[Fanfic] - The Fairest of...the G8
Title: The Fairest of...the G8
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Germany, North Italy, South Italy, Prussia, Russia/America, Japan, Canada, England, France, Hungary, Poland, Estonia
Summary: The G8 + South Italy + Prussia end up locked in a room with two boxes, a letter, no easy way out, and a way to vote for who they each think is the best looking among them. Who do they pick? What is the prize? And why are they even stuck in this situation?
Warnings: One character makes a very offensive comment about Germany's choice.
---
There were two boxes at the head of the G8 Conference table, from what Germany could see. One large, wrapped one, and a smaller one filled with little electronic devices.
Germany had been the first to enter the room, the voices of Prussia, Italy, and...America (maybe?) filtering in through the open door. It was a loud voice, but it didn’t sound like Italy’s brother. Plus, Germany didn’t hear anything breaking. Supposedly Romano was still angry with Gilbert, for...now that he thought about it, Germany had no idea what had happened. It was probably better that he didn’t.
“Make that two large boxes and a letter,” he amended, looking over the paper that was perched atop the large box.
The other nations filed in, peering curiously at the box. Germany thought they would be crowded around asking questions, but he belatedly realized that they thought the boxes were his.
Once everyone was seated (totally out of order, to Germany’s discomfort - his moving to the head of the table had forced everyone to re-shuffle) he picked up the paper, cleared his throat, and read:
“The gift in this box is for the fairest one of all. Who is the most beautiful in the room? It’s up to you to decide.
To play:
- grab the remote with your name on it
- type in your vote by country name and press “enter”
- once all votes are in, a message will be sent to all devices with the winner
- the door out has been locked”
At this, England, closest to the door, gave it a yank - it stayed put. Facial expressions varied from alarmed, confused, to totally apathetic.
“ - it will remain locked until all votes are in
- you can’t vote for yourself - this is why all the remotes are named”
After bit of blame-throwing, chair-throwing, tantrum-throwing, general panic, yelling, and mayhem, all of the nations had settled down with their respective devices in silence.
---
Italy didn’t even have to think about his choice - not that he normally thought things through, really. He was always one to go by instinct, heart, the “feel” of something. So he smiled down at his device, typed “Germany,” and then alternated between openly watching the other nations and drawing whatever came to mind on the back of his notes.
---
Romano could give less of a shit about this. Why was he here again? He heaved a sigh and looked around the room at the other nations. Okay, so, the fairest of them all. If one took that literally, then, well, Prussia was the winner by a long shot. And Prussia was a fairly attractive man, if Romano was honest with himself. Luckily, Romano was good at avoiding that last one. On top of that, come on, Potato Bastard’s brother? Finally, he was still pretty pissed about the time Prussia had walked in on him and that hot chick from the espresso bar - thus his gaze continued around the room.
A shaft of sunlight filtered through the window and had backlit Japan. He really was quite striking, Romano thought, straight line of spine and subdued monochrome color only serving to highlight his quiet strength, grace, hidden artistry.
Some half-formed thought flickered through Romano’s mind - the two shared something in that, artists who went unseen by the rest of the world - and without letting it go to completion, he typed in “Japan”.
---
Japan had somehow ended up seated between France and England. He was surrounded by European nations at a meeting (basically) full of European nations. Internally he sighed, though on the outside there was simply a change in the light in his eyes.
What an odd decision he was faced with, this morning.
Europeans....they were fairly hairy...and he was stuck between France, who proudly showed it off with open shirts, and England, who, well. A twitch of Japan’s mouth would have betrayed his thoughts on England’s eyebrows, if anyone had been looking.
Japan was a neat freak. Additionally, and perhaps somewhat related, Japan could not stand body hair. He looked down at the table, mentally running over who was in the room. Appearing to be lost in thought, he discreetly observed the displayed hands and forearms of the countries present.
Ah. Perfect. Young, slender, quiet, polite - and most importantly, largely hairless.
