A/N: Aah…I'm honestly just posting this so I don't have an empty page; I don't like having empty galleries and such online. As this is the only complete, half-decent fanfiction I've written to date, I chose this one. I can't really say I'm proud of it; I've edited it a few times and like it much better now than I did originally, though. I don't mind if you review or not, but if you read this, I hope I can at least entertain you for a while~
Also, this is not meant to be a commentary on any part of the belief that the apocalypse will occur in 2012, except that it was, at one point, a big deal.

Genre: Humor
Characters: America, Canada, G8
Pairings: None. If you squint, there's implied onesided USUK played for laughs.
Rating: T, because England has a filthy right proper British mouth.
Wordcount: 2560

2006: Washington, D.C., United States

It was a sweltering morning late in July, and the lone wall clock (rather unconvincingly) insisted it was already 9:30 AM.

Seven confused but decidedly unsurprised diplomats were camped out in one particular nondescript conference room in the heart of the American capital, waiting for their meeting to begin. They had been waiting for the eighth of their number―and the person who had insisted on this ridiculous meeting just after the G8 summit on the other side of the world―for an hour already, and all professionalism had been unceremoniously discarded.

For example, carefree Italy had shown up to the meeting wearing an Italian football shirt instead of a dress shirt in honor of the recent World Cup, and was now sound asleep on the table, mumbling things about pasta. Russia was similarly asleep from jetlag—though no one was particularly eager to wake him up—and England had convinced (or was it coerced?) the staff to serve him his afternoon tea. Meanwhile, France had been dialing the same number on his cell phone for the past twenty minutes, while Canada endeavored to no avail to explain how telephone numbers worked in the United States. Believing himself the last sane member of the group, Germany sat at the table poring over some papers; soft-spoken Japan was carefully reading what looked like a manga behind an American newspaper next to him, his own papers long since meticulously organized.

"Mon dieu, I give up!" France exclaimed suddenly, dropping his phone on the table. "It's been an hour and America won't answer his phone. He still never told us why we need to be here; it can't be that important, so I say we just leave..."

"Y-you have to dial a 1 here first―," Canada started, but he was quickly cut off by Germany, who ignored him. "We can't just leave before a conference even starts, France. You know America; it'd turn into an international crisis. We'll just have to wait for him."

"Oh, America's a walking international crisis himself," grumbled England snidely from behind his teacup. "Sodding bastard; he never listened to me about punctuality."

Carefully, Japan looked up from his newspaper; it certainly wasn't a comic, and cleared his throat. "I, um...I think we should try to be patient," he interjected; "Mr. America is still such a young country, after all...I―I mean, it really is very unprofessional of him, of course..."

Italy's head popped up off the table. "Who's unprofessional?" he asked curiously, still half-asleep. "...Mmm, rigatoni...pizza, too; grazie~..."

"America is late for the meeting," Germany informed him quickly. "You...can go back to your, er, siesta; he probably won't be here for a while."

Scratching his head, Italy glanced around the room. "Huh? America's late? …Ve, but look, he's right there~!" he announced, and pointed across the table.

"I'm not America!" Canada wailed.

The rest of the room took a moment to register his existence, and then: "...Canada? Mon ami, how long have you been here? Show me how these ridiculous American phones work!"

"You're supposed to dial a 1 first here, gitface; even I could have told you that! Give me that; you've been dialing America's old phone number; he changed it last week..."

"Last week? It worked at the G8 meeting—…oh là là, stalking him, are you? You know, you and your obsessions, you're très mignons~"

"Wha-? Hey, you were asking me; come on, guys, I'm still here..."

"...What obsession? Don't say things like that! He won't stop texting me at one in the morning; don't assume things, you...bloody wanker!"

"Hey, Germany~ I'm kinda hungry; you think there's any pasta around here~?"

"Aww, that's cute; tea-sucking little bastard England's getting defensive~"

"YOU BLEEDING TWIT! DON'T YOU DARE CALL ME THAT!"

"Please, everyone, I think we all need to calm down―"

As usual, the conference room was plunged into chaos within a matter of—seconds; it couldn't have even been minutes. Germany was crossly attempting to restrain Italy from leaving, Japan was trying his best to calm everyone down without offending anyone, and Canada had managed to trip and fall into Russia, waking him up, and was now hiding under one of the chairs, grateful for once that he was virtually invisible.

England and France were arguing again; France had just had a cup of hot tea splashed on his jacket and had just smacked England's face off one of the chairs in an attempt to throttle him when suddenly, the door flew open and a disheveled young man made his way into the room.

