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America didn't understand why England had suddenly moved so close. He couldn't stand it—England's presence was already suffocating, and in close proximity it was simply unbearable. He contemplated making some excuse about leaving, maybe he could say he'd forgotten something and needed to find it? Maybe—

He was lucky, as the doors behind them suddenly burst open, and a large crowd of nations began flowing fluidly through the door.

England jerked around in anger—did those bastards just have to have their lunch break now, during his crowning moment of intimacy?

America breathed a sigh of relief at the distraction. Then, trying to keep his voice as even as possible, he asked, "So...are we adjourning for lunch?"

"Yes, I suppose we are." England looked mildly peeved, over what exactly America couldn't discern. (Had England been trying to hug him? If he thought a gesture like that could make up for the years and years of—) "And I'd suggest we get some food, but..." England continued, looking at America to judge if the other still looked out of it. He was not in the mood for vomiting of any sort, especially not in Antarctica, where showering was likely a freeze-to-death business.

"I'm feeling fine, we should just eat," America answered, because really, the way his stomach was churning in the last hour—fear to hope to confusion to irritation back to fear again—food could just be the cure-all.

"Good, good," England mumbled, starting to move inside (he'd had more than enough of the cold), against the current wave of nations pouring out.

Once they were inside, America began, "Did you bring food—oh, no wait, don't answer that." He gave a faint, lopsided grin to match England's growing scowl. He enjoyed making jabs about the Empire's food-making abilities, as this was the safest way to shove a few insults England's way without any real damage. England would become annoyed, but it was superficial, nothing that would end with genuine rage.

"What about it?" England snapped, looking defensive, "I bought food this time, on the plane that took me here, so don't you dare complain about the quality! Besides, I have no intentions of sharing it with you anyway, what with you and your incessant complaining!"

America shook his head, looking away with an amused grin playing at his lips. "I wasn't about to ask, I'll just buy some—"

England smirked, feeling decidedly evil—"You do realize that there aren't any of your infamous burgers joints around here, right? And none of your coffee shops either. No stores for miles and miles, so if you didn't think ahead to bring food..." England grinned in mad amusement. Boy was America screwed...

America's eyes widened, looking slightly worried. The fact that he liked coffee was supposed to be a secret of sorts, kept alive by small, local breweries who'd smuggled their beans in from his southern neighbor. Smuggled, because with the tariffs England had set up, their coffee would be prohibitively expensive otherwise. America figured England had to know about the smuggling, but the Empire had never once insinuated that he thought America personally liked the drink. As far as England was concerned, coffee was synonymous with 'tax evasion' and 'gang activity', things America was keen to show no support for, symbolic or otherwise. Instead, he'd always kept a stash of tea for when England visited, always forced himself to take a few sips of the tea...

(Canada had suggested this—"You know, if you want England to get off your case, at least pretend to do what he wants. Next thing you know he'll be too busy in Europe and you can do whatever you want." Then, Canada, along with his bear and level 1000 subterfuge skills, had taken out several large sacks of tea from his backpack and stuffed them in the nearest cupboard.

"There." He'd announced, triumphant.)

"I don't know what makes you think I like coffee," America began, choosing his words carefully, "I've always liked your tea just fine." Coffee wasn't a communist drink, was it? Besides, he'd heard that Russia liked tea a lot, so that meant England was actually more of a commie than America was.

"You, not liking coffee? What, are we turning over a new leaf here? Drinking tea? Or is it vodka now?" England snorted, not realizing the implications of his words.

"What are you talking about? I wouldn't drink vodka—what makes you think that? I hate vodka—it's a—it's a communist drink!" America let out hoarsely, hoping he sounded convincing (and that Lithuania wasn't around to be offended by it). He wasn't a commie, no, of course not! He was no good at this subterfuge business, but by god, England could not cut off communications between him and Lithuania...could not...

