It's just ...a little silly oneshot I write to warm up my upcoming busy week and can be considered a Christmas gift for my friend TRKirkland (she a wonderful writer and an artist at that).

Hope you enjoy this story as I do writing it.

Note:

Branwen = Wales

Scott = Scotland

Aedan = Northern Ireland

WHO BREAKS, PAYS

"Whit ur ye daein'?" The question resounded in an almost silent but coyly firm way, blending into the quietness of the large living room which was only interrupted by the crackling sound of burning woods in the fireplace, even sleeping snores and calm breaths, like it belonged. The air shifted as though whispers were echoed off the old walls surrounding them, the patches of lights the fire creating stretched out, mixing with darkness and shadows, touching their faces making the lines of their features deep and wisdom and emotionally contained.

Arthur shifted lightly on his seat, carefully not disturbing the person whose head laid on his lap, eyelids fluttering in an early night slumber. Continuing his knitting work, Arthur replied in his usual sharp tone, but softer shape; it seemed to him that these nights always had this effect on them, nights when they temporarily left their responsibilities, their nightmares and long-suffering tolerance and loves of long, long lives, their hatred and messed emotions, nights that the world around them was just a buzzing thing outside, right nearby, never out of reach, could never be out of reach, but not being able to grasp them and spurn them round to face the unavoidable reality, which they would deal later when the night finally passed. The silence softened them, smoothing the fire of their impulsivity, their stubbornness and harsh opposition, replacing with a deep, old breath of understanding to their souls that they would never admit to the others to save their lives. "Doing a replacement for something I've ruined, accidentally, because of you, for someone."

The owner's of the question raised an assembled eyebrow, his red hair seeming to flame up tenderly under the warm flicking gold lights, his hand nursing a glass of Scotch, pale green eyes looking at the younger man sitting to his right on the long cushioned sofa, separated by a sprawling figure of his other sibling. "A scarf?" There was a tinge of sarcasm everywhere in the just two words sentence.

Arthur rolled his eyes, not bothering covering his half-hearted sigh, "No, it's a woolen hat. Of course, it's a scarf I'm making."

"Sarcasm is, wee brither, th' lowest f'rm ay wit," Scott said with the air of a wisest man in the room with a clearance of the throat, sipping his wine chastely, "Och, th' irony." Arthur gave his brother another good eye-roll, doubting his older brother was just taunting him for the fun of it (which often was the case), but considering the amount of alcohol he had drunk this night, dramatic was not to be prevented.

Scott leaned back, his right arm resting on the top of the back of the sofa, spreading half of the distance between him and Arthur, his fingers hovering, sometimes absent-mindedly tracing the patterns craved into the rims of the chair just above the luxurious softness of the red cushion. "Fur whom?"

He asked again in his low and naturally piercing voice, far more sober than a few minutes ago. This night it was like Scott had too many questions and doubts, the outlines of his face hardened with feelings he wore on his sleeves, his brows ceasing in a certain line of unusual uncertainty, broad, strong shoulders bracing like the fierce warrior he had always been.

That got Arthur to blink in well-hidden surprise, but he didn't question his older brother's behaviors. It was a mutual respect for other members in their family, respect for privacy and secrets and pains, even though they could sometimes put pranks on the others' heads, using black-mails, screaming with hate and what not, but never crossing the line to the outsiders. The fights and knowledge inside their home remained within.

So Arthur just frowned and answered shortly, yet giving what needed to be, "You've already known who he is, don't play dumb and ask twenty idiotic questions." He paid attention to his unfinished work again, knitting the soft wool expertly, now and then trailing the scarf for any mistakes and mumbling under his breath about knots, material and colors, not knowing Scott's eyes were locking on him, contemplating with a glint that was so tender and vulnerable with unspoken feelings, a look that he would never, ever let anybody see. Scott's fingertips, which were hovering, twitched slightly, as if longing to reach further out and touch the blond seating near him.

"Ye don't need tae dae 'at, 'at hin'. Can jist buy a new a body," Scott said, almost grumpily, ignoring Arthur's look of disapproval as he gulped down the remained of his Scotch, enjoying the way his throat burned. "An' how is Aedan? He seemed wabbit earlier." He added after the savoring sip of wine had long gone and before Arthur had a chance to retort.