"S-sorry I'm late, guys," he started apologetically, panting and swiping one arm across his brow. "I, uh...kinda got held up. But I'm here now; no need to worry! We can start the meeting; c'mon!" He straightened his tie and ruffled his hair, which was even messier than usual, and moved to take his seat at the table―the head of the table, of course. With him he carried a hardcover book with a bent spine, a thick calendar, and a half-eaten McDonald's Big Mac burger (which he identified by name and then explained as "...Er, breakfast," when he realized anyone was staring).

When no one said anything to him, he blinked bemusedly and scanned the room, taking in the details. There was Germany, straightening his rumpled papers angrily; Italy, face flat on the table, clutching at a nasty-looking bump on his head; Japan, looking the newcomer in the face and seeming absolutely relieved; Russia, glaring daggers at no one in particular; one of the chairs, trembling; France, angry, and with a large stain on the front of his clothes; and―

"...You're bleeding," America observed, settling on what seemed to be the most pressing and potentially dangerous detail, as England shoved France aside and huffily sat back down in his chair.

"Oh, sod off," England retorted grumpily, and he produced a handkerchief from his pocket and held it to his forehead. "You're late. Explain."

For a second America was silent, slowly trying to make sense of the situation before shrugging, discarding that thought, and charging forward with what promised to be every iota of his typical boundless energy. He dropped the book and calendar onto the conference table and started, "I, er, lost track of time, reading, y'know. But you guys've gotta see this; it's really―"

"I'm sorry; I don't think I heard you correctly," England cut in irritably. "You were reading. Reading what, that it was important enough to blow off the meeting you arranged for an hour?"

"...Look, it's this kinda essay thing; it's a book; it's like...I―I'm gettin' there; hold on a minute!"

"An essay? What is this, the apocalypse? You skip your own meeting to read something that isn't a comic book?"

"Hey, what's wrong with readin' comics, huh? They're part of the culture, too, y'know! An important one! They give children heroes to look up to, show 'em the kinds of...morals 'n' stuff they should have in real life! And…anyway, what d'you have against my culture, huh? Everyone loves a happy ending to a thrilling, action-packed saga of heroes, y'know, not like those crap endings you keep giving stuff―"

"Please stop going on about your so-called 'culture', will you? It's not―oi, what have you got against my endings, you git? Yours are all so sickeningly happy they make me retch!"

"What, and 1984 is great literature or somethin'? Newsflash! It's 2006 and he's still wrong! Now, if we're goin' with comic books, well..."

"Oh, come off it; no one bloody cares; that is not the point of that novel, and furthermore―"

"SHUT UP!" bellowed a single, powerful voice, and both England and America fell silent, turning their attention to Germany, who had once again stood to shout in frustration. He took a deep breath as if to calm his nerves and cleared his throat. "Please forgive my rudeness; all of this is very interesting and I am certain it has its own time and place for proper discussion, but would you please care to tell everyone the reason for this meeting, already?"

That was enough to put America back on track; Germany, thanks to his native tongue, had the most forceful, angry accent he had ever heard, with the exception of maybe Scotland. Both of them had the uncanny ability to say perfectly ordinary things like "Let's start this meeting already," or "God, I'm going to need a beer after this," and terrify everyone in a mile radius into respectful silence. (America admitted that, considering his own extremely glib nature, this was quite an accomplishment.)

"R-right, the meeting!" he started, suddenly nervous, and turned his attention to the objects on the table. The calendar was exceptionally thick, as if it contained a few years' worth of calendars itself, and the next thing about it that was particularly obvious was that it was in Spanish. The book was dog-eared and thoroughly worn, and frankly, its title, 2012: The Return of Quetzalcoatl, made it sound like one of the forgettable, trashy science-fiction novels America loved so much. He cleared his throat and observed his captive audience, a glint in his eyes alerting them that he'd had another idea.

"This," he declared a bit shakily, holding up the calendar, "is a calendar."

"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," England interrupted impatiently. "Mind getting to the point?"

"I'm getting there, I'm getting there; this is really important!" snapped America, and then stopped to straighten his tie. "A-anyway, the first thing you'll notice is it's really thick; there're six years in this thing."

Though a few of the G8 exchanged glances, no one said anything. Another invention. An entire hour of seven exhausted nations waiting in Washington, D.C., complete with ridiculous shenanigans, and America's idea of a good opener was a calendar that had six years in it. Japan's polite expression faltered a little in impatience, and England was going to strangle someone.

It was France who finally broke the silence, since America seemed to be waiting for someone to comment. "That's...it's very interesting, mon ami. But, euh...is there a...point to this?"

