Chapter the third
Gosh, I wish I'd thought of a better title when I first posted this.
Title: Second Chance: Chapter 3
Characters: Prussia, Finland, France and traces of other Europeans.
Rating: PG13
Warnings: Colossal failure that may make you cringe to see.
Notes: elwon is still going stong on the cheering front.
Summary: After a memorable and yet largely forgotten night Prussia and England wake up to find they've mysteriously swapped bodies. England's horrified, Prussia is less so... This chapter Prussia attempts to make it through a single meeting as England.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Prussia finally reached his seat and sat down in it. He got out his briefcase and set out his papers in front of him in some kind of order. He had absolutely no idea if the papers were remotely relevant to the meeting as he had no idea what the meeting was about, but he needed them if he was going to be at all plausible. Though, looking closer, he had managed to grab one of Sealand's comics. He put it away, making a mental note to read it later.
From there Prussia sat back and watched everyone else arrive. He needn't have arrived so early to the meeting, but he couldn't really help it. For all that he liked to cause trouble amongst others, he always liked to be punctual about it. He was Germanic, after all. Heck, he was being punctual back before his brother even knew what a meeting was.
Prussia set his face into a mild scowl as he nodded in greeting to some and completely ignored others. This was where he really had to start playing it by ear. The only meetings he remembered having that involved England were war meetings wherein he was very serious the whole time, though he did gain a slightly unnerving glint in his eye whenever the prospect of beating France came up. Still, Prussia had no idea how a peacetime England behaved at work. He supposed beating France was still fairly high on the list of desired outcomes, but that was only because it was one of the main principles of England's life.
However, it was going well: Germany was starting the meeting and no one had yet accused him of not being himself. To be honest, it was no wonder England had the huge brows; any normal person would have an aching forehead after this much frowning and scowling, but not England. He definitely had some seriously fit muscles up there.
It was nice for Prussia to see his brother in his element once more. It had been a while since he'd seen Germany angry at someone other than him, at any rate. He was making a game of counting down to the inevitable explosion. The more outbursts Romano had, the more innuendos France inserted into his (and everyone else's) speeches, the more that little vein on Germany's temple expanded and throbbed. Perhaps, Prussia thought, he should invest in a little colour chart rating how angry Germany was. There must a be a country or two out there who'd be interested in one. Not least Italy, who wasn't helping Germany's state in the slightest, yet seemed to be entirely oblivious to it.
Mostly, though, Prussia sat out of the discussions, not yet ready to risk his credibility on charging in where he wasn't wanted (an Anglo trait if ever there was one, but it had to be done correctly or else the jig would be up). There was a time or two when he forgot himself and threw a snide remark Austria's way, but he soon found all he had to do was throw a few more snide remarks out to a selection of other nations and no one was any the wiser.
If nothing else, he was learning that England was a bit of a dick.
Relief washed over him once Germany had finally reached his limit and called for a lunch break (only fifteen minutes early, which, incidentally, made it one of the least disruptive meetings for six years). Prussia noted he wasn't the only one glad for the end of the monotony. Perhaps he would scrap the colour-chart idea and opt instead to write a handy guide book: 101 Ways To Irritate Germany a.k.a. How To Get Yourself An Early Lunch Break. He could already see it flying off the shelves. Plus, there was good potential for experimentation: he had to be sure he was giving sound advice, after all.
Of course, now nations were no longer stuck in their seats listening to talks on topics of varying interest, it meant they were free to wander around and, if the were so inclined, to start conversation. The last thing Prussia needed was to be dragged into a conversation about some part of British foreign policy he'd never even heard of, or even a conversation about a football match he hadn't watched that England wouldn't have missed in a million years.
Ugh, who had persuaded him that winging it was a good idea? He could've easily come up with a bullshit reason not to go. Why hadn't he taken that approach? Still, he was here now, and he could only hope that he'd given the impression that he was in a bad mood. At least then no one would talk to him.
First thing first, though. Food. He was starving. Good thing too about England's body was that it could handle pretty much anything without complaint. Disregarding alcohol for the moment, Prussia had managed to burn a meal or two (he'd been too busy with nefarious planning - though Sealand had assured him it was actually better than usual), made a meal out of a take away estimated to be around a week old and snacked on various dubious tit-bits he'd found down the back of the sofa and he'd not suffered for it once. None of it had even tasted bad. Truth be told, none of it had tasted of much at all. England could make a great party trick of eating absolutely anything. Prussia thought he might like to point that out next time they had a drink together. If the situation ever came up again, that is. England really was one for holding grudges.
