Arthur came back into the meeting room. When asked why he had returned, he said that there wasn't much left to do for dinner, and that Japan had said he was happy to stay in the peace of the kitchen and let time do its magic under his supervision, letting Arthur leave.

"Yeah, I don't know," he shrugged, taking his seat. He told everyone continue as they were, and so they did.

Next to the Brit, Alfred flicked the journal's umpteenth page over, making a childish 'boop' as he did so. Matthew was glad that his brother was at least trying to stay positive; it wasn't just good for America personally, but there was always something about Alfred's smile and happiness that was contagious. Antonio and Feliciano were similarly infectiously happy, but Matthew never felt so relaxed around them like he was around his brother.

"Alright, this one's from China," Alfred announced, "and I have no idea what it's about, but I see the word 'opium' a few times. . ."

"Oh yay," Yao deadpanned. He looked to Arthur. "Remember those years well, Opium?"

"Unfortunately," Arthur sighed, thinking that perhaps staying in the kitchen would've been a goo idea . . .

Alfred wasn't sure what they were on about, and Yao told him to just hurry up and read it--the sooner it was done, they sooner the whole book was finished.

"China. August 29th, 1842. The war might be over, but that does not mean I am happy. Opium's people have been illegally smuggling his stupid drug into my country, and my own citizens have become addicted, and even now I fear that it will not end here. He's just as pleased as I am. It was selfish, what he and his government did . . . But I'm more disgusted by those smuggling opium in and trying to control my territories."

"Hong Kong pissed him off the most, though," Arthur mumbled to himself. Yao just softly grunted, and folded his arms.

"The Treaty of Nanjing may have been a quick way to stop bloodshed and mindless fighting, but there are so many holes in its terms. Opium--the drug--hasn't been declared legal or illegal, and what's more, Opium--the one with eyebrows--now has control over Hong Kong!"

"There it is," the Brit mouthed, shaking his head.

"Well, it seems that you got bored of him, because you sent him home one-hundred and fifty-five years later," Yao remarked offhandedly. "I guess you couldn't handle him."

"More like he didn't know when to stop," Arthur shot back. "He needed to learn when enough was enough, and those bloody firecrackers were starting to get ridiculous. Sending him back to you was the best option for everyone."

Yao frowned. "Fireworks are are part of who we are, Opium . . ."

"That does not mean I appreciate having them thrown into my bedroom in the middle of the night," England stated. He glared at the Chinese man, and all of a sudden, tension seemed to solidify between the two. "Perhaps you just did a bad job of raising him with proper manners."

Alfred awkwardly laughed in an attempt to diffuse the situation. "A-Alright you two, I think that's enough --"

"No, hang on," Yao interrupted, holding up a hand to silence him. Alfred sunk back into his seat and let the book flop down onto the table. "Are you trying to say that I was a bad parent?"

"Your words, not mine," Arthur replied. "The point is, Leon is happy where he is. Leave it there, will you?"

China muttered something under his breath, and in order to avoid more arguments from developing, America hastily continued onto the next page, and skimmed it over. It was an observation, to his relief. He wasn't so keen on the personal entries, but like Feliciano, he understood their purpose respectfully.

"France. He feels guilty about a lot of things, but most of all, it's the American Revolutionary War, Joan's death and the Norman Conquest of England that will keep his mood down and mellow at times."

"Well, what do you know," the Frenchman whimsically said. "This room just suddenly got depressing . . ."

"Unnecessarily, I believe."

Francis looked at Arthur. "What do you mean? I helped break you by helping--"

"By helping America, yes, but he needed your help," Arthur meekly replied. "He was hardly going to grow up in the way he has done if he was stuck with me forever, was he?"

"That's so true," Alfred chimed in. He smiled warmly at Francis. "You can't blame yourself for Artie's hurt, 'cause it was my decision at the end of the day. You just did what you thought was right, Francis, and neither of us can thank you enough."

It was all sincere. Francis had hated seeing Arthur on the battlefield at Yorktown, on his knees, crying and screaming and yelling, cursing both he and America from afar. It had torn him apart, knowing that he'd just helped cause the Brit heartache that would come to haunt him for decades to come. For years, he'd despised himself for it. He had never, ever wanted to hurt Arthur like that, and he never would, because if there was one thing he was certain of in life, it was that he cared about the Brit far more than he would ever admit.

'Love can be so cruel sometimes . . .'

"And the Conquest, well . . . Yes," Arthur continued, "it sucked having French as my official language for three-hundred years and having you bother me twenty-four-seven, but it wasn't all bad."

"But what about the harrying of the North," Francis said. "I was there! The scars on your shoulder, a-and the famine and death! It was a massacre, Angleterre!"

"And one that wasn't your choice. You and I both know that, and that it also fucking hurt, but I never blamed you for it," England said. He rested a reassuring hand on France's shoulder and gave a small smile. "The past is the past, it's no good looking backwards when the future holds the promise of hope and new beginnings."

"Ever the poet," Francis said with a quiet laugh. 