"Communist?" England's eyes darkened (he still recalled all the occasions where America and Russia were glaring madly at each other, fists clenching and unclenching, eyes locked like a matching pair of raving lunatics, and England hated Russia evermore because he thought for decades and decades that he was really losing America, that he'd raised a monster, that...) "Are you still going on about that? Russia is hardly communist anymore, and you still can't get over it? You won, for fuck's sake."

"What...?" America asked weakly. "So Russia isn't...so you're not mad at him anymore?"

England's eyebrows furrowed and he suddenly had a determined look in his eyes. America watched, worried and confused as England marched for the door without another word.

What the hell was wrong with the Empire today?

"So, Germany, I was thinking..."

"I do hope it's with your brain, France." Germany remarked dryly. The two were huddling against each other to ward off the cold. Of course, Germany realized, if it hadn't been so remarkably cold France might've suggested they take a shower together, and perhaps offer up his massage services (which was something Germany could definitely use today).

"Now that's a bit harsh, don't you think?" France countered, brushing his hands through Germany's hair. "I am perfectly capable of rational thought—where do you think Voltaire or Sartre or—"

"Alright, I get the point. You were thinking." France was capable of thought, Germany knew, it was just that when the nation's voice took on the tone it did, it usually meant he was thinking about something very, very far from rational.

"Yes, yes, indeed I was!" France continued blithely, "A few weeks ago America told me he was thinking of playing a little game...and it seems like he's putting things into action today. I didn't realize he would do it so soon—I had expected him to wait for a warmer and more private location. In any case, he does not seem to be overt enough in his—"

"France, it would do us all some good if you could tell America to stop playing games. His latest—"

"Stimulus program—oh I know, Germany! You're so very hung up over that, time to loosen up a bit, don't you think? Besides, England may be right about China—certainly you cannot believe Yao is complaining because he actually cares about the other developing countries, can you? South Africa and Brazil I can believe, but China? He is the one who holds most of America's debt."

"France," Germany grumbled, "this isn't about China. This is about how America's domestic policy will affect the world, including me and you. And since when have you gotten around to sticking up for England anyway?"

"Is that jealousy I detect?" France laughed, and buried himself comfortably next to Germany's neck. But when he moved to cup Germany's face in his hands, Germany immediately jerked back ("Your hands are freezing!"), giving a shout of annoyance. France cursed what the Antarctican weather had done to his fingers.

"I assure you I am not jealous," Germany muttered after he'd recovered from the assault on his body heat, "Look, America is causing a lot of trouble, and if he's playing games again, that is simply not amusing—"

"It is not that type of game, Germany." France grinned. "It is much more...romantic, something clearly neither you nor England is capable of appreciating."

Germany sighed. Of course France would talk about this. "I don't know why you're telling me this—I have no intentions of intervening with America and England's relationshi—"

France chuckled. "Oh, no, I was certainly not asking you to do that! I was merely telling you some little facts—interesting news to float around the conference room a bit, don't you think? To lighten up the current wave of doom and gloom."

"France..." Germany muttered, disbelieving.

France continued as if he hadn't been interrupted. "So, some weeks ago, America came to me saying that he intended to spice things up with England. He was asking for advice..."

"I have a difficult time believing he'd ask you for advice," Germany interrupted, reaching around to cradle France's head. After which France immediately huffed—"Your hands are just as freezing!"—and Germany had to choke down his laughter at the pout on France's face.

"But just for you," France breathed, grinning, "I'll let you steal some of my body heat." Then he whispered, breath nice and warm against Germany's ears, "And, you're always perceptive, as usual. So perhaps America did not seek my counsel directly, but he—" France let his hands wander underneath the layers of Germany's coat, and continued, "—he did so indirectly through—"

"So basically, you forced your advice on him?" Germany asked, trying to guide France's freezing fingers away from that part of his stomach that tickled. He was failing and flailing spectacularly.

