" Prussia encouraged, almost sarcastically. As was typical, he was given the job of spotting Germany, making sure that his beloved brother was safe during his training. Of course, what Prussia was actually doing was fooling around on Germany's laptop. The world's most awesome nation wasn't even looking at Germany. "Just a few more pushes!"

Just as Prussia's job was to spot Germany, Germany's job was to ignore Prussia's not-quite-encouraging comments. Inhaling sharply, he pushed the massive weight upward until his elbows were fully straight and locked, groaning a little as he did so.

Prussia smirked. "Hey, you've got mail. Can I read it?"

Germany brought down the weight again and let out his breath. "Nein." He wanted to continue his exercise, but he needed to check the email. Reluctantly, he brought the weight up once more again in order to rest it on the bench, and then sat up. He promptly yanked the laptop from his brother.

Popping up the web browser, Germany clicked the new mail, sent to him from one Alfred Jones, titled, 'Read this or something bad might happen!'

"What does it say?" Prussia asked casually, as if he did not care, as if he already knew, which he didn't.

Germany read it first to himself before reading it aloud. Not for the sake of his brother, but for the sake of the incredulity of the message. "Es sagt, 'come to my house right now. I just invented this kick-ass new car engine. I need you to build it for me. I made plenty of wurst, too."

Prussia snickered. America's words sounded funny in Germany's serious tone and heavy accent. "Well, if America needs some German awesomeness, you should go, right? Although, I am much more awesome. I guess he doesn't have my email address." Bored, or feigning boredom, Prussia idly picked up a dumbbell and started lifting it.

Germany was a little more dubious. Hadn't America called him earlier, asking that Germany come over? There had been no mentions of a car, and unless it had been invented entirely within the last few hours, America was making this up.

Unlike every other country before him, Germany came to the correct conclusion that America was lying and was simply trying to invite a friend over to play some stupid game or watch some stupid movie.

Then, another email appeared in his inbox. It was titled, 'Re: Read this or…!'

Germany grumbled and opened it. This, too, he felt compelled to read aloud, as a tense murmur:

"'By the way, I've captured Italy. Ha. Ha. Semi-colon, close parenthesis.'"

Prussia stopped lifting his dumbbell. "Eh?"

Rubbing his forehead, Germany took out his cell phone from his pocket and clicked the third speed dial. The first speed dial was an emergency number, and the second was his boss.

The Italian did not answer the call, and a voicemail played instead.

Germany shut his phone and slammed the laptop closed, marching out of the exercise room rigidly with his gadgets under his arm, once again fulfilling his ritualistic duty of ignoring Prussia. "Verdammt, America!"

Japan should not have stayed up so late reading fan fiction online. And he still refused to sleep any later than was normal for him, convinced that sleeping late would disturb his sleep schedule. Therefore, when he heard the cell phone on the charger ring in the other room just as he was rising from bed, Japan was slow to answer it.

When he finally made it the phone, the ringing had stopped. He opened it and listened to the message that had been left for him.

Beep. "Hey, Japan! America here! So, when I called last night, you said you'd visit me next week! Don't take it back, you totally said that! Well, it was Saturday last night, and today's Sunday, so I got you a ticket to come to my house today! It's attached to an email I sent you, so just download it and print it out and you'll be here in no time! I'll see you at the airport!" The phone beeped again.

America wants him to come? Today?

Japan stood there, face melting in bewilderment, seemingly betrayed by his own words.

England stared at the crazy young nation as America opened the emergency exit on board the plane. Well over half a day after this whole ordeal had begun, England was now fully aware that America was deceiving him in more ways than one.

First, England had arrived in New York, and who else could be waiting for him at the airport than his (former?) little brother, America. In his classic leather jacket with the large number fifty printed on back, with one strand of hair sticking eternally upwards, and a large sign in his hands that read 'Hi Arthur! Sorry About The Ruse,' America stood just outside the gate, laughing, his blue eyes beaming behind his glasses.

Second, England proceeded to throttle America, yelling a spectacular array of curses about his ruined vacation and wasted day, and how dare America manipulate England's own airport like that?

Third, America claimed that it was only fair because England had lied about when his plane to Venice was leaving, making England blush and fume a little more.

Ultimately, America convinced England to spend vacation time here in the United States, out of both convenience and guilt. But no, America's plans wouldn't in New York, of course not. England was forced to take another excruciatingly long plane ride to some other secret destination. And this time, they used a private jet.

And now, after several, several more wasted hours in which the only adequate distractions were reading a spare magazine that America provided, which was not quite up to England's taste, or being defeated time and time again by America in a handheld Japanese racing game, America pushed a parachute pack into England and opened the emergency exit in the jet.

The sudden rush of air made it impossible for England to curse loud enough to be heard. America grinned, snapped on a pair of goggles from the parachute pack and jumped off.

England looked out before jumping. There was nothing but water in the world outside of the helicopter, except for a very small island below. England was, as he would say, 'narked' beyond compare, but he was effectively trapped in a corner.

