with my shades so dark and my ice so bright;;
Title: Axis Powers: Wedding Massacre (2/2)
Doctor: inuyashacooks
Character(s)/Pairing(s): ensemble (unfortunately); Germany/Italy, US/UK, Spain/Romano
Rating: i made a reference to that song that goes one is the loneliest number in this part.
Warnings: yeaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh
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: hahahahahahahahahahah no. as sed this be a sequel bitches
☆AXIS POWERS: WEDDING MASSACRE (2/2)
England stomped over to the door, thinking that whoever was on the other side had better have something pretty fucking important to say. It was maybe the millionth time he had been interrupted in the middle of embroidering this week, and each and every interruption had been for that ridiculous wedding between two people whom he barely cared about on a daily basis. It was ridiculous- he was the one in isolation, and he had to solve everybody’s fucking problems. The incessant knocking stopped as he called, "Alright, goddammit!" He ripped the door open and revealed-
A sight that made his eyes go white.
"England! Meet Costica Bradatan! The World’s First Priestbot!" America positively yelled, gesturing to the large...thing behind him with the air of a kindergartner showing his parent a finger-painting.
England looked up and went positively white eyed when he saw the seven-foot monstrosity standing behind America. It looked vaguely like...what were those things Japan made up in his spare time...oh, right, a Transfuckingformer, except with a white collar and a...shawl over its shoulders that looked nothing like the shawl belonging to a priest’s vestments. "Wha-what-" he sputtered.
"Costica! Say ‘hi!’" America squeaked in excitement.
"I now pronounce you-" the robot began, but America kicked it before it could finish.
"Ha-ha-ha!" America laughed, "He’s not really done yet! Let me in!
" And with that he barged into England’s house. The robot followed, but he turned around and held out his hand. "No, not you. You’re like way too big. Stay out. Go on, get!" he said, and the robot hung its head and walked slowly away. As England watched it retreat down the street, he had a feeling that somebody should be playing a sad waltz and that rain should be falling, but he shook the thought from his head and closed the door.
He leered at America, who was standing around laughing at absolutely nothing. "What exactly was its name, again?"
"Costica Bradatan!" America said, fist-pumping the air.
England snorted. "I don’t even want to know where you came up with that one."
"Yeah! It sure ain’t easy being Captain Planet," America answered, pushing England and settling himself on the couch.
"Don’t push me while I’m in my own fucking house," England scowled, kicking America in the shin. "What are you here for, anyway?"
"I’m here to tell you about my awesome wedding planning!" America answered, and then leaned forward, squirming in his seat like an eager child. "It’s gonna be absolutely so awesome!"
"You’ve made that perfectly clear already," England answered, walking past him and to the door.
America frowned, chewed down on his lower lip. "Hey! Where’re you going?"
"I’m checking my mail," England said with an air of importance.
"Ohplz, like anyone ever mails you," America pouted.
"Shut up! I’ll have you know I’m very popular at the post office!" England answered with a tone that obviously meant "nobody loves me so could you?" He figured he could at least do one productive thing before America ruined the remainder of his day, even if it was as small as checking the mail. He ducked his head out and saw that the mailbox was full; retrieved the mail, and then came back into the house, shuffling through it.
Predictably enough, there was only one letter in the mailbox. It was a small envelope that had no return address. Immediately suspicious, England tore through it brashly, and, opening the note inside, was attacked by glitter and stupidity.
America laughed as he sputtered; England turned around after having read the initial lines, eyebrows sparkling and covered in glitter, generally looking like an angry butterfly. "What the Hell is this and why do you think it’s acceptable!?"
"The invitation, duh!" America said, rolling his eyes, "It was pretty gay at first, but luckily I saved the day-"
"From ‘gay.’"
"Yeah. It’s all good! See the red, white, and blue?" America asked.
"Yes. Yes I do."
"Makes everything better, right?" America went on, hands clasped in anticipation.
"Barely," England answered, tossing it on the coffee table. He situated himself across from America, tried to disregard what had just happened so that he could still look at America without wanting to punch him in the face, and picked up his embroidery to soothe his nerves. He had completed a few stitches shaping a beautiful fairy when America cleared his throat.
America paused. And stared at England. And started to laugh. "Whoa, I don’t know what’s going on right now, but I think you’re takin’ it a bit fast-"
"Shut up!" England snapped, throwing the embroidery aside.
"Okay, okay," America laughed, "Calm down, old-timer. You might just have a heart attack."
England scowled. "You insufferable child," he said, gritting his teeth. With that, he got up to retrieve a cup of tea.
"Watch your step there- I mean, do you even have Life Alert? ‘I’ve fallen, and I can’t get up!’"
England threw the unfinished tea cozy at America’s head. America complained about his being violent, and England just rolled his eyes and said he deserved it. He proceeded to microwave himself a cup of tea, and came back to stand by America sitting on the couch.
"Ugh, why did you come here, anyway?" England said, frowning and shifting uncomfortably. "Don’t come here if you have nothing to say to me."
America paused. The blue in his eyes settled a bit. "Oh," he answered, "I just wanted to show you first. Costica, I mean. I mean like, I wanted you to be the first to see it."
"Well I-" England started, about to make a snappy reply; but then he actually processed what America had said, and they both fell silent. It wasn’t much to say, but the way America said it was full of implication, all kinds of things between the lines, and each of them had a hard time figuring out what was next.
Then moments later they realized they had been straight-up gazing into each other’s eyes, so they fell into an awkward coughing fit. "I mean, not like you’re important, you’re actually not the first person on my list but I was in the neighborhood so yeah," America said, trying to cover it up, even though his just happening to be in London made no fucking sense.
England paused- knowing that America didn’t actually mean it, but vaguely bruised by the possibility that he might. "Well, it’s not like it’s anything special anyway," he said, turning around and laughing.
England had turned around, so he didn’t see just how hard America’s expression fell, eyes wide and blue and affronted. England kept on laughing- "It’s childish, actually. Yes, very childish!"
"What!?" America answered, rising from his seat and gasping, "That’s- that’s-"
"I mean, Priestbot- honestly, what a ridiculous idea," England tittered, rolling his eyes and lifting his teacup from its saucer to bring it to his lips. He would have taken a really dainty English sip, but America, in a blinding justice ninja move, attacked the teacup and sent it flying across the room.
It shattered against the wall to their left; England blinked furiously, trying to understand what the fuck had just happened. "Are you mad!?" he exclaimed, shoving America.
"No," America answered, glowering darkly, "No, England. I’m sad."
England’s blinking slowed to a "what-the-shit-is-this-I-don’t-even" pace. When he asked for an explanation for America’s retardation, America just said, "The heart," and moonwalked out of the room with a triumphant smile on his face.
Serves him right for making fun of my engineering skills and artistic ingenuity! America thought to himself, and after retrieving Costica Bradatan (who was sitting under a cherry blossom tree, wondering, as a dove flew by, if he would ever be a real boy), walked down the street toward a McDonald’s feeling just dandy.
England for his part, felt intensely disgusted, and cursed Alfred F. Jonas Brother with all his might.
Romano was dressed nicely. Well, Romano was always dressed nicely; more so, now, in his neat black button-down and his designer jeans. Spain adjusted his collar and coughed nervously. Romano probably would have looked much nicer were he not huddled in the corner of the back seat, as far away from Spain as he could get, absolutely glaring at him.
"Nice day, isn’t it?" Spain asked hopefully.
Romano’s glare intensified from the other end of the car.
Spain laughed it off, but the laugh could only dissolve into a sigh. He looked out the window; they were on their way to the rehearsal, and though he didn’t exactly know where they were, he had a feeling they would be there soon. He didn’t bother to ruminate on Romano’s mood; for the past week or so, Romano had barely spoken to him. One day Spain even tried to make hot dogs and make cracks about Frank Sinatra, but all he got was headbutted in the chest. From then, Spain, not exactly able to decipher what was wrong this time, figured it was just an issue that needed time to ebb it softer.
They did arrive at the chapel about five minutes later; Spain got out of his seat hurriedly and ran around the car to open the door for Romano. Romano’s eyes turned a different shade of green- brighter, like he meant to say something- but he caught himself and huffed his "Thanks, whatever," before storming up from his seat and toward the door.
Spain hurried after him. They reached the front door and Romano pushed it open, with a loud, brash, "Alright, let’s get this stupid shit over with."
France, all grinning and dressed in blue, rushed over to them with his arms spread.
"Spain!" he exclaimed, barely registering Romano’s presence, "Don’t we look nice today?" He spread his arms out and went to embrace Spain, who laughed and went to reciprocate, until-
Romano cut between them and uppercut their arms so that they went flailing backwards. "Get your hands off ’im you cheese-eating fool!" he snapped, and then sighed heavily, "Let’s just get this over with!"
"Somebody got off the wrong side of the pasta fazool," America commented, laughing, from somewhere near the front of the chapel.
"Hey, shut yer mouth you goddamn-" Romano started, but lifting his eyes toward the front, saw America in the costume of a priest and was left horrified and speechless, ducking behind Spain for cover.
"Eh? What now?" Spain asked, turning around and wondering why Romano had decided that now was a good time to play hide-and-seek.
"Ah, yes. The best man and maid of honor are here as well," France said, gesturing to the front where Austria was huffing and Greece was waving (Prussia was there, as well, giving a thumbs-up to himself as a reward for being awesome), "Now let’s get started, shall we!" And with that he rushed them to the front.
"Oh! Austria, hi, how are you!" Spain called excitedly as they walked up to meet them.
"Oh yeah, the Brave Little Teacup over here would like t’ fucking congratulate you losers," Prussia said, gesturing to Austria, who did nothing but huff indignantly in response.
"Hello," Austria said, straightening his cravat, and then his expression turned serious. "Spain, I was going to tell you- if you had wanted a wedding planned, you should have contacted either Germany or myself-" he said Germany because that was where he went when he needed anything done that he didn’t want to do himself- "and not...these two." His eyes slid exasperatedly to America and France, who were hugging over how great they were.
"Oh, really? That’s so thoughtful of you!" Spain chirped in response, expression bright; then his face fell to confusion, and he continued, "But, eh, Austria, nobody could get in touch with you for like...a month? What happened?"
Austria coughed and said that the matter needn’t be explained, which Prussia apparently disagreed with, because he explained that "this fucking fancy douche" was on a hiking trip in the Swiss Alps and got lost, and, too proud to contact Swiss officials and having no way to contact Germany, was at the mercy of dancing bears and poison ivy until Hungary found him.
America and France, having heard this before, were unfazed; Romano gaped at the extreme failure; Austria blushed intensely; Greece wondered aloud whether Austria "had to live among the bears and get in touch with his wild side;" and Spain didn’t notice anything amiss, and, laughing "because that was a good story," asked Prussia:
"But why are you here?"
"For the lulz," Prussia responded.
"Please, let’s begin already!" Austria broke in.
"Yes, let’s!" France cried, brandishing glitter.
"Okay, you have to stop it with the glitter," America said, sneezing through a cloud of it, "Just because the author’s running out of ideas for your stage action doesn’t give you license to be so uninhibitedly fabulous." He paused. "The author seems to have not really studied my character, either. I would never say ‘uninhibited.’"
France thought that was a bit of a low blow (the author did too and cried in a drunken puddle of tears for days) (no, the author is not England- would you like to play again?), but instead of commenting on it, he told everyone their places and etc. They went through the whole ceremony with, surprisingly enough, no interruptions, but that was just the test drive. The asshattery started up again when they decided to go through it again, and France took the stage, much to America’s chagrin.
"I’d like everyone’s attention for a moment," he said, full of commanding stage presence and intense songwriting, "You all know that a wedding is a very special occasion between two people; I would venture to say that it’s the most valuable transaction one can make, because what’s promised isn’t material, does not vanish with the normal turning of the earth- what’s promised is love, support-"
"Your demo tape was better," Prussia interrupted in an obnoxious tone from the pew.
