Includes speculation for a variety of pairings, some of which contradict each other. If you dislike one of them, remember this is speculation from France's, Italy's, and Germany's rather cracky minds.

"GERMANYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY YYYYYYYY!"

Germany valued his free time to an almost obsessive degree—almost as obsessively as he valued his organization. In fact, it was debatable that his love of order was the reason he valued the ever-so-rare moments he had to relax—only made rarer thanks to a certain bumbling Italian. He especially needed the breaks during World Meetings, not only to gather his no doubt by then frazzled nerves but also to think of a plan to keep the entire world in check. Again.

And again—for the love of all things good and holy—Italy had managed to track him down to his newest hiding location (not that he was actively avoiding his friend on a regular basis; he just really needed to focus in that small fifteen minute slot between meetings) in the janitor's closet and come up with a new dilemma.

And inevitably (for the love of everything good and holy), only Germany could fix the problem.

"Germany—Germany—Germany!"

"Calm down, Italy!" That muscle in his jaw that always seemed to twitch only when Italy was around—Italy had once considered naming it—was beginning to leap with a sort of venom, as if a harbinger of horrors to come. "I've told you many times not to bother me between meetings unless there's an emergency—"

"America!" Italy was bawling, beginning to agitate the cat on his shoulder, who was in turn beginning to claw steadily through Italy's uniform. "America—America's dying!"

Ten deep breaths. Germany thought of Japan's calming method, counting slowly as he shut Italy's frantic squeals out of his head. Ten…nine…eight…seven—WHAT?!

"Italy." Teeth gritting—stage two of his rage?—Germany pressed a hand to Italy's shoulder, grabbing the small country's attention. "What makes you think America is dying?"

It took a moment of thought for Italy to drag his attention from the colorful pictures of Germany's handouts and remember what exactly had happened. His eyebrows met slightly, hair curl bobbing as he nodded, mumbling quietly to himself, the cat, and Germany in turn before he looked up. "Ve—It's England! England's killing America!"

"That," scoffed Germany, no longer finding the strength to yell at Italy but unable to keep humoring him, "is an everyday occurrence. There is no problem there."

"No—but England punched him and America's lip is bleeding and I'm afraid of blood and—"

Slamming his folder shut with a resigned sigh before once again placing a hand on Italy's shoulder to stop him from working himself back into panic, Germany tucked it into a fold of his military jacket, brushing off his coat from the dusty closet (he really should stop even trying to hide) and pulled Italy out of the closet behind him, shutting it firmly.

"Fine, if it worries you so much, I'll take a look at it." Letting go of Italy's hand as his attention turned to navigating through the hallways, he stopped short when Italy once again yelped out his name.

"What is it, Italy?!"

"Ve—Germany, I don't know how to get back."

There was a heavy pause, Germany attempting to wrap his head around Italy's logic and once again failing spectacularly. "You found your way to me despite the fact I never told you where I was, but you can't get back to the biggest meeting room in this entire building?"

"Yes!"

The chipper tone in Italy's voice made Germany wonder whether the period between the meetings would cause him more self-inflicted brain damage than the actual meetings themselves.

The weird aspect of the situation was not the fact that angry British elocutions and lackadaisical American insults with a thinly-veiled punch were being thrown around like softballs. It was not the occasional thump clearly portraying physical violence in the room. It was not even the fact that in the background, the normally calm voice of Austria had become hysterically high as it mingled with his own brother's (when the heck had he gotten there?), punctuated by the sound of even more bickering nations.

No, the truly unnerving detail was that France, of all people, was blocking Germany's way into the room, arms spread across the doorway.

Weak, whimpering, second-Italy-sort-of-pitiful France was not running from the carnage, or interjecting England and America's argument with something against the big-browed gentleman, or plucking up the leftovers of fights to make himself seem (read as: feel) strong, or making some sort of unappreciated perverted comment about the physically tussling countries.

France was standing in the way of Germany (not only that, but Germany's death glare and Italy's puppy-dog face combined). Germany. That, and he was blocking the way to the world meeting—which had been slated to start about five minutes ago.

"Let. Me. In."

That whining-Italy-muscle in his jaw was beginning to twitch at France's stubborn shake of the head. Dear God, Germany was going to have to go to therapy a lot more often from that point on.

"Non, non! S'il vous plait, Allemagne! Je ne sais pas, but I am pretty sure I cannot let you get in the way of l'amour!"

French beginning to bleed into his increasingly panicked tone, Germany raised an eyebrow at the country's heavy accent. "What is it?! Why not?"

"L'amour." The word made France's face light up—which, seeing as it was France, completely freaked Germany out. "Love is beautiful and cannot be interrupted, non?"

