Hello again, lovely readers! The second chapter is here after much delay. I wanted to post it about a week after the first chapter, but it ended up really kicking me in the ass. I had to erase and reimagine a good section of the chapter after I realised it read way too forced, which sapped a lot of my inspiration after I went back to the drawing board. But, finally, it's here and I'm quite pleased with how it turned out!

As always, let me know what you think! Feedback on pacing, grammar, and characterisation is always very, very welcome! Enjoy!

WARNING: There is not much in this chapter other than swearing, smoking, and some physical violence. Tread carefully if that's not your thing!

Spellbound
Chapter 2

There were moments in his long, long life where England wished his glare had the ability to physically melt the object of his ire.

Now was one of those moments.

Unfortunately, God had decided to stick with His past decisions to not grant him with such an ability and his phone, perched precariously on the nightstand, carried on ringing, unabated. He even waited for it to go to voicemail, hoping whatever prick was calling would give up on the prospect and he could get some shut-eye. It was too much to hope for. After three consecutive rings, England had had enough and was unsurprised to see America's contact name flash across the screen after he fumbled to grab the blasted device.

Swiping his thumb over it, he had every intention on telling him off, but the audio that met his ear was loud and booming and static-y as the tiny speaker struggled to do its job. "Hello?" England asked, forgetting his snappy response in favour of a semi-confused greeting.

A crackling, garbled, but familiar voice burst into his earhole and he winced, decidedly holding his phone a few inches away to spare himself further damage. "Hey, hey, hey! It's England! I mean, Arthur! Hey!"

"Hey, hey, hey, it's America," he replied in a tone that both oozed sarcasm and a distinct lack of enthusiasm all at once, "I mean Alfred."

"Ha, ha, ha! You're so funny!" Came the chipper response that hadn't lost any of its spark in spite of his dry reply.

England lifted his spare hand and pinched the bridge of his nose. "It's not even a quarter past five. Are you pissed?"

"Wh—no, man! I'm having an awesome time right now. Matthew just did the craziest shit—"

"Drunk, Alfred. Are you drunk."

"Oh! Ha, ha, yeah. I'm fucked up."

"Lovely. I'm ending the call."

"No, dude, wait! Don't-hang-up-I'll-just-keep-calling-pfft!" He was surprised America managed to get a breath in there. He wasn't entirely sure that he did. England, gracious as always, gave him two seconds. One— "Listen. I found the sickest club a walk away from the hotel and you should totally join us—oh, shit, uh…speaking of…are you still sick?"

"'Us'?" He knew Canada was included, obviously, but, knowing the man on the other end of the call, he wouldn't be surprised if he invited the entire bloody conference! "And, no, I'm not ill. Well. I'm feeling better."

"Holy shit, I knew that fucker was lying," America hissed rapidly under his breath, it was the quietest thing he had said the entire span of their conversation, "'Us' as in, like, me and Matthew and Kiku aaand some others. A couple others. Gilbert. Ivan. Uh…"

England pressed his lips together to form a thin, tense line. As much as a prospect of a drink had tempted him before he decided to lay down in bed, he didn't fancy the deafening, crowded atmosphere of a nightclub. Especially not while sporting a headache and possibly losing his mind. "I don't think so, I'm—"

"Sick?" The other man's tone shifted to a nasally rendition of his accent. "'Poorly'?"

Oh, that cheeky little—

"No."

"C'mon, man, don't be such a boring asshole. Stop playing Go-Fish-for-One in your hotel room and have some fun for once. I got VIP passes!"

"VIP passes for a club you just-so-happened to come across today?"

"Hey, I never said it was today," now he was definitely being cheeky with him, "Pleease? It's not the same without my best friend here!"

Oh, now that was cheating. He wasn't allowed to pull the best friend card.

"No."

"Okay, great! I'll text you the address. See you in five, my dude!"

There was some fumbling, followed by a chirp from his phone, and the call came to an abrupt end. A frown tugged at the corners of his lips. Insufferable bastard. But, sure enough, not thirty seconds later, a text containing the address popped up with a winking face emoji tacked on at the end. In spite of himself, it dragged a small, wry smile out of him.

He really shouldn't drink.

He really shouldn't.

