ARTIST: stephyhime (Art is available on the 365daysofusuk tumblr)

AUTHOR: yao-braginski

August 3rd, 2014 - Predictable

The lilac hangings smelt of late, summer nectar and beverages had been served with delectable, citrus biscuits. For the most part the meeting had gone quite smoothly. Well, as smoothly as was possible for the array of nations attending. This rare show of clockwork efficiency, however, had been obliterated come two o'clock.

When the personified nations had returned to the meeting room, a wide space decorated in burnt, autumnal colours, most of them sat down with post-lunch reluctance. Even Germany couldn't stop his fingers from tapping with slight impatience.

There were two countries, though, that hadn't even made it to their seats. The two nations were none other than England and America, both of whom were in the midst of a fierce and inane argument.

"When are you going to grow up?!" England exclaimed, the green of his eyes almost iridescent with his rage. America was trying to use the notable size difference to intimidate the smaller man, a tactic that was useless. England may be lacking in height compared to some but when he was this furious, tongue wicked sharp and presence nearly crackling, Arthur didn't need an altitude advantage.

"Really? When am I going to grow up? Is that really all you've got, Arthur? I've been hearing the same thing since the 18th century! I have grown up! I think the real question is, when are you going to get over yourself?!" Alfred's hands were in fists, his fingers crunched up into his palm.

None of the accusations being pitched back and forth had any real consequence behind them. The manner in which the two nations continued to look at each other throughout was ferocious, yes, but it wasn't baleful.

It had been a long time since England and America had looked at each other with anything near to animosity. And for a few decades now, their eyes told quite the opposite tale.

England's body seized underneath his starched uniform and, with the posture and elegance of a true, English solider, Arthur righted himself then promptly marched out of the room. Not before reminding America, exactly, where he could go and why he should go there, of course.

"Fine, whatever, bye," Alfred spat, shrugging his broad shoulders.

Amidst the table of still nations, France raised his hand, palm open like a spring flower. With a whispered cinq, Francis closed his thumb into his hand.

"I'm not chasing after you, Arthur, I swear to god! And I'm not going to apologise!" America yelled with enough conviction it was almost credible. His body was stony and steadfast but his expression faltered. Quatre, trois… "Arthur, I'm serious!"

"Deux." Another finger down.

America turned to France without really seeing him, as if only now realising there were other people present. With his lips lazily curved upwards, Francis downturned his pinky and said, with pleasant finality, "Un."

On cue, Alfred sprinted out of the room in search of his cantankerous beloved; the door rattling with the vigour of the nation's poorly managed strength. "I'm sorry, Arthur, come back sweetheart!"

"Spot on, Francis," Antonio announced, breaking the silence with his amused resignation.

"I told you they were getting more predictable. You owe me a drink."

"How about we bet on how long it takes before they're having make-up sex?" Spain suggested with a shark's grin.

"You're on, mon cher!" France happily consented, saddling up to Spain.

Not long after, Italy's wailing of, "I don't want to think about England doing that, ew! Germany!" and Germany swiftly lost all hope of ever having a productive meeting with the idiots he had to work with.