"L-Love?" Italy spoke, wincing as a particularly fierce shout—was that Hungary?—rung through their ears. "But how are they acting in love, big brother?" Tilting his head to listen, Germany found himself imitating that motion as all three countries turned to listen to the feuds.

"You know what I mean, old man—"

"GIVE BACK AUSTRIA'S—"

"—Nothing to do with it, you sodding—"

"You are insane, aru!"

"Zzzzz…"

"The awesome me doesn't—"

"And I suppose Belgium—"

"—Seriously the only word in your vocabulary?"

"You are dating me, you—"

"Greece-san, please think—"

"I don't—"

"Kesesesesese—"

"CHIGI—"

"Kolkolkolkolkolkolkol—"

All three countries winced. Almost simultaneously. Quite a feat, considering that it was, well, Italy, Germany, and France.

"Ah, my dear Italy," France murmured, hands beginning to pass from the doorway to Italy's body—apparently he still hadn't gotten over his urge to possess the two Italians. Germany rolled his eyes, flicking the safety off a pistol on his hip. Before he had even drawn the gun, France backed away, tactfully ignoring the motion. "There are plenty of ways to express l'amour. It just so happens that some less savory countries seem to prefer through BST."

There was a pause before German spoke slowly. "…BST stands for bullshit."

"Ah bon?" France's fingers went back to the doorframe, blocking German's small two-second view of America and England tackling each other, Japan trying in vain to argue with a slumbering Greece, Hungary and Austria grabbing separate handles of one pan to slam it over Prussia's head. "Ah, Germany, you think all too close-mindedly." He spread his arms, still conveniently covering the only entrance. "Those who speak the language of love know that BST is belligerent sexual tension!"

Germany raised an eyebrow.

"…That, or Japan."

Japan. Germany wondered when he had become so unlucky that even his allies managed to add to his own bad luck. Shrugging, he grabbed almost frantically at Italy's shoulder again, beginning to worry. "Italy, let's go. France has things under control. We don't need to stay here any longer—"

"Big brother, what exactly is BST?"

And there went his sanity, smashed into bits.

France's smile grew wider as he slipped into his element—and as his arm slipped over Italy's shoulders as his hand grasped onto his elbow. "Ah, Italy! Let Big Brother teach you about the wonders of l'amour…oh, and I suppose Allemagne can listen in too."

Germany was about to completely ignore the fact that he was tacked on as an afterthought and slip away unnoticed, but Italy (always Italy) clung onto his arm, almost gouging his elbow out. "Please, Germany, stay with me! I want to learn from France about bel—bell—belligerent sexual tension!"

Only Italy could say that with a straight face. Furthermore, only Italy could make Germany listen to those words…with a straight face.

"Whatever," he sighed, not even bothering to ponder whether or not it couldn't hurt, seeing as he knew full well that it was going to. "Lead the way. Just let me in to the world meeting, deal?"

Not that it looked like he was going to be getting anything done, he thought, startled as France presented the scene to his horrified eyes. England and America had finally stopped trading punches, although both looked decidedly more haggard and messy. England's eyebrows were rubbed in opposite directions and America's bomber jacket was torn. Both countries were breathing heavily, yet still managing to yell at each other. America looked as if though he was ready to throw some of England's scones at their master, and England looked ready to go pre-American Revolution on his once little brother and give him either a time out or a thorough spanking with a coat hanger.

"This is my first example," France smiled, perfectly oblivious to England and America's argument. "America and England. You see how they fight each other and only each other? Why, though I am standing right beside Angleterre, he is not yet yelling at me." He paused to look back, making sure that the two countries were still proving him right. They were.

"Why is that, big brother?"

"Ah, mon frère," smiled France as he squeezed Italy closer to his side. "This is because they desire one another's attention, no? England has very strong feelings for l'Amerique, and vice versa. It is simply that past bad experiences and both of their rather…what is the word?...tsundere personalities cause them to channel this into anger. In reality, they lust for each other."

Germany shivered away from the lecherous and rather dark look overtaking his gaze. He could not stop himself, however, from slapping a hand too late over France's mouth when he spoke again: "Plus, this leads to a rather interesting prospect of hate se—"

Oblivious Italy, as usual, did not notice, instead asking a question after contemplating much too seriously for the situation. "So…by this standard…does that mean that you and England also have this…BST?"

"Ohonhon…ohonhonhonho—AH!"

It was at that point that England finally chose to hear the people around him, and with it, the last comment. Both homicidal English-speaking nations were now glaring rather openly at France. Italy turned to England, still smiling stupidly as he asked again. "Mr. England! Can you tell me if you and France have bel—bell—Germany, what is it?"