France hacked on a syllable and then glared at Prussia. America laughed "two points!" and a pissy expression washed over France’s face. He elected to be the better man, and clearing his throat, went on. "That aside, since there are some plebeians here who can’t appreciate the refined subtleties of such speech, I’ll put it in plain language- I have acquired one of the finest ensembles in all of Europe to play a beautiful, romantic piece for the duration of the ceremony! Now, come, my string quartet!"
"Dammit, he did it again!" America cursed as from the corners of the chapel a string quartet emerged, "And behind my back, too!"
"I want a refund!" Prussia hooted.
Austria didn’t see the problem, and was going to say so until Greece told him that perhaps being predictable wasn’t the best option at the moment.
Suddenly, like a sweet wine sweeping up from a magical river, a sweet piece began to play. It wasn’t apparent at first- it was more like a whisper of music, appealing to the heart before the ears. And even though that last sentence implies that the players had almost no musical talent, it wasn’t true. They were like the band that you would hear playing at the entrance to heaven. Their music was a piece of strawberry shortcake. Only they, and they alone, could make things as right as a blueberry scone.
"YES!" France yelled, like he had scored a touchdown, "UNLEASH THE POWER OF ROMANCE UNTO THE MASSES!"
"Stop it! Just stop it!" Prussia cried, holding his ears. It should be noted now, in order to foreshadow later events, that Prussia had begun to go a little more crazy than he usually was, and was therefore not equipped with endurance to romantic string quartets nor filled with snappy remarks.
"YOU CAN’T ESCAPE THE POWER OF SOOTHING VIOLIN!" France cried in response, and it began to rain roses just outside.
America was positively glaring from where he stood. He stepped forward, raising his hands. "Okay, okay, stop it," he said, taking the bows from each of the musicians, who stood around extremely confused. "Show’s over, folks. Go home. And you’re not getting paid."
"What are you doing?!" France asked, clenching his fist, and leaping in before America could break the bows (because it was his duty as a justice hero to free the world of sappy music).
America turned darkly to France. "There are some things that are against my Constitution and that is one of them, so cease and desist, good sir."
"Fuck it," Romano said, throwing up his hands, "I didn’t come here just for this shit." Spain’s mood dropped, because he noted that somewhere in that sentence, he was being blamed.
"Your Constitution! There is no law in the game of romance, dear," France answered, ripping a bow from America’s hand and brandishing it, "And if there was, it certainly wouldn’t be yours."
America gasped and saw red, white, and blue. "M-my Constitution! How- how dare you!" he wailed, tears forming, "France, I- I can’t believe you!"
"Nor can I do the same for you!" France answered, "Not after you blatantly insulted my fine taste in music! And besides, didn’t Eyebrows appoint me director of music?"
A deep frown settled over America’s face. "So now we’re listening to what England says? Really?"
"Well," France said, throwing his hair over his shoulder, "If that gets me what I want, then perhaps I will listen to Angleterre."
America gasped dramatically again. "You- are just- have you forgotten the Revolution!? I mean-" He paused; then he grabbed France by the shoulders, and looked him directly in the eye. "Someday, France, when I’m rich and famous, you’re going to come up to me with all the cameras flashing and the journalists with microphones and you’re gonna be in tattered clothes and all unshaven, well more so, and you’re gonna be like, ‘Hey, America, it’s me, France- remember me? Remember that one time when we were planning a wedding and we were best friends?’ And you know what I’m going to say?"
France paused, looking much less impressed than America’s monologue would imply- running his tongue slowly over his teeth and eyes half-lidded.
"‘No. No, I’m sorry, I don’t.’ And then I’m going to speed off on my Harley and get dust all over your hobo clothes and the paparazzi are going to take pictures and you’ll cry."
France knocked America’s hands off him and snapped, "Mon cher, I’m not sure where this is coming from, but I do believe you’ve overworked your little stillborn kangaroo brain."
"Hey!" America exclaimed, not exactly knowing what that meant. Austria was slightly offended at the mention of kangaroos in his presence, but before he was able to be all fancy about it, the doors to the chapel opened and England breezed in, all scarf and peacoat, everything about him implying a good cup of tea.
Spain’s expression deflated (before he had just been smiling at nothing). "I-Inglaterra," he said, like a wilted flower.
"Hello, chaps," England said, walking up the aisle.
"Why are you here?" France and America asked, almost simultaneously.
England rose a massive eyebrow and scoffed. "I thought I’d supervise this ridiculousness," he said, and then eyed France and America, leaning a little too close to one another and looking a little bit too angry at each other. He huffed and put his hands on his hips. "Are you two getting along?"
France laughed freely and removed himself from America’s personal space; America pouted. "Ye-aaahhh," he said, kicking his sneakers at the ground.
"Leave it to England to be the mother hen," France whispered, rolling his eyes.
"Tell me about it."
"I’m not sure what the Hell is going on, but I’ll venture to say it’s your fault this time, frog," England interrupted.
"Teacher’s pet," France muttered to America, who glared at him.
"Hey!" America whispered back.
Greece paused, holding his hand up just slightly. "Are we still rehearsing?" he asked, voice even.
"Yes, I’d like to ask that as well," Austria added, crossing his arms, "I don’t appreciate my time being wasted."
Prussia made a loud, hugely obnoxious pfffftttt sound and took a bite of his ice cream which had suddenly materialized out of nowhere. "Whatever, you frilly bitch, at least you get to do something."
"Listen, you! I’m not going to tolerate this kind of-"
"Oh yap yap yap," Prussia answered, rolling his eyes.
They became enveloped in their argument for the time being; Romano sighed loudly and stomped away from the front, hopping the small steps and fuming his way toward the doors. "You fucking losers- you’re making me curse in fucking Church, goddammit!" Spain followed after him, asking him to please wait, but Romano had none of it, and they left in that manner to the car.
Greece sort of observed the general fail all around him, but considered it more tactful not to say anything. Considering that as his cue to go, he left the chapel through a side door with a good nap on his mind, leaving France, England, and America still standing.
America gasped suddenly as if in shock and looked at his watch. "I forgot, I have to meet Costica in the back for briefing!" And with that he bounded out of the church. France and England decided to follow him.
They went to the back, where there was a desk set up, and Costica Bradatan the Priestbot sitting, knees to his mechanical chest, looking all bummed out in his new priestly attire. He was, at the moment, wondering what freedom meant, and if only a human heart could comprehend it- and if, indeed, being a robot, he could ever attain this and many more things- when the bane of his existence walked through the door with a bright smile.
"Okay Costica!" America said, rolling up his sleeves, "Time for briefing!"
"This should be good," England said smugly, to himself.
"Don’t doubt him, America can do some amazing things if he-"
"Oh shut up."
France looked at England testily and pinched his cheek, causing England to puff up like a small bird. America seated himself at the desk, and Costica sat in front of him, his mechanic heart still thrown into the chaos of uncertainty that plagued his dark violet robotic being. He did not know who he was, or what his purpose was; nor, indeed, did he know the meaning of life.
"Okay!" America exclaimed, ignoring Costica’s tragic interior dialogue, "Let’s start off with the first question. Whose wedding is this?"
"America the Justice Nin-"
"AHEM," America coughed, looking nervously at England and France who individually looked an amazing combination of smug and skeptical. "No, let’s try it again. Whose wedding is this?"
"Tomato and-"
America cleared his throat again; then he folded his hands, eyebrows furrowing together. "Okay, listen, Costica. I don’t think you’re quite getting me, here, so I’m gonna skip to the next question. Is that okay with you?"
There was a mechanical sadness as Costica nodded his "yes." England rose an eyebrow; France’s smirk disappeared and was replaced by an expression that was a mix of pity and curiosity.
"Right! Let’s do this!" America said, shuffling his papers and looking down at another leaf. "’Kay, so, complete this sentence: ‘Dearly beloved, we are...?’"
"I now pronou-"
America interrupted him with a loud laugh but didn’t hide the tick of annoyance in his eyes. "Okay, okay, just a malfunction," he said, waving his hand, and then went on. "Okay, so when I say ‘I do,’ you say...?"
"Do you take this-"
"NO, NO, NO! Come on, can’t you get anything right?!" America whined.
"Do you take this-"
"What’s a ringmaster?!"
"Tames lions, Sir."
America threw his papers on the desk, incensed. "He introduces the acts!"
"Is he even going to be able to do the wedding?" England asked, throwing his scarf pointedly across his shoulder.
"He better!" America scoffed, and then slid his eyes back to Costica, who cowered in robotic fear. "Or it gets the hose."
"What manufacturer let him do this?" England asked mildly, "More importantly, from whom did he learn that abusive tone of voice?"
France looked at him flatly and had nothing to say but "...".
America continued to berate the robot ("I feed you, clothe you, and shelter you, and this is the treatment I get! Is it too much to ask that you give back once in a while! Sheesh!") and England and France stood around, wondering what to do but not willing to share such thoughts with each other. At that moment, the door from the outside opened and Prussia bustled in, looking urgent.
"Oh, Prussia," France said, "What are you doing here?"
"Absolutely nothing but being awesome!" Prussia laughed.
"I can see that. Where are the others?"
"Oh. They’re all gone. Greece hadda go do something, prolly feed cats or somethin’, and like I give a crap where Austria is."
England paused. "Has he gone by himself?" he asked, "I’d hate to be Germany if so."
"I guess so. He told me to walk him home at least, and I told him to suck my diiii-ck!" Prussia then made a noise reminiscent of record scratching. "Then he agreed and he told me to go ask England for some advice on the matter. OSNAP. England is the headmaster. The one with the knee pads. FEAR NOTHING! I’LL SHOW YOU, RUSSIAN CABBAGE!"
With that, he ran off like a detached puppet out the door and in the direction of the parking lot and the sidewalk. England looked miffed at being joked at and was probably plotting his revenge right then and there; but France, who had been observing carefully, brought his hand to his chin and asked distantly:
"Was there...something more wrong with him than usual, or is it just me?"
Who knew?
The day of the wedding came sooner than the world was prepared for. It was a clear, sunny day, sort of with a touch rain in its corners. Italy showed up at Germany's house along with Japan, as the three were going together. "Hey Germany! Ve, good news, Germany! You’re not the loneliest number any more!"
Germany paused. "Excuse me?"
"But the bad news is that two can be as bad as one," Italy said, voice dripping sadness; Germany was worried for a moment, but Italy perked back up. "Okay, let’s go!"
Anyway they left and arrived at their destination about twenty minutes later, obtained a parking space that was less than optimal, and got out. (Italy tripped, but after much wailing and crying, it was all fine and they continued on their way.)
Germany caught the first warning signs pretty quick as they walked through the parking lot into the building. There were a few swans just walking around the grounds, but he noticed that some of them were wearing Burger King crowns (the kind that Prussia liked, and anything involving Prussia was an automatic red flag). There was a banner that said "Weclome" in florid script, and then, crossed-out and in red, white, and blue writing, "IT’S THE FINAL COUNTDOWN;" then, as they neared the building, America walked by muttering something about "having to oil the priest," and Germany had no doubt in his mind that he was walking through a war zone. He held onto Italy’s shoulder and advised him to stay very close; Italy paid no attention, nodded, and went on to shed a couple more tears of happiness for his brother. He seemed to get more and more emotional the nearer they got to the building.
Most of the nations were surprisingly already there. There was a cluster of Latin American nations huddled around the door, as they were finding ways to loiter even at a wedding they were invited to < /low blow>. They passed through the door, and were immediately assaulted with the sheer amount of flash and sparkle. It was disparate; it was so garish is was hard to believe they weren’t in Las Vegas. There were multi-colored lights strung around the surrounding area, large flower arrangements that vaguely made it look like someone had died, and- what were those? Streamers? Germany had honestly expected something more tasteful from France but was obviously wrong in doing so.
However, looking at the elements of the decoration, and how disconnected they seemed, you would think that perhaps this was the evidence of some kind of competition.
But this was already stupid enough, so there was no need to dwell on it. They wandered off to find their seats and tried to act like it was all normal.
