A/N: Sorry for the lateness! I was supposed to post this for Bonfire Night but then a million things happened and I didn't end up writing it and now NaNoWriMo is kicking my arse and I'm a failure at life. But better late than never, right? Right?
Anyway, I was explaining Bonfire Night to my friend (they don't have it in Australia) and I suddenly realised how terrible it was. "Well, there was this guy who tried to blow up Parliament, so we killed him gruesomely in public. And now we still do it. All of us. Every year... We aren't all murdering psychopaths, I swear!" We really aren't. We just enjoy burning scarecrows. Don't try and tell me you wouldn't.
Hey Britain, why won't Ireland talk to me?
England, or, as he was known at international meetings like these, the United Kingdom, looked down at the crumpled note that had just been stuffed into his hand and sighed. Halfway across the room, America was trying to make eye contact with him. Judging from the 'Top Secret! Pass to Britain!' written on one side, he had just passed it down the entire row of countries. England's eyes found those of his former colony and he shrugged, forcing an apologetic look onto his face.
No idea, he wrote, his own neat handwriting contrasting with America's chicken scratch. She doesn't talk to me either.
As the note made its way back down the row to America's impatiently waiting hands, England scanned the room until he found the Republic of Ireland. She was concentrating hard on Germany's speech, making notes and squinting at his ridiculously dull Powerpoint. His presentation concerned her more than most; her economy had been going downhill fast recently and Greece was already in major trouble with the rest of Europe; she didn't want to be next. Somewhere at the back of his mind, England knew he should be paying more attention. He may not be part of the Eurozone, but he was strongly connected to it and if Europe went down then he would be in serious trouble. He just wished that this emergency economic meeting hadn't been called on Bonfire Night.
He glanced at his watch. Six o'clock. If this meeting didn't finish soon then it'd be pitch black by the time he got home. As it was, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland had probably already finished the bonfire, and he didn't trust Scotland not to set the fireworks off without him.
"England, are you okay?" asked Japan. Their seats were right next to each other. England had been thankful for that; out of everyone in this room, Japan was one of the few people he could stand.
"Yeah, I'm fine," he said, wishing Germany would stop talking about interest rates and finish up. "It's just one of my national holidays tonight and I don't want to miss it."
"Really? Which one?"
"Bonfire Night."
"I... do not believe I have heard of that one before. I apologise."
"Don't be sorry, it's not very well-known. In the seventeenth century, this man called Guy Fawkes tried to blow up my Parliament, but he was found and arrested and everyone was okay. So we celebrate it every year on the fifth of November."
"That is fascinating, Britain-san," said Japan, his attention now focused completely on England. "If you do not mind me asking, how do you celebrate Bonfire Night?"
"Well, Guy Fawkes got executed as punishment," he said, slightly awkwardly. "So now, well, we make a scarecrow of him and, um... kill him again."
Japan frowned. "You mean every citizen of your country burns this Guy Fawkes-san every year? And you have a holiday based around it?"
"Um... yes." It didn't sound so great when Japan put it that way. "But it's a social occasion! Everyone gets together and sets off fireworks and eats toffee."
Japan turned back to his notes, muttering something about 'inscrutable foreigners', and England was left wondering why they made such a fuss about murdering Guy Fawkes over and over again. But, he realised, he didn't care. This was his holiday and they were not going to make him miss it just because some countries couldn't pay off their debts. As Germany's presentation dragged on and on, he began to tap his foot and click his pen over and over in impatience.
For some reason, his eyes wandered back to Ireland again. Even she looked bored now; she had stopped concentrating so hard and begun to scan the room just like him. Their eyes met, and she scowled at him. She still hadn't forgiven him for forcing her to grovel in return for instructions on how to escape from America's bathroom. The memory squeezed a tiny jolt of endorphins out of England's bored, agitated brain and he waved at her, grinning as though butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. Her scowl deepened, and she began to scribble something on her notes.