The phone call had only given him a taste of how potentially ear-drum-shattering the music the nightclub sported. On top of that, his headache returned with a vengeance—to spite him. Or perhaps the music was truly to blame for that. It didn't matter. The copious amounts of alcohol he ingested brought it down to an easily-ignored, numbed sensation at the back of his brain, thankfully.

Of course, when America had said 'a couple others,' his perception of that qualifying amount was clearly different from his own, because there were a least twenty-odd nations milling about the place. He hadn't expected a calm, relaxing atmosphere, obviously, but the blaring music that caused the floor beneath his feet to pulse and shudder hardly allowed for conversation. Really, the only person he heard over it all was America shouting from time to time.

Without chit-chat being a practical option, it left only two activities available: to drink and to dance. The throng of people all seemed to be going with the whole 'put your hands in the air and jump and yell and flail about the place' tactic. Unfortunately, England's strength was in more refined, structured dances like a waltz, so he awkwardly swayed from side-to-side because it seemed the least-risky.

That was his tactic, at least, until America plowed his way over to him with a tray full of shots and ordered him to down them all with him. Apparently watching him was a painful thing to witness and he had to loosen up. Said he looked like an albatross trying to dance—awkward and forced. Well, all right, then. No need for that.

Thanks to one shot too many, England fell off the precipice of being buzzed into being very solidly drunk. After sticking close to America and taking the piss out of each other's uncoordinated dancing, he backed up into a body and whirled around to shout an apology, only to come face-to-face with the last person he wanted to see after their embarrassing encounter earlier today—Russia.

However, he was drunk and when he glanced over his shoulder, his self-proclaimed hero had disappeared. No easy way out. "Ivan! Sorry!" He shouted, only to be interrupted as some impatient bloke and his girlfriend slipped in between the both of them. He caught the gist of what Russia said—asking if he needed help walking again, the cheek—while he glared at their backs before they, too, were swallowed up by the crowd.

"I don't. I can walk jus' fine this time, thanks!" England replied, ignoring the fact that bumping into Russia did little to support his argument.

The taller man watched him with an unreadable expression as people whooped and danced all about them. "What are you talking about?"

He wasn't keen on bringing up the embarrassing event from earlier and he swallowed a huff that threatened to boil over. He wasn't to the point of plastered to up and abandon the conversation, not willingly. "You know…earlier!" He was unwilling to elaborate any further. If the other man feigned ignorance, then he had his own permission to duck out of the conversation.

Instead, his eyes squinted down at him. Under more sober circumstances, England would've internally squirmed under such a look, especially coming from a man like Russia. For a moment, they only had the raucous noise of the nightclub between them. "Ah. How could I forget?" A thinly-stretched smile crawled across his face and he was left feeling cold and uneasy.

He smothered any more words with his drink, but he didn't have to bother in the end. America practically sprang out of the throng of people with another tray full of precariously-placed shots. The other man offered Russia a glance that seemed unwelcome at first, until it morphed into something more mischievous.

"Hey, guys, think you can knock these bad boys back?" He shouted far louder than necessary. England wouldn't be surprised if this was his natural habitat: loud and obnoxious, with the only way to be heard was to be more loud and obnoxious than the music. "It's not a party unless I see both of you on your ass!"

"What, you fancy a repeat of th'last time?" England wondered tersely; his eyes scanning over the tray of twinkling shot glasses, all lined up and slightly spilled from the journey through the energetic crowd. America didn't have to answer. His lopsided, shit-eating grin was enough. He most definitely did.

"Last time?"

He could practically feel the curiosity in Russia's voice and his expression grew slightly sour as America immediately sprung into recounting the story. "Oh, dude, Artie and I hit like twelve pubs in a row a couple months back. It was crazy. Like three hours in, he got all gay and nostalgic, I thought he was gonna cry for a sec—"

He let out a series of very purposely-loud coughs in an attempt to cover up that last bit. Come on! No one needed to hear that, least of all Russia, and whoever was within range to hear him shouting it. Fucking Hell!

America didn't skip a beat, "And we got so fucked up that Artie tried to fight a streetlamp after I said it called him names. Punched it so hard, he sent it flying, ha ha! Then we ended up jumping a fence into some abandoned warehouse and got arrested for trespassing. It was awesome."

"I would hardly call it that," England retorted, muttering into the rim of his glass.

It actually had been a lot of fun. The not-so-fun part had come later when Parliament questioned him over it like some reprimanded school boy and not a two-bloody-thousand-year-old man. As if he wasn't capable of doing whatever he damn well pleased, permission or no!

