Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia.

A spell of writer's block, but I'm trying to work through it. This is mostly a lot of stuff that happens.


The door shut gently behind him, its muted click the only sound in the silence of the hall, and Alfred exhaled slowly, ruffling his (already ruffled) hair and draping his jacket over his arm. He needed some fresh air. Treading softly through the halls of the hotel, he slipped through the grand foyer and stood outside, breathing deeply of the pre-dawn air, which smelled mostly of sea and sand and the roses in the nearby gardens of the hotel. A soft breeze ruffled his hair and clothes, carrying away the cloying scent of perfume and cigarette smoke and cocktails that clung to his clothing from the night before, and he closed his eyes, leaning back against the wall.

It hadn't been a bad night, really. The studio executive's daughter had turned out to be a charming young woman (if a little spoiled and classist, but he'd known that going in); very pretty and very stylish, and very outgoing. What was the word...cosmopolitan. Yes. Her French was rough and her English wasn't much better, but she'd liked it when he spoke in French, and he'd discovered early she had thing for French poetry, even if she barely understood it. After cocktails they'd gone clubbing, and he'd recited Voltaire low and clear in her ear as they danced under the pulsing lights and music, and touched her just so, and she'd responded... enthusastically despite not understanding a word. They'd quickly become the center of attention on the dance floor, under lights and cameras and screens, and that had pleased her, too.

Then they'd gone to a private party, at the beachfront villa of a friend of a friend's, where she'd introduced him to her cousin, a young woman much like herself; who didn't understand French at all but shared her cousin's preferences, and who'd discarded the young man she'd come with in favour of Alfred's company. He hadn't known what to do about that, but 'Alfred' wouldn't have even blinked, so he'd taken it in stride and worked on them both, and that seemed to be what they'd wanted, anyway.

Then there was a moonlight swim on the villa's private beach, just the three of them; the girls in their new French bikinis and him in...well, nothing, which had suited them just fine. By that time they were more than a little tipsy, and he'd mostly kept them from drowning under the guise of romance and passion. They'd asked him for Baudelaire (he gave them Chénier, since they didn't know the difference and he didn't like Baudelaire), and there'd been skin on skin and warm, alchohol-scented breath and soft seas and moonlight, and then they'd gone back to the hotel, and a few hours later they were curled up in their hotel sheets, fast asleep, deeply satisfied and not likely to wake up before noon.

Nothing had happened there, although they wouldn't remember it that way. He wasn't sure how that worked, but it did. Theresa said people believed what they wanted to, and rewrote reality inside their heads to suit themselves. He didn't know if he liked that idea, but it seemed to work, and nobody was getting hurt, and it seemed to be making everyone happy. And it was just pretend, after all.

Except now he was left with the uneasy feeling that he'd done something wrong, the way he always did after he'd been 'Alfred'. He'd liked the girls, but it just wasn't...it didn't feel right. He didn't know why, but it felt like...lying. But 'Alfred' always made sure the women he was with knew ahead of time that it wasn't an exclusive deal, and that there were other women, and that nothing serious would come of it; and they always said that was okay, and they actually did seemed to be okay with it (which he didn't understand, either, because they said they loved 'Alfred', but how could that be true if they were okay with him being with other people? He didn't get it, but as long as he wasn't hurting anyone...). And Theresa said it was acting, because Alfred was a character, and that made sense, too. But he didn't feel uncomfortable like this after playing Amando or Valentíne, and Valentíne was no saint, either. He was a bad boy and proud of it.

Maybe that was it, then. 'Alfred' was supposed to feel like this, right? Angsty and conflicted about this shit, because of his 'troubled past'. Maybe he was just resonating with the character, or something.

He sighed, pushing himself off the wall and turning to reenter the hotel. He'd feel better after he got back to himself. He glanced at his watch; two hours before the meeting, so there was no real point in taking a nap, but he had time to shower and change and get some breakfast and coffee (he'd kill for a hamburger, but the chances of finding one in France were dismal).