"No, not at all!" France replied, not seeming to notice Germany's discomfort, "He asked Canada for help, and Canada forwarded a series of emails to me, asking me to augment his advice. I had to oblige—America seems to have inherited the prude genes from England!"

"Prude? I thoughtyou told me they'd been 'doing it' for quite some time—ahh—" Germany wasn't sure if he could breathe, given the way France was currently assaulting his neck with his lips. At least it was nice and warm and a great break from the cold and

"They have, they have," France began, stopping for a moment and earning an annoyed look from Germany (did France have to pause in the middle to tease him?). "America wanted to act out some sexual fantasy with England, but he was afraid he would be received the wrong way."

"I thought you said England was a...'kinky bastard'," Germany muttered, tracing his own (freezing) fingers across a scar on France's stomach (a self-inflicted one from the late 1700s), and carefully avoiding the other scar on his back (because Germany had remembered giving this one, and even if France didn't seem to care anymore, it just wasn't right).

"He is, he is, but America thinks England will be sensitive to this particular subject matter and their recent drama is probably not helping his case. Perhaps he is right, perhaps he is wrong, we will find out soon, right? England is really quite clueless at times..." France grinned and turned to face Germany, "But let us not worry over their constantly unresolved issues, hm?"

"Indeed," Germany agreed, glad that France would finally stop talking.

France chuckled warmly. "After all, their relationship is not nearly as special as ours."

England belatedly realized that he did not have many friends he could talk to about this...transformed America. Besides France, but that nation was not his friend, damnit! (Their military alliance was just that—an alliance. Friendship played no part in politics!)

There was something very...alien...about the way America had lied. Sure, America had lied plenty of times, but the all the lies he'd heard were either insanely ludicrous ("I'm sending hamburgers into outer space to attract alien signals!") or damagingly subtle ("They fucking hate me and I didn't even—I need you, please, England! Let's pay them back together, like we did back in '45! Did you hear them cheering—celebrating when I fell? Fuck them, England, fuck them all—we'll show 'em—we'll show 'em, won't we? If they think they can hide weapons like that—"), not made up a series of false numbers.

Then there was that lie about how his nation's economy was recovering, and the paranoid Red Scare-esque fear of communism, and the dislike of coffee! And not to mention that America had barely commented at all on his newest military development involving France. Surely the nation would show a tiny bit of unease? Even if France and America got along more nowadays, he knew that America would not want France being in on their intelligence gathering, and yet the nation had mentioned nothing about it.

Something was very, very off about America.

Germany had the misfortune of walking by, clothes looking slightly disheveled and hair in disarray. If England didn't know any better, he'd say that Germany's face carried a flush of satisfaction and that the nation reeked of...France. England needed to speak to someone, anyone, even if it was post-sex Germany—

"Germany, do you have a moment?" The shorter nation turned to face him, too polite to refuse.

"Ah, England, did you need something?" Germany gazed back at him, expression unchanged.

"Well, I wanted to talk to you. It's—it's about America."

Germany frowned, as though he knew something was astray. "Oh, Amerika, is it?"

"Yes—I—well, did you believe a word of his speech today? That gold belt business and all?"

Germany paused, presumably thinking, and said, "It does not seem reasonable for Amerika to start lying now. He already took the bulk of the blame for his economical failures at that last meeting we had."

"Yes, but—okay, let me explain—he told me just a few weeks ago about the state of his economy—it was clear he was spouting absolute nonsense in his speech. Except his nonsense actually sounded believable this time, with all those made-up statistics. And it goes beyond that—he tried to convince me with a straight face that he hates coffee!" England decided not to mention the military alliance with France incident—it would require an even longer explanation, and Germany probably didn't care for his trans-Atlantic insecurities.

"His actions are...perhaps you've convinced him to enjoy tea?" This time, Germany looked a bit nervous, and England had to wonder what he was hiding. "Besides, France informs me that—"

"Please, France wouldn't know prized figs from culinary disaster"—here Germany begged to differ—"and seriously, you expect me convince Alfred? He's a stubborn prat, and hasn't been remotely retractable since that damned revolution of his."

