Today was just a normal day: England had gotten drunk and decided to revisit his pirating days, Greece had fallen asleep, and Italy sat in the corner singing about pasta. Overall, a very normal Conference.

But something seemed wrong. There was no one dominating the room; it was too quiet, too—that's it! America wasn't there!

France smirked, reveling in the newfound serenity at the Conference. It wasn't very often that he got the peace and quiet he so deserved, so he chose to kick back, relax, and just sleep.

Not so fast, young one.

In truth, France was happy about America's absence for one reason: if America was nowhere to be found, England was sure to be well and drunk of off his ass. Now was his time to strike.

The Frenchman sauntered over to the Western European stretch of tables (he had left his original space for the much more comfortable lap of another nation—blonde, he thought), winking at the said blonde as he passed. Finally, after sending a burning stare to about half of the room's occupants, he reached his seat; he lowered himself into position with a kind of careless elegance.

And now the conquests shall begin.

"Salut, England," he drawled, "would you care to spend some time with me later? We could visit one of my finest restaurants—after all; this is my country, non?"

"I don' believe fer one sec—" he hiccupped "—'nd that ya don' wanna do anythin' else." His speech was heavily slurred, the scent of hard liquor surrounding him in a stale cloud.

France grimaced, but soon regained his composure; the ends justify the means, surely. "Well, chèr, why wouldn't I? Your body is so—oh, I don't have the words," Here he leered, but quickly added under his breath, "in anglais at least. I fear that if I speak to you in French, your head would explode."

"Wha' did ya say?" England roared, swaying back and forth in his seat. "I will not go home wit' ya!"

Everyone swiveled in their chairs, craning their necks to better view the brewing stormcloud-like nation. There was silence; the air would have been dead if not for the drunken ramblings of the green-eyed country.

The seconds stretched past, turning into minutes, until the silence was shattered with a noise not unlike a gunshot.

America slammed the door open, shouting, "Hey guys! Sorry I'm late; there was a huge line at McDonalds! Man, Francy-pants, your McDonalds are so weird! But I brought food!"

France turned to shoot a fitting comeback right into the (impossibly late) American's face, but was thrown off track when the table flipped over.

Yes, England threw the table.

As the Frenchman's head turned to stare incredulously at his northern neighbor, a very hard fist came into sudden contact with his mouth.

And America laughed.

AN: Not too impossibly late, I hope?

Translations:

Salut- Hello, very informal (French)

chèr- dear, masculine (French)