England squinted at them, trying to get a good look. Was she taking notes? No, she wasn't looking at the presentation. Writing a message? Actually, it didn't look like she was writing at all. In fact, she seemed to be drawing. Drawing circles, actually. Alarm bells began to ring dully in the back of England's mind. Her pen changed its course, now drawing something that seemed suspiciously like a pentacle. Just as England's eyes widened in alarm, she raised her eyes and smiled maliciously at him. He shook his head and held his hands out, making apologetic gestures, but she just stuck her tongue out at him.
She kept drawing, ignoring his attempts to get her attention, and England's mind began to conjure up worse and worse images of what she could be doing. She was cursing him, wasn't she? She was going to curse him right in the middle of a world meeting and there was nothing he could do about it. If he cursed her first, he would take the blame. If he sat back and let her do it, who knew what could happen? Curses could be nasty things, no-one knew that better than he did! What if it ruined Bonfire Night? What if it ruined him? What if this curse was revenge for everything he'd ever done to her?
"Stop it!" He was on his feet before he realised what he was doing, pointing across the room at his sister. "I don't know what you're doing, but stop it!"
Germany looked up from his presentation. "Would you like to present an opinion, Britain?"
"I'd like you to stop her from cursing me!"
Ireland was looking around in surprise, her eyes wide and innocent. "Excuse me?"
"Don't play dumb!" Everyone was staring at him now, but he didn't care. "You're putting a curse on me! Stop it!"
She frowned at him. "Why would I do that? We're in the middle of a meeting. I need to pay attention."
Japan, who had been sitting next to him, tugged on his sleeve, hissing, "England, sit down!"
"Britain," sighed Germany, "we are all aware that you and the Republic of Ireland do not have the most trusting relationship, but if you could save your wild accusations for after my presentation then I would be very grateful."
England opened his mouth to shout again, but then his brain registered the hundreds of eyes on him and the fact that not one of them seemed to be tackling Ireland to the ground and confiscating her notepaper. Finally, his own embarrassment and Japan's pleas to sit down and stop making a fool of himself got through and he took his seat again, hiding his face in his laptop.
The meeting finished half an hour later, and England spent the whole time trying to reassure himself that it hadn't been a curse. She was right: she did need to pay attention. She'd certainly been concentrating hard before she saw him. Her banks were in trouble and she never had been very good at arithmetic. Yes, of course. You're being paranoid. She wouldn't put a curse on you in the middle of a meeting.
When the meeting was dismissed, he packed his things up as quickly as possible and bolted for the door. If he was quick now, he might still get home in time to celebrate Bonfire Night properly. For once in his life, he didn't queue. He pushed and shoved like all the others, and as a result was not last to leave. In his mad dash to squeeze through the doorway, he bumped shoulders with someone that his mind registered too late as the Republic of Ireland.
"By the way," she said, quietly enough for only him to hear, "that totally was a curse. Safe driving!" And, with a smile that sent shivers down his spine, she disappeared into the crowd and was gone.
England was left standing in the hallway, eyes wide, watching the countries make their way outside with panic gripping his mind. I knew it! He couldn't drive home now, something terrible would happen. But she wouldn't have put him in any danger, would she? Then he remembered her voice as she was forced to grovel down the phone, and he realised that she would do anything.
"America!" He ran towards the familiar dark blond head in the crowd. "America, can you give me a lift home?"
"What?" America frowned at him. "Why?"
"Ireland put a curse on me and I can't drive myself home or something terrible will happen," he said very fast, panic leaving no room for dignity.
"Oh, she wouldn't do that," he said.
"She would! She did! She told me!"
"She was just joking. She threatens to curse me all the time, but I know she's just joking," he laughed, clapping England on the shoulder. "See you, Britain."
Then he was gone, disappearing out through the door with everyone else, and England felt a sudden urge to curse him instead of Ireland. America saw his sister through rose-tinted glasses, he'd always known that, but he'd never expected it to actually endanger his life. He scanned the rapidly dwindling crowd, desperately looking for someone who would agree to give him a lift, and to his distress, saw no-one. Damn it! Why does no-one like me? His eyes found France and he was about to run towards him when he remembered what had happened - well, almost happened - last time the frog had given him a lift, and he thought better of it.
