I suggest reading this 3/4 or 1/2 because the paragraphs are pretty chunky.

This is my first fanfic, so I can't promise it'll be great. I'm not to big on the name, so I'll probably change that at some point if I can. Also, the first chapter might be a bit confusing, so I plan on adding a prologue at some point, but I just wanted to get this online for now :3

Both human and country names are used.

It's rated T for now, but if I can muster up the courage to publish it, there will be smut later on. I've only planned out the story up to a certain point, so who knows, it might just be a very steamy T :P

Also, I apologize for any grammar mistakes - it's not my forte :/

(Sorry for the fail summary as well...)

Reviews would be appreciated :)

Anyway...hope you enjoy :)

Please check out the poll on my profile.

France had been sitting there, his chin resting in his palm, twirling a pen in his free hand for what must have been an hour now, watching the other countries in the room. As England was the host for this particular World Conference, he was obligated to introduce everything, give an outline of what was to go down at the meeting, and organise anything else that was required, all in his posh, stupid, boring accent. Sometimes, he was actually amazed at Englands ability to remain completely monotone when giving his presentations. He had been doing it for over 100 years and yet there wasn't a single change in the way he stood, the way he never met anyones eyes, and the way he enunciated every stupid syllable. Even during the World Wars, or when his favourite queen had died, or even during the Plague the stupid Brit didn't lose face, and it pissed France off to no end.

So, when the meeting had started, it was obvious something was wrong with his stuck-up enemy. The moment France noticed that England was about a hundred times more tense than usual, that he kept making mistakes and that he refused to make eye contact with a single member at the World Conference, he knew it must be serious. But not once did England bring up anything that could be considered worrying enough to have him acting like this. It was all 'trading' and 'relations', but more than once he kept losing himself in his thoughts and ended up blushing every time he was called back to reality.

It was amazing. The only time he had ever seen England that shaken up was when France had helped America win his independence, but that was a different matter. It was common knowledge that, apart from the usual troubles that tended to plague most of the countries at the World Conference, England was doing fairly well for himself.

So, France couldn't help the fact that his eyes kept straying back to the Brit as he wrung his hands and shuffled from one foot to the other in front of the screen, a light grin playing across his lips as he tried to imagine what possible hell could have his dear Angleterre acting like this.

As soon as the first half of the meeting was over, England shot out the conference room like a frightened cat and rushed towards the back room he had reserved for himself, slamming the door behind him. The room was so small that it only took three paces for him to reach the other side, grab his bag from the table against the wall and tear it open. As soon as he grabbed his phone, an old model that could only make calls, text and play snake, his eyes sunk as he saw he had thirteen missed calls and over one hundred text messages.

He knew it had been a bad idea to allow his brother to go drinking with Mexico without supervision...

He growled as went to check his texts, realising instantly that every single one of them was an update from Scotland, each one growing less snide and more vague as his brother grew drunker. He groaned, sitting down in the only chair in the room and running a hand through his hair as he deleted them all, beginning to expect the worse as he checked his missed calls, all of them from a club that his siblings liked to frequent.

The owner of the club knew Arthur and his brothers well; his brothers, because they were always causing havoc, and Arthur because he was always the one who had to go and pick them up.

If he rang his brother now, hopefully he could somehow convince him to get a taxi home, or even just get to the nearest hotel and wait for Arthur to come and collect him. Though, knowing how Allistor got whenever he drank, it would be a hard push to get the stubborn bastard to do anything, especially since the last time they spoke it had been to scream at each other about England placing restrictions on his brothers movements during the week of the World Conference. That, along with the fact that Scotland usually always got his way due to his refusal to give in (the fact that he was out with Mexico right now just proved that) and his love of opposing every little thing England tried to do would mean he would probably have to promise him something horrendous which he would most definitely come to regret further down the line.

He jumped in fright as he was yanked from his thoughts by his phone vibrating, signaling another incoming call from the club. He sighed as he lifted his phone to his ear and answered.

"Fred?"

"Arthur." The club owner replied curtly, barely audible over the sound of the pounding music that was creating a buzz on Arthurs end of the line.

"What has he done this time?" He sighed. There was a pregnant pause, long enough for Arthur to recognise the song playing in the background. "Well?"

"Just be glad I have yet to get the police involved"

"What the fuck!?" France froze as he heard that thick accent shout, a grin forming as he knew exactly who it was. "Are you fucking kidding me?" It really had been a good idea to stalk the Brit.

He looked around, trying to locate which one of the many doors in the long, bland corridor his voice was echoing from. He didn't have to wait long before he heard another shout.