Theresa was already seated at the table in the little dining nook when he entered the suite, breakfast laid out in front of her. She was still in her bathrobe, several large rollers in her hair, alternating between checking the paper and looking at something on her laptop and nibbling on a croissant. She glanced up when she heard the door, and waved the croissant at the seat across from her. "I've ordered us breakfast. Come and sit down."

"I wanted to take a shower first." He said, slipping off his shoes. He wrinkled his nose. "I smell like French nightlife."

"Okay." She nodded absently, staring at something on her screen. "Oh, don't bother getting dressed," she called after him as he left the room, "I picked out the clothes you should wear to your meeting and sent them out to be pressed. They should be back in half an hour."

"Okay~." He called back. "Did you do anything interesting while I was gone?"

"Not really. Hit the gym, went swimming at the pool." She called back. "Got a call from the producer. I guess they decided not to extend the length of the episodes."

"Yeah?" He turned on the shower, and she raised her voice to be heard over the water.

"Uh-huh! Now they want to make a couple of feature-length episodes, instead! They're thinking of making the season finale a 3-hour show!"

"What?" He hollered, not being able to hear her.

"THEY WANT TO DO FEATURE LENGTH EPISODES." She yelled at the top of her lungs, and then coughed, because that'd strained her throat.

"Huh. So we're going to do movies?" He yelled interestedly, sneezing when water got up his nose.

"Just the—" She started hoarsely, and coughed again. "Just the finale at first!"

"What?"

"Why don't we wait to chat until you get out of the shower?"

"What?"

She took a sip of her water to soothe her throat, and took a deep breath. "LET'S WAIT TO TALK UNTIL YOU'RE DONE SHOWERING."

"Yeah, that sounds like a good idea."

Alfred took mercifully short showers, and a little while later he was seated across from her in his own terrycloth robe, reaching for the coffee. "So, we're doing movies?"

"Yes, but just the season finale at first." Theresa explained, uncovering his omelette for him and pushing the plate of croissants his way. "Have some cantalope, too. They want to do a three-hour episode, see how it plays. If it does well, we get the go-ahead to do movies."

"Neat. Can you pass the sugar, please?"

"Cream too?" He nodded, and she handed him both. "How did last night go?"

He lowered his fork, frowning. "Good."

"Everything went smoothly?" She prodded.

"Yeah, same as always." He poked at his omelette. "She brought her cousin, too."

"She brought her cousin?" Theresa paused, frowning. "What do you mean?"

"She brought her cousin, and I sorta went with it." He stared at his food, avoiding looking up.

"Both of them? Really?" Theresa raised an eyebrow. Brazen hussies. "Well...that's...good for your reputation, I guess. Who was she?"

He lifted a shoulder, concentrating on his food.

"I don't know anything about her cousins." She said thoughtfully, fingers drumming the table. She didn't exactly like the thought of Alfred dating a girl she hadn't screened. She was very careful about who she chose for their little game; she didn't want some unknown getting in and mucking the whole works. But...she stared thoughtfully at Alfred, who was eating his breakfast quietly, and glanced at her laptop screen...he was good enough to pull it off with just about anyone. As 'Alfred', he could make the world fall in love with him and not expect anything in return...she noted his troubled frown, and smiled fondly, leaning on her elbow. Alfred, her Alfred, didn't understand that at all. He didn't understand why all the women he'd dated as 'Alfred' fell in love with him, and firmly believed that they'd slept with him; no matter how many times she explained that it didn't matter what had actually happened, because people would believe what they wanted to believe.

She had proof of that right on her laptop, where she'd been reading an article called 'Alfred Jones: The Man Behind Amando'. Although it was featured in a prominent Spanish periodical and written by a reputable journalist, the article connected 'Alfred Jones' to no less than 15 prominent women in the entertainment, and suggested there was a rather higher number behind the scenes. It also expanded most elaborately (and laughably seriously— but it was a wonderful story) on the backstory she and Alfred had fabricated, citing references and quoting 'people who knew', and others she and Alfred worked with (there was a rather outrageous lie in there from their dear director). The article even suggested that she and Alfred were romantically involved— or, more accurately, that she was madly, unrequitedly in love with Alfred, and waited faithfully on the sidelines while he sowed his wild oats, hoping against hope that someday he'd see her love for what it was, and return it.

