Hello there, readers! The original version of this story goes back about two years before I started to dedicate myself to writing nearly every day. It had two chapters before I promptly abandoned it because I'm a terrible, terrible, lazy person, but the idea (and ship) still niggled at my head all the while. I started seriously considering the story again recently and, after reading the original, realised that I would enjoy the challenge of rewriting it entirely before I felt comfortable adding to it again!

I still have the original version up, since I felt sentimental, but still wanted to start fresh. Welcome new readers and if you're a returning reader I hope that you'll enjoy the rewritten version far better, or at the very least agree that it's an improvement! I've fixed a lot of plot holes, issues with pacing, and characterisation problems. I liked a lot of the dialogue and character interactions/ideas in the original and I hope to incorporate some bits and pieces into this version. So, anyway, I hope you enjoy it as much as I've enjoyed rewriting it!

WARNING: There is some vomit in this chapter, in case anyone is squeamish about that!

Spellbound
Chapter 1

Preparation was always key.

It was a mantra that England recounted every time he wandered down into the cellar, passed boxes of long-forgotten, unsorted rubbish, to the tucked away room he used whenever the urge to practice magic hit him. Granted, his hobby had become a less regular one over the years and he was rusty—but desperate times called for desperate measures.

The match started in about an hour and a half and that gave him plenty of time. England versus Sweden. Whoever won made it into the semi-finals and from there, well…the prospect of winning the World Cup was less of a pipe-dream and more of a possibility.

He wasn't a cheater, either! He needed this! Okay, so technically he was sort of cheating, but he deserved a win for once, all right? His boys had only barely clawed themselves out from the last match by the skin of their teeth, narrowing it down to nail-biting penalties, and he had reservations about their chances for the next one. England practically invented the sport itself and here he was, thirty-odd years since coming first, with nothing to show for it. But this time, he had a chance. Football was coming home if he had anything to say about it!

No one would get wise to a bit of magical trickery, anyway. It was a silly, little spell to increase his odds. Nothing too bad about that, right?

Right.

England spent a good amount of time sorting through his collection of old, musty tomes until he found the particular spell he needed. Granting his boys the ability to know the Swedish team's strategy ahead of time? That sounded perfect. Vague, but perfect.

Gathering ingredients together was the next step. It didn't require much, but the items the spell required were rather specific: three objects representing each group of people involved. There was himself—that would be an easy one—then Sweden, and then the host country, which was Russia. Kneeling down to scratch an elaborate circle into the stone floor with a bit of chalk, England started to feel the weight of the time-crunch and hastily searched the rest of his cottage for something from each respective place.

The only object he had on hand for Russia was a pair of socks the man had knitted and sent him for Christmas about twenty years ago. There was a problem, though. Using a more sentimental, personal object was a risk. The energy concealed inside it, even if it was a gift forgotten by the sender, could either throw the spell off-kilter, form a strong base for it to work off of, or have absolutely no effect at all. Magic was fickle like that.

With ten minutes to spare before the match began, it was a gamble he was all-too-willing to take as he gathered the worn, weathered spell book into his hands. The incantation tumbled from his tongue easily enough, despite it being an old variant of his language. With each word, the air around him grew tense—heavy, even. Energy darted through every nook and cranny of the room like electricity; causing the hairs on his arms to stand on end.

Something was off. England felt it barreling down toward him before anything visually clued him in. The tension in the air spiked and the unexpectedness of it caused him to halt the incantation which, really, was just another mistake to add to a now-extensive list surrounding the whole endeavour.

An arch of bright, twisting, tangling tendrils shot out from the centre circle and homed right for him. England had no time to react. One second he was gaping like a confounded fish, and the other he was halfway across the room; back slamming into the hard, stone wall of the cellar. He slid to the ground with a weak wheeze, breathless. Something akin to electricity raced along his body with no small amount of eagerness. He was overwhelmed, overstimulated, and strangled all at once.

It took several minutes for the assault to wear off and the energy to leave him sapped and drained. In its wake, it graced him with a lovely splitting headache and trembling spell that refused to let up any time soon.

Well. England supposed there was no stronger example of instant karma than that.

