A/N: A fairly quick update to give a little more character into this story. The first appearances of each England will be labeled so you will know. The first one is hard to describe with one word, but I put gloomy just to sum it up.

This England is hard to depict. I just used anxiety, helplessness, gloom, and loneliness and put them all into one. This is an emotion I see being harbored deep within England from abandonment after the Revolutionary War with America. I think of it as a part that he couldn't let go even though he doesn't show it often because it was a feeling brought upon by an act of rejection. England mentioning that he wasn't a coward in the first chapter but still couldn't confess to America is relevant to all of these Englands. Each one creates a reason for why he couldn't reveal his feelings; this chapter being about the fear of rejection.

The second England is basically compiled of raw jealousy and arousal. Simply said. I guess it could stem back to his earlier days of piracy and unquenchable greed. England was a very possessive dude who knew what he wanted and how to take it ;)

Four Englands appearing in chapter (in this order): Bashful, Cheerful, Gloomy, Jealousy

Also, just to help with the characterization, the original England will be referred to as Arthur, whereas the others will be narrated as England.

Sorry for the long and possibly slightly confusing author's note. Without further ado, the chapter.

Enjoy.

Gloomy:

Oh, this was terrible. This was dreadful. Arthur paced around on shaking legs with horrified fingers fisting his hair to a nearly painful level. He'd been foolish in his rash behavior. His mind had been too preoccupied with a certain blonde nation's gleaming smile and sickeningly sweet face to a point that he must've skipped over very key and specific lines from his book.

How could he not have? There were six fucking people all locked in the master bedroom upstairs that looked just like him. In fact, they were him. They must've been. How could they all look, sound, and act like him if they weren't him somehow?

It was frightening, really. Just managing to lock them all into one room had been a feat in and of itself. He could still hear a couple of them yelling and a sob or two accompanied with the stomping footsteps overhead. Arthur shivered. Dear Lord, this was absolutely appalling.

Arthur stopped abruptly, his spotless black dress shoes no longer making an incessant pitter-pattering against his kitchen tiles. No. No, that wasn't the case. He was positive that he'd read through everything correctly. It was just a good luck charm to help America understand his feelings better. It was harmless…

Green eyes narrowed as he recalled back to darker days; days where Arthur had used that thick brown book as frequent as a beginning chef used a cookbook. With dark magic nothing was ever written in stone. There was usually a catch with every spell, chant, incantation, or charm in that book. This must've been his punishment for trying to cheat at love. He fisted his hands at his sides.

Well damn it, how was he supposed to know!

"You're fine. You're doing absolutely charming, old boy," Arthur frustratingly reassured himself. Yes, mounting stress was getting higher due to the fact that all of his duplicates were a pain in the ass, and yes, because he had created another problem for himself when it came to his relationship with America, and yes, he still had to attend a conference that very morning but could not even fathom leaving his house knowing those six people upstairs could cause a ruckus and possibly break his furniture.

But that was no problem, because Arthur was the United Kingdom. And the United Kingdom solved problems, not let them fester.

Arthur nodded to himself and wiped the beads of sweat from his brow. Good. He could handle this.

And yet…something didn't feel quite right.

Arthur craned his neck to look up towards his ceiling with a nervous scowl. Why had it gotten so unusually silent when but a moment ago footsteps and voices were seeping through the floor?

Heart nearly leaping up in his chest, Arthur bounded up his staircase with alarming speed, rustling around in his pocket for a key before pushing open his door not even caring that it had slammed into the wall. He gaped, mouth hanging open in a very ungentlemanly manner when seeing the room nearly empty, his dresser messy and raided for clothing. There were only two Englands in the room, each now dressed in his more casual clothing, both looking towards him with completely different expressions.

"Wh-wh-w-what is – wha – what happened? What are – where are the others!" Arthur finally managed to get out, gesturing towards his open window and fluttering curtains all the while.

The person sitting on his bed hunkered down and closed his eyes at the pitch and anger in the Briton's voice. He didn't seem to be interested in talking, more occupied with fidgeting and wiping at his rose-red cheeks.

Arthur straightened and walked into the room, lactic acid filling his muscles in copious amounts. "I asked where the others went. Are you both deaf?" he demanded, eyes darting anxiously towards the man smiling unsurely by his dresser, hands interlocked behind his back.

