A/N: I'm actually surprised my rambling doesn't annoy you enough to scare you away from reading the 'Fun Facts'. :) You're all just so awesome! (Also, thank you for the wonderful feedback! I really appreciate it.)

Title: In the Shadow of Albion
Rating: T to M — it should be important to note that when I do up the ante, I'll put a big flashing light over the chapter(s) in question.
Pairing(s): 'multiple pairings' (literally), but I guess it also has an odd element of England/Italy that should be pointed out. The usual suspects are also present: Germany/Italy, US/UK, Spain/South Italy, etc...
Warnings: dark!England, romance, violence, a smidgen of language, innuendos, and smex (though I don't know to what level of detail just yet, possibly on the dub-con-ish side, though)
Fun Facts: I'll try to explain everything along the way through the characters themselves, but if I sneak any jokes into the mix I'll point them out at the bottom of the page.
Translations: Again, any of the garble I insult your senses with will be translated at the bottom of the page (special thanks to Red Hot Holly Berries for correcting my French in this chapter).
Disclaimer: Hetalia belongs entirely to Hidekaz Himaruya.
Summary: Meddling with the darker arts, England unwittingly unleashes a side of himself he thought was good and dead. And it's really too bad Italy's the only one that seems to notice anything's wrong with the old Empire...

~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~

They started late by maybe fifteen minutes. After the stragglers had made their way back to their seats, and after both Alfred and Ludwig deemed it necessary to call a temporary truce between themselves, Kiku stole the spotlight long enough to ask if anyone had any additional questions for him before turning their attention over to Yao. The Chinese man took the floor with a small bow, gave Japan a steely, sidelong glance, and proceeded to introduce his own ('—improved, aru') plan on lowering the GHG emissions.

Feliciano took a copy of the afternoon's agenda when it was passed around the table, smiled a little when Japan gave the lecturing nation an amused look, and then realized, dimly, that England's chair was still empty.

...Empty.

He thought it was interesting, to say the least, that the host of all people would be MIA. Italy had known very little of the man prior to his discussion with Canada, but he knew the Brit appreciated punctuality the same way America delighted in receiving gifts. And ominous air or not, most nations would consider it rude if they realized he was gone. After all, they each took care to speak the language and observe the laws of the host country when they were there—the least he could do was show up (where Italy could keep his eyes on him).

The only thing was...nobody seemed to notice.

Absolutely no one.

Not even Ludwig, and Feliciano was half-convinced the man had a second pair of eyes on the back of his head—that, or God had given him a keen sense of intuition. That was really the only way he could explain how the man knew when he was feeding his dogs pasta when he wasn't home to stop Feli.

Fidgeting nervously in his seat, Feliciano fought the urge to peak under the table (—that would just look stupid). England wouldn't want to attack him here anyhow, not with nearly every nation in the world crammed together in one room. It would be WWII all over again—or maybe a free-for-all. Feliciano couldn't tell. Sad as he was to admit it, he wasn't up-to-date on who was friends with whom anymore in the 21st century.

"Do you have any Tylenol?" Ludwig murmured quietly, still a little red-faced from his screaming match. "Or something, please—anything will do."

He nodded, because he did, and leaned over awkwardly in his chair to fish around inside his satchel for the bottle. "Sì. You have a..." Oh, what was the word? "...a head-banger?"

Romano snorted derisively into his coffee cup before returning it to the coaster beside his name plaque. "You mean he is a head-banger," he chuckled. "All Germans are metal heads, aren't they?"

Spain chastised the young man under his breath, but Romano waved it off with a flourish of his hand. He enjoyed taking a jab at Ludwig whenever the opportunity presented itself, regardless of the consequences.

Italy tsked at his brother under his breath but was still at a loss for the right word...

"Migraine," someone whispered into Feliciano's ear, and he smiled when he realized that, yes, that was it.

And then he shrieked.

Or 'screamed', maybe. That sounded more accurate.

China paused long enough to give Italy a strange look before continuing with his speech, going so far as to snap his fingers impatiently when it seemed that no one wanted to tear their eyes away from the Italian. Eventually they relented, and so Feliciano sat there, stalk still, as both his brother and his lover stared at him in confusion.

Just to Feliciano's left, England leaned forward to deposit a copy of tomorrow's agenda on top of his notebook, and then inclined his head far enough to give Feliciano a wink before moving on to deliver a copy to Romano...

Needless to say, Feliciano was embarrassed—which was kind of odd, because he was generally an unabashed nation by the nature. Heck, he was hardly afraid of walking around in the nude in front of company, so why should he let a minor outburst humiliate him now?

Because it was, more or less, in front England.

After all, there was a difference between being 'nude in front of a friend' and 'nude in front of an enemy', and having England watch him so intently made him feel as though he had been stripped bare. Italy had no military secrets or weapons of mass destruction. He was about as weak in battle techniques as England was in culinary skills, and if he were to find himself at odds with the nation, alone, without Ludwig or any of his other allies to aid him, there was no question who would win.