Prussia piled his plate high with a little bit of everything from the buffet. It all tasted very similar to him, but that made it no less enjoyable, and the sensation of a full stomach was never anything to be sniffed at. He sequestered himself in a corner to eat and it worked well enough in keeping people away from him. His only problem was once he'd finished wolfing down his food, he had to face the music again, so to speak.
He ventured out from his secluded spot and considered, like a few other nations already had, taking a wander outside, when he was approached by Finland. He twitched his mouth into a slight smile, trying not to look worried as he scoured his brain for any information whatsoever on Britain's relationship with Finland.
“England!” said Finland. No, there was absolutely nothing that Prussia could think of. Unless Finland had started exports of snow.
“Hello, Finland,” said Prussia as neutrally as possible, “How are you?” He hoped England would thank him for bothering to keep up his gentlemanly charade.
“Oh, I'm doing very well,” said Finland, “You?”
“Same old, same old,” said Prussia vaguely. Finland nodded and then moved to stand directly in front of Prussia, cutting off all means of escape. Prussia wasn't sure if that was his intention, as he had such a disarming smile on his face, but there was a definite feel that they were in a conversation now and nothing was going to get Prussia out of it until Finland was satisfied.
“How is Sealand?” asked Finland. Prussia gave him a look, but decided it best not to reveal just how little he was expecting that question.
“Oh he's fine,” said Prussia, biting down on the 'why do you care?' that was aching to get out.
“Has he been any trouble?” Finland carried on.
“No,” said Prussia truthfully, “He's been quite helpful.”
“Helpful?” Finland glanced away to where - Prussia checked - Sweden was standing, “Are you sure he's been no trouble?” And even though Finland was only asking with quiet, friendly curiosity, not in the least bit accusing, Prussia couldn't help but get indignant on Sealand's behalf. That's what brothers did for each other, anyway. He was fully justified in this.
“I'm telling you he's been no trouble!” Prussia tried out one of his best scowls. “He's a cute boy and he's been nothing but helpful, why are you so adamant that's he's been trouble?”
Finland seemed taken aback by Prussia's outburst. “It's just that you seemed more irritable than usual today,” he said, “You don't usually insult quite as many people as that and, well, seeing as you don't get on with Sealand all that well, I thought - we thought,” he gestured to Sweden, who was standing a few metres back yet still managing to loom like a large column of intimidating Swede, “That Sealand might have done something.” He smiled apologetically. “That's all.”
“That's, well, yes,” said Prussia, utterly deflated in the face of such calm logic.
“But if you're getting along now, that's great!” continued Finland. Then he leant in close and lowered his voice, as if he were imparting a great secret, “Sweden always thought it was such a shame you didn't know him like we do. He really thinks you two should spend more time together.” Finland looked at him earnestly.
“I'll, uh,” said Prussia, “I'll think about it.”
“Good.” Finland was back to being all smiles. “It was nice to talk to you. I hope whatever is bothering you clears up!”
Prussia burbled his own response, not paying too much attention to what he was saying. He was far too busy kicking himself for a conversation gone fantastically wrong. If Finland - Finland! - could tell that he was acting strangely, what would the people who actually knew England think?
Well, there was nothing he could do about it now, he could only carry on playing England as best he could, and if they thought he was in a bad mood, then so be it. In fact, it was a good thing they thought he was in a bad mood; the worse mood he seemed to be in, the less likely people were to willingly start a conversation with him. The fewer conversations he had the better. With this in mind, he drifted back towards the meeting room.
However, despite his very best intentions to go back to his seat and look unapproachable until the meeting started again, he was unfortunate enough to pass by Austria on his way out. He was even more unfortunate to hear what Austria was saying. Or, if not what he was saying exactly, then the tone he was saying it in. It was one of those tones that begged for a certain aristocratic pansy to be taken down a peg or two.
Prussia found himself veering off course, mind already turning over the best possible ways to break into their conversation, calculating for each one how long it would probably be before Hungary broke out the frying pan (he'd never seen England become a victim of the frying pan, but there was a first time for everything).
