*Sighs* Wow. I really, really suck at life. IcarusWing, am so sorry for taking so long as I did. What's more, I feel really terrible for promising a sizably shorter wait length and failing. *Huggles* Thank you for being the 300th reviewer (Good God, almost a year ago…) for Psycho and being extremely patient and lovely (and probably able to leap tall buildings). For those of you who like this story, you can thank her for using her request to raise this story from the dead. I had some difficulty writing this chapter because I realized this meant-to-be-chucklesome story turned out to be angst. :p Why?

America Muse: Probably because you're a magic angst fairy and it's all you do. The story starts out with a pie-throwing competition and you turn it into an existential crisis. Is that your idea of funny?

Me: *Indignant* Hey! I can write fluff, too!

America Muse: Yeah, but considering how much angst and death you put in there, your work is like…a dumptruck of fluffy dead cats.

Me: ?! Wha?! Not fair!

America Muse: Well, you ARE a serial killer. In your Christmas story, A Gloomy December Eve, you kill two people.

Me: Oh, come on! You don't even see that! And technically, you have to murder 3+ people to be officially termed a serial killer!

America Muse: Hon, you murdered seven people in BKB and the death toll is still rising *coughs* spoiler alert *coughs* You're on the verge of killing a kid in that uncomfortable scarecrow story you haven't updated for some time. And you killed my mom in Sign You Home—that's what, the fourth time you've axed her? Seriously? What did she ever do to you? God KNOWS how many folks died in Parlor Children, and I'm not even going to get STARTED on Psycho. Oh, God, Psycho. Why, God, why? *Vomits*

Me: Oh, c'mon. I'm not THAT bad.

America Muse: Prove me wrong. Write something nice and fluffy. No angst.

Me: Fine. Once upon a time in a town called Crumplesputz, because it's my town and I can call it whatever I want, there lived a perfectly marvelous person named Alfred in a house made of tooth retainers. Alfred had a magic dragon that played the bagpipes, unclogged toilets, flew with the power of…laughter, and vomited glitter. Anyhow, Alfred had a neighbor named Arthur Crumplegrumplepuff McPoggleWash, who killed himself because his name was that terrible. Then Alfred hopped upon his happy sparkly dragon, and promptly razed Crumplesputz to the ground in a sea of sparkly carnage. And then he went on to be a radical terrorist. The End!

America Muse: ….readers, you may want to consider starting a petition to put this woman behind bars. But with any luck this story's mood should turn around this chapter. :D

Warning: This chapter is rated K for food.

~o*oOo*o~

Africa, Circa World War II. Christmas Eve.

The days were dastardly hot here, even in December, but the nights surprisingly cool. Arthur's calloused fingers wrapped around a hot tin cup of tea, enjoying the warmth even though he knew come tomorrow morning all he would want to see was a cold glass of lemonade.

He leaned back from where he sat on a large boulder, overlooking the English-American military base. His green eyes wandered to the conjoined flags at the base of camp, a hint of a smile appearing.

About time the twit got himself involved, he thought with no real venom, taking a swig of the weak tea. While he was looking forward to the end of this miserable war, it was nice to see the two united again for a common cause.

The smell of coffee beans drifted across the air, and something warm pressed against Arthur's back. The man stiffened and twisted around, only to deflate with both irritation and relief when he saw America grinning at him in the darkness. He clutched a steaming canteen to his chest, pack and rifle slung over one shoulder.

"Hey, old man. Sup?" he asked cheerfully, hugging his knees to his chest with one arm, pulling out a thin blanket from the bag with another. He draped it around the two of them, shivering. "You know, I hate dragging these around in our packs during the day, but damn, am I glad we have 'em now. Gets so chilly at night."

England sniffed and muttered an affirmative. He didn't especially want to admit it, but it was nice to have a little company tonight.

Faintly humming a Christmas tune under his breath, America fished around in his pockets, and extended to a surprised Englishman a slightly crumpled box of cigarettes.

"….thanks," England said reluctantly, though gratefully accepted one. America pulled out a lighter and lit his, and England pressed the end of his cigarette against the glowing end of the stub in America's mouth until an ember began glowing on his. "You know, I hear these are actually horrible for you."

"Nah, that's just hearsay," America said dismissively, taking a drag. "Anyhoo, we covered some good ground today, though it sucks we gotta be here 'round the stinking holidays. At least your kids and mine are getting along," the American added brightly, peering at the many men wandering around and chatting quietly with each other. "Though if they start arguing, I'm guessing your kids were totally the ones who started it." He squinted in the darkness, adjusting his glasses. "Aw, I wonder what those two are doing?"

England peered forward to see what America was looking at. Judging by their uniforms, an English and an American soldier were chatting animatedly by one of the little fires scattered about camp. Smiling broadly, an American pulled out a photo out of his front pocket and showed the Englishman, who blushed but chuckled, pulling out a picture of his own to show his fellow. The American laughed and clapped the man on the shoulder, and the two returned to their conversation.

