Two Can Keep A Secret

Chapter 1: The Meeting of Coincidence

America sighed, slouching in his chair. Chaos reigned across the meeting room, his tired eyes unable to keep up. He taps his finger to a rhythm on the table, trying to distract himself. It was of no use, of course

Every G8 meeting is like that, these days. It's starts out quiet, a nation goes up to present, a comment on said presentation, then all hell breaks loose.

This particular meeting America was glad everyone was fighting. Not only did it mean he got to avoid going up and spouting nonsense (as per his bosses request), it also meant it would be break soon. Germany despises getting off topic. 'Honestly', America thought 'if we aren't careful, Germany's going to pop a blood vessel shouting at us one of these days.'

As if almost on cue, a resounding shout of, "SHUT UP YOU IDIOTIC FOOLS! CEASE THIS FIGHTING AT ONCE, AND RETURN TO YOUR SEATS!"

Germanys face is blood red, normally slicked back hair falling out of place. His teeth ground together, as if it were the one lifeline between him keeping his calm, and him leaping over the podium to strangle the other nations.

A silence descends upon the meeting room, the only sound being the footsteps as they return to where they sat. Frances nose was red, likely from when England punched him. England, in return, sports a slowly blackening eye. France nervously avoids eye contact, while England stews in his anger, his face almost as red as Germany's.

Russias aura lessens, but it still causes China to lean away from him in nervousness. The old country mumbles curses under his breath, staring daggers at America. 'Likely going on about my debt again' America grumbles to himself silently. 'Seriously, when will that old bag leave me alone?'

North Italy and South Italy look entirely unbothered, well, more North Italy at that. South Italy looks borderline murderous, glaring at Germany. America can almost hear his thoughts from here, something along the lines of 'potato' and 'bastard'. North Italy looks to be in a world of his own, a large smile on his face and wandering brown eyes. Again, America can almost hear his thoughts. But this time, only one word is on repeat, 'Pasta~'.

Japan sits on the left of North Italy, seeming quite content to stay quiet and still. America searches the room for his brother, relieved to see he's not being sat on by Russia again. He lingers on the right of France, likely not being noticed by his 'Papa' (again, to Americas disappointment.)

As soon as it seems the room has gathered themselves, Germany goes to speak.

"Now that you utter buffoons have collected yourselves, I call for an hour break as this meetings organiser."
A sigh of relief echoes through the room, and Germany's eyebrow twitches.
"Hopefully you all have calmed down by them." As soon as Germany says that, he walks off the podium, North Italy immediately standing up and following him out of the wooden doors.

Americas slowly drooping eyes watch as the other nations collect their things and walk out the room. One by one, until he's the only one left in the silence. America sighs, before quietly standing up and leaning against the table.

'How did we end up like this?' he thought to himself with a sad grin, eyes stormy.
'Fighting constantly, not even bothering to hear eachother out on the real problems in the world.' He sighs.
'Atleast state meetings aren't this bad. Sure, they fight, but they'd rather stick to words and leave the physicality at home.'

'Speaking of the states, didn't they have a meeting scheduled to happen here today too?' America ponders to himself as he picks his bag up, pushing in his chair in and heading down the hallway. 'Maybe I can stop by and say hello.'

As he looses himself in his thoughts, America forgets to watch where he walks and ends up running straight into someone.

"Oompf!" America stumbles at the impact, falling to the floor with a thud. "Dude, I am so sorry, I didn't know what I was doing-" He cuts himself off as he turns his gaze to the person above him.

"Amerika?"

'You've got to be kidding me.'