Anyway, more people were entering the building, and more people were struck by how generally offensive the entire scene was. Mario Lopez was there to sort-of host the wedding, because, as everyone well knows, anything that is ever hosted requires a Mario Lopez or else is doomed to failure. Greece, the maid of honor, was just standing around not doing much when Egypt and Turkey waltzed in. He waved to Egypt, but looked Turkey up and down and scoffed. "Nice shoes, douchebag."
Turkey kept back the urge to be sincerely hurt and retaliated with, "Thanks, I like this gay lil’ tie, too," tugging at Greece’s tie.
"Hey! Don’t touch me!"
"Oh so what now ya gonna tell me what t’ do? Wanna fight me?" Turkey snapped back, but before he could actually go on, Egypt kicked him in the shin.
Greece gave Egypt a thumbs-up. "Thanks Egypt. But maybe you should keep your ho on a leash."
"What the fuck did y’just call me!-"
"Please, please, no fighting," France said, suddenly apparating out of nowhere. He normally would have greeted them with a trademark perverted comment, but at the moment, he seemed rather frazzled- the stress of the wedding planning, and of America, was getting to him.
Turkey and Egypt stared at France for a long moment. Then Egypt turned to Turkey and held out his palm. Turkey scoffed and dug in his pockets for his wallet. "Goddammit, fuckin’- how’d ya know he’d be wearing clothes?!"
Egypt shrugged as Turkey handed him a twenty. Turkey turned accusingly toward France. "’Ey, buddy, can y’try to be a lil’ more- predictable, next time?"
"I have no idea what on Earth you’re talking about," France answered blankly.
Just then, America came up, and he and France, from the get-go, started to argue about flowers and fireworks and those were MY swans! and awesome, leaving everyone in the proverbial dust. As a quick interruption to their arguing, the bride himself waltzed through the door, smart in his tuxedo, with a pissy frown on his face. As far as brides go, he would have looked like a beautiful young asparagus if only his expression was a little less dour.
"Yo, aren’t we like, not s’post t’ see the bride?" Turkey asked no one in particular.
"Shut up bastard!" Romano exclaimed. "Who invited you anyway!"
"Jeez, alright! Why’re ya yellin’ at me?!"
"Because you’re a moron, now everybody shut up!"
It was then that Romano, taking breath and a break from his general sour mood, took in the disaster of rainbow lights and rock ‘n’ roll and swans and glitter that surrounded him. He halted abruptly, like a shot cat, as soon as he had fully digested the scene around him. France and America forgot their arguing and bounded over to him like obnoxiously excited puppies and awaited his reaction excitedly.
"THE FUCK IS THIS SHIT," Romano ground out, leering at them.
"I told you he’d like it," America said.
"This your wedding, tomate cher," France answered.
Romano’s eyes narrowed further. "You sicken me," he said to them.
France answered with a showy laugh and, extending his palm, blew a cloud of glitter in Romano’s face. Romano coughed and hacked and tried to fight the glitter attack, and America and France high-fived. Romano was red up to his ears, yelling and cursing and about to take off his suit jacket to kick some fuckin’ ass, but France and America rushed him off because he absolutely must have a touch-up before the main event, no ifs, ands, or buts.
Turkey looked at both Greece and Egypt, wondering aloud, "What the Hell?" Greece was relatively unfazed, as he’d been in the presence of this for a good week or so. Egypt was completely unsurprised. Greece followed Romano, France, and America, figuring he should since he was part of the wedding party. Turkey and Egypt wandered into the main hall to find their seats.
France and America had dragged Romano in the back for a million pictures in a million different poses, and Romano pretty much cried the whole way through the ordeal. United once again, France and America went on dynamically through the motions, last-minute preparations, walkie-talkies, strategic positioning, post-election hoohah, and all that jazz (hatch-cha-cha-cha!). America counted down obnoxiously- not to the wedding of Spain and Romano, but to the Awesomest Thing Ever- and when he got to one, France turned to Romano and told him, with a dazzling smile, that it was time to go.
Romano paused.
"Fuck that," he said, "F-forget it. I’m not getting married anymore."
America’s smile froze. France paused. Greece shifted, looking curiously at Romano.
"Well, of course you’re only saying that because you’d like to have a piece of the tres bien moi," France laughed, "But let’s not be silly! Come! Let’s go!"
"I said fuck that, did you not hear me!?" Romano yelled throwing his shoe at France’s head.
"Ugh! Sacre coeur! You violent little tomato!"
"Shut the fuck up!" Romano said, leaping up onto his chair, "I’m not getting married and that is it!"
"Come on, man!" America whined, "You have to! I did everything I could to make it awesome!"
"Keep your awesome to yaself! I don’t wanna hear it!"
"This is ludacris!" France exclaimed, throwing his hands up.
There was a beat of a pause. America then whipped around, staring France down with intense blue eyes. "A-HA! So you do listen to him!" he cried, pointing his finger at France accusingly.
"E-excuse me!?" France cried.
"What the fuck! What does that guy have to do with this!" Romano yelled.
"Ludacris...," Greece pondered heavily.
America went on about how France shouldn’t have lied to him in the first place and should just have embraced his inner gangster and rolled with it, and how he didn’t mind that everyone copied his music because it was so cool that everyone was bound to like it, and all this time he had thought France was a hater, but he had finally opened his eyes to the fact that our differences, in the end, make us more similar than different, which made no sense.
France, for his part, was done. Absolutely finished. He snapped, and yelled tearfully that He Was Much Too Cultured For That You Sorry Hamburger-Brained Moron.
America said, "Oh we’re back to this! Well take this, you cheese-eating freak!" With that, he reached for one of the roses from the arrangement and threw it toward France like Tuxedo Mask.
France had magical control of fruity things, so he deflected the rose and sent it straight to America’s face. America’s glasses went tumbling to the floor. He picked them up, adjusted them, inhaled dramatically, and then shouted, "Fine! You’re not my friend!"
"And the same to you!" France answered, shaking his fist.
America hmphed and then turned away. "It’s over," he said.
"It has been."
The wind howled through the room and autumn erupted, with just exactly the same noise that both of their hearts made. Because they were broken.
"Fine. I’m leaving."
"Go, then."
"I have a groom to attend to."
"And I, a bride."
And with that, the relationship was severed.
Greece folded his arms and tried to judge whether or not he should take that seriously. France looked up at Romano, and said:
"Now, see what ruckus you’ve caused, you harlot. Not that I mind a harlot. Anyway, kindly come down from that chair and let’s get on with this."
Romano blinked maliciously. "I already told you, I’m not fucking getting married."
The old Napoleonic gleam came back into France’s eye, much to Romano’s terror.
Everyone was seated. The wedding was about to begin. There was a kind of stillness, sort of contrary to that of people who await an event like a wedding. It was more like waiting for a boxing match to start. Everyone saw how nervously Spain smiled when the wedding march started to play; however, the music continued, and there was no bride marching up the aisle.
America suddenly rushed up to the altar, took the microphone from Costica Bradatan, and started to gloat. "AHAHA! Well, look at that! There’s no bride! I wonder why that is!"
"A-America," Spain tried to interrupt weakly, but America just went on:
"Anyway, yeah, I guess we should get on with this, then! I just wanted to say that you know I’m glad that everybody came together for this shindig. We were all gathered a couple of months ago for the funeral party of a very good friend of ours, and you know-" he fist-pumped the air at this point- "I’m just really glad that we’re all together again, that we’ve survived to this point! It really shows just you know that-"
Then, music descended upon the scene. Familiar music. From the 1980s.
"-That-"
Then he started to sing:
"WE ARE THE WOOOOORLLLLLD-"
"Oh my God no," Canada squeaked, "America, don’t! This year’s version was horrible! It raised a lot of money, sure, but it was a horrible song! Also, it’s not appropriate for the occasion!" But America continued because, really? What’s a Canada?
"WE ARE THE WOOOO-"
"EXCUSEZ-MOI!" boomed France’s voice from seemingly everywhere, and suddenly Romano tumbled up to the altar, looking pale and terrified.
Spain knee-attacked America, and, as America crumbled onto the floor, grabbed the microphone and handed it to Costica. Then he turned to Romano, exclaiming, "R-Romanito! What happened!?"
"I-I don’t wanna talk about it, bastard!"
"Hey! You ruined my song!" America exclaimed, getting up and adjusting his glasses.
France descended upon the scene with a dramatic flourish. "I could say the same for you using metaphors and poetic structure!"
"Enough!" Austria interrupted, exasperated, "Let’s just do this properly and get on with the wedding, please!"
A murmur of agreement was heard among the audience. America and France sat, at the guidance of England, far away from each other like petulant children. "Behave yourself," England snapped, sitting down next to America.
"No u," America sniffled.
Austria respectfully requested that Costica Bradatan go through with the opening rites. "Dearly beloved," he began, in his robotic voice, as Romano reluctantly stepped closer to Spain, "We’ve gathered here in sight of-" There was a long pause. You could hear his mechanic nervousness; America sat forward on the edge of his seat, praying Costica would get it right.
"-We’re gathered in sight of- to have and to-" Costica Bradatan paused deeply.
"Hmph! You call this a priestbot!" France shouted to America from one side of the building.
"Shut up, Lance!" America said, spent after trying to figure out offensive rhyming monikers for France. "Get on with it, Costica! Show ’em you can do it!"
But he honestly could not. "We have gathered here in sight of...God...civil..."
"Fuck! Is this a fucking joke to you people!" Romano shouted, shaking his fist at the crowd.
"Okay, okay!" America interrupted, "Sorry about that! Just skip to the joining part, Costica!"
"You know what, screw it! Nobody’s lissened to me until now, but I’m just going to- I’m not getting married!" Romano protested, and Spain flinched as though hit- but Costica went stumbling on.
"Do you, Spain Fernandez Carriedo, take this indignant little tomato to be your lawfully wedded Romano?" Costica asked, turning to Spain.
Spain was currently on information overload mode, and, swallowing, looked nervously around the room to see whether or not he should go along with it. He managed to choke out, "I do," but sounded completely unconvincing.
"Ind-indignant- indignant little tomato!?!" Romano yelled (more liked screeched or squealed).
"Oh crap," America cursed, "He must’ve remembered it when I was playing Guess Who? with France..."
England turned to America with a flat stare; he then blinked.
"I’ll show you indignant little tomato, you- !" Romano began, but interrupted himself upon seeing that Costica was a gigantic robot made purely of metal. "S-Spain! Bastard! Beat this guy up!"
"Wh-what!? Romano, he’s- he’s part of the clergy!"
"Do I look like I give a shit!"
"Please, let’s just get on with the-" Austria started, but somebody interrupted with a shout of "fab-u-lous!" He glared into the crowd meaningfully, but among them, a general rattling chaos was arising. Korea tried to say that Italians originated in Korea but his voice was overshadowed by Denmark’s, who was challenging Sweden to a sudden duel for some reason. Latvia shook uncontrollably. Greece looked offended when Russia, in a fit of jealousy, suddenly knocked Shinatty’s head off and revealed the middle-aged plumber hiding beneath. Some people’s attention turned to the altar, where Romano was turning deep red and Spain was trying to console him.
"Please Romano, calm down!"
"Fuck that! I’m not calming down!"
England stood up. "Maybe we had just better call off the wedding," he said.
France followed suit in standing up. "Ah-hah! Just like you, England, to attempt to ruin, in one fell blow, both a budding romance and the greatest wedding ever planned!"
"What are you talking about! This is a disaster!" England answered.
"You- frumpy eyebrows!"
"You fucking- you wino bastard, say that to my face!"
"I don’t know what we’re yelling about!" America contested, standing up.
Austria folded his arms. "I for one agree with calling off the wedding," he pointed out.
"M’ d’s’ k’," said Sweden.
"Yeah, I mean-" Canada started.
"Hey! Wait! Shut your polar bear mouth!" Romano shouted. Canada didn’t know whether or not it was worth it to be offended.
Spain stepped forward, and, smiling that small smile that matched the earnestness of his eyes so well, put his hand on Romano’s shoulder. "It’s okay, Romano- if you don’t want to, of course I’m fine with it," he said.
"N-no! You bastard!" Romano yelled, punching Spain in the arm.
