19. Let the Young Ones Play

Date Written: February 8, 2019

Date Posted: July 13, 2019

Characters: Veneziano, England, Canada, America

Summary: Two old Nations go senile while their juniors have the time of their lives.

Notes:

It was nearing the twilight hours of evening—most if not all the representatives had gone back to their hotel rooms for a brief respite until morning. That would have been the end of this particular story, but England just happened to forget something really important. Something so important that England just had to walk back from the restaurant he was trying out (as was recommended by the host Nation).

That important item?

A bloody binder.

As was expected, England was not excited by such a prospect of coming back.

Unfortunately, when England had returned to the meeting hall, he saw America and Canada were busy—

"You hoser! You're cheating!"

"Hahahaha! That's what a loser would say!"

"I am not a—Aaaaaahhh!"

England left, knowing that he would be largely ignored—mostly by the loud American. Instead, he hurriedly grabbed his misplaced belongings and raced into the lobby as soon as possible. He was only seconds away from leaving out the glass doors when—

"Signor Inghilterra! What are you doing here so late?" In front of him, there was a young man grinning toothily at him. Like the blond, Veneziano was wearing a business suit and a frantic, yet friendly look on his Roman face. North Italy also happened to appear a little frazzled; there was a worried look in his eyes and crinkles in his attire. Clearly, he had forgotten one of his belongings as well. "Did you get lost? Because I got lost a few hours ago, but modern technology is such a magnificent—"

Much to his personal distaste, England had to cut the Italian short. Usually, he would have obliged him, but he felt that exchanging pleasantries at that moment would have been taxing rather than fulfilling. "Splendid, really! But if you would let me—"

Much to his utter astonishment, England found that the northern half of Italy would not budge from his much needed exit. Why was he blocking him? Some people would rather have a go at the bar or two before turning in for the night instead of...instead of whatever the hell was happening right now.

For once, it seemed that the oblivious Italian could actually read the atmosphere. He looked a little apprehensive and hushed, as if knowing that he was interrupting the Briton's evening. If England was being honest, there wasn't much he planned to do other than go back to that blasted restaurant and eat some dinner. Peace and quiet amid the sudden ruckus of his fellow Nations were more than enough reason to just go and be done with it, but alas.

Nations were always expected to be rowdy—even if they were supposed to be in diplomatic relations with each other.

Even if England didn't want to act polite and reserved—especially if that Nation in question was a French frog.

England shook himself out of his reverie to hear Italy say,"I know that this might be a bit much, but could you kindly direct me back to the meeting hall? I can only remember so much!"

The blond must have must have had a bleeding heart because he took one look at the Italian and began ushering him inside. It should have felt like a trying experience, but he was more than used to his fair share of disruptive siblings, unruly charges, and the like. At least the Italian was honest and polite.

Even if he did make a couple jabs at his cuisine.

Both of them walked to the elevator that sat in the lobby. Once settled inside, the blond pushed for the fifth floor, much to the exclamation of the Italian—"Fifth! I thought it was on the third!"—and the tired bemusement of the Brit. For a second after that, the auburn haired man simultaneously talked of everything and nothing at the same time.

"—and that's why Italians love talking and drinking coffee! Signor Inghilterra, why do you looked so constipated? When you—"

"Constipated," he couldn't help but gasp. "I beg your pardon?"

"Sì! You looked so disturbed about something and I couldn't help, but—Ohhhh!" The Italian interrupted himself. The elevator announced their arrival with a high pitched ding. "It looks like we're here!"

"Well, there's no need for me to accompany you any further." Hopefully, Italy wouldn't accuse him of not being a gentleman. He did, after all, technically did help him find his way back to the meeting hall.

Unfortunately, Italy must have seen right through him. Without any visible warning, he grabbed the taller blond by the wrist and practically dragged him back to the familiar doors, which, unfortunately, did little to disguise the unmistakable ruckus of his former colonies.

To England's great amusement, Italy had immediately looked away from the door and had surreptitiously moved behind the Brit, effectively becoming a barrier in case things went down south. Not that England imagined it would. His former colonies were a lot of things, but even they would try to keep the casualties to a minimum.

"Scared?"

"Are they… Are they fighting each other?"

Behind the closed doors, the sounds of whoops and cheers amid the cacophony of yelled swears and threats could be heard. There was a rush of footsteps, a few thuds (hopefully, from nothing breakable), and the sound of a…bell? Goodness, even the normally cowering Italian looked a little bit curious.

"No, they are simply acting like children." At that, the blond decisively walked up to the door and opened it up just a tad so that they could just make out the scene in front of them.

Chaos.

Complete and utter chaos.

Tables were upturned on their sides. Chairs were stacked on top of each other to mock the barricades of revolutions of times past. What was really surprising was that it appeared that nothing was broken. Already the scene was ten times weirder just by knowing that.

"What are they doing?"

England simply pointed.

Both North Americans were wielding makeshift longbows that they had crafted from old pencils, rubber bands, and sheer creativity. Both brothers had pencil cases strapped to their backs, as if inspired by the archers of old. Currently, Canada was perched behind a series of drapes while America was shooting at him from behind a table.

"Children, that's what they are." England shook his head. "I can't believe that they're actually countries, Nations in their own right."

Italy hummed a nonsensical tune—in agreement or rather to contest his sarcasm, England was not too sure.

"They look like they're having fun. Reminds me of when I had full access to the Mediterranean and kicked Turkey's ass so many times." The Italian looked blissful as he watched their mock battle play out. In his eyes, one could see the amount of experience, of history that he had witnessed.

Nostalgia.

Every Nation knew that feeling well. Decades passed in mere seconds while centuries flowed like a few days. Those who were old, had seen enough, could no longer feel the restraints of Time upon their souls.

Perhaps they were Time.

Regardless, Italy looked upon them with a fond look before grasping the British Nation by the wrist—again!—and dragged him bodily out the door.

"And why—"

"You take things too seriously, dearest Inghilterra. Let them have fun. We were young once, why not let them make the most of it before they get too old like us!"

England sighed before nodding.

"With such wisdom, how could I ever forget your age?" How does anyone remember that Italy was so much older than him?

"Wait, Italy! Didn't you need to take something?"

"Ah, yes! I forgot what I forgot so I'll check during tomorrow's meeting!"