A/N: HAPPY NEW YEAR 2016! May all your hopes for the new year come true! To celebrate, I have decided to post the second chapter, which, although far from what you'd expect, serves as an interval to our story. I'd like to thank everyone who favourited, followed, or reviewed; I only hope that I don't disappoint (although the chapter name is admittedly lame). Enjoy, and once again, happy new year ;)


Chapter Two

England hadn't slept that night.

It was not out of curiosity, of fear, or of disappointment that he had slept not a wink- rather, it was simply out of a recurring uneasiness, one that had him lay in his bed with his eyes wide open the entire night and which had prevented his body from lapsing into a state of slumber.

When the time came, he got up and out of the bed in which he hadn't slept and padded towards his wardrobe, craving nothing but sleep. He dressed himself in a jiffy, unwilling to delay the upcoming meeting any further. He pilfered his briefcase from its resting place, juggling it over to his left hand as he checked to make sure he had everything. As soon as he confirmed the briefcase's contents, he left his hotel room, almost as quickly as he'd gotten out of bed, and, mindful enough to lock the door behind him, half-jogged down the crimson-carpeted corridor. He almost sped down the massive, winding marble staircase that led to the reception, above which a gigantic crystal chandelier dangled in absolute security, proudly boasting its incontestable magnificence as it refracted rays of blinding light, rays that seeped into England's vivid eyes and seemed to stab at his pupils.

But now was not the time to admire Italy's impeccable décor, and so England hastened down and into the revolving glass doors, taking his leave of the hotel. Upon his exit, England's eyes sought out the coal-black limousine that was to take him to the hosting venue of the Summit. He spotted it in under three seconds, and immediately made a bee-line straight for the chauffeur, who had, in a very unprofessional move, left the car in favour of smoking an expensive-looking cigar.

England's right eye twitched, and he quickened his steps until he reached the brunet, demanding, "Have you gone out of your mind? Put that out right now!"

The chauffeur merely stared at England for a while, before babbling gibberish in Italian.

England blinked, before it came to him. His chauffeur was down with swine flu, and so Italy had so generously assigned him one of his own. England remembered how relieved and grateful he'd been- to have a replacement so readily, and in record time- how splendid!

Too bad Italy forgot to mention that this chauffeur didn't speak a lick of English.

And to assume that England was fluent in Italian would be laughable...

… not that he couldn't speak Italian, because he could (if he'd bother learning it), but... well... it was Italian. And England, having had such a massive influence in recent centuries, naturally expected that everyone should speak English- after all, it was the international language!- surely a chauffeur working in such line of work would be able to speak English, right?

Well, apparently not, and as England began to try and communicate with said chauffeur, he made the decision that he should have a serious discussion with Italy on the way the fluff-headed nation treated his guests.

"Get in the car- the limo-" England stabbed an index finger in the limousine's direction, "You capisce that, si? The carra- get in- the carra!" England could feel the eyes of numerous passer-bys on him, and he suddenly grew conscious of his wild and cringe-worthy gesticulations, "Er- entrar el carra! La carra! In the limo! L-I-M-O! Limo! Entrar la limo! Oh for Heaven's sake, just get in the bloody car!" he snapped, and, to his astonishment, the amused chauffeur obeyed, chuckling under his breath as he chucked away his cigar and slipped inside the limousine, taking his place at the driver's seat.

Fuming, England followed suit, silently bearing the brunt of the chauffeur's chuckles, all the while raging internally.

How dare he?!

How dare he make a mockery of him, the Great Nation of England, who had the Great Honour of internationally representing the United Kingdom of Great Britain?!

England did not remain silent for long, and the scorned nation's eyes narrowed into slits as he barked, "No rigolo!"

This caused the driver to dissolve into a fit of laughter, and England's ire piqued significantly. But in spite of his growing aggravation, England had no wish to further humiliate himself, and as such leaned back against the plushy seat as the chauffeur drove him to his destination (thank fuck he knew where to take him). He sat silently stewing in his grouchiness, and once the chauffeur had calmed down a little and stifled his remaining giggles, he glanced up at the rearview mirror to be met with England's piercing gaze...