"-Owchie," Spain yelped, shaking off his arm, "What did you do that for?"
"I mean-" by now, the congregation had fallen relatively silent, and was watching them with the crowded intent of shifting opinion- "You’re- so stupid, bastard!"
"Eh?" Spain asked, "I don’t get it, Romano-"
"Just like always! You’re so stupid!" The red on his face deepened gradually, and small shaking took over him- you could tell it was nervousness because he looked like his heart was leaping up, splashing in his chest- you could see it on his face, how the tears welled up.
"Ay! Why are you crying!" Spain asked, alarmed.
"B-because- because- I love you, goddammit!"
There was a deep pause; one that was waiting for a reaction- or waiting to process it fully. Romano was pretty much bawling like a schoolboy bitch by now, and seeing Spain hug him, the crowd basically took on one deep "D’awwwwwww," except for America, who piped, "Awk-ward!"
Japan, for one, undertook no reaction, because he was well-versed in the ways of the tsundere.
"Costica!" America yelled, giving the robot the cue.
Costica Bradatan was, for his part, kind of considering not continuing because he needed to establish his identity apart from America, but he relented after a couple of moments. He, taking up the posture of a priest again, turned to Spain. "Do you, Spain Fernandez Carriedo, take this indignant little person to be your lawfully wedded wife?"
"Perfect!" America squeaked excitedly in his place next to England.
England balked at him. "You trained him to say that?" America ignored him.
"I-I do!" Spain said, nodding.
"A little too excited there, huh, buddy?" Romano snapped. Spain laughed it off.
"And do you, Romano Vargas, take Spain Fernandez Carriedo to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
Romano blushed. "I-I guess so, fucking...yeah. I...do." He then choked on embarrassment for thirty seconds.
"By the power vested in me by the state of Washington-" everyone was puzzled and double-checked as to whether they were really in Washington- "I now pronounce you husband and wife."
Romano froze, suddenly paralyzed by the moment at hand; but Spain, with his usual stupid fervor, the heat of his feeling, almost tripped over himself and bounded forward to kiss Romano- teeth all clashing together, all clumsy feeling and not soft at all, but nice, Romano guessed, in its own way (he could maybe get used to this). There was a round of applause among the crowd.
"Well," England said, clapping moderately, "That went through with only minor incident."
America was about to tell him to stop being such a party pooper, but then he remembered- "Oh!" he said, and shuffled in his pocket, removing a remote control after a couple of moments. England watched him with mild interest; America pointed it at the altar, and flicked the switch in the remote’s center.
Above the altar, a light display burst in electric red, vibrant shades colored like love. England was sort-of-not-really-impressed, but then he actually deciphered the shape of the thing. It was some sort of...marine creature- some sort of cetacean- wrapped around a...red beach ball.
"...What the Hell is that?" England asked, open-mouthed.
"Tomatowhale," America answered, smiling and wiping a tear from his eye at the sheer beauty of his creation.
The reception was held outdoors; good weather for it, too, a lot of electricity absorbed and almost injected into the air outside, so that it shook with a festive, messy, chaotic air from the moment the first guests took their seats.
Somewhere in the happy mess, Germany had finally explained to Prussia the joke; in fact, he had gone crazy from the suspense of the unanswered question of how idiots are kept in suspense, and as such, had gone out of his mind. Germany hadn't seen him for a couple of days because in his lunacy, had taken recently to spending massive amounts of Germany’s money on hookers and alcohol and therefore hadn't been in the house much. When told, Prussia was annoyed and said "Pffffffffft West I’m a fucking genius, o-of course I knew that!" So it was all good AND ALL WAS RIGHT WITH THE WORLD. Not-so-surprisingly, France and America received more congratulations than Spain and Romano, and only after what seemed like hundreds of profuse felicitations, weeded through the crowd and found each other.
America, with England at his side, saw France. France saw him. He started to run toward France, but then stopped abruptly. France raised his eyebrows, and America kept on running, arms outspread, and caught France in a bone-crushing embrace before France had time to react.
"I- I love you, man!" America cried, legitimately cried, "That was the best wedding ever!"
France was about to get teary-eyed himself, but then remember he was France, so he sent England a dirty look and started to stroke America’s back. "Yes, mon fil! It was a huge success."
"Inorite? You’re the greatest big brother ever!"
England died a little.
"But yeah," America went on, "I’m sorry I said you were a mime."
"...You never said-"
"BRITANNIA CHOP!" England interjected, breaking their embrace by bringing down the blade of his palm swiftly.
"England, are you drunk?" America laughed.
"Honestly not yet. I just don’t want to see any of...that."
"Oh-ho! Jealous, are we, Eyebrows?" France asked.
"Y-you and this pedophile beard," England snapped, tugging at France’s stubble.
"M-my beard is not a pedophile!" France answered, tugging at England’s eyebrows.
"You two are really into facial hair," America said with a weird laugh.
Korea, who had been earlier sighing about how love originated at his house, appeared upon the scene dragging Costica Bradatan in tail. "Look what I found, everybody!" he said. Costica had been previously planning his escape, his grand running away from home, and had been caught red-handed by Korea who dragged him here.
America, for his part, looked suddenly angered. He moved toward Costica, grabbing a glass of champagne from a caterer on his way, and glowered at him. "Didn’t we practice all that!? Why did you mess up!?" he demanded.
"I- I- I want to have a human heart," Costica said.
"What!? How can you have a human heart if you don’t have a human circulatory system! Answer me that, funny guy!"
Costica sort of mechanically sniffled. "America- you- I am not a human being, but- I am also not stupid, and you shouldn’t talk to me like I am."
"Oh yeah!? What’s the capital of Rhode Island!"
"I- it doesn’t matter-"
"What’s two plus two!?"
"Leave me alone!" And with that, Costica Bradatan took off into the horizon.
"I brought you into this world and I can take you out of it!" America cried, shaking his fist at Costica Bradatan. Costica ran away making a weird sound that could only be described as the delicate weeping of a spurned robot in the lonely cherry blossom breeze. So lonely it could only be compared to the sound of a half-filled water glass in an empty room crying because it can never be sure if it is half-empty or half-full.
After Costica was done running away dramatically, America turned around to face the rest of the group. "That kid’s swell!" he exclaimed, and toasted everyone. Nobody knew what to make of it. Some thought that it was their business and they shouldn’t meddle; still others considered contacting social services.
Meanwhile, over at his table, sitting with Italy, Japan, and Canada, Germany was getting smashed and terrifying the shit out of everyone within five feet of him with his horrible Italian skills and ability to make everything sound like a military order.
"HEY! DRINK THE REST OF THAT!" he commanded to Canada. He said it while laughing, but he managed to sound angry.
"O-okay," Canada obliged, laughing weakly.
"ARRIVEDERCI!"
"Germany-san," Japan said, "I find it interesting that you have such a fixation on the Italian language." It should be noted that Japan had a few drinks in him and generally, when he had been drinking, his fetishist, scheming side came out more and more.
"Huh! That’s- that’s because-" he began answered, pounding the table with his fist to punctuate his point, and then paused. "I- forgot what I was going to say." He then dissolved into helpless laughter. Japan laughed along with him, that kind of polite laugh that said You can’t hide your BL from me; Italy was kind of off-put by the fact that Germany of all people was laughing; Canada was fucking terrified and wished for once that no one could see him.
"YO!" Prussia said, descending on the scene, "I decided to show up to this gay-ass wedding anyway! Aren’t I great? Why’re you laughing, West?" He then proceeded to mercilessly pinch Germany’s cheeks. Germany spat up some curses and tried to bat Prussia’s hands away, but Prussia persisted. "You shoulda seen this guy back at the Reunion party, he was piss drunk! When he’s drunk all the crazy comes out. It’s a family thing."
“Oh! Guys!” Spain said, coming toward them, dragging Romano behind him, “Are you enjoying yourselves?”
“Fra-fratello!” the brothers exclaimed simultaneously, and embraced and cried together.
"’Bout as much as Mario and Luigi over here," Prussia said obnoxiously, "Why aren’t there like any y’know hookers or anything here?"
"HOOKERS!" Germany repeated, banging his fist on the table. "BAN-JERNO!"
Romano’s sensitive hearing perked up to the sound of badly spoken Italian, and he sent a glare over toward Germany. "What’s wrong with you?"
"Ve," Italy said, "Germany’s drunk."
"Oh." Romano looked him over scathingly. "You’re even more fuckin’ annoying when you’re drunk."
"GRAZIE!"
"Come on, bastard," Romano said, rolling his eyes and tugging Spain away rather rudely.
"Wow! I’m so happy for them," Italy said, wiping a tear away and taking his seat next to Germany once again.
"I agree. It is nice to see young people in love," Japan nodded.
"I- I don’t need anything like that," Prussia interjected. "I have fun being alone!" Canada gave him a skeptical look.
"Yeah! It must be nice to be in love," Italy sighed happily.
A couple of moments passed.
And then Italy noticed that Germany was quite intensely staring at him. He panicked immediately. "G-Germany, what is it! You look so scary!"
"I am, you know!" Germany answered.
"W-what? Scary?" Italy repeated.
Prussia cackled. "West, everyone and his or her mother knows you’re terrifying. You’re like if Big Bird and the Hulk had a child. You strike fear into the hearts of children."
"No, no!" Germany protested, banging his fist on the table, "I mean- in love. That."
Everyone at the table paused. Italy smiled. "Oh, really? That’s so great, Germany!"
"Yes! Of course! I think! With you."
Italy paused. "Wh-what?" he asked, but before he could nervously laugh it off, say that Germany sure was weird when he was drunk, Germany pulled him forward by the tie and kissed him, with not much practice but with feeling to make up for it. Italy’s eyes widened and he panicked for a second, but he decided it was better to kiss back.
It was weird how quick people were to destroy Germany’s reputation, because Prussia, Japan, Hungary, and France all suddenly had cameras, were suddenly there, and took a picture right at that moment.
"Looks like we’ll have another wedding to plan!" France said, waving his camera and heading back over to America and England.
America was sheer excitement; but England knew better. He strode up to France and kicked him square in the crotch. "I swear to God if you ever try to plan a wedding again-"
Because it really should be outlawed.
OMAKE
It was dark. The hall was empty; there he was, by only the light of his wand. He looked down at the map. He was getting closer. Their footsteps slowly led them to one another. It was inevitable. Why, then, was he seeing no one?
Darkness, thick darkness. Only the light of his wand. He was getting closer.
-Wait.
Was the map wrong?
He looked down. He should be meeting him right now- he should be face to face with him- why, then, was there no one?
In a blind confusion, he spun around, trying to see if he wasn’t behind him, in front of him, to either side- the light of the wand spun, spun just like the confusion that ripped through his mind-
And then, turning, the wand lit up what was before him. A mirror. He gazed inside it, at his terrified visage- his face, his eyes, his body.
"OH GOD," Harry Potter yelled, "I’m Peter Pettigrew!??!?!?!?!??!?!?!?!?11!?1!/!"
Harry then had an identity crisis, developed an alcohol addiction, solicited young girls for sex, never shaved, and ended up in jail for six years.
The end :D
NOTES;;
i'm not really sure in what context i thought that was appropriate.
also why so long? i myself tried to decipher it but yeah. i hate myself sometimes but not really. fuck this shit has NOTES!?
1] America makes a reference to England being George Whipple (NY1 reporter) and this is why.
2] songs referenced are uhmmmm We Are the World, One by Three Dog Night, One More Drink by Ludacris...i don't remember the rest XD
5] i'mma get shot for this, but Costica Bradatan is the name of a professor who does the introductions to a lot of Nietzsche books (i think he's written books of his own but i only know him by the Nietzsche stuff). i chose that name cuz like everytime i see that name im like WHOA. its such a MAJESTIC fucking name. its like the name of a falcon. how does one acquire such a name unless one's parents wanted their child to grow up to be a FUCKING EAGLE? altho i kinda lol every time i think of america picking on a guy who does Nietzsche books XD
6] i made a buncha other references but they dont really matter XD
Thanks for reading! =|;{>
Doctor: inuyashacooks
Character(s)/Pairing(s): ensemble (unfortunately); Germany/Italy, US/UK, Spain/Romano
Rating: i made a reference to that song that goes one is the loneliest number in this part.
