i can be ya easy, anytime, clothing-optional girl, you can be my everyday do-it-good man;
Title: Axis Powers: Wedding Massacre (1/2)
Doctor: inuyashacooks
Character(s)/Pairing(s): ensemble (unfortunately); America, France, Spain, Romano, Germany, Italy, England, Japan; Germany/Italy, US/UK, Spain/Romano
Rating: The following program contains obnoxiousness, coarse language, and suggestive themes, and as such should not be viewed by anyone.
Warnings: really?
Summary: France and America are bored. Spain is having relationship problems. What better way to pass the time than to help out with a wedding? With that in mind, France and America seek to help by planning the AWESOMEST MOST ROMANTIC AWESOMEST MOST ROMANTIC AWESOMEST MOST ROMANTIC greatest wedding in the history of man.
Note: what the fuck
oh also this is a sequel to Axis Powers: Wedding Massacre, i'm slightly too lazy to put a link, but it's somewhere on this comm IN THE WILD
☆AXIS POWERS: WEDDING MASSACRE (1/2)
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. It was summer, mild and still- fireflies flashing in the mid-evening stupor. The air was pink and gold but a blue cool was falling onto the grass, onto the pathway. Spain was on the move: Spain was a man with a plan. Also, a guitar, flamenco shoes, and a package of Goya cookies, but that was irrelevant. Tonight he was going to make his final stand against a tempestuous heart that belonged to one indignant little tomato called Romano.
It was a trifling set of circumstances. For years this boy had tormented him with lightning moods, evil eyes. Spain was naturally a giver, but how much longer could he give and receive nothing back?
He figured maybe he just wasn’t making his feelings clear; it was probably just that. So tonight he would make Romano understand.
He whistled some memory melody as he walked along the path, admiring the lazy art in Italian architecture, the dim sugar glow of porch lights. The pink was becoming violent as it faded into the night- a swan song in colors, maybe. Ah, this was Romano’s house, with its the sun-baked stucco, the melodic silence swelling on the lawn as he crossed it (dew cool and wet, air sleepy and humid). He passed the front door and went around to the backyard- hopping the fence because it didn’t pass his mind that he might look like, oh, maybe a serial killer.
But it was not the time to be worrying about the law. Finding that it was hard to hop a fence with flamenco shoes on, he left them behind and ventured into the backyard. He rounded about, knowing exactly where to go, clutching the neck of his guitar. He stood for a moment underneath the balcony, contemplating his decision. There was silence and no light coming out from Romano’s bedroom window. Spain threw a few rocks at it just for good measure, and then got into place- standing straight, determined- and hitched up his guitar, and started to sing.
Romano, meanwhile had been awake since Spain had thrown the third rock of five- "Fucking pigeons!" he’d said, exasperated, stuffing his pillow over his head. He had almost drifted back to sleep when he heard the starting chords; he poked his head up, wondering what the fuck was so goddamn insistent on ruining his sleep.
And then he heard the singing.
"That is fucking it," he snapped, exasperated, throwing his sheets off and getting up from bed. Just in case it was some kinda mental hospital escapee, he made sure the phone was nearby so that he could call Spain or that potato bastard, since they were condemned to being his eternal bodyguards. He wrenched the door to the balcony open and stomped outside, trying in his groggy state to see who was playing that fucking guitar and- he paused. He rubbed his eyes.
Was that fucking Spain?
Of all the fucking idiots he didn’t want to wake him up, fucking Spain. "Hey, you fucking bastard!" he yelled, shaking his fist, "Mind keeping it the fuck down?!"
Spain didn’t seem to hear because he was currently crooning at the top of his lungs. Romano was about to open his mouth agains to say something, when the damp summer breeze carried to him the words of the song-
"Me gusta de ti, lo mucho que me gustas/ Y...oh crap I forgot the next words-" at this point he hummed, until he got to this point- "Y tenemos demasiado
que vivir- DIMELO, SI YO NO QUIERO O LO QUIEROOOO!"
Romano’s sharp tongue was for once in his life at a loss for words. For one, he had realized a second ago that Spain was serenading him. For another, he realized as well that Spain was serenading him underneath his bedroom window which had a balcony. Thirdly, he was standing on this balcony currently, and in addition to this, he had read Romeo and Juliet before. Also, there was a full moon and it was beautiful weather on a summer night.
But perhaps the worst part was that Spain was singing him an Enrique Iglesias song. (That Enrique Iglesias was one handsome devil, as an aside.)
Romano sputtered, red up to his ears, as Spain continued, "Dimelo, porque estas afuera de mi? Y al mismo tiempo estas muy dentro! Dimelo sin hablar y hazme sentir, todo lo que yo ya siento!"
"You fucking- fucking- goddammit Spain!" Romano yelled- Spain cast his eyes up to the balcony hopefully, but Romano turned on his heel and retreated inside. Spain was expecting that; well, he’d just sing louder, then, until he got his message across-
Spain was in the middle of a fucking guitar solo when Romano came back holding what looked like an encyclopedia. Spain didn’t have the time to question it before that encyclopedia came flying toward him. Dodging it narrowly, he looked up at the balcony in complete confusion- when Romano started to throw an arsenal of things, sneakers, dictionaries, cutlery, bedsheets.
Spain lost his footing but managed to keep playing the chords. "Ro-Romano, querido, why are you throwing things at me!?"
"Get outta my backyard you fuckin’ freak!" Romano yelled, still red in the face, throwing a wooden sword down at the lawn.
"What!? What does that mean-"
"Get out, bastard! I’ll call the fuckin’ cops!"
"What did I do!? Please tell me-"
"You’re singing fucking Enri- whatever, just go!"
"But- but," Spain continued, tongue caught, flustered, "I- I brought cookies!"
Romano paused, as though considering the offer, and Spain showed him the package.
Another beat of silence went by and Romano proceeded to throw a boot at him.
"Motherfucker! I can’t believe you!"
"Can I at least come inside?" Spain pleaded, because he was just fucking stupid like that, "I swear I’ll sing a better song! And not Enrique Iglesias!"
"Tha-that’s not the fucking problem!" Romano yelled back, and in a fit of bad judgment threw the telephone down onto the lawn.
Spain, overwhelmed, hurried to slip the guitar strap over his head and run out of the backyard- back over the fence, forgetting to pick up his shoes on the way. It was getting dark already but there was still the same warmth and sweetness lazy on the air. In truth, he wasn’t hurt (Romano had probably done and said much, much worse); he was just sucked in by strong confusion, so overwhelming that he couldn’t tell where he was meaning to go, walking around the quiet neighborhood. After fifteen minutes or so of aimless barefoot wandering, he decided where to go, and took direction out. Back at the house, Romano’s blush had finally gone away, and even though he tried to sleep he found himself unable.
Meanwhile, France and America were in what America deemed that "other place, uhm, part in Europe," trying to fight off their mutual boredom with ridiculousness. Since the mind-blowing combination of failure and success of Germany’s funeral party, everything had been quiet and they’d each had nothing to do. Because neither of them were really keen on getting out of the global recession or LBGT rights or anything that could actually be deemed work (and because they’d both just recently gotten bored of harassing England) they spent their days at France’s house doing absolutely nothing.
The night of Spain’s disaster, France was demonstrating his ability with the accordion and America was generally not caring. France was in the middle of saying, "England could never play accordion like this," when Spain came into the room, dragging his feet and looking like he’d just visited a sick person at the hospital.
The Big-Brother-Brain-Activity lever was pulled and France’s lecherous grin lit up full force. "Spain! How nice to see you! Have a seat! Can I offer you some chicken? Maybe some sex?"
"Hey Spain!" America said, sort of nervously because lately Spain had been knee-attacking him whenever he saw him.
But Spain did nothing of the sort. He smiled tiredly and said a weak hello and sank down into a seat at the kitchen table. France and America exchanged a knowing glance- France threw the accordion aside and sat down next to Spain, and America got a bottle of brandy. "I don’t know what to do," Spain sobbed, vexed and collapsing on the table after they had poured him full of enough alcohol to get him talking, "No matter what I try he just gets mad or throws things and- I don’t know what I’m doing that he gets so mad! I keep trying and...I don’t know what I should do...I came here because-" he sent a hopeful look up at France- "you know a lot about this kinda stuff, right?"
"Of course, of course," France said, giving up on Spain’s shirt buttons. "Can you get this button for me? It’s too small."
"Oh, yeah...sure," Spain answered, dazed, starting to unbutton his shirt. "So anyway, what do you think I should do?"
"Who cares?" America said, already bored as he ate a hot dog, "If he’s being a little jerk then he doesn’t deserve you caring, so just forget it!"
"No! I can’t! Because he’s worth it!" Spain answered.
"Tresemme! Ooh la la!" America laughed.
"No, that’s L’Oreal," France corrected as he ran his hands over Spain’s shoulders.
"Oh lol I see. Well anyway if you love him so much why don’t you marry him?" America said.
"Oh, be quiet," France chided.
"I just...I don’t know what to do...I asked him to marry me once and he just gave me a list of demands...but then again I had asked Italy to marry me too so maybe that doesn’t count? Anyway there’s not much more I can do...maybe he’s the kind of person who wants a big ring or something?"
"Well, that wouldn’t be too much to give, right?" France asked, taking off his own shirt, "Perhaps you need to show him a bigger, more concrete display of your love. You know, a bunch of roses and a diamond ring and a big, dazzling wedding."
Spain paused to think about that- he started to speak, but France and America barley heard a word he was saying. Because as France said "big, dazzling wedding," they had begun to know their destinies. Divine providence had struck them both like a lightning bolt, and their eyes met- a silent agreement on the point to throw the greatest wedding ever thrown. France, when questioned later, would claim that the words were sent to his mouth directly by God.
"Well, you know, mon cher," France said, with a fabulous hand wave, "I think that perhaps you should marry him!"
Spain paused and blinked. "Yeah," he answered, sort of laughing, "But-"
"It’ll all be fine!" France continued, with an easy laugh, "Just let us take care of it!"
"Yeah! It’ll be awesome! I can be your hero and save you guys and stuff!" America exclaimed, barely able to contain his excitement.
Spain laughed. "I- I don’t know, though- I mean how will I get him to marry me- I mean...?"
"We’ll take care of it, don’t worry!" France answered.
"But- how will I even ask him, or..."
America and France exchanged a look of desperation. America, seeing that as his cue to bring justice, grabbed Spain by the shoulders and looked him dead in the eye. "Spain. Yo tiene mucho pantalones cortos," he said, very srsly.
Spain blinked. "Q-que!?" he finally whispered, astonished.
"See, I told you he’d agree!" America chimed, taking a bit of his hot dog.
"What did you even just say?" France asked, as though he’d just witnessed the unnecessary death of a kitten.
"Who even cares! He said ‘kay,’ right?" They stared at him. He laughed loudly and obnoxiously. "Like ‘O-KAY, ROGER THAT!’ Except he just forgot the rest of it."
France blinked, then shook his head. "Never mind him, cheri," France said, waving him off and looking back to Spain. America pouted. "I’m saying to you now- it’s of utmost importance that you let us plan your wedding. If not- well..." France produced a silk handkerchief from thin air like a magician and sobbed into it. "If not, your relationship may be ruined!"
"What!? Really!?" Spain asked, rising from his seat in alarm.
"Yes! Really!" France and America chimed, and then continued weeping together.
Spain, having no further doubts in his mind, agreed to let them plan the wedding which was not yet even agreed upon by both parties involved, and thanked them profusely. France called Spain a cab and told him to get some sleep, because he was very aware that they would need to start planning immediately.
