Work Text:
It was always awkward when Germany wouldn't arrive to a conference on time. It was a rare occurrence, but it happened often enough to be a nuisance.
No one else could be bothered to really start any sort of meeting. America, though he certainly had the authority, preferred to fuck around on his phone until someone told him off. China, who normally adored bossing smaller nations around, chose to snack instead. And even England (who was a busy-body at best, and a tyrant the rest of the time) was too busy snapping at Scotland over his cell phone to bother getting anyone in line.
In any case, boredom was rampant, and therefore, the time was right for gossip and unproductivity. And tears. The time was always right for tears.
------------
With Russia, America, Belarus, and Canada
“Fuck you Flappy Bird, you bitchy son of a heathen,” America cursed for what seemed like the hundredth time. Canada rolled his eyes, and chose to keep his 167 Flappy Bird score to himself. America could be quite a monster if he was beaten at a game (especially if it was a stupid game). In any case, making conversation with America was a toxic venture when either of them was in a bad mood. They’d probably end up fighting over sports, or Bieber, or Italy, or, if things got ugly, England, so Canada decided he was going to sit in his uncomfortable plastic chair, be quiet, and be thankful that for once America was doing the same.
“What are you playing, America?” Russia, who was sitting across the brothers, asked civilly, looking bored out of his mind. Canada glared at the larger nation. He should have known. Though they’d all only been in the room for around an hour, Russia had a low tolerance for doing nothing. This was probably the reason most of his pets turned into experiments. Alas, despite Canada’s best intentions, it looked like he would have to listen to America’s bitching…
“I’m playing nothing you would enjoy, you freedom sucking, homophobi—DAMN IT FLAPPY BIRD YOU USELESS PECE OF CRAP!!” Ah, Russia bashing. America was predictable in a foul mood at the very least.
Russia rolled his eyes, but it was Belarus, Russia’s disturbingly obsessive sister who reacted. Reaching over to block America’s vision of his screen, she coldly asked “If this game is not to be played by those who are homophobic, then only one third you can touch the screen, is that not correct?”
America lazily pulled the phone out of her grasp. “Thankfully, my fingertips constitute a lot less than a third.”
“Leave him be, Belarus. He is only angry because he has nothing useful to contribute to any conversation, so he resorts to name-calling and stupid games about birds.” Russia said.
“You fucking commie bastard,” America said, raising his voice and looking up from his screen at last.
“Aw, have I hit a nerve America?” Russia asked. “Perhaps Belarus and I can educate you on the definition of hypocrisy.”
“Um, no. You’re just fucking mad because you fail at basic human rights. And, more importantly, you can’t build hotels!”
“Just because your citizens are spoiled and cannot live out of the lap of luxury for one second—”
“Wanting clean water in a city that cost billions of dollars to build is not asking for luxury, Russia!!”
“You’re both awful, can we agree on that?” Canada moaned, but as usual, no one noticed.
“What does Putin think about the fact that you have a boyfriend, hm?” America sneered belligerently, but Russia was not phased.
“Putin does not know of my personal life. I do not call him at three in the morning weeping about how I do not think anyone will ever love me enough to buy me a triple-decker pizza.”
“How do you—I just—I called Obama one time—“
While the four were wrapped up their argument, a smaller, more Mediterranean nation entered the room. Italy spotted America and Russia, who always looked to be having some sort of lively conversation, and smiled. Now was a good a time as any to try and do as his boss said and make some newer, more powerful friends, especially considering…
No, Italy, do not think of that! Just go talk to America and his friends; they always seem so nice these days…
“Ve~” At the sound of Italy’s signature verbal tic, the argument was immediately silenced. Though they had all been sneering at each other literally a second ago, Russia, America, Belarus, and Canada shared a look of slight panic. “What are you all talking about, amicis?”
Though it was probably a rude and undiplomatic thing to think, neither America, Belarus, Russia, nor Canada wanted to talk with Italy at the moment. He and Germany had gone through a very rough and public break-up only a few months ago (a mere blink of an eye in a nation’s perspective), and neither party had taken it well. While Germany had taken the stoic route (which, of course, meant acting like a robot in meetings then going home and downing a six pack of Heineken), Italy had taken his woes on an excursion and visited just about every nation he had regular contact with. When Romano, Spain, Hungary, and France started making excuses to not see him, Italy, feeling even more betrayed and abandoned, began to call anyone who would pick up to divulge his woes. England had told America that Scotland made the mistake of casually inquiring after Italy’s health, a simple interaction which turned into four hours of staring at a blank wall while Italy cried deeply and heart-wrenchingly, and Scotland himself had begun to consider the fragility and futility of love and happiness. Apparently, and England swore by this, Scotland had come home and stayed sober and un-confrontational for an entire week, claiming that pleasure was senseless, until Wales finally hit him with a boot and everything returned to normal.