Japan swiftly and delicately typed in “Canada,” and returned to looking (mostly) at the table.
---
Russia thought that this whole thing was quite silly. A mysterious box, how exciting.
There was no question, to him, as to who the most beautiful of all nations was - but that nation was all his. America’s word for Russia’s stance on this was “suffocating”, but Russia couldn’t help that he didn’t want anyone else to know the true beauty of America. Yes, America was very attractive as he presented himself everyday to the world - full of sunlit energy and childlike exuberance - but Russia knew. He knew that America was less like his gilded-gold, blinding facade and more like the blast furnaces of his Rust Belt, composed of equal parts smoldering fire and hard steel.
Russia had seen flashes of this when they had first known each other. Ironic that he should be fully exposed to this beauty only once they wanted to kill one another. Perhaps, Russia mused, he had a skewed concept of beautiful....but just in case, he would prefer that the rest of the world remain just as ignorant of this side of America as he was in the 1800s.
But enough musing - he could watch America to his heart’s content later in the hotel room. (Watching America sleep was one of Russia’s favorite hobbies, after all.) Russia debated between choosing a nation at random and typing in what he truly thought. Well, if anyone tried to hit on America, Russia would simply hit right back.
But still. Russia was kind of tired of hitting. He looked up - Italy gave him a wide smile. Italy was always so happy. He painted pretty landscapes, too. Once America mentioned that Russia liked sunflowers, Italy had gone on and on and on about them, and had even shown them around a few of his own fields.
Russia returned with a small smile, and chose Italy.
He straightened up in his chair and looked over - America was deep in thought, mouth twisted while chewing on a nail. Russia chuckled. Obviously America had only heard part of what Germany said. He stared at America: during the Cold War, America and Russia had gained an almost unnatural ability to know when one was looking at the other. Staring for more than a moment usually worked, though Russia had overheard that the other countries thought it a bit strange. An internal shrug, and Russia upgraded his stare to a glare. Still no response. Something....a bit more attention-grabbing, perhaps?
---
America was having a rough time. On the one hand: obviously, he was a total babe. A total babe who was totally deserving of whatever it was in that box on the table. On the other hand...he wouldn’t be dating someone who was not equal to his hotness. And Russia - all of his six-and-a-half-feet of strong, solid man - was absolutely, positively worthy of dating America and his super babe-aliciousness.
Why couldn’t they just both win and share the prize? America sent a puff of air out of the side of his mouth that sent his bangs straight up into the air a moment.
Then he realized that he’d been spending too much time with that ex-commie. Both win?! Share the prize?! Yeah right. He was a good, old-fashioned capitalist - fuck sharing equally!
Back into the proper spirit of things, America realized he was back where he started. Damn.
A pipe tapping the table in front of him stole his attention. He sent a glare at that no-good...communism-instilling...ugh, total fox, fine...
“America.”
The glare intensified, and picked up a scowl for good measure.
“You did not hear the last part of the note, yes?”
The scowl twists into more of a curious quirk. “So?”
“You cannot vote for yourself.”
Ah. Well. Problem solved.
---
Guilt. Germany wanted to hit his head against the table. Repeatedly. Why was his entire existence always, always, always plagued by guilt?
He liked Italy. Truly, despite their ups and downs. Italy was very attractive. But...the most attractive in the room? No.
When it came down to it, Germany liked men. Real men. With broad shoulders and long legs and some chest hair to go along with the oil and dirt smeared on his clothing from working in a garage all day. A man who could dish it out and take it too, give as hard as he got, and not run away at the first sign of trouble. And yet, once trouble was over, would be ready with a beer, a grill, and some laughter.
He swallowed, let his hand hover over the device, swallowed again, and finally responded with “America”.
---
“You can’t vote for yourself, what bullshit,” Prussia grumbled under his breath (only to immediately be shushed by Germany).
Alrighty. The prettiest one of these pansies. Prussia leaned back in his chair with his arms behind his head, using one foot to spin around and methodically leer at the other nations present.