When Spain had gone, America turned to France, absolutely beaming. "This is why we’re friends, man," he said, and they high-fived even though France was intrinsically opposed to high-fiving. Little did they know that planning this wedding would not be so easy as planning a funeral party, and that this wedding would be full of trials and tribulations that would ultimately damage their friendship, except not really.
From that point two days passed without word of the wedding, which must have been some kind of secret-keeping record for America, France, and Spain. Planning was actively continued on a bright Tuesday morning. Romano had slept over Spain’s place without Spain saying anything regarding the wedding; that morning, Spain opened the door to the guest room, smile like sun. "Romano! It’s ten ‘o’ clock," he sang out, "Time to get up."
Romano grumbled underneath the covers. "What time is it?" he asked, voice slow and tired.
"Ten," Spain reminded, "But Germany and Italy are here, too, so we’re gonna have breakfast!"
"Fuck outta here," Romano answered, covering his head with his pillow, "I’m not getting up for shit-"
"Hmmm," hummed a deep, showy voice somewhere nearby, "The morning after, I see?"
Romano felt a shudder and sat up, looking along with Spain toward the direction of the voice. There was France, hanging in the window with that smile on his face, cat ears on his head- and from the looks of it, shirtless.
"Oh! Hi France! Morning!" Spain said brightly, waving.
"Bonjour!" France chimed, and as he waved the sound of sparkles descended upon the room. B|.
"Oh God, not you," Romano groaned, "Wh-what are you, some kinda fucking bat! Get outta that window!"
"Indeed! I shall!" France agreed. (Just to think of that grammatically- "Indeed I am a bat, and I shall get out of this window?")
"Come on, I have to get in, too, y’know," America whined, and popped up in the window frame beside France. "HEY GUYS! Awesome morning! Yo, Romano, why’re you naked?"
"Yes, why are you naked?" France asked lazily, with a tone that said he expected an invitation whenever global nekkidness occured.
"B-because I’m always naked! Shit!" Romano cursed.
"You’re always naked?"
"Shut the fuck up! Spain! Go knock him outta the window!"
"Oh, but that’ll hurt him though, right? I saw a movie where somebody got paralyzed once because they fell from a flight of stairs, but then again that’s not the same as a window, but I think it’s pretty much the same concept."
"Relax, everyone," France laughed, and then hauled himself through the window frame and stepped into the room. "France is here!"
"...Why is it," Romano said, running his tongue over his teeth, "That whenever you show up here, you look like this?"
"Magic?" France asked, making a wide gesture, as if to show off his naked hairy frame with the usual single rose covering his vital regions. "Good luck? Your birthday?"
"The fuck-"
"Yeah I told him not to wear it but he did," America said, "Anyway yeah! You! Get up!"
Romano balled his fist. "Sh-shit! Fuck you guys!"
"Come now, don’t be stubborn," France said, crossing the room in a flash and tugging Romano out of bed, "We need to fit you for your dress."
Romano froze. It wasn’t so much because he was relenting, like saying "Oh yeah my dress fitting I totes forgot guys haha," but because he was wondering if he had just heard right. "What?"
"Your dress fitting!" France answered impatiently.
"For your wedding!" America said.
"Y-you’re going to wear a dress!?" Spain exclaimed, huffing and getting a little too excited for his own good, "That’s s-so cute!"
"-WHAT THE FUCK!?" Romano screeched, and threw the sheets off, getting up from the bed like lightning.
"Yeah! Nice start!" America said, giving two thumbs up, "I love your enthusiasm!"
"You fucking bastards! Wedding my ass! Fuck you guys!" Romano yelled.
Spain’s face fell and he remembered that he probably should have told Romano about the whole wedding thing. France, on the other hand, was doing absolutely nothing but smiling, because this was the first time he had ever seen the elusive Romano naked.
Romano was about to say "Wipe that rapist grin off your face," when he realized that he was naked and turned red as a beet; he gathered the sheets and held them around his hips, looked at Spain with a scowl. "I have a feeling this is your fault, bastard, so you better have an explanation for all this-"
"Oh, good, good!" France interjected, and at the speed of light attached a number of clothing pins to hold the sheet in place.
America rushed over and started to do stuff with a ruler. "Just hold still and-"
"Get the fuck off me!"
"Haha!" America laughed, holding up the ruler as though taking measurements, "I don’t even know what I’m doing!"
Meanwhile, down in the living room, Germany and Italy were sitting around and waiting; had been waiting for the entire time Spain had gone upstairs, and Italy was starting to get whiny. "Ve, Ger-man-yyyy," Italy drawled, "How much longer do you think Spain will take?"
"I’m not sure...perhaps something happened?" Germany said, counting all the ways "something could have happened" in his mind. Most of them had to do with the fact that Romano was obnoxious and violent.
Italy paused. "I’m so hungry," he went on.
"J-just," Germany answered, eye twitching, "wait a little longer. He can’t take that long, right?"
Italy sort of nodded guility. Then he started, "Hey Germany, if Jane has five apples and John wants two of them but he also wants to buy five from Jim-"
At which point, they heard glass shattering, followed by more glass shattering. Italy squealed and started to shudder in fear that Spain had thrown himself out the window, or maybe somebody had broken in, and Germany got up to his feet immediately. "What-" he started, and then the trampling of several pairs of feet thudded down the stairs.
"You fucking," a voice that was distinctly Romano’s stuttered. Germany’s eyes flickered over to the landing, where Romano was the first to appear- wearing nothing but a sheet fastened with safety pins around his hips and covered in seafoam green glitter. "I can’t fucking, I’m just going to kill you all!"
"Come on Romanito, don’t be like that!" Spain pleaded, following after him.
"Don’t you talk! You’re the worst of all!"
A naked France appeared in the living room. Germany’s brain started to die, and the process of death only hastened when America appeared after him, humming "When Johnny Comes Marching Home" as loud as he could.
"Ve, France? America? What are you guys doing here?" Italy asked, dazed. He looked at Romano, covered in glitter. "What’s going on? Are we playing Twister?"
"I’m not sure how you came to that conclusion, but would you like to?" France answered, wiggling his eyebrows.
"I don’t think it’s legal for you to play Twister with anyone," Germany managed to cut in.
"Yeah me neither," America said.
"What!? I-"
"Everyone shut up! I’m not wearing the goddamn dress!" Romano cried.
Germany fell silent and proceeded to be deeply disturbed. Italy looked on dreamily.
"You have to! You must!" France cried, clenching his fist.
"No!"
"It’s your wedding! It’s necessary for the bride to be beautifully clothed in a pure white gown!" France went on.
Italy’s face brightened like instant sunshine and he clapped his hand. "R-Romano! Fratello! You’re getting married?"
"Yeah!" America said.
"Congratulations, Spain!" Italy said, throwing his arms around Spain.
"Thank you! Aww you’re so cute-"
"Dammit, why does everyone assume I’m marrying him," Romano sniffled, and then went on, "And fuck the dress thing! I’m gonna be wearing a fucking tux and that’s it! Alright!"
France pouted. "Oh you’re no fun at all," he said. He turned to America. "Help me, here."
"I don’t really care what they’re wearing!" America said with a hamburger laugh. France’s expression soured, but before he could say anything Italy asked when the wedding would be.
"In like," America said, "A week. Two weeks. Something like that."
Germany paused. "Wait, why are you answering that?" he asked.
"Because me and France are planning it!" America exclaimed.
Germany froze. Italy clapped some more. "That’s so great! It’s gonna be super!"
"For reals," America answered.
"Well, it better be fucking super," Romano snapped, "Because if it’s not, I’m gonna seriously kill you two. Shit, I don’t even know how I got roped into this retarded crap-"
Germany stirred from his terrified stupor and pointed out, "Wait, if you don’t want to, then why are you agreeing to it?"
Romano paused, whatever syllable might have been next on his tongue was caught- he blushed fiercely- "Sh-shut the fuck up! Did I ask for your opinion, stupid?"
"Well- no- but it just makes sense," Germany answered.
"Hey! Shut yer mouth you goddamn potato!" Romano interrupted, lunging toward Germany, "You shoulda died back then!"
Germany’s soul sighed because ever since the funeral party, he’d been hearing that exact same thing from every other nation. As Romano perched himself sort of threateningly in front Germany, Italy latched onto Germany’s arm. "Veee! Romano is so scary!"
"Get outta the way, Veneziano! This fuckin’ potato is about to see how fuckin’ French fries get made!"
Spain sort of wilted. "Romanito...that was kind of lame..."
"Anyway, anyway," America broke through, seeing everybody in the room as entirely less important than himself, eyes glittering, "I have this like- alllll mapped out-" (here he made a broad gesture with both his hands)- "But I don’t really know about location. I have a couple in mind, like Arby’s, or the moon."
France laughed nervously and covered America’s mouth with his hand. "Excuse him, he doesn’t know what he’s talking about," he said, "I was thinking perhaps that we might have it at-" (and here his eyes lit fervently)- "one of the most romantic destinations in the world- Niagara Falls, or under the Eiffel Tower!"
"But how are we going to launch a rocket from the Eiffel Tower!" America protested, freeing himself from France’s grasp.
France’s eye twitched. "Rockets, dearest? I don’t- well, how do you think you’re going to launch a rocket from Arby’s?"
America laughed. "I can find a way, believe me."
"I’m very sure you can," France countered, giving a similar laugh.
Everybody else in the room had pretty much shut up, because even the two dense ones sensed the sudden eerie atmosphere of competition between them. Romano kind of cocked his head, like "What the fuck?" and Germany was very deeply concerned, to the point where he was thinking of contacting the proper authorities before this whole thing got out of hand. He was pretty sure that jail would be ineffective on both of them, though. Anyway, France and America seemed to sense the tension themselves, because they both laughed it up and made a subtle effort to team up once again.
"So, uhm, yeah!" America said, with a justice laugh, "Just like uhm! Be there or be square!"
"Indeed!" France continued, throwing his arm around America’s shoulders. "Keep your calendars free, petits oiseaus!"
And with that, they slowly walked backwards all the way from the living room to the front door. Spain, Germany, Romano, and Italy stared as they went. At one point France accidentally tripped America, but soon and with only minor incident, they were gone.
In the aftermath of whatever that was, they stirred wakeful as though from some mutual dream. Italy remembered he was hungry, but after he declared as such, he amended his bad manners by congratulating Spain and Romano once again. Spain said his thank-yous and suggested making breakfast; Germany, who was still pretty tempted by that whole police thing, just nodded.
Spain suggested to Romano that he boil some tomatoes so that they could peel them. Romano didn’t even stir in response; curious, Spain asked, "Romano?" With that Romano seemed- the last person to awake- to move. Then his expression darkened, that thing he always did where his cheeks puffed out slightly and his face became dark red; he didn’t say anything, but huffed angrily past Spain and up the stairs, as though insulted. He didn’t bother to address how fucking ridiculous he looked in that sheet-and-glitter getup, just stomped away.
Spain opened his mouth to say something but seemed to forget it halfway. He laughed it off but he looked uneasy. Germany was visibly disturbed by that as well; Italy less so, because he didn’t exactly know what was going on but was cool with that. They went off into the kitchen, Spain made breakfast, and they ate in relative quiet. Spain, quiet because he wasn’t sure of his love at all; Italy, because nobody was talking; Germany, because he was going through PSTD, remembering the Hell of just a little while ago.