The elder country glanced back at his old protégé, only to notice that his eyes were twinkling behind the glass. "Guess they must be talkin' 'bout their girls back home." He exhaled, somewhat wistfully. "Y'know, sometimes I envy 'em."

"What do you mean?"

"When the war ends, that'll be it for them," said America seriously, taking a drag on his cigarette and blowing a smoke ring. "They'll go home and smooch some hot nurses and their families'll call them heroes. Then maybe they'll go back to school, get hitched…." Alfred stubbed out the stub of his cigarette on the ground, stamping it with his boot until the tiny ember had been extinguished entirely. "…and kids. Two-point-five kids sounds about right. Then they'll watch their kids grow up, have kids of their own, and then they'll tell stories about the war to wide-eyed grandkids after they retire. They'll sit on a porch somewhere with their wives and grow old together." America's expression became uncharacteristically brooding.

"But for us, it's back to business as usual. Once the bombs stop flyin', we gotta pick ourselves up and start fixin' everything before we can even try to lick our wounds. Either people will love us for awhile because we're totally heroes or they'll hate us for awhile because we're totally losers—either way, result's gonna be the same." He squeezed his knees. "They'll forget. And after a parade or two, we'll have to smile and pretend that everything's totally fine when we still feel like crap."

Alfred fell silent for a bit, his gaze wandering to his rough brown combat boots. England knew that on America's right ankle, there lay a bloody sore, a present from Japan after Pearl Harbor had been attacked.

England looked up at the star-dusted sky before glancing back at Alfred, suddenly grateful for the cool breeze in the air. It felt like he had been included in something personal, something private, and while he was embarrassed and not at all certain of what to say now, he felt pleased too.

Was it so very long ago that America used to crawl into his bed and whisper childish secrets into England's ear until the two fell asleep?

Clearing his throat awkwardly, England hugged his own knees to his chest and tried to think of the most appropriate thing to say, though his attention wandered to his uniform to America's and back. Most nations wore long-sleeves. Long-pants, long skirts, anything to cover up their bodies as much as they could. Arthur's hand ghosted to his chest, where there was a small scar over his heart—a memento from America's revolutionary war. He'd been astonished that afternoon to discover a matching one on Alfred's own breast when the two had waded across a small river earlier that day. England had preferred to allow his clothes to get soaked through, but America stuffed his shirt and military jacket into his backpack before rolling up his pantlegs and treading in.

All that skin, not so marked as his own….it had felt inappropriate to watch, as if he'd been trespassing on something private, something indecent, but he couldn't help but look. There were plenty of scars littering Alfred's body, a few wounds that had festered, scabbed over but never really healed. Arthur had been surprised at the amount, had looked at them all, trying to figure them out. The large, downward sloping scar across Alfred's back was probably from when the stock market crashed.

"Cheer up, old chap. Complaining never got anyone anywhere, did it?" asked England gently, shaking America's shoulder. "Try for a smile—it's much more becoming. Soon enough, it will be like you say and we'll return. With any luck, next year we'll be home for the holidays."

England could almost hear America smile in the dark. "That's nice. And what'll we do then?" he asked, leaning against Arthur's back and looking at the stars.

"What do you usually do for Christmas these days, America?"

"Eat and shop," America said happily. "And I usually get invited to a lot of parties. But I feel awful for my smaller kids, the little 'uns that might not get a decent Christmas, so I like to bring gifts to the orphanages we got. Dress up like St. Nick, let 'em think the world's not so bad, if only for one day. Throwing parties is nice too," he added. "Only I don't usually have many people I can invite, excepting the staff at the White House, They're really nice, but a lot of 'em are old stiffs and aren't any fun," he complained.

"I make friends pretty darn easily, but they…they don't last. They just…" He seemed to be on the verge of saying something and then changed his mind. "I invited a neighbor of mine to a holiday get-together once, only to find out that the guy had moved, married, and died. That's pretty morbid for Christmastime."

England gave him a sad, commiserating smile.

"Well, maybe next year you can have a party for the Allies," he said thoughtfully, throwing away his cigarette and watched it fly off in the darkness, little ember looking like a falling star. His nose wrinkled. "But do you have to invite France?"

America laughed. "Eh, why not. China could definitely use a pick-me-up, considering all the crap Japan keeps putting him through lately, though he doesn't really celebrate Christmas. Mattie'll be good to have there too. Not gonna invite Russia though." He spat. "He only sided with us because Germany punched him straight in the stupid face.

"I told my boss what Russia was like….he told me to shut the hell up and stop whining, though in much nicer terms. But back to the party. Man, once rationing is over, I'm gonna have all the ice cream and pudding I can afford." America's eyes gleamed. "The two of us'll eat till we're sick."

