Hi! It's me again. This story's actually an unofficial sequel to a kink meme fill, which had England accidentally miscast a spell and end up fulfilling the deepest fantasies of the other nations in their dreams- but for England it was all real. :( It's a very lovely but sad fill, and all of you should go read it because it's so amazing! Pairings at the moment are undecided, except for one, which will remain the same all throughout the story. :D Hope you enjoy this, and please leave a review so I know how to improve! :D
Original request and fill: http :// hetalia-kink .livejournal .com/ 13943 .html ?thread= 3706866 3#t37068663
There was a meeting of the nations the day after, and there was a decidedly awkward air in the conference room. It wasn't only that it was being held in France, where they feared the host nation himself would be seen streaking through the streets as he was infamous for doing, but that the night before had been extremely... pleasant. Perhaps it was the air in France that was making them simultaneously tense and relaxed and sinfully satisfied.
One thing more was wrong with the setting, and it was that it was twenty minutes past when the meeting had been scheduled to start, and neither their host nor England had appeared.
Whispers were circulating around the conference room, as the nations attempted to figure out what was taking them so long. It was unheard of for England to be late, and the fact that he was missing with France provoked a slew of frantic gossip, tempered only by the fact that they had all dreamt of Arthur Kirkland the night before- not that they mentioned it to each other. It was too embarrassing.
The door opened, and France sauntered in, but it was a little more subdued than usual, as if he was trying to make up for something. "Bonjour everyone. Our friend Arthur," he seemed to stress the words, and several nations flushed a bright red. "Has informed me that he will be late, so please make yourselves comfortable. He should be here in another ten minutes."
The nations nodded, and they waited for England's appearance to assure them that nothing was wrong.
The pain shooting up his spine from his lower back burned, but England gritted his teeth and limped his way to the conference room. He had donned a long-sleeved turtleneck (black, to hide the blood) and dark jeans, despite the warmth of the day, to conceal the bandages and bruises. It had been humiliating to be treated like porcelain (like a doll, like a plaything) as France dabbed antiseptic on his back and wrapped bandages around him, but he had been able to shove the frog out of the room to handle the rest of the injuries by himself and twist his broken nose back into place.
He rested his hand on the door handle and breathed deeply, willing himself not to cry. He was the fucking former British Empire, for heaven's sake. He would not show weakness. He would not debase himself any longer.
Lie still and think of the Empire.
No. Not lying still. Never again.
He opened the door and stepped inside, ignoring the hush that fell over the nations as he limped to his seat beside Japan and Spain. He was stiff as he sat down, lowering himself gingerly onto the seat, but not enough that he could be noticed, or so he hoped.
"Arthur-san, are you alright?" Japan's soft voice floated from beside him, and England suppressed a shudder.
Filth and slime and otherworldly organisms, cold, so cold, inhuman, like Kiku watching him being bent into position, disgusting, disgusting disgusting-
England choked a little and forced himself to look ahead and not think of Kiku with his strange desires or Antonio's love for swordplay and blood and pain. In front of him was Germany. Germany was safe, relatively safe, and England kept his eyes locked on Ludwig's face and tried not to break as he remembered whispering meaningless, untrue sweet nothings into his ear.
You can do this.
The meeting seemed to drag on for hours, but England was strangely quiet. He refused to look any of the other nations in the eye, but kept his gaze on the clock, only speaking up when it was his turn to present. He did so with none of the usual impassive, clinical detachment that he reserved for presentations, but with a venom that made even Russia pause and blink in confusion.
Break came not a moment too soon. England limped as fast as he could to the door after all the other nations had left, and leaned against the wall, breathing deeply to control his pounding heart. It was harder than he thought to pick up the pieces.
"Yo, jerk Arthur!"
Sealand. England snapped his eyes open and glared at the small boy in front of him, who was bouncing on the balls of his feet and smiling that irritating, obnoxious grin.
Sealand is not a nation. Sealand wasn't there. Sealand is safe-
"Oi, I'm talking to you! Acknowledge me! I'm a nation too!"
"No!" He burst out, startling even himself. "You are not a nation, and you never will be a nation, god damn it, just get it through your thick skull-!"
"Whoa, whoa, Arthur, slow down! You're terrifying the kid." A hand clamped down on his shoulder and he shrugged it away furiously. "Fuck, man, are you okay? You look like shit."