Before the World Cup had come to a close, he had made sure to hand his spell book over to Wales temporarily, to minimise the chances of him being tempted again until the season was over and done with. It was doubtful that he would be tempted, after that glorious disaster, but he didn't want to take any chances. Another spell backfire like that and he would wake up with an arm missing…or worse. Honestly, he didn't want to think about it too much. He counted himself lucky he got off with a jolt and a headache and not much else.

Of course, England neglected to inform him of the real reason why he handed it over. He had spun something up about not having a lot of storage room back at his cottage and that he would pick them back up later after he sorted through some rubbish. It wasn't unbelievable. He did have the tendency of holding onto old, sentimental things, whether they were of extensive monetary value or not. Wales was none-the-wiser, especially considering he slipped it in with a load of other books to make it less obvious that that, specifically, was what he wanted gone.

Eventually, though, football season came and went and—surprise, surprise—he lost. To Croatia. In the semi-finals. Really, ultimately, England should have been proud for getting that far at all, but he ranted and raved and threw objects around without any care or forethought to his actions with passionately-fuelled anger backing him.

After replacing his telly, he sulked for days. He got over it eventually. Sort of.

The nation meeting after the World Cup had been a disaster and reawakened his soreness over losing all over again. Of course, the first thing France brought up was football and he anguished over how sad he was that they couldn't've had a proper match one-on-one to rekindle that old rivalry he was so nostalgic for and—fuck off, France.

It didn't help that he felt off as well. His thoughts and emotions were all over the place; tangled and confused. He blamed it on the stress of the meeting, but with it refusing to leave, even after a few glasses of wine, he was starting to wonder if he was getting ill.

Needless to say, he was in a sour mood. Croatia got a lot of unprompted, icy glares sent his way when his back was turned. It was bad. It was petty. And, really, France deserved it more for lording the loss over him so much…and gloating about his win. Arsehole.

Apparently, England wasn't quite as subtle as he thought he had been being, because Croatia approached him at some point during the lunch break to congratulate him on a tough match. He had expected some sort of confrontation, but the amiable gesture took him by surprise. Well, lovely. Now he felt like a twat. Was he really going to be a prickly little prick over something as nothing as an international football competition?

"Oh, yeah, well—you too," he fingered the wine glass in his hand awkwardly while flashing the other nation a polite smile, "You sure gave my boys the runaround, they all started to fall apart near the end, there."

"Yeah," a little exhale of breath that was quite obviously a withheld laugh passed Croatia's lips, "Still, you put up a good fight." He extended a hand, presumably for him to shake.

Well, don't agree so readily! He stared at the proffered open palm; attempting to ward off the urge to slap it away and tell him to shove a football right up his arse and see how he liked it—

England let out a hard breath. Honestly, he didn't know where this unbidden competitive aggression was coming from, but he really needed to reign it in. It was not that big a deal. He was proud of how far his team managed to go and if anyone disagreed, they could fuck right off. There was always the next one in '22. Giving Croatia a firm, solid shake, he thanked him before his headache intensified, full-force, all of the sudden. He excused himself rather promptly after that.

He burst into the men's toilets which were thankfully empty and locked himself in one of the stalls. Sitting down, he furiously worked his fingers at his temples in rapid circles. It did little to stave off the pain that kept driving itself into his head and, honest to God, he was getting more frustrated and miserable by the second.

"Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off—" Fingers tugging needlessly at his messy mop of hair, England gritted his teeth. If he was getting ill, it couldn't mean anything good. He would have to phone up his brothers and see how they were faring because this was getting ridiculous—

Oh, God. The pain spiked and became unbearable. His stomach lurched and bile pooled at the back of his throat. His sense of resolve was momentarily tossed out the window as he slid to the floor, whipped around, and retched into the toilet until he was left weak, shaky, and empty.

There went that glass of perfectly-decent wine. England clutched the porcelain rim with bone-white, trembling fingers as his cheek met the soothing coolness of it. Parliament was certainly getting a good talking to for whatever the Hell was going on and if he found out some knobhead cocked something up and caused a massive, bloody mess—political or otherwise—that someone was getting made redundant. He gave the stall wall a harsh frown as if to properly cement that statement—no, promise.

The sound of whispers drew just at the edge of his hearing and his shoulders tensed instinctively. England tried to remain quiet; easing his breaths. If he was to be found in this state he could only imagine the amount of teasing that would follow. The noise only skirted around becoming comprehensible, even as it grew louder, closer still. His grip on the toilet tightened as sweat beaded down his brow.