"You know, a few years ago, Germany and I celebrated Christmas together in the trenches," England said wistfully. "Lights started appearing on Germany's side, and we thought for a second that they were preparing to attack. Then, the soldiers started singing 'Silent Night' in German. After that, I went to see Germany myself—we both agreed that it was a shame to fight on Christmas, so we had a temporary truce. We played football…then had some beer. It was….nice.

"Since no one was shooting, we gathered up our men and buried our dead together. Me and my boys started singing an English Christmas carol. One of the nicer Christmasses I've had in a long, long time."

America turned to consider his canteen of coffee, expression inscrutable. Then without explanation he stood and England nearly fell over. Grinning, he pulled the cantankerous nation to his feet and pulled him towards the bonfire. "C'mon."

"And where are we going, you bloody git?"

America just laughed. "Caroling!"

~o*oOo*o~

Admittedly England's time in Italy was quite enjoyable.

It wasn't as if he hadn't visited several times over the centuries—or been held prisoner there, for that matter. He still had mental scars following his humiliating capture here in World War II.

The brothers didn't treat him badly—they were considerably hospitable, considering England was their prisoner. No; it was the indignity of having his superior English mind thwarted by two of the biggest morons on the face of the Earth that drove him to drink.

But despite Italy's many obnoxious aspects—from the tourist traps, to the mobs choking said tourist traps, to the fact that some of those mobs belonged to a certain kind of mob—Italy was a difficult place not to enjoy yourself in. Even when you were a cantankerous, passive-aggressive English pessimist putting up a good fight of it.

The tourist-choked sites he could do without, but Italy instinctively steered him away from hordes and graciously invited him to his home in the less-populated area of Emilia-Romagna. Though five-star accommodations might have been nice, England gratefully accepted.

Italy's house was old and one of the few in the neighborhood with a garden. Local cats prowled about the place because Italy often left saucers of food out for them. England sometimes saw the creatures atop mossy walls, peering loftily down at them as he and Italy ate al fresco.

Italy's tea was awful; England thought warm water with brown crayons in it would be an improvement. He sipped at the cappuccinos Italy offered, and hovered about uncertainly as his host cooked in a tiny kitchen that smelled like flour and flowers.

"Are you quite sure you don't want me to help you?" England offered anxiously the first day of his arrival. "I'm an Englishman. I'm not afraid to get my hands dirty, providing that I have shinguards on."

"Mio dio, no!" Italy exclaimed, wringing his hands against his heart. "I mean," He stammered with borderline desperation, hastily swiping sweating palms on his apron. "Signor, you are my guest! It's sacrilege to make you help." He seized England by the shoulders and with surprising strength forced him into a chair. "Go, sit! I'll pour you another glass of vino and we'll talk."

Well, he could hardly object to that. Sensing the crisis averted, Italy served England panzerotti, piping hot, flirting-with-rawness dough stuffed with burrata, a kind of buffalo mozzarella mixed with cream and ricotta. Following that were grilled, meaty slabs of eggplant, glistening with olive oil and balsamic vinaigrette. Then came beet, goat cheese, and pistachio crostini sandwiches.

England ate so fast he might've made America proud. His cuisine being naturally superior, he owed it to Italy as a guest to stomach as much of this as he was able. He was even gallant enough to mop up garlicky oil from his plate with fresh olive bread. "Goodness, Italy. I'm completely stuffed."

"What! But you have not even had the secondi!" Italy protested, retrieving a steaming pizza from inside the refrigerator.

Italy's pizza crust was fragrant with lemon zest, flaky with white wine. Italy put a lot of wine in his food (taste-testing for quality rather frequently).

The countries chatted amiably until evening, enjoying heady buzzes from limoncello and coffee-drenched tiramisu. England thought that maybe he could understand why Italy wasn't renowned for its armies, not when you could spend your days dreaming of your next meal.

"Is Germany any good in the kitchen?" The question came out of its own volition.

"Not bad," Italy chuckled. "He takes longer than me, because he has to clean up everything every step of the way!" He cast a rueful glance at the dishes piled in the sink.

"Ah, well. Do you….let him help you? Make dinner?"

"Si. Because he practically lives here when he takes time off…." Italy sighed as he twirled his wineglass's stem between slender fingers. "And that is not often. I wind up doing much of the visiting. Usually when I run out of groceries."

For a crazy moment England felt jealous, but it passed.

As a nation, Italy had special privileges most tourists were not privy too, and he invited England on private tours of Vatican City and several art galleries. He'd seen them before, but liked the sense of privilege and fellowship as he wandered normally-packed halls alongside Italy, their footsteps echoing. Italy had plenty of stories to share, hands fluttering around emphatically as if he were a flustered maestro or a mime. Although the habit was throat-achingly familiar, he enjoyed it.

And when life was enjoyable it seemed a shame to be miserably-sodden and inebriated. Particularly when you weren't alone.

Habit made England restless the first few days, and he understood that a permanent lifestyle of this kind wasn't really for him. Nonetheless, he thought he could possibly understand Italy's dreamy demeanor and delight with pleasure.