...which naturally set him off again.

"Chigichigchig."

England's upper lip curled at the man's chuckles, "I will make sure that you are fired, tortured, murdered, and have your remains fed to your family."

The driver, ignorant and deaf to the nation's threat, only continued to howl in laughter (just what was so damned funny?) and England opted to ignore the man for the rest of the ride.

Which, thankfully, wasn't very long, for fifteen minutes later, England stood outside the desired building, and watched as the chauffeur drove off, wishing so desperately to flip the finger.

"Italian git." he muttered darkly under his breath as he trudged forth to climb the stony staircase, which led to contrastively glass double-doors. He entered the building with a sigh, clenching his hand around his sleek black briefcase as he stepped towards the reception.

A beautiful, dark-haired and olive-skinned woman sat at the desk, tapping away on the keyboard before her, her dark chocolate eyes locked on the screen, the silver earpiece seemingly plastered to her lobe glinting slightly. She appeared not to have noticed the blond country's entrance, too consumed and immersed in whatever it was she was doing to bother glancing up at the Great nation of England himself.

England cleared his throat, attempting to draw the woman's attention to him.

His effort proved futile.

And so, he tried again, "Good day to you, Madam?"

His greeting had come off more as a question, a fact which he berated himself for, however it did the trick as she glanced up with surprise, rapidly regaining her composure, "Buongiorno, senore. How may I help you?"

England had to refrain from rolling his eyes; did everyone in other nations greet others in their own languages? It was ridiculous- she'd heard him speak English, there was no need for the Italian. At least he knew that there'd never be such a problem on his soil... everyone there had the common sense to greet one in the international language.

It seemed there was another matter in need of being addressed at today's meeting.

"Senore? Are you feeling well?"

England snapped himself out of his reverie, assuring, "I am fine, simply fine. I am here for the conference meeting due today- the eight o'clock one, in room..." England screwed his eyes up in an effort at recalling which room the meeting was being held in.

He was still trying to remember where it was when the woman affirmed, "The eight o'clock meeting is in conference room number five. However the legislations require me to confirm your identity before granting you access."

"Identity? Yes, yes of course you'd need to do that- wouldn't want any imposters getting in, eh?"

England gave a little laugh, and the woman blinked at him blankly.

England, upon noticing the woman's silence, cleared his throat a little, his face donning a pink hue of embarrassment.

"I don't comprehend-"

"Never mind, it doesn't... doesn't matter." He turned his face away.

"So... you are senore...?"

Confusion flashed across the nation's face, "Senore...?"

The woman stared at him flatly, "Your name, sir."

"Ah, yes, ehrm," damn, centuries of using that wretched fake name and he still hadn't gotten used to it, "Kirkland. Arthur Kirkland."

"And how is it spelt?"

England frowned, "Beg your pardon?"

She heaved a sigh, "Your name. How is it spelt?"

"Um..." England hummed, frowning. Was this woman serious? Jesus Christ, foreigners- another matter to acknowledge, it would seem. Biting back a sigh, England spelt out his 'surname'.

"And your first name?"

Was this woman an idiot or something? Seriously, who didn't know how to spell 'Arthur'? He understood it was an English name, but didn't Italy have his own counterpart? 'Arturo', or something? Gritting his teeth, England relayed the letters of his 'first name' to her.

The receptionist inclined her head as she typed in the given name. She waited a moment, frowned, then tried again. A bleeping noise was made, and her eyebrows lifted slightly.

She glanced up at England, a stoic expression etched upon her face, "I apologise, but your name isn't on the list."

England blinked, before turning his ear towards her, "Come again?"

"Your name isn't on the list."

England blinked again, before claiming, "That's impossible."

The woman flashed him a falsely apologetic smile, "I'm sorry, but it's not there, senore."

"Well... perhaps you spelt it wrong, then?"

