A/N: I'M BACK! Sorry for the wait! *sweatdrops* I started off typing up the chapter smoothly enough, but then things got . . . not so smooth. *cough*writer's-block*cough* So, it's shorter than I had anticipated, but I think it covers the major plot points in order to advance the story along.

Now, I present to you the third main plotline! Yay! *cheers*

Disclaimer: I do own neither Hetalia: Axis Powers nor A Midsummer Night's Dream.

2.1

All Canada wanted to do was the right thing, but no-o-o, he just had to find the briefcase of the one that could see unicorns. Just like how he just had to walk in on a merry band of actors in the woods. Well, as merry as one can be when France has bested them on so many levels. But don't worry, they're plotting their revenge! Okay, so maybe that calls for a little worry . . .

When Canada had found England's briefcase left on the floor of the front lobby, his plan had been pretty simple. Step 1: find England. Step 2: return briefcase. Easy, right?

It should have been. The one issue? Canada wasn't exactly . . . well . . . wait, who were we talking about again? Oh, right. Canadia wasn't exactly someone you would call "opaque".

Still, after failing to flag down any of the hotel staff, anxiously walking behind the counter himself to sneak a peek at their guest list himself—not even the security camera saw him search through their database; he wasn't sure whether or not to be disappointed or to start taking professional ninja lessons—and then spending the next hour phoning every nation he found listed there only to have a whopping total of zero of them pick up the phone, he delayed his facepalm to make one last call as to England's whereabouts. The recipient answered it immediately.

"Canadia, dude, what's up?"

"It's Canada," he sighed, already regretting dialing his brother's number.

"Yeah, sure, whatever, bro," America snorted on the other end of the line. There was a faint crackling noise in the background, but Canada doubted that it had anything to do with their cellular connection. "Anyway, I'm kind of sort of totally in the middle of proving manhood right now, so could you hold that thought for just a sec?"

". . . You're trying and failing miserably to read a map right now, aren't you?"

"Hey, it's harder than it looks!" his brother insisted. "I mean, the forest on here is totally half-assed, dude. There aren't any roads or anything!"

Canada was about to comment about how if anything looked half-assed on any of America's maps, it was Canadia—Canada, dammit!—himself. But then he realized what his brother had just revealed and sweatdropped. "W-wait, did you say you're lost in the woods?"

"Da. It's the one on the opposite end of the city as the wed—MMPHENF!"

Russia's voice was suddenly muffled, but Canada's panic wasn't dulled in the slightest. "You're trapped in the woods with Russia?"

". . . I've said too much. Well, it's been fun talking to you, dude!"

"Wait! Have you seen Eng—"

The call ended and Canada stood there, staring at his phone in shock. Then his belated facepalm caught up to him. "Maple."

Well, time to lace up his hockey shoes. Skates. Screw this metaphor. Point is, it seemed like Canada would be taking a little detour from his quest with England's briefcase to drag his maple-leafing hoser of a brother back to the hotel. And maybe still do a little searching for England in the process.

Fifteen minutes after entering the woods he'd guessed his brother to be in—because "Nothing having to do with a guess based on the words 'opposite end of the city as the wed—MMPHENF!' could possibly go wrong, eh?" "Oh boy . . . who are you?" "I'm the hand that feeds you! Y'know, Canadi—I mean Canada, Kumamaple! Oh, I'm sorry for raising my voice there . . ." "Hmm? Did you say something else?"—Canada was beginning to question his decision-making skills. Especially because no one would tell him where he could find a map. So Canada went for the simple solution.

He split his time in the woods between searching for his brother, searching for England, and plotting what sort of horrible revenge he would deal to America as soon as he found him. What? It was a very motivational pastime.

"Oh, when I get my hands on that hoser, I'll dump a whole bottle of syrup on his head! No! I'll set up a funnel above his seat at the next World Meeting and rig it to drip a single drop of maple syrup into his hair every . . . wait, that sounds like Chinese water torture. And a lot of syrup. Oh! What if I use it to glue down Nantucket? But then again, I could just eat the syrup instead of using it for revenge . . . and gluing down Nantucket does sound like it would be kind of awkward . . . and rude . . ."

"Hey, who're you talking to?"

"Ah!" Canada leapt in surprise, reeling around with the intentions of spraying his attacker in the face. "You're not Kumajungle!"

"Kuma-who now? Nein, but I'm awesome, kesesese!" cackled the very awesome Prussia from in front of him. Then he noticed Canada's pantomime of . . . "Wait, are you trying to pepper spray the awesome me?"

Canada looked at his empty hands and immediately retracted them with a sweatdrop. "Oh, you mean that, eh? Yeah, I used to carry around some pepper spray in case anyone accidentally invaded my—"

"Vital regions?" Prussia awesomely supplied.

"No, my personal space!" Canada exclaimed emphatically. Recomposing himself, he continued, "But no one did that, so I stopped bringing it along after a while . . . I guess I kind of forgot about that, eh?"