It was a dark, bruised night outside, and England was sitting in his London flat doing absolutely nothing but being very English over a spot of tea and a newspaper, skimming over stock statistics with a very prim expression and daydreaming about Jane Austen and Sherlock Holmes and a good match of footie. The entire scene could only have been more English had he been wearing a monocle and a tophat and smoking a fag, or if he had been reading a book about fox-hunting. His disgusting redcoat tendencies were interrupted rudely just as he reached an interesting piece on the benefits of biscuits: suddenly, just as his eyes met the beginning words, there was a loud banging sound as though his door was being broken down by a SWAT team, and then the sounds of scuffling from the foyer. At first he was surprised, but as a nation, he was fairly accustomed to any amount of asshattery on any occasion, so he rolled his eyes, got up from his place, and went off in the direction of the noise, but not before he stoked the fire roaring in the fireplace and lit his corncob pipe, all whilst saying, "I say."
As he walked, he was, of course, expecting either France or America (no matter how many times he changed his locks, France seemed to always have a key; America, on the other hand, could pretty much bench-press a car, so doors weren’t really an issue for him); he was not, on the other hand, expecting both France and America, and when he saw both of them in front of his door, spouting angry words and trying to strangle each other, he nearly had a heart attack.
"What the-" he began, but his words were overshadowed by their arguing.
"The moon!" America ground out, tugging on France’s hair.
"Niagara Falls!" France countered, catching America’s hand and bending his fingers back.
"OWCH! I don’t understand what your problem is! Isn’t there at least one waterfall on the moon!?"
"What the Hell are you doing in my house!" England yelled, throwing his hands up.
"Mon Dieu! Planning a wedding! What does it look like!" France snapped, looking at England irritably.
"Yeah, for real, England, pay some attention!" America scolded.
England’s eyes sparked. "You’re planning a wedding," he repeated slowly, "In my house."
"Eyebrows, are you feeling particularly dense today?" France asked.
"THAT IS FUCKING ABSURD! Why do you need to be in my fucking house!?" England protested, but they ignored him and went back to fighting. Things got particularly heated- America threatened to go back to calling it "Freedom Toast" and France countered with saying that he was going to go on strike against McDonald’s and England kept telling them to get out of his fucking house, goddammit. Once they knocked down the Rembrandt that he had hanging near the coat rack, he decided to draw the line- he Britannia-Beamed them both, and only then did they seem fully conscious of his presence. Having gotten their attention, he berated and belittled them before dragging to the living room, sitting them down, and asking in a very crisp irritated manner to please explain themselves.
And, upon being asked to explain themselves, they both fell silent as petulant children. England put his hands on his hips. "Well?" he prodded.
France shifted uncomfortably in his chair. America fidgeted, but was the first to give- "It’s his fault! He won’t let me make the wedding awesome!"
"Lies! He’s trying to sabotage the most romantic wedding ever planned!" France countered, leaning forward.
"Pssshhh that’s so fruity! Seriously!"
"Alright, stop it, stop it," England said, waving his hands between them.
"Whose wedding is this again?"
"Spain and Romano’s," France said, and then sort of laughed like he pitied England for being such a peasant. "You’re so out of the loop, England."
"I’m not even going to comment on either of the things you just said," England snapped, "So what exactly are you two arguing over?" He punctuated his exasperation with a puff on his pipe.
America fidgeted impatiently. "This guy’s telling me that it’s ridiculous to have a space-themed ceremony. What could be fucking cooler than being married by an alien!? That’s like a ticket to a good marriage! Why do you think that’s ridiculous!?"
England blinked, but was not disappointed because he really didn’t expect any better from America.
"Because that is ridiculous," France sighed heavily.
America pouted. "Oh yeah? I’d like to see you come up with better."
"Actually, petit, I have," France answered.
"So? What is it?"
There was a deep pause. France got that look on his face that evoked fine wine and classical music. He waved his hand casually as he talked, saying, "I, of course, had a scene in my mind that was evocative of fine wine and classical music. Decorations, of course, in different shades of red and burgundy- a touch of pearl white here and there for contrast; a string quartet playing beautiful, intimate pieces. A landscape made in light and sound- everything from the table settings to the attire of the guests subtle and elegant. The perfect background for the greatest gift given to mankind." He paused. Doves fluttered and stars twinkled like violet diamonds of violet outside the window. Clowns had a good time and all was well with the world, and he continued, "Love."
England threw up in his mouth but held it back, and was not disappointed because he really did not expect any better of France.
"What?" America balked, because that whole paragraph of France dialogue made him want to shoot himself in the face, "What is that? That's like the gayest thing ever. You probably came up with that in a dark room. Alone. Listening to really sad violin music." He paused thoughtfully. "There were probably candles, too. And cheese. And you were crying."
France’s expression ticked in irritation; he smoothed it over with one of indifference. "America," he said, "I’m not sure if you’re entirely aware of this, but you’re hurting my feelings right now. And since I am possessed of a kind and generous heart, I’m going to overlook that. But I am going to say that Michael Jackson was worthless."
America was about to say something, but then it hit him- his lower lip trembled and his eyes became glassy, and France’s expression washed over in triumph. England, for a reason that had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he didn’t like seeing America cry, intervened. He folded his arms, saying, "Alright, I’ve had enough of your annoyances. That’s quite enough." He sighed. "Do I really have to fix everything for you people? Honestly!"
With that in mind, he commenced intervention by preparing some tea (and coffee, at America’s insistent whining- which prompted France to ask slyly, "Excuse me, Angleterre? I wasn’t even aware you possessed coffee in your pathetic house; is there a reason for that?") and bringing it back to the living room- after a couple of silent moments, he folded his hands and began discussing the matter at hand with them, and realized that the fail ran deeper than he thought. For one thing, he wasn’t sure if they even cared about Spain and Romano, but he wasn’t going to ask because it would only make everything worse. For another, they had absolutely nothing planned or finished. The wedding invitations, its location, the wedding party, and even the date, had taken a back seat to their bickering.
With England’s help, however, they came to a compromise. America was allowed to invent a priest (he literally said, "I want to invent the priest," and neither of them even had anything to counter that with), but the rest of the personnel would be human beings. They would cooperate on the menu, meaning that France would get to serve Louis Roederer and make the wedding cake himself, but that America would get to serve corn dogs and chicken nuggets at the same time. The only atmospheric aspect that America controlled was the lighting, which he was adamant about; England decided that they would all have much less of a chance of being wiped off the face by God if France was put in charge of the rest, from the table settings to the music. America especially pouted at that last one, because it meant that they couldn’t walk up the aisle to "We Built This City On Rock ‘n’ Roll" or "Hit Me With Your Best Shot" or "(Awww Man) Round 2."
They decided on a date and, having done all of that, fell casually into discussing their plans for the wedding. "I was thinking, I was thinking," America said quickly, bubbling over and barely able to contain his excitement, "That like, the second they say ‘I Do,’ there should be like- a display!"
"What?" England asked, raising an eyebrow skeptically.
"Like, a display! That’ll light up behind the altar!" America paused, and then continued with hurricane force, "OH MY GOD, it’ll be a whale! A beluga whale will light up behind them! NO WAIT, a humpback whale! Which whale is the most badass whale of all, France?" He asked it as though France would really know these things.
"Non! It should at least be something like a heart!" France contradicted.
"Oi, what about a fucking tomato?" England asked, tapping on the table.
France and America paused and looked at England like he was a biological anomaly. "...Why a tomato," America asked, eyes narrowing suspiciously at England, like to say, "u haz 4 sekonds 2 explian urself young man."
England’s jaw hung open in amazement. "-Because they’re Mr. and Mr. Fucking Tomato 2010 you fucking moron!" he spat.
"Hmm. Mr. and Mr. That’s awkward," France said, making a mental note of it, "Remind me to thank you for pointing that out, Eyebrows."
England was about to make a snappy jazzy rebuttal, but then remembered that this was his house. And that America and France were both sitting in it. And they were talking relatively civilly over a spot of tea (plus one coffee). Seeing that this according to some cosmic law was intrinsically wrong, he stood up, saying, "Wait a moment."
"What?" America asked.
"Quoi?"
"Stop it with that fucking language first of all. Second of all I’m afraid you’re all going to have to go," England continued, making a very polite gesture toward the door.
France sniffed. "Kicking us out, are you? Well, see how this turns out. Don’t expect a helping hand when you’re drunk on the streets of Paris, being a pathetic little raincloud, being stepped on by escorts and men of high standing."
America paused. "You do that?! HAHAH England-"
"Get the fuck out!" England snapped, "And for your information, I won’t need your help! Much less would you even give me help, you sod. I suppose you don’t remember the garbage truck incident?"
France’s face brightened. "Ah, yes, I do remember that, and I also thank you for making my night." He then threw his teacup on the floor just because, got up straightening his tres facionnable outfit (and yes that did have to be written in French, absolutely, it wouldn’t be the same without it, you don’t know me, etc.), and amidst loud English swearing, whisked himself out the door.
"You French fucking sodding fuck, goddamn-" he paused, and sent an angry glance to America. "And why are you still here?"
America paused. "Why not? I thought I’d maybe sleep over and we could go to McDonald’s and maybe watch a movie or something. Like a sleepover, except without nail polish. I couldn’t get a hold of Poland anyway."
"I don’t even know what you’re talking about it, but I’m not participating in it," England answered, "Kindly leave."
America pouted greatly. "Fine then! I’ll just go, George Whipple."
England rose a mammoth eyebrow. "Who?"
America trotted to the door, saying, "You will never know!" and proceeded to lol forever in his brain. England went back to the living room after locking the door, and then sank into his armchair, wondering what he’d gotten himself into this time. He also wondered how he could mend the broken night, and then figured he could do it by being even more English, so he put on his long-forgotten (read: put-on-last-weekend-at-an-Elton-John-concert) monocle and headed down to Africa with a bottle of whiskey for some mad colonizing.
Meanwhile in the city, absolutely nothing was happening, so forget I just said that. Over the next couple of days, planning was going swell. Prussia was, for some reason, asked if he wanted to help with the planning. He just said "uhm no thanks, bitches ain’t shit," and then went off to cry alone. They arranged the wedding party; France wanted to focus fully on the wedding planning, so he elected not to be best man. Prussia had way too much fun being alone to even dream of doing something so lame and gay, so he refused. Through some weird twist, Austria was made best man, but that was planned mostly over the phone for a mysterious reason that will be explicated later. Italy offered to be maid of honor, but Romano’s response was "NO NO NO- GREECE! GET GREECE!" Said Greece was called, and it was confirmed that he had enough time in his schedule beyond sleeping and thinking and avoiding Turkey to be maid of honor, so that was set. Since nations don’t generally like each other that much, the wedding parties were limited to that.
Italy had suggested to Romano that Germany should be his best man which, plainly put, was pretty fucking stupid. Even though Romano blatantly refused "to let that fucking tuba-playing loser near me," Germany was not hurt. This was because Germany, who, long story short, had "died" a couple of months ago and was thrown an elaborate "funeral party," did not want to participate in any more shenanigans, especially shenanigans that France and America were involved in. The two of them were the best/worst team ever to team up together. They were both dramatic, showy, self-centered, and too easily excited, and they both had access to massive sums of money at any given time. This should have all been illegal in Germany’s opinion, but who ever listened to him?
In order not to lose his mind, Germany pushed all thought of the wedding to the farthest corner of his mind. He was filing papers in an alphabetical order so intense it could make all of Sesame Street explode in wonder, listening to the sounds of Spain, Romano, Italy, and Japan in his living room (why that made sense, he did not know), when France and America dropped by to make everybody’s lives worse than they already were.
"Bonjouuuuur!" France called, barging in through the door that America had opened by pure force.