"Um…belligerent sexual tension…"

The glare Germany received almost made him fear for England's sanity yet again. Nevertheless, the tea drinking nation turned a measured glare to Italy that came only from years of experience with Feliciano Vargas.

"No, me and that bloody frog do not have this belligerent sexual tension. There's actually such thing as enemies in this world, believe it or not, and that is what France and I share. A nice, happy rivalry that allows me to freely shave off his sodding limbs one by one as soon as the younger countries are out of the room."

"Was that aimed at me?" Pushing Texas further up his nose, America turned back to England. "I am not young! I mean…I'm younger than you, but I'm not…young…um…you're just an old man, anyway! What would you know?!"

"And yet more proof he cares for l'Amerique—je regrette! Je regrette!"

"I meant Italy himself, wanker." Scoffing at France's somewhat lame but fitting comeback of how that was exactly what he was England turned back to glare at all of them simultaneously. "I refuse to comment on your so-called lesson, seeing as it wouldn't save this hopeless process at all. America and I clearly already want to kill you, and keeping this up will only serve to strengthen the inevitable signing of your own will. You have ten seconds to get out of here before I maim all of you, regardless of age or not."

France and Germany together grabbed Italy by an arm each before hauling him off and leaving the two to bicker in peace as France whispered into their ears. "Do you see what I mean?"

"That's…debatable…"

"Ah! Look! Example number two, my friend!"

Oh dear God.

"Are you kidding?!" It was Germany who hissed into the Frenchman's ear this time, beginning to fear both for his physical and mental health. "That is Romano!"

"And?"

Germany bugged his eyes out as hard as he could at France, trying to bring his incredulous yet deadly stare closer to his foe's face as possible. "Aside from him wanting to kill me violently for befriending—yes, that is all, I know your perverted theories—his brother, you seem to forget he does not belong here! One Italy is enough for the world! Besides, there is only one country of Italy, and that is not Romano! He shouldn't even be here."

"Yes, yes, Spain snuck him in. Is there a problem?"

Grappling wildly at the air, Germany silently continued motioning as France turned away, blissfully ignoring him and tapping Italy's shoulder to get his attention back from the tomatoes Romano had brought. "Here, my friend, is my second great example. Romano and Spain!"

"POTATO BASTARD!"

Germany was a strict rule follower, but he was not homicidal. However, throwing Romano out would be getting rid of the exponentially growing murderous force in front of him—if he wasn't murdered while throwing him of the premises.

"Lovi, why not stop yelling at Germany? He helps your brother often, after all—"

"Shut up, tomato bastard! He's brainwashing him!"

"I find it funny you are calling me the tomato bastard, Lovi," Spain sang, shit-eating grin widening as he plucked a tomato from the bag Romano was juggling in his arms. "You have plenty of tomatoes yourself, no?"

"You are the first tomato bastard!" Romano yelled. "You introduced me to tomatoes, so you must be brainwashing me, too! Are you and the potato bastard conspiring together? Are you trying to turn my brother against me?"

"Come now, Romano," Spain said, still grinning, though a small edge came into his tone. "Don't make stupid accusations you cannot back up. I will go Armada on you—"

"—You never go Armada on me, tomato bastard," Romano scoffed. "You like me too much for that."

"Eh." Spain waved the comment off. "For old time's sake, then, I let it slide?"

"Whatever—GET YOUR OWN TOMATOES!"

Germany had seen enough, and apparently, France had found enough evidence too, for he made no objection as Germany dragged them away from the munching and laughing Spain. Stopping short in a safely secluded corner rather close to a heaving dustball of fighting figures, Germany and Italy both turned to France. Simultaneously—

"So how is that be—BST?"

"What the hell did that prove?"

"You saw the way Romano and Spain softened in the last moments of the argument, despite their consistent arguing at the beginning" France laughed, eyes sparkling rather crazily in an altogether uncontrollable way. "That is proof enough."

Germany didn't really get it; however, Italy nodded. "Ve—I like this, big brother! What else do you know?"

"Haha, now it's time to get into the thick of the fray, mon ami!" France's eyes glinted. "The last of my friends, our glorious trio—"

"Oh God."

France's self-proclaimed 'Bad Touch Trio' had three members. Germany knew them all too well, and had already seen two today—two too many. The third one he saw every day, and the third one was, in many ways, the one he needed least.

"Ve—what is wrong, Germany?"

"Why, Italy, I should think it would be obvious. We are paying a visit to Prusse, non?"

It was not only Prussia they were meeting.

Nope. Somehow, Germany found himself in the middle of the tussling group he had seen moments before, in the middle of a heated circle of countries—Austria, Hungary, Switzerland, and yes, Prussia.