It was right outside his stall, whatever or whoever was making such an unnerving noise. His heart stampeded in his chest as he eyed the door warily until he couldn't handle the tension building anymore.

"Leave me alone! Fuck off!" The yell tore itself passed his throat, shrill and louder than he meant it, but it only echoed around the tiled restroom walls. The resulting silence only made him even more uncomfortable.

At that moment, the door to the toilets burst open and laughter flooded the room. England practically jumped out of his skin. His stomach lurched again and he swallowed hard; putting all his effort into not being sick.

It seemed like ages had ticked by until the door slammed shut and he was left alone in his stall. It took longer still until England felt like he could stand and walk on steady legs. Shambling his way over to the row of sinks, he leaned down and washed the taste of sick out of his mouth. Straightening up, he blinked back at himself in the mirror. God, he looked like utter, utter shite. He wouldn't hesitate to skip the rest of the lunch break and the rest of the meeting itself to have a lie down in his hotel room, but his presentation was scheduled for the second half. Of course. He couldn't easily wriggle his way out of that.

England made his way back to the conference room after spending some time at the mirror to put effort into looking less dead-man-walking. His headache had only eased up a tad, enough to keep him from losing whatever was left of his stomach's contents, at least. Everyone's chit-chatting seemed far more grating and invasive than usual and he stuck to an empty corner like his life depended on it.

That was, until the meeting kicked back into swing. Presentation after presentation, all so very dull and dreary, crawled along at a snail's pace. A sigh built in his throat. All he wanted was to get his over and done with so he could slip out while no one was paying him any mind. Finally, it was his turn. England prattled on about possibly the most boring subject imaginable, reading off his notes basically the entire time, but it was only fair since he had to sit through their God-awful presentations. It was their turn, now. Time to relish in it.

He was a miserable bastard today, wasn't he? Well, he was always a miserable bastard when he was poorly. Usually, he would whinge and whine the ear off anyone who stopped to listen, but he was feeling so rubbish that he didn't want to talk to anyone. So, he supposed that meant his miserableness manifested itself in actively hating every living, breathing person in the room before him. Even if th—

Who was talking? Someone was having a chat during his presentation. After he had agonised through every single one of theirs whilst sporting the world's worst migraine? Oh, no, that was not on. Initially, he pretended not to hear it, to give the arsehole a chance to clam up and pay attention. But, no. The cheeky little fucker wouldn't stop whispering. Irritation swelled through him in growing leaps and bounds as he simply did not have the patience. Not today.

He shot all of them the most venomous glare he could muster, "I'm sorry, but I sat through all of your dreadful presentations without saying a word, so the least you could do is show me the same fucking courtesy."

The gathered group of nations before him only responded with a resounding silence. All eyes were on him which was—well, yeah—he was giving a presentation, as they should be! But there was something tense about their looks that left him uneasy. England turned to carry on rambling about whatever nonsense he had in his notes when a voice piped up.

"Hey, uh—you feeling okay?"

He paused and spared a glance over his shoulder. America had rolled his seat away from the table, poised like he was about to stand up, with a rather convincing look of concern written on his face as well.

"I'm fine," England snapped, scrutinising him as he wasn't entirely convinced the other man wasn't the source of the whispering itself, "You know, basic respect—manners. That sort of thing."

"Ah—Amérique is right, you don't look well and you keep stumbling over your words…"

"I haven't b—" He hadn't been stumbling over his words at all! Oh, this was some elaborate prank again, wasn't it? Let's all laugh and point and make England feel like he was going mental! His anger hit him full-force now; eyes darting suspiciously between the two of them. Granted, he probably did look under the weather with his headache refusing to let up, but there was no way he was going to allow them make a scene and embarrass him.

"England, if you want, we can schedule the rest of your presentation for tom—" Germany's carefully-placed words were interrupted before he could even think about finishing that thought.

"I said I'm fine!" England snarled and turned back to the presentation screen before anyone could try to dissuade him further, "I am fine, fucking Hell—" It was muttered under his breath as he lifted a hand to rub at his temple. His eyes skirted over his notes to find his place again.