Prussia. Prussia was there, he's not even a nation anymore. "What the fuck are you even doing here?"
"Crashing the party, duh! You freaks could seriously use more awesome around here. But dude, what's with the bruised face?"
Gilbert was looking at him intently, uncharacteristic concern in his eyes, and England was reminded forcibly of the way he had waited for him to take off his ring and place it on the bedside table before Prussia slowly took off the silky white wedding dress that covered him from head to toe. He had been kind and gentle and slow, and England could remember the way Gilbert's eyes had been clouded with memories and a deep, pervading bliss as he had whispered praises and love and gratitude that he had married him and not Austria...
He had been wanting someone else, and for that, England could tolerate him, if only a little.
"Jerk Arthur, I'm gonna go talk to Raivis because he's gonna make me a nation!" Sealand's little chest puffed up proudly as he dared England to mock him, but England couldn't help but shudder at the memory of little Latvia threatening him with instrument after instrument of torture until he was trembling in terror before he threw him to the floor and rode him, hard.
God, was he going to fall apart with every mention of a person's name?
"Fine," he found himself saying coldly. "Be a country. See if you can deal with the responsibility and fucking shame. It's not all it's cracked up to be." He limped away as fast as he could manage, wincing as he felt the wounds in his back reopen and seep into the bandages. He hoped he could make it back to France's house before it showed on his shirt.
Prussia caught up with him easily, gripping his arm, and England cried out before he could stop himself.
"What the hell was that? Shit, man, you look really fucked up, and- h-holy shit, you're bleeding!"
England tried ineffectually to tug his arm away, but Prussia only gripped tighter and dragged him bodily to the exit. England was feeling too dizzy to protest.
"I've got a flat about a minute's walk from here. I'll take you there and we can see what the hell's wrong with you. I don't care if you bleed on the damn carpet; it's West's money anyway."
England never returned to the conference room.
"What happened?" America asked France urgently as he surveyed the England-less room.
"I don't know where he is," France replied uneasily, avoiding the question. He was distressed; having no idea how magic worked, he was only able to guess at what happened to England the night before, and none of the scenarios in his head were pretty images. He had a suspicion that was growing by the minute, and by now he was almost completely sure, but nothing confirmed it yet.
America rounded on him furiously. "What did you do to him last night?" he said in a voice that the entire room could hear.
"Me? What-"
"I'm not stupid! Both of you came in late. Then Arthur came in and he wouldn't talk and he had bruises on his face and he was fucking limping!" America roared, grabbing the front of France's shirt.
"What I did? Do not place the blame on me! We all did it!" France yelled back, then paled and clapped a hand over his mouth.
"We all did it, aru?" China asked quietly from behind them, and France could tell that the cogs were working in his old, wise mind. Perhaps he knew something more about magic, because his eyes widened suddenly and his brow furrowed. "It relates to last night, doesn't it?"
"I don't know," France said in a whisper, but by now all the nations were silently listening in and could hear him perfectly. "I-I woke up and he wasn't there, his magic had taken him somewhere, and when he came back he was bleeding and injured everywhere. He refused to be touched."
"What were the words he said?" The question came from Norway, who was standing stock still and breathing heavily.
"Id quod volunt, something. I cannot recall exactly."
The Italian twins gaped and started talking in agitated whispers to their neighbours.
"Magic... What did you dream about, aru?" China's voice and eyes were hard.
France closed his eyes. "What I usually do," he said. His suspicions were as good as confirmed.
Perhaps he could have taken it as an insult, he supposed, that all the nations gasped and started talking amongst themselves, some turning red and some looking down with shame.
"What is it? I don't get it," America said, looking around in confusion, his hand still loosely fisted in France's shirt.
"What we dreamt about last night must have happened, Alfred-san," Japan said impassively, though his body language betrayed his shock and guilt. His hands trembled as he raised them to his lips, self-disgust coursing through him. "If not in reality for us, then in reality for him."
France did not miss the way America turned white, eyes wide and shining with realisation and guilt, and he wondered what the boy had dreamt about.
"But... but he was alright with it," Liechtenstein spoke quickly, and all eyes turned to her in surprise. "He was-"
"If we wanted him to want it, then it would have happened," France said quietly, and she choked back a sob.
"So," Alfred said slowly, wringing his hands. The colour had not yet returned to his face. "What do we do now?"
No one could answer him.