It was sweet, in a way, and patently ridiculous, but it was also fantastic for her reputation. Hers and Alfred's both, really, although he wouldn't see it that way. If she showed him the article, he'd get upset, and want to go and 'fix' things, and he wouldn't understand at all that the more he denied it, the more people would believe it was true. Especially the part about her.

Come to think of it...

"You know, Alfred..." She started slyly, and he looked up, curious. As their eyes met she paused, suddenly noticing that he looked...exhausted. Not just tired, she thought, noting the furrow between his brows, but...drained. Of course, he'd stayed out all night, but that he'd done that before, the last three weekends in fact, and it hadn't— oh, dear. Suddenly she felt a little guilty, and very selfish. He'd been working too hard. She'd been working him too hard. It was easy to forget he was playing three characters now; Amando, Valentíne and 'Alfred'. His shooting schedule had gone up— hers too, of course, but his even more— and she'd had him working 'Alfred' so many evenings and weekends on top of that, and he'd done a beautiful job, but...when was the last time he'd had time to just be himself? Alfred had so much energy and enthusiasm, but every actor, no matter how enthusiastic, needed some time away from their characters. When had Alfred been getting that?

Damn. She'd gotten so caught up in taking care of their careers, that she'd forgotten to take care of Alfred.

And he had the work he was doing as...whatever he was, she'd figure it out someday, on top of everything else. This stupid meeting today, and the paperwork he did sometimes between shoots. Poor boy.

"...Theresa?" He asked worriedly, "Everything okay?"

"Yes, Alfred, thank you." She smiled reassuringly, and tilted her head, starting to work on taking her curlers out. "Y'know, I've been thinking, why don't we take a little break? After your done with your business stuff— do you work tomorrow?"

"I might have some minor stuff to take care of in the morning, just some papers to sign and hands to shake, but that's it." Alfred answered, watching curiously.

"Well, afterwards, why don't we go and have some fun? Do some things you want to do. Anything you'd like, just you and me."

"That sounds nice," he conceded, tearing into the last croissant, "but what about you?"

"We went shopping yesterday, and I lounged about in the pool all evening," Theresa pointed out, piling the rollers on the table, "and today I'll probably spend most of the morning at the spa, since you'll be in the meeting." She shook out her curls. "So tomorrow, after you're done signing your papers, why don't we spend the day doing things you want to do?"

"Really?" He brightened hopefully. "Can we go to the paleontology museum at Terra Amata?"

Theresa kept her face carefully blank. A paleontology museum? Seriously? She could just about stomach an art museum, but a paleontology museum sounded so boring. She started to suggest an alternative, but he looked so happy about the idea that she said instead, "At Terra Amata? Okay." He beamed, and she sighed inwardly, resigning herself to several hours of crushing boredom in the near future. "I didn't know you were interested in paleontology."

"Oh, yeah, definitely! Archeology's one of my hobbies, but I like paleontology too. There's actually an archeological dig near there I'd love to get my hands in, but we don't have time to get the permits, so maybe next time." He deflated slightly, and cheered up again almost instantly. "There's stuff there people used over four-hundred-thousand years ago! Way back in the lower Paleolithic period! Did you know—"

Theresa zoned out, until the lack of background chatter told her that he'd stopped, and looked up to see him fidgeting eagerly at her. "That's very interesting." She said, and he beamed. "Is there anything else you'd like to do? Besides visit the museums?"

"Well," he said, resuming his breakfast with more energy than before, "the museum closes pretty early." He gulped his coffee. "Maybe we can go to the beach! Or dancing, I like dancing."

"That sounds like fun." She smiled, more genuinely, as she poured him a fresh cup. That actually sounded like fun to her, too. She loved dancing, and lounging on the beach on the French Riviera? Heaven. "We could probably do both. Maybe we can even go dancing tonight— after you take a nap," she amended as he stifled a yawn, "and the beach tomorrow after we visit the museum?"