The younger nation slammed the calendar down on the table, open to the last page. "Of course there's a point to it! Mexico gave me this thing; said his aunt Maya wrote it or something. Behold...the apocalypse!" he announced dramatically, holding the calendar up to December 2012 so everyone could see that it didn't continue counting days past December 21.

"America," Germany started, rubbing his temples, "you've...called us all here to look at a printing error?" He neglected to mention that the calendar was obviously modern, probably manufactured by Mexico himself, and that Maya probably never meant anything even remotely related to the apocalypse, if indeed she'd even written any source material at all.

"It's not a printing error! It's the apocalypse! Look, I've read all about it―" here he picked up the book and waved it about, the burger wrapper still in his other hand― "It's gonna be the end of a cycle; there're these things called b'ak'tun, and this is gonna be the thirteenth one; with the way the calendar works, it'll be 13.0 .0 .0 .0, and there's been stuff about it since 1975, but really everybody's agreeing now the world's gonna end! Now, obviously, this is a very serious matter that requires immediate attention; what we need to do is get the U.N. to look at this, because we'll need global cooperation! I think the most effective plan of action would be to build a giant shield around the Earth, 'cause for the most part everything seems like it's gonna come from outer space (like aliens!) But really what I'm worried about is the effect this kinda thing'd have on the global fast food economy..."

If the members of the G8 had been only a little less polite, there would have been a single thud! as six faces hit the conference table in unison. Not again.

Seven faces, sorry. Knew I was forgetting someone.

December 22, 2012, 00:00: New York City, New York, United States

Midnight. Twelve hours flat, and one second, two seconds, three seconds...the blond-haired nation squinted blearily at the clock, fumbling for his spectacles and settling them on his nose carefully. Warily, he strode over to the window and threw open the curtains to reveal―nothing. There was the familiar skyline of New York City, and there in the distance was the Statue of Liberty, as always; the only thing that had happened was an uncomfortable flood of light into the dark room—typical of the city that never slept.

He glanced back over his shoulder at the clock. Perhaps it was fast...? But it was an atomic clock, like every other clock in the house. Surely an eschatological phenomenon would be punctual, and if any clock was likely to be accurate... So it was a lie after all; the world wasn't ending. He'd known that; he really had; just like everyone else in the world. So, in that case...

"Alfred!" he hollered, and yanked the curtains closed as he stomped from the room. "Al, w-wake up...!" He found his brother asleep on the living room couch (...well, it was his house, after all), snoring loudly, and Canada sighed. "Wake up, come on, you idiot...," he muttered as he grabbed America's arm and shook him awake.

"Bffff... muhzuvuh?" was the most accurate way Canada could think to spell his brother's reaction; the American groaned in protest and rolled over into a position that couldn't possibly be comfortable with his glasses still on his face. "...Matt?" he mumbled as he realized Canada wasn't leaving. "...'Zat you? Ugh...whazup?"

"It's...it's December 22. Thought you'd like to know, since you...were staying up and all." Canada paused. "...I can...go to sleep now, right? I need to go home tomorrow, because if the world isn't over, I've got a..." He trailed off as he realized at once that his brother wasn't listening, and he also had no idea where Kumajiro was.

"...December 22?" America repeated, pressing the backlight button on his watch and letting the neon numbers 12:02 12/22 sink into his brain. Suddenly, he jumped up, full of his usual energy. "...I slept through the apocalypse? Ohh, man, what happened? Were there robots? Space aliens? Come on; something happened!" he cried, dashing to the window and opening it to stick his face out. "The world ended and I missed it!"

"Al," Canada started, "n-nothing happened; the world didn't end. ...I've been in the other room all evening so have you seen Kumamichi any―"

"I don't know; go ask Tony!" America interrupted. "Man, I better call somebody; maybe they're running on Hawaii-Aleutian time or something, oh, man, maybe Japan knows something―" He was already darting about the room, tripping over things in the dark and groping for his cell phone where he remembered leaving it.

"P-probably UTC-12:00? ...Don't we usually use Greenwich Time for these things...?"

"Greenwich! Of course! I'll call England! He's under D, for Douchebag...Denmark, Djibouti..."

"Er, Al, it's been December 22 for five hours there and it's 5 AM; I don't think he's going to..."

"Nonsense! This is a matter of global importance! I need to call everybody; we've got seven hours because nobody listened to my awesome shield plan...!"

Canada sighed, shook his head, and left the room to see if Tony would actually tell him anything about Kumahiro. Not again.

Translations:
Mon dieu! – My God!
grazie – thanks
oh là là – Yeah, it's just ooh-la-la. Something like "oh, my".
très mignons – very cute
mon ami – my friend
euh – uh