The woman's expression darkened significantly, "I did not."

England was silent for a moment, before ordering, "Let me see that."

"I'm sorry, senore, but you can't- cazzo!"

England had dropped his briefcase, and reached out and grabbed the computer, turning it to face himself so that he may read the names of those whose presence was obligatory in such meetings. His eyes scanned the text before him as the woman huffed indignantly, straightening her designer jacket just before he slammed the computer back down, his expression contorted to form a mask of confusion and aggravation. She gave a slightly muffled screech, and England hastened to apologise.

"I am so sorry, I didn't mean to drop it so suddenly-"

"Get out!" the woman seethed, her eyes ablaze in fury.

"I'm sorry?"

"Get. Out!"

"But I have to-"

"Sicurezza! SICUREZZA!"

England resisted the urge to cover his ears, instead trying to placate the increasingly angry female before him. Out of the corner of his eye, he could discern two thickset bodyguards heading his way. He swallowed audibly, backing away when he saw them merging to the forefront of his sight.

"Good morning, gentlemen. I was merely trying to get to my meeting- I meant no disrespect." England gave a nervous titter, before halting. Just what in the hell was the matter with him today? Since when did he, the Great Nation that he was, quiver in front of mere mortals? He brought shame to his inhabitants. He cleared his throat at his self-reprimand, and stood up straight, although not before retrieving his beloved briefcase.

The two bodyguards both turned to the receptionist, who confided in them some fallacy in Italian, before they both turned back to England, uttering something to him in their native tongue.

"Er... perdone?" England tried, but they only began to advance on him.

He flashed them a sheepish smile, not befitting of his facial features, and backed up a little until he could back up no further, for he'd barely bumped into a smaller figure, who, no sooner than contact was made, erupted in a stream of violent, unintelligible, Italian babble.

Recognising that voice instantly, England could honestly say that this was the first time he'd been so grateful for Romano's presence.

"Ro- Mister Vargas! What a pleasure to see you!" England turned to face South Italy, plastering a horrendously forced smile upon his face.

Romano blinked, before glaring in recognition, "E- Kirkland. What the fock were you doing?"

"It's a funny story, my friend, a very funny story- you see, I was just telling your delightful receptionist here that I had a very important meeting today, and then she says my 'name' is not on the list, so I ever-so-politely ask that she run the ol' system again, and she suddenly, out of the utter bloody blue, calls security on me! Isn't that funny?!"

England was certain he looked like a right psychopath, for even Romano edged away slightly.

"Yeah, well... you're-a focking late."

England narrowed his eyes and muttered darkly, "Yes, you can blame your shitty little driver for that."

"... What?"

"Nothing, nothing," England reassured, before suggesting, "I suppose we should head up now then, if we are tardy?"

"... The fock does that mean?"

"The fuck does what mean?"

"That bitchass word."

"..."

"..."

"... You mean 'tardy'?"

"The fock does that mean?"

"It means late..."

"..."

":.."

"Yeah, well... you are the one who is-a 'tardy'. Not-a me."

England couldn't believe the unadulterated audacity that this pseudo-country possessed, "But... you just got here."

"Ha! As if I'd-a be late to a meeting that I'm-a hosting! Idiot, I was out checking to see if everyone-a was here... which I-a still need to finish."

"But I thought Ita-" Romano's eyes narrowed into slits, and England rectified, "I mean, Vene- er, Nor- ack, your brother was hosting?"

Visibly unamused by England's question, Romano affirmed, "We are co-hosting, you-a moron."

"Yes, but... you aren't a part of the G8..."

Romano visibly tensed, although for once he actually waved off what he must have considered to be an insult, "My idiot brother has had-a trouble with the preparations, so he-a enlisted-a me to help-a him out in exchange for-a seat at this year's-a Summit. That, and we're-a technically the same-a country, so... fuck you."

England had to ponder why anyone would want to attend and 'participate' in a G8 Summit, let alone host one. He also doubted the legitimacy of this claim, and Italy's power to elect a new member, honorary/temporary or not (even though he did have a point about being same country).