His mind, occupied as it was, didn't watch what his feet were doing and he stumbled. He caught himself, glanced around to see if anyone had noticed and then promptly fell over his own feet. He frowned in confusion at the white stone flooring, never having imagined he'd ever see it up this close, and then, picking himself up, he checked the floor for something he could've fallen over. There was nothing there, so he continued on, only to fall flat on his face once more.
By this point he'd garnered a fair amount of attention, and anyone who hadn't yet noticed the problem he was having walking, was having it pointed out to them by someone else. As he got back to his feet, Prussia did his best to look like he'd meant to topple over, but what little credibility he had was destroyed by his surprised cry when he was pushed over again. It was definitely a push; he felt the pressure on his back. He had to concentrate hard to keep from belting out some choice German phrases at whoever had decided shoving him would be a good idea.
When he found out who it was, he had to literally bite his own tongue to stop anything escaping.
Sitting on the floor, only inches from his nose was that fairy. That damn fairy. He recognised it - and let's not even get started on insanity involved in recognising fairies - as the one he'd seen that fateful morning two days earlier. It was sitting cross-legged grinning at him, baring its needle-like teeth, and waving. He growled at it, finding himself devoid of any appropriate words, but it darted out of the way before he could bring a hand down on it.
He struggled after it, his feet sluggish and sticking to the ground, while it flitted about just out of reach. By now everyone was staring at him openly, some laughing, but most looking quite worried for his health. Prussia ignored them, far too intent on getting the little winged bitch within his grasp. He was yelling incoherently with every swipe of his hand that missed and with the effort it took to drag his feet across the ground without falling over again.
He stopped after a few exhausting metres to get his breath back and give it a really good glaring. It grinned wide, wider that its mouth should really have been capable of, which was far more creepy than necessary. It flew closer, taunting him with its proximity as well as its voice. Prussia waited, watching it from under his hair, for the perfect moment. Then he leapt.
He landed hard on the floor yet again, but this time he had a very angry little fairy clenched in his fist. It wriggled and writhed in ways that wouldn't be possible for anything that had to obey the laws of physics, but he kept a hold of it. Finally it stopped its struggles in favour of gnashing its teeth at him.
Prussia stood and took a moment to glare around at the rest of the room.
“What?” he snapped at them, not bothering to come up with a cover story. It was common knowledge England saw things at any rate and he was too angry to pretend he wasn't. All he'd wanted to do was annoy Austria.
Everyone went back to their previous business, or at least stopped staring quite so openly. Prussia turned back to the problem he had in his hand. “What the fuck do you want?” he snarled.
“We want England back,” it spat at him.
“Tough shit, you've got me.”
“Imposter! Usurper! What have you done with him?”
“I've got him tied up in my basement. I torture him for information. I'm surprised you've never heard his screams.” Prussia watched its renewed thrashings with malicious glee.
“Let go of me!” Its one free arm beat against his hand. “We will rip the skin from your bones. We will drink your blood like wine!”
“Oh yeah, I'm really going to let you go now you've said that.”
The fairy's lips pulled back further, revealing more of its unnaturally long teeth. “Kill me and three more will take my place.”
“That's an original threat.” Prussia rolled his eyes.
“Listen, fucktard,” the fairy stopped struggling in favour of digging its nails into his skin. “We are not happy with you. Sticking your feet to the floor is child's play; we are capable of so much worse.”
“I don't even know who this 'we' is!” Prussia declared quietly. “All I've seen is one pathetic fairy that likes to run its mouth off--”
Prussia was interrupted by someone clearing their throat. Prussia looked up from the fairy and was surprised to find Norway standing right next to him. Norway looked at the fairy pointedly, then back at him, eyebrows everso slightly raised. Prussia grinned.
“Norway!” he said, “You interrupted us. We were just having a discussion. Weren't we?” He smiled at the fairy, which glared back at him. He laughed nervously, conscious of Norway's unwavering stare, and patted it on the head with a finger. In a rather predictable turn of events, it bit him. “You little shit!” Prussia hissed at it before Norway cleared his throat once again, this time with more warning.
Prussia opened his hand and was pleased to see the fairy drop a metre before it got its wings back in working order and flitted off. Norway, however, was not so easy to get rid of.
Before Prussia could think of any excuse to get out of the awkward situation he'd found himself in, Norway spoke. “You should know better than to take your anger out on the fae,” he said. “It won't end well.”