"He's sleeping upstairs. The economy does a young nation like him a bit bad. I think I should check up on his fever now." Arthur worried between his lips, putting aside his half-done scarf, gently lifting his other brother's head out of his lap and resting it on a union jack cushion, giving Scott one more pointed look and leaving the room.

Scott listened to Arthur's fading away footsteps whilst watching the reflection on the glass he was holding, "Listenin' in others' conversation while pretendin' tae sleep is unacceptable, Branwen," and giving the said man who was supposed to be asleep a good kick to the leg.

Branwen huffed, broke out of his façade, slowly sat up and massaged his 'assaulted' leg, "Say the man who was being obvious." Scott cringed up his nose, an act that didn't look harsh or trivial, an act that only an old noble with hundreds years of practice could do and ground his teeth a little at his action being exposed so clearly and easily, "Loch he understands ur has onie idea, 'at thick heed." The Scottish man bit out without any real bites, but bitterness was still presenting.

The brown-haired man felt a surge of sympathy and anger curling up under his spine, making its way to his lips and shaping them into a scowl. Branwen glanced at the abandoned woolen thing with such intensity that could burst it into flame, intensity that everyone at the first sight didn't think he was capable of forming. "Why didn't you just 'accidentally' slip and spill your wine on that scarf?" He said with his posture very much like an offended cat. "Or now I will just throw it into the fireplace and we both can enjoy the show with great pleasure."

There was silence, a silence in which two comrades would share a bitter bottle of cheap wine in front of a battle that they could fight greatly but inevitably could not win, a silence in which one of them would make an obvious statement, obvious want that they weren't able to utter another suitable thing to say, staring blandly into the unavoidable and unfair of their regard.

"But you know who he is," Branwen spoke suddenly, yet not unexpectedly, words hard with determination, vague accusation and boiling hold-back rage, his face calm under the soft caresses of the only source of light in the room but his irises was a work of containing-emotion art, green flaming much better than fire. "Arthur said that you'd pushed him so far with your taunting while in the World Conference, so he summoned a magical ball to hit you with (that git), but you dodged (bastard) and it, unfortunately, landed to that 'someone', burning their precious scarf. So who is he? Or just confirm my guess right now."

Scott's hand, if not careful, would break the glass in its hold. His neck held sharp like a snake which would bite, hues narrowed dangerously; he looked as though if he stood up, behind his back two pitch-black, angrily wide wings would burst through his skin and clothes in an attacking stance. "Russia."

And Branwen kicked his leg, hard.

It was a miracle that the Scottish man hadn't launched at his brother and started the WWIII right in their living room and right in this 'almost-domestic' scene.

When Arthur came back, he saw a might-still-be-sleeping-but-unlikely Branwen curl up in a sulking posture with his face buried in the union jack cushion and a pissed-off Scott who was ready to break out war with shattering pieces of which was once a beloved glass under his feet.

The morning sunlight was reigning London, reaching out its hands to touch everything on land, sweep away the hazy layer of early frost, warm the chilly air and shine the citizens' day with rare good weather. Arthur was seating in his favorite place in a tea house near the building in which the conference this time would take place.

With coat fold beside his briefcase and another bag, Arthur sat straight back, but completely relaxing, palms circling the cup of tea with steams rising faintly in the air, reaching his nostrils and embracing his olfactory in a way that could make his toes curl. Arthur closed his eyes, feeling the energy of his people surging through every fiber of his being, their thought speeding through his mind, their breaths unknowingly mingling with his. He loved moment like this, moment when he was truly feeling a life of thousands lives, moment when he was truly alive, his shoulders bracing and strong with responsibility, his eyes hard and determined and shone with wisdom and immortality, his heart swelled up with many, many emotions of his people while beating with his own feelings.

An impossible existence presenting millions, a complicated and improbable concept, but he, they, existed anyway.

The sound of the opposite chair being pulled out and rustling of fabric broke him out of his reverie. He refused to let his eyes widen in surprise, just merely politely acknowledging the new comer with a nod. "Fancy a cup of morning tea, too?" Arthur asked, taking a sip of his cooling off drink, brows ceased slightly showing suspicion and straightening profile telling defense if needed and sharp half smirk for daring. "Never think you're a tea person, Ivan."