"That sounds good." He nodded, gulping down the last of his breakfast. "It's a date!"

"Mhm." She agreed, and there was a knock at the door. "That must be your suit. Finish your coffee, it's time to get dressed!"

"Good morning, America." England greeted, a little surprised to find the American in the conference room ahead of him. He was used to being the first person to arrive at every meeting, but this morning it looked like America had beaten him to it. Already seated and with coffee in hand as he went through his papers, America spared him a glance.

"Hello."

"Hello, 'morning, England." He bit back a yawn, leaning on his hand as he read. Hopefully the coffee would kick in soon, the words were starting to blur together.

"You're looking dapper," England remarked as he pulled out a chair and sat down, "is that a new suit?"

"Yep." America glanced down at himself, and nodded, chin still in hand. "It's a bit different than what I usually wear, but I like it alright."

"It's an improvement." England agreed, pulling his paperwork out of his briefcase in preparation for the meeting ahead. "Mind you, it makes you look a bit of a playboy, but it's not bad for all that."

"Thanks." America gulped down the last of his coffee and flashed him a smile. "I got a new job, and I figured I'd better dress the part."

"Oh, yes," England nodded, carefully arranging his things in front of him, "the acting thing, yes? France mentioned something about it."

"I'm sure he did." America said wryly, and gazed wistfully into the bottom of his cup. Two hours before the first coffee break. Would he make it? He sighed, pushing the cup aside. "It's fun, but I'll admit I'm kind of looking forward to today's meeting."

"Really?" England raised a fuzzy eyebrow. "I should think something like that show would be right up your alley."

"You don't watch?" America asked curiously.

England shook his head. "Soap operas aren't really my thing."

"Yeah? That's a relief." America grinned, guessing (correctly) that the real reason England didn't watch had more to do with the show being from Spain than England's genre preferences. "Don't get me wrong, though, it's totally awesome. I love acting, and I love the show, but it feels like I've done nothing for the last several months except live and breathe 'Forever is Not Long Enough'. It'll be nice to think about something else for a while."

"Hmm." England acknowledged absently, and frowned at the door. "The bloody idiot's hosting the damn thing and he still can't be bothered to show up on time."

"To be fair," America checked his watch, "there's still eighteen minutes before we're supposed to start."

"He'll be late, mark my words." England grumbled, looking irritated. "In the last eight-hundred years, do you know how many times he's been on time?"

"Haven't the foggiest." America yawned, leaning heavily on his arm and poking his files with his pen.

"Five." England lifted a hand for emphasis, fingers spread. "Five times in eight hundred years. And two of those were an accident."

"Huh."

"You'd think that when he's hosting the meeting at least he could make the effort, but no, he can't be arsed." England shuffled the last sheaf of papers into place with more shuffling and rustling and tapping of papers on the table than was strictly necessary. "Meanwhile, here I am in his godforsaken pisshole of a country, having hauled myself all the way across the sea and through his ridiculously inefficient roadways to be here on time, for a meeting I'm not even hosting, and he's probably only just hauled himself out of bed, and he'll spend the next half hour fussing with his hair,as if it'd make any differ'nce, and then 'eel come strollin' in through those doors at 'alf past—"

"Calm down, England; your accent's slipping." America interjected, rolling his eyes. "Why don't you drink your tea." He gestured to the teacup that sat by England's elbow, steam rising from its depths. "That should settle you down. Honestly, you always get like this when the meetings are in France's territory."

"Ah, thank you." England and picked up his tea. "You're right, I need to calm down. I just can't get comfortable knowing he's somewhere in the vicinity, plotting who-knows-what. You know he always pulls something at these meetings." He sipped the tea, and looked down at the cup in surprise. "This is quite good. Your brewing skills have improved, America."

"Pffffft, I didn't make that." America snorted, reaching for his coffee. "You know I don't touch that shit."

"Well if you didn't make it, who did?" England frowned, staring suspiciously at the tea. Had France snuck in when he wasn't looking and slipped him some tea? What sort of nefarious scheme was this the start of?