"Ja, ja," Prussia waved dismissively. And awesomely. "But what're you doing in the woods all by yourself?"

"Well, you see, I'm actually trying to find someone."

"Who?"

"I'm Canada! You know, the one wh—Sorry, force of habit," Canada cut himself off sheepishly. He glanced down at the briefcase in his hands. "Er, I guess I'm looking for England, since I have to return his briefcase. I don't know where he is, though. But right now I'm focusing more on America, because he doesn't know how to read a map and went and got lost in the woods. Why are you here?"

"A chess proverbial," Prussia nodded sagely. "West just forgot to mention that it's in the middle of nowhere."

"It's a DRESS REHEARSAL!" Germany's voice shouted insistently from not too far away.

"Ja, that's what the awesome me said! A dress reversal!"

Canada cringed at what sounded distinctly like a loud facepalm from Germany's general direction.

"But anyway, if you're looking for England, he should be right over there having an awesome catfight with France. Actually, Spain should totally have the popcorn done by now. Awesome!" Prussia continued obliviously. He grabbed Canada by the wrist and started dragging him off into the direction he had indicated, awesomely declaring as Canada was tugged past a still-facepalming Germany, "Quick, before we miss the rest of the figh—Wait, why aren't the two of you fighting?"

Canada sweatdropped; Prussia had led them into a clearing in the woods where all the stage props were located, with France and England sitting serenely right in the middle of it all. France lowered the hand mirror he'd been holding up to eye level. "Hmm? Why, we have simply matured and—"

"I beat him up. Then the frog called it quits to fix his hair."

". . . Or there is a slight possibility that that was exactly what happened," France admitted with a sigh. "A small one."

Prussia blinked. "So . . . I missed the fight?"

"Oui."

And so Prussia went to sulk in the background next to Romano and Spain, who were putting the popcorn to good use. "Do you have a tissue? Not that the awesome me could use one, since that would be totally lame, but . . ."

Romano simply gave him a blank stare. "Who do you think I am, the piano bastard?"

Meanwhile, Canada anxiously approached England with the briefcase. "Y-you left your briefcase on the floor, so I thought I would return it to you . . . oh! While I'm here, did either of you happen to see America anywhere?"

England furrowed his impressive eyebrows. "Wait, but aren't you . . . ?"

"Canada," France quickly supplied. England sweatdropped.

"Oh. Right," he said awkwardly. "Well, then I suppose we haven't. Sorry about that, lad."

Canada sighed. "Don't worry about it, eh? But thank you for—"

He was interrupted by the sound of a phone ringing. At first he looked around for Germany in case the authorities were, well, still on the nation's case, but it was France who picked up. "Oui? Ah, India . . ."

Seeing that France was now busy, Canada turned back to England with the intentions of handing over the briefcase and then voicing his goodbyes immediately afterward, only to see the nation muttering to himself. "Oh, uh . . . are you okay?"

"France," England was saying under his breath. He raised his voice to exclaim, "How does that bloody frog have India's phone number? India never gave it to me! Canasta—"

"Canada."

"—walk with me, will you, lad?" England asked, already leading Canada out of the earshot of the others. "There is, of course, only one course of action to wheedle India's phone number out of that frog."

"Ask him nicely?" he wondered, clutching the briefcase and contemplating whether or not he should just shove it over to England and make his escape while the nation was distracted.

"Use fairy magic on that blasted frog so that he'll become obsessively infatuated with some unfortunate creature, and use that against him to make him fork over India's phone number," England proclaimed determinedly. "It's bloody brilliant, it is!"

"Or we could just get France drunk enough to," Canada muttered, not mentioning how England's sort of revenge seemed a lot more intensive than his own.

"Oh, yes, well," England sweatdropped, "I suppose we could do that, too. Would you fetch some wine for that, lad, and meet me back here later, then? The most expensive bottle you can find, since you know the frog can be picky about these things. I'll pay you back for it later, but you better be quick about it!"

"B-but what about your—"

"Now, now, don't be shy, go on!" said England, not noticing Canada's attempts to return his briefcase. He ushered Canada back in the direction that they had come from, calling, "Remember, I'll be waiting for you off over here!"

Canada glanced behind him only to see that England had sat down next to a bush to wait. Should he really be helping the nation get India's phone number by making France even more of a groping hazard and possibly giving him a nasty hangover? But . . . it would be rude to decline after the plans had already been arranged . . .

He sighed and went out to go find a good place for alcohol with the briefcase still in his hands, thinking that he should have just thrown the bag at England when he had the chance.

"For the last time, she's totally not interested and unless you want your fingers looking all squiggly, you should turn around, like, right now!" Poland insisted, trying fruitlessly to drag Lithuania out of the woods by the hem of his apron—the nation was wearing the one he'd acquired while working at America's house because, he reasoned, it seemed most suited to keeping his clothes clean while he was trekking through the forest in an intimate search party complete with the love of his life. No big deal.

"I'd make a million squiggly lines if it makes her happy," Lithuania sighed dreamily.