Germany wasn’t bad looking, but he certainly wasn’t “pretty”. And the guy needs to get that stick out of his ass. Next.
Italy was pretty, but...his brother’s boyfriend. Er, sorta, kinda thing. Sometimes. Weird. Prussia wasn’t really one to get involved in relationship drama - except with Specs. Because that was always fuckin’ hilarious. Every time. Too bad that poof wasn’t here, because he would absolutely be Prussia’s first choice for the “pretty boy” slot. More than that even... gorgeous, probably. But in Italy’s case, drama was bad. Plus there was his twin, who happened to not be - oh, yeah - next.
Romano happened to not be dating Germany, so between the two that was the logical choice. Keep that one in mind.
France had a goddamn girly face. And hair...and hands....shoes....clothes... But Prussia’s seen him naked (“Hell, who hasn’t?” escaped his mouth without him realizing) and for all of his namby-pamby focus on looks and couture and assorted bullshit....his body was definitely that of a man. Next.
Japan. Now there was a girly guy. He’s so small and cute! Prussia had to hold down a squee both to protect his dignity and his physical well-being, if the angry twitch of Germany’s mouth was anything to go by. Keep that one too.
England. Yeah no. Next.
America. Eh, “America the beautiful,” sure, whatever, still a total dude - next.
Rus- no.
Canada. Another cause of squee-supression, though not because he was small. Slight, sure, but strong - Prussia saw him fight in the World Wars, and he’s nothing to mess with. Yet...there was something almost vomit-inducingly cute about his long limbs, slight smile, and large eyes. Ugh, Prussia was gonna make himself sick with all of these thoughts. Okay so Canada’s a girl and is also in the running.
That narrows that down to three. Hm, Japan, Canada, Romano. Out of all of them, the only one he’s seen naked is Romano, so he can’t even just choose who has the best body. But Romano’s is niiiiice. Maybe he’ll pick Romano. Plus, Canada’s kinda...uh...seated pretty close to him really. Not that he shouldn’t be flattered that Prussia would even deign to choose him, but - uh, yeah. Romano’s further. Prussia types in his answer.
---
The first time Canada saw Prussia was just a stormy glimpse from England’s line during America’s war of Independence - he was a blood-drenched, wild-eyed demon, mowing down British soldiers with his bayonet, with a hysterical cackling laugh that curled into a snarl as soon as a new opponent presented himself.
That night, Canada dreamed of that viper-like body twined with his out in the storm, of getting fucked hard into the stinging grass and mud, of hearing that odd mixture of pleased laugh-and-snarl, of licking the blood off of Prussia’s face and letting his blood-slicked hands slide down his naked torso.
It’d been over two hundred motherfucking years since then and Canada still had that fantasy on occasion.
Yeah. Canada knew he was weird.
Not that he would ever, ever, ever admit this out loud, which was his conundrum. There was no one else in the room that Canada lusted after more, but he wasn’t sure if he could admit this even to a tiny electronic device which didn’t have a brain and, you know, couldn’t have given a fuck if it wanted to.
Canada fidgeted in his seat, then looked around to make sure no one was looking at him, then promptly facepalmed. Of course no one was looking at him.
He put in “Prussia” as fast as he could, all the while wanting to melt through his seat. Who knew he would one day find invisibility insufficient?
---
England wished that he could choose from nations that weren’t present, because instead of being mired in indecision he would have been done with this within three seconds.
Because that answer was simple. He’d pick Hungary. Hungary kicked ass. Bashed heads. Punched groins. And England? England was into that. Into a girl who wouldn’t put up with all the bullshit and wankery of other nations. Or even his bullshit and wankery...because, masochism. It bears repeating that England was kinda into that.
Plus he’d heard she was a total pervert. He could sympathize.
But alas, he was here, with all of these idiots. Who, as his luck would have it, were all quite attractive.
Hmph. May as well go the predictable route - he’d always been jealous of France’s beauty.