"Dude, c'mon, it was fucking great and you know it," his dismissive hand wave settled the matter; lifting up the tray with urgency, "C'mon, guys! Don't be chicken! Shots, shots, shots!"

A little snort flew past his lips. If America was going to try to play into his competitive streak, he wasn't going to have much luck. He didn't fancy dying tonight.

That was, until a very driven and very healthy sense of confidence washed over him that left him scrabbling to make sense of his thoughts; urging him forward. Oh, he was going to win this, for sure. Why even hesitate? Setting down his half-empty drink on a nearby table, he reached over with sudden vigour and—oh, his fingers smacked right into Russia's as they chose the same shot glass.

He and Russia shared a look and that drive within him tripled, if possible, as he reached for a different glass this time. They managed to shave off three shots—America making comments and egging them on all the way—before England started to feel the effects. He licked his lips and hesitated in his grip around the fourth.

"Can we call winner early?" Russia wondered idly.

England shot him a glare, "You seem rather confident."

"I am. You cannot hold your liquor. Not compared to me."

"Oh?" Except he was absolutely correct. England had a higher alcohol tolerance than a human, for sure, but he certainly wasn't going to drink Russia under the table. What the Hell had he been thinking? Why did he put himself up to this? Now his pride was on the line and he had to show this arsehole up. Or, at least, make a valiant attempt. "I have'uh tendency to surprise people," he retorted, kicking back his fourth shot without showing the bastard anymore hesitation, stubborn as ever.

Pfft. He wasn't going to last long at all, was he?

Russia matched his movements easily. All that confidence from before had deserted him, but if England was good at anything, it was hunkering down and enduring something stupid that he had gotten himself into. He managed about two and a half more shots before the taller man claimed victory. He was a real smug little prick about it as well. 'I told you so' was on the tip of his lips the entire time he and America helped him into a chair, he could tell.

"Do not be sore loser," Russia offered him with a pat on the head that was hardly soothing and far more condescending, "At least you have not vomited on me this time."

England only spared him a glare that was rather difficult to pull off with the nightclub constantly spinning underneath his feet, "Yeah, wha'ever."

America laughed, but ended up cutting himself off. "Hey, wait, I thought you were making shit up about that. Artie! What the hell, man? You said you were fine!" Hands were on his forehead and he groaned. Damn it, not this shit again.

"He is ill? I thought he was drunk."

"No, man, he was messed up yesterday. He's got dementia or something 'cause he's so fucking old. You were there at the meeting!"

"Why ask him to come to club, then?"

"He said he was fine!" America snapped back at him over his shoulder as he waved away England's badly-coordinated attempts to bat him off, "Don't go fucking blaming me, okay? I'm not the one who's chill with lying to their best friend's face for no reason."

Oh, brilliant. He wasn't going to hear the end of this for a good, long while. "It wasn't'uh lie, I am feelin' better since," England reiterated for perhaps the hundredth time in the past two days. It certainly felt like the hundredth time.

"Bullshit you're feeling better," he retorted, "C'mon, get up. I'm callin' a cab so we can get you back to the hotel." America wasted no time in curling his hands underneath both of his armpits to hoist him up, but England was having none of it. He struggled. He was hardly in the position for a proper fight, but he wasn't going to make it easy for him.

"Fuck off! Fuck off! I told you I'm fine!" He writhed and twisted to no avail as he shouted, not caring if the entire bloody nightclub heard him for once. "Goddamn it, would you jus' leave me alone?"

Oof. He was unceremoniously dropped, hard, back into his chair and he flailed to catch his balance. "Fine!" America bellowed right back, holding up his hands, "I'm tired of this 'woe is me' wounded warrior shit! If you don't want my help, then—you can find your own fucking way home, 'cause I'm done!"

England glowered at him as he stormed off. Good riddance. If he was going to throw a strop over the whole thing when he was telling him he was fine, then he didn't want any part of it, anyway. He swallowed down a huff and a curse. It took a dark chuckle to his left for him to remember that Russia was still hanging about.

"It is like watching television with you two."

"Yeah, well, 'e started it," England muttered and crossed his arms; sinking further into his seat.

Russia watched him sulk with glimmering eyes. "Did he?"

"You can fuck off too."