"We are going to a friend's house for dinner today!" Italy said early one afternoon as they wandered an open-air market.

"Is that so? I hate to impose…."

"No, never," Italy said, with such genuine sincerity England grumbled and coughed. Damn damp Italian weather. Gave him allergies.

As they shopped, England could not help but notice that what care Italy often didn't take with his documents and his work as a nation he certainly invested in finding better-quality vegetables. A pretty-looking eggplant was thoroughly-scrutinized and Italy declared he claimed he could sense insects inside. When England split open the innocent-looking produce to prove him wrong, he discovered larvae inside it.

And though he screamed for England at some ungodly hour this morning because there was a spider in his bathtub, he wasn't afraid of haggling with the venders either. Bemused, England listened to Italy argue with a red-faced man and wondered if perhaps he suffered from Dissociative Identity Disorder?

They stopped at another booth for squash when Italy spotted an old woman wearing a black veil. He easily sidled up to her and started chattering away in his native language. Hands in his pockets, England hung back as Italy coaxed a smile on her tough withered face. Soon she pulled a scrap of paper from her pocket and scribbled something on it before handing it to him and wishing him a happy afternoon. Or so England assumed; for all he knew it might have been a death threat.

Smiling, Italy wandered back over and pointed at her retreating figure. "See her? We are going to that nonna's home tonight."

"Oh. Is she the friend you were talking about earlier?" England asked as they wandered back up the road.

Italy beamed, swinging his bags about with both hands. "She is my friend now!"

"….do you mean to tell me you just met the woman?"

"Claro! Certainly."

"….and when you told me we were heading to dinner at a friend's place, really you meant that we were heading over to the house of the first stranger who invited us there?"

"Si!" Italy said, sounding awfully proud of himself.

Slugging Italy made him feel better, but he missed beating his own idiot.

Despite England's strong misgivings Italy cheerfully dragged him over to the woman's address. It was small and crowded, smoky from cigarette smoke and full of chatter. A couple of old men were shouting at the television, glaring at it as if it owed them money. Likely a World Cup match.

Italy greeted everyone on behalf of them both, and everyone received them quite warmly, evidently unaware that no one had the slightest idea who they were. England was practically passed around the room, his cheeks kissed more times than he could count.

Italy wandered his way into a group of pretty girls, and England watched football from a small chair in the corner. You'd think a few centuries of social engagements would make England a social genius, but he was rubbish at them. It was strange how you could feel lonely amongst so many people.

When the matriarch of the house called everyone in for supper, everyone crowded into the dining room. The old man at the head of the table said a blessing over the family and its visitors (England understood that bit and blushed) before the grandmother of the house began serving everyone. To England's shock, no one awkwardly waited for everyone to get their food before starting; the moment their plate was filled, people dug in.

"It's amazing she has enough to serve everyone," England whispered, hungrily eyeing the prawn risotto on his plate. "Good Lord."

"Well, mamas always make a little more than they need to," Italy responded as he tucked in. "You never know who might be coming."

~o*oOo*o~

When English settlements began taking foothold in the New World with the introduction of the tobacco crops, England returned to America to supervise things. Little America ran down to the pebbly shore to meet the ship, jumping up and down as it approached from the distance. The rush of painful gratitude England felt was what he imagined merchants and soldiers and sailors must feel upon returning home.

"America! What in the world are you doing?!" He yelped from aboard as the child eagerly splashed into the water. "You'll catch your death! And it's much too deep!"

"Engwand! I missed you, Engwand!"

England dove overboard to rescue him, forgetting that maritime expertise notwithstanding, his swimming skills were quite poor. As a result, the tiny country had to drag the bedraggled nation back to land.

The two stayed together in a small cabin for the duration of England's stay. Accustomed to residing in a palace, England found the homeliness surprisingly pleasant. Certainly this was a godless wilderness full of savages—how strange that this dangerous land's face was the rosy, pudgy one of a lad!—But the weeks-long journey was well-worth the domestic joy of living with his little brother.

He couldn't claim to mindlessly adore all of it; America got into everything and anything, and it was a stretch supervising this colony and chasing after its mischievous little personification. Many nights England sank into bed absolutely exhausted, only for America to tug on his sleeve minutes later, whimpering about a wet bed or a nightmare.

But cliché as it was, it was cliché because it was true: Little things like gathering berries with America (even if it meant caring for the lad after he ate too many), hanging up sheets with his charge, having America present him with small bouquets or ill-thought of but well-meaning gifts like frogs or poorly-stitched scarves—were translucent, small and precious, tinkling things.

Cooking was another thrill; his homemade fare tasted fine to him, but though he'd rather sew his head to the carpet than admit it, it was never so pretty or smelled so divine as France's. But if America minded he never complained. He ate it with gusto and England was shocked by how happy it made him.

He thought he might get drunk on it, this domestic bliss.

But too soon, it ended.

It always did.

~o*oOo*o~

When the two returned to Italy's house that evening, they discovered guests of their own.