"Something troubling you?" Ludwig whispered; his eyebrows furrowed in concern. "Why are you so nervous?"

"...Low blood sugar," he mumbled in response. It wasn't exactly a lie, either. He was beginning feeling faint.

Ludwig hummed thoughtfully for a moment, evaluating whether or not it was the truth, and then returned his undivided attention to China. Feliciano knew they would talk about it later—Germany had adapted Italy's behaviour of wriggling his way into other people's business (a habit Italy hadn't entirely intended to bestow upon him).

He honestly had no idea what he was supposed to tell the man...

Resolving that, maybe, he should just tell him the truth (—after all, if he died, at least Ludwig would know who to go to in order to find his body—), or that maybe there was still a slim chance that he was blowing this all out of proportion, he lifted the sheet England left him to give it a once-over and realized that the man had slipped something under it as well, probably when he had winked at Feliciano.

It was just a card...probably nothing important really...

~99 Kensington High Street

Babylon at the Roof Gardens

Dinner at 6:00pm

Your friend,

Arthur Kirkland~

...unless you believed everyone had a 'lastsupper'.

~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~/\\\~*~

"How do I get there?"

Francis wrinkled his nose curiously and plucked the card delicately from between Feliciano's fingers. As soon as he saw who it was from, though, he rolled his eyes and tossed it onto the hotel bed beside his guest. "That man and his 'food'...It really is just off Kensington High Street, mon petit. I would escort you there myself, but I have other plans."

"Do you think he'd be upset if I didn't go?"

The Frenchman gave him an odd look, and then patted Feliciano's head fondly as he offered him an encouraging smile. "I understand that his food is not up to par with our standards, but 'Babylon' is not too bad. Your stomach will survive."

Italy wilted. It would've helped if he wasn't so hungry. "So...you think I should go?"

"Why not? Unless you are otherwise 'engaged', of course."

Feliciano tried to ignore his suggestive little eyebrow wriggle and picked the card up so that he could tuck it away safely in the breast pocket of his suit. He'd tried to invite Ludwig to tag along with him earlier, but the man told him he suspected something was afoot (—namely 'Gilbert', though how he could tell was beyond Feliciano's understanding—) and gave him a brief kiss before adding that he would see him again later that evening.

And then that was that.

Honestly, Feliciano felt a little putout.

"He frightens me."

"He frightens me too, mon petit, but his eyebrows don't bite."

Feliciano appreciated the humour, but it did absolutely nothing to lighten his mood. He was an hour away from his dance with destiny and he had nothing in the way of a battle plan yet (which, he supposed, was something that really hadn't changed in the last couple of centuries). "...What was he like when he was powerful?"

"He was a stubborn, little cow...and cruel," Francis muttered, but then he allowed himself to smile, just a smidgen, as though he had enjoyed those days nonetheless. "But so was I, I suppose. He was such a lovely victim..."

"Victim?"

"Friend, Feli. I said friend."

Italy wasn't stupid, but he didn't want to argue with the man on this one. He didn't want to think about France's list of conquests either, because his mind had a way of running away with him sometimes—but, oh, the thought had already gone and popped into his head. There was no stopping it now...

Francis gave him a curious look before turning his attention to the mirror above the antique commode. As the man went about brushing his hair, Feliciano glanced over his shoulder at the beautiful room and thought about how spacious it was for only one guest (—not that Francis really cared he wasn't sharing it with anyone in particular: 'Ah, mon petite, I am really sharing it with everyone~'). In all honestly, he'd been hoping that Francis would forgo his outing with Antonio and Romano (and Gilbert, of course) in lieu of trying to seduce him. Then he could politely call England and tell him that he was sorry, but he feared for his virtue and wouldn't be leaving Ludwig's side ever again in the foreseeable future. Even Ludwig wouldn't have anything to say against that—after all, he had already invested a great deal of time and effort into fending off the Frenchman in the past, so at least Feliciano wouldn't be lying...

Not that he would ever admit to it, but now he really felt putout. He here was, sitting on the man's bed, in his best Armani suit—practically miles away from his knight in shining armour!—and the extent of Francis' groping had been nothing more than a mediocre pat on the head. A pat. On the head. As though he still hadn't hit puberty.

Either Ludwig's last warning was still fresh in France's mind, or Feliciano was losing his touch—which he refused to believe, because everyone thought he was beautiful, and kind, and a wonderful cook—and why would his face have any reason to fail him now? Was he getting old? Maybe he wasn't peppy enough anymore. Maybe he was unappealing when he was nervous. Was he sweating? Was he—?

"You shouldn't pout like that," Francis scoffed. Glancing over his shoulder at Feliciano, he frowned in mild disgust. "If you go there looking like that, not even rosbif will be able to keep his hands to himself... Promise me you won't do anything 'cute', Feli~. You will do that for much Big Brother, non?"

"Sì," Feliciano promised, though now that he thought about it maybe this wasn't the effect he should've been going for. He wasn't a harlot, after all. "I'm overdressed, aren't I?"