"There was a brawl so they left," the cheerful Englishman stated helpfully. Arthur wanted to vomit at how polite and sincere this doppelganger was. He couldn't even remember the last time his voice had come out that happy. It sounded like America for God's sake.

"A fight? Where did they go? When?" his breath came out rushed.

The cheerful England's smile didn't even leave his face for a second. "I am uncertain of that, actually. Although I do recall a couple of them leaving around five minutes ago. They were rather eager to escape this room. I think locking the door was not a wise judgment, sport."

Arthur balked, blinking stupidly towards both of his counterparts. So majority of these accidental copies took the nearest outfit they could find and left at the first chance that they got? He growled and shook his head. He knew he should have been paying attention more!

"Please watch yourself. You're going to ruin your shoes if you stand that closely," piped in the smiling England.

Opening his eyes, Arthur scowled towards the figure leaning against his dresser. "Ruin my shoes?" Looking down he felt another painful shiver shoot up his spinal column. Oh Christ in heaven and all his apostles, there was a rather large stain of red on his white carpet. He looked up towards the smiling England with large eyes, jaw flapping in the wind unable to get any words out.

Blood?

Was that blood?

Why was there blood on his floor?

Oh, he needed to sit down. Stumbling to his bedside Arthur all but fell against his mattress, startling the blushing England at the top of his bed.

"Are you alright?" he heard the voice by his dresser ask.

Waving his hand in weary dismissal, Arthur wiped his other hand over his face and leaned over his knees. "Wh-what is that?" he asked and feared the answer. There was a very awkward pause another moment before the joyful England finally spoke up.

"I believe that I mentioned that a few of the others were unhappy that they were trapped inside of this room. A fight broke out and some fellow had his lip busted open by a rather angry gent. It was quite a show truthfully," he laughed and held his hand up to his mouth to cover the titters.

Arthur frowned at him, hating seeing the man with a mirroring face smiling so much. Arthur never liked his smile that much. And having to see it on another who looked just like him didn't do the cyclone of apprehension inside of his belly any good.

Glancing towards his nightstand clock, Arthur quickly got onto his unsteady feet ignoring the sets of eyes following him. He quietly pulled at his vest and coat, straightening his tie speedily.

"Are you leaving as well?" Cheerful England asked politely watching Arthur's every move, looking almost intrigued with the angry mutters coming out from under his breath. Arthur grimaced and strolled over to his window, shutting it harshly and spinning on his heels.

"You two," he ordered lowly and pointed towards the confused England by his dresser and the shy one with a red face on his bed set. "You are not to leave the premises, is that understood? I swear that I will skin you both alive if I find out that you took even one step off this property. I'm going out to bring the others back. If one's bleeding then he shouldn't be too hard to find. They all couldn't have gotten too far anyway." He was trying to convince himself but in reality Arthur knew that four people would be hard to find.

Not to mention that he only had twenty minutes until the summit started. Arthur wanted to just throw himself down his staircase but he knew that would only solve his problem temporarily. Damn him and his affections towards America.

"That sounds horrible!" Jovial England gasped and crinkled his nose at the mental image of being skinned alive.

"Yes. Well, then you better not disobey my wishes then. Please keep any others who come back in the house. I'll leave that to you…me…you – oh, whatever!" Arthur huffed frustratingly, unsure whether to refer to them as himself or not. They were all originally one in the same in the end.

With that, Arthur quickly made his way out of his house and started a seemingly hopeless search for four rather awkward individuals. God only knew what kind of trouble they could bring him if someone mistook them for himself.

This was going to be a long Monday.

It was such a beautiful day in England. Alfred wasn't sure if that was the four shots of caffeine in his latte talking or the three hours of sleep he had gotten the night before. Either way, after spending the whole night in Japan's hotel room getting his ass kicked in some terribly hard video game, Alfred had woken up on the metaphorical right side of the bed.

Well, actually he'd passed out on the floor, but nevertheless, he'd woken up with and oddly happy feeling.

Now don't get him wrong; Alfred was almost always impossibly happy. He was just that cool. What other guy could keep smiling through wind, hail, China lecturing him on his economic situation, and the occasional volcano eruption? Nobody but Alfred, that's who.