"About time you got back, jerkface," South Italy snapped, raiding his brother's refrigerator. "I can't get your piece-a crap TV to work and there's another match on to—" He looked up for the first time and howled as if he'd just been shot. "The hell! Whaddaya doing here, ya jerk England?!"

"I could ask you the same!" England snapped, pushing up his sleeve. "For your information I was invited here, and next time you call me a jerk, I'll string you up by your meatballs! How does that sound, you twit?!"

"Welcome, fraetello, brother! I didn't know you were coming!"

"Don't touch me! And send that English fish bastard out! It's bad enough that potato bastard's here!"

Italy looked puzzled for a split second before his eyes lit up. Germany stepped into the room, scratching his forehead and looking sheepish.

"Uh," He cleared his throat. "Hallo. The TV is fixed now."

"Hmph. 'Fixed' probably means the damn reception is still shit," South Italy griped. That was likely as close as he got to issuing a "Thank you."

Exclaiming delightedly, Italy bounded up to Germany and kissed him on both cheeks. Looking disgusted, South Italy flipped the two the bird before trudging away, grumbling under his breath.

Germany looked at England with powdery blue eyes, which widened before narrowing considerably. England scowled back.

"I vasn't avare you had company" Was all Germany said as Italy unwrapped his arms from around his neck and fell back on his heels.

"Oh yes! It's been a wonderful few days. Big brother I didn't know about, but the more the merrier, right? How was your flight? Are you eating well?"

As if on cue, Germany's stomach gave a telling growl and Italy laughed. "Sit down, sit down," he gently admonished, guiding the reluctant country to the chair England had been sitting in the past few days. "I'll make you something!"

"That's really not necessary."

"Oh, it will just be a minute! Tell me about your work."

"But you don't care about my vork."

"No," Italy agreed, humming as he mixed a glass of warm milk with nutmeg and honey, topping it off with some liquor. "But I will listen, and that is sort of the same thing. England, did you get enough to eat? Did you want anything?"

"No, I'm quite fine," England answered, more stiffly than he meant to. Germany's gaze swiveled back on him and suddenly the pleasant haze of this evening's food and drink seemed much dimmer. "I…I think I'll call it a night. Call me if you need anything."

"Si, si. Buona notta, England. Sleep well."

"Goodnight."

As he headed up the stairs he heard Italy and Germany start speaking again. Certainly England and Germany enjoyed a better relationship decades after the last great war, but now England nursed a sudden, pulsing dislike of Germany again. England was too gentlemanly to wish him ill, but he sort of hoped a train would hit him nonetheless.

~o*oOo*o~

The universe did not respond to England's wish to be able to kill with sheer mind power. Germany was still there two days afterwards. He was civil and did not speak out of turn, but while he tolerated South Italy's threats with the same bemusement he always had, he met England's glares with his own.

Italy remained blissfully oblivious of the tension as he prepared that night's dolce of airy cream puffs with lavender-citrus filling. South Italy grumbled over his dinner but ate it anyway; Germany and England silently ate pretending not to mind that the other was there.

Soon Italy was frequently heading out on extended day trips alone with Germany, graciously leaving pans of prepared-food in the fridge (which South Italy ate the lion's portion of when he didn't eat it all outright) for his guests.

And now England was a third wheel. Again.

Italy was endlessly infuriating, from the fact that he could not remember the name of the street he lived on to the fact that he had no qualms about sneaking into England's bed at night. He wasn't perverse, certainly not like France, but England's dapper response the first few times this occurred was naturally to throw Italy out the window. Now Italy just crawled into bed with Germany and it left England's bed feeling a bit cold.

He was nearly tempted to ask South Italy if he'd like a bedmate, but England still had some use for his neck so he left it alone.

While Italy was busy chatting up a girl in a restaurant one evening, and Germany was busy glowering at him, England sloshed around the dark contents of his vino glass.

That night when England was in his room he heard a sweet, melancholy, musical keening. Curious, he parted his windows and looked down into the little garden where Germany sat amongst a small cluster of gardenias on a cracked marble bench in the moonlight. Italy stood, eyes closed and the smallest of smiles on his face, which was tucked against the faded wood of a violin. He was alarmingly good.*

Serenading! A soft Italian night, warm and fragrant with the smell of flowers; a gentle breeze made the clothes Italy left hanging on the clothesline fluttering softly. The slightest shiver in the air contributed to the sparkle of excitement, the starry night to a sense of enchantment. England had written sonnets about this sort of thing but so rarely saw the real stuff.

As was its wont, Germany's expression was solemn, but his eyes were soft. His eyes were fixed on Italy and he said nothing. Probably didn't have to.

Such a nice scene. England wistfully thought he'd like to spit on them both. He was in a good place to—he withdrew back into his room to avoid the temptation.

Trying and failing to immerse himself in a book, he traced cold metal curls and spirals of his bedframe. He half-wished he'd thought to bring his cat along with him.