He finished his presentation with no more interruptions, thank God. Plopping back into his chair, he watched the rest of the speakers with a barely-concealed lack of interest, trying to ward off his headache until the meeting was adjourned. After he packed up his things and left the conference room, America and France were both waiting to intercept him. England stopped. He held his briefcase close, utilising it as a makeshift shield, as he narrowed his eyes at them.

"We are only here to make sure you get to your hotel room safely, mon ami," France explained smoothly, stepping forward first, hands out in a calming gesture. America nodded the affirmative; hard, blue eyes glancing him up and down.

"'Safely'?" England scoffed. It was true that all he wanted to do was go back to his hotel room and sleep, but now that France had suggested it, the prospect became far less appealing. In fact, he felt like he could keep calm, carry on, and go get a coffee, first— "I can show myself to my own room, thanks."

The other nation's expression lost all its charm and he glanced back at America. There was an exchanged, knowing look and, not a second later, the both of them had grabbed his arms and pulled him forward. His lips slackened in shock. England ranted and raved and ordered them to release him now. When words made no dent in their momentum, they got a good two feet before the fight was on, so to speak. He landed a firm kick square into France's groin and his one arm was released; a flurry of French curses cementing his victory.

America was harder to ward off, though, and his hold on him only tightened without the other nation's support. He tried to unravel the iron grip on arm before he was jostled enough to leave his head spinning. Firm words tumbled from the other man's lips that, when they hit him, brought him pause:

"Listen, dude, either you let us escort you to your hotel room like normal people or I'm carrying you there."

His eyes darted from his intense, imploring look to France, still crippled over with his hands between his legs, cursing to himself and throwing him the occasional dirty look. Heh, he wished he had his phone handy.

But, really, he had no doubt that America would carry out the threat if he gave him no other choice. He was still clueless as to what sort of prank they were trying to pull here, but the last thing he wanted to do was be carried through the hotel over another man's shoulder—or worse, bridal style. He shuddered at the thought. He let his hand fall back to his side and the grip on his arm immediately slackened. Rubbing at the sore spot once it was freed, England grabbed his briefcase from the floor and dusted himself off.

The journey up to his hotel room was a quiet one. He kept giving them suspicious glares all the while, any time they glanced back to check on him. They stuck with the worried looks from earlier; keeping true to whatever plot they were trying to pull over on him. The tension in the air could be carved with a knife by the time they reached the door to his room.

"This is me. Go on, then," England waved them off as he shuffled through his pockets to find his key card. They hung around while he went through the unlocking process, of course. His attempt to slam the door shut behind him was foiled by America's quick foot. That must have hurt.

A desperately irritated sigh built in his throat, "Why won't the both of you leave me be?"

"You are acting like a child," France huffed as he slipped his way passed America and lifted a hand to feel at his forehead, "I know it is in your nature to be a stubborn ass, but spare your concerned friends at least a second from it."

England winced instinctively at the touch. His head was still hurting him, although he had a momentary reprieve thanks to the adrenaline-fuelled confrontation downstairs. He gave the hand a glare, but refrained from batting it away when it pressed lightly against his skin. Fucking Hell, they were insistent. "It's only a headache. Probably economic or something. I've still got to phone up Parliament about it. Like I said, I'm fine."

France pulled his hand away and pursed his lips, "You don't feel warm."

"I told you, dude, he's losing it."

He gritted his teeth. Was anyone listening to him at all? It was a good thing he kept mum about being sick in the men's toilets, otherwise they would never leave him be. "Could one of you please explain why you're both acting like I'm about to keel over?" England asked, his voice low and patience clearly running out, "Or, at least, carry out whatever plot you've got going so it's over and done with and I can sleep?"

They shared a glance with each other before France caught his upper arm and pulled him aside. "Arthur," he urged, voice low and drawn out so America wouldn't feel as tempted to interrupt, "We're not plotting anything. During your presentation, you kept—not making sense. Mixing words up. Not too badly, but noticeable. You snapped at someone for talking." He paused and rubbed his thumb along his arm in a soothing gesture. "No one had said anything, mon cher."

England refused to respond to all this new information; avoiding his gaze at first. He had known the other man long enough to discern between feigned and genuine concern. An uncomfortable feeling nestled its way into his chest. If that was all true, he can't begin to imagine what a mad bastard he must have looked.