The burst of laughter caught him off-guard and he tensed his shoulders, before a snicker unwittingly clawed itself from his throat. No, no! He was angry. England forced a frown to etch itself back onto his face.

"What is your plan now?"

His nostrils flared as he gave that question a bit of deliberation. Honestly, he wasn't sure. Walking in a straight line was an impossible task at the moment and America returning to help him out wasn't something he could count on, not until he cooled off. He wasn't about to allow Russia to help him after the earlier fiasco, so that was out of the question. Like most moments in his long, long life, it all came down to one person: himself.

"Dunno, jus' sit here 'til I sober up, I guess."

"This is preferable to having a friend take you back to hotel?"

He shot Russia a pointed look. The bastard was messing with him, wasn't he? Well, he wasn't going to satisfy him with a flowery answer. "Yes."

"Interesting."

What he meant by that, Russia didn't care to elaborate further, although he had a vague feeling lingering in the back of his head that seemed to have some idea. Curiosity, maybe. Wanting to get a reaction out of him, for sure. It didn't matter, though, as when he rubbed at his eyes and slumped back in his chair, by the time he opened them again, the other nation had gone.

For a good hour and a half, his plan chugged along without interruption. He sat at a table, occasionally chatting with someone who cared to stop by and see how he was doing, until he had sobered up well enough to walk—or until America returned, which he didn't. He wasn't sure he wanted him. Annoyance still coursed through him over their little spat. Confrontation and resolution could wait for tomorrow.

For now, he had to get out of here.

Hailing a taxi was no small feat in the midst of the constant hustle and bustle of New York City and he became so fed up with it that he forewent driving back to the hotel entirely. Walking, then. It was about a twenty minute journey on foot. He could manage that. Not too bad, right?

Not right. At some point he had let himself wander in his buzzed state of mind and ended up before a bridge arching over dark, open water with strong steel arms. The traffic still clustered the streets, but the pedestrians had become sparse with a lack of shops and bars as it bled into residential apartments. He pulled out his phone to check where he had ended up. Relief washed over him as it confirmed he hadn't gone too far off-course, only added about five minutes to his walk, really.

Falling back into his own thoughts, he stuffed his phone back into his pocket and carried on. It took another ten minutes for him to come to a slow, realising halt that he was lost…again. In fact, he seemed to have been inadvertently tailing the man ahead of him, who shot him a suspicious, nervous glance over his shoulder before speed-walking with purpose down the pavement. Well, that was a bit awkward. Bloke probably took him for a serial killer or something.

His bleary eyes blinked up at the night sky before scanning the street ahead of him. It was dark and sparse; only highlighted by the occasional dim streetlight or open window. An uncomfortable, clawing feeling nestled itself into his chest as that whispering from yesterday darted just around the range of his hearing. He kept looking, eyes darting about, for something, but he wasn't quite sure for what until—

"Do you know where you are going?" Came a light, almost playful, voice as the click of a lighter reached his ears, "Because it does not look like it."

England whirled around with no small amount of panic. He had already been on edge, anyway, even though it should have hardly surprised him seeing Russia leaning against the brick wall of a rubbish-filled alleyway; calculating eyes on him, puffing away at a cigarette.

His skin crawled, but he retorted anyway, with only the smallest hint of uncertainty in his voice, "You're following me."

Now, the other man gave no indication one way or the other, he didn't smile or frown, his expression didn't shift away from a neutral one, but a resounding yes filled his ears all the same. He hadn't even uttered a single word. It was unnerving.

"You make it too easy," Russia admitted with a shrug, "I have heard—'SAS, best in world,' but you—" His eyes looked him up and down as he trailed off, unimpressed.

His eyes were practically daggers. "Forgive me for not expectin'tuh be followed for no good reason," he snapped, but it brought up a good point—why was he following him? "Did Alfred put you up t'this, then?"

The taller man's eyes narrowed, "You are surprisingly perceptive when you are drunk and stupid."

Stupid? He gritted his teeth. In all honesty, he didn't know what caused him to leap to that conclusion, it just made sense—in spite of the fact that it seemed unlikely that Russia would do anything for America, at least on the surface. "An' you're unsurprisingly an annoying arse'ole," England retorted; his hands clawing for fistfuls of air at his sides as his anger washed over him with ease.