---
France had one arm crossed across his hips, the other brought up to rest his face against as he dealt with this turmoil. All of the nations present were so beautiful in their own way! What a cruel idea this -- ah, wait, whose idea was this? A mysterious box shows up as a “prize” and everyone has to pick the most beautiful nation? France nearly snorted. Sounded like something he would come up with.
Well, no matter, it seemed harmless. Certainly more enjoyable than a meeting.
France was not about to cast a vote for anyone he hadn’t seen naked, which at least took Romano, Canada, and Japan out of the running. Merde. Still too many people to choose between. It has never been his intention to get around as much as he has...it just sort of happened. France knows that he likes sex, is open about sex, and is open about liking sex. He hums as he thinks on this - from what he’s heard, he’s good in bed. While admittedly, he’s a flirt - truly, it is just in his nature - if someone wants to sleep with him he usually lets them come to him.
Ah, but he’s lost in daydreaming again.
The most beautiful of them?
He goes through his experiences with those in the room, ruminating on “beautiful” - delighting the senses or mind streaks like a shooting star through these thoughts, bright but only for a moment - and -
Much, much older days with one who is much, much changed. After a night spent arguing philosophy and comparing literature with one with so much strength and hope in bright eyes and a shy smile - so much ahead of him - morning light casts a sleepy white glow across a broad nose and broader shoulders, the whole affair cautious and awkward, gentle and reverent, definitely not the best -
- but, delighting, indeed.
France looks over to Russia. Much of the world used to think that that strength had mutated into something grotesque, and France himself was afraid that the hope had faded away and washed the deeper tones of violet out of his eyes...
But France has always known that the grotesque contains its own type of beauty, and lately, those eyes have been shining brighter.
France goes with the one who can remain beautiful even when going through Hell and back. He chooses Russia.
---
---
Hungary burst into the small room with a wicked grin eerily reminiscent of Prussia. Not that Poland would ever say that to her face. Even drunk. He likes his junk right where it is, thankyouverymuch.
Instead he leaned so far back his chair was on two legs, and voiced the second thing on his mind. “Did ya lock it?”
Hungary flashed him a thumbs-up and settled in beside him. Poland made a hum of approval and continued chewing his gum.
Hungary looked over the computer screens - one monitor showed a video feed of the meeting room, while the other had what looked like a spreadsheet with all of the nations’ names. She wondered how Poland had pulled this off. So she asked.
“Estonia owed me,” Poland said with a wink.
Hungary gave him a leer.
“Nah, not like that. He’s a total nerd - I’m not gonna fool around with some dude I have to, like, train.”
“I thought you liked nerdy boys,” Hungary elbowed him in the ribs.
Poland rolled his eyes. “Okay, one,” he held up his finger, “Don’t just ditch the vaj. I like nerdy girls too. The librarian-with-the-glasses thing?” His eyes got a faraway look for a moment, before he continued. “Two: the guys should still know more than how to jack off. And like, have you seen how he dresses? Ew. No thanks. He dresses like a nerd, but he doesn’t rock it.”
“Yeah, but, he’s so adorable! I can overlook fashion.”
Poland appeared to be ready to launch into a rant, but she cut him off.
“Hey,” she nodded toward the left screen. The scene in the meeting room was now utter chaos. France, England, and America all appeared to be screaming at each other (why was there no sound?), and Hungary laughed as Japan tried to appear unfazed while seated in the eye of the storm. Italy seemed happy until his southern counterpart snapped at him, then he looked around the room and promptly started wailing. Prussia, Romano, and Germany immediately began to calm him down; Russia simply sat back with a slightly bemused expression.
A chair sailed across the screen and hit - uh, that one guy - Poland and Hungary both cringed.
“Why can I never remember that guy’s name?” Hungary murmured.
Poland’s gum imploded with a loud pop. He shrugged. “I had Estonia label the remote-things. He always remembers Bambi-guy’s, for some reason.”
Hungary was going to comment on “Bambi-guy,” but then Prussia launched a vase across the room and England narrowly avoided getting smashed in the face.