"You probably made it and forgot about it." America suggested. "You're getting old, you kn—" He paused, frowning down at the full cup of coffee in his hand. "That's weird, I know I finished this already."

"Mysterious beverages appearing out of nowhere? What's going on, here?" England peered at the corners of the room. "I don't see any fairies..."

"Do you think it could be a ghost?" America asked nervously, pulling his feet up on his chair, his gaze darting around the room. "L-l-like, a p-poltergeist or something?"

"No, I don't see any ghosts, either..." England mused, and scowled. "It's probably that idiot trying to confuse me. Well, it's not going to work! I'm going to drink this tea and I don't care if anything strange happens!"

"N, no, it was just me, guys." America and England jumped a little in their seats, head swiveling towards the sound of the voice. Canada smiled patiently at them from where he stood next to the beverage cart, holding a carafe of coffee.

"Oh, Canada." America relaxed, exhaling in relief. "It was you? Thanks, then, but when did you get here?"

"Ten minutes ago." Canada replied, one golden brow twitching a bit. "Just after England. I did say hello, you know."

"Y-yes, of course." England smiled, a little unsettled. How on earth had he missed Canada coming in after him, again? "W-well, thank you for the tea, Canada. It's very good."

"You're very welcome." Canada smiled, placing the carafe back on the cart. "I'm glad you like it. Would you like some maple syrup in it? I already put some in your coffee, America." He added, when his brother opened his mouth to ask. America smiled his thanks, and returned to poking his paperwork.

"That's alright, but thank you, Canada." England reassured him, lifting his teacup. "It's fine as it is."

"Good morning, everyone~." North Italy sang, skipping into the room, followed by Germany and Japan, and shortly thereafter by several other nations, and soon the room was bustling with people and noise (rather more so than one would expect from eight people, even if three of them were France, England and America)

After a brief period of chaos, Germany called the room to order. "Alright, it appears as though everyone who should be here is in attendance," Germany made a note in his files, and glanced around the room. "As well as...several additional persons." He frowned, tapping his pen on the table. "We're supposed to give prior notice if we intend to bring a guest."

"As host of this meeting, I reserve the right to invite any guests I choose." France said primly, flicking his hair back over his shoulder. "Spain should be a member of our little group, anyway."

"France said I could come!" Spain smiled sunnily, waving at the others.

"I need Lithuania to hold my paperwork for me." Russia insisted, holding firmly onto a nervous Baltic nation whose arms were full of papers. "I couldn't do it without him."

"I hope I'm not causing any problems by being here," Belgium raised her hand, smiling apologetically, "I'm just standing in for Romano. That's alright, isn't it?"

Germany shifted uncomfortably. "It's unconventional. Couldn't South Italy be here himself?"

"Well, he did come, but he's been detained." Belgium explained. "So I'm here to take notes for him."

"Let her stay, Germany!" Veneziano urged. "We need more pretty girls in the meeting, ve~!"

"I agree, she should stay!" America contributed. "It's really nice of her to help Romano out!" He turned to Belgium, smiling and waving. "It's nice to have you here, Belgium!"

"Thank you, Ama- merica." Belgium giggled, stuttering a little on the name. "I'm happy to be here!"

"Ve~, I wish I had known everyone was bringing a guest," Veneziano sighed, pouting a little. "I would have brought someone, too!"

"I can be your guest, little Italy!" Prussia popped up from under the table.

"What—" Germany started, startled. "How long have you been down there?"

"Yay!" Veneziano threw his arms around Prussia. "I have a guest! Thank you, Prussia! Guys, Prussia's my guest, okay?"

"What a friendly meeting this is!" America laughed. "Everybody brought friends. It's like a party!"

"Yes, well." Germany sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I suppose it's too late to do anything about it now. Let's just start the meeting."

"Then as host, I'll have first say." France decided, standing and leaning both hands on the table. "America! Why haven't Amando and Catalina had sex yet!"

"Haha, what?"