"Well, England, have you ever thought that this may just be a prolonged practical joke on his part?" Germany asked carefully, thinking back to France's words. Post-coitus, France had given him an overly long and detailed explanation of his neighbor's ongoing trans-Atlantic romantic insanity, but repeating it did not sound like a good idea.

"Practical joke?" England protested, "It's not April Fool's today, and Antarctica is hardly the place to be playing practical jokes at. Not to mention that if he really has a recession that bad, he shouldn't be joking—he needs help, damnit!"

America pressed his head against the door to the hallway, straining to eavesdrop on England and Germany.

"...and seriously, you expect me convince Alfred? He's a stubborn prat, and hasn't been remotely retractable since that damned revolution of his."

Hadn't been remotely retractable? What the hell was England talking about? He'd gone ahead and done what England wanted for the last two hundred years, and England thought him stubborn and intractable?

"...if he really has a recession that bad..."

Okay, that clinched it. England was delusional. England was the one with the recession, not America!

"...forgive me, England, but I would say France is generally pretty accurate on matters related to...social interaction." Germany neglected to mention these social interactions were usual sexual in nature, and continued, "Have you and Amerika, and forgive me for this poor wording in English, but have you and him..." Germany made a few vague hand gestures.

Had this been France, England would've punched the nation in the gut. But seeing as it was Germany, and England was not about to lose his composure in front of Germany, he resorted to glaring.

"What?" He snapped, daring Germany to continue.

Germany shrugged and said, "Frankreich could be wrong, but he says Amerika is engaging in...un jeu de role, and that it is very publiquement and that it involves les jours de colonies."

England stared back blankly, trying to decipher what Germany had said in French (French, as much as he hated to admit, was the second most taught language in his schools, and he definitely spoke it better than his schoolchildren, though it was a lot harder with the added German accent). So if "jeu" was "play", and "jours" was "days" and...then that meant...

...Roleplay? Colonial days?

From behind the wall, America suddenly heard a loud yell—"Damnit France! Just what the hell makes you think we would want to—to relive those days?"

"Angleterre, pardon," a third voice, clearly France's, drifted in through the walls, "mais pourquoi tu ne choisis pas de jouer ce petit jeu d'Alfred? C'est une géniale idée, je crois."

"Say something I can understand, would you?" England snarled, annoyed, unwilling to decipher more French.

"Of course, England, but perhaps you should direct such a tone to ta colonie precieuse, hm? Given the game he's been playing, he'd certainly appreciate it."

"Ta colonie precieuse"? Which colony was France referring to, exactly? England had so many, America thought, annoyed. And a game? Fuck, they were talking about America and Canada, weren't they? And that game, was it referring to their friends in the Eastern Bloc, oh gods, oh gods...America pressed his ears closer to the wall, fear eating away at his mind.

"What the hell are you on, France? I haven't had a real colony in years! Those islands hardly count now!"

England hadn't had a colony in years? Then what about him, and Canada, and India, and Australia, and Hong Kong, and ...oh hell, he didn't even remember everyone. England was beyond delusional.

"Do not be so dense, Angleterre, surely you see how les Etats-Unis has changed today? Giving you all these looks, looking for your approval. He even tried to pretend you should've spoken in his place at the conference, as if you were really his ruler and he the colony. Ah, such a loss that you are incapable of reading these important little details to his actions. And did he not pretend to like tea over coffee?"

"He never mentioned a thing about tea!" England snapped, lying swiftly. How in the world did France know about all of this anyway?