“Maybe Estonia’s into quiet types,” Hungary laughed. She liked quiet types. Then again, she liked a lot of types.
“Or he’s just a fuckin’ robot who can remember, like, everything.”
---
Italy’s choice showed up on the spreadsheet first. Hungary frowned. “How predictable.”
“Well, yeah, but,” Poland popped a bubble, “he has a thing for blond guys.”
Hungary was skeptical - she’d known Italy a long, long time. This didn’t jive. “Really?”
“Yeah, he like, totally wants to bang Finland.”
“What?!”
“Ohmygod, yes!”
Hungary gave Poland a look which basically meant “give up the goods, now”.
“I kinda peeped on him drawing Finland in the middle of some meeting - “
“That doesn’t mean anything -”
“-so I totally talked up his drawing, you know, to see what the deal was with that, and he talked for, like, ever about how beautiful Finland was, and how nice, and he was - “ here Poland used air quotes “ - “really smart and handy like Doitsu” - ”
“ - this still doesn’t mean anything - “
“Psh, whatever bitch, I just know, alright? He had th-”
Poland found himself on the floor with his gum in his hair. Not cool.
“What the fuck?!”
Hungary glared down at him. “You called me a bitch,” she shrugged.
Poland huffed at the ceiling, picking gum from his blond strands. “So?”
“You’ve known me for centuries. Really, Poland? I know you’ve got a brain - use it before you open your trap.” She helped him up from the floor, then whacked him upside the head for good measure.
Poland shooed her arm away. “Woman, I am so much girlier than you. I mean, Jesus.”
Hungary crossed her arms. “I’m no one’s bitch.”
Poland looked at her, then let out a laugh.
“Oh, def not; but you are so my favorite bitch.” He followed it up with an air kiss.
Silence for a beat - then, riotous laughter.
---
“Canada?” Hungary frowned again. That sounded familiar...
Poland jumped up in his seat with a squeal. “Bambi-guy!”
She looked at the live feed. Bamb- er, Canada - looked like he was going to chew through his lip pretty soon. He looked incredibly, but endearingly, nervous. She could see why Poland had christened him “Bambi-guy.”
“Aww, Japan is such a sucker for cute things,” Poland sighed.
Hungary looked over at his dreamy expression. “I heard somewhere that the Japanese like people who are slender. And, er, not hairy. There was more, but I can’t really remember it.”
Poland looked at Bambi-guy onscreen. He tapped screen-Bambi with his finger, while muttering “Oh come on. That guy definitely has stomach hair going on. Like, happy trail, you know? Except, like, embellished. A happy meadow.”
“Is this more Bambi stuff?”
“Hungary. Seriously girl. Seriously. Just look at him. His stomach is fuzzy, I’m calling it.”
She cocked her head at Bambi-guy and tried to imagine it. “Huh. Yeah, I see that. He probably has a little chest hair too.”
Poland smiled proudly. “Now that’s my bitch.”
Whoops. Why hello again, ceiling.
---
They both stared at the screen.
“You know,” Hungary began conversationally, “I never have understood Romano.”
“He hits on chicks all the time,” Poland halfheartedly gestured. “Japan’s kinda androgynous.”
Hungary scratched her jaw. They stared at the screen some more.
---
They continued staring at the screen, this time updated with Germany’s choice. Hungary quirked an eyebrow; Poland’s mouth twitched upwards.
“Uh. Soooo. How inappropriate would it be for me to make a remark about Ary-”
“Don’t you dare.”
Hungary may as well have had soul-zapping lasers for eyes; Poland observed his nails. This continued until the laser intensity came back down from 11, then -
“But, like, I know you were thinking it.”
Gawd. The next time they spied on their fellow nations, Poland would be sure they were already on a floor. With pillows. He made a sound of excitement followed by “Slumber party!”; Hungary gave him a very bewildered look.