Prussia wasn't really sure what to do with that information. “Thanks for the tip,” he eventually decided on, more than tired of dealing with fairies. “Sorry,” he continued on, fumbling for an excuse to leave, “I have to... go, now.” He cringed at how lame he sounded as he left Norway behind and hurried out of the room, but his desperation to get out of there had overrun his awesome excuse making side.
Once in the hallway, he stopped to take a few deep breaths. This whole 'being England' crap was way harder than he thought. Even without mystical fairy shit, which just went to make a hard job nigh on impossible.
Prussia was startled out of his angry musings when an arm slipped around his shoulders like a snake and pulled him sharply into a half-embrace. His confused flailing was brought to a halt by a mouth at his ear and a lightly breathed, “Angleterre.”
“Oh, France,” he said, relieved that it wasn't anyone in the slightest bit mythical, and shrugged out of France's grip. “Don't do that, you scared me half to death.”
“Ah,” France said, “I am sorry.” He waved his hand in a mock-apologetic way. “Were you away with the fairies?”
Prussia's face darkened at those words. “Don't talk to me about fairies,” he said, “Bastards, the lot of them.”
“Oh.” France stared at him, lost for words for a moment before the smirk crept back onto his face. “Trouble in paradise?”
“Ah, it's nothing,” Prussia shrugged, “I'll manage.”
They lapsed into silence. France looked a little put out, and Prussia a little non-plussed. There was something about the way France was behaving; the way he held himself. Prussia wasn't entirely sure it was possible, but the personification of the nation of France was somehow acting more French than usual.
“So,” France's eyes swept over Prussia's attire, “What hedge were you pulled through backwards?”
“Huh? Oh, this?” Prussia brushed at a stain on his front. “No, no hedges. But I did do this really awe-- skilful slide under a bus.” He smiled to himself, pleased that he'd thought quickly enough to come up with a more England sort of word. Sealand had warned him that he tended to say 'awesome' too much. “You should've seen it. Got a round of applause from everyone in the street.”
France stared at Prussia. “I would rather drink my own piss than eat your cooking,” he said, scrutinising Prussia closely.
“I... know?” was all Prussia could think to reply. He wasn't really sure what France was trying to get at; everyone knew he didn't like England's cooking. Prussia was very, very sure it wouldn't be news to England.
The wary silence between them was broken when France roughly grabbed hold of Prussia's head. He twisted it one way then the other, pulling at ears, peering into eyes and up the nose. Prussia fought against his surprisingly strong grip and beat him back momentarily.
“Ow, France!” he cried, rubbing an abused ear, “What the fuck are you doing?”
“There is something wrong with you,” France supplied as he leapt back into his vigorous examination, prying Prussia's mouth open and taking a quick look around (though he wisely kept his fingers out).
“I'm fine, get off!” Prussia finally managed to shove France away completely. France sighed and put his hands on his hips.
“Very well,” he said, “Just one last test. Give me your hand.” Prussia hesitantly gave France his hand.
France stared at it then looked back up at Prussia. “Why did you do that?” he asked.
“Because you said--” Prussia stopped. He looked at France. “Oh,” he said in realisation.
“Exactly. You see my point?” France stared at him so hard Prussia was sure he'd be found out if he let it go on much longer; as if France was staring into his very soul. Of course, it might have been that Prussia had forgotten to get into a fight with France within five seconds of talking to him. He cursed his awesomeness for leaving him at such a crucial time and hoped it wasn't some strange side effect of the swap.
“Yes,” said Prussia, deciding that a tactical retreat was his best bet at this point. “Yes, perhaps I don't feel so well.” He put a hand to his own forehead. “Hmm, yes, I feel a bit faint.” He fanned himself with his free hand. “Dizzy. Hot flushes. I feel terrible. I don't think I can manage to sit through the rest of the meeting; I might pass out.” He watched France's eyebrows slowly disappear into his hairline. “Better to be safe than sorry. Tell Germany the stress is getting to me, will you? Thanks!” He beat a hasty retreat, vanishing around the first corner he could find. Though France's baffled voice followed him down the corridor.
“The stress is getting to you?” France called, “What do you-- What stress? How can-- You must tell me what's so stressful that it's made you sick! England!” But Prussia was already gone and certainly was not intending on coming back.
Chapter 4
Poor, dear Prussia. I'd feel more sorry for him if he hadn't stolen someone else's body.