Strolling down the bustling London streets with a warm coffee in his gloved hands, Alfred whistled his national anthem under his breath and nestled deeply into his fur hooded coat. The sun wasn't out, and it was still colder than Russia's hands on the beach, which, seriously, that was weird because how could someone manage to stay cold even in blistering heat?, but at least it wasn't snowing or raining cats and dogs anymore. And for that Alfred was grateful because the cold sucked major balls.

Alfred stopped and waited with a group of people at a crosswalk, sniffing and staring up at the grey expanse of the sky. He wondered, slightly, how all Europeans did how. How they could all stand to get up early for business and boring discussions when the typical weather they were greeted with was grey clouds or chilly winds. Alfred supposed he could never stand that. He couldn't give up places like Miami or Los Angeles. Not in a million years.

The signal on the crossing meter switched and Alfred nearly dropped his drink when a few shoulders pushed against him in the haste move forward. He stumbled but caught himself quickly before letting out a relieved sigh and crossing the street. He didn't know what he'd do if his coffee was–

"Oomph!"

In the span of two point seven seconds Alfred felt three consecutive things all at once.

The first was the merciless feeling of the damp London streets pushing up at him with equal force in a heartless pact with gravity against him.

The second was the searing pain of scalding hot coffee against the palm of his hand and his collarbone. That was sure to be third degree…

And the third and final thing was the sound of a very familiar, yet oh so distressed voice, that pierced his eardrums and sent his stomach contracting painfully.

He groaned and winced when sitting up, eyes darting to the abandoned Styrofoam cup that lay a foot away with the spilled contents of his morning drink; his only hope for making it through the whole meeting today. Alfred wanted to cry at that. That, and his coat was soaked a murky brown color contrasting with the light smears of blood on one of his palms. Wow. So much pain in so little time. What the hell did he trip over anyway? He was going to murder them. He was going to yell and stomp and totally not cry at the loss of his drink even though he could already feel his eyes stinging with the childishness of tears. He was going to–

Alfred blinked when spotting the object of his frustration, the feeling of anger burning down to a dull roar, his need for self-gratifying restitution put on the back burner. No more than three feet away was England. On his knees. In a very casual outfit and not his usual suit that he wore on the days of the summits. Hyperventilating.

Oh boy.

Alfred didn't even get a chance to brush himself off and bombard the Briton with irritated questions such as: what the hell was he doing kneeling down in a crosswalk, why was he on this side of London anyway when his house was in the opposite direction, and why dear gosh in heaven why were his eyes red and puffy as if he'd…as if he'd been crying? At the panicked face in front of him Alfred could only mechanically kick himself into Hero Mode and scoot towards his ex-caretaker with hands patting at him.

"Are you okay? Did I step on you? I didn't mean to fall on top of you. I mean, yeah, you were the one who made me trip because you're, what, picking up a shiny penny on the ground? That's a really irresponsible thing to do on a crowded street but– W-whoa! Hey, why do you look so freaked? Hey, calm down, Arthur – this is fine. See? I'm not mad, see?" Alfred garbled out with a reassuring smile, his lips straining to get that helpless look out from England's eyes. Why was he looking at him like he had just been attacked by a Nazi bear with a machete?

Alfred glanced towards where England was looking and spotted the smooth drip-drip-dripping of blood from his palm onto the wet cement. He immediately pulled his wounded hand out of sight with a bigger smile, forcing the cells in his teeth to gather every ounce of light nearby and make them sparkle. The brighter the better.

"What, this? This is nothing. This is a pinch, a tickle! Look, it's all good, brother. It's tip-top and chipper, or whatever you Brits say. It's–" Alfred grinned and waved his hand up to show that it was still perfectly functional when it knocked against a cup above him that a walking pedestrian was carrying. Hot tea spilled onto his hand making his eyes shoot open, wider than England's (if that was possible at the moment) before he yelped and cradled the burning appendage close to him.

"Holy hell, that smarts!" God, this day was starting off much worse than Alfred had thought it would. You know, what with waking up on the right side of the bed (floor) and all. He growled as the man just continued walking without even sparing a glance towards the wounded blonde. "Haven't you ever heard of a thermos!"