"I used to take care of you, stupid one—"

"Whatever. Go corrupt Liechtenstein. I'm busy arguing with others." Waving a long-fingered hand toward Prussia and Hungary, Austria wiggled his fingers toward his former friend. As Switzerland sputtered, Liechtenstein leaned closer—visiting with Switzerland as America once had visited with England.

"Big brother? Can we go now? Mr. Austria is busy."

"Yes. Come, Liechtenstein. I don't want you corrupted by these idiots any longer." Picking up his gun and the excuse his sister had provided, Switzerland pounded out of the room, waving his weapon angrily at the other countries as he passed, Liechtenstein humming softly as she followed in his wake.

"Why, bruder! Come to see the awesome me, have you?"

Death onto France and all of his kin.

"…Bruder." Germany jerked his head, as if trying to shake off a fly. "Hallo. I didn't know you were allowed here since that incident in Washington—is that my beer?!"

"This?" Waving a brown-tinted bottle into the air as he swigged, Prussia grinned. "You hide this in the worst places, brother. In your bottom desk drawer, button in the back, locked in a trunk with the keycode 'wurst.' You make it too easy."

In a stunning display of brotherly affection, Germany conveniently failed to inform Prussia that Hungary had once again begun to sneak out behind him with her frying pan.

"Alright, bruder." Rubbing his head and glaring at the girl, Prussia tossed the bottle back to Germany, failing to close the top and laughing hysterically as the beer spilled all over Austria through midair before smacking Germany straight up in the face.

"…Prussia…"

"Yes, Austria, that's my name." Smirking, he turned to Austria, ignoring Hungary's rather jealous glare. "Don't wear it out, although it may be difficult for you to resist my awesomeness—"

"You wish," muttered the piano player, smiling slightly as Hungary whacked his foe over the head yet again. "Thank you, dear."

"Spare me," spat out Prussia. "I'm leaving now, before bruder figures out that he hid his diary with his beer and comes after me. Goodbye, bruder—don't forget that you still owe the awesome me some more beer. I lose all my country benefits now, can you believe it? They just can't see how awesome I am…"

And then he was gone, cheeping bird on his shoulder incessantly ringing his voice into Germany's ears.

"Okay. Wait. What?!"

As Austria left to pound out his feelings onto the nearest piano and Hungary followed with an expression that was 5% sweet and 95% stalker, Germany and Italy once again turned to France.

"So how is that BST?"

"What the hell does that prove?"

Déjà vu?

"A lot, mon chere!" If possible, France's eyes had reached their freakiest point—the event horizon of matchmaking insanity. "In fact, this has been illuminating even for me! I knew that Austria and Hungary had their old love for each other, and that Hungary and Prussia's childhood crushes still plagued them—"

"Childhood crushes?! My brother did not have a crush on Hungary—for Pete's sake, he thought she was a boy when they were children!"

"Your brother is obviously not as straight as he seems," France retorted, eyes glinting. "Did you detect the jealousy in his last retort? He is clearly jealous of Austria's attention of Hungary! Haha! It is truly a love triangle now! Even better, a threesome!"

"You want my brother…in a threesome?!"

Germany's voice began to reach octaves heard by only bats, dolphins, and soprano singers as Italy pulled up. "What's wrong with seeing a brother in a relationship? I want to see Romano with Big Brother Spain—"

"A threesome. A threesome."

"Why yes, Allemagne, a threesome. Who would be the middle, I wonder?"

Germany settled on giving France the worst glare he could muster, continuing to glare even as France tapered off his odd laugh and began to cough lightly.

"Erm…perhaps we should move on to different subjects, oui?"

There was a pause. Germany continued to glare.

"Allemagne, you are a joker, no?"

Even Italy didn't fill Germany's horrifying silence.

"Russia and China it is, then."

"What?!"

"Ah, so you do speak." French's self-satisfied smirk returned. "That is good, I was worried—"

"You want to pin belligerent sexual tension on Russia and China?!" Germany was now beginning to fear for France's mental sanity—and with it, all three of their physical safeties. "Russia—as in, sadistic, mentally off, childishly oblivious dark side—and China—wise but easily fired up, nostalgic and family-inhibited four thousand year old ancient?"

"But of course!" France smiled. "Right there!"

Following France's very unsubtle outstretched finger (if Russia saw that finger, they were all dead), Germany's eyebrows creased, raised, and narrowed all at once—possibly only an expression Germany himself could pull off—as he saw China standing over and scolding a…panda?

And then the panda pulled of his head, and Germany gave a half-sigh and half-flinch of terror. It was Russia. Of course. Nothing out of the usual. Just, oh, Russia in a panda costume.

Germany was going to die. Very soon. Preferably soon.

Why couldn't England just have been killing America, like Italy had thought in the first place?

"And exactly why are you sneaking up on me, aru?!"