It wasn't that the four panic-struck nations didn't want to help Italy. Italy was a lovely nation, one of the few who could be called a good person and not just a cunning statesman. Canada in particular felt terrible for not doing more for the smaller European. But the circumstances of the break-up were blurry, complicated, and quite honestly, none of the nations were emotionally equipped to handle someone as needy as Italy (with the exception of Germany, who, understandably, was not jumping at the chance to comfort his Italian ex).
And so, America, Russia, Canada, and Belarus stared at Italy like deer in headlights.
“Um,” America, ever the hero, attempted to break the silence, “we were discussing the political ramifications of Russia’s policies, and what it means for foreign policy when constituents of democratic nations become interested in international proceedings?” The other three nodded vigorously. Italy was known for falling asleep when discussion became a bit too rhetorical.
“Oh.” Italy replied, and for a second, the four thought they had won.
It was a short-lived second.
“Ah, you were talking about Russia’s Olympics then, right?” Italy asked.
“The Olympics are no one’s; we all share in their glory.” Russia quickly replied, attempting to cast the spotlight off of himself.
But the damage was done. “Ah, Russia, your Opening Ceremony was beautiful! Romano said his favorite part was the malfunctioning snowflake, because it represents your failure in ingenuity! I wasn’t sure what it meant, but it sounds very deep!” Russia attempted to ignore America’s smothered snickering, and Belarus chose to extract herself from the situation before she accidentally scratched Italy’s eyes out. “But did you see Germany’s athletes! They looked so nice, they wore rainbow!” Russia sensed the dangerous direction the conversation was heading, of course, but could see no escape route from it. “Ve, Germany worked so hard to get them looking good…he always works so hard…”
When he looked around for assistance, Russia found that America and Canada had also disappeared. Goddamn it. “Erm, yes, they were…something…” Russia figured Italy wasn’t privy to the message of the German Olympic outfits. And if he was, then he was being a passive aggressive dick about it. But Russia somehow doubted that.
“I don’t work hard at all!” Italy had kept his stoicism long enough, and his eyes began leaking before Russia had a chance to react. “That is why we are no longer together, I could not work and he hated that! But what can I do, Russia? I tried so hard, I cannot control everything my boss does, what can I dooo?!” And then he was bawling.
Russia sighed, and opened his arms. Italy, desperate for any sort of affection at this point, immediately jumped into them (oh, how the times had changed), and Russia attempted an odd sort of pseudo comforting pat, which, uncomfortable as it was, Italy probably appreciated.
Russia stood there, holding a devastated Italian, and wondered how a conversation about games and homophobia had so quickly come to this.
------------
With France, Spain, and America
“Are you sure he won’t spot us from here?” Spain asked, eyeing Italy and Russia a bit warily. “I love Italia, but sometimes I need a break, amigo…”
“Why do you zink I am hanging around Angleterre? For pleasure?” France replied, and the two briefly glanced at England, who was yelling “You cocked-up fucking slag, I measured that cricket bat and I assure you it will fit’n your arse if I force it!!”
“Yes, Italia doesn’t find him very pleasant,” Spain said sagely.
“How is he, apart from the obvious?” France asked, ignoring England’s exponential cursing.
Spain sighed. “Not well, Francis. The two of them talked about a week ago, and Germany was quite insistent that he wouldn’t visit any time soon. Poor Feliciano, he cried for days. Romano yelled at Germany again, about Feli, about the depression, everything, but…” he trailed off, and then looked at France meaningfully. “You could stop making everything worse?”
France looked affronted. “Moi? Make things worse?” He said this part quietly; if England overheard this part of the conversation, he would undoubtedly join in and make everything far more upsetting and argumentative than it already was. Spain was obviously of the same opinion, because he began whispering.
“Si, Francia. If you could keep from flirting with Germany until we are all out of the vicinity?”
“Ah. Oui. Well, Antonio, Ludwig is a free man now…” France said suggestively.
Spain frowned. “You have more heart than that.”
It was true. While to most it may have looked like France was heavily flirting with a confused Germany, some (like Spain and Prussia) knew it was just France’s way of coping with awkward tension in a professional environment that needed to produce results. Nations like Switzerland and England took schadenfreudian pleasure in watching Germany and the rest of Europe squirm their way through a meeting; France tried his best to make things run smoother. It helped to alleviate Germany’s discomfort when someone was directly annoying him, and nothing was more annoying that France on a mission.