Christ. It was like being in a fanfiction where everyone and their mother turned out to be queer and in a relationship.

He put his coat and slippers on, went downstairs and headed outside, using the front door instead of the back. After wandering the streets for some time with his hands in his pockets, he stopped at an ice cream parlor. He graciously bought a small rose-water pistachio gelato for the sake of supporting local business. And then with sheer generosity of spirit he bought a chocolate hazelnut gelato. And because he strongly suspected that the rum raisin gelato looked suspicious, he boldly ate that too as to spare other customers food poisoning (his fears were unfounded, but he had another scoop anyway).

Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow you may die. Not a very cheering adage, despite its message. Gorge yourself? The pleasure in the world is limited, so seize what you can get and stuff it down? That added a very bitter note to one's throat.

England stared at the contents of his latest dish. The pleasure of the dessert was dimmed with excess and his own shame. Maybe it was because Italy loved food so much that he managed to stay so thin.

What about America? Was he eating properly?

Germany shuffled to the old house the next night with a bouquet of roses and England's Grinch heart could stand it no longer. Evidently neither could South Italy, because after griping for some time that Germany brought pollen inside when he knew South Italy had allergies he called Spain and bluntly announced that the nation would be receiving him as a guest shortly. England in turn made his decision to leave, and rang up an acquaintance.

"I'm sorry, I really am, old sport," he said apologetically when Italy asked him to stay longer. "But I've got an appointment to catch."

He boarded the plane with some regret, surprised but rather touched when he looked out and noticed Italy waving goodbye to him. It seemed bizarre, given those hundreds of years of mutual antagonism that the two could ever be friends.

As he sank into his seat, England couldn't help but smirk. Well, little wonder why that was, when Italy rarely bothered to remember more than instructions to a particularly good dive, or his own name. It was actually a wonder he recalled the latter, but England supposed that was why Italy had Germany.

He arrived in Beijing at about twelve in the afternoon. The air outside was thick with smog; he wondered why people bothered smoking here. It was redundant.

Wang Yao was waiting for him in the packed airport terminal, his honey-brown eyes narrowed slightly. If Italy had been the picture of welcome, China's arms were crossed, his mouth in a slight pout, and he kept tapping his foot impatiently, looking for all the world put-upon. In his defense it had been a last moment sort of arrangement, but didn't China enjoy a better reputation for hospitality than Italy?

Well, besides the fact that he imprisoned more journalists than any other country on Earth.

"Ni hao," said China bluntly as England approached. "I have been waiting for you for while now. Wish you hadn't inconvenienced me at such short notice—I am very busy."

Lord. England rolled his eyes, huffing under his breath as they pushed their way through the crowds. You'd think a simple "I'm sorry" for the whole "I colonized your territories against your will and exported tea and dangerous drugs en masse" thing would suffice. Some people.

"So, um, how have you been, old sport?" He practically shouted to be heard.

"Tired" answered China promptly as the two headed towards the cramped escalators. "And very busy, like I told you. Lucky for you, my bosses think I can afford to let paperwork build up on my desk while I sit here and babysit you for few days." He cocked his head and frowned as they started descending.

"And what is meaning of visit anyway? You could have just sent one of your ambassadors."

"I needed to talk to you personally. To someone of such…" He'd have liked to have said "age," but China wasn't above beating him to death with that ridiculous panda backpack. "….wisdom," he improvised. He hoped he wouldn't vomit out his respectable English ass.

Wang Yao's suspicious eyes softened. "Well, I am good with that. I can answer question you ask. Perhaps over dinner, though."

"Is this the way to the exit?"

"No. We must visit another terminal." The two descended another escalator. "In truth, it is not such a bad time you came," China admitted. "When he decided to appear," he muttered testily under his breath. "Necessary publicity stunt our bosses came up with. I think is total crap."

"We're meeting someone else today?"

China grunted in response. When he paused in front of a gate, where people were just disembarking from a flight, England searched for a familiar face.

"Oh—Japan!"

Japan started and looked up, spotting them. He appeared somewhat relieved. China looked mutinous. England shook Japan's hand. "What brings you here?"

"Konnichiwa, England. I am here for business."

"Ni hao." China muttered, neither bowing nor shaking his former charge's hand.

"Konnichiwa." Japan returned, just as frostily.

"Um. Yes. How about a pint, you two?" England suggested hopefully. "There's bound to be a bar here someplace. China, could you….?"

"At nine in the morning? It's against the law."

England's heart sank. Well, here was further evidence of China's abysmal human rights record.

"….oh. Well, shall we get some lunch?" He suggested weakly, stepping away from China and Japan, who were still frozen in front of each other with smiles tighter than England's trousers following his visit to Italy.

"That sounds excellent, England-san. Although it may be difficult to find a reputable establishment in this country that does not serve cat meat."

"I hope you get cancer." China replied, just as cheerfully.