A chuckle rumbled from the other man's throat and a small, genuine smile flashed; one that had his own lips twitching to match it before he got ahold of himself. "You are fun like this," his eyes glimmered dangerously, "I understand why America invited you to club."

"Yeah an' fat lot'uh good it did me," he hissed right back, squaring his shoulders and turning around to carry on down the street. Russia was only trying to get under his skin—and it was working, much to his irritation. Fuck him, honestly.

Russia blew smoke at his retreating back. "Do not go far," his warning brushed past his ear, "I have already called cab."

"Sod off."

The laughter that bombarded his back only managed to anger him further.

It didn't matter how far down the road his feet had taken him, as the taxi rolled up beside him with the other nation's head poking out the back window, calling him over. He even ignored him for a good twenty feet; stubbornly looking ahead, refusing to acknowledge him. It did little to dissuade Russia, or the driver, apparently, until his temper got the best of him and he snapped "what do you want?!"

He ended up swallowing his pride when Russia informed him that, one, he was walking in the wrong direction, two, it would take over a half-hour to walk back to the hotel now, and, three, it was well past midnight.

So now he sat in the back with the bastard himself, who stunk of cigarette smoke and alcohol—although, on the latter, England was sure he wasn't much better off himself—tapping his knee hurriedly, as if it would urge the car to go faster. The silence was one of the more awkward ones he had the pleasure to have to endure.

There was a clink beside him. He watched Russia light another cigarette from the corner of his eye after cracking open the window. A long trail of smoke wafted from his lips; swirling up to the roof of the car before being drawn out. He wrinkled his nose.

"Hey, no smoking in here, buddy," came the gruff, haggard voice of the taxi driver.

Russia paid him little heed and held out the pack to offer England. His lips parted for a moment as he stared at it. A struggle of manners fought within him—one option aggravated their driver and the other option refused a man who could quite possibly crush his head in one hand.

"Hey, asshole, you deaf?"

"No English," Russia said, purposefully thickening his accent to support the lie.

A well of amusement overflowed within him, even though it shouldn't, really. The poor bloke was only doing his job. As soon as the taller man made note of his barely-withheld, bitten-back smirk, a bemused smile pulled at his lips and they shared a moment of mutual entertainment at their driver's expense.

Well, bollocks to it, then. "Cheers, Ivan," he opted; pulling a cigarette from the pack and borrowing his lighter. It had been a while since he last smoked. He usually only did it when he was particularly stressed out. Perhaps the fight with America and the mentally-exhausting past few days were the deciding factor behind his hand.

"You are welcome, Arthur," he replied in perfectly-pronounced English and England had to fight the burst of laughter that clawed its way to his throat as he saw their driver give the rearview mirror an infuriated double-take.

They made it back to the hotel without much of a fuss. The taxi driver ended up charging them extra for smoking in his car and he had never seen Russia move so fast; leaving him to cough up a good-sized portion of his American currency, much to his irritation.

However, getting back to his hotel room had its own merits. As England sobered up on the drive over, his headache only became more and more difficult to ignore. It left him irritable, but mostly ready and willing to collapse into bed as soon as possible.

That was exactly what he did.

Or, that had been his plan. Once again, he curled up into the duvet with every intention of passing out for the rest of the night when his phone went off. He tensed and glared at it from his position on the bed. It wasn't a call, at least, probably a text, then. That could wait for tomorrow, surely?

England let his eyes fall shut. For an hour or so, he tossed and turned; rubbing at his forehead in a vain attempt to relieve the pounding and the pain, to no avail. Finally, a distraction from it seemed the best option and he did end up checking his phone.

His eyes blinked blearily at the screen.

[ SMS: America ] Your a dick

He pursed his lips. That message had actually been sent on the drive back to the hotel and he hadn't known how to respond then, either. He thumbed out of the conversation without adding anything to it.

The latest text just so happened to be from France. A groan built in his throat prematurely, before his eyes even skirted over its contents.

[ SMS: France ] Comment ça va? Better?

Of course he was asking over him. It was better than a barrage of grammatically-incorrect insults, he supposed, although it did get him thinking about the headache splitting his forehead open again. He hastily typed a reply before getting up to knock back some pain killers, bollocks to the potential alcohol-medicine complications.

[ SMS: England ] Fine
[ SMS: England ] Still got a headache but it's not as bad as it was yesterday

That much was true. Granted, this headache had really kicked his arse these past two days, but it was starting to let up, slowly but surely, with little punctuations of intensity here and there. It was the whispering that bothered him the most. As he washed down the painkillers with a bottle of water, his phone chimed at him again.