"It is nothing of your concern, da? You need not know…at least until you become one with Mother Ru—"

"Aiyah, how long must I say this—stop with the Mother Russia!" Clenching his fist into his hair and tightening his ponytail before letting his hand fall over his face in the process, China leaned closer, poking Russia in the chest to enunciate every word while still somehow managing to keep most of his small frame at least two feet away from the scary country. "Why do you stalk me so much, anyway? Go bother America!"

"But you are also the funniest to watch over now…"

"Watch over? This is your way of expressing affection?" Sighing heavily, the Asian country ran a palm over his face once again, he turned away and sat back into his chair, a small smirk of amusement threatening to overthrow his face at the other country's odd mannerisms. "Don't you have sisters?"

As an automatic reflex, the cold country began to shiver, mumbling about 'little sister' multiple times as he clutched frantically at his scarf. China sighed, muttering. "An unhappy Russia is a deadly Russia…"

Standing up, he turned back toward the Russian, picking up the panda head and placing it squarely into his hands. "Okay, not your sisters…but if everyone is going to be one with Mother Russia, Mother Russia must watch equally over everyone and not show favorites, right?"

"Right!" Perking up, Russia pranced away, jamming the panda head squarely over his face before tucking the scarf into the collar. "Let me go find my little Lithuania!"

As China sat back down and France steered them away, Germany turned to the self-proclaimed 'country of l'amour' as he spoke. "I can see the camaraderie, fine. But the two have always been closer than most of the others because of their geographical proximity. And there is no 'belligerent' in this!"

"And you have just proved my point, Germany," France grinned, looking up at him with yet another decidedly scary grin—although not quite as bad as his trademark 'invade-the-vital-regions' glare. It was actually half-logical. It really made the wurst-loving country want to run all the faster. "True, they are close partially because they are located close to each other—but then again, that is just it. They are close to each other—closer than most. In the end, it doesn't matter how they became close. It is simply that they are. And that is what matters."

Only France could find his true calling, his area of expertise, in getting countries together. Except for perhaps Hungary, but she had her frying pan.

Germany didn't know whether to throttle him for having a stupid strong point or praise him for having some sort of capability.

"You still haven't answered my second question," muttered Germany, sighing as Italy praised France for his ability to 'outsmart even Germany, ve!' France shot Germany a quizzical look, almost calculating, and he shivered involuntarily.

Before France could answer, Italy piped in, the mere beginning of his voice sending bad feelings down Germany's spine. "So do America and Russia have this BST too?"

"That is once again another good point, mon ami! You are catching on! Next time you can join Big Brother France's lesson on…other things…" France's smile grew toothy and snarky, but faded quickly again as Germany's hand twitched slightly on his infamous gun. "Well, it is debatable, but in my expert opinion, I believe that it is different from BST."

"But Russia stalks America and America yells at Russia," protested Italy—was Italy trying to put America and Russia together? Being in the same breathing space as France was obviously getting to him.

"True." France frowned. "However, Russia has no need to stalk China, whereas with America he actually has a longstanding nuclear grudge against him. In addition, America yells at everyone at one point or another. And he enjoys arguing with Russia about as much as he enjoys arguing with England, Canada, and, of course, moi. So I would say no." Germany relaxed, slightly surprised at how logical France sounded, before the effect was abruptly ruined as 'Big Brother' raised a finger as if in revelation. "However, this once again leads to the interesting topic of hate sex—"

Click.

"Take the bullet out of the chamber, Allemagne. I was simply pointing it out."

"Second question." Germany repeated the words with a harsh glare before slowly pulled back the stopper, withdrawing the sliver of metal. "I will overlook that, if only you answer my question. Now."

"Hm." France obediently turned away, tactfully ignoring the intimidating glare. "You mean the topic of whether it is truly BST? I always consider the stalking Russia does to be the behavior known as 'belligerent,' unwanted and invasive, non? However…I do believe that you are right when you say that with Russia's mindset, perhaps, it would not be quite as purposefully hostile as it seems." Quirking an eyebrow up at the ceiling and pausing only to shoot an unquestionably lecherous stare at a variety of different countries, French smiled up at Germany. It gave him the horrifying feeling that he was become just as much a part of this as Italy. "Yes, this is not so much BST from the two country's point of views as it is from ours. So perhaps it is a unique blend of harsh BST and gentler UST, non? This is indeed interesting…perhaps I should look into this more."

Germany's hand almost flew to his mouth—keyword, almost. Nevertheless, he gritted his teeth, shading his eyes with his hand angrily as he growled lowly. Don't ask him…don't ask…don'taskdon'taskdon't—

"Ve-! Big Brother France, what is UST?"

You asked.

There were times when Germany wanted to kill himself.

