The UK smirked as he swaggered confidently into the empty conference room, arriving early to the world meeting as usual so that he might give all of the other nations his best smug look as they drifted in and realised that the UK's organisation was, once again, superior to theirs.
The fact that today was his turn to make America's life a bit more difficult with a dare certainly did nothing to harm his good mood.
The UK's smile widened as he considered the small game he had been playing with America recently. It had started a month ago when his phone had gone off during a G8 meeting and the younger country had made a flippant remark on the UK's punk-rock ringtone. When the UK had rolled his eyes in response, America had dared him to change his ringtone to a brain-breakingly noisy dubstep "song" for twenty-four hours, and then proceeded to call him incessantly at all hours of the day and night.
Twenty-four hours later, the UK had retrieved his broken, defenestrated mobile phone from the hedge in his garden, marched up to America, and dared the impertinent country to successfully recycle the fistful of mangled phone components.
Needless to say, America had found the concept of recycling to be fundamentally confusing, so it was two weeks before the UK received confirmation that the task had been completed successfully (although he strongly suspected that Germany or Austria had had something to do with that fact).
A couple of days later, America had retaliated by demanding that the UK dye his hair green for twenty-four hours. Much to America's chagrin, the UK had obliged, even going so far as to claim that he liked the colour and was pleased that it matched his eyes.
Hey, what's the point of being on the receiving end if you can't convince your opponent that you're actually winning?
The dye had washed out the next day and the UK had trotted around to America's house, clutching a copy of Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone. The UK had thrust the book at America, insisting that he read it and prepare to be tested on it the next day.
"B... but..." America had protested, "it has so many words!"
"Yep! Have fun!" the UK had confirmed, making a speedy retreat before America could hurl the book back at him.
The next day, America had shown up for the test with a crude lightning-bolt scar scribbled on his forehead in biro, wearing red and gold, and brandishing a stick, wittering about how Gryffindor was "TOTALLY THE BEST HOUSE, BRO!"
Okay, the UK admitted that that dare had backfired somewhat.
Finally, last week America had responded with a stupid challenge to eat some disgusting concoction comprised of bacon, bacon and more bacon. The UK had put on his best smile and eaten the eldritch abomination, hoping that America would be so convinced by his cheery performance that he would never be forced to undergo the horror of eating anything like that ever again.
And so, today, the UK was feeling particularly evil, even though he hadn't quite worked out exactly what his dare to America was going to be.
There was an almighty clatter somewhere in the corridor, and the UK rose to his feet, preparing to rush out and see what the disturbance was. However, before he could move, the door banged open and America fell into the room, a Gryffindor scarf wound tightly around his neck.
"Dude!" he exclaimed, staring at the UK. "You stood up for my entrance! That must mean I'm important!"
The UK sunk back into his seat, pointedly looking anywhere but at America. "You know, wearing that scarf means it would be easier than ever to strangle you if I felt so inclined," he muttered, folding his arms.
"Don't be such a Slytherin, bro," America responded, taking a seat next to the UK and staring around the empty room. The UK noticed for the first time that America appeared to have brought a small trailer of burgers, which he was dragging behind him.
"Slytherins aren't all evil," the UK pointed out. "They're clever, and there's nothing wrong with being ambitious."
"There is if you're a totally powerless wimp and haven't a hope of ever achieving that ambition," America intoned, reaching behind him and seizing a burger from the trailer.
The UK fumed. "At least I can go an entire meeting without stuffing my face."
America raised an eyebrow. "So can I. It's just a burger, dude."
"Yeah, the first of a dozen," snapped the UK. "I dare you to go the whole meeting without eating a burger."
America's eyes widened in shock. "Come on, bro, don't you think that's a bit harsh?"
"Not at all," the UK replied, nonchalantly, as the door opened and Germany appeared, dragging a protesting Italy behind him.
One by one, more countries entered the room until eventually the table was full, and the meeting began.
After about five minutes, it was clear that America was having problems.
"Dude!" America hissed. "It's been, like, an hour. Isn't that long enough?"
"It's been five minutes, you wuss!" The UK responded, smirking as America's face fell. "Aren't you supposed to be an hero? Only weaklings let silly things like withdrawal symptoms get the best of them."
The rest of the meeting passed uneventfully, excerpt for America's periodic mutterings of ""you're so cruel, Britain," and incoherent groaning.
When the meeting was finally over and Germany had had his final say, there was one big scraping noise as every country drew their chairs back and stood up, and everybody started mingling.
The UK finally looked at America, and saw that the younger nation's face was completely white and his hands were shaking.
"Can I eat a burger now?" he asked, his voice barely more than a whisper.
The UK was tempted to say no, on the grounds that the hoarse whisper was preferable to energetic yelling, but the sorry sight of America in such a bad way seemed to tug on his heartstrings and he found that he just couldn't torture the poor kid any more.
"Oh, fine," the UK conceded, and the colour immediately returned to America's face, along with his usual maniacal grin.
"Awesome!" America shouted, his voice immediately returning to normal at the prospect of shoving a burger down his face. America seized three burgers from his trailer and swallowed them in one go, beaming.
"I believe it's my turn to dare you, now," America finally said, his features taking on a sinister expression as his eyes lit up with malice. "So... I dare you to say something nice to France. Right now."
Well, that was the last time he was ever going to take pity on America.
The UK glanced over America's shoulder to find his eyes assaulted by the sight of his irritating dandy of a neighbour poncing about by Spain, his blue overcoat fluttering around his shins in a manner most unsuited to a military uniform.
No. This game had definitely gone too far now.
"I absolutely refuse," the UK huffed, folding his arms stubbornly.
America's smile widened and he clapped a hand on the UK's shoulder. "Guess I win, then."
The UK felt the colour leaving his face as he saw America slowly turning around, heading for the door.
"Wait!" he called out, and America stopped in his tracks. "I'll do it," the UK grudgingly conceded, and he began wracking his brains for an aspect of France which was slightly less detestable than the rest of him to compliment him on as America cocked an eyebrow and looked at the UK in amusement.
After what felt like a century, the UK decided on France's hair. He had always sort of admired the length... not that he'd be admitting that out loud anytime soon.
Oh, wait. Yes, he would.
Crap.
"Hey, France! Britain has something he'd like to tell you!"
The UK's heart sank as America's voice rang out over the chattering crowd, the following silence more deafening than any argument the walls of the room had seen in the past. France turned away from Spain and looked curiously at the UK, who found himself pushed forwards by America.
Okay, it's not too difficult. Just tell him you like his hair.
"Oh? What is it, Britain?" France asked, an enormous smile plastered across his face. The UK never had liked that smirk.
I like your hair. Just say it. I like your hair.
The UK steeled himself, gritting his teeth.
I like your hair.
France laughed. "Onhonhonhonhonhon!"
I...
"I HATE YOUR STUPID FACE!" the UK exploded, before storming away towards the door.
The entire room burst into laughter, but nobody laughed harder than America. France frowned. "Well, I may be getting on a bit, but you're certainly no oil painting," he sniffed at the UK's retreating back.
When he was out of the room, the UK felt somebody poking him in the back and turned around to find himself facing an unreasonably cheerful America.
"Fine," said the UK, through his teeth. "You win."