"Ah, England," France began, "let me let you in on a secret." There was a rustling of noises that sounded like France was pulling England closer, followed by a flurry of French. "Tu sais qu'il y a des gens qui ont beaucoup de pouvoir dans leur vie, qui évacuent leur stress dans des rôles de soumission? Tu as eu ces moments aussi, quand tu étais l'Empire britannique, n'est-ce pas? Et je me souviens, tu es venu vers moi...Mais maintenant, les Etats-Unis sont les mêmes. He is the lone superpower, and surely this is him expressing his needs—"

There was more rustling, and then England, who seemed to have understood exactly what France was getting at, shouted, "Goddamnit, France, I don't need you to spell it out—"

"If you are that dense, then obviously you do!" France protested.

Germany could only clutch his head in pain. It baffled him to no end exactly why Canada had chosen to forward those messages to France, surely he could see the international maelstrom that was to follow? Surely...perhaps he ought to speak to Canada.

America closed his eyes, finding himself leaning against the comfort of the wall. Whatever speech France had just made to England was clearly very important if he wanted to unravel this mystery. He tried to recall the French he knew from Louisiana, buried somewhere in the recesses of his mind...Tu sais qu'il y a des gens qui ont beaucoup de pouvoir dans leur vie...You know that there are people...who wield a lot of power...qui évacuent leur stress dans des rôles de soumission...who evacuate?—No, relieve?—their stress by playing submissive roles...

People with a lot of power? Who exactly...was France talking about England? It could explain why England had been so angry. Then he remembered France's next sentence...

Les Etats-Unis sont les mêmes. The United States is the same.

He was...the same? Did that make him powerful? No wait, he was the lone superpower, as France had put it.

Why the hell would he want to pretend to be England's colony if he really was a superpower? It made no sense—or would it only make sense if he were actually a powerful nation? But if England and the others really believed that, perhaps he could play along. And it would be easy, almost like a dream within a dream within a dream, where he was pretending to be a colony when no one thought he was a colony when he actually was a colony. Damn.

But at the same time, if they found out he was a fraud, how would they react? Or, considering that they were likely on drugs right now, how would they react when they finally woke up from their reverie and discovered America had spent a good chunk of time marauding as a world superpower?

America could hear the door being fumbled with, and he quickly removed himself from the wall, attempting to look as nonchalant as possible while gazing into some nonexistent point in the distance.

England looked a bit addled when he stepped out into the hall, and he turned towards America, shouting, "I don't play these...these games in public, you fool!" He was clearly referencing his earlier conversation with France, and America was glad he had actually understood it.

America stared back, willing himself to look a bit more composed than he actually was. "Al-alright, England, where do you want to go?" A game? Had he misunderstood France? Was this business of pretending to be a colony while not a colony when one actually was a colony supposed to be a game of some sort to England? What was the point of it anyway?

England blushed (not a difficult task, given the cold) and muttered, "Definitely not in Antarctica, you dolt. I'd very much like to keep my clothes on while I'm here before I get frostbite in all the wrong places."

America did not fail to look ever more confused. "That's...that's, of course, it's too cold out here. Let's go inside and we can talk—"

"Yes," France grinned, stepping outside as well, "The two of you should get a room, or else it'd be a spectator sport, non? Not that we'd mind watching you discipline your colony."

America's eyes widened upon hearing France say "discipline your colony", suddenly afraid. So he was back to being England's colony now? Was that just some elaborate lie? Had France and England been working together (hadn't they formed some military alliance earlier?), lying to draw him out from the safety of the room he was in earlier? Maybe they'd pretended to treat him like a "world superpower", as France put it, but were really looking for some opportunity to trap him in his myriad of lies.

He could tell, he could just feel it—they were going to accuse him of fraternizing with the enemy, of dancing with the fucking devil, of being an enemy to the British Empire, and... Were they going to chain him up again, like England had after that disastrous revolution? Could he really live through that again? Fuck, how could he have been so stupid? How could he have believed that any of those damn European nations would give him the time of day? So, so, stupid!