He followed the American.

China was brought to the island in the same way. Except, he was still under the impression that America was experiencing a financial crisis in need of Chinese intervention. Therefore, when the flight attendant handed him goggles and a parachute and directed him to the emergency exit, his temper exploded and he shouted furiously at the lady.

Actually, he was not alone on the jet. Japan was already on the small plane when China arrived. China asked if Japan was also here for the American crisis, to which Japan only stuttered and avoid answering directly. This made for a very uncomfortable and confusing journey.

Japan and China had been getting along fairly well nowadays. Plus, the fact that they were both in formal attire as opposed to military uniforms lightened the mood a little. However, they were joined more right now by the complicity of confusion than by the bonds of brotherhood. They played some Go and Chinese chess to pass the time.

The pilots were obviously busy, but the single American flight attendant asked if they wanted to play Chinese checkers with her, and they accepted.

"Did you know, that game is not actually Chinese, aru? Actually, my friend Jap-H-Honda here introduced me to it. The Japanese had the game before we did."

"Eto, we didn't invent the game, though. Germany had it first. Et, eto, the people in Germany."

Despite this kind of occasional uncomfortable conversation, they were all having a rather tolerable time. Therefore, when the lady suddenly opened the emergency door, asking with hand gestures that they jump out, China was not particularly angry with the lady but with the whole subterfuge that America had played. By the way everyone else on the plane was acting, including Japan, China had realized that there was no crisis. China still yelled at the lady, though, his curses lost to the wind.

The flight attendant only smiled and slightly pushed China to encourage him to jump off into the endless sea of water below. China felt his stomach scrunch into a knot.

Japan, on the other hand, was doing well to hide his inner surprise and mortification. In a way that kind of reminded China of the kamikaze planes, Japan jumped first off into the air.

Not to be bested by Japan, China leapt after him.

France realized too late why the car ride was taking so long. When the American representative with him in the limousine finally asked the chauffeur to stop, France looked outside into the dark night and saw a sign underneath a street light:

'Willkommen in Deutschland."

To France, this was a strange omen that was more baffling than it was frightening. "Germany?"

"Yes, we needed a German diplomat also. It's cheaper to fly you two together to America on one jet. I hope you don't mind?"

France only now began to wonder about the identity of the unknown American businessman. Across the road, a taxi had parked and was already waiting for them. France made a wager within himself. If the German diplomat was a normal German citizen, then France would not be concerned. If his suspicions were true and big muscle-bound Germany stepped out of that taxi, then this was all a trick played by America. If it was Prussia, then this was all a trick by either Prussia or Spain.

France started playing with his blond hair, flicking it back. "Of course not, love."

"Great. This is where I leave. The chauffeur will drive you to the plane." The American spoke rather quickly and left France alone in the limousine with the silent driver.

That was not great news.

France watched the American go over to the cream-colored taxi and open the door for the passenger.

Out stepped the dark figure of Germany, his large build constricted partially by his business suit. France shivered just a tiny bit. Indeed, this was all a ploy. Had Germany been tricked, too?

While Germany talked brusquely with the American, France focused on himself. He and Germany had very good relations, politically, and worked well together in business. That didn't change the fact that they were two very different personifcations of countries.

As a matter of fact, deep down, they were each scared shitless by the other. When they shared company, France's hedonism and perversity kept Germany at constant vigilance, always wary of any temptation that the persistent Frenchman might thurst without warning upon the German. Meanwhile, Germany's both obvious and obscure power as a country frightened France, and the competitive German work ethic threatened to force France to be as hard of a worker as Germany. One afraid of love and the other afraid of work, Germany and France held strong alliances but no tangible friendship to speak of.

The limousine door slid open, and the light inside of the car illuminated Germany's surprised and tired face as he noticed France lounging on the other side, a laptop in one of his large hands. "France?-is? Francis?"

Germany had not noticed the limousine driver initially, and had employed France's country name at first. Of course, Germany corrected himself, but to do so he had to use France's first name, instead of his last name. The use of the first name suggests a personal relationship, at least according to German customs.

This unfortunate slip of the tongue was only the beginning of the pink in Germany's cheeks and of his embarassment to come.

"Ah, L-Ludwig! What a pleasant surprise!" France twitched out a grin. "Uh, would you care for some wine?"

"Ja." Germany answered impulsively, and he instantly regretted that, too. Still, wine might help him last through this tribulation without popping a vein.

Of course, Germany was not ignorant enough to ask for beer. In France's country, beer was considered expensive and more of a luxury, while wine was cheaper and consumed with possibly every meal, or so Germany had discerned.

France stood to pour a glass of wine from the mini-bar. Already embarrassed, but still retaining his characteristic strength and composure, Germany sat down. He was polite enough to sit and wait by the mini-bar, as opposed to sitting down by the door, which is where he wanted to be. He also made the admirable effort to start conversation. "America is forcing you to visit him, too?"

