In the Shadow of Albion

by Lady of Pride

Meddling with the darker arts, England unwittingly unleashes a side of himself that he thought was good and dead. It's really too bad Italy seems to be the only one that notices anything's wrong with the old Empire...

4. Chapter 4

A/N: Again, I would like to sincerely thank you for all the reviews. I'm happy to see this odd pairing has grown on so many of you. (And now, you get to see England—for real. I'm not just teasing you this time...Seriously...)

Title: In the Shadow of Albion
Rating: T to M (***IfI could please draw your attention the note at the bottom of this page...)
Pairing(s): England/Italy and other multiplepairings (quite literally); e.g., 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 a smidgen on the dub-con-ish side of life, though)
Fun Facts: As far as historical facts go, I'll try to explain everything over the course of the chapter, but if I sneak any inside 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 to Red Hot Holly Berries for the proper Italian, though, and for also correcting my French).
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...

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

As much as he hated letting other people drive, Feliciano called a cab instead of taking the bus, in the fear that he might lose himself somewhere on the transit system as he had last year in America. He generally enjoyed the sensation of the wind in his hair as he tore down the street at a breakneck speed, but Ludwig made him promise he wouldn't get a rental, and the taxi driver only laughed at him when he asked if he could take the wheel. So there he sat, in the back of the car, and cringed a little on the inside every time the man stopped at a red light.

Really. How England was ever punctual with traffic like this?

Nevertheless, he paid the man when he got to Kensington High Street and gave him a tip, just because they arrived with time to spare and the man had been so polite, and then he wandered down the sidewalk in search of the right address. It really was just off the Kensington, and he would've missed it if a young lady hadn't stopped him when she saw him meandering aimlessly down the street, but then he had his bearings straight and, oh, he actually had to go in there now didn't he, because he couldn't just turn back and...and...

In the back of his mind, he could almost hear Ludwig chastising him. Sometimes, he could get worked up over the simplest things. But it was in his nature, after all, and if it had kept him alive this long, maybe he should've...well, he should've realized that, yes, he'd seen a lot of horrible things in his lifetime, but he'd still managed to come out of it alive. And even if he owed Ludwig a great deal of credit for protecting him on a daily basis, he at least had enough common sense in his head not to start another war.

That had to count for something, didn't it?

So despite the lump that had suddenly developed in his throat and the voice in the back of his head reminding him that bad things came in small packages (like anthrax, or, in this case, England—the man was only marginally taller than he was, after all), he didn't turn back when the hostess asked him if he had any reservations. He said yes (both in the sense that, yes, England probably booked them a table and, yes, he did have those 'doubtful' sort of reservations about this whole affair) and handed her the card England left him. She smiled politely and led him to the far end of the room, leaving him with an empty table by the window.

The waiter came by the moment he sat down, poured him a glass of water, and quietly informed him that 'Mr. Kirkland' would be arriving shortly.

...In all honestly, he was somewhat surprised he was the first one there—more so when he realized they wouldn't be meeting in a private room. Not that anyone would be able to stop England if he chose to do something horrendous (which was something of a perk as far as nationhood went; Arthur could control them in a way neither his Prime Minister nor his Queen ever could), but the sound of laughter and merriment was comforting enough on its own. He could handle this, he realized. He just had to remind himself that he wasn't entirely alone.

But, maybe that was the purpose all along, to lull him into a false sense of secur—

No. No... he wasn't going to go there again. He'd decided he was in the game the moment he sat down in that chair. All he could do now was wait.

"You're early."

Though evidently, not very long.

"Ve—" he began to say, though it cracked a little at the end (how embarrassing...). Blushing, he stood up to shake the man's hand, only to receive a bouquet of flowers instead. "Oh...roses?"

"Yes. As I recall, Ludwig said that you usually give them to your friends."

Oh, right...how he could forget St. Valentine's Day? The little incident had galvanized them into action as far as intimacy went, but his gift to Germany hadn't initially been a declaration of love. It was a happy accident, really.

"Thank you," he said, returning to his seat. The flowers were coral; thorn-less—quite lovely actually. "I didn't bring anything for you. I'm sorry. I thought this was...business."

England chuckled good-naturedly and took his seat across the table.

Of course, Italy hoped the man didn't think he meant that kind of business. Admittedly, he hadn't engaged in that sort of thing in quite a while ever since he and Ludwig decided not to be casual anymore. Italy wasn't a particular fan of it anyway, at least as far as Francis was concerned, and besides—

He really needed to call it quits on these internal dialogues of his.

England was staring at him again, smiling somewhat in amusement. There was something familiar about that look, though it unnerved Feliciano in a way he couldn't quite describe. Not exactly pensive...appraising. Yes! That was it. England was appraising him...