"Oh, I see that you yet wish to learn more about the wonders of l'amour?" France's smile grew exponentially—and with it, Germany's impeding sense of doom. "Very well. UST is unresolved sexual tension, and quite a bigger topic than BST. This calls for yet more examples!"

As France tightened his grip on Italy's shoulder and led him away, Germany smacked a hand to his face and attempted to ignore Italy's fading cry of 've, Germany, doesn't that hurt?' Shaking his head, he turned away toward his fighting comrades as he spoke quietly to himself. "I'm not going to follow Italy. I will not—"

He trotted obediently behind the two, berating himself multiple times the whole way.

"So, what forms do UST usually take, then? What's the difference, anyway?"

Germany considered asking the questions himself, making the best of a horrifying situation by throwing himself into it with enthusiasm. Possibly not the best call, though—in the end, he decided to just stay with retaining his sanity. Italy, unfortunately, asked all the questions anyways. And France, as usual, was just too eager to answer.

"Well, BST is actually a part of UST…but the most common occurrence of it among us countries that doesn't include the aforementioned yelling is, sadly, with one country bothering the other about the sexual tension that exists while the other refuses to acknowledge it."

"And where is this first example of ours?" Germany tapped his foot, gripping his gun, and added words hastily as France raised a single plucked eyebrow. "I'd like to get this over with so we can actually be productive, ja?"

"Our first example is rather close to home for the two of you," France smiled, standing squarely in front of them with both hands on his hips and a smile that seemed to scream revenge for all the times you've bullied me. It scared Germany, made him wonder what humiliation he was about to receive courtesy his friends—but then again, what could be worse than his own brother?

France stepped aside to present Japan—smart, commonsensical Japan of all people—to Germany's eyes.

His Allies just kept letting him down today.

"Greece-san, I hardly think that this is the time to be discussing these things! It is a World Meeting!"

"Look around you, Japan…nobody's doing anything productive like that. 'Sides, we don't see each other often, it's been real busy lately…"

Japan looked ready to soften to friendship, at the least, but Greece spoke again—"So can we talk about the sex education lessons?"

"Girisha-san!" Japan sputtered, turning head back and forth in confusion before fixating his gaze, horrified and embarrassed, onto his allies. "Doitsu! Italia!" Snapping out of his native language, Japan shook his head. "I assure you, it is not as it sounds—I mean, Greece is speaking nonsense—" His hysterical eyes landed on France, the resident world gossiper. "Furansu! Nothing has happened, really, I—"

Germany had never before seen his friend worked up to that level, and it honestly scared him. And the rapid-fire mix of Japanese and English flying from his mouth wasn't helping either—by experience and reflex, when people did that, they were generally either saying something insulting or inappropriate. That, or they had gone off the deep end. Germany was beginning to believe more and more that it was the latter.

Greece chose this moment, of course, to yawn, shift a cat into a more stable position on his skull, and place a hand on Japan's shoulder.

The reaction was immediate. Japan practically jumped in surprise at the sudden touch from behind, scrambling away and muttering something about 'taking responsibility.' France sighed, steering them away with a steady hand that was inching rather disturbingly toward Germany's private parts.

"With all his experience in these areas, you'd believe Japan would learn to know his own symptoms when he sees them…"

France sighed, and Italy seemed to take this as an acceptable response; however, Germany found the sudden need to intervene and save the Axis Powers' face before it was permanently scarred. "Japan does not have UST with Greece! That is just unthinkable! Japan barely even speaks to him compared to the time he spends with me and Italy!"

"Hm, yes." France mockingly placed a finger under his chin. Germany got the distinct impression he was missing a link. "However, with who else does Japan vehemently deny ever having had…what was it? Ah, yes. Sex education classes."

"...What?!"

Apparently, Germany didn't know Japan half as well as he thought he did—or half as well as Italy did, seeing as while his friend nodded confidently, accepting already-known information, Germany was completely taken by shock at the declaration. France simply rolled his eyes.

"Mon cher, I am surprised you have yet to hear of this…actually, seeing as you are Germany and therefore avoid anything remotely social to the extreme, I am really not. However, the talk has been circulating for almost decades now. Japan is in deep denial, but general consensus seems to concur that these mysterious lessons did indeed take place…"

"Nein, nein, nein, I refuse to believe—mein gott, it really happened, didn't it?" Sighing, Germany sank down into the nearest chair, eyebrows furrowed tightly in a knot at the top of his nose, and automatically slammed his head onto the surface of the mahogany of the wood. He again chose to ignore Italy's question of whether or not it hurt (of course it did, that was kind of the point), and instead focused on the only other voice directed to him. Bad call.