"Hey guyyys!" America chimed.
"Fuck, it’s you people," Romano ground out from the living room, but made sure that he was far enough away so that they wouldn’t really hear them.
France and America rounded into the living room. "Guess what I’ve brought?" France asked, the look in his eyes eerily similar to that he had during the Napoleon days.
"What?" Spain piped excitedly, coming closer.
"Well I could tell you, mon plus cheri, but then again these secrets aren’t given for free. Perhaps you could give me a kiss and-"
"Sure!"
"FUCK THAT," Romano interrupted, "Ain’t gonna be any of that shit near me!"
"Oh right, so sorry to impede on the love of two engaged persons-"
"It’s not that, I just don’t want to see it, why-"
"What is it, what is it?" Italy asked, bouncing over.
Germany exited his office and entered the living room, making sure that he could be there to witness any illegal activity so that he could testify when these two were put on trial for crimes against humanity. France waved around a plastic bag, and then pulled something out of it- a stack of what looked like envelopes.
"Oh good! Envelopes!" Italy cheered, "Look Germany, envelopes! Just what we needed!" It should be noted that had he been anyone else but Italy, that would’ve been an insult.
"Not just any envelopes, dear Italy. These hold the invitations to the greatest wedding ever planned!" France said, handing one of the envelopes to Romano.
Romano gave France the ill stare, like he was saying, These better not be too fucking gay, and basking in his own cognitive dissonance, started to carefully open one of the envelopes-
And was hit in the face by a combination of multicolored glitter and rose-shaped confetti. "WHAT THE FUCK!?!" he exclaimed, coughing through the shining cloud. America fist-bumped France against France’s will, and Spain gingerly took the envelope from Romano’s hand.
The letter contained was written in Florentine script, very beautifully and fancily, very florid, but the stationery itself was bordered by red, white, and blue decorations- squiggle lines and rockets and the like. The invitation itself read:
YOU ARE INVITED TO THE WEDDING OF
~MR. SPAIN FERNANDEZ CARRIEDO AND MS. ROMANO VARGAS~
PLANNED BY
~THE MOST WONDERFUL AND HONORABLE GENTLEMAN SQUIER FRANCE~
AND
~THE MOST EPIC FUCKING AMERICA TO EVER BE AN AMERICA WITH ROCKETS AND MACARONI AND FLGZ~
It then listed the date, the location, and etc., but was mysteriously followed by:
BYOT (BRING YOUR OWN TIE)
PREPARE TO BE VIDEOTAPPED
RSVP BY 8/02/10
WE BUILT THIS CITY ON ROCK N ROLL
Romano’s jaw was hanging almost to the floor by then in anger and indignation. Spain was smiling and thanking France and America for their joint effort.
"Ms. Romano Vargas," Romano said, teeth almost grinding to powder, interrupting Spain’s profuse gracias-ing.
"Stunning, isn’t it?" France questioned.
"You don’t have to thank us! You’re my friend so why not do something nice!" America said fervently, giving a justice thumbs-up.
"Ms. Romano Vargas," Romano repeated, not sure if they had heard the first time everything that was fucking wrong with that sentence fragment. "And I’m not your friend!"
"What? You’re mad about the girl part?" America answered, for once in his life being somewhat observant about somebody’s feelings. "Come on, man. You’re definitely the- what is it you call it, Japan?"
"Uke," Japan responded immediately, because these kinds of things came natural to him.
"Yeah, the girl," America said.
"Embrace it, mon frere," France said, clapping Romano on the back, "It’s no use to fight it. It only makes it harder."
Romano slapped France’s hand away from him. "You are the fucking worst," Romano said, "And I demand you change these or else- or else this guy’s gonna beat you up, capiche?!" He then pointed at Germany who sighed for stupidity for the twelve-millionth time in his entire life.
"I admit though that I don’t get it," laughed Spain with an easy, lazy tone, "Romano’s a man, after all."
"Way to go, genius," Romano snapped. He focused his attention back on France and America. "Change this shit," he said shortly, "Or else somebody’s gonna get their ass kicked!"
"Too late!" France said, with a twirl of his fingers.
"Yeah, we already ordered them and personally since my economy’s not really like that great I mean it’s AMERICAN and stuff but you know," America said, not making any sense as usual, "We’re not gonna spend the money is what I’m saying. So yeah."
Spain laughed. "That’s okay, though-"
"No, it’s fucking not," Romano cut in, "How the fuck did you guys end up planning this fucking wedding!? You guys can’t get your heads out of your asses and you’re planning a fucking wedding!"
"Well," America pouted, "Spain let us!"
"Why though?" Germany said, exasperated and for once on the same wavelength as Romano.
"Ah, the mysteries of life," France said, slipping into that I am France, king of all romance tone that he put on to prove a point. "Perhaps, in the scheme of things, we all want a piece of romance- we all want to be included in the joys of a budding love-"
"What the fuck are you talking about!?" Romano exclaimed, taking the invitation Spain was holding and throwing it in America’s face. America coughed a rainbow of confetti and glitter.
"Who knows?" France asked, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively, "Who says I wasn’t using illusions all along!?"
"Alright, that is it," Romano answered, "Get the fuck out of this house, assholes! And I better not hear from you for like a month!"
"Oh, you’re no fun," France said, pouting.
"Actually, this is my house," Germany pointed out, much to Romano’s chagrin ("You wanna fight me!?" he squeaked), "And I’d appreciate it if you left immediately as well."
"What!? So rude!" France answered, gasping and deeply offended.
America was simultaneously deeply offended. "Why, though!?" he asked.
"Because you’re-" Germany nodded at France with an irritated expression, "-dressed like the Statue of Liberty, and that’s not something I like to see on any given day."
"Hmph," France sniffed, "It would’ve been better if he had died."
"Yeah," America answered, whispering loudly to France. "He’s funner dead than he is alive."
"I’M RIGHT HERE!"
"LOL!" America answered.
Germany felt an artery pop but was too distracted by Prussia’s appearance in the hallway beyond the entrance to the living room. He stared into the living room, bleary-eyed for a moment, but did not question the fact that France was dressed as the Statue of Liberty, or that it appeared that America had remembered what a Germany was and popped in for a visit. "Wassup bitches?" he yawned.
"Did you just wake up?" Germany asked.
"Oh, West! Where the fuck’re the Lucky Charms?" He paused. "What’re you guys doing, anyway? Planning that faggy wedding?"
"Aha! Hello, Prussia!" France sang out, and tossed an invitation Prussia’s way.
Prussia caught it. He looked it over, and proceeded to throw it on the floor with thunderous force. "FOOLS!" he bellowed, laughing maniacally, "What makes you think that I would do such a thing as attend a wedding! I don’t need love! I don’t need anybody!"
"I’m not sure what’s wrong with you," America cut in, checking his watch, "But jeez, I gotta go. They should be done with the priestbot by now and I wanna pick him up at the garage ASAP."
Spain cocked his head curiously. Romano’s eye twitched, because as a good Catholic schoolgirl, he was insulted by what had just come out of America’s mouth. "Priestbo-"
"Yep, so awesome, right?!" America said.
"Hm," France said, adjusting his crown, "I suppose I should go as well. Blessings to the world don’t deliver themselves!" His glance slid toward America. "America, perhaps we should meet up later? Talk a bit over drinks? My treat."
America’s eyes narrowed. "Oh please," he said with a ghetto hand wave, "I’m onto you. Don’t think I don’t listen to Ludacris."
"What?" France asked.
"I don’t think France listens to Ludacris," Spain pointed out as America went into a rendition of "One More Drink."
"Okay, that’s enough," Germany cut in with a grayed tone, waving his hands, "It’s time for you all to go."
"Mixin’ Henney with the Sprite while I’m drinkin’ and drivin’, no police lights, no police s-eye-renzz," America answered, dancing his way to the door.
"Well, adieu, then! Keep in touch, children!" France answered, throwing a number of invitations like confetti toward the ceiling. By magic they ended up one in each person’s hand. It was odd that a danger to society like France could control the most corny, suicide-inspiring magic at will.
"Then she turned around and her face was a’ight, she had a gaptooth and a mean overbite, but I was like HM!" America sang, France in tail (forming some kind of weird conga line), and they were soon gone.
The mental destruction left in their absence was nothing short of disturbing. Prussia was a disturbing kind of person, so he was unaffected, and as such scooted over to Japan to ask for the latest updates on Hello Kitty.
Italy opened his invitation and was then punched in the face with a cloud of glitter, but seemed unfazed because he was already very fabulous. "This is so exciting!" he exclaimed, pouring over the printed ink with alacrity. "Don’t you think, Germany?"
Germany paused. His eye twitched. "...Maybe," he answered. And then he thought about it for a moment. "No, actually, not at all."
Italy’s face fell, and Germany amended his statement. "W-well, what I mean is that- it’s- I’m nervous about it, in short," he answered.
"Nervous? Ve, Germany’s always nervous," Italy said, with a warm smile. He paused and then nodded over to the invitation in Germany’s hand. "Open it!"
Germany shook his head. "No thank you."
"Why not? I wanna see if you got a different one than me!" Italy said, as though the contents of each envelope were prizes in a cereal box.
"-Fine," Germany grunted, and, sighing, he opened the envelope and was assaulted similarly with a cloud of glitter. "Here, it’s the same," he said, showing the invitation to Italy.
Italy skimmed over it and seemed to determine that it was exactly the same as his invitation, which was disappointing. "Oh, that’s too bad. Sorry! Oh look, you have glitter- here," he continued, and after a short pause, brushed some glitter off Germany’s shoulder. "Ah, and here!" Italy went on, brushing some off Germany’s face, fingers tracing a line from his jaw to his chin.
For some reason that Germany could barely discern, he felt pink heat spread to his face, disorienting. Italy looked up and pointed out that Germany was blushing, and Germany proceeded to sputter incoherently. Italy then made the situation worse by grabbing Germany’s shoulders and telling him to keep calm. He was saying, "V-ve!? What’s wrong!? Ahhh you’re turning all red!" when Prussia broke through the moment by being loud and obnoxious.
"So, good news for those who live in fear!" Prussia exclaimed, grinning, "Hello Kitty has a kitty of her very own!"
Germany looked at him blankly. Italy’s hands left Germany’s shoulders and he clapped. "Yeah!" he exclaimed.
"WOULDN’T IT BE AWESOME," Prussia went on, "If the awesome me had an awesome mini-me to hang around with! I always thought that if I could clone myself it would be the greatest gift ever given to mankind! Forget love- if you had a million little me’s nothing would ever go wrong in the world. No war and no hunger. Just like that. It’s like the song Imagine but with my face all over it."
Germany blinked, and for some reason started to feel extremely irritated. Romano rolled his eyes and pulled Italy away, throwing his Armani scarf around his neck and announcing that they were going home to get pizza, and that no, Spain was not invited. Spain and Japan started to talk about something, leaving Germany and Prussia face-to-face.
Prussia had a...look on his face. "What’s the matter, West? Oh, right, you’re letting my genius soak in. Take your time, I know you have a brain the size of an acorn. I’m so pimpin’, huh? Kinda makes you jealous, right?"
"Brother," Germany started, expression flat, "Would you like to know how to keep a moron in suspense?"
Prussia’s eyes glittered. "Fuck yeah West!" he said, with a manic grin.
Germany stared at him for a few moments and then walked calmly away. Prussia stared after him. "H-hey, wait," he started. Germany didn’t turn around; he merely disappeared into his office. Prussia heard the lock click after the door closed; and then he balled his fists, suddenly restless. "Aw, man," he said to himself, "Now I really wanna know!"