---
“What?!” Poland stood up so fast it knocked over his chair. “Bambi-guy chose Prussia?! That worthless, big-mouthed, totally uncultured balls-for-brains barbarian?! All he ever did was, like, wave his sword around and get his business into places where it was, ew, totally unwanted.” Poland took a quarter-second to breathe. “And now he doesn’t even do anything! He’s, like, not even cute - he looks like a ghost! With red eyes! A demon ghost. A demon ghost that is here on earth to dick around and make everyone’s life miserable.”
Now...overall, Hungary wasn’t too much of a fan of Prussia, either. But that tirade was strong, even for Poland.
“I’m beginning to think you have a crush on this Bambi kid.”
“Oh. Oh. Are you kidding? I would so tap that.”
---
“Are you sure everyone got the right remote?” Hungary asked. Poland was thinking the same thing.
“I mean, I was watching - Germany, you know, did his thing and followed instructions,” Poland supplied.
The screen still read that England had picked France.
“Maybe that’s why he hates France so much? He must have emotional repression issues - maybe he says he hates France and they fight all the time but it really means he loves France and -”
“Girl, I think you’re awesome at all, but that sounds sooo melodramatic. Like, is that shit even real?” Poland had to stop her sometimes; she could get on a roll when mentally hooking up other nations. It was fun to speculate - and they did all the time - but right now he’d rather gossip and bitch about what the others really thought.
Hungary huffed.
Poland shrugged and added “But hey, that doesn’t mean the guy can’t think France is totally hot stuff or whatever.”
“They should just fuck already then.”
“Waitaminute. You mean, they haven’t?!”
Oh, well, Hungary didn’t know. And she would really like to know. What a nice mental image. “You mean they have?”
Poland looked at Hungary; Hungary looked at Poland.
“Surely someone knows,” Hungary finally said.
Poland nodded. “They’ve had, um, like a thousand years of UST? Or, I dunno, I guess it would be RST? They’ve probably done it.”
Well. Hungary was going to have to do some investigating later.
---
Simultaneous yells of “Oh, hell no!” and “My little Italy!” filled the room once Russia’s choice appeared.
Poland growled and stood up, apparently too riled up to get out anything coherent. Hungary grabbed him as he attempted to storm past.
“What - what are you doing?!”
Poland whirled around with angry eyes but a manic grin. “Dude, I don’t want that creep even, like, looking at Italy - I’m gonna go say it right to his face, too.”
Hungary was pretty sure her expression betrayed her intense wish smack her hand to her forehead, but she settled for shaking Poland and saying “You can’t just walk right in there - you’ll ruin our fun!”
Poland froze, pursing his lips.
“Look, we’ll tell Prussia later. He’s got a soft spot for Italy, so you know he’ll do something about it. Then we can just sit back and watch the fireworks,” Hungary smirked.
This is why Poland was BFF with this girl. They came up with amazing schemes as a team. And were mutually annoyed by Prussia. He nodded, adding “From, like, somewhere far away. Both of those guys totally suck. And - oh my God, Hungary, you’re a genius - Prussia won’t bother us for a while.”
“Yeah, it’ll be nice to have him out of our hair.”
“Ugh, he’d better not ever go near my hair!”
---
“Oooo, America chose Russia!” Hungary swooned.
Poland could practically see the hearts in the air around her. “Yeah, they’re dating,” he shrugged.
“Hah! You know I told you that the Cold War was entirely UST and they really just wanted to bone each other senseless.” She had that dangerous look - clenched fist in the air and a semi-crazy gleam in her eyes.
“Okay, so fine, you were totally right about that one,” Poland grudgingly admitted. He supposed that since she came up with that kind of stuff all the time, she had to be right at least once.
“God, how hot would it be to watch those two go at it?”
“Ugh, so totally not. Russia’s huge. And weird. And such a creep. And smells like vodka...and, just, ew,” Poland scowled.
Hungary laughed. “But - America? I know you think he’s hot.”
“Psh. Not as hot as Russia is gross.” He stuck his tongue out for good measure.