Warnings: yeaaaaaaaaaahhhhhh
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: hahahahahahahahahahah no. as sed this be a sequel bitches
☆AXIS POWERS: WEDDING MASSACRE (2/2)
England stomped over to the door, thinking that whoever was on the other side had better have something pretty fucking important to say. It was maybe the millionth time he had been interrupted in the middle of embroidering this week, and each and every interruption had been for that ridiculous wedding between two people whom he barely cared about on a daily basis. It was ridiculous- he was the one in isolation, and he had to solve everybody’s fucking problems. The incessant knocking stopped as he called, "Alright, goddammit!" He ripped the door open and revealed-
A sight that made his eyes go white.
"England! Meet Costica Bradatan! The World’s First Priestbot!" America positively yelled, gesturing to the large...thing behind him with the air of a kindergartner showing his parent a finger-painting.
England looked up and went positively white eyed when he saw the seven-foot monstrosity standing behind America. It looked vaguely like...what were those things Japan made up in his spare time...oh, right, a Transfuckingformer, except with a white collar and a...shawl over its shoulders that looked nothing like the shawl belonging to a priest’s vestments. "Wha-what-" he sputtered.
"Costica! Say ‘hi!’" America squeaked in excitement.
"I now pronounce you-" the robot began, but America kicked it before it could finish.
"Ha-ha-ha!" America laughed, "He’s not really done yet! Let me in!
" And with that he barged into England’s house. The robot followed, but he turned around and held out his hand. "No, not you. You’re like way too big. Stay out. Go on, get!" he said, and the robot hung its head and walked slowly away. As England watched it retreat down the street, he had a feeling that somebody should be playing a sad waltz and that rain should be falling, but he shook the thought from his head and closed the door.
He leered at America, who was standing around laughing at absolutely nothing. "What exactly was its name, again?"
"Costica Bradatan!" America said, fist-pumping the air.
England snorted. "I don’t even want to know where you came up with that one."
"Yeah! It sure ain’t easy being Captain Planet," America answered, pushing England and settling himself on the couch.
"Don’t push me while I’m in my own fucking house," England scowled, kicking America in the shin. "What are you here for, anyway?"
"I’m here to tell you about my awesome wedding planning!" America answered, and then leaned forward, squirming in his seat like an eager child. "It’s gonna be absolutely so awesome!"
"You’ve made that perfectly clear already," England answered, walking past him and to the door.
America frowned, chewed down on his lower lip. "Hey! Where’re you going?"
"I’m checking my mail," England said with an air of importance.
"Ohplz, like anyone ever mails you," America pouted.
"Shut up! I’ll have you know I’m very popular at the post office!" England answered with a tone that obviously meant "nobody loves me so could you?" He figured he could at least do one productive thing before America ruined the remainder of his day, even if it was as small as checking the mail. He ducked his head out and saw that the mailbox was full; retrieved the mail, and then came back into the house, shuffling through it.
Predictably enough, there was only one letter in the mailbox. It was a small envelope that had no return address. Immediately suspicious, England tore through it brashly, and, opening the note inside, was attacked by glitter and stupidity.
America laughed as he sputtered; England turned around after having read the initial lines, eyebrows sparkling and covered in glitter, generally looking like an angry butterfly. "What the Hell is this and why do you think it’s acceptable!?"
"The invitation, duh!" America said, rolling his eyes, "It was pretty gay at first, but luckily I saved the day-"
"From ‘gay.’"
"Yeah. It’s all good! See the red, white, and blue?" America asked.
"Yes. Yes I do."
"Makes everything better, right?" America went on, hands clasped in anticipation.
"Barely," England answered, tossing it on the coffee table. He situated himself across from America, tried to disregard what had just happened so that he could still look at America without wanting to punch him in the face, and picked up his embroidery to soothe his nerves. He had completed a few stitches shaping a beautiful fairy when America cleared his throat.
America paused. And stared at England. And started to laugh. "Whoa, I don’t know what’s going on right now, but I think you’re takin’ it a bit fast-"
"Shut up!" England snapped, throwing the embroidery aside.
"Okay, okay," America laughed, "Calm down, old-timer. You might just have a heart attack."
England scowled. "You insufferable child," he said, gritting his teeth. With that, he got up to retrieve a cup of tea.
"Watch your step there- I mean, do you even have Life Alert? ‘I’ve fallen, and I can’t get up!’"
England threw the unfinished tea cozy at America’s head. America complained about his being violent, and England just rolled his eyes and said he deserved it. He proceeded to microwave himself a cup of tea, and came back to stand by America sitting on the couch.
"Ugh, why did you come here, anyway?" England said, frowning and shifting uncomfortably. "Don’t come here if you have nothing to say to me."
America paused. The blue in his eyes settled a bit. "Oh," he answered, "I just wanted to show you first. Costica, I mean. I mean like, I wanted you to be the first to see it."
"Well I-" England started, about to make a snappy reply; but then he actually processed what America had said, and they both fell silent. It wasn’t much to say, but the way America said it was full of implication, all kinds of things between the lines, and each of them had a hard time figuring out what was next.
Then moments later they realized they had been straight-up gazing into each other’s eyes, so they fell into an awkward coughing fit. "I mean, not like you’re important, you’re actually not the first person on my list but I was in the neighborhood so yeah," America said, trying to cover it up, even though his just happening to be in London made no fucking sense.
England paused- knowing that America didn’t actually mean it, but vaguely bruised by the possibility that he might. "Well, it’s not like it’s anything special anyway," he said, turning around and laughing.
England had turned around, so he didn’t see just how hard America’s expression fell, eyes wide and blue and affronted. England kept on laughing- "It’s childish, actually. Yes, very childish!"
"What!?" America answered, rising from his seat and gasping, "That’s- that’s-"
"I mean, Priestbot- honestly, what a ridiculous idea," England tittered, rolling his eyes and lifting his teacup from its saucer to bring it to his lips. He would have taken a really dainty English sip, but America, in a blinding justice ninja move, attacked the teacup and sent it flying across the room.
It shattered against the wall to their left; England blinked furiously, trying to understand what the fuck had just happened. "Are you mad!?" he exclaimed, shoving America.
"No," America answered, glowering darkly, "No, England. I’m sad."
England’s blinking slowed to a "what-the-shit-is-this-I-don’t-even" pace. When he asked for an explanation for America’s retardation, America just said, "The heart," and moonwalked out of the room with a triumphant smile on his face.
Serves him right for making fun of my engineering skills and artistic ingenuity! America thought to himself, and after retrieving Costica Bradatan (who was sitting under a cherry blossom tree, wondering, as a dove flew by, if he would ever be a real boy), walked down the street toward a McDonald’s feeling just dandy.
England for his part, felt intensely disgusted, and cursed Alfred F. Jonas Brother with all his might.
Romano was dressed nicely. Well, Romano was always dressed nicely; more so, now, in his neat black button-down and his designer jeans. Spain adjusted his collar and coughed nervously. Romano probably would have looked much nicer were he not huddled in the corner of the back seat, as far away from Spain as he could get, absolutely glaring at him.
"Nice day, isn’t it?" Spain asked hopefully.
Romano’s glare intensified from the other end of the car.
Spain laughed it off, but the laugh could only dissolve into a sigh. He looked out the window; they were on their way to the rehearsal, and though he didn’t exactly know where they were, he had a feeling they would be there soon. He didn’t bother to ruminate on Romano’s mood; for the past week or so, Romano had barely spoken to him. One day Spain even tried to make hot dogs and make cracks about Frank Sinatra, but all he got was headbutted in the chest. From then, Spain, not exactly able to decipher what was wrong this time, figured it was just an issue that needed time to ebb it softer.
They did arrive at the chapel about five minutes later; Spain got out of his seat hurriedly and ran around the car to open the door for Romano. Romano’s eyes turned a different shade of green- brighter, like he meant to say something- but he caught himself and huffed his "Thanks, whatever," before storming up from his seat and toward the door.
Spain hurried after him. They reached the front door and Romano pushed it open, with a loud, brash, "Alright, let’s get this stupid shit over with."
France, all grinning and dressed in blue, rushed over to them with his arms spread.
"Spain!" he exclaimed, barely registering Romano’s presence, "Don’t we look nice today?" He spread his arms out and went to embrace Spain, who laughed and went to reciprocate, until-
Romano cut between them and uppercut their arms so that they went flailing backwards. "Get your hands off ’im you cheese-eating fool!" he snapped, and then sighed heavily, "Let’s just get this over with!"
"Somebody got off the wrong side of the pasta fazool," America commented, laughing, from somewhere near the front of the chapel.
"Hey, shut yer mouth you goddamn-" Romano started, but lifting his eyes toward the front, saw America in the costume of a priest and was left horrified and speechless, ducking behind Spain for cover.
"Eh? What now?" Spain asked, turning around and wondering why Romano had decided that now was a good time to play hide-and-seek.
"Ah, yes. The best man and maid of honor are here as well," France said, gesturing to the front where Austria was huffing and Greece was waving (Prussia was there, as well, giving a thumbs-up to himself as a reward for being awesome), "Now let’s get started, shall we!" And with that he rushed them to the front.
"Oh! Austria, hi, how are you!" Spain called excitedly as they walked up to meet them.
"Oh yeah, the Brave Little Teacup over here would like t’ fucking congratulate you losers," Prussia said, gesturing to Austria, who did nothing but huff indignantly in response.
"Hello," Austria said, straightening his cravat, and then his expression turned serious. "Spain, I was going to tell you- if you had wanted a wedding planned, you should have contacted either Germany or myself-" he said Germany because that was where he went when he needed anything done that he didn’t want to do himself- "and not...these two." His eyes slid exasperatedly to America and France, who were hugging over how great they were.
"Oh, really? That’s so thoughtful of you!" Spain chirped in response, expression bright; then his face fell to confusion, and he continued, "But, eh, Austria, nobody could get in touch with you for like...a month? What happened?"
Austria coughed and said that the matter needn’t be explained, which Prussia apparently disagreed with, because he explained that "this fucking fancy douche" was on a hiking trip in the Swiss Alps and got lost, and, too proud to contact Swiss officials and having no way to contact Germany, was at the mercy of dancing bears and poison ivy until Hungary found him.
America and France, having heard this before, were unfazed; Romano gaped at the extreme failure; Austria blushed intensely; Greece wondered aloud whether Austria "had to live among the bears and get in touch with his wild side;" and Spain didn’t notice anything amiss, and, laughing "because that was a good story," asked Prussia:
"But why are you here?"
"For the lulz," Prussia responded.
"Please, let’s begin already!" Austria broke in.
"Yes, let’s!" France cried, brandishing glitter.
"Okay, you have to stop it with the glitter," America said, sneezing through a cloud of it, "Just because the author’s running out of ideas for your stage action doesn’t give you license to be so uninhibitedly fabulous." He paused. "The author seems to have not really studied my character, either. I would never say ‘uninhibited.’"
France thought that was a bit of a low blow (the author did too and cried in a drunken puddle of tears for days) (no, the author is not England- would you like to play again?), but instead of commenting on it, he told everyone their places and etc. They went through the whole ceremony with, surprisingly enough, no interruptions, but that was just the test drive. The asshattery started up again when they decided to go through it again, and France took the stage, much to America’s chagrin.
"I’d like everyone’s attention for a moment," he said, full of commanding stage presence and intense songwriting, "You all know that a wedding is a very special occasion between two people; I would venture to say that it’s the most valuable transaction one can make, because what’s promised isn’t material, does not vanish with the normal turning of the earth- what’s promised is love, support-"
"Your demo tape was better," Prussia interrupted in an obnoxious tone from the pew.