TO PART TWO
Doctor: inuyashacooks
Character(s)/Pairing(s): ensemble (unfortunately); America, France, Spain, Romano, Germany, Italy, England, Japan; Germany/Italy, US/UK, Spain/Romano
Rating: The following program contains obnoxiousness, coarse language, and suggestive themes, and as such should not be viewed by anyone.
Warnings: really?
Summary: France and America are bored. Spain is having relationship problems. What better way to pass the time than to help out with a wedding? With that in mind, France and America seek to help by planning the AWESOMEST MOST ROMANTIC AWESOMEST MOST ROMANTIC AWESOMEST MOST ROMANTIC greatest wedding in the history of man.
Note: what the fuck
oh also this is a sequel to Axis Powers: Wedding Massacre, i'm slightly too lazy to put a link, but it's somewhere on this comm IN THE WILD
☆AXIS POWERS: WEDDING MASSACRE (1/2)
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times. It was summer, mild and still- fireflies flashing in the mid-evening stupor. The air was pink and gold but a blue cool was falling onto the grass, onto the pathway. Spain was on the move: Spain was a man with a plan. Also, a guitar, flamenco shoes, and a package of Goya cookies, but that was irrelevant. Tonight he was going to make his final stand against a tempestuous heart that belonged to one indignant little tomato called Romano.
It was a trifling set of circumstances. For years this boy had tormented him with lightning moods, evil eyes. Spain was naturally a giver, but how much longer could he give and receive nothing back?
He figured maybe he just wasn’t making his feelings clear; it was probably just that. So tonight he would make Romano understand.
He whistled some memory melody as he walked along the path, admiring the lazy art in Italian architecture, the dim sugar glow of porch lights. The pink was becoming violent as it faded into the night- a swan song in colors, maybe. Ah, this was Romano’s house, with its the sun-baked stucco, the melodic silence swelling on the lawn as he crossed it (dew cool and wet, air sleepy and humid). He passed the front door and went around to the backyard- hopping the fence because it didn’t pass his mind that he might look like, oh, maybe a serial killer.
But it was not the time to be worrying about the law. Finding that it was hard to hop a fence with flamenco shoes on, he left them behind and ventured into the backyard. He rounded about, knowing exactly where to go, clutching the neck of his guitar. He stood for a moment underneath the balcony, contemplating his decision. There was silence and no light coming out from Romano’s bedroom window. Spain threw a few rocks at it just for good measure, and then got into place- standing straight, determined- and hitched up his guitar, and started to sing.
Romano, meanwhile had been awake since Spain had thrown the third rock of five- "Fucking pigeons!" he’d said, exasperated, stuffing his pillow over his head. He had almost drifted back to sleep when he heard the starting chords; he poked his head up, wondering what the fuck was so goddamn insistent on ruining his sleep.
And then he heard the singing.
"That is fucking it," he snapped, exasperated, throwing his sheets off and getting up from bed. Just in case it was some kinda mental hospital escapee, he made sure the phone was nearby so that he could call Spain or that potato bastard, since they were condemned to being his eternal bodyguards. He wrenched the door to the balcony open and stomped outside, trying in his groggy state to see who was playing that fucking guitar and- he paused. He rubbed his eyes.
Was that fucking Spain?
Of all the fucking idiots he didn’t want to wake him up, fucking Spain. "Hey, you fucking bastard!" he yelled, shaking his fist, "Mind keeping it the fuck down?!"
Spain didn’t seem to hear because he was currently crooning at the top of his lungs. Romano was about to open his mouth agains to say something, when the damp summer breeze carried to him the words of the song-
"Me gusta de ti, lo mucho que me gustas/ Y...oh crap I forgot the next words-" at this point he hummed, until he got to this point- "Y tenemos demasiado
que vivir- DIMELO, SI YO NO QUIERO O LO QUIEROOOO!"
Romano’s sharp tongue was for once in his life at a loss for words. For one, he had realized a second ago that Spain was serenading him. For another, he realized as well that Spain was serenading him underneath his bedroom window which had a balcony. Thirdly, he was standing on this balcony currently, and in addition to this, he had read Romeo and Juliet before. Also, there was a full moon and it was beautiful weather on a summer night.
But perhaps the worst part was that Spain was singing him an Enrique Iglesias song. (That Enrique Iglesias was one handsome devil, as an aside.)
Romano sputtered, red up to his ears, as Spain continued, "Dimelo, porque estas afuera de mi? Y al mismo tiempo estas muy dentro! Dimelo sin hablar y hazme sentir, todo lo que yo ya siento!"
"You fucking- fucking- goddammit Spain!" Romano yelled- Spain cast his eyes up to the balcony hopefully, but Romano turned on his heel and retreated inside. Spain was expecting that; well, he’d just sing louder, then, until he got his message across-
Spain was in the middle of a fucking guitar solo when Romano came back holding what looked like an encyclopedia. Spain didn’t have the time to question it before that encyclopedia came flying toward him. Dodging it narrowly, he looked up at the balcony in complete confusion- when Romano started to throw an arsenal of things, sneakers, dictionaries, cutlery, bedsheets.
Spain lost his footing but managed to keep playing the chords. "Ro-Romano, querido, why are you throwing things at me!?"
"Get outta my backyard you fuckin’ freak!" Romano yelled, still red in the face, throwing a wooden sword down at the lawn.
"What!? What does that mean-"
"Get out, bastard! I’ll call the fuckin’ cops!"
"What did I do!? Please tell me-"
"You’re singing fucking Enri- whatever, just go!"
"But- but," Spain continued, tongue caught, flustered, "I- I brought cookies!"
Romano paused, as though considering the offer, and Spain showed him the package.
Another beat of silence went by and Romano proceeded to throw a boot at him.
"Motherfucker! I can’t believe you!"
"Can I at least come inside?" Spain pleaded, because he was just fucking stupid like that, "I swear I’ll sing a better song! And not Enrique Iglesias!"
"Tha-that’s not the fucking problem!" Romano yelled back, and in a fit of bad judgment threw the telephone down onto the lawn.
Spain, overwhelmed, hurried to slip the guitar strap over his head and run out of the backyard- back over the fence, forgetting to pick up his shoes on the way. It was getting dark already but there was still the same warmth and sweetness lazy on the air. In truth, he wasn’t hurt (Romano had probably done and said much, much worse); he was just sucked in by strong confusion, so overwhelming that he couldn’t tell where he was meaning to go, walking around the quiet neighborhood. After fifteen minutes or so of aimless barefoot wandering, he decided where to go, and took direction out. Back at the house, Romano’s blush had finally gone away, and even though he tried to sleep he found himself unable.
Meanwhile, France and America were in what America deemed that "other place, uhm, part in Europe," trying to fight off their mutual boredom with ridiculousness. Since the mind-blowing combination of failure and success of Germany’s funeral party, everything had been quiet and they’d each had nothing to do. Because neither of them were really keen on getting out of the global recession or LBGT rights or anything that could actually be deemed work (and because they’d both just recently gotten bored of harassing England) they spent their days at France’s house doing absolutely nothing.
The night of Spain’s disaster, France was demonstrating his ability with the accordion and America was generally not caring. France was in the middle of saying, "England could never play accordion like this," when Spain came into the room, dragging his feet and looking like he’d just visited a sick person at the hospital.
The Big-Brother-Brain-Activity lever was pulled and France’s lecherous grin lit up full force. "Spain! How nice to see you! Have a seat! Can I offer you some chicken? Maybe some sex?"
"Hey Spain!" America said, sort of nervously because lately Spain had been knee-attacking him whenever he saw him.
But Spain did nothing of the sort. He smiled tiredly and said a weak hello and sank down into a seat at the kitchen table. France and America exchanged a knowing glance- France threw the accordion aside and sat down next to Spain, and America got a bottle of brandy. "I don’t know what to do," Spain sobbed, vexed and collapsing on the table after they had poured him full of enough alcohol to get him talking, "No matter what I try he just gets mad or throws things and- I don’t know what I’m doing that he gets so mad! I keep trying and...I don’t know what I should do...I came here because-" he sent a hopeful look up at France- "you know a lot about this kinda stuff, right?"
"Of course, of course," France said, giving up on Spain’s shirt buttons. "Can you get this button for me? It’s too small."
"Oh, yeah...sure," Spain answered, dazed, starting to unbutton his shirt. "So anyway, what do you think I should do?"
"Who cares?" America said, already bored as he ate a hot dog, "If he’s being a little jerk then he doesn’t deserve you caring, so just forget it!"
"No! I can’t! Because he’s worth it!" Spain answered.
"Tresemme! Ooh la la!" America laughed.
"No, that’s L’Oreal," France corrected as he ran his hands over Spain’s shoulders.
"Oh lol I see. Well anyway if you love him so much why don’t you marry him?" America said.
"Oh, be quiet," France chided.
"I just...I don’t know what to do...I asked him to marry me once and he just gave me a list of demands...but then again I had asked Italy to marry me too so maybe that doesn’t count? Anyway there’s not much more I can do...maybe he’s the kind of person who wants a big ring or something?"
"Well, that wouldn’t be too much to give, right?" France asked, taking off his own shirt, "Perhaps you need to show him a bigger, more concrete display of your love. You know, a bunch of roses and a diamond ring and a big, dazzling wedding."
Spain paused to think about that- he started to speak, but France and America barley heard a word he was saying. Because as France said "big, dazzling wedding," they had begun to know their destinies. Divine providence had struck them both like a lightning bolt, and their eyes met- a silent agreement on the point to throw the greatest wedding ever thrown. France, when questioned later, would claim that the words were sent to his mouth directly by God.
"Well, you know, mon cher," France said, with a fabulous hand wave, "I think that perhaps you should marry him!"
Spain paused and blinked. "Yeah," he answered, sort of laughing, "But-"
"It’ll all be fine!" France continued, with an easy laugh, "Just let us take care of it!"
"Yeah! It’ll be awesome! I can be your hero and save you guys and stuff!" America exclaimed, barely able to contain his excitement.
Spain laughed. "I- I don’t know, though- I mean how will I get him to marry me- I mean...?"
"We’ll take care of it, don’t worry!" France answered.
"But- how will I even ask him, or..."
America and France exchanged a look of desperation. America, seeing that as his cue to bring justice, grabbed Spain by the shoulders and looked him dead in the eye. "Spain. Yo tiene mucho pantalones cortos," he said, very srsly.
Spain blinked. "Q-que!?" he finally whispered, astonished.
"See, I told you he’d agree!" America chimed, taking a bit of his hot dog.
"What did you even just say?" France asked, as though he’d just witnessed the unnecessary death of a kitten.
"Who even cares! He said ‘kay,’ right?" They stared at him. He laughed loudly and obnoxiously. "Like ‘O-KAY, ROGER THAT!’ Except he just forgot the rest of it."
France blinked, then shook his head. "Never mind him, cheri," France said, waving him off and looking back to Spain. America pouted. "I’m saying to you now- it’s of utmost importance that you let us plan your wedding. If not- well..." France produced a silk handkerchief from thin air like a magician and sobbed into it. "If not, your relationship may be ruined!"
"What!? Really!?" Spain asked, rising from his seat in alarm.
"Yes! Really!" France and America chimed, and then continued weeping together.
Spain, having no further doubts in his mind, agreed to let them plan the wedding which was not yet even agreed upon by both parties involved, and thanked them profusely. France called Spain a cab and told him to get some sleep, because he was very aware that they would need to start planning immediately.