“I do not know what to do! We see each other every month, Espagne, and Italy cannot control himself long enough to get through ze whole thing without weeping! It is le tragic!”
“What’s tragic?” America’s brash questioning was like a freight train in the Serengeti. France, irritated, turned to America, who had clearly just escaped from conversation with Italy. He attempted not to tell the taller nation to “bugger off”, because England was still in the vicinity (though he had wandered off towards the exit), and England always got too happy when France used “England-isms” in civil conversation.
“We are talking about Italia’s heartbreak, America,” Spain said, ever the over-sharer. “Have you talked to him, like I asked? He admires you very much, and thinks you’re very handsome…”
France rolled his eyes. Spain had been trying to find Italy a new boyfriend for months now, without much luck. He had been pretty adamant on America lately. And while America did have the potential to distract poor Italy from his woes, with his cocksure stance and his bright smile, Italy wouldn’t be able to hold America’s attention for long. Even now, as Spain was trying to compel him with supple Italian flesh, America glanced in between them, spotting England as the Brit finally left the room with a classy “Fuck you with a lubricated horse cock, Scotland, and you’re bloody lucky it’s lubricated!!” It was a testament to America’s mediocre sense of humor that he smiled at England’s profanity.
“Ah, well Spain, you know I’m pretty busy nowadays…did you talk to Germany? It might help if we knew why they broke up. Maybe Italy cheated on him or something.”
“Italia would not do that!” Spain stated resolutely, and France agreed.
“You are tactful as ever, Amérique.”
America, as if to prove he really was as heartless as he seemed, merely shrugged. “Lemme know if you find out! I’ll never say no to some good ol’ fashioned shit talking.” And with that, he breezed past the Europeans, leaving through the main entrance. Good riddance, France thought. America was always interested in shock value, and never in the genuine human emotion other nations exhibited.
“Do you think he’s right…?” France turned to look at Spain again. “What if Feli really did—“
“You know Amérique is being facetious, Espagne. Whatever the problem is, it is temporary, and Germany and Italy will be back together by Christmas, hmm?”
Before Spain could object, France’s phone buzzed. France frowned and checked his screen, which flashed a message from Germany.
Sorry I’m late. Inform everyone I’ll be there in two minutes.
“Speaking of Germany…”
------------
With America and England:
By now, England had been asked to leave several rooms, as his shouting had been deemed “distracting”. Rather than arguing the injustice of this, England settled on a counter and continued berating his brother in the comfort of a public toilet. Which was not empty when he entered, of course, but for a “gentleman” England had a remarkable lack of tact.
“Look, Scotland,” England said, reasonably, “can you just fuck off every time I’m in the room. Yes, you’re the one who needs to fuck off. Absolutely. Every time. Especially if we’re discussing the referendum on your independence. Yes. Yep. Absolutely. In fact, every time we discuss it, I’ll have David text you, and you can fuck off to the mountains and stay there for the rest of winter.” The door to the bathroom opened, and England spotted a blonde cowlick peeking in from the doorway. “Yeah, mate, all winter. Mm-hm.” America poked his entire head in, and mouthed Can I come in? England nodded, and watched America as he closed the door and made his way to the counter England was perched on. “I’ll stop calling you mate when you stop calling me laddie. I am not a bloody laddie.” At this, America snickered, and England batted at his general direction. “Whatever, just find a cabin in your mountain and piss off. You’ll be informed of our decision later. Goodbye.” After England hung up, America let his laughter ring out, seeming even louder and more obnoxious than usual, thanks to the echo in the abandoned toilets.
“Might wanna turn off your phone, laddie, or he’ll be calling all afternoon,” America finally managed to say, shit-eating grin in place.
“Oh, piss off,” England replied, though he did as America suggested. “I really don’t want to talk about him; I’ve been dealing with local-politic bullshit all morning. Anything happen while I was away?”
America smiled, perhaps a touch too fondly for his regular countenance. “Not much. Italy’s still crying all over Russia, which is amusing as hell. I hope Germany walks in on it.”
“You always were fond of drama.” England deadpanned, though he couldn’t quite stop himself from smirking.
“Did you get Germany to talk about the break up? Hmmm?” England laughed.
“You’re a bloody gossip!” America quirked an eyebrow, and scooted closer to the Briton.
“To be fair, I’ve never denied that.”
England rolled his eyes, and tried to ignore America’s arm, which was now casually pressed against England’s side. America was getting sneakier. “He did, actually.” England finally said, replying to America’s earlier question. America’s eyes widened.
“No way! Are you serious? He actually talked to you about personal shit?” England shrugged, and began playing with the case on his phone.
“Yes. It was rather enlightening, actually. I think we’re becoming friends, despite all my concerns over Europe.”