"Right, right, of course... well, I'd... better be getting up now. 'Be seeing you."

England attempted to part with the rude and idiotic absolved nation when that wretched woman intervened, physically blocking his path all the while explaining something to Romano. England did not fail to detect how much smoother Romano's voice was towards her, and he could easily discern the light blush that tainted the receptionist's cheeks.

England did not even bother refraining from rolling his eyes this time, in spite of how ungentlemanly such an action was. Romano then informed the receptionist of something or other, and the woman gave an understanding nod before standing aside.

England inclined his head to Romano in acknowledgement before continuing on his way. Too exhausted to climb more stairs, England took the lift, only to find that his destination was only the next floor up.

Ding goes the lift door, and out comes the nation. England meandered about the hall until he found conference room no. 5, which wasn't all that far away from the lift. Even without the golden plates numbering each room, England was certain that he'd have found it solely based on the sheer noise level that originated from the fifth conference room.

How seven humanoid nations managed to make so much noise was beyond him.

Standing tall, England straightened his cuffs before knocking on the door, having forgotten to retrieve his visitor's key from the reception, and refusing to go back down for it. England could not hear the footsteps hurrying to open the door, as all other noises drowned this particular one out, however the door did indeed open to reveal none other than Japan, who, even behind his carefully crafted mask, showed signs of fatigue and had a general 'sick-of-this-shit' air about him.

England could not lie and say that he didn't sympathise.

"Good morning, Engrand."

"Good morning, Japan. Hard day?"

"The meeting has not even commenced and arready I find myserf awaiting its end with impatience."

England nodded understandingly, before picking up on something odd, "Wait, the meeting hasn't started yet?"

Japan shook his head in the negative, "No. Itaria has made the decision to wait untir arr the members of the G8 have arrived."

"I see... am I the last one, then?"

Japan once again shook his head, "France is currentry not in attendance."

England cocked his eyebrow, "France? France?! As in, 'I'm-too-good-for-everything-and-everyone-look-at-me-I-got-here-earlier-than-all-of-you-even-though-I'm-a-lazy-shit-and-this-only-happened-one-time' France?"

"..."

"Hah! He hasn't gotten here yet? Oh, this is wonderful! This is just- just... just..." realisation seemed to hit England, for he trailed off just as his eyes widened exponentially. No sooner than they had, than his lips tugged upwards. It seemed that perhaps his curse had worked- perhaps France had acquired a more... effeminate form. Perhaps this fact helped explain France's absence- perhaps France had opted to skive off in shame.

And yet... it didn't very much sound like France to hide himself in any form that he may take...

Perhaps he had taken on the appearance of a particularly hideous female, and his hopeless pride could not cope with the ridicule he'd face?

England could not hide the smirk that tugged at the corner of his lips.

"Engrand? Are you werr?"

"I am perfect, my dear Japan, simply perfect." his face the quintessence of glee, England patted Japan's shoulder as he proceeded past the silently stunned Oriental nation. He stepped inside the room, only to find Germany and America engaged in a rather heated debate whilst Italy seemed at a loss as to how to put a stop to their bickering. Russia was attempting to covertly sneak his bottle of vodka from his pocket, a thin line of saliva dribbling out of the corner of his mouth as his mauve-coloured eyes began to fix themselves on the bottle in his possession.

England made sure to steer clear of him.

His eyes scoping the room once more for a safe place of refuge away from all these freaks, he spotted Italy sulkily leaving Germany and America, having given up trying to break them up over whatever petty little thing America had obviously started. Feeling that the younger nation could use some company (and in dire need of a little chat regarding his personnel), England decided to make his way towards Italy.

Just as he was about to present himself to the dopey host, the green-eyed nation bumped into something- or rather, someone.

"Oh my, I'm terribly sorry, I wasn't look-" England halted upon noticing who it was, "America?! What- what the bloody hell did you bump into me for?"