He broke out of his reverie when he saw England roaring something fierce at France, and Germany announcing very loudly that lunch was over, damnit, so they should just hurry back into their seats and stop their childish infighting. In fact, England would've succeeded in lunging at France's throat if Germany hadn't stepped in to pull them apart. It was almost comical the way Germany had wrapped himself around France's flailing arms, succeeding in keeping the nation restrained.

And to think that the two of them were signing an agreement on military cooperation, of all things...

After lunch, during which he'd very much failed to eat, America was mildly afraid that everyone would ask him about the stimulus program again—he still wasn't used to having so many eyes on him. To make matters worse, the other nations were all under the same trance as England, and, unlike England, were currently playing a game of "How to best crush America the ailing superpower with our glaring abilities."

He was slightly happy, though, when South Italy and Luxembourg had taken the stage with great fervor and lambasted Franco-German arrogance together. He didn't fully understand what the nations were talking about—something related to "joint euro-bonds", which the two were very much in favor of, but which America had no idea about. Must've been a European thing, he decided.

In the end, Romano had yelled in such a manner that America thought he could see Germany sweat, and he almost felt bad. Almost.

"Just because the idea isn't born from Franco-German loins doesn't make it crap! You'll see where your arrogance gets you, you fools!" Romano had growled into the microphone, and he'd turned towards Germany, continuing, "Germany, you think your little dance sequence during the last few months was useful? It's just some show-off crap that no one wants to see, and it'll get us nowhere. And you know what, the EU is not some place where large states have all the control and the small ones just have to cave and bend to their power. We, all twenty-seven of us, demand equal say!"

Their entire speech, America mused, was just a big "fuck you" to Germany and France. He supposed schadenfreude described his feelings well—at least now Germany understood how painfully annoying it was to be interrogated. Oh, the irony that it was a German word which described his feelings perfectly...

Later, Germany, having recovered from Luxembourg's rant, announced that due to the lack of amenities in Antarctica, nations would need to share rooms. There would be two bunk beds, so it was to be four nations to a room, and in deciding rooms, all the nations would be arranged alphabetically and then grouped, so as to avoid pointless international quarrels leading to equally pointless international warfare.

America found out that his arrangement was a mild disaster-in-the-making:

—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—
| Room 72 ... ... ... ... ... ... .|
| Ukraine ... ... ... ... ... ... ...|
| United Arab Emirates ... ...|
| United Kingdom ... ... ... ...|
| United States ... ... ... ... ..|
—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—

Ukraine would be in the same room as him and England. Fuck.

He tried to be logical:

If England did not break out of his current trance, this arrangement would not be problematic. Probability? Unknown.

If England did break out of his trance, then one of four things could happen.

One, England could somehow see through the four-way unofficial ubersecret alliance America, Lithuania, Canada, and Ukraine had developed. Luckily, America was not the closest to Ukraine out of the four, so perhaps it'd be easier for them to give each other the cold shoulder. Probability? Unknown.

Two, England might just notice nothing out of the ordinary, despite breaking out of his trance. Probability? Unknown.

Three, Ukraine might be in the trance as well and thus not even remember having any sort of secret alliance with America. Then, even if England broke out of his trance, he wouldn't notice a thing. Probability? Unknown.

And four, the United Arab Emirates might slap a raw sausage (provided generously by Germany) on England's forehead and knock the nation out for the rest of the night. Probability? Unknown.

What worried America was that all the probabilities were just a long list of unknowns, and if he did say so himself, fuck variables.

England saw the list Germany had generated and cursed their lack of amenities. On a typical meeting, they'd have two to a room, and he could be in a room alone with America. Four people to a room was pure hogwash!

Now, he had nothing against either Ukraine or the United Arab Emirates (his interactions with them had been cordial and were mostly trade-related), but there had to be a good way to get them both to leave for a while. A bribe might work, but only if he had something both of them would be interested in. Considering his current dearth of money and general lack of natural resources...