Alfred and Matthew glanced at each other and they shared a knowing, tired look that was aimed at the two Europeans, saying 'just fuck already' and they sighed in unison. It seemed as though the conversation was over, thankfully, and Alfred wasted no time in clearing his throat and continuing with the journal.

"Spain."

"Dios, does it ever end?" Antonio bittersweetly remarked.

"Don't worry, dude," Alfred smiled quietly, "I think this'll be a good one."

"If you say so . . ."

"He is a keen and talented bullfighter--the best of the bunch! Mexico regularly challenges him in the ring, but Spain seems to always have that edge that makes his performance more favourable."

"Ouch . . . When it's put like that, it makes Mexico look really bad, and he isn't at all," Antonio remarked. "He's been a quick learner. I'm proud of him, actually."

"You're so sappy," Portugal said.

Antonio raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? How's Brazil? Still beating you at football?"

João's silence was the only answer Spain needed. He knew more than anyone that Portugal had a soft heart when it came to everyone other than his Iberian neighbour, but especially towards his old colonies. Brazil was like a son to João just as Mexico was like a son to Antonio, but it was a distinct friendship rather than blood-ties that made them family.

"That reminds me, we really need to get South America back over to Europe," Antonio said, dreading the mayhem that would undoubtedly ensue.

"A meeting? Again?" Portugal groaned. Those meetings were worse than world meetings, and they both knew it. "Shotgun not hosting!"

"Madrid it is . . . Yay . . ."

"Everything OK, or do I need to stop?" Alfred cautiously asked.

Spain rested his head on the table, thinking alone making him tired. "Continue, amigo," he said, and Alfred simply nodded.

"This is an entry, and I'll just read this before passing the book on," he said. 

The others all nodded, some just wanting him to get on with it so they could all finish, others wanting him to get on with it so they could just hear what else had to be said. Most of the nations were verging towards the benefits of the book and how it was helping everyone, but there were one or two nations who felt otherwise in the room, obviously not including Romano, who had left because of it. Russia and China's scepticism was not without reason, but they weren't going to argue. Whether they liked it or not, they knew the entire book would be read, so why not stick around to hear what everyone else's strengths and weaknesses were?

"Who's it about?" Feliciano asked, tilting his head slightly.

"Gil," America replied, "and boy, is it a long one . . ."

"Well we aren't getting any younger here, so perhaps you should just start reading it," Yao said bluntly.

Alfred restrained himself with a slow, steady sigh, and he began to read the words in front of him. He felt that there were some people who needed to be taught manners or who just generally needed to learn when it was acceptable to talk . . .

"Prussia. November 1st, 2014. OK, soooo, I may or may not be suffering from a very unawesome hangover."

"East in a nutshell," Ludwig said. "I wonder how scrawled this was in his original book."

"Dude, I can barely read it now," Alfred lightheartedly replied, before continuing. "America was hosting a Halloween party last night and it was huge (but not as huge as my dick ;3), I think half the world was there! I was surprised there was room for everyone! But anyway, it all started when I had a few too many beers, mixed with shots and vodka, I think . . ."

'Classic Gil,' America thought.

"The room started to do some crazy shit, and was swaying all over the place. I could barely walk, the floor was so uneven, it was moving like it was one of those 'house of horror' things at a fair! But I ended up bumping into someone, and for the life of me, I don't remember who! I feel bad, but I was off my face . . . But we got talking after my awesome (possibly slurred) apology, and I'm sure something must've happened in between, but before I knew it we were in a fucking closet together."

"Oh . . ." Canada responded. "That was sudden . . ."

"Shit, dude, this doesn't interfere with your relationship, does it?" Alfred asked his brother. If it did, he was willing to give Gilbert a good talking-to and maybe a reminder of where his loyalties ought to lie, but Matthew shook his head.

"We didn't get together until New Year's Eve that year," he said. "Still, I think it would be interesting to find out who this mysterious person is . . ."

"But they're also entitled to their privacy," Alfred replied. "It's a bit hazy after that, but there was definitely kissing. Lots of it. Mostly my fault, too . . . God, that sounds terrible now that I'm thinking this over and I suddenly regret writing this sentence down . . . Fuck. Well, whoever I was with hasn't spoken to me about it since, so I'm hoping they forgot too. The last thing I need is to have ruined someone's relationship. That'd be shit."

'And the Understatement of the Year Award goes to Gil,' the American smiled.

"You know, I'm starting to wonder if it really was just kissing . . . What if it went further? Fuck, what if I fucked someone?!?! ohhhHHHHH I'M A BAD PERSON, WHY CAN'T I JUST REMEMBER WHO IT WAS?! THAT'S SO BAD!!! EXCUSE ME WHILE I GO DETOX AND CLEANSE MY IMPURE SELF." 

Alfred wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry; that entry was a total mess, he kind of felt bad for Prussia. He didn't know who it was who'd been with Gilbert that evening, but he knew that he hadn't seen his best friend at all the day after, and he was now beginning to wonder why . . .

"My God, that poor unfortunate soul!" Francis remarked with a small laugh, stealing everyone's attention. "I bet that seven minutes in Heaven was disastrous!"

"Actually, it wasn't."

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Go on, take a guess. Who was Gilbert in the closet with, guys? :3