England swallowed. China was a massive importer of Japanese goods and the largest exporter of bootleg Japanese products. Despite this obvious admiration, China and Japan's relationship—or lack of thereof—was curt at best.

China took them to a dive—Arthur thought that a very suitable word—where the contents of their plates were near-indistinguishable.

England poked at the gelatinous…whatever it was on his plate with a fork, feeling slightly nauseated. "What…what is it?"

"Tiger testicles," said China simply, his face not betraying an ounce of the horror that England felt race through him. "Chinese delicacy. I am sure you will like very much."

"You should visit me again sometime, England-san." Japan offered, reluctantly picking at a few gluey rice grains in a tiny bowl. "I would be delighted to serve you at Sukiyabashi Jiro. It serves the best sushi in the world."

"Yes, raw fish wrapped in seaweed sold at one thousand yen a plate. England be thrilled to get that." China muttered.

Japan responded with a small, polite smile that reeked pure menace.

England forced a nervous grin that looked like a grimace and instead helped himself to a cup of tea. "Um, w-well, thank y-you, China. For the meal."

"Yes well, whatever," said China offhandedly, helping himself to his own dish. "What did you want to talk about, anyway?"

"Well, uh…what do you think about the…the uh, new America?"

"I don't really care what America does, just so long as he is paying back money I loaned him. We do good business together."

He supposed he might as well go ahead and ask. He could count on both of them to be discreet. "China, what do you do when you're lonely?"

Now the old Asian nation looked slightly at a loss. He took a long sip of tea, appearing to think the matter over.

"Is hard for me to be very lonely," said China hesitantly, absentmindedly twiddling his fork. "I have over billion children, like India. No time for loneliness. But sometimes," he added, his brown eyes lighting up, "I will go to Shinatty-chan Land and buy as many products as I can! It makes me very happy and distracts me when life is not so good. I eat good meal and take collectibles and go to sleep, knowing that all is well."

Japan raised a thin eyebrow. England shrugged.

Some people filled their aches with costly therapy. Others, like China, sprung for bootleg cat characters. Whatever worked.

"But who do you go to see when you're truly miserable?"

"That is difficult question…you young idiots are always making a scene, always making me miserable," said China snidely, before smiling grudgingly. "But is good to see my friends and relations."

"Um…this may seem to be a tad off-topic, but what's been your opinion of America in the past?"

"America is not so bad. Foolish. Young. Naïve. Good heart, though," added China hesitantly. "And he buys so many of my products, which is very nice…"

"China, have you ever been in love?"

China set down his tea cup. Japan fidgeted slightly in his seat, clearing his throat.

"Many times, yes."

"What would you say it's like?"

He'd expected the country to be stuck again for an answer, but China answered quite promptly:

"A warm rush of purpose!" he said happily, downing the rest of his tea. "Love is duty and honor."

"Could you explain that for me, please? I don't think I quite understand what you mean."

China started eating fried rice, tapping his chopsticks rhythmically against the small bowl he held. "Let's see….love is honoring one's parents when you are young, and love is looking after them when they are old," he said thoughtfully. "Love is making sure the people you care about can keep their heads high and be treated with dignity and kindness by their neighbors, which is the most anyone can ask for in this life. Love is making sure you love with your head rather than your heart so that you may love properly."

England was startled. "I'm not sure if I understand that last one. Don't people insist you always have to follow your heart?"

Japan calmly sipped his tea as China shook his head.

"Very bad idea unless you have wisdom first," China advised. "Then your heart lead you into much suffering. Broken compass."

"That sounds awfully cold and mechanical."

"That's Western drivel," China said dismissively. "If you saw two teenagers run off to Vegas to get married, wouldn't you think them rather stupid?"

"You might judge them," Japan added, somewhat more democratically.

"Well…yes. Perhaps."

"But that doesn't matter, because they're in lovvvve," China simpered, making a face and shaking his head dismissively.

"You and America make it out to be so easy—that all you need to do is follow the whims of a swollen organ," China snapped, and England couldn't quite help the warm flutter he heard at "You and America." As well as some slight confusion as to which "swollen organ" China might be referring to. "That's not love. It's selfishness. People are not treating themselves kindly when they do so, to say the least of their poor families, whom should be their prime concern and first object of their loyalty and affections. The love between lovers is not so important as that."

"I…" That seemed fifty shades of backward. Why did he come here again?

"In your films, everything solved in two hours. Sometime more, sometime less. After some stupid drama boy and girl fall in love, as you know they will, and kiss with pop music blasting in the background. They get married and everything good forever. But not so real life." China said firmly, wagging his finger.

"Well….granted, yes, that's very true, but it's just a movie," England objected. "We watch those things because we like to think they could happen."

"My movies do it better." China said proudly. Something sounding suspiciously like a snort came from Japan's direction. China's annoyed almond eyes flicked briefly from him back to England. "I will tell you about one of mine that may explain my reasoning."

"Do tell."