When Spain had gone, America turned to France, absolutely beaming. "This is why we’re friends, man," he said, and they high-fived even though France was intrinsically opposed to high-fiving. Little did they know that planning this wedding would not be so easy as planning a funeral party, and that this wedding would be full of trials and tribulations that would ultimately damage their friendship, except not really.
From that point two days passed without word of the wedding, which must have been some kind of secret-keeping record for America, France, and Spain. Planning was actively continued on a bright Tuesday morning. Romano had slept over Spain’s place without Spain saying anything regarding the wedding; that morning, Spain opened the door to the guest room, smile like sun. "Romano! It’s ten ‘o’ clock," he sang out, "Time to get up."
Romano grumbled underneath the covers. "What time is it?" he asked, voice slow and tired.
"Ten," Spain reminded, "But Germany and Italy are here, too, so we’re gonna have breakfast!"
"Fuck outta here," Romano answered, covering his head with his pillow, "I’m not getting up for shit-"
"Hmmm," hummed a deep, showy voice somewhere nearby, "The morning after, I see?"
Romano felt a shudder and sat up, looking along with Spain toward the direction of the voice. There was France, hanging in the window with that smile on his face, cat ears on his head- and from the looks of it, shirtless.
"Oh! Hi France! Morning!" Spain said brightly, waving.
"Bonjour!" France chimed, and as he waved the sound of sparkles descended upon the room. B|.
"Oh God, not you," Romano groaned, "Wh-what are you, some kinda fucking bat! Get outta that window!"
"Indeed! I shall!" France agreed. (Just to think of that grammatically- "Indeed I am a bat, and I shall get out of this window?")
"Come on, I have to get in, too, y’know," America whined, and popped up in the window frame beside France. "HEY GUYS! Awesome morning! Yo, Romano, why’re you naked?"
"Yes, why are you naked?" France asked lazily, with a tone that said he expected an invitation whenever global nekkidness occured.
"B-because I’m always naked! Shit!" Romano cursed.
"You’re always naked?"
"Shut the fuck up! Spain! Go knock him outta the window!"
"Oh, but that’ll hurt him though, right? I saw a movie where somebody got paralyzed once because they fell from a flight of stairs, but then again that’s not the same as a window, but I think it’s pretty much the same concept."
"Relax, everyone," France laughed, and then hauled himself through the window frame and stepped into the room. "France is here!"
"...Why is it," Romano said, running his tongue over his teeth, "That whenever you show up here, you look like this?"
"Magic?" France asked, making a wide gesture, as if to show off his naked hairy frame with the usual single rose covering his vital regions. "Good luck? Your birthday?"
"The fuck-"
"Yeah I told him not to wear it but he did," America said, "Anyway yeah! You! Get up!"
Romano balled his fist. "Sh-shit! Fuck you guys!"
"Come now, don’t be stubborn," France said, crossing the room in a flash and tugging Romano out of bed, "We need to fit you for your dress."
Romano froze. It wasn’t so much because he was relenting, like saying "Oh yeah my dress fitting I totes forgot guys haha," but because he was wondering if he had just heard right. "What?"
"Your dress fitting!" France answered impatiently.
"For your wedding!" America said.
"Y-you’re going to wear a dress!?" Spain exclaimed, huffing and getting a little too excited for his own good, "That’s s-so cute!"
"-WHAT THE FUCK!?" Romano screeched, and threw the sheets off, getting up from the bed like lightning.
"Yeah! Nice start!" America said, giving two thumbs up, "I love your enthusiasm!"
"You fucking bastards! Wedding my ass! Fuck you guys!" Romano yelled.
Spain’s face fell and he remembered that he probably should have told Romano about the whole wedding thing. France, on the other hand, was doing absolutely nothing but smiling, because this was the first time he had ever seen the elusive Romano naked.
Romano was about to say "Wipe that rapist grin off your face," when he realized that he was naked and turned red as a beet; he gathered the sheets and held them around his hips, looked at Spain with a scowl. "I have a feeling this is your fault, bastard, so you better have an explanation for all this-"
"Oh, good, good!" France interjected, and at the speed of light attached a number of clothing pins to hold the sheet in place.
America rushed over and started to do stuff with a ruler. "Just hold still and-"
"Get the fuck off me!"
"Haha!" America laughed, holding up the ruler as though taking measurements, "I don’t even know what I’m doing!"
Meanwhile, down in the living room, Germany and Italy were sitting around and waiting; had been waiting for the entire time Spain had gone upstairs, and Italy was starting to get whiny. "Ve, Ger-man-yyyy," Italy drawled, "How much longer do you think Spain will take?"
"I’m not sure...perhaps something happened?" Germany said, counting all the ways "something could have happened" in his mind. Most of them had to do with the fact that Romano was obnoxious and violent.
Italy paused. "I’m so hungry," he went on.
"J-just," Germany answered, eye twitching, "wait a little longer. He can’t take that long, right?"
Italy sort of nodded guility. Then he started, "Hey Germany, if Jane has five apples and John wants two of them but he also wants to buy five from Jim-"
At which point, they heard glass shattering, followed by more glass shattering. Italy squealed and started to shudder in fear that Spain had thrown himself out the window, or maybe somebody had broken in, and Germany got up to his feet immediately. "What-" he started, and then the trampling of several pairs of feet thudded down the stairs.
"You fucking," a voice that was distinctly Romano’s stuttered. Germany’s eyes flickered over to the landing, where Romano was the first to appear- wearing nothing but a sheet fastened with safety pins around his hips and covered in seafoam green glitter. "I can’t fucking, I’m just going to kill you all!"
"Come on Romanito, don’t be like that!" Spain pleaded, following after him.
"Don’t you talk! You’re the worst of all!"
A naked France appeared in the living room. Germany’s brain started to die, and the process of death only hastened when America appeared after him, humming "When Johnny Comes Marching Home" as loud as he could.
"Ve, France? America? What are you guys doing here?" Italy asked, dazed. He looked at Romano, covered in glitter. "What’s going on? Are we playing Twister?"
"I’m not sure how you came to that conclusion, but would you like to?" France answered, wiggling his eyebrows.
"I don’t think it’s legal for you to play Twister with anyone," Germany managed to cut in.
"Yeah me neither," America said.
"What!? I-"
"Everyone shut up! I’m not wearing the goddamn dress!" Romano cried.
Germany fell silent and proceeded to be deeply disturbed. Italy looked on dreamily.
"You have to! You must!" France cried, clenching his fist.
"No!"
"It’s your wedding! It’s necessary for the bride to be beautifully clothed in a pure white gown!" France went on.
Italy’s face brightened like instant sunshine and he clapped his hand. "R-Romano! Fratello! You’re getting married?"
"Yeah!" America said.
"Congratulations, Spain!" Italy said, throwing his arms around Spain.
"Thank you! Aww you’re so cute-"
"Dammit, why does everyone assume I’m marrying him," Romano sniffled, and then went on, "And fuck the dress thing! I’m gonna be wearing a fucking tux and that’s it! Alright!"
France pouted. "Oh you’re no fun at all," he said. He turned to America. "Help me, here."
"I don’t really care what they’re wearing!" America said with a hamburger laugh. France’s expression soured, but before he could say anything Italy asked when the wedding would be.
"In like," America said, "A week. Two weeks. Something like that."
Germany paused. "Wait, why are you answering that?" he asked.
"Because me and France are planning it!" America exclaimed.
Germany froze. Italy clapped some more. "That’s so great! It’s gonna be super!"
"For reals," America answered.
"Well, it better be fucking super," Romano snapped, "Because if it’s not, I’m gonna seriously kill you two. Shit, I don’t even know how I got roped into this retarded crap-"
Germany stirred from his terrified stupor and pointed out, "Wait, if you don’t want to, then why are you agreeing to it?"
Romano paused, whatever syllable might have been next on his tongue was caught- he blushed fiercely- "Sh-shut the fuck up! Did I ask for your opinion, stupid?"
"Well- no- but it just makes sense," Germany answered.
"Hey! Shut yer mouth you goddamn potato!" Romano interrupted, lunging toward Germany, "You shoulda died back then!"
Germany’s soul sighed because ever since the funeral party, he’d been hearing that exact same thing from every other nation. As Romano perched himself sort of threateningly in front Germany, Italy latched onto Germany’s arm. "Veee! Romano is so scary!"
"Get outta the way, Veneziano! This fuckin’ potato is about to see how fuckin’ French fries get made!"
Spain sort of wilted. "Romanito...that was kind of lame..."
"Anyway, anyway," America broke through, seeing everybody in the room as entirely less important than himself, eyes glittering, "I have this like- alllll mapped out-" (here he made a broad gesture with both his hands)- "But I don’t really know about location. I have a couple in mind, like Arby’s, or the moon."
France laughed nervously and covered America’s mouth with his hand. "Excuse him, he doesn’t know what he’s talking about," he said, "I was thinking perhaps that we might have it at-" (and here his eyes lit fervently)- "one of the most romantic destinations in the world- Niagara Falls, or under the Eiffel Tower!"
"But how are we going to launch a rocket from the Eiffel Tower!" America protested, freeing himself from France’s grasp.
France’s eye twitched. "Rockets, dearest? I don’t- well, how do you think you’re going to launch a rocket from Arby’s?"
America laughed. "I can find a way, believe me."
"I’m very sure you can," France countered, giving a similar laugh.
Everybody else in the room had pretty much shut up, because even the two dense ones sensed the sudden eerie atmosphere of competition between them. Romano kind of cocked his head, like "What the fuck?" and Germany was very deeply concerned, to the point where he was thinking of contacting the proper authorities before this whole thing got out of hand. He was pretty sure that jail would be ineffective on both of them, though. Anyway, France and America seemed to sense the tension themselves, because they both laughed it up and made a subtle effort to team up once again.
"So, uhm, yeah!" America said, with a justice laugh, "Just like uhm! Be there or be square!"
"Indeed!" France continued, throwing his arm around America’s shoulders. "Keep your calendars free, petits oiseaus!"
And with that, they slowly walked backwards all the way from the living room to the front door. Spain, Germany, Romano, and Italy stared as they went. At one point France accidentally tripped America, but soon and with only minor incident, they were gone.
In the aftermath of whatever that was, they stirred wakeful as though from some mutual dream. Italy remembered he was hungry, but after he declared as such, he amended his bad manners by congratulating Spain and Romano once again. Spain said his thank-yous and suggested making breakfast; Germany, who was still pretty tempted by that whole police thing, just nodded.
Spain suggested to Romano that he boil some tomatoes so that they could peel them. Romano didn’t even stir in response; curious, Spain asked, "Romano?" With that Romano seemed- the last person to awake- to move. Then his expression darkened, that thing he always did where his cheeks puffed out slightly and his face became dark red; he didn’t say anything, but huffed angrily past Spain and up the stairs, as though insulted. He didn’t bother to address how fucking ridiculous he looked in that sheet-and-glitter getup, just stomped away.
Spain opened his mouth to say something but seemed to forget it halfway. He laughed it off but he looked uneasy. Germany was visibly disturbed by that as well; Italy less so, because he didn’t exactly know what was going on but was cool with that. They went off into the kitchen, Spain made breakfast, and they ate in relative quiet. Spain, quiet because he wasn’t sure of his love at all; Italy, because nobody was talking; Germany, because he was going through PSTD, remembering the Hell of just a little while ago.