Title: Second Chance: Chapter 3
Characters: Prussia, Finland, France and traces of other Europeans.
Rating: PG13
Warnings: Colossal failure that may make you cringe to see.
Notes: elwon is still going stong on the cheering front.
Summary: After a memorable and yet largely forgotten night Prussia and England wake up to find they've mysteriously swapped bodies. England's horrified, Prussia is less so... This chapter Prussia attempts to make it through a single meeting as England.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Prussia finally reached his seat and sat down in it. He got out his briefcase and set out his papers in front of him in some kind of order. He had absolutely no idea if the papers were remotely relevant to the meeting as he had no idea what the meeting was about, but he needed them if he was going to be at all plausible. Though, looking closer, he had managed to grab one of Sealand's comics. He put it away, making a mental note to read it later.
From there Prussia sat back and watched everyone else arrive. He needn't have arrived so early to the meeting, but he couldn't really help it. For all that he liked to cause trouble amongst others, he always liked to be punctual about it. He was Germanic, after all. Heck, he was being punctual back before his brother even knew what a meeting was.
Prussia set his face into a mild scowl as he nodded in greeting to some and completely ignored others. This was where he really had to start playing it by ear. The only meetings he remembered having that involved England were war meetings wherein he was very serious the whole time, though he did gain a slightly unnerving glint in his eye whenever the prospect of beating France came up. Still, Prussia had no idea how a peacetime England behaved at work. He supposed beating France was still fairly high on the list of desired outcomes, but that was only because it was one of the main principles of England's life.
However, it was going well: Germany was starting the meeting and no one had yet accused him of not being himself. To be honest, it was no wonder England had the huge brows; any normal person would have an aching forehead after this much frowning and scowling, but not England. He definitely had some seriously fit muscles up there.
It was nice for Prussia to see his brother in his element once more. It had been a while since he'd seen Germany angry at someone other than him, at any rate. He was making a game of counting down to the inevitable explosion. The more outbursts Romano had, the more innuendos France inserted into his (and everyone else's) speeches, the more that little vein on Germany's temple expanded and throbbed. Perhaps, Prussia thought, he should invest in a little colour chart rating how angry Germany was. There must a be a country or two out there who'd be interested in one. Not least Italy, who wasn't helping Germany's state in the slightest, yet seemed to be entirely oblivious to it.
Mostly, though, Prussia sat out of the discussions, not yet ready to risk his credibility on charging in where he wasn't wanted (an Anglo trait if ever there was one, but it had to be done correctly or else the jig would be up). There was a time or two when he forgot himself and threw a snide remark Austria's way, but he soon found all he had to do was throw a few more snide remarks out to a selection of other nations and no one was any the wiser.
If nothing else, he was learning that England was a bit of a dick.
Relief washed over him once Germany had finally reached his limit and called for a lunch break (only fifteen minutes early, which, incidentally, made it one of the least disruptive meetings for six years). Prussia noted he wasn't the only one glad for the end of the monotony. Perhaps he would scrap the colour-chart idea and opt instead to write a handy guide book: 101 Ways To Irritate Germany a.k.a. How To Get Yourself An Early Lunch Break. He could already see it flying off the shelves. Plus, there was good potential for experimentation: he had to be sure he was giving sound advice, after all.
Of course, now nations were no longer stuck in their seats listening to talks on topics of varying interest, it meant they were free to wander around and, if the were so inclined, to start conversation. The last thing Prussia needed was to be dragged into a conversation about some part of British foreign policy he'd never even heard of, or even a conversation about a football match he hadn't watched that England wouldn't have missed in a million years.
Ugh, who had persuaded him that winging it was a good idea? He could've easily come up with a bullshit reason not to go. Why hadn't he taken that approach? Still, he was here now, and he could only hope that he'd given the impression that he was in a bad mood. At least then no one would talk to him.
First thing first, though. Food. He was starving. Good thing too about England's body was that it could handle pretty much anything without complaint. Disregarding alcohol for the moment, Prussia had managed to burn a meal or two (he'd been too busy with nefarious planning - though Sealand had assured him it was actually better than usual), made a meal out of a take away estimated to be around a week old and snacked on various dubious tit-bits he'd found down the back of the sofa and he'd not suffered for it once. None of it had even tasted bad. Truth be told, none of it had tasted of much at all. England could make a great party trick of eating absolutely anything. Prussia thought he might like to point that out next time they had a drink together. If the situation ever came up again, that is. England really was one for holding grudges.