"I-I'm s-sorry, it w-was an accident," 'America' righted his position, only to stare back at England with confused violet eyes, "E- England?"

England froze, before his face dawned in realisation and he began mumbling out embarrassed apologies, "Oh. It's you. Forgive me, Canadania-"

"-Canada-" corrected the violet-eyed nation.

"-Canida," rectified England, "I thought for a silly moment that you were America! My apologies, my apologies- I didn't see you, see, and... well..."

England let his sentence trail on in the hopes that Canada would catch his drift.

He did.

"I-it's okay, England. N-no harm done." Canada flashed him a smile, and England hesitantly reciprocated it.

A terse silence settled upon the two, whilst the yelling match between America and Germany seemed to be nothing more than background music.

After what seemed like an eternity, but was in reality only three minutes, England was the first to break the quiescence, "Okay then, well, um... I guess I should be leaving- I need to have a word with Italy, and-"

CRASH!

England was saved from any further display of discomfort by the sound of something being smashed to bits.

Both England and Canada whirled around to gaze upon America, who had, while placing his hand on the column-like stand for support, knocked over a beautifully crafted vase.

There was a short interval of silence as most eyes fell upon the vase, whilst England's landed on Italy to garner his reaction. The brunet was heaving, his eyes twitching, his breaths shaking- he appeared to be on the verge of a mental breakdown.

England subconsciously moved further away from Italy, even before the piercing screech shattered throughout the conference room.

Italy's scream heralded a new era of utter pandemonium to descend on the present members of the G8.

Noise erupted from all corners of the room as Germany recommenced yelling at America, sounding all the more aggravated, whilst America apologised profusely to the sobbing and grieving Italy, trying (and failing) to ignore the relentlessly mocking taunts aimed his way, courtesy of Russia.

"Ah, shit, dude, I'm sorry! The thing just slipped back, man- don't cry, dude, I'll pay for it-"

"Vhith vat money?" cut in Germany sharply, and America let loose a whinging, "Ah, not this again!" as the irritated nation continued, "Let me remind you zat your genius idea has left you on ze verge of bankruptcy, and now you expect us all to follow your lead!"

"Bankruptcy? Me? Puh-lease! You must have me confused with Rooski-butts over here." America jerked a thumb in Russia's direction.

"Ehhhhhh?" came the confounded response of the largest nation in the world, and England could only hope that he wouldn't pick up on the implications (which he knew would prove futile, but he couldn't help but wonder if Russia's surprise would be overwhelming enough to let this one slide).

Germany, ignoring America's blatant jab at Russia, pressed, "Oh? And losing a twentieth of your GP over an idiotic 'project' that has produced no results-"

"No results? Excuse you, this project is the best thing that's happened for the world, and I came up with it! Which isn't surprising, as I'm the only one here that even does anything!"

England was about to interject, visibly irritated by America's last statement, but Germany beat him to it, "Your 'project' is nothing more zan a time-waster and money-consumer, and I refuse to let you force your vailures upon ze rest of us! If you call zat abomination a success, zen I dread to think vhat you consider a failure! It vas a mistake for you to even bring this topic to us for the meeting!"

"A mistake, huh?" America's eyes narrowed, and England could practically hear the offence he took at Germany's statement, "Yeah, you would know all about those, now, wouldn't ya?"

Germany levelled him with a frigid glare, "I vail to see vhat you mean..."

Behind Germany, England discerned a knowing smile creeping up on Russia's face.

"Oh, please. We all know the real reason why you're even in the G8." America taunted, to which England warned, "America."

Germany's face visibly hardened as he, on the contrary, dared America to continue, "Just vhat are you implying?"

America opened his mouth wide to speak his mind when Japan, of all nations (and to the disappointment of some, notably Russia), interrupted, "Itaria, perhaps it is time to start the meeting? I doubt very much that France is coming on this day, and I feer that we ought to start rest we roose any more time.."

No sooner than the word "France" had left Japan's lips than the focus placed on Germany and America's little spat was redirected.