...Appraising him.

On impulse, he took up the glass of water and tipped it against his lips. He took a sip. Then another. And another. His throat was dry (—those roses would need a little water of their own soon—) and he was worried again, because he had always been 'appraised'. What was his real worth, anyway? He was the heir to Rome's fortune, though he was weak, and timid, and maybe just a little juvenile in how he viewed the world—he liked peace. Peace was...peaceful. There was happiness to be found in peace—

"Business, perhaps..." Arthur's eyes were sparkling. Just so lively and green. Feliciano hadn't noticed how green they were before (they were beautiful, once you got over the eyebrows). "If you prefer, we could talk 'business'. Personally, I've had my fill of it today, but if there's something you need to discuss with me, then, by all means, feel free let me know."

"No," he said, maybe a little too quickly. "No, what I meant to say is that I'm...surprised?"

"...Was that a question?"

"I...No."

"I see." The man's eyes flickered briefly to one side (looking for the eavesdroppers, he supposed). Then he leaned forward onto his elbows and steepled his fingers in a way that could almost pass for casual. "You want to know why I invited you here tonight?"

"Yes."

"Because we are, for lack of a better word, perfectly good 'strangers'?"

"Yes." Or as close to 'strangers' as two people could be after having tried to kill one another on the battlefield...but Feliciano wasn't about to argue. No need to remind the man that the closest relationship they'd have thus far was the kind reserved for enemies. "Is there...is there something you wanted me to do for you?"

"Yes, actually... I would like to build a better relationship between us. I want to expand."

"Expand," Italy murmured. He was smack dab in the middle of the Mediterranean, after all. If they could hit it off well enough, England could easily build a new network through Italy himself. "I have a lot of friends, I guess..."

"Yes, you do." There was a 'but' lingering somewhere in there... "But I would like to try this one nation at a time, if you don't mind. You're interesting, to say the least, and a rather pleasant chap overall."

Italy nodded. "No, I understand. I'm more 'approachable' than Romano, Sì?"

"That you are, but...what I meant to say is that you're rather charming. We all have our peculiarities, but you appear to grow on the unlikeliest of characters, Veneziano. I believe that's your strong suit."

Feliciano was going out on a limb here, but... "You think it would be too difficult to try this with anyone else, don't you?"

England laughed, good and deep and hearty, the way Ludwig sometimes did when he couldn't hold it in any longer. "I'm sure Francis would agree with you there, lad... But please believe me when I say that I honestly think you're a beautiful creature, and that I want to make amends with you. That's really all there is to it."

Feliciano shifted nervously in his seat, trying subtly to correct his posture. He was hungry, and tired, and still not entirely convinced, but, well, here he was...

He found that England was enchanting, in an odd sort of way—he was good with words, at the very least—but Feliciano could still sense something lurking beneath the surface. He wanted to say yes. He wanted to sit there and have a pleasant meal with a new face, but he wasn't stupid and he couldn't ignore how intently the man was staring at him. There was a poetic term for it—Francis had said it once. What waaaaas...oh yes, the man's eyes were 'boring into' his soul...

But what was he going to do about it? Even if he didn't want to have anything to do with what the man was planning, how could he possibly just stand up and leave? Running away from the problem wasn't going to solve anything, and his friends wouldn't been too keen on helping him as soon as he mentioned Arthur. Sure, they'd jump to his aid if he mentioned anyone in Africa, but they'd be sceptical the moment he named one of the first world countries.

"That would be...lovely," he said instead. And then he smiled, just for good measure. He was good at smiling. His lies had always been somewhat lacking, but he found he could pull them off if he was willing to show a little teeth for them; just a smidgen of innocence and a curl of the lip. He could be enchanting in a way of his own.

"Very good." ...'Very good' as though all was it should be. Not as though, 'very good, I'm so happy you agree'. "Now, I'm sure you share France's belief that my food is dreadful, but perhaps you're not too afraid to try it, hm? I've been led to believe that you eat Ludwig's cooking, despite the fact that you prefer pasta."

"Sì. I'm open to new things."

"Good." The man said, giving Feliciano a wink. Then he finally turned his attention to the menu. "I was hoping you would say that..."

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

The dinner itself was alright. They shared tidbits about their respective cultures and mulled a short while over religion, drank good wine and ate the man's peculiar food (—in good conscience, he couldn't outright call it bad; there was quality to it, however bizarre it tasted to him—), though he spent the entirety of the evening sitting on the very edge of his seat, feeling as though the man was playing some sort of elaborate mind game with him. Italy was a ball of nervous energy, waiting for anything that England might say or do that would give away his true intentions...

But he didn't.