Prussia piled his plate high with a little bit of everything from the buffet. It all tasted very similar to him, but that made it no less enjoyable, and the sensation of a full stomach was never anything to be sniffed at. He sequestered himself in a corner to eat and it worked well enough in keeping people away from him. His only problem was once he'd finished wolfing down his food, he had to face the music again, so to speak.
He ventured out from his secluded spot and considered, like a few other nations already had, taking a wander outside, when he was approached by Finland. He twitched his mouth into a slight smile, trying not to look worried as he scoured his brain for any information whatsoever on Britain's relationship with Finland.
“England!” said Finland. No, there was absolutely nothing that Prussia could think of. Unless Finland had started exports of snow.
“Hello, Finland,” said Prussia as neutrally as possible, “How are you?” He hoped England would thank him for bothering to keep up his gentlemanly charade.
“Oh, I'm doing very well,” said Finland, “You?”
“Same old, same old,” said Prussia vaguely. Finland nodded and then moved to stand directly in front of Prussia, cutting off all means of escape. Prussia wasn't sure if that was his intention, as he had such a disarming smile on his face, but there was a definite feel that they were in a conversation now and nothing was going to get Prussia out of it until Finland was satisfied.
“How is Sealand?” asked Finland. Prussia gave him a look, but decided it best not to reveal just how little he was expecting that question.
“Oh he's fine,” said Prussia, biting down on the 'why do you care?' that was aching to get out.
“Has he been any trouble?” Finland carried on.
“No,” said Prussia truthfully, “He's been quite helpful.”
“Helpful?” Finland glanced away to where - Prussia checked - Sweden was standing, “Are you sure he's been no trouble?” And even though Finland was only asking with quiet, friendly curiosity, not in the least bit accusing, Prussia couldn't help but get indignant on Sealand's behalf. That's what brothers did for each other, anyway. He was fully justified in this.
“I'm telling you he's been no trouble!” Prussia tried out one of his best scowls. “He's a cute boy and he's been nothing but helpful, why are you so adamant that's he's been trouble?”
Finland seemed taken aback by Prussia's outburst. “It's just that you seemed more irritable than usual today,” he said, “You don't usually insult quite as many people as that and, well, seeing as you don't get on with Sealand all that well, I thought - we thought,” he gestured to Sweden, who was standing a few metres back yet still managing to loom like a large column of intimidating Swede, “That Sealand might have done something.” He smiled apologetically. “That's all.”
“That's, well, yes,” said Prussia, utterly deflated in the face of such calm logic.
“But if you're getting along now, that's great!” continued Finland. Then he leant in close and lowered his voice, as if he were imparting a great secret, “Sweden always thought it was such a shame you didn't know him like we do. He really thinks you two should spend more time together.” Finland looked at him earnestly.
“I'll, uh,” said Prussia, “I'll think about it.”
“Good.” Finland was back to being all smiles. “It was nice to talk to you. I hope whatever is bothering you clears up!”
Prussia burbled his own response, not paying too much attention to what he was saying. He was far too busy kicking himself for a conversation gone fantastically wrong. If Finland - Finland! - could tell that he was acting strangely, what would the people who actually knew England think?
Well, there was nothing he could do about it now, he could only carry on playing England as best he could, and if they thought he was in a bad mood, then so be it. In fact, it was a good thing they thought he was in a bad mood; the worse mood he seemed to be in, the less likely people were to willingly start a conversation with him. The fewer conversations he had the better. With this in mind, he drifted back towards the meeting room.
However, despite his very best intentions to go back to his seat and look unapproachable until the meeting started again, he was unfortunate enough to pass by Austria on his way out. He was even more unfortunate to hear what Austria was saying. Or, if not what he was saying exactly, then the tone he was saying it in. It was one of those tones that begged for a certain aristocratic pansy to be taken down a peg or two.
Prussia found himself veering off course, mind already turning over the best possible ways to break into their conversation, calculating for each one how long it would probably be before Hungary broke out the frying pan (he'd never seen England become a victim of the frying pan, but there was a first time for everything).