France hacked on a syllable and then glared at Prussia. America laughed "two points!" and a pissy expression washed over France’s face. He elected to be the better man, and clearing his throat, went on. "That aside, since there are some plebeians here who can’t appreciate the refined subtleties of such speech, I’ll put it in plain language- I have acquired one of the finest ensembles in all of Europe to play a beautiful, romantic piece for the duration of the ceremony! Now, come, my string quartet!"
"Dammit, he did it again!" America cursed as from the corners of the chapel a string quartet emerged, "And behind my back, too!"
"I want a refund!" Prussia hooted.
Austria didn’t see the problem, and was going to say so until Greece told him that perhaps being predictable wasn’t the best option at the moment.
Suddenly, like a sweet wine sweeping up from a magical river, a sweet piece began to play. It wasn’t apparent at first- it was more like a whisper of music, appealing to the heart before the ears. And even though that last sentence implies that the players had almost no musical talent, it wasn’t true. They were like the band that you would hear playing at the entrance to heaven. Their music was a piece of strawberry shortcake. Only they, and they alone, could make things as right as a blueberry scone.
"YES!" France yelled, like he had scored a touchdown, "UNLEASH THE POWER OF ROMANCE UNTO THE MASSES!"
"Stop it! Just stop it!" Prussia cried, holding his ears. It should be noted now, in order to foreshadow later events, that Prussia had begun to go a little more crazy than he usually was, and was therefore not equipped with endurance to romantic string quartets nor filled with snappy remarks.
"YOU CAN’T ESCAPE THE POWER OF SOOTHING VIOLIN!" France cried in response, and it began to rain roses just outside.
America was positively glaring from where he stood. He stepped forward, raising his hands. "Okay, okay, stop it," he said, taking the bows from each of the musicians, who stood around extremely confused. "Show’s over, folks. Go home. And you’re not getting paid."
"What are you doing?!" France asked, clenching his fist, and leaping in before America could break the bows (because it was his duty as a justice hero to free the world of sappy music).
America turned darkly to France. "There are some things that are against my Constitution and that is one of them, so cease and desist, good sir."
"Fuck it," Romano said, throwing up his hands, "I didn’t come here just for this shit." Spain’s mood dropped, because he noted that somewhere in that sentence, he was being blamed.
"Your Constitution! There is no law in the game of romance, dear," France answered, ripping a bow from America’s hand and brandishing it, "And if there was, it certainly wouldn’t be yours."
America gasped and saw red, white, and blue. "M-my Constitution! How- how dare you!" he wailed, tears forming, "France, I- I can’t believe you!"
"Nor can I do the same for you!" France answered, "Not after you blatantly insulted my fine taste in music! And besides, didn’t Eyebrows appoint me director of music?"
A deep frown settled over America’s face. "So now we’re listening to what England says? Really?"
"Well," France said, throwing his hair over his shoulder, "If that gets me what I want, then perhaps I will listen to Angleterre."
America gasped dramatically again. "You- are just- have you forgotten the Revolution!? I mean-" He paused; then he grabbed France by the shoulders, and looked him directly in the eye. "Someday, France, when I’m rich and famous, you’re going to come up to me with all the cameras flashing and the journalists with microphones and you’re gonna be in tattered clothes and all unshaven, well more so, and you’re gonna be like, ‘Hey, America, it’s me, France- remember me? Remember that one time when we were planning a wedding and we were best friends?’ And you know what I’m going to say?"
France paused, looking much less impressed than America’s monologue would imply- running his tongue slowly over his teeth and eyes half-lidded.
"‘No. No, I’m sorry, I don’t.’ And then I’m going to speed off on my Harley and get dust all over your hobo clothes and the paparazzi are going to take pictures and you’ll cry."
France knocked America’s hands off him and snapped, "Mon cher, I’m not sure where this is coming from, but I do believe you’ve overworked your little stillborn kangaroo brain."
"Hey!" America exclaimed, not exactly knowing what that meant. Austria was slightly offended at the mention of kangaroos in his presence, but before he was able to be all fancy about it, the doors to the chapel opened and England breezed in, all scarf and peacoat, everything about him implying a good cup of tea.
Spain’s expression deflated (before he had just been smiling at nothing). "I-Inglaterra," he said, like a wilted flower.
"Hello, chaps," England said, walking up the aisle.
"Why are you here?" France and America asked, almost simultaneously.
England rose a massive eyebrow and scoffed. "I thought I’d supervise this ridiculousness," he said, and then eyed France and America, leaning a little too close to one another and looking a little bit too angry at each other. He huffed and put his hands on his hips. "Are you two getting along?"
France laughed freely and removed himself from America’s personal space; America pouted. "Ye-aaahhh," he said, kicking his sneakers at the ground.
"Leave it to England to be the mother hen," France whispered, rolling his eyes.
"Tell me about it."
"I’m not sure what the Hell is going on, but I’ll venture to say it’s your fault this time, frog," England interrupted.
"Teacher’s pet," France muttered to America, who glared at him.
"Hey!" America whispered back.
Greece paused, holding his hand up just slightly. "Are we still rehearsing?" he asked, voice even.
"Yes, I’d like to ask that as well," Austria added, crossing his arms, "I don’t appreciate my time being wasted."
Prussia made a loud, hugely obnoxious pfffftttt sound and took a bite of his ice cream which had suddenly materialized out of nowhere. "Whatever, you frilly bitch, at least you get to do something."
"Listen, you! I’m not going to tolerate this kind of-"
"Oh yap yap yap," Prussia answered, rolling his eyes.
They became enveloped in their argument for the time being; Romano sighed loudly and stomped away from the front, hopping the small steps and fuming his way toward the doors. "You fucking losers- you’re making me curse in fucking Church, goddammit!" Spain followed after him, asking him to please wait, but Romano had none of it, and they left in that manner to the car.
Greece sort of observed the general fail all around him, but considered it more tactful not to say anything. Considering that as his cue to go, he left the chapel through a side door with a good nap on his mind, leaving France, England, and America still standing.
America gasped suddenly as if in shock and looked at his watch. "I forgot, I have to meet Costica in the back for briefing!" And with that he bounded out of the church. France and England decided to follow him.
They went to the back, where there was a desk set up, and Costica Bradatan the Priestbot sitting, knees to his mechanical chest, looking all bummed out in his new priestly attire. He was, at the moment, wondering what freedom meant, and if only a human heart could comprehend it- and if, indeed, being a robot, he could ever attain this and many more things- when the bane of his existence walked through the door with a bright smile.
"Okay Costica!" America said, rolling up his sleeves, "Time for briefing!"
"This should be good," England said smugly, to himself.
"Don’t doubt him, America can do some amazing things if he-"
"Oh shut up."
France looked at England testily and pinched his cheek, causing England to puff up like a small bird. America seated himself at the desk, and Costica sat in front of him, his mechanic heart still thrown into the chaos of uncertainty that plagued his dark violet robotic being. He did not know who he was, or what his purpose was; nor, indeed, did he know the meaning of life.
"Okay!" America exclaimed, ignoring Costica’s tragic interior dialogue, "Let’s start off with the first question. Whose wedding is this?"
"America the Justice Nin-"
"AHEM," America coughed, looking nervously at England and France who individually looked an amazing combination of smug and skeptical. "No, let’s try it again. Whose wedding is this?"
"Tomato and-"
America cleared his throat again; then he folded his hands, eyebrows furrowing together. "Okay, listen, Costica. I don’t think you’re quite getting me, here, so I’m gonna skip to the next question. Is that okay with you?"
There was a mechanical sadness as Costica nodded his "yes." England rose an eyebrow; France’s smirk disappeared and was replaced by an expression that was a mix of pity and curiosity.
"Right! Let’s do this!" America said, shuffling his papers and looking down at another leaf. "’Kay, so, complete this sentence: ‘Dearly beloved, we are...?’"
"I now pronou-"
America interrupted him with a loud laugh but didn’t hide the tick of annoyance in his eyes. "Okay, okay, just a malfunction," he said, waving his hand, and then went on. "Okay, so when I say ‘I do,’ you say...?"
"Do you take this-"
"NO, NO, NO! Come on, can’t you get anything right?!" America whined.
"Do you take this-"
"What’s a ringmaster?!"
"Tames lions, Sir."
America threw his papers on the desk, incensed. "He introduces the acts!"
"Is he even going to be able to do the wedding?" England asked, throwing his scarf pointedly across his shoulder.
"He better!" America scoffed, and then slid his eyes back to Costica, who cowered in robotic fear. "Or it gets the hose."
"What manufacturer let him do this?" England asked mildly, "More importantly, from whom did he learn that abusive tone of voice?"
France looked at him flatly and had nothing to say but "...".
America continued to berate the robot ("I feed you, clothe you, and shelter you, and this is the treatment I get! Is it too much to ask that you give back once in a while! Sheesh!") and England and France stood around, wondering what to do but not willing to share such thoughts with each other. At that moment, the door from the outside opened and Prussia bustled in, looking urgent.
"Oh, Prussia," France said, "What are you doing here?"
"Absolutely nothing but being awesome!" Prussia laughed.
"I can see that. Where are the others?"
"Oh. They’re all gone. Greece hadda go do something, prolly feed cats or somethin’, and like I give a crap where Austria is."
England paused. "Has he gone by himself?" he asked, "I’d hate to be Germany if so."
"I guess so. He told me to walk him home at least, and I told him to suck my diiii-ck!" Prussia then made a noise reminiscent of record scratching. "Then he agreed and he told me to go ask England for some advice on the matter. OSNAP. England is the headmaster. The one with the knee pads. FEAR NOTHING! I’LL SHOW YOU, RUSSIAN CABBAGE!"
With that, he ran off like a detached puppet out the door and in the direction of the parking lot and the sidewalk. England looked miffed at being joked at and was probably plotting his revenge right then and there; but France, who had been observing carefully, brought his hand to his chin and asked distantly:
"Was there...something more wrong with him than usual, or is it just me?"
Who knew?
The day of the wedding came sooner than the world was prepared for. It was a clear, sunny day, sort of with a touch rain in its corners. Italy showed up at Germany's house along with Japan, as the three were going together. "Hey Germany! Ve, good news, Germany! You’re not the loneliest number any more!"
Germany paused. "Excuse me?"
"But the bad news is that two can be as bad as one," Italy said, voice dripping sadness; Germany was worried for a moment, but Italy perked back up. "Okay, let’s go!"
Anyway they left and arrived at their destination about twenty minutes later, obtained a parking space that was less than optimal, and got out. (Italy tripped, but after much wailing and crying, it was all fine and they continued on their way.)
Germany caught the first warning signs pretty quick as they walked through the parking lot into the building. There were a few swans just walking around the grounds, but he noticed that some of them were wearing Burger King crowns (the kind that Prussia liked, and anything involving Prussia was an automatic red flag). There was a banner that said "Weclome" in florid script, and then, crossed-out and in red, white, and blue writing, "IT’S THE FINAL COUNTDOWN;" then, as they neared the building, America walked by muttering something about "having to oil the priest," and Germany had no doubt in his mind that he was walking through a war zone. He held onto Italy’s shoulder and advised him to stay very close; Italy paid no attention, nodded, and went on to shed a couple more tears of happiness for his brother. He seemed to get more and more emotional the nearer they got to the building.
Most of the nations were surprisingly already there. There was a cluster of Latin American nations huddled around the door, as they were finding ways to loiter even at a wedding they were invited to < /low blow>. They passed through the door, and were immediately assaulted with the sheer amount of flash and sparkle. It was disparate; it was so garish is was hard to believe they weren’t in Las Vegas. There were multi-colored lights strung around the surrounding area, large flower arrangements that vaguely made it look like someone had died, and- what were those? Streamers? Germany had honestly expected something more tasteful from France but was obviously wrong in doing so.
However, looking at the elements of the decoration, and how disconnected they seemed, you would think that perhaps this was the evidence of some kind of competition.
But this was already stupid enough, so there was no need to dwell on it. They wandered off to find their seats and tried to act like it was all normal.