All Feliciano got for his efforts was a migraine and something which felt suspiciously like an ulcer...At least, he supposed it was an ulcer. Ludwig used to say that to him all the time during the war—Feliciano gave him plenty of 'ulcers'...

If this was 'karma' for all the heck he'd given Germany, he didn't think it was very funny.

So he downed his last glass of wine, and maybe it was a little more than he could handle, because now either the world was beginning to tilt to one side or he was seconds away from falling out of his seat.

Dio...Romano would laugh if he could see him now. He'd never let wine get to him as suddenly as this. This was probably a new record.

"—satisfactory, I hope."

"Sì," he said, but only because he supposed the man was talking about the food. Satisfactory was a good way of describing it.

"You look tired."

"Sì." Because he was. Alcohol had that effect on him. Made him disconsolate and lethargic (or, at least, more so than usual). It wasn't too often that he allowed himself to go a bit tipsy, but he was willing to forgive himself for it tonight, given the circumstances. He'd stared death in the face, after all, and...

Well, the night was still young and the staring match wasn't exactly over yet. England could very well kill him on his way out to grab a taxi.

"—head back to the hotel, don't you think? I can call us a taxi."

...So glad he was psychic now too.

"Mi dispiace." He bowed his head a little, hardly noticing that the waiter was standing there him until the man leaned over to take his plate. "I'm not usually this...um, absent?"

England laughed in response. At least, it was a nice sort of laugh. In fact, it would be so much easier for Italy right now if England was more prone to laughing like that instead of smiling as though he had a dark secret. "No worries, love. Good wine and exhaustion will do that to a man. These conferences of ours certainly leave their mark, don't they?"

"Sì." Yes, they did. Italy's siesta schedule was always thrown for a loop as a result of it, and Ludwig was always hesitant to not-sleep sleep with him in any hotel room because he was usually afraid that the walls were too thin.

Honestly, next year Feliciano was just going to rent them a flat—or something. They both had a healthy appetite for that sort of thing, and he knew Ludwig didn't enjoy the dry spells any more than he did...

"You're quite lovely when you blush," England murmured. He was leaning forward again on his elbows, fingers steepled to hide his smirk. They couldn't hide the light in his eyes, though. "Does Germany make you blush like that?"

Maybe England was psychic now too. Or maybe Feliciano obsessed too much over his lover. "Sì. But I make him blush more often."

"I can imagine."

"Do you ever blush?"

"Occasionally, I suppose. I'm not too appealing when I blush."

"Francis told me he plucked your eyebrows once," Italy mumbled. "When you were drunk, I mean. He said you were beautiful."

"Francis will say anything if you ply him with enough liquor."

"...You don't like him very much, do you?"

"No, but that's the beauty of having a long and bloody history with the man. I don't have to like him. Ever."

"That's...sad." He glanced at his empty wine glass and then at his roses. If England was trying so hard to build a relationship with him, why couldn't he be bothered to make amends with his enemies? "He tries to be nice."

"He tries to be nice so that he can sleep around. After all, he's still trying to shag your brother even though he's friends with Spain, isn't he?"

Italy was surprised to hear him say that aloud in public. But then, these were England's people. He could easily have them tune out the conversation.

Still, Feliciano's could feel his blush creeping back onto his face.

"Mio fratello doesn't...do business with anyone." That was Feliciano's job anyhow, at least when it came down to doing the dirty work for the whole of 'Italy'. "And he only likes Spain. He won't ever sleep with Francis."

"My apologies." England cleared his throat. At least he had the decency to sound embarrassed. "I wasn't trying to insult your brother."

"I know."

"But you understand what I mean, don't you? That Francis and lechery usually come hand in hand?"

Well...okay, yeah. He kind of was. "Sì."

But where was England going with all this?

"I think, perhaps, we should head back. You mind if we share a taxi?"

"Not at all." He reached for his bouquet and then remembered something. "The bill—"

"Already dealt with it, love. So then, shall we?"

Taking the flowers in hand, he managed to slip out of his chair without falling. The world looked odd, almost bent around the edges, but then England's arm was looping through his own and the man was pressed up comfortably against his right side. Italy sniffed his roses, lost himself a little in the aroma, and allowed himself to be led quietly all the way down and out of the business until they were standing on the curb, waiting for their ride.

England was humming it seemed—or murmuring, maybe, softly into Italy's ear. He couldn't make out what he was saying, precisely, but it was nice and gentle, and maybe he didn't mind pressing back up against the man even if he wasn't Germany, because both he and Germany understand there would never be an end to 'business', and maybe—

A shrill ring tore through that train of and startled the living daylights out of Feliciano. He didn't know what was worse at the moment, the fact that he had been terrified of his own phone or that he had actually been contemplating what it would be like if he slept with England.

