Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia or its characters. I thank Himaruya Hidekaz for letting me play with his characters.

Acknowledgements: Thank you to all those who have reviewed, alerted, favourited: CactusNoir, LeedsLass, Simonana, Spearsem, IrishMaid, Blueladymare, PeppermintTwertle, Ever Blazin, I am Sweden, Elizablue, Cathrag, Arkanhari, ScarheartofDarkclan, xxcatxx, NightshadeHetalia, Becky999, .me.1, fire hores is awesome, Lani Carmine, xxEu-chan, ChubbyCubby23, AFreezingFlame, Animechic420, White eyed fox, Furret the Sparrowsong, rubyredroses1, PhantomPrussia, Art and Soul, Starchacer296, GirlLoki, FiresCreek, JustAGirlWithAPen, SchrapnelGirl, GermanyIsAwesome-NotPrussia, iTorchic, kakashailuckyblackcat, , Xou, alexf801, chattie98, Myrna Maeve (and Romania!), ThatPurplyThing, Forever Halfa, WinterLake 25, Frustration, Ankhasia Riddle, Kitty the Dinosquirrel, envysfangirl, PikoPiko-Chan, Silver FoxWolf, citrine sunflower, Canyon's Rose, chickenkitty, ZeroLuver567, Lady Sandra of Sealand, Tamarutaca, 101Icestormxx, VengefulCat (my beta reader) and all my anonymous readers.

Warnings: None!

Epilogue No. 1

Stockholm, Sweden

"Package for you, m' wife," Sweden said, passing a large brown envelope to Finland.

"Thanks, Ber," Finland carefully opened the package. The first thing he saw was a small piece of paper, which he lifted out and inspected, at first expecting it to be some kind of receipt. It wasn't.

The note read:

To Tino and Berwald,

You've gotta see this.

~ Liz.

"Oh, it's from Hungary," Tino announced. This was odd; she didn't normally send them things. Even so, Tino felt inside the envelope for whatever Hungary had sent them and upon feeling a smooth surface discovered that it was a magazine.

Finland lifted the magazine out of its envelope and placed it in the middle of the breakfast table... which was probably a mistake. Sweden's reaction was to spit out his coffee all over the tablecloth, whilst Finland's was to smack his hand over Sealand's eyes.

For there, on the front cover of "Playgirl", was Denmark in all his glory. Though Finland had seen him as such before (the Dane had a habit of running around the house naked when he won a game or a bet, was drunk, or was otherwise happy), one never quite got used to it. The whole thing was made worse, of course, by Mathias's lewd grin (which he probably thought was alluring but was actually rather scary), the Santa hat perched precariously upon his carefully dishevelled hair, and the "have you been a good girl this holiday season?" text placed strategically so that it only just covered Den's vital regions.

"What..." Sweden spluttered, still recovering as he'd somehow snorted coffee up his nose, "the Hell... is that supposed to be?"

"I..." Finland shook his head to try and clear it a little, still struggling to keep his hand over Sealand's eyes so that he didn't see the horror of what his clinically insane uncle had gone and done now. "Go and play, Peter."

"But-"

"Go." Sweden grunted, taking his glasses off and cleaning them with his sleeve before putting them back on again and frowning. He'd obviously blamed the sight on his glasses and thought that cleaning them would make the image of his... brother... make more sense.

It didn't. "Fine," Sealand muttered, getting up from the table and taking his "How to seduce ze ladies, ah yes! -By Francis Bonnefois" booklet with him.

"How..." Sweden began, then shook his head and tried again. "Why?"

"I don't know, Ber," Finland replied. "I just don't know. But I hope he knows, Norway will be hearing about this."

Meanwhile in Leningrad, Russia...

Once the initial laughter had died down, comments were made.

"It is very small, da? Poor Denmark." Russia said first.

"How can you tell if it's small?" Toris asked, trying to be kind as usual.

"The text covering it up isn't big," Latvia said, stifling a giggle. "Nah, definitely not impressed. From the way he talks about 'Copenhagen' I was expecting a little more."

"More what?" Estonia asked. He had been the only person who hadn't laughed, grimaced or spilled a drink upon seeing the magazine cover. He had just said "seen it," very matter-of-factly. Whether he was referring to the magazine cover or Denmark in his current state of undress is uncertain.

Latvia shrugged. "Just more."

"It says there's, like, more pictures inside," Poland pointed out, tapping a perfectly-manicured nail on the corner of the magazine cover.

"Oh, God..." Lithuania muttered, as Poland started flipping through the pages.

Meanwhile, in East Germany...

Prussia and America stood in a convenience store, both with arms full of various items (Prussia: bread, milk, sausages, beer bottles, America: comics and coca-cola cans) gazing mournfully at a magazine rack near the doorway.

"Dude..." Prussia said softly as he examined the cover of the latest issue of "Playgirl".

"I know, man. I know." America replied, reaching out a hand to pat Prussia on the shoulder and not really noticing when one of his comics fell to the floor.

Right at that moment, a gang of schoolchildren came into the shop. One of them glanced at the magazine rack... then his eyes widened. "It's the bad Santa!"