Despite all your bitching, you mean, America thought, but diplomatically did not say. Instead, he asked “I guess this means that you’re going to respect his trust and be his confidant, hm?” When England did not reply, America grinned. “Oooor, you’re gonna fuck that shit and tell me anyway?” England swallowed nervously.
“You can’t tell anyone I told you,” England said, wondering if there was anything on the planet that could make him sound more like a fourteen-year old teen movie gossip queen. America probably agreed, but wisely chose not to comment. Instead, he nodded at England, silently encouraging him to continue.
“Well,” England began, “it’s about the European Union, like we all suspected.”
America shook his head. “Fucked up, Germany. Most of us date each other despite policy, he’s such a fucking robot.”
England shrugged. “I don’t think so. I think it’s more Italy’s refusal to be an adult about the whole situation.”
“Ah. Well.” America watched as England fiddled with his case, and slumped further into the Brit’s side. “He’s such a kid at heart, you know. He’s not his best when it comes to all this bureaucratic bullshit.” At that commentary, England laughed, full-heartened and genuine, and America watched as the corners of his eyes crinkled. It was an unspoken fact that when England sincerely laughed, he was strikingly beautiful. Not that anyone would ever tell him. England was a total bitch about compliments.
“You speak as if you’re ages older that him!” England said, fighting his amusement. “He’s not just “not at his best” America, he’s a nuisance at a time when Germany needs stability! Not to mention, someone with a modem of self-sufficiency.”
America thought about it for a moment, and replied, “Nah, Germany’s stable enough for most of Europe, I would think he needs someone to get him to lighten up a bit, you know?”
England shook his head. “It isn’t as if they go to work, argue a bit about money, then leave and casually cast aside their professional problems. These things come home with you, America, and there isn’t anything you can do to prevent that. Imagine, going home after a day where your partner accused your people of being irresponsible layabouts, and you called him an elitist Nazi. It isn’t something you can just forget.” America frowned at the analysis, and England sighed inwardly.
“…Well, I mean, we’re kind of like that, aren’t we?” America asked after a beat. “We fight in meetings, then we go home, and I pummel your ass in CoD. Nothing dramatic, right?”
England avoided looking at America’s face, and instead moved from fussing with his case to turning his phone back on, Scotland be damned. “Yes, well, we aren’t exactly dating, are we?”
A silence followed England’s question, and England desperately hoped it didn’t sound like he was implying anything, or was hoping for anything, even though he may have been—if Italy’s break-up had proved anything, it was that neediness was always unattractive. At least, that’s what England took away from the situation.
“You think it would be different?” America said, breaking the silence, and making England hyper-aware of the fact that the two were still pressed against each other on one side. “If we hypothetically [and oh, what an important word hypothetically was] started dating, you don’t think we’d be able to visit each other without bringing up work?”
England tried his best to relax despite the uncomfortable turn in the conversation. “We already fight about work.”
“Yeah, but it’s like, different?” America pointed out. “We argue about work, but we don’t make it personal. Like, I don’t think because your Parliament refuses to go to war alongside me or whatever, you yourself are upset with me, you know? I’ll bitch that your people are blind or whatever, and you’ll call me war-mongering, but I mean…I know you don’t mean it personally? Cuz you’re more than your government…Does that make sense?” England nodded slowly, ignoring the growing warmth in his chest.
“Of course it does. Can you imagine if we took everything personally? We’d be “breaking up” every five seconds, according to my papers.” America laughed loudly, shifting enough to bump his thigh against England’s.
“See? There’s a difference between them and us, England.”
England tried to hide his ever growing smile. “Was that the point of this conversation?” He full out grinned when America’s eyes widened, and he started shaking his head defensively.
“N-no! God old man, keep up! My point is, personal r-relationships can work out even when our political ones don’t. You shouldn’t be so cryptic.”
As England began to reply, both his and America’s phones went off. America answered first.
“Yeah, hey Canada…yeah, we’ll be right there…erm, stall Germany for a sec, will ya? We’re on a different floor, it’ll take a minute…yeah, see you in a bit, thanks!” America said, hanging up once he was sure Canada would be a bro. He then motioned towards the door. “We’re wanted, I guess. Aren’t you gonna get your phone? It’s still vibrating.”
“No, it’s France; I’m assuming he’s calling for the same reason.” England said, watching America hop off the counter. He waited expectantly as America whirled around to face him, offering a hand.
“Shall we?” America asked, grinning cockily, and England rolled his eyes exaggeratedly. He did take America’s hand, though. Gentlemanly behavior should always be encouraged.
“If we must. But don’t think we’re done talking about this!”