A soft sigh brushed passed his ear. "It is probably economic like you said and it will pass, as these things usually do. Please, don't strain yourself too much, oui? Call or text if you feel worse. Either I or Amérique will come check on you in the morning."

What could he say, really? England simply nodded. At this point, he just wanted to be left alone and nurse his headache. America leaned forward and gave him a hard smack on his back and a "get well soon, man" before the both of them saw themselves out.

He was sure they were exaggerating to some extent. It was hardly the best presentation he had given, certainly one of the poorer ones. Maybe he messed up here and there, who cared! The reality over the whispering did give him some pause, though. It wasn't something easily explainable. Scratching at the side of his face, England went about shuffling through his luggage, searching for pain killers. Hopefully, it would do something about the constant pounding of his head before he had an early—quite early, it wasn't even half-past six yet—night in.

Sleep evaded him. His headache saw to that. After about two hours of tossing and turning, though, he managed to slip into something light and fitful.

The next morning, England woke to the sound of rapid knocking at his door as he was unceremoniously ripped from the fog of sleep. A pitiful groan wrestled itself from deep in his throat as he attempted to curl further into the puffy duvet and block out the noise.

"Angleterre? Bonjour, mon cher, wake! Let me know you still live in there!"

Oh, for fuck's sake, what did France want now? Oh…right. The rather miserable series of events from yesterday rolled back into the forefront of his mind. A frown sprouted across his face. Thankfully, his headache seemed less potent this morning. It was still there, though; flitting about the edges of his consciousness, just enough that it couldn't be forgotten so easily.

Through the fabric of the duvet, he heard something akin to threatening to go get America to kick down the door if he had to, and he let out a hiss of annoyance. Fucking Hell, couldn't he have a moment?

"God, Francis, would you shut it?!"

A chuckle rang out from behind the door and England grumbled into the mattress. "He lives! What a shame, I was starting to get excited."

"I was starting to get excited I was getting a moment's peace!" He snarled, reached down, and tossed one of his shoes at the door, only for it to miss and knock over a lamp with a loud but questionably fragile-sounding clink! Bollocks.

While France was busy asking him what damage he had done to the hotel this time, he slid out from under the duvet and slipped into some decent clothes. By the time he pulled the door open to meet the other man's stupid, smug face, England was sure he looked as much of a knackered mess as he felt.

Of course, that didn't get passed France. "Oh, England, you look terrible," that cheeky smirk was back, full-force, as he dipped his head to one side, "You must be feeling much better then, non?"

The look he shot him was so far passed unamused he felt he was worthy some sort of award for it. It was true. He was a bit better, headache-wise. He still felt off and muddled, but the pain had lessened, at least. "Still got a headache, but it's not quite as bad as it was yesterday," England admitted, deciding to ignore the jab for now. Really, he wanted to get rid of the whole nagging thing France had going on—he would rather have a France that pushed his buttons than one that fretted over him.

That did seem to lessen the other man's frustrating mothering mood and they chatted back and forth for a bit while England slipped on his shoes and suit jacket. France mentioned that he owed him massively now that he nearly kicked his bollocks off yesterday and he retorted that was absolute bullshit because he had had it coming. It exploded into a heated argument until the two of them came to the agreement that England would buy him a proper coffee this morning. Apparently, the hotel's espresso wasn't up to his standards. Really, he only agreed to get him to shut up about it. Coffee was a price he was willing to pay.

So there they were, sat in a quaint little café, while France endlessly went on and on about gossip and fashion and other nonsense he had very little interest in. The nation across from him had curled into his chair like a relaxed cat; posture confident, yet at ease. He nattered on endlessly, but spared him a brief moment when he paused to sip from his espresso.

As a bit of spectacular contrast, England was hunched over his own coffee, a permanent frown on his lips, as he gave the occasional affirmative to pretend he was listening while he tried to ward off his headache by sheer will alone. He had taken pain killers before they left, but it hadn't done him much good.

Ringing Parliament should be on his list of priorities before the meeting today. Some human bloke, specialist, was coming in to talk about oil reserves if he recalled correctly—that should quiet America for at least an hour or so.