"Non. Angleterre wouldn't recognize 'fashion' if it slapped him in the face...Your beauty is a curse, is it not?"

Feliciano smiled a little.

It felt weak, though.

He still had no idea what he was going to do tonight... England wouldn't try to kill him, would he? No, that would be too suspicious...especially when you considered how many people Italy had tried (and failed) to talk into coming with him tonight. They were either scared away by the prospect of eating British cuisine, or were, in all actuality, too busy to spare him the time. Even Romano had ditched him, citing a need to watch Antonio's alcohol intake so that he didn't do anything stupid over the course of the evening (—'not that it can be helped,' he'd scoffed, ' 'Stupid' and 'Spanish' are synonymous, after all.'—).

"Go. Be amused," Francis demanded. "He is really quite funny when he drinks too much. You can even ask Matthieu. He will even dance, on occasion."

"Matthieu?" he asked, and then he remembered. "Oh...Canada?"

"Yes," Francis replied softly. "Yes...Canada."

For a moment Italy thought he had managed to insult him (just something else to add to his list of troubles), but then he realized the man was smiling, and, oh, his eyes were sparkling too—

"Did I—?"

Francis leaned down and kissed him on the lips before he could retreat, but it wasn't quite as lecherous as he'd been expecting. It had been...oddly sincere. "He needs more friends, mon petit. Thank you for not letting him go unnoticed."

Oh, now his face felt hot—he was blushing, wasn't he? That didn't happen every day.

He had really only talked to the nation in order to escape an encounter with England, but, yes, he did have a nice chat. And Canada wasn't as boring as everyone probably thought he was. And he hoped everything worked out between 'Matthieu' and Alfred, because Feliciano didn't like to think about anyone arguing, least of all brothers.

"You should probably leave now," Francis sighed, "He will be upset with you if you're late."

Oh, right...he probably should. There was no telling how long it would take him to get there.

Feeling as though the weight of the world was sitting on his shoulders, he stood up from the bed and dragged his feet to the door. Hand on the doorknob, he glanced over his shoulder to give Francis one last, long look... "You said he was 'cruel'...has he ever been as cruel since after the Wars?"

France returned his hard look with one of his own—one which pretty much said, 'what kind of question is that?' —but he humoured Feliciano with an answer, nonetheless. "Cruel...? No, not anymore. That was a long time ago, Feli...Does that answer your question?"

"Sì." He murmured.

Though it really didn't.

A/N: England will get his floor time in the next chapter—I promise. I also don't mean to wander so far and wide with respect to Italy's narration, but everything serves a purpose! You'll see...

Important: I know I already said that the rating would probably waver, but I wanted to ask you first what you're actually comfortable with. I realize you could've stumbled across this story when you specifically set your filter to exclude 'M', so I can do one of two things here: either A) none of you actually care about the rating (not to say you want full blown smut, but talking about it in softer detail is fine, etc., what-have-you...); or B) 'fade black, please' in which case I would post the act itself in a separate post and tell you were to find it (on this website—unless you're following me on live-journal, in which case I'll leave that online copy 'as-is'). So...what say you?

Translations: (Special thanks to my translator, the darling Red Hot Holly Berries )

"mon petit" ~ should mean 'my small one' (French)

"rosbif" ~a unique insult which literally means "roast beef" (French)

Fun Facts:

1) "Both Alfred and Ludwig had called a temporary truce..." ~I'm not aware of any problems between Germany or America, though, like I said, everything serves a purpose...

2) "-improved, aru" ~I threw China in because his 'aru'-ness baffles me to no end. Do they really have a lot of words that end in -aru, or is this same as the 'eh' myth someone started about Canadians ( I've travelled coast to coast and I've never heard anyone say 'eh'...Well, I've never been to New Found Land, so maybe there?)?

3) "After all, they each took care to speak the language and observe the laws of the host country..." ~Sounds pretty courteous, right? And besides, they've known each other for quite a while now, so they probably each know at least more than one language. Also, I'm not sure what Himaruya intended us to believe whenever the nations had a world meeting...

4) "headbanger..." ~...is another word for a 'metalhead', which I've heard (and know isn't entirely accurate) a lot of people use to describe Germans, much like Romano. The idiom Feliciano confused it for was: 'I have a wall-banger of a headache'.

5) "Babylon at the Roof Gardens..." ~is a real, contemporary British cuisine restaurant. I've never actually been to England (or across the ocean yet, for that matter) but the internet seems to think it's one of the top London restaurants and I poked one of my friends to ask if the food there was good (which they seemed to think it was, even if it was a little pricy).

6) "He was a stubborn, little cow...and cruel..." ~maybe this is just a Quebec thing, but all my French friends seem to like using 'cow' as their weapon of choice in verbal banter. As for England's history, well, we'll be diving headlong into that in the next chapter...

7) "'Stupid' and 'Spanish' are synonymous, after all..." ~Romano truly loves Antonio—don't try and convince me otherwise. He's just so in denial, it's almost ridiculous. ;)