His phone rang again and this time he answered it. "Hello?"

"Where are you?"

"...Somewhere," he murmured, because he couldn't remember where exactly Kensington High Street was in London. "Ma ora come ora non posso parlare."

"Huh? Perchè no?"

"Because I think I need to lie down."

"Bastard...Are you drunk?"

"No."

"Liar. I—" Romano paused long enough to swear at someone in the background. "I thought you usually didn't drink unless the potato bastard was with you."

"I'm not drunk," he said, because he really didn't think he was, despite how he was feeling. The fact that England stiffened ever so slightly beside him did nothing to quell his fears, though. If he wasn't drunk, what exactly was he? "I have a...a headache. Yeah. Un mal di testa infernale."

"That tends to happen when you drink too much."

"Fraaaateeelllloooo..."

"Stop whining! Geez. Bastard...I wanted you to help me with these three stooges, but I guess that's not going to happen now, huh?"

"I'll meet you at the hotel." It sounded like a good idea—England could hear him, anyway, so if he made plans to meet up with someone, the man couldn't kill him and dump his body, now could he? Which reminded him— "I'm with England. He's going to get me there safely. Isn't that nice~?"

England stiffened again, but that could've been because a taxi had pulled over for them now. Letting go of Feliciano's arm, the man stepped forward and held the door open for him.

"Grazie."

"How was the food, anyway?"

"Good."

"There's a surprise."

"I know." Sliding to the far end, he tucked himself into the corner, and England crawled in next to him before closing the door. "Would you call Ludwig for me? I really don't feel so well."

"That's because you spoke too soon about the food, but yeah, I'll tell him about you after I get that potato freak to come down here and collect his equally freakish brother. Do you have any idea what that idiot did to me?"

"No...what..." For a second there, he lost his train of thought. Why was he suddenly so sluggish? "Fratello...I—"

England's hands were warm against his own. One curled around his wrist as the other tugged the cell phone fluidly from between his fingers. "Romano? ...Yes...A bit knackered it seems, but I can take care of him...No...No, that won't be necessary...Yes, thank you. Have a good night."

Feliciano's head lulled over to one side until he was leaning against England's shoulder. The man didn't seem to mind it though. He closed Feliciano's phone with a quick snap and then it disappeared altogether, presumably into the man's pocket.

"I want...to call Ludwig."

"Ludwig's busy at the moment, love. I think it's best we put you to bed now, don't you?"

Bed sounded nice, actually. Yeah...bed. Then he could sleep this whole thing off...and water the roses...and Gilbert was going to be in so much trouble...and...and...

And then he drifted off completely.

In the arms of none other than Arthur Kirkland.

A/N: ...That was kind of abrupt, I know, but I wasn't expecting it either. I'm so sorry (*ducks head*). Anyhow, Easter Weekend prevented me from updating, so I made this chapter longer. I hope it makes up for the wait, darlings. ;)

Important side-note: 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...); 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 copy 'as-is'). Most of you seem to prefer option "A" so far, but I'm giving you another chance to voice your thoughts. I really don't want to make anyone feel uncomfortable here.

Translations: (Again, special thanks to Red Hot Holly Berries)

"fratello" ~brother (Italian)

"Mi dispiace" ~I'm sorry (Italian)

"Ma ora come ora non posso parlare." ~I can't talk to you right now (Italian)

"Perchè no?" ~why not? (Italian)

"Un mal di testa infernale." ~one hell of a headache (Italian)

Fun Facts:

1) "Ludwig made him promise he wouldn't get a rental..." ~I'm not actually sure what kind of drivers Italians are, but I know that in Germany, for example, they don't exactly have speed limits on their highways. I imagine it must be fun driving around over there...

2) "No need to remind the man that the closest relationship they'd have this far was the kind reserved for enemies..." ~I wanted to see what the current relationship was like between England and Italy in the real world, and I found nothing. Literally, nothing. Wikipedia had a little blurb on the 'London Pact' they made way back in 1915, when England helped Mussolini (financially) get his nifty little political powers, but obviously that backfired spectacularly on the UK...Poor sod. *shakes head sadly*

3) "You think it would be too difficult to try this with anyone else, don't you?" ~this stems from the episode where England eventually makes friends with Japan. Honestly, the way hetalia depicts all the countries, it's no wonder they only have one or two close friends.

4) Germany and Italy ~I decided to check out what the speculation was for pairings on the TV Tropes website (message me if you want the specific link), and they've more or less decided that these guys are less than a step away from realizing they're an actual couple. I couldn't, in good conscience, ignore this fact, even though I'm writing an 'England/Italy' fic. The subtext is so glaring, it's practically blinding. ;)