"That's . . . not comforting, Liet," Poland informed him. "And it totally can't be healthy and you totally have to ditch her!"

"I heard that," Belarus called back from the front with a huff.

Poland sweatdropped. "Not that I meant anything bad by it, it's just, like, self-preservation and all that stuff, you know?"

"Just help me find Big Brother in these woods and get this over with, will you?" she huffed, picking up her pace. But just a little bit.

"See?" Lithuania smiled happily, pointedly nudging Poland's arm. "She's interested!"

This time, Poland simply settled for facepalming.

When Canada returned, dutifully holding out a bottle of wine for England to examine, he had not been expecting the nation to leap down from a tree to greet him. Nearly dropping the wine in surprise, he glanced between the tree and the nation, gawking, "Wh-what the . . . I thought you said you would be in the bush!"

"Ah, well, I heard people approaching so I simply scaled this tree and happened to overhear their conversation from above. Also, it's a great place to contact the fairies. You should really try it sometime," England waved dismissively. "But enough of that! So, is that the wine?"

Deciding that it was best not to question the other nation for now, Canada sighed and passed over the bottle, "Yeah, it's a five-hundred-dollar bottle of—"

"Good, we won't need it," England interrupted, nonchalantly flinging it back over his shoulder before he could protest. Canada let out a muffled squeak of horror as it shattered on the ground.

Well. There went five hundred dollars. And some really good wine.

"Anyway, Cana . . . uh . . . lad, it seems like our plans have changed," he continued, holding something out for Canada to see. "See this, lad?"

"It's a . . . flower," Canada sweatdropped, not sure how to respond.

"It's a magical flower that I received from the fairies. Well, after a lot of convincing," said England, not noticing the clearly unconvinced look that crossed Canada's face as the nation debated whether or not he should seek professional help. Didn't Germany say he was pretty good in that area? "To use it, you simply drop some of its nectar on one's eyelids while they are asleep, and when they wake up, they will become infatuated with the first person they see. Now, it appears that France is not the only one who we will be putting under its power."

". . . You want me to rub it on the eyes of multiple people?"

"It seems like we're on the same page, then!" England exclaimed in delight, patting him heartily on the back. "I saw a lad in the woods whose affections appear to have been rejected. It was too dark for me to see his face, but you'll know him by his American clothing. So, I want you to—Hey, I haven't finished! Where are you going?"

"To get this over with so I can sob over the loss of a certain expensive beverage," Canada called back, already walking off with the flower in one hand and England's briefcase still clutched in the other. "Is there anything else I should know about using the . . . er . . . magical flower?"

England thought for a moment before shaking his head. "No, I suppose magical flowers are relatively easy to handle."

It was only after Canada had gone off that England remembered he hadn't been able to finish telling Canada to use the flower on the girl, not the guy. But in England's defense . . . the nation was on the brink of realizing he'd made an enormous understatement about magical flowers being "relatively easy to handle". Plus, he was going through briefcase withdrawal. Don't put too much pressure on him.

Settling back down next to the bush, he sighed, "Ah, well, I suppose I shouldn't stress too much over what's already been done. After all, how much harm could the lad do?"

. . . Was it already mentioned that England had made an enormous understatement?

"Wait a tic, was that my briefcase he was holding?"

Notes on this Chapter:

Oh, Canada.

Here, France is representing two characters from the play by Shakespeare, by the way. One is the guy playing Pyramus's—

Prussia: "Pyramid's."

—female love interest in the play within the play. The other character France is sort of taking on the roles of is the queen of the fairies.

France: *gestures in England's general direction* "Hey, how come he gets to be a guy?"

England: *gestures at France's costume* "Because I'm not the one wearing a bloody dress, you blasted frog!"

France: "It's staying in character! I'll have you know that Thisbe is a very—"

"Magical flower": In Shakespeare's play, there is a magical flower that acts like a sort of love potion. While writing this chapter, I considered using wine instead—since, well . . . I think a lot of the events in the play that occur while the characters are under the influence of the flower's magic are a lot like, well, if they were under the influence of alcohol—but then I realized that might cause too many complications, so I kind of sort of made England smash a bottle of expensive wine on my behalf.

France: *recoils in horror* "Why would you waste such a fine beverage?"

Me: "But it's alcoholic!"

Canada: "Five. Hundred. Dollars."

France: "I am so sorry."

Me: *sweatdrops* "He'll pay you back . . . possibly?"

Seriously, though, alcohol can be a very dangerous substance so I would suggest going about it with great care and not using it so lightheartedly.

On a different note, if things in this fic exactly mirrored Shakespeare's play, then France and England would be married fairy rulers. Heh, heh. Hmm . . . I wonder if that would've happened if . . . ?

England: *hastily changing the subject* "Well, would you look at the time! Would anyone like to give the outro? Yes? No? Alright, I can do it myself, then! Stay utterly . . . uh . . ."

Prussia: *jumps in* "Stay awesome, everyone! Kesesese!"