A laugh bubbled up from his lips. It took him by surprise, because he hadn't really found his train of thought to be all that amusing, but there he was warding off a sticky smile, anyway. France narrowed his eyes at him. "What's so amusing to you?" An indignant sniff followed, "Are you even listening, rosbif?"

His eyes flicked up to scrutinise the other man for a second. That was admittedly…odd and out of nowhere, but changing the subject was easy enough. "You don't need more than one person to have a conversation, frog," England crossed his arms and leaned back in his seat, "What do I care who Spain is shagging this week? Let alone what bloody shoes he's wearing while he does it…"

France cradled his chin in his hand while he shook his head in an action that only he could manage to make condescending. "Angleterre, sometimes you really have no vision outside your own little bubble."

He huffed into the rim of his cup, "More like I have a firm grasp on what is and isn't my business."

"I've known you long enough, don't lie to me," his eyes sparkled as a smirk twisted at his lips, leaning forward across the round bistro table to squint at him, "You've always had a mischievous spark to you."

His eyes rolled slowly from his cup to the other man's smug face, his own expression purposely dull and deadpan, "Not lying, but carry on believing that, if you must."

A light chuckle followed France falling back into his chair; grin tugging at the corners of his mouth. "It's all right, mon ami. I will keep telling you these things and you can keep pretending not to listen."

"Oh, spare me, would you?"

As he suspected, France did no such thing.

After they had finished their coffee, the conference was in full swing. His headache persisted all the while and the whispering from before still danced at the edge of his hearing, a bit bolder today. He kept it to himself, this time, since it honestly started to worry him. It was still indecipherable, muffled, and there was no clue as to who or what was causing it. He had picked up the habit of flicking his hand passed his ear like he was waving away a buzzing insect. Every time England caught himself doing it, he promptly tangled his fingers into the fabric of his trousers, ears red with embarrassment.

It was entirely likely that he was going mad.

Or he was ill. That seemed the more likely scenario, although he hadn't been so out of it that he started hearing things—not for a good, long while. He had plenty of sleep, he had no fever, he wasn't gravely injured and losing blood, a ghost or spirit was unlikely in a newer building like this one—and there had been no longer signs of paranormal activity, either. No cold spots or shadows or anything like that.

He had a persistent headache, though, and that off feeling continued to follow after him. It was that sort of vaguely uncomfortable, weakened feeling, the one that usually signalled the start of a cold or flu. Other than that, though…

All the evidence stacking up was starting to make the whole going-absolutely-bonkers prospect a frightening possibility. Less possible than him being ill, but possible. Regardless as to what it was, he wasn't going to say a fucking word about it. Especially not to America or France, not after the stunt they pulled on him yesterday. He had to lie low now, act normal. Not too normal, but—recovering.

He took advantage of the break for lunch to phone up Parliament and ask what the absolute shitting Hell was going on, albeit with far more refrained, polite phrasing. The bloke over the phone kindly informed him that nothing was amiss. Nothing glaring, at least. The fact that England was asking obviously raised some suspicions and he found himself on the defensive again; warding off questions about his current state of health. He managed to fork the blame on the weather, since it had been a rather hot and miserable summer, and assure the man that he would call back if anything changed. Well, brilliant. That had gotten him fuck all in the way of information.

The meeting rattled on without anything all that eventful. He didn't have any talks scheduled today, so he busied himself with his notes and trying not to look like he was hearing things. By the time he made his way upstairs to slip into a change of clothes back at his hotel room, he stood in the lift cradling his head with a spare hand. For whatever reason, his headache had decided to crank the pain up to about as bad as it had been yesterday. Fuck. There was no way he was going to be sick in the lift, especially since he wasn't—

"England."

"Huh?" Oh, God, when had he sank to his knees, hand gripping the handle until he felt the metal start to bend beneath it? "Y-yes?"

"You are on the floor."

"Yeah, say what you see," England grumbled under his breath and a low chuckle radiated from beside him. Here he was, a reserved, dignified man, on his knees, clutching his head, having some sort of mini-breakdown. It was a bit funny. A snort slipped passed his lips before he thought to catch himself, because excuse him, sorry? That wasn't funny in the slightest! It was humiliating!

Fingers curled around his upper arm and hoisted him back up with ease. The floor swayed underneath his feet and he clutched at anything to steady himself, which turned out to be the scarf Russia had wrapped around his neck.