Now left with two blistering hands, Alfred peeked up towards England who hadn't moved from his spot, but had gotten uncharacteristically silent. Hm, what was this now? Where were the chiding words and overly paternal actions?

"…Are you okay, Arthur?" Alfred asked, more so to himself. England chewed against his lip before nodding hesitantly. He still refused to say anything, however, so Alfred decided to stand up. It was awkward just sitting in the wetness on the ground as people around them continued walking around. England stared up at him and quickly scampered to his feet, something hidden behind his mystified eyes.

Alfred flexed his fingers and frowned at the holes in his gloves. Damn, and he'd just bought these…

"So…Morning," Alfred muttered stupidly, unsure what to say. England was acting rather strange. Perhaps he'd just woken up on the wrong side of them bed this morning. Alfred accepted that as a plausible idea and dismissed it. After all, it's what had happened to him apparently.

England pulled at his green argyle vest before brushing off his black pants. "Good morning, Alfred," he stated quietly. Alfred cocked a curious eyebrow before peeling off his gloves, grimacing along the way. England was in front of him in the blink of an eye, hands hesitantly touching Alfred's hands so not to hurt them. "I'm –I'm sorry. I didn't mean to burn you. I will take full responsibility so please don't…" he faded off with a weak little voice that made Alfred look at him uncertainly.

England's face contorted with a silent plea before he pressed an airy kiss to the tops of Alfred's hands in a quiet gesture for forgiveness. "…don't hate me…"

What?

Wait.

Huh?

Hold the phone.

"I'm not gonna hate you over this," Alfred laughed at the absurdity of what England had said. He pulled his hands back from the confused Briton with a chuckle. "Was that what you were worried about? Man, and here I thought you'd been stepped on by me and bruised a rib or something!" England seemed to wear a small smile in response to the humorous laughter Alfred emitted.

"Hey," said Alfred when his laughter died down, "what are you doing all the way out here? The nation's hotel is way out of your way and I know how early you like to arrive." The American motioned for England to walk with him which the withdrawn Briton reluctantly did, never meeting his ally's eyes for some strange reason. He was quite fidgety.

"I – I'm…I seem to have gotten myself lost…" England responded, drawing Alfred's attention at the small hiccup in his voice. Was he – was he going to start crying?

"Lost?" reiterated Alfred and glanced towards the Englishman with a look of incredulity. He snorted and grinned. "That's funny. You're getting better at telling jokes, old man. You probably just wanted an excuse to make sure I dragged my butt out of bed. I know how you get when I 'disrupt your presentation's atmosphere'," he mocked.

England wrung his fingers out against each other as he peered up behind a messy frame of hair that was his bangs. "But I'm not trying to be witty–"

Alfred slung an arm around England's shoulders suddenly but somehow managed to miss the surprised gasp and warming cheeks at the action. He minded his hands, though. They stung like a hornet's nest on a jack rabbit in an Arizonan summer. "Oh, don't be so modest. Anyhow, now that you caught me, you know, in the act of being late and stuff, how's about we head that way together? I need to get a new coffee anyway."

England lightly clasped onto the corner of Alfred's jacket before nodding fervently. "I want to come," he said insistently being steered around a group of Londoners. His lip quivered as he looked away guiltily, an overdramatic sniffle coming from his nose. "I want to…I will fix your hands for you."

Alfred just smiled awkwardly down at the pitying nation before casually making his way down the street to the nearest shop.

It was just the wrong side of the bed.

Perhaps it was just the off morning he was having or the numbness of his hands starting to kick in, but Alfred was starting to worry about England. Yeah, that was weird, huh? Because usually it was the other way around. England had always been the doting one, the one with a list of pre-written lectures down for everything that Alfred could ever do wrong, soothing words when things didn't go as planned, and a slightly forceful touch when it came to defending certain aspects of him when people picked on him a little too often during conferences.

But that was just England. He'd always been like that since…well, since Alfred had known him.

And yet today he was acting, what, like a kicked puppy looking for forgiveness from its owner, or a self-conscious middle schooler who had been bullied at his old school before he transferred? Either way it was starting to become very obvious to the people around him.

When getting to a drug store after finding some replacement coffee, England had suddenly realized that he had no money to pay for the bandages and antiseptic that he'd wanted to buy. Alfred had paid while almost freaking out in line when England started blubbering and muttering apologies and "don't hate me's" like a chant.