His mind, occupied as it was, didn't watch what his feet were doing and he stumbled. He caught himself, glanced around to see if anyone had noticed and then promptly fell over his own feet. He frowned in confusion at the white stone flooring, never having imagined he'd ever see it up this close, and then, picking himself up, he checked the floor for something he could've fallen over. There was nothing there, so he continued on, only to fall flat on his face once more.
By this point he'd garnered a fair amount of attention, and anyone who hadn't yet noticed the problem he was having walking, was having it pointed out to them by someone else. As he got back to his feet, Prussia did his best to look like he'd meant to topple over, but what little credibility he had was destroyed by his surprised cry when he was pushed over again. It was definitely a push; he felt the pressure on his back. He had to concentrate hard to keep from belting out some choice German phrases at whoever had decided shoving him would be a good idea.
When he found out who it was, he had to literally bite his own tongue to stop anything escaping.
Sitting on the floor, only inches from his nose was that fairy. That damn fairy. He recognised it - and let's not even get started on insanity involved in recognising fairies - as the one he'd seen that fateful morning two days earlier. It was sitting cross-legged grinning at him, baring its needle-like teeth, and waving. He growled at it, finding himself devoid of any appropriate words, but it darted out of the way before he could bring a hand down on it.
He struggled after it, his feet sluggish and sticking to the ground, while it flitted about just out of reach. By now everyone was staring at him openly, some laughing, but most looking quite worried for his health. Prussia ignored them, far too intent on getting the little winged bitch within his grasp. He was yelling incoherently with every swipe of his hand that missed and with the effort it took to drag his feet across the ground without falling over again.
He stopped after a few exhausting metres to get his breath back and give it a really good glaring. It grinned wide, wider that its mouth should really have been capable of, which was far more creepy than necessary. It flew closer, taunting him with its proximity as well as its voice. Prussia waited, watching it from under his hair, for the perfect moment. Then he leapt.
He landed hard on the floor yet again, but this time he had a very angry little fairy clenched in his fist. It wriggled and writhed in ways that wouldn't be possible for anything that had to obey the laws of physics, but he kept a hold of it. Finally it stopped its struggles in favour of gnashing its teeth at him.
Prussia stood and took a moment to glare around at the rest of the room.
“What?” he snapped at them, not bothering to come up with a cover story. It was common knowledge England saw things at any rate and he was too angry to pretend he wasn't. All he'd wanted to do was annoy Austria.
Everyone went back to their previous business, or at least stopped staring quite so openly. Prussia turned back to the problem he had in his hand. “What the fuck do you want?” he snarled.
“We want England back,” it spat at him.
“Tough shit, you've got me.”
“Imposter! Usurper! What have you done with him?”
“I've got him tied up in my basement. I torture him for information. I'm surprised you've never heard his screams.” Prussia watched its renewed thrashings with malicious glee.
“Let go of me!” Its one free arm beat against his hand. “We will rip the skin from your bones. We will drink your blood like wine!”
“Oh yeah, I'm really going to let you go now you've said that.”
The fairy's lips pulled back further, revealing more of its unnaturally long teeth. “Kill me and three more will take my place.”
“That's an original threat.” Prussia rolled his eyes.
“Listen, fucktard,” the fairy stopped struggling in favour of digging its nails into his skin. “We are not happy with you. Sticking your feet to the floor is child's play; we are capable of so much worse.”
“I don't even know who this 'we' is!” Prussia declared quietly. “All I've seen is one pathetic fairy that likes to run its mouth off--”
Prussia was interrupted by someone clearing their throat. Prussia looked up from the fairy and was surprised to find Norway standing right next to him. Norway looked at the fairy pointedly, then back at him, eyebrows everso slightly raised. Prussia grinned.
“Norway!” he said, “You interrupted us. We were just having a discussion. Weren't we?” He smiled at the fairy, which glared back at him. He laughed nervously, conscious of Norway's unwavering stare, and patted it on the head with a finger. In a rather predictable turn of events, it bit him. “You little shit!” Prussia hissed at it before Norway cleared his throat once again, this time with more warning.
Prussia opened his hand and was pleased to see the fairy drop a metre before it got its wings back in working order and flitted off. Norway, however, was not so easy to get rid of.
Before Prussia could think of any excuse to get out of the awkward situation he'd found himself in, Norway spoke. “You should know better than to take your anger out on the fae,” he said. “It won't end well.”