Anyway, more people were entering the building, and more people were struck by how generally offensive the entire scene was. Mario Lopez was there to sort-of host the wedding, because, as everyone well knows, anything that is ever hosted requires a Mario Lopez or else is doomed to failure. Greece, the maid of honor, was just standing around not doing much when Egypt and Turkey waltzed in. He waved to Egypt, but looked Turkey up and down and scoffed. "Nice shoes, douchebag."
Turkey kept back the urge to be sincerely hurt and retaliated with, "Thanks, I like this gay lil’ tie, too," tugging at Greece’s tie.
"Hey! Don’t touch me!"
"Oh so what now ya gonna tell me what t’ do? Wanna fight me?" Turkey snapped back, but before he could actually go on, Egypt kicked him in the shin.
Greece gave Egypt a thumbs-up. "Thanks Egypt. But maybe you should keep your ho on a leash."
"What the fuck did y’just call me!-"
"Please, please, no fighting," France said, suddenly apparating out of nowhere. He normally would have greeted them with a trademark perverted comment, but at the moment, he seemed rather frazzled- the stress of the wedding planning, and of America, was getting to him.
Turkey and Egypt stared at France for a long moment. Then Egypt turned to Turkey and held out his palm. Turkey scoffed and dug in his pockets for his wallet. "Goddammit, fuckin’- how’d ya know he’d be wearing clothes?!"
Egypt shrugged as Turkey handed him a twenty. Turkey turned accusingly toward France. "’Ey, buddy, can y’try to be a lil’ more- predictable, next time?"
"I have no idea what on Earth you’re talking about," France answered blankly.
Just then, America came up, and he and France, from the get-go, started to argue about flowers and fireworks and those were MY swans! and awesome, leaving everyone in the proverbial dust. As a quick interruption to their arguing, the bride himself waltzed through the door, smart in his tuxedo, with a pissy frown on his face. As far as brides go, he would have looked like a beautiful young asparagus if only his expression was a little less dour.
"Yo, aren’t we like, not s’post t’ see the bride?" Turkey asked no one in particular.
"Shut up bastard!" Romano exclaimed. "Who invited you anyway!"
"Jeez, alright! Why’re ya yellin’ at me?!"
"Because you’re a moron, now everybody shut up!"
It was then that Romano, taking breath and a break from his general sour mood, took in the disaster of rainbow lights and rock ‘n’ roll and swans and glitter that surrounded him. He halted abruptly, like a shot cat, as soon as he had fully digested the scene around him. France and America forgot their arguing and bounded over to him like obnoxiously excited puppies and awaited his reaction excitedly.
"THE FUCK IS THIS SHIT," Romano ground out, leering at them.
"I told you he’d like it," America said.
"This your wedding, tomate cher," France answered.
Romano’s eyes narrowed further. "You sicken me," he said to them.
France answered with a showy laugh and, extending his palm, blew a cloud of glitter in Romano’s face. Romano coughed and hacked and tried to fight the glitter attack, and America and France high-fived. Romano was red up to his ears, yelling and cursing and about to take off his suit jacket to kick some fuckin’ ass, but France and America rushed him off because he absolutely must have a touch-up before the main event, no ifs, ands, or buts.
Turkey looked at both Greece and Egypt, wondering aloud, "What the Hell?" Greece was relatively unfazed, as he’d been in the presence of this for a good week or so. Egypt was completely unsurprised. Greece followed Romano, France, and America, figuring he should since he was part of the wedding party. Turkey and Egypt wandered into the main hall to find their seats.
France and America had dragged Romano in the back for a million pictures in a million different poses, and Romano pretty much cried the whole way through the ordeal. United once again, France and America went on dynamically through the motions, last-minute preparations, walkie-talkies, strategic positioning, post-election hoohah, and all that jazz (hatch-cha-cha-cha!). America counted down obnoxiously- not to the wedding of Spain and Romano, but to the Awesomest Thing Ever- and when he got to one, France turned to Romano and told him, with a dazzling smile, that it was time to go.
Romano paused.
"Fuck that," he said, "F-forget it. I’m not getting married anymore."
America’s smile froze. France paused. Greece shifted, looking curiously at Romano.
"Well, of course you’re only saying that because you’d like to have a piece of the tres bien moi," France laughed, "But let’s not be silly! Come! Let’s go!"
"I said fuck that, did you not hear me!?" Romano yelled throwing his shoe at France’s head.
"Ugh! Sacre coeur! You violent little tomato!"
"Shut the fuck up!" Romano said, leaping up onto his chair, "I’m not getting married and that is it!"
"Come on, man!" America whined, "You have to! I did everything I could to make it awesome!"
"Keep your awesome to yaself! I don’t wanna hear it!"
"This is ludacris!" France exclaimed, throwing his hands up.
There was a beat of a pause. America then whipped around, staring France down with intense blue eyes. "A-HA! So you do listen to him!" he cried, pointing his finger at France accusingly.
"E-excuse me!?" France cried.
"What the fuck! What does that guy have to do with this!" Romano yelled.
"Ludacris...," Greece pondered heavily.
America went on about how France shouldn’t have lied to him in the first place and should just have embraced his inner gangster and rolled with it, and how he didn’t mind that everyone copied his music because it was so cool that everyone was bound to like it, and all this time he had thought France was a hater, but he had finally opened his eyes to the fact that our differences, in the end, make us more similar than different, which made no sense.
France, for his part, was done. Absolutely finished. He snapped, and yelled tearfully that He Was Much Too Cultured For That You Sorry Hamburger-Brained Moron.
America said, "Oh we’re back to this! Well take this, you cheese-eating freak!" With that, he reached for one of the roses from the arrangement and threw it toward France like Tuxedo Mask.
France had magical control of fruity things, so he deflected the rose and sent it straight to America’s face. America’s glasses went tumbling to the floor. He picked them up, adjusted them, inhaled dramatically, and then shouted, "Fine! You’re not my friend!"
"And the same to you!" France answered, shaking his fist.
America hmphed and then turned away. "It’s over," he said.
"It has been."
The wind howled through the room and autumn erupted, with just exactly the same noise that both of their hearts made. Because they were broken.
"Fine. I’m leaving."
"Go, then."
"I have a groom to attend to."
"And I, a bride."
And with that, the relationship was severed.
Greece folded his arms and tried to judge whether or not he should take that seriously. France looked up at Romano, and said:
"Now, see what ruckus you’ve caused, you harlot. Not that I mind a harlot. Anyway, kindly come down from that chair and let’s get on with this."
Romano blinked maliciously. "I already told you, I’m not fucking getting married."
The old Napoleonic gleam came back into France’s eye, much to Romano’s terror.
Everyone was seated. The wedding was about to begin. There was a kind of stillness, sort of contrary to that of people who await an event like a wedding. It was more like waiting for a boxing match to start. Everyone saw how nervously Spain smiled when the wedding march started to play; however, the music continued, and there was no bride marching up the aisle.
America suddenly rushed up to the altar, took the microphone from Costica Bradatan, and started to gloat. "AHAHA! Well, look at that! There’s no bride! I wonder why that is!"
"A-America," Spain tried to interrupt weakly, but America just went on:
"Anyway, yeah, I guess we should get on with this, then! I just wanted to say that you know I’m glad that everybody came together for this shindig. We were all gathered a couple of months ago for the funeral party of a very good friend of ours, and you know-" he fist-pumped the air at this point- "I’m just really glad that we’re all together again, that we’ve survived to this point! It really shows just you know that-"
Then, music descended upon the scene. Familiar music. From the 1980s.
"-That-"
Then he started to sing:
"WE ARE THE WOOOOORLLLLLD-"
"Oh my God no," Canada squeaked, "America, don’t! This year’s version was horrible! It raised a lot of money, sure, but it was a horrible song! Also, it’s not appropriate for the occasion!" But America continued because, really? What’s a Canada?
"WE ARE THE WOOOO-"
"EXCUSEZ-MOI!" boomed France’s voice from seemingly everywhere, and suddenly Romano tumbled up to the altar, looking pale and terrified.
Spain knee-attacked America, and, as America crumbled onto the floor, grabbed the microphone and handed it to Costica. Then he turned to Romano, exclaiming, "R-Romanito! What happened!?"
"I-I don’t wanna talk about it, bastard!"
"Hey! You ruined my song!" America exclaimed, getting up and adjusting his glasses.
France descended upon the scene with a dramatic flourish. "I could say the same for you using metaphors and poetic structure!"
"Enough!" Austria interrupted, exasperated, "Let’s just do this properly and get on with the wedding, please!"
A murmur of agreement was heard among the audience. America and France sat, at the guidance of England, far away from each other like petulant children. "Behave yourself," England snapped, sitting down next to America.
"No u," America sniffled.
Austria respectfully requested that Costica Bradatan go through with the opening rites. "Dearly beloved," he began, in his robotic voice, as Romano reluctantly stepped closer to Spain, "We’ve gathered here in sight of-" There was a long pause. You could hear his mechanic nervousness; America sat forward on the edge of his seat, praying Costica would get it right.
"-We’re gathered in sight of- to have and to-" Costica Bradatan paused deeply.
"Hmph! You call this a priestbot!" France shouted to America from one side of the building.
"Shut up, Lance!" America said, spent after trying to figure out offensive rhyming monikers for France. "Get on with it, Costica! Show ’em you can do it!"
But he honestly could not. "We have gathered here in sight of...God...civil..."
"Fuck! Is this a fucking joke to you people!" Romano shouted, shaking his fist at the crowd.
"Okay, okay!" America interrupted, "Sorry about that! Just skip to the joining part, Costica!"
"You know what, screw it! Nobody’s lissened to me until now, but I’m just going to- I’m not getting married!" Romano protested, and Spain flinched as though hit- but Costica went stumbling on.
"Do you, Spain Fernandez Carriedo, take this indignant little tomato to be your lawfully wedded Romano?" Costica asked, turning to Spain.
Spain was currently on information overload mode, and, swallowing, looked nervously around the room to see whether or not he should go along with it. He managed to choke out, "I do," but sounded completely unconvincing.
"Ind-indignant- indignant little tomato!?!" Romano yelled (more liked screeched or squealed).
"Oh crap," America cursed, "He must’ve remembered it when I was playing Guess Who? with France..."
England turned to America with a flat stare; he then blinked.
"I’ll show you indignant little tomato, you- !" Romano began, but interrupted himself upon seeing that Costica was a gigantic robot made purely of metal. "S-Spain! Bastard! Beat this guy up!"
"Wh-what!? Romano, he’s- he’s part of the clergy!"
"Do I look like I give a shit!"
"Please, let’s just get on with the-" Austria started, but somebody interrupted with a shout of "fab-u-lous!" He glared into the crowd meaningfully, but among them, a general rattling chaos was arising. Korea tried to say that Italians originated in Korea but his voice was overshadowed by Denmark’s, who was challenging Sweden to a sudden duel for some reason. Latvia shook uncontrollably. Greece looked offended when Russia, in a fit of jealousy, suddenly knocked Shinatty’s head off and revealed the middle-aged plumber hiding beneath. Some people’s attention turned to the altar, where Romano was turning deep red and Spain was trying to console him.
"Please Romano, calm down!"
"Fuck that! I’m not calming down!"
England stood up. "Maybe we had just better call off the wedding," he said.
France followed suit in standing up. "Ah-hah! Just like you, England, to attempt to ruin, in one fell blow, both a budding romance and the greatest wedding ever planned!"
"What are you talking about! This is a disaster!" England answered.
"You- frumpy eyebrows!"
"You fucking- you wino bastard, say that to my face!"
"I don’t know what we’re yelling about!" America contested, standing up.
Austria folded his arms. "I for one agree with calling off the wedding," he pointed out.
"M’ d’s’ k’," said Sweden.
"Yeah, I mean-" Canada started.
"Hey! Wait! Shut your polar bear mouth!" Romano shouted. Canada didn’t know whether or not it was worth it to be offended.
Spain stepped forward, and, smiling that small smile that matched the earnestness of his eyes so well, put his hand on Romano’s shoulder. "It’s okay, Romano- if you don’t want to, of course I’m fine with it," he said.
"N-no! You bastard!" Romano yelled, punching Spain in the arm.