"Not cool, dude, not cool." Prussia said to Den's smirking face, printed there forever upon the shiny cover of the magazine, before going to the counter to pay for his stuff. And leaving. Swiftly.

Meanwhile, in Venice, Italy...

"Ciao, everybody~!" Italy greeted, walking into his house and kicking his shoes off as he went. Romano and Spain sat opposite each other at the dining room table eating some leftover pizza; Spain smiling adoringly at Romano, Romano scowling at Spain and muttering Italian obscenities under his breath.

Germany, meanwhile, was sprawled across the sofa in the adjoining living room.

"Did you get the pasta, fratello?" Romano asked around a mouthful of cheese and tomato pizza.

"Si! And you'll never guess what else I got..."

"Pizza?"

"No."

"Wine?"

"No."

"Something I can drug Antonio with so he won't be such a bastardo?"

"No... you're so mean, Lovi~!"

Romano scowled, though to be honest it wasn't much of a change from his usual expression. "Just tell us what you bought."

"This!" Italy emptied the contents of his shopping bag onto the table. Packets of noodles, penne pasta, tomatoes... and a magazine. Lovino was about to tell Italy off for making such a fuss over something so stupid when he saw the picture on the front of the magazine and promptly began choking on his pizza.

"Roma!" Spain exclaimed, running around the side of the table so he could help Romano.

"I'm-cough-cough-fine!-cough-cough... Stupid tomato bastard!"

Though nobody noticed because of Romano's shouting, Germany emerged from the living room at that point. "What is going on in here?"

"Ciao, Germany!" Italy said, waving at Germany and remaining oblivious to the growing tension in the room.

"Why would you buy this?" Romano yelled when he finally stopped choking.

Germany, for the first time, looked over at the table. "Mein Gott!"

"Si, it's Denmark with no clothes on! I bought it to show everyone because I didn't think you'd believe me..."

"I'd believe you, Feli," Spain said kindly, dodging a glancing blow from Romano. "It's just the kind of thing Denmark would do."

"Why, though, would you want us to see it? I think I'd rather see just about anyone else naked instead of him. He's an utter dummkopf. Besides, you do know I'm related to him, right?" Germany said, massaging his temples. Only 10am and he was already getting a headache.

"So you'd rather see me naked instead? Pervert bastard!" Romano piped up.

"No, I mean... nevermind."

"Poor Germany. Come with me and I'll braid your hair again, si?" Italy took Germany's hand and lead him away.

Meanwhile in London, England

England was sat in his favourite armchair, Belarus snuggled at his feet, playing with their puppy. The football was on the television, his team was winning, a pot of tea was brewing on the table, a plate of biscuits standing by. Could life be any more cosy or perfect? What could possibly spoil it?

"Oooh Angleterre! Belarus... Mon leetle lurve pigeons..."

"Bugger! What the bloody hell does he want?" Arthur sighed and attempted to get out of his armchair.

Belarus got up, rubbed her growing bump and pulled out a knife, "I thought you'd locked the door, Arthur?" she asked.

"Aah my sweet leetle lovers... you are so adorable..." Francis purred as he swanned in, swishing his hair and ignoring Belarus' knife.

"Just bugger off, Francy-pants. We don't need your sort around here," England said.

"Ah mais non, I 'ave brought somezing to show you. I thought it would make your heart sing..." France said and, opening his Chanel 'man-bag' (England grimaced at the sight), pulled out a magazine.

He tapped a manicured nail on the cover, "See, my little flowers. A fellow Nation has found his vocation. Eet is wonderful, non?"

England took hold of the magazine gingerly between thumb and forefinger. "Playgirl? Isn't this with naked men?"

Belarus nodded and then hurriedly said, "I think so... I mean I wouldn't know of course..."

England decided to ignore this and ignore why France had bought the damned thing. Sometimes it was better not to know and then... he saw the cover.

"What in the name of Churchill is he doing on this and ... what the bloody hell is he wearing or not wearing...?"

Belarus' eyebrows shot up, Daisy (who had been sniffing Francis' trousers with a disgusted look on her face) ran out, France smiled.

"Aaah! I remember it well... that pantry... what a night..." Francis twirled around delightedly.

England threw the magazine as far away from him as possible, "Bloody big idiot Viking... oh..." he stopped suddenly, staring at the television screen, "Damn and blast!"

"What is it mon cher?" France purred.

Belarus picked up the discarded magazine with interest.

"I've just missed the bloody equalising goal..." England was distraught and then suddenly, so suddenly he knocked over his cup of tea, spun around and grabbing Francis by the neck, dragged him out of the door, opened the back door and threw him out.

"Now bugger off back to your seedy little hotel so I can watch my footie!"

England slouched back into the lounge, rubbing his hands, "Finally, get some bloody peace, bloody French tart..."

Belarus settled herself down on the couch, having made England and herself a fresh pot of tea and perused the magazine – purely out of curiosity of course.

There was a banging on the window and a familiar golden-haired head appeared, "Mes amis... mon magazine, s'il vous plait..." came a plaintive call.

Epilogue No. 2 to follow soon with lots of Russ-Lat fluff.