Request: Francis sneezed once. Twice. Three times. With an annoyed groan, the Frenchman lowered the tissue from his face with the intention of throwing it into the bin beside his bed that was already overflowing with white paper. He paused. A fourth sneeze. He hated being sick, he truly honestly did. Brushing back some strands of hair from his forehead, heated by fever, he groaned louder. "Au secoooours..!" He called out for his lover ever so melodramatically, his voice raspy thanks to all the coughing.

"For God's sake," Arthur muttered under his breath, tightening and straightening his tie in front of the bathroom mirror. "It's not the bloody bubonic plague." He let his voice rise a bit for the last part, hoping Francis might hear it. He hoped he did. It's not that Arthur didn't care, it was just that Francis happened to be a very high-maintenance lover. Arthur couldn't even stop to take a breath or groan or get himself a glass of water without the frog griping about how callous or uncaring he was.

Okay, maybe that was a bit of an exaggeration. But he felt entitled to it. Last night Francis had been writing in the covers, moaning "Oh mon Dieu, another revolution is coming, I can feel it in my bones! It's this sickness, Arthur, I'm ruined, something horrible is about to happen…!" and all the while kicked and swatted at Arthur's exhausted body. It was just around midnight that Arthur had finally caved and slumped out of the room to the couch. Even then, Francis' nose-blowing and coughing had echoed against the walls like bullets, keeping Arthur from sleep. And deep down he knew that it wasn't Francis' fault, but he couldn't fight the irritation that weighed down on his shoulders.

And apparently, his eyes, as well. Leaning in closer to the mirror, he groaned inwardly at the sight of dark circles under his eyes. Lovely. He got to go to a meeting with Germany not only feeling, but looking like shit. Inhaling deeply, Arthur stepped into the bedroom and braced himself.

"Arthur," Francis called, pleading for attention yet again. "I can't believe you're actually leaving, I thought we'd finally reached a new stage in our relationship where we really cared about each other, can't you just call your boss and cancel or make one of your brother's do it, you can't be so cruel as to leave me here…!"

The man went on like that for quite a long time, all the while Arthur did his damnedest to tune him out as he emptied the trash, replaced the tissue box, and flung open the curtains. Enough was enough. He had spent all of yesterday coddling and tolerating Francis, only to be met with… well, the very French part of Francis which made him so insufferable. For crying out loud, it was just a cold. You'd think the man who had been on the more unfortunate side of both World Wars would have a higher tolerance.

Francis followed Arthur into the kitchen, the comforter of the bed wrapped stubbornly around his shoulders. He threw himself onto the couch dramatically, glaring at the man's back. He sneezed, and put quite a bit of emphasis on sniffling and rubbing his nose. But after several centuries, Arthur had finally developed a resistance to Francis' theatrics. Even the pouty face. Scratch that, especially the pouty face.

"Listen very carefully," Arthur began, his voice calm and steady. "I'm going to the family house in Coventry to pick up what I need for the meeting." Arthur and his brothers, Blake and Evan, while they each had apartments or flats in their capitols, shared a house that they used when they were tame enough to get together on holidays and when they wanted to work without their bosses breathing down their neck. He filled the kettle with water and placed in on the stove and then rummaged through the cabinets. "I will call to check up on you when I get on the flight to Munich. Once I'm done, I'll call again before I head back home. And then I'll be over tomorrow."

Holding up the box of tea that clearly hadn't been touched since the last time Arthur had visited, he waved it a bit, making sure that Francis saw it before placing it on the table. "And for the last time, drink some bloody tea."

Grabbing his coat, Arthur sighed, pausing on his way out to kiss Francis on the top of his head, ignoring the withering look of hatred shot his way. "Try not to hurt yourself," he said, closing the door behind him.

—
Over the course of only a few hours, Arthur was longing for Francis' apartment, even with its sick and infuriating inhabitant. And it was just the politicians driving him up the wall; somehow, Prussia had managed to tag along with Germany to the meeting, and Arthur was ready to blow his own brains out. He just wouldn't shut up! All these inane and pointless questions, each asked with a shit-eating grin. When he was done from rubbing both of his temples with each hand, Arthur looked up, an expression somewhere between furious and exhausted plastered on his face. God, this meeting was making him sick, he could feel it. His head was pounding, his breathing was heavy, his throat was tight, and he was ready to pass out.

When it was finally over, Germany came up to him with a look of sincere regret. "I'm sorry you had to go through that," he said. "But Gilbert's been going stir-crazy and the last thing I needed was him causing some kind of scandal."

But the weary Arthur only gave a half-hearted "It's fine", as they shook hands, and Germany sighed, still feeling bad about the whole affair.

"I owe you one," he sighed. "And I'd offer to take you out for a beer, but I have to take Gilbert to the airport, he's spending the weekend in Denmark, and I'm going to dinner with Roderich and Feliciano…"

"'S fine," Arthur repeated, but this time with vigor and sincerity. "I'd really just like to go home. I'm wrecked."

With that they said good-bye, shaking hands once more before leaving.

—
Ludwig, Roderich, and Feliciano were at a restaurant in Vienna, and although Ludwig had quite been looking forward to this evening, he just wanted to go home and take a hot shower. His face felt slack and he just ached all over. He couldn't even think straight, and barely noticed when Roderich began talking to him.

"Ludwig, are you even listening to me, boy?" Roderich asked, sniffing with disdain. "You've had the same vacant expression on your face for ten minutes. It's very unlike you."

"Don't call me 'boy'," he snapped irritatedly. It seemed as though they had reached the point where the Austrian's pretentious attitude finally got to him. Odd, it usually took longer than that.