It was a dark, bruised night outside, and England was sitting in his London flat doing absolutely nothing but being very English over a spot of tea and a newspaper, skimming over stock statistics with a very prim expression and daydreaming about Jane Austen and Sherlock Holmes and a good match of footie. The entire scene could only have been more English had he been wearing a monocle and a tophat and smoking a fag, or if he had been reading a book about fox-hunting. His disgusting redcoat tendencies were interrupted rudely just as he reached an interesting piece on the benefits of biscuits: suddenly, just as his eyes met the beginning words, there was a loud banging sound as though his door was being broken down by a SWAT team, and then the sounds of scuffling from the foyer. At first he was surprised, but as a nation, he was fairly accustomed to any amount of asshattery on any occasion, so he rolled his eyes, got up from his place, and went off in the direction of the noise, but not before he stoked the fire roaring in the fireplace and lit his corncob pipe, all whilst saying, "I say."
As he walked, he was, of course, expecting either France or America (no matter how many times he changed his locks, France seemed to always have a key; America, on the other hand, could pretty much bench-press a car, so doors weren’t really an issue for him); he was not, on the other hand, expecting both France and America, and when he saw both of them in front of his door, spouting angry words and trying to strangle each other, he nearly had a heart attack.
"What the-" he began, but his words were overshadowed by their arguing.
"The moon!" America ground out, tugging on France’s hair.
"Niagara Falls!" France countered, catching America’s hand and bending his fingers back.
"OWCH! I don’t understand what your problem is! Isn’t there at least one waterfall on the moon!?"
"What the Hell are you doing in my house!" England yelled, throwing his hands up.
"Mon Dieu! Planning a wedding! What does it look like!" France snapped, looking at England irritably.
"Yeah, for real, England, pay some attention!" America scolded.
England’s eyes sparked. "You’re planning a wedding," he repeated slowly, "In my house."
"Eyebrows, are you feeling particularly dense today?" France asked.
"THAT IS FUCKING ABSURD! Why do you need to be in my fucking house!?" England protested, but they ignored him and went back to fighting. Things got particularly heated- America threatened to go back to calling it "Freedom Toast" and France countered with saying that he was going to go on strike against McDonald’s and England kept telling them to get out of his fucking house, goddammit. Once they knocked down the Rembrandt that he had hanging near the coat rack, he decided to draw the line- he Britannia-Beamed them both, and only then did they seem fully conscious of his presence. Having gotten their attention, he berated and belittled them before dragging to the living room, sitting them down, and asking in a very crisp irritated manner to please explain themselves.
And, upon being asked to explain themselves, they both fell silent as petulant children. England put his hands on his hips. "Well?" he prodded.
France shifted uncomfortably in his chair. America fidgeted, but was the first to give- "It’s his fault! He won’t let me make the wedding awesome!"
"Lies! He’s trying to sabotage the most romantic wedding ever planned!" France countered, leaning forward.
"Pssshhh that’s so fruity! Seriously!"
"Alright, stop it, stop it," England said, waving his hands between them.
"Whose wedding is this again?"
"Spain and Romano’s," France said, and then sort of laughed like he pitied England for being such a peasant. "You’re so out of the loop, England."
"I’m not even going to comment on either of the things you just said," England snapped, "So what exactly are you two arguing over?" He punctuated his exasperation with a puff on his pipe.
America fidgeted impatiently. "This guy’s telling me that it’s ridiculous to have a space-themed ceremony. What could be fucking cooler than being married by an alien!? That’s like a ticket to a good marriage! Why do you think that’s ridiculous!?"
England blinked, but was not disappointed because he really didn’t expect any better from America.
"Because that is ridiculous," France sighed heavily.
America pouted. "Oh yeah? I’d like to see you come up with better."
"Actually, petit, I have," France answered.
"So? What is it?"
There was a deep pause. France got that look on his face that evoked fine wine and classical music. He waved his hand casually as he talked, saying, "I, of course, had a scene in my mind that was evocative of fine wine and classical music. Decorations, of course, in different shades of red and burgundy- a touch of pearl white here and there for contrast; a string quartet playing beautiful, intimate pieces. A landscape made in light and sound- everything from the table settings to the attire of the guests subtle and elegant. The perfect background for the greatest gift given to mankind." He paused. Doves fluttered and stars twinkled like violet diamonds of violet outside the window. Clowns had a good time and all was well with the world, and he continued, "Love."
England threw up in his mouth but held it back, and was not disappointed because he really did not expect any better of France.
"What?" America balked, because that whole paragraph of France dialogue made him want to shoot himself in the face, "What is that? That's like the gayest thing ever. You probably came up with that in a dark room. Alone. Listening to really sad violin music." He paused thoughtfully. "There were probably candles, too. And cheese. And you were crying."
France’s expression ticked in irritation; he smoothed it over with one of indifference. "America," he said, "I’m not sure if you’re entirely aware of this, but you’re hurting my feelings right now. And since I am possessed of a kind and generous heart, I’m going to overlook that. But I am going to say that Michael Jackson was worthless."
America was about to say something, but then it hit him- his lower lip trembled and his eyes became glassy, and France’s expression washed over in triumph. England, for a reason that had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he didn’t like seeing America cry, intervened. He folded his arms, saying, "Alright, I’ve had enough of your annoyances. That’s quite enough." He sighed. "Do I really have to fix everything for you people? Honestly!"
With that in mind, he commenced intervention by preparing some tea (and coffee, at America’s insistent whining- which prompted France to ask slyly, "Excuse me, Angleterre? I wasn’t even aware you possessed coffee in your pathetic house; is there a reason for that?") and bringing it back to the living room- after a couple of silent moments, he folded his hands and began discussing the matter at hand with them, and realized that the fail ran deeper than he thought. For one thing, he wasn’t sure if they even cared about Spain and Romano, but he wasn’t going to ask because it would only make everything worse. For another, they had absolutely nothing planned or finished. The wedding invitations, its location, the wedding party, and even the date, had taken a back seat to their bickering.
With England’s help, however, they came to a compromise. America was allowed to invent a priest (he literally said, "I want to invent the priest," and neither of them even had anything to counter that with), but the rest of the personnel would be human beings. They would cooperate on the menu, meaning that France would get to serve Louis Roederer and make the wedding cake himself, but that America would get to serve corn dogs and chicken nuggets at the same time. The only atmospheric aspect that America controlled was the lighting, which he was adamant about; England decided that they would all have much less of a chance of being wiped off the face by God if France was put in charge of the rest, from the table settings to the music. America especially pouted at that last one, because it meant that they couldn’t walk up the aisle to "We Built This City On Rock ‘n’ Roll" or "Hit Me With Your Best Shot" or "(Awww Man) Round 2."
They decided on a date and, having done all of that, fell casually into discussing their plans for the wedding. "I was thinking, I was thinking," America said quickly, bubbling over and barely able to contain his excitement, "That like, the second they say ‘I Do,’ there should be like- a display!"
"What?" England asked, raising an eyebrow skeptically.
"Like, a display! That’ll light up behind the altar!" America paused, and then continued with hurricane force, "OH MY GOD, it’ll be a whale! A beluga whale will light up behind them! NO WAIT, a humpback whale! Which whale is the most badass whale of all, France?" He asked it as though France would really know these things.
"Non! It should at least be something like a heart!" France contradicted.
"Oi, what about a fucking tomato?" England asked, tapping on the table.
France and America paused and looked at England like he was a biological anomaly. "...Why a tomato," America asked, eyes narrowing suspiciously at England, like to say, "u haz 4 sekonds 2 explian urself young man."
England’s jaw hung open in amazement. "-Because they’re Mr. and Mr. Fucking Tomato 2010 you fucking moron!" he spat.
"Hmm. Mr. and Mr. That’s awkward," France said, making a mental note of it, "Remind me to thank you for pointing that out, Eyebrows."
England was about to make a snappy jazzy rebuttal, but then remembered that this was his house. And that America and France were both sitting in it. And they were talking relatively civilly over a spot of tea (plus one coffee). Seeing that this according to some cosmic law was intrinsically wrong, he stood up, saying, "Wait a moment."
"What?" America asked.
"Quoi?"
"Stop it with that fucking language first of all. Second of all I’m afraid you’re all going to have to go," England continued, making a very polite gesture toward the door.
France sniffed. "Kicking us out, are you? Well, see how this turns out. Don’t expect a helping hand when you’re drunk on the streets of Paris, being a pathetic little raincloud, being stepped on by escorts and men of high standing."
America paused. "You do that?! HAHAH England-"
"Get the fuck out!" England snapped, "And for your information, I won’t need your help! Much less would you even give me help, you sod. I suppose you don’t remember the garbage truck incident?"
France’s face brightened. "Ah, yes, I do remember that, and I also thank you for making my night." He then threw his teacup on the floor just because, got up straightening his tres facionnable outfit (and yes that did have to be written in French, absolutely, it wouldn’t be the same without it, you don’t know me, etc.), and amidst loud English swearing, whisked himself out the door.
"You French fucking sodding fuck, goddamn-" he paused, and sent an angry glance to America. "And why are you still here?"
America paused. "Why not? I thought I’d maybe sleep over and we could go to McDonald’s and maybe watch a movie or something. Like a sleepover, except without nail polish. I couldn’t get a hold of Poland anyway."
"I don’t even know what you’re talking about it, but I’m not participating in it," England answered, "Kindly leave."
America pouted greatly. "Fine then! I’ll just go, George Whipple."
England rose a mammoth eyebrow. "Who?"
America trotted to the door, saying, "You will never know!" and proceeded to lol forever in his brain. England went back to the living room after locking the door, and then sank into his armchair, wondering what he’d gotten himself into this time. He also wondered how he could mend the broken night, and then figured he could do it by being even more English, so he put on his long-forgotten (read: put-on-last-weekend-at-an-Elton-John-concert) monocle and headed down to Africa with a bottle of whiskey for some mad colonizing.
Meanwhile in the city, absolutely nothing was happening, so forget I just said that. Over the next couple of days, planning was going swell. Prussia was, for some reason, asked if he wanted to help with the planning. He just said "uhm no thanks, bitches ain’t shit," and then went off to cry alone. They arranged the wedding party; France wanted to focus fully on the wedding planning, so he elected not to be best man. Prussia had way too much fun being alone to even dream of doing something so lame and gay, so he refused. Through some weird twist, Austria was made best man, but that was planned mostly over the phone for a mysterious reason that will be explicated later. Italy offered to be maid of honor, but Romano’s response was "NO NO NO- GREECE! GET GREECE!" Said Greece was called, and it was confirmed that he had enough time in his schedule beyond sleeping and thinking and avoiding Turkey to be maid of honor, so that was set. Since nations don’t generally like each other that much, the wedding parties were limited to that.
Italy had suggested to Romano that Germany should be his best man which, plainly put, was pretty fucking stupid. Even though Romano blatantly refused "to let that fucking tuba-playing loser near me," Germany was not hurt. This was because Germany, who, long story short, had "died" a couple of months ago and was thrown an elaborate "funeral party," did not want to participate in any more shenanigans, especially shenanigans that France and America were involved in. The two of them were the best/worst team ever to team up together. They were both dramatic, showy, self-centered, and too easily excited, and they both had access to massive sums of money at any given time. This should have all been illegal in Germany’s opinion, but who ever listened to him?
In order not to lose his mind, Germany pushed all thought of the wedding to the farthest corner of his mind. He was filing papers in an alphabetical order so intense it could make all of Sesame Street explode in wonder, listening to the sounds of Spain, Romano, Italy, and Japan in his living room (why that made sense, he did not know), when France and America dropped by to make everybody’s lives worse than they already were.
"Bonjouuuuur!" France called, barging in through the door that America had opened by pure force.
"Hey guyyys!" America chimed.
