Genre: Gratuitous Porn
Warning: England's Potion usage.
Summary: After 500 years, it wasn't fair that his..anti-Francis measures had backfired.
Notes: I can still see this happening.
It wasn't fair Arthur decided, a bit hysterically. He was a good nation, didn't get into (too much) trouble. He paid his taxes, supported his queen, didn't get into (many) fights with Francis and left his siblings (somewhat) alone these days.
Scotland didn't count.
So why now, he wailed in his mind. Why in the middle of a world meeting did this have to happen to him?! He hadn't done anything to deserve this, he whimpered, as two pairs of hands, one pale white, the other sun-tanned reached out for him.
Let's review the the circumstances shall we?
Every year without fail, Arthur brewed, and then consumed, a sort of... “Hands Off” Elixir, he'd come up with in the early 1500's. He'd done so every year, on the dot, even during the World Wars, successfully repelling Francis's best efforts for over five hundred years. Of course he'd pretty much been celibate for those five hundred years. But as far as he was concerned it was a slight and mild little thing to trade in order to not have to deal with Francis's lecherous advances, of which were many and annoying.
Besides, sex was overrated anyways, as he'd made a point of telling every one of his many colonies.
So. After five hundred years of faithfully brewing and consuming what had started as an anti-Francis potion, had become routine. Arthur liked routine. It was comforting, sort of like a warm, woolen blanket, or a hot cup of tea. Francis was kept at bay, and he was happy.
Except this year, all of his roses hadn't bloomed. Mrs Hudson, only recently retired from Baker's Street, and the rest of the Rose Association of Lower England were likely dancing for joy, as his roses won the Best In Show award for the last hundred years running. He refused to tell anyone his secret, which unlike most of the other Rose lovers' secrets, actually was arcane in nature and dealt with black magic, chalk drawings made at midnight and secretive chanting under a full moon. Anyways, the roses hadn't bloomed and the roses had been an essential part of his elixir.
He'd shrugged and decided to get his roses this year from one of his fey friends. Except then he'd run out of crystal vials. Then the well which for years had faithfully served him through That Time When Francis Got To Tell Him What To Do, decided to clog up on him, and Arthur was not about to go begging some purified water from one of his brothers.
They might figure out why he wanted it after all, and that was a discussion best never had.
So after disaster and disaster and disaster, one right after the other, Arthur had thrown up his hands and said, “Sod it. What could go wrong,” and begun to pack for the bi-yearly World Meeting.
Two days later, what could wrong was going wrong.
The first inkling something was wrong, was his tea was wrong. He drank English Breakfast at breakfast, Earl Grey the rest of the day, and had done so for decades. Big Ben could be set by when he took tea, and domestic policy was often influenced by the strength of his hourly tea. He frowned at his tea cup. One should have been a perfectly brewed cup of bitter liquid was sour, almost lemon in flavor. He dumped his tea out and the next three cups as well.
“What did you do,” he demanded, grabbing a hold of the nearest nation and shaking slightly. His tea was off, and the only nation in view was the one he'd grabbed. He'd been drenched by a passing car earlier, the hotel bed had been lumpy and cold and by all that was held holy, he wanted his tea to taste right.
“I didn't do anything fucker!” Arthur blinked at the nation he was shaking. “Fuck, you're fucking insane you batshit, oh fuck don't kill me!”
“I suppose you didn't,” he said sadly, letting the Italian bolt for safety. He eyed the sad remains of several cups of tea and moved on to the coffee table. If he had to, he'd suffer coffee, but if he discovered who it was that messed with his tea, they would suffer the fires of hell and burn in brimstone.
He could do it too.
The next thing that went wrong was that the coffee, normally a burned, foul, thick sluggish liquid, tasted delicious. Alfred wouldn't touch the communal coffee pot, preferring to have one of his many pet agents following him around to go get him Starbucks. (Despite all lecturing from both his boss and Arthur, Alfred still insisted on treating every agent assigned to him sort of like a pet from a shelter.) Norway and Iceland just brought their own coffee machines and woe to the one who touched it. Even Ludwig, so often a at the fore front of pushing use of communal items, avoided the communal coffee pot.
Arthur drained the pot, and then asked for more.
Occasionally nations went off the deep end for a bit, and this wasn't the first time Arthur had gone on what seemed to be a mental vacation. It wasn't even the first time after all. The punk movement wasn't that far off, and most of the European countries remembered his Pirate days. A few of the more lucky, or unlucky ones remembered what he'd been like around Rome. Still, drinking coffee, even the communal coffee wasn't that bad all things considered. And after all, the general consensus was whenever one of them did something weird, it was ignored for a few days then action was taken.
Usually by informing that nation's boss and then turning off their phones and locking doors until some other nation came by to tell them it was safe to come out.
Or their boss dragged them out.
Either way, after Arthur polished off the second pot and informed Francis that no, he did not need a check up, especially when given by a perverted frog such as Francis, most nations figured that maybe the stress of the upcoming Olympics was getting to him. Or maybe he was having another movement. Shrugs went around, Finland sent a quick text message to Scotland, informing that Arthur might be having another underground movement forming, and would he mind keeping an eye out, and the meeting carried on in it's usual fashion without too much interruption.