Prussia wasn't really sure what to do with that information. “Thanks for the tip,” he eventually decided on, more than tired of dealing with fairies. “Sorry,” he continued on, fumbling for an excuse to leave, “I have to... go, now.” He cringed at how lame he sounded as he left Norway behind and hurried out of the room, but his desperation to get out of there had overrun his awesome excuse making side.
Once in the hallway, he stopped to take a few deep breaths. This whole 'being England' crap was way harder than he thought. Even without mystical fairy shit, which just went to make a hard job nigh on impossible.
Prussia was startled out of his angry musings when an arm slipped around his shoulders like a snake and pulled him sharply into a half-embrace. His confused flailing was brought to a halt by a mouth at his ear and a lightly breathed, “Angleterre.”
“Oh, France,” he said, relieved that it wasn't anyone in the slightest bit mythical, and shrugged out of France's grip. “Don't do that, you scared me half to death.”
“Ah,” France said, “I am sorry.” He waved his hand in a mock-apologetic way. “Were you away with the fairies?”
Prussia's face darkened at those words. “Don't talk to me about fairies,” he said, “Bastards, the lot of them.”
“Oh.” France stared at him, lost for words for a moment before the smirk crept back onto his face. “Trouble in paradise?”
“Ah, it's nothing,” Prussia shrugged, “I'll manage.”
They lapsed into silence. France looked a little put out, and Prussia a little non-plussed. There was something about the way France was behaving; the way he held himself. Prussia wasn't entirely sure it was possible, but the personification of the nation of France was somehow acting more French than usual.
“So,” France's eyes swept over Prussia's attire, “What hedge were you pulled through backwards?”
“Huh? Oh, this?” Prussia brushed at a stain on his front. “No, no hedges. But I did do this really awe-- skilful slide under a bus.” He smiled to himself, pleased that he'd thought quickly enough to come up with a more England sort of word. Sealand had warned him that he tended to say 'awesome' too much. “You should've seen it. Got a round of applause from everyone in the street.”
France stared at Prussia. “I would rather drink my own piss than eat your cooking,” he said, scrutinising Prussia closely.
“I... know?” was all Prussia could think to reply. He wasn't really sure what France was trying to get at; everyone knew he didn't like England's cooking. Prussia was very, very sure it wouldn't be news to England.
The wary silence between them was broken when France roughly grabbed hold of Prussia's head. He twisted it one way then the other, pulling at ears, peering into eyes and up the nose. Prussia fought against his surprisingly strong grip and beat him back momentarily.
“Ow, France!” he cried, rubbing an abused ear, “What the fuck are you doing?”
“There is something wrong with you,” France supplied as he leapt back into his vigorous examination, prying Prussia's mouth open and taking a quick look around (though he wisely kept his fingers out).
“I'm fine, get off!” Prussia finally managed to shove France away completely. France sighed and put his hands on his hips.
“Very well,” he said, “Just one last test. Give me your hand.” Prussia hesitantly gave France his hand.
France stared at it then looked back up at Prussia. “Why did you do that?” he asked.
“Because you said--” Prussia stopped. He looked at France. “Oh,” he said in realisation.
“Exactly. You see my point?” France stared at him so hard Prussia was sure he'd be found out if he let it go on much longer; as if France was staring into his very soul. Of course, it might have been that Prussia had forgotten to get into a fight with France within five seconds of talking to him. He cursed his awesomeness for leaving him at such a crucial time and hoped it wasn't some strange side effect of the swap.
“Yes,” said Prussia, deciding that a tactical retreat was his best bet at this point. “Yes, perhaps I don't feel so well.” He put a hand to his own forehead. “Hmm, yes, I feel a bit faint.” He fanned himself with his free hand. “Dizzy. Hot flushes. I feel terrible. I don't think I can manage to sit through the rest of the meeting; I might pass out.” He watched France's eyebrows slowly disappear into his hairline. “Better to be safe than sorry. Tell Germany the stress is getting to me, will you? Thanks!” He beat a hasty retreat, vanishing around the first corner he could find. Though France's baffled voice followed him down the corridor.
“The stress is getting to you?” France called, “What do you-- What stress? How can-- You must tell me what's so stressful that it's made you sick! England!” But Prussia was already gone and certainly was not intending on coming back.
Chapter 4
Poor, dear Prussia. I'd feel more sorry for him if he hadn't stolen someone else's body.