"Fuck, it’s you people," Romano ground out from the living room, but made sure that he was far enough away so that they wouldn’t really hear them.
France and America rounded into the living room. "Guess what I’ve brought?" France asked, the look in his eyes eerily similar to that he had during the Napoleon days.
"What?" Spain piped excitedly, coming closer.
"Well I could tell you, mon plus cheri, but then again these secrets aren’t given for free. Perhaps you could give me a kiss and-"
"Sure!"
"FUCK THAT," Romano interrupted, "Ain’t gonna be any of that shit near me!"
"Oh right, so sorry to impede on the love of two engaged persons-"
"It’s not that, I just don’t want to see it, why-"
"What is it, what is it?" Italy asked, bouncing over.
Germany exited his office and entered the living room, making sure that he could be there to witness any illegal activity so that he could testify when these two were put on trial for crimes against humanity. France waved around a plastic bag, and then pulled something out of it- a stack of what looked like envelopes.
"Oh good! Envelopes!" Italy cheered, "Look Germany, envelopes! Just what we needed!" It should be noted that had he been anyone else but Italy, that would’ve been an insult.
"Not just any envelopes, dear Italy. These hold the invitations to the greatest wedding ever planned!" France said, handing one of the envelopes to Romano.
Romano gave France the ill stare, like he was saying, These better not be too fucking gay, and basking in his own cognitive dissonance, started to carefully open one of the envelopes-
And was hit in the face by a combination of multicolored glitter and rose-shaped confetti. "WHAT THE FUCK!?!" he exclaimed, coughing through the shining cloud. America fist-bumped France against France’s will, and Spain gingerly took the envelope from Romano’s hand.
The letter contained was written in Florentine script, very beautifully and fancily, very florid, but the stationery itself was bordered by red, white, and blue decorations- squiggle lines and rockets and the like. The invitation itself read:
YOU ARE INVITED TO THE WEDDING OF
~MR. SPAIN FERNANDEZ CARRIEDO AND MS. ROMANO VARGAS~
PLANNED BY
~THE MOST WONDERFUL AND HONORABLE GENTLEMAN SQUIER FRANCE~
AND
~THE MOST EPIC FUCKING AMERICA TO EVER BE AN AMERICA WITH ROCKETS AND MACARONI AND FLGZ~
It then listed the date, the location, and etc., but was mysteriously followed by:
BYOT (BRING YOUR OWN TIE)
PREPARE TO BE VIDEOTAPPED
RSVP BY 8/02/10
WE BUILT THIS CITY ON ROCK N ROLL
Romano’s jaw was hanging almost to the floor by then in anger and indignation. Spain was smiling and thanking France and America for their joint effort.
"Ms. Romano Vargas," Romano said, teeth almost grinding to powder, interrupting Spain’s profuse gracias-ing.
"Stunning, isn’t it?" France questioned.
"You don’t have to thank us! You’re my friend so why not do something nice!" America said fervently, giving a justice thumbs-up.
"Ms. Romano Vargas," Romano repeated, not sure if they had heard the first time everything that was fucking wrong with that sentence fragment. "And I’m not your friend!"
"What? You’re mad about the girl part?" America answered, for once in his life being somewhat observant about somebody’s feelings. "Come on, man. You’re definitely the- what is it you call it, Japan?"
"Uke," Japan responded immediately, because these kinds of things came natural to him.
"Yeah, the girl," America said.
"Embrace it, mon frere," France said, clapping Romano on the back, "It’s no use to fight it. It only makes it harder."
Romano slapped France’s hand away from him. "You are the fucking worst," Romano said, "And I demand you change these or else- or else this guy’s gonna beat you up, capiche?!" He then pointed at Germany who sighed for stupidity for the twelve-millionth time in his entire life.
"I admit though that I don’t get it," laughed Spain with an easy, lazy tone, "Romano’s a man, after all."
"Way to go, genius," Romano snapped. He focused his attention back on France and America. "Change this shit," he said shortly, "Or else somebody’s gonna get their ass kicked!"
"Too late!" France said, with a twirl of his fingers.
"Yeah, we already ordered them and personally since my economy’s not really like that great I mean it’s AMERICAN and stuff but you know," America said, not making any sense as usual, "We’re not gonna spend the money is what I’m saying. So yeah."
Spain laughed. "That’s okay, though-"
"No, it’s fucking not," Romano cut in, "How the fuck did you guys end up planning this fucking wedding!? You guys can’t get your heads out of your asses and you’re planning a fucking wedding!"
"Well," America pouted, "Spain let us!"
"Why though?" Germany said, exasperated and for once on the same wavelength as Romano.
"Ah, the mysteries of life," France said, slipping into that I am France, king of all romance tone that he put on to prove a point. "Perhaps, in the scheme of things, we all want a piece of romance- we all want to be included in the joys of a budding love-"
"What the fuck are you talking about!?" Romano exclaimed, taking the invitation Spain was holding and throwing it in America’s face. America coughed a rainbow of confetti and glitter.
"Who knows?" France asked, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively, "Who says I wasn’t using illusions all along!?"
"Alright, that is it," Romano answered, "Get the fuck out of this house, assholes! And I better not hear from you for like a month!"
"Oh, you’re no fun," France said, pouting.
"Actually, this is my house," Germany pointed out, much to Romano’s chagrin ("You wanna fight me!?" he squeaked), "And I’d appreciate it if you left immediately as well."
"What!? So rude!" France answered, gasping and deeply offended.
America was simultaneously deeply offended. "Why, though!?" he asked.
"Because you’re-" Germany nodded at France with an irritated expression, "-dressed like the Statue of Liberty, and that’s not something I like to see on any given day."
"Hmph," France sniffed, "It would’ve been better if he had died."
"Yeah," America answered, whispering loudly to France. "He’s funner dead than he is alive."
"I’M RIGHT HERE!"
"LOL!" America answered.
Germany felt an artery pop but was too distracted by Prussia’s appearance in the hallway beyond the entrance to the living room. He stared into the living room, bleary-eyed for a moment, but did not question the fact that France was dressed as the Statue of Liberty, or that it appeared that America had remembered what a Germany was and popped in for a visit. "Wassup bitches?" he yawned.
"Did you just wake up?" Germany asked.
"Oh, West! Where the fuck’re the Lucky Charms?" He paused. "What’re you guys doing, anyway? Planning that faggy wedding?"
"Aha! Hello, Prussia!" France sang out, and tossed an invitation Prussia’s way.
Prussia caught it. He looked it over, and proceeded to throw it on the floor with thunderous force. "FOOLS!" he bellowed, laughing maniacally, "What makes you think that I would do such a thing as attend a wedding! I don’t need love! I don’t need anybody!"
"I’m not sure what’s wrong with you," America cut in, checking his watch, "But jeez, I gotta go. They should be done with the priestbot by now and I wanna pick him up at the garage ASAP."
Spain cocked his head curiously. Romano’s eye twitched, because as a good Catholic schoolgirl, he was insulted by what had just come out of America’s mouth. "Priestbo-"
"Yep, so awesome, right?!" America said.
"Hm," France said, adjusting his crown, "I suppose I should go as well. Blessings to the world don’t deliver themselves!" His glance slid toward America. "America, perhaps we should meet up later? Talk a bit over drinks? My treat."
America’s eyes narrowed. "Oh please," he said with a ghetto hand wave, "I’m onto you. Don’t think I don’t listen to Ludacris."
"What?" France asked.
"I don’t think France listens to Ludacris," Spain pointed out as America went into a rendition of "One More Drink."
"Okay, that’s enough," Germany cut in with a grayed tone, waving his hands, "It’s time for you all to go."
"Mixin’ Henney with the Sprite while I’m drinkin’ and drivin’, no police lights, no police s-eye-renzz," America answered, dancing his way to the door.
"Well, adieu, then! Keep in touch, children!" France answered, throwing a number of invitations like confetti toward the ceiling. By magic they ended up one in each person’s hand. It was odd that a danger to society like France could control the most corny, suicide-inspiring magic at will.
"Then she turned around and her face was a’ight, she had a gaptooth and a mean overbite, but I was like HM!" America sang, France in tail (forming some kind of weird conga line), and they were soon gone.
The mental destruction left in their absence was nothing short of disturbing. Prussia was a disturbing kind of person, so he was unaffected, and as such scooted over to Japan to ask for the latest updates on Hello Kitty.
Italy opened his invitation and was then punched in the face with a cloud of glitter, but seemed unfazed because he was already very fabulous. "This is so exciting!" he exclaimed, pouring over the printed ink with alacrity. "Don’t you think, Germany?"
Germany paused. His eye twitched. "...Maybe," he answered. And then he thought about it for a moment. "No, actually, not at all."
Italy’s face fell, and Germany amended his statement. "W-well, what I mean is that- it’s- I’m nervous about it, in short," he answered.
"Nervous? Ve, Germany’s always nervous," Italy said, with a warm smile. He paused and then nodded over to the invitation in Germany’s hand. "Open it!"
Germany shook his head. "No thank you."
"Why not? I wanna see if you got a different one than me!" Italy said, as though the contents of each envelope were prizes in a cereal box.
"-Fine," Germany grunted, and, sighing, he opened the envelope and was assaulted similarly with a cloud of glitter. "Here, it’s the same," he said, showing the invitation to Italy.
Italy skimmed over it and seemed to determine that it was exactly the same as his invitation, which was disappointing. "Oh, that’s too bad. Sorry! Oh look, you have glitter- here," he continued, and after a short pause, brushed some glitter off Germany’s shoulder. "Ah, and here!" Italy went on, brushing some off Germany’s face, fingers tracing a line from his jaw to his chin.
For some reason that Germany could barely discern, he felt pink heat spread to his face, disorienting. Italy looked up and pointed out that Germany was blushing, and Germany proceeded to sputter incoherently. Italy then made the situation worse by grabbing Germany’s shoulders and telling him to keep calm. He was saying, "V-ve!? What’s wrong!? Ahhh you’re turning all red!" when Prussia broke through the moment by being loud and obnoxious.
"So, good news for those who live in fear!" Prussia exclaimed, grinning, "Hello Kitty has a kitty of her very own!"
Germany looked at him blankly. Italy’s hands left Germany’s shoulders and he clapped. "Yeah!" he exclaimed.
"WOULDN’T IT BE AWESOME," Prussia went on, "If the awesome me had an awesome mini-me to hang around with! I always thought that if I could clone myself it would be the greatest gift ever given to mankind! Forget love- if you had a million little me’s nothing would ever go wrong in the world. No war and no hunger. Just like that. It’s like the song Imagine but with my face all over it."
Germany blinked, and for some reason started to feel extremely irritated. Romano rolled his eyes and pulled Italy away, throwing his Armani scarf around his neck and announcing that they were going home to get pizza, and that no, Spain was not invited. Spain and Japan started to talk about something, leaving Germany and Prussia face-to-face.
Prussia had a...look on his face. "What’s the matter, West? Oh, right, you’re letting my genius soak in. Take your time, I know you have a brain the size of an acorn. I’m so pimpin’, huh? Kinda makes you jealous, right?"
"Brother," Germany started, expression flat, "Would you like to know how to keep a moron in suspense?"
Prussia’s eyes glittered. "Fuck yeah West!" he said, with a manic grin.
Germany stared at him for a few moments and then walked calmly away. Prussia stared after him. "H-hey, wait," he started. Germany didn’t turn around; he merely disappeared into his office. Prussia heard the lock click after the door closed; and then he balled his fists, suddenly restless. "Aw, man," he said to himself, "Now I really wanna know!"
TO PART TWO