"Oh!" North Italy exclaimed, clapping his hands. "Are we asking questions about Forever is Not Long Enough? Then I want to ask questions, too! In the episode where Amando saves Gaspar from the fire—"

"Oi, America! Why are Amando's shirts always ripped!" Prussia jumped up in his seat, waving his arm in the air.

"Uh—"

Belgium leaned forward eagerly. "Are you and Theresa Álvarez going out?"

"How long do you intend to stick around in my country!" Spain demanded, slamming his hands on the table.

"Well, I—"

"Are there going to be any nude scenes in the future?"

"THAT'S ENOUGH!" Shouted Germany, rising from his seat like the wrath of bureaucracy. "This is not the time and place for such things! The purpose of this meeting is to discuss issues of mutual or global concern. Please stick to those."

"Oh, but my dear Germany," France contradicted smugly, "we are discussing matters of 'mutual concern'."

"Why are they asking you all these strange questions, America?" Russia asked innocently.

America's smile was almost a grimace, a little embarrassed and unwilling to discuss it here. "I'm acting in a show—"

"It's very good!" Veneziano interrupted joyfully. "It a Spanish drama called 'Forever is Not Long Enough', America plays a character called Amando! It's very exciting, you should watch it, ve~!"

"You're in a Spanish drama, America?" Lithuania spoke up, smiling fondly at the young nation he'd once worked for. "That sounds interesting!"

"Yes, it sounds very interesting." Japan contributed politely. "I wouldn't have expected you to be in a Spanish drama, America-kun. I'm glad to see you and Spain have gotten over your differences."

"We haven't!" Spain denied hotly from the other side of the table.

"Come now, Spain," France smiled, throwing an arm around his friend and prodding his cheek, "admit that you're as big a fan as any of us. You love it, too~!"

"As fascinating as this all is," England interjected, holding up a hand, "I must agree with Germany. This meeting isn't the place for these matters. We should really focus on matters of import."

"Dude, was that a pun?" America asked, staring a little incredulously at his former caretaker.

"...P-perhaps it was." England admitted, blushing a bit. "Slightly."

"Nice." America approved, grinning. "You can be funny sometimes!"

"Be that as it may," Germany interrupted sternly, "let's all focus on why we're here. This meeting, while somewhat informal, is for business. Let's try to conduct ourselves accordingly."

"Actually, guys, I agree with Germany." America said. "I'd be happy to answer questions about the show after the meeting, but while we're here let's stick to business, okay?"

"Boo, that's no fun at all." France pouted, settling down in his seat. "But very well, we shall attend to business."

"Yes, I'll be serious!" Veneziano agreed, and raised his hand. "And I have a serious question for America!"

"Sure thing, Italy." America sat to attention, kind of pleased to be getting down to actual nation stuff finally. "What is it?"

"So, in the episode where Amando saves Gaspar from the fire..."

Simultaneously (and oddly enough for broadly the same reason), Germany and America put their faces in their hands, and sighed.


AN: I was hoping to get to Romano and more 'Forever is Not Long Enough' in this chapter, but we'll have to wait 'til next time.

I debated quite a bit as to whether to include the details of 'Alfred's night or just skip over it altogether and reference it vaguely. I'm still not sure I made the right decision, but there it is.

You may not want to read the next bit of the Author's Note.

André Marie Chénier, 'Voltaire' (the penname of François-Marie Arouet), and Charles Baudelaire are all classic French 'Romantic' poets (in the classical sense more than the 'when a man loves a woman' sense, although they wrote about that, too). In all honesty, I think America would be a bit leery of classical French 'Romantic' poetry and writing. I imagine at one point he would have explored it, partly out of curiosity because of its popularity in France and other parts of Europe, partly because of France, and partly because its 'Romantic' designation; but I imagine he would have been rather quickly turned off, because some people just aren't the type to enjoy reading about nihilism, rape, torture and beastiality, no matter how 'sensually', 'evocatively', or satirically the subjects are addressed.

Which isn't, of course, all French poetry is about...but rather more than you would expect, is.