Author's Note: Gah! Stuff is happening so fast! But I just would like to have my pancakes, bacon, eggs and hot chocolate for dinner (I was originally planning on having pasta but the pans for that are dirty)! This time I didn't burn the bacon trying to make it crispy- I'M LEARING EATING STUFF! Noms are most awesome, but on to some more rational- or not- topics. I do not own APH

The Chronicles of the Aftermath

Chapter 14: Dispute

The World Meeting that month was held in at America's, and like any other in the established pattern, little to nothing was accomplished. Germany pressed the heels of his palms against his forehead at end of the second day, trying his best to breathe out all his tension. If only people wouldn't talk out of turn, they might actually get to understand the speaker's reasoning. Ha. If only it were that simple. But getting people to work together was harder than getting a wooden gear clock to work in humid weather.

A hand clapped around his wrist; Germany glanced down to see Italy cradling his hand, brows scrunched in a look of concern. "Germany, don't scratch that scar anymore. You do that so much at meetings, and I get afraid that you might open it again."

Germany blinked. "I was scratching it just now?" Italy nodded and interlaced their fingers. "I guess it has become an unconscious reaction. Well then, thank you."

"Hey, Germany, Iggy an me're going to go for a few drinks- wanna come along? France is cool with it." That was America for you- as long as he didn't see you as the spawn of Satan, all issues he has with you officially are just water under the bridge in off time. He and England were bickering about… Germany couldn't say, the subject of the debate, as far as he could tell, changed about five times before he could manage to break it up.

"Well, I don't see why not. It's not like I'm free of warden." Truth be told, Germany didn't really enjoy major American brews: they lacked any bold flavor and regional variety. But the offer was extended and he only felt it polite to accept.

The bar was dressed up in the typical western saloon décor, complete with a self-playing piano, making the bartender look out of sorts with his polo shirt and kakis. The nine of them (Japan and Canada were also invited, and Romano had no choice but to come along, and Spain was thrilled to be with him again) gathered round a table. Germany took a seat at one end of the table while Italy clung to his left arm.

"Game of poker?" America flourished a pack of cards, taking his place between France and Canada.

"As long as it's no-stakes, it should be fine," Germany said. "Because some of us," he turned a glare to his warden; "are a little bit looser in their definitions of 'winnings' than others." France tried to look hurt at Germany's statement, but his eyes couldn't quite cease their opportunistic glint. Only Italy and Japan, who sat at Italy's left, choose to sit out, conversing quietly among themselves.

Their drinks came, and at that point Romano had won the majority of the deals, claiming that he had to keep his skills sharp, and if what Italy had said about Romano, then the elder Vargas wasn't lying- apparently some Romano's well-played games had gotten them out of more than a few corners with the mafia. There were a few onlookers that gathered around them. As Germany looked over his hand, he felt Italy at his side tense up, and his grip around Germany's arm tightened. A hand then grasped his shoulder, and the group exchanged glances.

"Hey, Blondie, you know that thing hanging on you ain't a girl, right?"

Germany refused to acknowledge the man; his stern face scowled a little deeper. "Interesting, my chances are good, but I'm not sure I should…" The Nations turned back to their game. He could feel the silent plea Italy was sending him.

"If worse comes to worse, there's nothing wrong with pushing your luck," America answered. He took a swig of his drink.

The grip on Germany's shoulder strengthened, and he didn't need to turn around to know the man was going red in the face. "I'm talking here," the man growled out.

"OI!" England slammed his flagon down on the table. "We're in the middle of a bloody game, you git!" His cards slipped from his grip. Already the man was buzzed.

The man sneered back. "And I-" Italy gave a choking sound as he was wrenched from his seat, "don't give a rat's ass, fa-"

Germany was on his feet, wearing the expression of a Rottweiler barely containing its rage. "Drop him." Behind him, seven chairs screeched across the floor.

When the man refused to comply, and instead tightened his grip on Italy's throat, America tried to step in. "Not cool, man. The guy wasn't hurting anybody, so it's best to just let him go."

"Potato Bastard! What're you doing, just standing there? Do something!"

"Awaiting permission," Germany hissed.

The man blinked a few times before comprehension dawned. "Only a fuckin' pansy asks!" the man dropped Italy and threw a punch into Germany's jaw. The blow knocked him back a few steps and he could taste blood where his lip was cut open. Germany stood, drawing himself up to his full height, arms crossed and eyes narrowed into his most piercing glare. The bar's patrons long since noticed the tension, but the Nations behind Germany grew quiet.