When applying the antiseptic, England all but screamed when Alfred jumped at the burning sensation of the alcohol. That resulted in another tsunami of apologies and him burying his face in his hands, ashamed, darting to the corner of the building and crouching down on his knees. Alfred consoled him with uncomfortable and weary words –mostly seeped in confusion – and silently wondered to himself if that was what England had been doing on the ground previously in the crosswalk.

He shook that off and started heading towards the conference hall when England had calmed down, refusing to let go of Alfred's now bandaged hand. He walked two good paces behind him, Alfred occasionally having to look over his shoulder nervously to see if he was even still there. England was being so careful not to harm him again that his touch was feather light.

And Alfred was extremely grateful for that. Not because England was holding his hand; no, never. Nobody had held his hand like that since he was little, and it became very noticeable when he walked into the building to see various faces of various nations staring rather blatantly. Yet Alfred couldn't shake England's hand away (because he so desperately tried but that resulted in tears which nearly scared Alfred out of his skin; heroes hated tears after all.).

But still, Alfred was grateful for the fact that even though England was acting shockingly not so cavalier like he usually did, he still was careful enough not to harm Alfred's already stinging hands even more so.

As they both stepped out of the elevator Alfred took a sip from his coffee and started making his way to the large doors containing the meeting. They were going to cause a scene, he knew it. How could they not? They were both nearly thirty minutes late and England was the key speaker.

It was sure to get awkward fast.

But being the super awesome guy that he was, Alfred F. Jones just puffed his chest out and grinned like a fool as they approached. He pushed open the doors with his shoulder and took another gulp from his coffee when he stepped into the room, England in tow.

He felt a tingle travel up his spine as all the volume in the room died down, every eye turning towards them. Alfred pulled his cup down slightly and inhaled, ready to make his typical announcement to stop worrying because he was here now and yadda yadda yadda, when England didn't quite get the memo to stop walking and ran into his back, coffee cup as well as coffee falling out of his hand and landing on the tiled floor.

He blinked down at his now second cup of spilled coffee and jerkily turned his face towards England who looked positively horrified. And then it happened.

Oh, it was a sound that Alfred had never heard before, sending him into a state of shock, his hair standing on end. He stepped back and away as England's cheeks blossomed over with a saddened blush, eyes overflowing with water as he began to sob. Alfred's mouth became dry as he looked around seeing a mixture of perplexed faces at the scene.

Oh boy, oh man. Tears. Damn big crocodile tears to boot!

"Oh ma bonté, monsieur Amérique, you have brought an astounding spectacle, no?" France muttered, confused eyes glancing from between Alfred and England. "To what do we owe this drama?" he asked with a small hint of amusement.

Alfred turned and barked a very overdramatic laugh and scratched the back of his head. "Hahaha, oh France, you're such a killer. What are we going to do with you? Sorry I'm late, by the way. Just had to stop and get something real quick. Could one of you clean that up for me? I'll be right back. Don't you stop all this learning on my account," he explained with one long puff of air while steering England out of the room by his shoulders. Before anyone could protest or say anything else, Alfred swung around, his eyes bugging out of his head down at the Briton.

"What do you think you're doing?" Alfred demanded, hands out desperately to understand why England was still looking miserable and gurgling, a trail of tears and boogers leaving his eyes and nose. Alfred crinkled his face at the sight.

"I…nggh…rry…I'm so-sorr…" was all England could get out before wiping at his eyes with one hand and reaching out towards Alfred with the other. Alfred blanched when hesitant fingers gripped lightly against his coat before he swatted them away.

"I know you're sorry. You've been saying that all morning for reasons I don't understand. But you can't just start bawling in the middle of a meeting. What are you thinking, Arthur? Did you get drunk this morning or something?" Alfred asked and ran a hand over his bangs, Nantucket popping up when his palm flattened it down.

England didn't say anything, rapidly blinking his eyes to try to get his tears to leave. When seeing how unresponsive his companion was, Alfred heaved a heavy sigh and dug around his pockets before finding some napkins he kept around in case he found a burger stand somewhere. He handed them to England who took them gratefully, forehead leaning forward and landing against Alfred's shoulder, who stiffened by the way.