Normally America would've sought out Canada for advice. Canada, who was in a better-heated room (because their ventilation system was so poor that only the rooms closest to the heat source actually felt much heat) and had the great luck of being able to avoid England. But now, he wasn't sure if Canada was also in a drug-induced trance, and given his brother's earlier statements about how odd it was that America didn't know he was presenting first, perhaps he was as well...

America closed his eyes, leaning into the fabric of his sparsely furnished bed. He was glad that none of the other occupants of his room had returned yet, so he could relax alone for a bit. Maybe, he thought, his thoughts wandering, just maybe, he should inform England of the truth. Perhaps England wouldn't believe him, but at least the truth would be out, and he wouldn't feel like he was walking on eggshells all the time. But perhaps he should do it after they were done rooming with Ukraine. Or perhaps he should just take advantage of the newly-obtained powers he had while he could. And perhaps...

The door opened then, and to America's disappointment, England appeared at the other end.

"Hi, Eng—Arthur. Nice to see you," America said, but without much conviction.

England nodded, looking around the room. "Looks like the others haven't returned yet, have they?"

"No," America answered, wondering what England was getting at, "not yet."

England looked delighted. "Do you think—perhaps this is too evil of us—do you think we should just lock the door for a few hours?"

"Wha—What do you mean?"

"Oh, come now," England scoffed, "We lock the doors, and get some nice alone time without Ukraine and the UAE hovering about. And you know what, you're not that dense, not even when you were my colony."

America's eyes widened at the verb tense—he "was" England's colony...meaning that England hadn't broke out of his trance yet. So far so good. But on the other hand, he wasn't particularly excited about spending any time with England, and he still hadn't decided if he should attempt to tell England the truth or not, and everything was just so fucking complicated and his room just had to be so damn cold and why did Canada, who was used to cold weather, get the nice, warm room at the other end of the hall...

England walked toward the door, presumably to lock it, and voiced America's complaints about the cold aloud. "It's fucking cold in here, Alfred. Do you not have any sense—you should've turned on the heat!" He snapped the lock on the door and went around to fumble with the heater.

"I did," America spoke, "it's at the max, but we're too far from the heating source for it to have any effect."

England groaned. "Antarctican bastards. I guess we'll just have to warm each other then, hm?" He gave America an amused look, and seated himself on the same bed America was stretched out on.

America edged away to make room for England, and stared at the nation in silence. Should he tell? Should he attempt to reveal the truth? He took a deep breath, and hesitated before saying, "England—we—we have to talk. I don't think it's right for me to be a fraud." There, the truth, or at least a segment of it. But as soon as the words left his mouth, America knew it was the wrong thing to say. Because England was smiling and his smile was wrong, very very wrong—

England was moving towards him, a feral grin lighting his face, "Oh, is that so? And in what aspect have you lied to us today, America? Perhaps this new-found lying of yours needs to be rectified, hm?"

"No, no—you misunderstand," America began, sounding slightly desperate as England closed in on him, placing his hands around his shoulders. England had obviously misinterpreted this as a part of the role-playing; perhaps he thought America-the-colony needed to sound desperate or something.

"Methinks the lady doth protest too much," England breathed into his ear, and America shuddered when he felt the hot breath against his ears. He just couldn't see the England in his memories this way—fuck—had England always thought of him this way? And then the nation had only felt brave enough to act when he was on drugs? This wasn't supposed to happen, this was barbaric, this was worse than Russia, worse than any shit he'd every seen. He had to get England off of him, had to—

England kissed him then, roughly, first on the neck, and then on the lips, where he hovered momentarily with a hungry look in his eyes.

"Kiss me back," he commanded, letting his mouth descend onto America's again and allowing his tongue to roam.

America pulled away as much as he could and mumbled, "Please, don't—England!" And it was all in vain, because England was too damn heavy, and he couldn't push the nation off, and who the fuck was going to help him anyway? He was English property, and no one would give a shit what England chose to do with him, no one...