[ SMS: France ] Have you hit your head recently?
[ SMS: England ] Not that I'm aware

[ SMS: England ] What are you even doing up anyway it's nearly one in the morning
[ SMS: England ] I'm trying to sleep
[ SMS: France ] You're the one answering, mon ami. ;-)

He let out a huff and settled back into bed; wrapping the duvet around himself in a tight cocoon. After a few minutes of dead air, France added:

[ SMS: France ] You should apologise to Alfred. As much of a misery you are to be around, you are being much worse than usual. Ill or no.

He glared at the screen, not bothering to untangle his hands to answer. He didn't need to, apparently, as the little dancing typing icon only paused a moment more carrying on.

[ SMS: France ] Besides, when he is angry at you, you know how he overeats. If I have to hear more complaining while flecks of food fly from his mouth, I might become ill myself from trying to keep the disgust off my face.
[ SMS: France ] Zut alors! I am not helping my case. That will compel you to do the opposite, non?

A bemused smile pulled at the corners of his lips from his position, bundled up in his duvet. It most certainly was not helping the other man's case.

[ SMS: France ] Nevermind, just think about it, you stubborn ass.
[ SMS: France ] Bonne nuit!

Hm. A collective sigh built in his chest. The bastard did have a point, as much as it loathed him to admit it. England was well aware he had to talk to America sooner rather than later, but in the middle of the night, when the wound was still fresh, was probably not the time for it.

With that thought knocking about his head, he curled further into the warmth of the duvet, leaving his phone there on the mattress beside him, as sleep finally enveloped him.

Dreams were usually something he paid little heed to, unless they became nightmarish; clawing, twisting his thoughts or using old memories against him. Initially, England grew wary, shifting about in bed, as the taste of mud crawled over his tongue. He clenched his eyes shut, expecting the rattling of gunfire, the crack of grenades, the cries of soldiers, but only the jeers of young children greeted him instead.

Their words were unintelligible, but it was easy to discern what they said and it was hardly polite. Throwing rocks, slinging mud, egging him on, calling him coward, thick-headed, even. Indignation flared up and spurred him on. He looked up through narrowed eyes as his fingers curled into the wet earth to wrench himself back onto his feet. Some part of him knew the way this would end. He would fight back, he would hit harder than necessary to drive them off, a bit too hard—

The boy's face crumbled like wet clay to his fist as a chorus of gasps and screams sprouted up around him. They scattered like rabbits; chasing the dirt road down the hill to the village where they met the strong arms of their mothers and the warm hearth of their homes. The boy whose face he had broken drew into a ball of tangled limbs as he fell into hot, ugly tears before he spat curses at his feet and ran away, too.

A calmness rolled over him; enveloping him like a blanket and warding off the light chill in the air. It was all so familiar—except it wasn't. That realisation alone was enough to jerk him back awake, groggy and confused, before England flopped over onto his other side—cheek pressing his phone into the mattress—and fell asleep once more without another thought to spare the odd dream.

The rest of the night chugged along uninterrupted. In fact, he was out like a light and overslept. England rushed to the early morning conference in order to avoid being late to it. He sported a lovely hangover. Or perhaps that was his now-regular headache, he couldn't be absolutely sure.

What worried him most was that that whispering had become bolder as he sat there at the conference table, scratching away at his notes. It was still incredibly difficult to discern what it was saying, but it was louder, clearer, and sometimes he caught a stray feeling or a slight dose of comprehension, even with the words all muddled. He rubbed at his ear, playing it off like an itch, while inside England was a wildfire of nerves.

Perhaps he should just go to hospital—

Not in New York, obviously. He refused to pay for travel insurance. Why bother when he could heal on his own well enough, right? He would have to go once he got home, manage the madness until then. A frown wormed its way onto his lips. The last thing he fancied doing was admit to the fact that he could very well be losing his mind. Imagine Parliament learning that, he wouldn't hear the bloody end of it! There would be no escape from the nagging.

Besides, what if it was nation-related? It was something he hadn't experienced before, but there was a first time for everything, he supposed. Economic downturns left him ill, but not like this. Weak, shaky, a sinus infection, a fever—he had none of that, just a God awful headache and endless whispering.