"However, it seems apparent that these lessons brought out Japan's previously unknown kinky side and—"

"NEXT EXAMPLE, NOW!"

Cross-dressers and crybabies. Germany had patience for neither, and both were dancing circles in front of his eyes, brought on by the biggest pervert in the century—all while accompanied by an Italian.

It was like one of his worst nightmares, placed before him in horrifying reality.

"Like, seriously—I don't see the need to worry. I mean, like, Russia can't hurt me, can he? D'ya want me to prove it? I can, like, I don't know, call him here right now!"

Very, very horrifying reality.

"Ne, niekada!" Lithuania backtracked rather quickly, eyes widening and darting in fear. "It's something I heard in Russia's house, that's all! And be careful, Russia is capable of quite a lot!"

"He can't hurt me," Poland replied flippantly, fastidiously dusting lint after piece of lint off of his pale pink clothing—really? "Has he been bullying you, though? It sounds like it."

"I—Mister Russia is perfectly k-kind to us Baltics," Lithuania muttered. Poland, however, caught the sideways glance he gave and sighed.

"Don't worry, Liet," he sighed, placing a hand on his shoulder slowly as if asking for permission. "I'll make sure he doesn't do anything…really bad." As if reconsidering his phrase, he smiled. "After all, we're still friends! Right?"

"Right." Lithuania's stutter made a small appearance that passed rather quickly as he gave a small smile despite the upturned eyebrows. "Friends…jerk."

He sniggered as Poland rolled his eyes, taking false offense at the equally fake insult. "What was that? What was that?!"

Germany heard a distinct shuffle as Italy and France departed and followed with a sigh, leaving in the wake of Poland's incessant yelling and Lithuania's once-again startled squawks—"That's it! Circumcision for you! We never got around to it last time—"

Automatically blocking out the noises (a good defense mechanism he had learned from all his years with Italy) behind him, Germany shuddered as he faced France's and Italy's conversation—it was probably even more disturbing than the one he had just left, actually, which didn't help. Nevertheless, he paid attention well enough to hear Italy. "But neither was making sexual advances, big brother!"

"Yes, but this is even better because we have proof, real concrete proof, that both want to increase their relationship! We can all see that the two want to become closer to each other, but neither of them are moving forward, right?"

"Hm…I suppose you're right! There was tension, it wanted to advance their connection, and the conversation ended with it unresolved! Ve—Germany, how was my analysis?"

"Surprisingly accurate," he replied, smooth answer despite his clenching jaw and gritted teeth. "Now if only you'd put half of that into your work in the war, I'd have a generally easier life."

Ignoring Italy's quiet, confused noise, he turned brusquely to France. The bringer of all his troubles quelled visibly under his harsh gaze. "What've we got next, then? Make it quick."

Every instinct of his was telling him to run far, far away and hide. Silently damning his sense of responsibility and protectiveness toward the small Italian at his side, he gave a mental sigh of relief that his muscles pushed into the physical world when his foe conceded that "this is the last one, Germany, no fear."

Of course, the sight of the battle ax as their next destination brought Germany no more of a sense of calm.

The sight of France visibly quailing at said weapon brought him no small sense of satisfaction.

"Hmph. France. Are you sure you want to go over there?" Germany gave a devious little smile. Oh yes. France had practically ripped out his sense of human decency and stuffed it full of—as England would put it—frog. Germany might as well get a laugh.

France let out a rather feminine squeal as Denmark turned, spinning his axe behind his back before slamming the butt of the handle into the hardwood floor. It was a rather intimidating motion, but more to impress. Denmark let out a snort as he turned to face France—"what's it you want right now? I'm kind of busy, you know."

As France stuttered, Denmark chanced a sly smile toward his friend—"So? Whaddya think? I've been practicing that trick forever—it looks pretty cool, right?"

"I'm sure it must've taken you quite a while," Norway replied quietly but sharply, turning away and subtly making the exact same motion with his own fingers, pen twisting in the same complicated way. The insult, per usual, rose completely over the Danish boy's head.

"Yeah! I put a lot of effort!" Grinning again and splitting his face into a wide smirk, eyebrows furrowing into the middle of his head, the way his eyes slanted downward didn't look angry as it would on some people—simply brazen and fearless, like he always was and enjoyed. "It looks pretty cool, doesn't it?"

"Stunning," Norway replied scathingly; his lips twitched. Germany couldn't quite tell whether it was because of the crack he had made at Denmark or a rare show of reciprocation for the friendship Denmark thought they shared. Denmark waited for more, but Norway did not speak.

"C'mon, Norge," Denmark smiled, stepping in a circle around his friend in rather jerky but excited movements. "Speak to me—that's what friends do right?"