"You cool now?" he asked after a thick moment of silence and grimaced when hearing England blow his nose against his arm. Yuck. Please, don't let boogers leave a stain.

England pulled back and nodded, eyes still puffy from his outburst. Alfred sighed. "Good. Now there's a tough crowd in there. So stop acting so weird and sober up. You have a presentation to do," Alfred reminded him and pushed him towards the door. England stumbled and looked a bit alarmed once more.

"B-but I don't know what the devil you're talking a-about, Alfred. I can't – you can't make me go in there alone. I didn't mean to cause so much trouble for you this morning, truly I didn't! I can't go in there," England all but exclaimed, twisting around to peer desperately up towards Alfred who looked clueless.

"Wha – no, Arthur, you have to present. That's why everyone's here. In London. What do you mean you don't know what I'm talking about? This is your conference! You're hosting it!" Alfred yelled back. He could feel his heartbeat picking up. How could England not be prepared? He was always prepared. Maybe he'd slept on a bed of broken mirrors under a ladder near a migration of black cats.

England shook his head and dug his heels into the ground.

"I can't…"

Alfred frowned and gripped at his hair with a groan. Mother fucker. Mother, brother, sister…fuck. Fuck. Growling in annoyance, Alfred stalked past the jittery Englishman and grabbed the door handles. "I can't believe I'm going to cover for you. You owe me big for this."

With that he threw the doors open, nearly hitting Spain in the head who had drawn the shortest straw and had to clean the coffee up, and strutted into the room with more confidence then he really had. Alfred gripped the podium and nearly tripped over all the wires England had laid out for his PowerPoint. "Hey you guys. How's everybody doing today? Good? Great! Sorry for the setback. England is having some sort of allergy problem so he won't be able to host today. Instead I'll be substituting for now so don't you worry a hair on your heads, okay? I got everything under control. I'll just…here we go, I'll just play the slides. That sounds simple enough. Okay…That's. Alright, that doesn't look quite like I thought it would. Um, maybe if I just do this– woah, hey. Is that supposed to spark like that? I don't think it is…Shit! Italy, move! Aw man, somebody help put out this fire!"

Lord almighty was it going to be a long day.

Jealousy:

Footsteps treaded heavily across the damp cement as a certain sandy-blonde glowered at everything in his path. He cradled his lip with the sleeve of his white button-up shirt which was now soaked with blood. He winced and ran his tongue experimentally over the gash down the bottom half of his lip.

It still hurt.

If he ever found the bloody wanker who clocked him one he'd strangle him with piano wire.

After escaping the confines of the very large Victorian styled house, England had chased that blasted fool who looked just like him until he'd ran out of sight. Now he was in the middle of God knew where with a bloody lip and a ruined shirt. What a way to start his day.

Ignoring his cut, he began to make his way into the city in search for something he could eat. He grinned to himself when he fished a wallet full of money out of his pocket. Snagging that on his way out was a smart idea. Well, whoever the bloke was who had locked him in that bedroom, he was treating him today.

However, England found himself becoming distracted and stopped in his tracks when looking up and seeing America. He froze and watched with intrigued eyes as the blonde held his coffee cup snugly against his lips and breathed a contented sigh into the air, white wisps leaving his mouth like clouds on this cold morning. America, what a sweet boy. Insufferably daft, yes, but utterly sweet, much like an ice cream cone. One could never leave with only one taste of an ice cream, could they?

England felt his chest squeeze with something dark and selfish as he smiled to himself from afar. He licked his lip eagerly when heat graciously started to flow down to his southern half. He suddenly didn't want to eat anymore. This momentary arousal was stalled for a brief second when England's eyes narrowed in on the person behind America. His lips pulled back over his teeth with a displeased sneer when seeing a timid looking England holding onto America's hand.

America chatted away with a small frown to the blubbering England, but never stepping too far out of his grasp, hands staying connected all the while.

America was truthfully too kind for his own good.

Stuffing the wallet back into his pocket, England huffed and put the sleeve back to his wounded lip, meandering in the same direction as America and his oh so familiar chum. He might've been locked in a room, decked in the face, and chased until his was breathless, but he would be damned if that was going to ruin his morning.

He grinned as his blood boiled with excitement. And with America around, there was no sign of that happening.