"A girl has a lover and they wish to get married. He's a poor artist, however, and her parents do not approve of him. He go away to a different country, and the girl enters an arranged marriage to a rich man her mother and father like very much.

"The rich man is very nice to her, sees she is sad and takes her around world on trip. In one country, she run into her old lover, who sold many paintings and now very rich. He wants to run away with her. Conflicted, she turns to her husband, who tells her to do what will make her happy. She realize then that her old lover didn't mind shattering her family's reputation, that her parents chose man because he could provide and was very good. She realize her husband is her love, and they live happily ever after."

Bewildered, England gawked at the older nation. "But that can't be right. She's supposed to marry the artist!"

"Why so?"

"B-because he's young, they'll have more in common—"

"I never said he was young. And I never said the girl's husband was old. Why did you get that idea?"

"…because the artist follows his dreams despite great adversity…."

"I never said it was very tough for him. And even if it was, that does not mean he is entitled to get everything he wants."

"…he came back for her," England objected with a frown. "And the girl's husband didn't even try to convince her to stay. He's spineless. The girl looks weak for not running away with her first love, her true love. And scared. Shallow, too."

China sniffed and shook his head, filling his tea with honey. "It seems to me," he objected quietly, "That rather than resorting to harsh words or pleading, he love and respect her enough to allow her to make her own decisions. He rather see her happy than hurt her. She love him and stay with him, who makes her happy, whose marriage to her ensures her family can remain respectable in community."

"But the artist is supposed to decide that."

"Well, he doesn't," China said shortly.

"To have your family dominate your life so much…it seems so harsh. So domineering."

"It's culture. Westerners are in love with the idea of the self, expressing it, it rising above many others to greatness. And they're obsessed with love, too. Every song on radio is love, love, party hard, love. Easterners are less so."

"At least when it comes to romance," Japan said thoughtfully. "We usually emphasize one sort of love over another. That does not make it less pure."

"Why is that?"

"It is very important in your country and America's to know who you are, what distinguishes you from others. In mine, it more important to know how you relate to other people."

"Mine too," Snapped China. Japan ignored him.

"That is probably why there are many honorifics at my house. There are many different stations one might have in life, and properly addressing one according to relationship reminds everyone of where they fit in…" Squinting, Japan vaguely waved his hand a bit, searching for the right words. "A web. We all fit in a web. How and why we connect to other people the way we do. How we connect to our families is probably the most important, because that is where we begin. That is where our heart is."

"So you're not sure about your feelings for America," China said, and England nearly sloshed tea all over himself. "Maybe you're confusing brotherly love with romance."

"….I should hope I'd be able to distinguish the two."

"And how would you do that?" China asked, sounding genuinely curious. England blinked, taken aback.

"Well, romance is naturally….more passionate. Stronger. More important, naturally."

"Not necessarily true. Say you wake up one night and house is on fire," China suggested. "Your lover is one room, and your mother in another. You can only save one. Which one do you choose?"

What a terrible question! "I don't bloody have a mother—"

"And considering how much bing you've been eating, you don't have a lover either," China answered calmly, watching England's chopsticks freeze midway to his mouth. "I am telling you to pick."

"Why the bloody hell is my lover sleeping in another room, anyway?" England stalled.

Suddenly Japan's phone buzzed and he plucked it from his pocket with a murmured apology. "Oh!" He turned his screen towards England. "Look at this photo. America-san loaded it just a second ago."

England leaned forward and nearly retched again, less to do with being served tiger crotch this time.

It was one of those automatic photos taken on rides. Judging by the carts the two figures were on the Goofy rollercoaster, hurtling down the last loop. Eyes sparkling, America had his arms in the air, not clad in a suit jacket but an achingly familiar set of ripped jeans and faded t-shirt.

England's eyes reluctantly wandered from America to the fellow beside him and he regret it immediately. It was Russia, an unnerved smile on his pale face, one of his large hands gripping the guard for dear life, another at his neck to keep his scarf from blowing away. Both were wearing Mickey Mouse ears.

Oh. So that was why the sofa bed was laid out.

"….well, my lover, I suppose." England muttered grudgingly.

China nodded sagely. "That's the answer most Westerners give."

Japan waited politely for England to return his phone, but the nation just continued glowering at it, even after he cleared his throat invitingly. "For most of us, we choose our mothers."

"Just because it goes in different place doesn't make it any less meaningful."

Did he love America? Well, certainly. Of course.

It would probably be perverse, to physically…want someone you'd raised, so he'd better not think about it at all. Then the problem would go away. After all, did he care so much before Russia entered the picture and America gave him the cold-shoulder treatment like a brat?

"What do you think about Russia and America's…growing friendship?"

"I do not care—is none of my business." China said matter-of-factly, finishing his rice.

"If Russia wants to creep over America's shoulder instead of mine, is good. I can focus then on commercial products and turning out fine Olympic athletes."

Next chapter America shows up and the actual "bet" of the story begins. Again Icarus, so sorry for lateness.