France prepared two glasses of red wine, even as the limousine chauffeur resumed driving. He gave the first to Germany, who drank it gratefully. "Eh, n-no, he just lied to me about it. What do you mean by 'forcing'?"

The emphasis on that word choice almost made Germany choke on his wine. Well, actually, he did choke on it, but he swallowed it down anyway and fought back the coughing. He straightened his suit and pulled on his tie, keeping his voice and demeanor as formal as possible. "I only mean that he is threatening me."

"Well, there is n-nothing else we can do now but relax, non?"

This was conversation was nothing for France but was already too much for Germany. "I, uh, still have work to do." As sort of a nervous tremble, Germany briskly opened his laptop and set himself to work. Germany considered it fair enough that he did not kick France in the gut and convince the lazy man to do work of his own. France was far too self-indulgent, in Germany's mind.

France considered it fair enough that he did not take the laptop from Germany and load porn on it for them to watch. Germany was not self-indulgent enough, in France's mind.

And this was approximately how they passed several more hours together before they, too, awkwardly received the parachutes on board a private jet and were subsequently pushed off into an endless body of water.

Italy did not have to jump out of his plane. Or, rather, like England, he did not have to jump out of the first one.

The commercial flight he had been pushed on to did not bring him to JFK. Instead, Italy found himself in a Russian airport. Another American attendent found the confused nation crying again near the gate. She quickly and easily comforted him and escorted him to another, more private part of the airport.

"You will be boarding another, smaller plane, now, which will take you to America. Do you understand, Mr. Vargas?"

Happy to be guided, Italy nodded, "Yes, ma'am!"

The British way that Italy said "ma'am" confused the American woman, and made her wonder just how aware Italy was of his surroundings.

Nonetheless, they both left the airport building to the tarmac, where she directed him to a small jet waiting for takeoff nearby. With nothing else but the clothes on his back and the gift for England in his arms, Italy skipped up the mobile stairs into the plane, where a male flight attendent shyly guided him in. Despite the small size of the aircraft, it was obvious that this plane was not private because the seats were arranged as on a commercial flight. However, there was only one other passenger.

"Hello, comrade Feliciano. You come to see America also?"

Italy stopped and waved vigorously to Russia, who sat in one of the front rows, in the aisle seat. Relations between these two nations had been strong since the war. For one thing, both of them were keen on art, and it was not uncommon for Russians to study art in Italy or even to take vacations there. Italy was also the Western nation who had taken the most to Communism. "Ivan, hi~!"

"You appear ruffled and unprepared, comrade. But I know that looks are not everything. We do not drink water with our face, da?"

"Uh, sì!" This was another reason why Italy and Russia got along well. Italy's comprehension of his surroundings was so low that Russia's strange proverbs and superstitutions were no more confusing to him than the mannerisms of any other country, like why China frequently carried pandas around or why Romano often wandered off to Spain's house.

Italy's superficial level of thinking also kept him from noticing the dark, subtle shadows on Russia's face. Initially, Italy had been terrified of the tall country, but eventually learned to think of Russia as a nice guy, and someone can't be both nice and scary all of the time, right?

The plane was already preparing itself for takeoff, which, for some reason, meant that Italy had to take a seat. The brave and ignorant Italian sat next to Russia. Of course, when Italy came near, Russia sat up and moved over one seat to occupy the window seat, almost mechanically. Italy took the now-open seat and held on to the gift. "Ve~! You took the good seat!"

"It is bad luck to step over someone to get to a seat." Russia smiled, a shadow cloaking his face just a little. "I keep you from back luck, da?"

"Oh, thank you~!" Italy wondered momentarily just how dangerous Russian proverbs are.

"May I ask what do you have in the box?"

"Umm…" Italy looked down at the wrapped package. "It is, um, it's, a gift for you!"

Russia's face lit up somewhat and the shadow disappeared. "Da?"

Well, it was actually a gift for England. But this gift could be shared with other people, so it was really a gift for Russia, too. With the guilt fairy dusted off of his shoulder, Italy joyfully handed the box to Russia.

Russia contemplated whether it was safe or not to accept a present while sitting down. Deciding that it was safe, he still made sure to take the box with his left hand only, and then open it with both hands.

It was a wooden music box. Italy had made it for England, so the instructions written on the bottom were in English. Russia, however, didn't even see them, nor did he open the box.

"Thank you, comrade. I must wash off this new gift!"

Italy titled his head, more confused than usual. "…Is it dirty?"

Russia brandished his bottle of vodka, as well as second one for Italy. "This will ward off bad luck, da?"

"We need to wash it with vodka, ve~?"

"Da." Russia should have explained that in his country, gifts are "washed off" by drinking vodka. Italy managed to figure this out only when Russia drank all of his vodka in a few swigs.

The good feelings hanging in the airplane lasted for a long time. Leave it to Italy to throw them all out of the airplane as soon as the flight attendent gave them two suspicious orange backpacks and pointed to the emergency exit.

Thanks for reading! Review if you want.