The sound of bone hitting wood floor broke the spell. Italy, who was trying to crawl unnoticed back to the safety of the other Nations, collapsed groaning, another man lifting his boot from Italy's head. He didn't have a chance to look up before Germany launched for the man's head, and Romano went for the gut.

Feet pounded across the floor and the man that couldn't leave well enough alone found himself facing America's fist. He recovered and attempted to return the favor, but America ducked just in time. In his place, England leapt onto the table, charged, leapt, and drove his heels into the man's face and shoulder. He jumped off and away before the man hit the ground.

When Germany presented the greater threat, Romano broke away from his quarry opting to see to his brother. "Venezaino! Venezaino!" He shook his shoulders, but when no response came Romano rolled Italy onto his back and checked his neck, pulse and breath. Then someone grabbed him by the back of his collar, hauling him to his feet, and Romano almost instinctively elbowed whatever he could connect with, which ended up being the man's solar plexus, and as the man doubled up, Romano threw in a few punches to the temples.

The man would have fallen, were it not for the other one backing into him from France's flurry of fluid fists and kicks. Clearly this man had no proper training- he focused so much on power that he lost speed, and France wove around him, fooling the man at every turn. In all but a few seconds, the two humans crumbled in a heap.

By that time, Germany had already taken to Italy's side, scooping him up, holding him close, he looked for an out-of-the-way place to keep Italy safe. A brief glance down at his love told Germany that Italy would not only be out of sorts for several days, but that he would have difficulty breathing as well. The table they sat at was so massive that Germany could imagine it meeting with a grenade and only receiving surface damage. It also had one end shoved up against the wall. He dove for the space beneath it, and laid Italy down.

The Nation also scrambled out at the wrong time. He swayed; blinking his vision back into focus after a chair was smashed against his back and head. Germany felt his scalp being seized, and it didn't help that his assailant didn't let go after being body-slammed into the table. Whiplash: scheiße. He crumbled in a mess to the ground. Getting to his feet proved impossible; his muscles refused orders to work and his brain was lost in the dark.

"-are you okay?" that was a voice that wasn't unfamiliar… "Germany, can you-" the voice stopped to throw a punch, "can you get up, eh?" The voice sounded too timid to be in a brawl. That was Canada, right?

"Nng… not… yet…"

"Alright, don't worry." Germany grunted at the reassurance, focusing on his own balance. Canada kept guard on them, surprising any assailants with his years of ending up in hockey brawls; he'd throw his entire weight into them, discombobulating them, and taking the opportunity to dislodge their balance with a few hits and a sweep of the foot.

Between him and Germany, another man dropped clean out of the air, with Japan sailing over them. He landed with a short slide on the neighboring table, spun and launched himself over the din to relieve Spain of one the two men he was cornered with. He landed and slid to a stop, jabbing a fist into the floating rib of the one who was winding up for a punch. The other had Spain restrained. The punching man doubled over at the pain, and Japan threw a knockout blow to the head.

Spain took the chance to ram the other one, who let him go. Spain tumbled, but quickly recovered with his feet planted soundly beneath him, he delivered a roundhouse to the face.

The last man dropped at England's feet. Around them, chair and tables were knocked over, glasses broken and patrons rolled around on the floor.

"Holy shit," America breathed at the scene. "What do we do? We can't just-"

"Hero or not, America, they were the one's who started it and we had every right to act in defense," England rolled the man onto his side with his foot.

Spain spat out some blood. "Yes, I say we just leave them with the chance to pretend that they still have their dignity."

"Yeah, but we still-"

"Imagine what they'll do to redeem themselves if word got out that they were beaten up by a bunch of-" England cut off his own words. "The world meetings are best left run by Nations, and if word of this gets out, none of us would like the consequences."

"Nng… I think," Germany slurred as he tried to get up, "it is important that Italy receives immediate attention." With one hand braced on a chair, he managed to get up to a half-crouch before his muscles gave out on him, sending him down with a jolt of pain when his knees hit the floor.

"We… should… just leave," France said making his way over to his charge. He looped an arm around Germany's shoulder and pulled the man to his feet. "We still have the meeting tomorrow. Can you walk?"

"Ja, I think so." Germany balanced precariously on his feet watching America and Romano carry Italy between them.