Which was why, as the last person drove away, England was left standing in the car park. It was dark now and he was all alone, and worry was starting to eat away at his mind. His car, a vintage Bentley, sat in a parking space only twenty feet away, mocking him. But he couldn't drive it. In the last half an hour, it had gone from beloved transport to death trap. Realising that he had no other options, England took out his mobile phone.
"Ireland, you can't do that," sighed Wales, folding his arms and frowning his older brother.
"Why not? It's traditional."
"No it's not. Since when was it traditional to burn your sister's flag? It's just disrespectful."
They had spent all afternoon building a bonfire in their garden, collecting sticks and chopping wood and piling it all up until it stood so tall Scotland had had to stand on a chair to put the scarecrow on top. Wales had been all ready to go inside and wait for England to get back when he noticed Northern Ireland adding something extra to the bonfire.
"Oh yeah, because she's so respectful to me."
"Come on, you know she loves you really."
"Of course I do. It's caused me no end of trouble."
"And you love her too," Wales soldiered on. "You pretend not to, but you do miss her sometimes."
Ireland ignored this, stubbornly tightening his bright orange scarf around his neck. "I've already agreed to do Bonfire Night in November instead of July because you all asked me to. Can't you at least let me do one thing my way?"
"Take that scarf off!" Wales tried to grab the end of it, but Ireland flipped it back over his shoulder and out of his reach.
"Make me!"
"Ye two, stop fighting." Scotland came out of the house, saw the flag and the scarf, and sighed. "Ireland, England'll flip oot when he sees that. Ye ken hoo he gets."
"Well he shouldn't," said Ireland. "It's in his favour, isn't it?"
"Yeah, but he's tryin' ter be diplomatic noo, isnae he? Just take it doon before he gets home."
Before Ireland could retort, the sound of bagpipes began to screech loudly through the garden. Scotland flipped open his mobile phone. "Yeah?"
"Scotland, it's me. I'm stuck in the car park at the meeting and I can't get home."
"Why? What's wrong?"
Wales and Northern Ireland looked up, suddenly worried. "What happened?" asked Wales, tugging on Scotland's sleeve. He ignored him.
"The Republic of Ireland put a curse on me and then told me to drive safely! I can't drive now! I need you to come and get me."
"Dinnae be stupid, England. She willnae really have cursed ye. She's just screwin' with ye head. Come home quickly, it's gettin' cold and we cannae wait forever."
"Scotland! Scotland, don't you dare hang up on-"
He flipped the phone shut and shoved it back into his kilt.
"What's wrong with him?" asked Northern Ireland.
"He thinks Sooth's cursed him fer some reason," shrugged Scotland. "Come on, let's get the fireworks ready."
An hour later, England sat on the pavement and watched sadly as his Bentley was towed away. He had only paid for four hours' parking and had spent his last pound on a cup of tea from a dodgy machine before the meeting had started. It was starting to get cold and his business suit wasn't designed for November nights. He would've taken refuge inside the meeting hall, but it had been locked up half an hour ago. All he could do was shiver on the concrete and call Scotland every ten minutes, hoping that his brother would finally decide to humour him and pick up.
The sound of an engine reached his ears, distant and far away. At first he thought it was just one of the cars that were reasonably infrequent on this road at this time of night, but then it was joined by others, and they were getting closer. England watched from in front of the hall as a gang of motorbikes turned off the road and started towards the car park.
He stiffened, then shook his head. I'm the United bloody Kingdom! They can't scare me! He tried to watch in self-assured indifference as the bikes got closer. There's only,what, twenty of them? That's... actually quite a lot. Oh crap, I think they can see me! And, before he could remind himself who he was, he had dived into a nearby bush. He sat there, thorns scratching his suit, hugging his knees and peering out through the leaves as the bikers began to do whatever bikers do. Probably having a meeting or something. I wonder if I should curse them...
"He's probably just stuck in traffic or something," suggested Wales.
"At this time of night?" Northern Ireland glanced at his watch. "It's nine o'clock. No-one takes this long to drive home."
They were sitting in the living room with the central heating turned right up, but Ireland was still stubbornly wearing his scarf. Everyone else had set off their fireworks already and bonfires were already burning all over the country, but theirs still sat cold and dark in the middle of the garden, the Guy Fawkes effigy staring blankly at them as though wondering why they didn't just get on with it. It had been hours since Scotland's phone had stopped ringing and they were starting to get worried.