The addressed man just gave him a chuckle, which was like a rumble sound of amusement deep in the man's chest to Arthur's ears, very different from the ones he often gave to other nations with threats and darkened aura. The Russian looked different like this too, with morning lights landing on his almost white hair, shifting in shy movements as if not wanting to disturb the man and shining, his strong and pale neck exposed where the collar of his coat could not cover and where a scarf had once been. He was more open, steadier, and easier to provoke and show real strength, but strangely…more breakable, if Arthur could use that to Russia.

"Ah, ah, don't think you are the only country in the world that appreciates this kind of drink, Arthur."

Arthur held the taller man's violet gaze, feeling being peeled apart and seen trough; he narrowed his emerald hues in warning, willing his body to betray nothing, "What?" His word was light, but weighted, a touch of delicately tough danger, a tone he'd used back to when he ruled the seven seas in piercing red coat and even more piercing attitude.

Ivan leaned into the dare just lightly to not cause a scene in front of many civilians, his hands fold neatly on the table in firm grip, the violet color of his eyes glinting, his feature rough in the large and monstrous and smooth way a mountain rock would be while Arthur's was sharp and edging like knives, dark aura oozing out as though small drips of water to the sea of intensity.

A smile slowly played on the Russian man's face as he edged a little closer that it felt like he was whispering into Arthur's ears. "I see you've finished my scarf."

His voice was like whispers of winter winds, familiar cold and frigidly intimating, sending chill up into Arthur spine, trailing with invisible sharp nails with demonic caresses that left the English man felt like falling into a trap, which sparked his adrenaline, making his heart beat in the excitement of facing possible danger.

Arthur held back his growl, resisting his pirate-self from fully forming; instead he let the gentleman do his work. He undid his stony eyes and his own smile stretched gracefully on his lips, like nothing had ever happened, yet the sharpness didn't leave his body language, cutting just the right way.

"Oh, indeed, I've. My apologies. I'm a little bit distracted with our…delightful talk." He fetched out the hand-made scarf, ignoring the way Ivan stared at him with amused looks, far too interested for Arthur's liking. "I do apologize again for Scott's and my carelessness," he said, pretending he didn't see the other's reaching hands and wrapping the scarf he had done with utmost care weeks ago while Scott sullenly scowled and Branwen sulked, around the neck of Ivan himself, enjoying Ivan's slightly widened eyes.

And Arthur wrapped the woolen thing 'a little bit' too tight.

He smiled back like he was holding all the cards, at the Russian's narrowed watching irises, returning back to his seating state and sipping at his tea.

Suddenly, Arthur cringed up his nose, as he realized his morning tea treatment had gone cold, like a rabbit.

That got a laugh deep in the throat from the Russian man sitting across from him, and Arthur found his face turning beet red at the startling sound and many glances of other customers.

The table of their little game had turned again; the light in Ivan's eyes confirmed that much.

Alfred F. Jones, the representative of the United States of America, was, absolutely, not having a good day.

Considering this morning, when the meeting had just started for a few minutes, Arthur had walked into the conference room apologizing for his lateness while the commie bastard (the commie bastard!) was trailing right behind him with an amused and pleased smile on his face and a new scarf (no doubt from the English nation because of the incident in the last meeting). Arthur was blushing and mumbling curses but did shoot the Russian man a smirk so meaningful that Alfred's head would burst in confusion and anger.

(It was a huge NO-NO. No one, ever, could be allowed to make Arthur react like that, except Alfred. Only HIM could do that, damn it!)

And the smugness of that damned bastard when he and Alfred accidentally caught eyes once was unbearable. Alfred could launch at him and strangle and beat that fucking bastard to death right then and there if not for Germany's clearing throat wisely to catch everyone's attention as the nation, surely, was able to pick up the tense atmosphere ruling the room.

In blinding rage, Alfred could still easily see his new-found comrades and future opponents who were with stiff postures and murderous eyes. He even noticed the way Scotland always hovering right by Arthur's side, face pined with barely contained anger and regret, looking very much like an enraged and over-protective hawk.

(Later, he would encounter Scotland and accuse him, and would be presented with a bark of all teeth and burning green eyes, "Dornt shit wi' me! i've hud enaw! e'en those Italian brats swatch at me as if they want tae kill me!"

And he would feel sympathy.

Just a little.)