The taller man laughed and, for whatever unexplainable reason, England was compelled to laugh along with him. God, he was losing it, wasn't he? "So drunk," Russia stated it like it was fact, bemusement dancing behind his eyes, as he lifted a hand to hover in front of his face, "How many fingers?"

"Wh," He stared at the two fingers presented to him with no small amount of confusion. Honestly, England was gone. He had absolutely no idea what was happening around him. All he knew was that he was in some serious pain. "I'm going to—"

The rest of the warning didn't need to be said. Amusement fell from the other man's face faster than he thought physically possible. There was no time to ponder over it further, as in the next second, he was emptying his stomach, partially over that nice scarf, and mostly over the floor as he was spun around by hasty hands.

A string of angry Russian followed suit, lamenting over the state of his scarf, while he held England at arm's length as he retched until he had nothing left in him. It took a moment, a dry-heave or two, and Russia turned him back around. "Everyone smuggles hard liquor into the meetings, Angliya. Do not go giving us all away acting stupid."

"I'm not acting…stupid," a weary blink accompanied his dragging words, "I mean. I'm not…I haven't been…drinking—"

"Of course not," Russia patted his shoulder harder than absolutely necessary, obviously not buying it, as the lift let out a ding to announce their floor, "Back to room now, yes? Come."

A strong arm wrapped around his waist and tugged him along the hall, each side lined with doors but otherwise empty. England had enough awareness to sputter out his room number as they got close. Reaching into his pockets with trembling, pale fingers, he pulled out his key card, only to drop it before Russia had a chance to snatch it off him.

Hmm, perhaps he wasn't drunk after all.

What? He knew that. He was ill.

Russia reached down while keeping him supported and his nose ended up buried in the hair at the back of the taller man's neck. God, this was pathetic. It took no time for him to retrieve the key card, right himself, and slide it a few times until a bright green light winked at them. He wrenched the door open with a spare hand and the both of them waited in the threshold, not moving.

"Can you walk?"

His eyes flicked down to his feet. Russia was giving him the option here to salvage some bit of his pride—as much as could be salvaged after falling over, being sick, and having to be supported on the short walk to his hotel room.

"Yes," England breathed, his tone left little room for backing out, "Cheers. Sorry about the—your scarf." His hand reached out to grab the doorframe once the other man stepped back and, for whatever reason, England knew the apology was acknowledged, even though he couldn't see a nod or anything while his back was to him.

Once he made it passed the door with jelly legs, Russia pulled the door shut. As soon as he heard heavy footsteps making their way back down the hall, England pressed his head against plaster and let out a long breath. That was, quite possibly, the most embarrassing and God awful situation he could have put himself through. Here he was, thinking yesterday would be the worst of it. Oh, no, today had to go and step it up!

And, great, now his headache was easing off again, right after he had made an arse of himself. Fucking brilliant.

A drink would be lovely right about now, something to keep him from wallowing in his dreadful embarrassment and take the edge off. Perhaps he should phone America, see what he was up to? Go on a cheeky pub crawl?

Right, yeah. He was ill. Alcohol was probably the last thing he needed. Gritting his teeth, England kicked his briefcase in the vague direction of the bed and wrestled his phone out from his pocket to blink blearily at the screen. No missed calls or texts. He was a popular one today, eh?

He eyed the bed from the corner of his vision. Perhaps it would be best if he just took it easy.

Yeah. Have a lie down for a bit.

England had toiled over slowly peeling off his shoes, tie, suit jacket, trousers, all that rubbish and slipped underneath the duvet to have a kip for an hour or so; trapping all that warmth as he bundled the blanket around his still-trembling form.

When he finally found a spot he was comfortable in and let his eyes fall shut, his phone went off.

First chapter done! I'm having a lot of fun messing around with how the telepathy works/affects England this time around. My biggest issue with the original version of this story was pacing so I'm hoping this is slowing things down a bit and giving characters time to breathe (crossing my fingers)!

If there are any typos or grammatical errors, please let me know, I have a tendency to mix up "on" and "one" and shit like that. I edited it a few times, but I wouldn't be surprised if I missed something. And, of course, any and all constructive criticism is greatly appreciated. I should be finishing up with the next chapter by the end of the week!