"Oh, it's not like you were saying anything important," Feliciano interjected quickly, setting down his glass of water. "You were just complaining about Gilbert." Setting his glass down, he tilted his head, frowning a bit. "Wait… whose glass is whose? I think I drank from the wrong one…"

—
"So then I said, 'West, maybe if you stopped using so much fucking lube on your hair, maybe you'd be able to get laid more'!" In their drunken state, the only two men in the Copenhagen bar, found this riotously funny and roared with laughter, the rest of the clientele having cleared out when Gilbert and Mathias began the karaoke.

Laughing deliriously, the two doubled over and slammed their fists on the bar, only stopping when one of their beers crashed to the floor.

"Shit, was that-" hic "-mine or yours?" Mathias asked.

"What's mine is yours and whats mine is mine," Gilbert replied with a grin. "I mean, what's yours is yours and… Screw it." He took a gulp of it, and then passed it to Mathias. "Bottoms up."

—
When Roderich returned home, he ran into a very special surprise.

"You're home early," Elizabeta cooed, getting up off the couch and slinking towards him. "I didn't have time to set up properly."

"Oh?" he asked, raising an eyebrow as he slipped his arms around her waist. "Tell me, what exactly where you planning on 'setting up'?"

"How about I just show you," she said softly, and as she leaned in to kiss him, Roderich prepared himself for a night of bliss.

Until he sneezed right in Elizabeta's face.

—
"Come on, get up, you lazy bum!" It may have been rather hypocritical coming from Lovino's mouth, but he didn't care. His brother had to be awake to bring him to the airport in half an hour so he could get on his flight to Spain.

Stirring in his bed, Feliciano sat up a bit, rubbing his head, his face gaunt and droopy. "Sorry, fratello, I'm not feeling well," he mumbled, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. At that, Lovino raised his eyebrows. That couldn't be good.

"Has anything happened lately?" he asked, worriedly pressing his palm to his brother's forehead, then quickly pulled it back. Shit, he was burning up! But Feliciano shook his head.

"I'm sure it's nothing," he said, getting up and rustling in his closet for clothes. "Ludwig wasn't feeling well either last night, I probably just got it from him."

"I keep telling you not hang out with him," Lovino said smugly, shaking his head, proceeding to lecture his younger brother all the way to the airport.

—
"Shut the hell up already!" Lukas finally snapped, hurling a throw pillow right at Mathias' coughing face. "Enough! Take a lozenge or something!"

In the kitchen, Emil snickered from where he was playing cards at the table with Tino and Berwald. Tino opened his mouth as though to reprimand Lukas, but thought better of it and just shrugged while Berwald lifted an eyebrow in amusment.

Throwing a look of resentment at Lukas, Mathias suddenly lunged across the couch at him, coughing loudly in his face. "Cut it out!" Lukas yelled, swatting at his face. "You'll get me sick!"

Soon enough, the other three joined in on the squabble, initially trying to pry Mathias off of Lukas, but then turning on him as he gave them the same treatment.

—
"Are you okay, dear?" Emma asked, tilting her head in concern. "Listen, if you're not up for 'Girl's Day', I'll definitely understand."

Looking across the outside café table she and Belgium were sitting at, Elizabeta shook her head and ran a hand through her hair. "No, I'm fine," she insisted, hating how congested she sounded. "We hardly ever get time to do this-"

"Because if it's that time of month," Emma cut her off, "I can take you to my favorite chocolate shop, even the cashier there is candy, if you know what I mean."

Smiling weakly, Elizabeta took Emma's hand and squeezed it. "You're too good, you know that?"

—
"Screw that," Lovino said grumpily, watching Antonio get dressed. "So you can screw me. You and Donato are fucking neighbors, you can reschedule!"

"Exactly, we're neighbors, I'll be back before you can miss me," Antonio replied in a soothing tone. He turned to face Lovino, about to continue, but hesitated at the other's twisted expression and the quick, short breaths he was taking. "Mio Dio!" he exclaimed, eyebrows jumping. "Lovi, if you're going to cry…!"

But Lovino shook his head furiously, grabbed a pillow, pulled it to his face, and sneezed the loudest sneeze he'd ever made in his life.

"…I want that cleaned by the time I get back, comprendo?"

—
"Eduard, are you sure you don't want to go home?" Toris asked yet again. "Because like it or not, you have a cold."

"I know," the blonde mumbled, snuffling and rubbing at his nose. Swallowing nervously, Raivis shifted his chair away from Eduard a bit. "I think I got it from Tino. We were hanging out yesterday."

"Well that's what you get for forgetting who you are," Toris said, unable to keep from smiling a bit. "A third of the Baltic Trio, not a sixth of the Nordic Five."

"Oh please," Eduard snorted. "You're the one who keeps asking like a Slav, always hanging around Belarus and Poland."

"Hey! Poland is the one who hangs around me! Speaking of which, he'll be here tonight, to 'do my hair' for when I see Belarus tomorrow, so unless the two of you want your nails done, you best clear out."

—
"You need to leave now."

Emma pulled her face off of her brother's table, wiping the tissue by her nose one more time. "Carry me," she replied miserably.

—
"W-wait, don't-" Toris broke into another coughing fit. "Don't go!"

"I have a… a 'meeting' with Big Brother tomorrow," Belarus responded coldly, getting up from the restaurant table. "And Katyusha will be there, so for once, it will be nice. I won't ruin it by getting sick."

—
"You did not just sneeze in my fast," Donato seethed at Antonio through gritted teeth.

—
Staring at their younger sister, one with concern and one with suspicion, Ivan and Katyusha winced as she sneezed on her plate of food.

—
"I hate you. I fucking hate you," Niall groaned, sprawled on the couch with his three British brothers, empty tissue boxes scattered everywhere.

"Goddammit, Francis Bonnefoy," Arthur whined.

—

When France sneezes, all of Europe catches a cold.