He could feel England's hand reaching for his own belt, trying to undo it. He could hear himself yelling something, something useless, because England wasn't stopping, England didn't understand.

He didn't want to see that look on Canada's face again, the pitying one, and this time it'd be filled with worry and disgust and shame. And Canada would be so, so angry at England again, and the two of them would sit silently, stewing in their resentment and bitterness, eating their meal of cold pizza and carbonated soft drinks, and even if America hated the silence, what was there to say, what was there to say?

Because no one was going to do anything, no one...

Japan found that his inbox had amassed a good twenty messages, all from the same sender, America.

America really was a prolific email writer, but he still wasn't prolific enough to send twenty emails each only minutes apart. Japan hesitantly clicked on a message, and groaned when he realized the message was blank. In fact, 17 of the twenty messages were blank, one was filled with garbled (probably an encoding error) text, and two looked like they actually held readable content. Japan navigated to one of the two legible messages and sighed when he realized it only had two words: 'hey kiku'. The second message was much better:

—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—.—

hey kiku,

i got a major problem here. sorry i probably sent you a million blank messages, i
was testing out the messaging system, my bad. this is insane to explain but
anyway, i think your teleportation thing did something crazy.

because i'm not a british colony and everyone here thinks i am, there hasn't
been a ussr for decades, but there is one here. remember those alternate
universes we used to joke about? this might be a reality, and i might be fucked.

gotta have your help man.

-alfred

p.s., if i'm here there's probably some america-look-alike in my place. if my
theory is right, he/i should've been really weird today. let me know if this is the
case, and ask him if it's ok for canada and me to declare war on england. he can
thank us later. hah.

p.p.s., i almost forgot, you need to know how to send cross universe emails (like
i just did) before you can reply. just use a negative port # (ie instead of port 80
try port -80. it can be any neg port. you can also try imaginary numbers, haven't
messed with those and wouldn't suggest it but it's up to you.) i've made the
machine receive on all negative/imaginary ports, so just pick one and send.

p.p.p.s., oh and japan, if you want the theory behind all this, you'll have to nullify
my debt first. it's only fair! ;)

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Japan nearly choked when he'd finished reading the message. Alternate universes? Cross-universe emails? Damn, he had to find America, if the nation in his world was even America as he knew him. What room was America staying in again? Japan glanced down the roster—70, no, 72.

Off to room 72 it was.


notes:

- "Luxembourg slams 'arrogant' Berlin, Paris ahead of EU summit" - business . asiaone . com/Business/News/Story/A1Story20101215-252976 . html - Luxembourg's foreign minister criticized Germany for not accepting joint eurobonds, as proposed by Italy and Luxembourg. As eurobonds were proposed by both Italy and Luxembourg, I took some liberties and had Romano/Luxembourg both take the stage in Germany/France complaining.

- Port 80 is the port an http daemon listens to to retrieve packets of information. The negative/imaginary # ports were made up for inter-universe communications. As for America being technically inclined—he's got Silicon Valley! Goofball he may be, but he's not a technophobe.


Things are finally progressing—yay Japan! (And a lot happened in the other world to lead up to America's email, which will be revealed soon.) I was itching to write the theory behind the cross-universe stuff, but figured that'd be a bit boring. :P Has anyone read Rudy Rucker's stuff and really liked it? Essentially I'd be attempting to pull off something like that.

Also, please correct my French! I was mostly going off what I learned through high school. Part of what France said ('évacuent leur stress dans des rôles de soumission') was obtained from here: forum . wordreference . com / ? t = 292249 and the rest was written by me. Translations of the part that wasn't translated by America: Tu as eu ces moments aussi, quand tu étais l'Empire britannique, n'est-ce pas? Et je me souviens, tu es venu vers moi... You had these moments too, when you were the British Empire. And as I remember, you came to me...