"It's fucking 9pm. There is no bloody way he is – No!" He shouted into his mobile. "Don't tell me to fucking calm down!" This was perfect, France mused as he imagined his neighbor scowling, those massive brows coming together like some monster caterpillar. He tried not to chuckle at the thought.

There was another pause, but no other voice came, so France concluded England must have sneaked a phone into the conference. He began to grin again. Whatever had the Brit on edge was serious enough for him to break the rules (no matter how stupid those rules were. France had scoffed when they had first come up with it. No mobiles? Did the conference organisers really think each country wasn't going to report what happened during the meetings to their leaders after it ended?)

"That is not my problem." He heard England growl. It had been while since he had seen England angry enough to drop his stupid posh accent.

There was a pause and France grinned in fascination as he heard England stutter over the phone in a way he only did when he was shocked and trying to hide it."A-Are you sure?"

As soon as he heard the creak of what he assumed to be a chair and sound of England moving, France had to get away from the door fast, but he wasn't quick enough.

He was only a few yards away from the door when it clicked open, England muttering "For fucks sake." while slipping on his jacket. If England didn't annoy him so much, he might have actually cared about the deep-set worry and stress that was obvious in Englands eyes.

He froze as he saw France, who had already corrected himself from his fleeing stance to make appear as if he had coincidentally just happened to be walking down the corridor at the same moment England opened the door. "What do you want?" England asked gruffly, straightening his jacket.

France acted offended. "Can't a man walk down a corridor anymore without being harassed?"

"Not when he's French." England growled back, still managing to be as annoying as he always was despite whatever was wrong. France smirked, trying to work out a way to broach the topic of whatever had caused that earlier reaction from the Brit.

They stared each other down, France enjoying the height difference as he always did whenever they crossed swords over the tiniest of things.

"What's wrong, rosbif?" France asked with real concern in his voice, startling England. Though it was rare for him to do so, usually when France asked, his voice always held mocking, and he only asked to find yet another opportunity to irritate England.

He opened his mouth to reply, but then caught himself. No way could France know about Scotland, not after all the shit they had been through. If France managed to recall the memories that Scotland had forced England to suppress about Scotland and France's time together, he would never be forgiven. Even though, despite popular belief, the brothers didn't hate each other, England was almost sure Scotland would somehow kill him if France remembered the hell they had all experienced.

"Nothing! And don't call me rosbif!" He growled, needing something to fill yet another silence.

"Oh, so there is something?" The mocking was back. France could never just be caring for more than 5 seconds. England should have learnt that by now.

"If something's causing you trouble, why don't you just run off and I can stay here and do your thing?"

"I'm hosting, you eejit. I can't just leave" There was no way in hell he would ever let France take over, especially when they were in London. He would never live down the embarrassment of having people know he had to ask to France for help.

A massive smirk spread across Frances face as he tried not to laugh. "Did you just call me an 'eejit'?" The question earned him a withering glare from England.

"Shut up." He said hoarsely, causing France's smirk to drop.

There was another pause. It was irritating how these long pauses had begun to fill the conversation between them ever since the Gulf War, when he 'accidently' ended up in France's bed again after one too many scotches.

"I would help you..." France pretended to consider. There was no way he was going to pass up the chance to meet whoever had sent England into such a state. "But what's in it for me?"

He tried to hide his grin as he watched the little Brit. He was obviously flitting through ideas in his head, but what he could have been imagining was beyond France. His face swapped between disgust, blushing anger and pale horror. It was almost beautiful, but also insulting. Did he really think he was that bad a person as to demand whatever foul things England was imagining?

Englands phone suddenly vibrated, cutting off France's fun as he lifted it to his ear without a second thought, answering it right away. "Arthur." Freds voice came through the other end. "Come now. I'm barely keeping a lid on them both. I can't let this get any more out of control." Engand's eyes darkened as he looked to France, realising what he needed to do.

"Send him to Drench. Someone will be there in 30." He hung up quickly and put the phone in his pocket, mentally steeling himself into somehow convincing France to go collect a man he didn't know he hated in the middle of a World Conference without losing an arm and a leg.

"Look." He growled out. "I'll just owe you one, okay?"

"Hm." France pursed his lips. Many years ago, when he was still an Empire, that might have meant something, but the England now was just...

But, it would give France a chance to meet whoever had the ability to send England into such a state, and that was a hard offer to pass up. Just thinking of all the future torture he could put the Brit through from a simple act of kindness, that he was also benefiting from, was enough to get him to agree. "Alright."

Gritting his teeth, England explained the problem, watching intently for any spark or recognition as he mentioned Allistors name, deliberately leaving out the fact he was both a country and his brother. For all France knew, England only had three other siblings. He only hoped that one meeting with the man France swore as his eternal enemy wouldn't bring back all that hate that Scotland had begged him to hide centuries ago.