"We should just light it withoot him," said Scotland. "It's gonna be too cold if we leave it any longer."
"We can't have Bonfire Night without England. That'd just be cruel."
"What if he's really hurt himself or something? What if he got into a car crash?" Wales was looking worried now, staring up at the clock as though he hoped it the hands would spin faster. "What if he's been kidnapped and held to ransom by political rivals? What if-"
"He's fine," sighed Scotland. "I dinnae ken what's takin' him so long, though."
"What if he's hopelessly lost? What if he's driven off a cliff? What if South's curse was real?"
"Oh, nae ye too. The only one who believes in that stupid fake curse is... oh."
One by one, the realisation hit them, and they all stared at each other in horror.
"Ye dinnae think..."
"Is he still..."
"Oh dear."
They reached the meeting hall half an hour later, after getting lost, entirely failing to read the map and breaking the Sat-Nav after Scotland got frustrated with it not being able to detect a satellite signal. When they finally got there, they had to wait as what looked like an entire biker gang turned out of the car park in front of them. They parked and climbed out of the car, shivering in the freezing November night air, scanning the darkness for England.
"I cannae see him!"
"Do you think he went home after all?"
"What if he got killed by those bikers?"
"A-are you real?"
They jumped and spun around. A voice had just come from one of the bushes at the side of the car park. An English voice. As they squinted through the darkness, they saw England leaning out from the branches, leaves in his hair and scratches all over his suit, his eyes wide and haunted.
"England!" Wales ran towards him and engulfed his brother in a hug. England went stiff, waiting without complaint until he was released. "We're real! We came to pick you up! I thought you were dead!"
"Why are ye in a bush?" asked Scotland.
"I got sc- I mean, about a hundred Hell's Angels came into the car park and I was going to fight them off but then I realised that they all had guns. Really big machine guns. And swords. So I decided it would take too long and hid instead so I wouldn't have to trouble myself with getting rid of them."
Ireland sighed. "Where's your car?"
"It got towed. But you!" he turned towards Scotland with murder in his eyes. "Why didn't you come and pick me up earlier? I told you the Republic of Ireland cursed me! It's revenge for making her grovel, I just know it! Don't you have any concern for my safety?"
"She didn't curse you," sighed Ireland.
"How do you know?"
"Our magic is similar," he admitted. "We can sense each other's spells, you know that. There isn't a trace of a curse on you."
England gaped at him. "N-no curse?"
"No curse."
He stared around with wide, disbelieving eyes, taking in the dark, cold night, the tears in his expensive suit, the fact that he was sitting in a bush in a car park on Bonfire Night. "Oh, she is going down!" he snarled, tearing twigs out of his hair. "How dare she? I helped her escape Seven Minutes in Heaven with America and this is how she repays me? By... not cursing me?"
"Point to Sooth," observed Scotland. "One-all."
"Don't worry about that tonight," said Wales, helping England out of the bush. "We still haven't lit the bonfire or set the fireworks off. We were waiting for you."
"Really?"
"Really. Let's go home and murder Guy Fawkes again. You'll feel better."
And he did. The celebrations in the United Kingdom raged into the night, with bonfires burning all over the country and fireworks patterning the country's skies, as people paraded through the streets and sang, laughed, made far more noise than was strictly necessary and forgot everything that troubled them. As diplomatic as he pretended to be, England would have his revenge, and the cycle would begin again just as it always did. But for tonight, as millions of fireworks lit the sky and millions of Guy Fawkes scarecrows burned at the stake, it didn't matter.
If just for one night, everything was perfect.
A/N: Reviews feed the wordcount monster! And the fatter my wordcount gets, the more UK fics I'll have time to write. ^_^
EDIT: Thank you to TheBadlyNamedUser for pointing out that Guy Fawkes was hung, drawn and quartered, not burned at the stake. But that would be a whole lot harder to act out with a scarecrow (not least because no-one can agree what hanging, drawing and quartering really entails) and bonfires are much more fun.