France finally moved away, almost fleeing as Denmark turned toward him; however, he froze as Denmark directed his attention to him. "Hey, hold up!"

"Ah—ah, what is it?"

"Why the rush?" Denmark's eyebrows narrowed once again, this time in a rather cruel manner. "There are a couple of countries who want to talk to France. And his accomplices, for that matter," he tacked on as an afterthought, pointing to Italy and Germany in way that made the latter country want to damn France to hell.

"Wha—who—"

France, Germany, and Italy turned as one to see every country they'd scorned that day glaring at them, closing vehemently into a horseshoe and beginning to bridge the gap. France turned to Denmark, mouth agape.

"W—Why?!"

"Sorry, France," the Nordic replied, grinning all too widely despite the words. "England told Norway, and Norway kind asked me for the favor. I had to round up all the nations—that's what best friends do, right?"

The other boy simply sighed before turning with a soft mumble about Sweden and Finland. Denmark closed the circle and began to advance rather threateningly. Germany ignored Italy's whimper ('ve, Germany, I'm claustrophobic') and hissed through his teeth. "I have nothing to do with this!"

"I know," the Briton, the ringleader, replied. "I thought you might like to join us, seeing as the bloody frog's tongue might as well have fallen off from all the times we've had to hear him talk about you and Italy—"

"Italy?!"

"Angleterre is merely joking, Germany, I wouldn't—"

France's shaky sentence faltered completely as Germany stoically turned to the country of love. There was a second of tense silence before he turned back toward Britain, flicking the safety off of his gun again. There was an audible gulp as France slowly backed away from everyone—until Russia stepped rather protectively in front of him.

"There is no need for this. Why don't we just live in harmony under Mother Russia?"

"No one wants Mother Russia, aru!" China's tic was reappearing as his glare directed itself repetitively between Russia and France before finally resting on the Frenchman. "How could you even consider putting me with Russia, do you have any idea how traumatic it—"

"Now, my little China, be nice to me, da? France says you will be the first to fall for me—"

"That's why I'm trying to yell at him, ni zi ge da ben dan—"

"Come, why are you getting mad at each other?" Russia smiled as America's clenched fists began to shake, grin only widening as Romano stepped in front of him in an attempt to get to France first. It was becoming blatantly obvious that Russia was at this point simply against them to help create conflict, and not because he had a set opinion on the situation. "We are all friends, no?"

"Like hell," Poland replied scathingly, glance flickering to Lithuania and back. "But we all have a common enemy."

"Enemy?" Russia's eyes widened comically as he clapped his hands, clasping his pipe tightly in his palms. "Oh, but why is this?"

"Perverted wisecracks." Waving a hand flippantly, Prussia didn't take his glaring red eyes or smile off of Russia. "A lot of them. None of them awesome, all of them with countries who dislike each other. Not to mention between you and China."

"Hm…" Russia thought for a moment, pipe under chin, looking up theatrically at the ceiling. "…But all will become one with Mother Russia anyways, so there is no problem!"

England sighed, dragging Greece out of the way and lifting his heels slightly to face Russia eye-to-eye. "You. America. Hate sex. Suggested by France."

…

"We will kill him painfully, da?"

"Ah, Russie, don't be like that—"

There was a rather loud thwacking sound as Russia, with much contempt, swung his pipe toward France's skull. The large arm made a small motion that looked much like he was simply swatting a fly out of thin air; however, France spun in two full circles before moaning and bending over, clutching his head.

"Zut," he hissed, glaring up. "Merde, that hard, really?"

He stood again—however, when France next looked up, all were closing in. Germany managed a glance around—Norway, eyes dark and smirk firm on his face; America, holding a scone over his head; Spain with an apologetic smile and Prussia by his side with Gilbird circling him; Hungary, pan in hand. For seconds, Germany considered the murderous looks on their faces, contemplating whether to join them and cause the French man more pain—and then his gaze cast onto a still smiling, oblivious Italy.

"All these protective lovers—"

Two hours later, the UN janitors wheeled their carts into the room on an anonymous tip-off to face a scene of carnage.

The final count held one unconscious figure, five bullet holes in the wall, a stray cat, fourteen scones of various degrees of damage, and an axestroke cut into the mahogany desk. Two hamburger wrappers were fished out of a vase, an oval indentation oddly like a frying pan was found covered by the carpet on the floor, and two splats of what looked oddly like bird poop clung to the chandelier.

The blood on the blue-cloaked body was proven to be tomato juice.

Majority of French translations done with my limited knowledge from French IB-and yes, that was supposed to say 'I do not know, but I do know.' Contradiction. /cough/ A sign of a nervous frenchman.

First Hetalia fanfic. Review, please? Or France will be coming to pair you with your enemies. (Most likely naked, the sodding frog.)