"-Owchie," Spain yelped, shaking off his arm, "What did you do that for?"
"I mean-" by now, the congregation had fallen relatively silent, and was watching them with the crowded intent of shifting opinion- "You’re- so stupid, bastard!"
"Eh?" Spain asked, "I don’t get it, Romano-"
"Just like always! You’re so stupid!" The red on his face deepened gradually, and small shaking took over him- you could tell it was nervousness because he looked like his heart was leaping up, splashing in his chest- you could see it on his face, how the tears welled up.
"Ay! Why are you crying!" Spain asked, alarmed.
"B-because- because- I love you, goddammit!"
There was a deep pause; one that was waiting for a reaction- or waiting to process it fully. Romano was pretty much bawling like a schoolboy bitch by now, and seeing Spain hug him, the crowd basically took on one deep "D’awwwwwww," except for America, who piped, "Awk-ward!"
Japan, for one, undertook no reaction, because he was well-versed in the ways of the tsundere.
"Costica!" America yelled, giving the robot the cue.
Costica Bradatan was, for his part, kind of considering not continuing because he needed to establish his identity apart from America, but he relented after a couple of moments. He, taking up the posture of a priest again, turned to Spain. "Do you, Spain Fernandez Carriedo, take this indignant little person to be your lawfully wedded wife?"
"Perfect!" America squeaked excitedly in his place next to England.
England balked at him. "You trained him to say that?" America ignored him.
"I-I do!" Spain said, nodding.
"A little too excited there, huh, buddy?" Romano snapped. Spain laughed it off.
"And do you, Romano Vargas, take Spain Fernandez Carriedo to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
Romano blushed. "I-I guess so, fucking...yeah. I...do." He then choked on embarrassment for thirty seconds.
"By the power vested in me by the state of Washington-" everyone was puzzled and double-checked as to whether they were really in Washington- "I now pronounce you husband and wife."
Romano froze, suddenly paralyzed by the moment at hand; but Spain, with his usual stupid fervor, the heat of his feeling, almost tripped over himself and bounded forward to kiss Romano- teeth all clashing together, all clumsy feeling and not soft at all, but nice, Romano guessed, in its own way (he could maybe get used to this). There was a round of applause among the crowd.
"Well," England said, clapping moderately, "That went through with only minor incident."
America was about to tell him to stop being such a party pooper, but then he remembered- "Oh!" he said, and shuffled in his pocket, removing a remote control after a couple of moments. England watched him with mild interest; America pointed it at the altar, and flicked the switch in the remote’s center.
Above the altar, a light display burst in electric red, vibrant shades colored like love. England was sort-of-not-really-impressed, but then he actually deciphered the shape of the thing. It was some sort of...marine creature- some sort of cetacean- wrapped around a...red beach ball.
"...What the Hell is that?" England asked, open-mouthed.
"Tomatowhale," America answered, smiling and wiping a tear from his eye at the sheer beauty of his creation.
The reception was held outdoors; good weather for it, too, a lot of electricity absorbed and almost injected into the air outside, so that it shook with a festive, messy, chaotic air from the moment the first guests took their seats.
Somewhere in the happy mess, Germany had finally explained to Prussia the joke; in fact, he had gone crazy from the suspense of the unanswered question of how idiots are kept in suspense, and as such, had gone out of his mind. Germany hadn't seen him for a couple of days because in his lunacy, had taken recently to spending massive amounts of Germany’s money on hookers and alcohol and therefore hadn't been in the house much. When told, Prussia was annoyed and said "Pffffffffft West I’m a fucking genius, o-of course I knew that!" So it was all good AND ALL WAS RIGHT WITH THE WORLD. Not-so-surprisingly, France and America received more congratulations than Spain and Romano, and only after what seemed like hundreds of profuse felicitations, weeded through the crowd and found each other.
America, with England at his side, saw France. France saw him. He started to run toward France, but then stopped abruptly. France raised his eyebrows, and America kept on running, arms outspread, and caught France in a bone-crushing embrace before France had time to react.
"I- I love you, man!" America cried, legitimately cried, "That was the best wedding ever!"
France was about to get teary-eyed himself, but then remember he was France, so he sent England a dirty look and started to stroke America’s back. "Yes, mon fil! It was a huge success."
"Inorite? You’re the greatest big brother ever!"
England died a little.
"But yeah," America went on, "I’m sorry I said you were a mime."
"...You never said-"
"BRITANNIA CHOP!" England interjected, breaking their embrace by bringing down the blade of his palm swiftly.
"England, are you drunk?" America laughed.
"Honestly not yet. I just don’t want to see any of...that."
"Oh-ho! Jealous, are we, Eyebrows?" France asked.
"Y-you and this pedophile beard," England snapped, tugging at France’s stubble.
"M-my beard is not a pedophile!" France answered, tugging at England’s eyebrows.
"You two are really into facial hair," America said with a weird laugh.
Korea, who had been earlier sighing about how love originated at his house, appeared upon the scene dragging Costica Bradatan in tail. "Look what I found, everybody!" he said. Costica had been previously planning his escape, his grand running away from home, and had been caught red-handed by Korea who dragged him here.
America, for his part, looked suddenly angered. He moved toward Costica, grabbing a glass of champagne from a caterer on his way, and glowered at him. "Didn’t we practice all that!? Why did you mess up!?" he demanded.
"I- I- I want to have a human heart," Costica said.
"What!? How can you have a human heart if you don’t have a human circulatory system! Answer me that, funny guy!"
Costica sort of mechanically sniffled. "America- you- I am not a human being, but- I am also not stupid, and you shouldn’t talk to me like I am."
"Oh yeah!? What’s the capital of Rhode Island!"
"I- it doesn’t matter-"
"What’s two plus two!?"
"Leave me alone!" And with that, Costica Bradatan took off into the horizon.
"I brought you into this world and I can take you out of it!" America cried, shaking his fist at Costica Bradatan. Costica ran away making a weird sound that could only be described as the delicate weeping of a spurned robot in the lonely cherry blossom breeze. So lonely it could only be compared to the sound of a half-filled water glass in an empty room crying because it can never be sure if it is half-empty or half-full.
After Costica was done running away dramatically, America turned around to face the rest of the group. "That kid’s swell!" he exclaimed, and toasted everyone. Nobody knew what to make of it. Some thought that it was their business and they shouldn’t meddle; still others considered contacting social services.
Meanwhile, over at his table, sitting with Italy, Japan, and Canada, Germany was getting smashed and terrifying the shit out of everyone within five feet of him with his horrible Italian skills and ability to make everything sound like a military order.
"HEY! DRINK THE REST OF THAT!" he commanded to Canada. He said it while laughing, but he managed to sound angry.
"O-okay," Canada obliged, laughing weakly.
"ARRIVEDERCI!"
"Germany-san," Japan said, "I find it interesting that you have such a fixation on the Italian language." It should be noted that Japan had a few drinks in him and generally, when he had been drinking, his fetishist, scheming side came out more and more.
"Huh! That’s- that’s because-" he began answered, pounding the table with his fist to punctuate his point, and then paused. "I- forgot what I was going to say." He then dissolved into helpless laughter. Japan laughed along with him, that kind of polite laugh that said You can’t hide your BL from me; Italy was kind of off-put by the fact that Germany of all people was laughing; Canada was fucking terrified and wished for once that no one could see him.
"YO!" Prussia said, descending on the scene, "I decided to show up to this gay-ass wedding anyway! Aren’t I great? Why’re you laughing, West?" He then proceeded to mercilessly pinch Germany’s cheeks. Germany spat up some curses and tried to bat Prussia’s hands away, but Prussia persisted. "You shoulda seen this guy back at the Reunion party, he was piss drunk! When he’s drunk all the crazy comes out. It’s a family thing."
“Oh! Guys!” Spain said, coming toward them, dragging Romano behind him, “Are you enjoying yourselves?”
“Fra-fratello!” the brothers exclaimed simultaneously, and embraced and cried together.
"’Bout as much as Mario and Luigi over here," Prussia said obnoxiously, "Why aren’t there like any y’know hookers or anything here?"
"HOOKERS!" Germany repeated, banging his fist on the table. "BAN-JERNO!"
Romano’s sensitive hearing perked up to the sound of badly spoken Italian, and he sent a glare over toward Germany. "What’s wrong with you?"
"Ve," Italy said, "Germany’s drunk."
"Oh." Romano looked him over scathingly. "You’re even more fuckin’ annoying when you’re drunk."
"GRAZIE!"
"Come on, bastard," Romano said, rolling his eyes and tugging Spain away rather rudely.
"Wow! I’m so happy for them," Italy said, wiping a tear away and taking his seat next to Germany once again.
"I agree. It is nice to see young people in love," Japan nodded.
"I- I don’t need anything like that," Prussia interjected. "I have fun being alone!" Canada gave him a skeptical look.
"Yeah! It must be nice to be in love," Italy sighed happily.
A couple of moments passed.
And then Italy noticed that Germany was quite intensely staring at him. He panicked immediately. "G-Germany, what is it! You look so scary!"
"I am, you know!" Germany answered.
"W-what? Scary?" Italy repeated.
Prussia cackled. "West, everyone and his or her mother knows you’re terrifying. You’re like if Big Bird and the Hulk had a child. You strike fear into the hearts of children."
"No, no!" Germany protested, banging his fist on the table, "I mean- in love. That."
Everyone at the table paused. Italy smiled. "Oh, really? That’s so great, Germany!"
"Yes! Of course! I think! With you."
Italy paused. "Wh-what?" he asked, but before he could nervously laugh it off, say that Germany sure was weird when he was drunk, Germany pulled him forward by the tie and kissed him, with not much practice but with feeling to make up for it. Italy’s eyes widened and he panicked for a second, but he decided it was better to kiss back.
It was weird how quick people were to destroy Germany’s reputation, because Prussia, Japan, Hungary, and France all suddenly had cameras, were suddenly there, and took a picture right at that moment.
"Looks like we’ll have another wedding to plan!" France said, waving his camera and heading back over to America and England.
America was sheer excitement; but England knew better. He strode up to France and kicked him square in the crotch. "I swear to God if you ever try to plan a wedding again-"
Because it really should be outlawed.
OMAKE
It was dark. The hall was empty; there he was, by only the light of his wand. He looked down at the map. He was getting closer. Their footsteps slowly led them to one another. It was inevitable. Why, then, was he seeing no one?
Darkness, thick darkness. Only the light of his wand. He was getting closer.
-Wait.
Was the map wrong?
He looked down. He should be meeting him right now- he should be face to face with him- why, then, was there no one?
In a blind confusion, he spun around, trying to see if he wasn’t behind him, in front of him, to either side- the light of the wand spun, spun just like the confusion that ripped through his mind-
And then, turning, the wand lit up what was before him. A mirror. He gazed inside it, at his terrified visage- his face, his eyes, his body.
"OH GOD," Harry Potter yelled, "I’m Peter Pettigrew!??!?!?!?!??!?!?!?!?11!?1!/!"
Harry then had an identity crisis, developed an alcohol addiction, solicited young girls for sex, never shaved, and ended up in jail for six years.
The end :D
NOTES;;
i'm not really sure in what context i thought that was appropriate.
also why so long? i myself tried to decipher it but yeah. i hate myself sometimes but not really. fuck this shit has NOTES!?
1] America makes a reference to England being George Whipple (NY1 reporter) and this is why.
2] songs referenced are uhmmmm We Are the World, One by Three Dog Night, One More Drink by Ludacris...i don't remember the rest XD
5] i'mma get shot for this, but Costica Bradatan is the name of a professor who does the introductions to a lot of Nietzsche books (i think he's written books of his own but i only know him by the Nietzsche stuff). i chose that name cuz like everytime i see that name im like WHOA. its such a MAJESTIC fucking name. its like the name of a falcon. how does one acquire such a name unless one's parents wanted their child to grow up to be a FUCKING EAGLE? altho i kinda lol every time i think of america picking on a guy who does Nietzsche books XD
6] i made a buncha other references but they dont really matter XD
Thanks for reading! =|;{>