"Are you okay, Arthur?"

His eyes snapped over to the man next to him and let go of his own ear; realising he had been rubbing it raw in a futile attempt to quiet the noise in his head. God, he even sounded mental, phrasing it like that! "Yes, I'm fine," he answered automatically; short, a bit snappy. Honestly, he grown tired of the question and he had a short fuse regarding it under normal circumstances.

He saw Canada visibly shrink away from the venom in his voice. It brought guilt clawing up to badger at him for being rude and he relented. "Sorry, I had rubbish sleep last night," England assured him; white lie falling easily off his tongue, "I am fine, though."

The bespectacled man gave him a small, unconvinced nod. For a moment, suspicion welled up within him, as he wouldn't put it past America and France informing him of his current state—the partially-complete version they had, at least. "Heh, yeah, you hungover too?" It was then that England bothered to notice the tired look to the younger nation's eyes. That was right. Canada had been at the nightclub with them last night.

He nodded into his hand in confirmation; managing to dredge up a wry smile. The other man gave him a knowing look, coupled with his own matching smile, before turning his attention back to the current presentation. That was that. No more pushing or prodding, thank God. Some people had a sense of common courtesy.

England made sure that he was one of the last of the nations to filter out of the conference room later that day, simply to give himself some sense of privacy before heading back to his hotel room. Briefcase in hand, he turned a corner, only to be met with a cross-armed, impatient America; tapping his foot against the wooden floor as he sat at one of the row of waiting chairs, presumably waiting for him. Really, the only way he could have made it more obvious was if he had a sign that said 'hello, time to apologize!' In fact, it was a surprise there wasn't one.

An uncomfortable feeling built in his chest; teeth gnashing at the inside of his cheek as his fingers flexed nervously against the handle of his briefcase. It was…a bit early for apologies, wasn't it?

"Hey," America greeted, but it was hardly warm or welcoming.

He cleared his throat before returning it. "Hello," England said, his greeting far less biting and far more uncertain, "Waiting 'round for someone?"

Their eyes clashed and no words had to be exchanged. He cleared his throat again, itching at the back of his neck, before moving to sit next to the other man. The silence was unbearable. America's posture was tensed, his demeanour cold, not moving a muscle.

After a minute or so, the younger nation let out a long, frustrated sigh. "Okay, then. I'll start, I guess, since you're too pussy"—he visibly bristled at that—"why did you lie, man?"

"Uh—"

America cut him off. "Like, I get that you're a private sorta dude and you have to make everyone else guess at how you're feeling about simple shit, but seriously? Like, you made me look like a huge asshole for dragging my sick friend to a club when you could've just said you weren't feelin' it!"

"Now hold on a minute," he retorted, straightening up in his seat and shooting him a pointed glare, "I did refuse, Alfred. You—"

"Dude, you always say no to everything, even if you want it!"

"Not always!" All right, so maybe he had a tendency to refuse something when initially asked, but it was not all the time! "Besides, if I had told you, you wouldn't've left me well enough alone, anyway."

"Oh, yeah, forgive me for being a concerned fucking friend," came the sarcastic growl as he rolled his eyes, "You know what you remind me of, England?"

"What?" He narrowed his eyes; practically daring him to continue.

"You're like a toddler in a grocery store who's yelling and screaming when he's told he can't get something he wants, so he goes limp and has to be dragged out. And it inconveniences everyone."

His blood practically boiled. "Well, then," England stood, ripping his briefcase off the empty chair beside him and sneering, "I'll stop being an inconvenience to you, shall I?" He whipped around with every intention to stalking off down the hall.

"Yeah, go ahead, hang out with someone else and take them for granted."

There was a falter in his step where everything in him wanted to turn around and scream bloody murder. Unfortunately, the words cut a bit too deep and he found himself fighting off pain instead of anger.

If that was what America wanted, then fine.

His feet kept him going; leaving the other man to stew in the aftermath. The tension in his shoulders didn't ease, didn't relent, until he stood in the middle of his hotel room; trying his best to avoid the temptation to break something he would inevitably have to pay to replace. Instead, he settled for slamming his briefcase against the annoyingly soft, pliable mattress.

Shambles.

Whew, there we go! Got a bit heavy at the end, there. I promise England isn't usually this grumpy, but that headache and all the drama around it really isn't helping matters. ;)

Hope you guys liked it!