"F- France isn't-a here yet?" Italy questioned obliviously, peering up from his place beside the broken work of art.

"No."

"Yes he is, I saw him over there." Russia commented, taking a swig of his vodka without giving any indication as to where France would be.

"Where?"

"You're probably just drunk again-"

"I never get drunk, drunk gets me!" Russia rebuffed England's claim, slurring just the slightest bit.

"..."

"..."

"... Russia, that doesn't even make any sense."

"Your face doesn't make sense, you big-browed freak."

America snorted in laughter whilst England huffed indignantly, "Excuse me-"

"I think you have had enough of this," Germany attempted to diffuse the situation before it got out of hand, and appeared behind Russia, swiping the nation's bottle of vodka from him, "You ought to know zat no drinking is allowed during meetings, Russia."

Russia's smile cracked a little.

"I am not drunk, seelly leetle magot, I am telling you that France is right there.", Russia stated, pointing at...

… Canadamerica?

"Aaaaaarghh! It's a ghost!" screamed Italy, scrambling back up off the floor.

"Hole-y fuck, it's another me!" America exclaimed, eyes wide.

"Hah, that's not a ghost and it's certainly not you, America!" England laughed with an air of smug superiority, "That's Canadia, you fools!"

"Who?"

"Where?" Japan squinted his eyes, "I don't see anything..."

"It's that- thing right there-"

"... I don't see it."
"Here, you'll get a better view of it from here-"
"What's a Canadia?" inquired Italy, rapidly having gotten over his irrational fear.

"Him." England declared, having moved Japan to another position... where he still couldn't see the America lookalike.

"Ohhhhhhhhhh... hey, he looks-a like America!"

"I know, right?!" laughed America, coming closer to his clone, "Hey, Canadiana! How long ya been here?"

"He's been here this entire time, America," England answered before Canada could get a word in edgewise, "Shame on you for not noticing."

"Yes, shame on you all for not noticing France." Russia berated from his seat.

"..."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"...That looks nothing like France."

"Actually, it does a bit..."

"Yeah, I mean... look at the hair... bet it's-a silky."

To test Italy's theory, America reached out and grabbed a lock of Canada's hair and began running a thumb over it, proclaiming, "Hey, this is silky!"

"Ooh, let-a me try!"

And so Italy too began prodding at Canada's hair to test its softness.

Huffing, the only member who hadn't partaken in the gawking of the not-so-new-arrival, queried, "May I direct your attention to ze matter at hand? Has anyone tried contacting France?"

"Nope."

"Nuh-uh."

"No."

"Not me."

Germany's eyebrow twitched, "So during all zis time, no one thought to contact France?"

"Nope."

"Nuh-uh."

"No."

"Not me."

Visibly resisting the urge to face-palm, Germany struggled to reign in his aggravation as he ordered, "Italy, get France on the phone."

Italy did as was requested, and left the room as he did so. He came back soon enough, with the saddened announcement of, "He's not-a picking up."

"Vhat do you mean, not picking up?!"

"I mean he's not-a answering." Italy stated rather obviously.

Germany narrowed his eyes, "Vell, ze regulations state zat we can't start the meeting without all participants."

"Germany," England spoke up, taking a step forth, "I quite honestly believe that the matter at hand is a non-issue. France is gone for... whatever reason it may be, but the fact is that we are wasting time. Besides, I'm sure Italy would be more than happy to pass on his notes to France."

Italy nodded his assent.

Germany heaved a sigh, before acquiescing and turning to Italy, "It's your call."

All breaths were baited as everyone looked to Italy for guidance.

"Eh... I guess-a we should-a have-a the meeting then."

And so it was decreed that the conference would proceed without the missing member of the G8, but little were they prepared for the shock they would soon encounter...

A/N: …. Okay, this was worse than the first chapter xD. And extremely rushed. But I had to update on this day of days, and I know it's not quite what some of you may have expected but... oh well. Next chapter will focus on France, although which one remains a surprise...