---
“Huh, that’s weird,” Poland pointed to Prussia’s choice on the screen. “Why choose South Italy when you could choose North Italy? I mean, they look, like, almost the same. ‘cept the eyes.” Both of them were biased toward their cheery friend.
“Ah!” Hungary clapped her hands together; she had forgotten to tell Poland this tidbit of gossip. “Italy said that Prussia walked in on Romano and some girl.”
Poland howled with laughter. “Please,” he gasped out, “please tell me - ahahaha oh God - that Romano, like, threw a table at him.” Oh, but Poland wished he could have seen that.
By now Hungary was laughing too. “I don’t know, but probably.”
Poland was almost crying. “I can’t wait to tell Liet! I should text him.” He dug out his phone, got halfway through a text, then stopped. “But, it would be way better to tell him to his face.”
Hungary pointed to screen-Romano, who was scowling and tapping a beat into the table. “I guess Prussia liked what he saw.”
This sent Poland off on another bout of hysterical laughing.
---
They were watching France, the only one left, seemingly stare at nothing on the video feed.
Poland sighed, looking over to Hungary. “It would take France this long.”
“Probably trying to decide which one was the best lay. If I’d seen most of the room naked, I guess I would too.”
Screen-France moved, and soon enough “Russia” appeared next to his name in the spreadsheet on the right screen.
For a moment, neither of them moved, too stunned to do anything but sit there with a facial expression equivalent to “wut?”
Poland was the first to snap out of it.
“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! Am I the only one in, like, the entire world with any sense of taste?! I mean - France - wha - really, France?! You wear Chanel No. 5!”
A rant about how much better Poland’s taste was in guys, girls, clothes, drapes - anything - continued, but Hungary was pretty proficient in ignoring such things by now. “Guess Russia is better in bed than I thought,” Hungary mumbled.
Poland whirled around to face her. “Hungary, seriously. All admiration for France. Shattered.”
“Um. Poland.”
”Yeah?”
“Bigger things to worry about. I think this means Russia won.”
“Oh, fuck no.”
---
---
All of the remotes chimed, and “Winner: Russia” appeared on the screens. A beat, and then the room exploded with indignant squawks, disappointed exclaimations, and America and Italy’s excited congratulations.
Canada rolled his eyes at America’s “Yeah, I rule!” Who knew what went on in that brain of his.
Romano was grumbling to Italy about how he “shouldn’t talk to that freak,” Prussia was loudly proclaiming that something obviously had gone wrong, as he wasn’t chosen, and France just sat back, content to watch the chaos for now.
Russia frowned. Were they making fun of him? He pulled his coat tighter around his figure, trying to make himself appear smaller. He had a little fat on him, true, but he wasn’t fat. He wasn’t even overweight!
England glowered at him before accusing him of setting the entire thing up. Prussia cut in with an agreement and an insult, which caused America to stand up to defend Russia -
Before it could become an all-out brawl, Germany asked the obvious question in a voice that cut through the room. “Who voted for Russia?”
“I did!” America sent a wink Russia’s way; England rolled his eyes, Japan looked unimpressed, Canada shook his head, Prussia snickered.
Germany frowned.
France waved his hand lazily in the air. “As did I.”
The rest of the room did a double-take.
England broke the silence. “Are you serious?”
France looked over at him. “Yes. And?”
“Hey,” France looked over to see America, leaning over the table toward him, finger pointed threateningly. “Keep your mitts off my man.”
Russia smiled. It was rare to see America so protective! Perhaps he would go with America to see that new action thriller, after all. He’d rather watch something less...explosive...in the quiet of the living room...but America liked the crowds, commercials, the loudness and flashiness of the movies.
France leered, entertained; America moved over and grabbed Russia’s hand, mouthing “mine” at France.
Russia was beside himself with glee. He’d never been able to coax America into displaying affection in public! Maybe tonight they could go to the movies and Russia could hold hands with him again - it would be worth stuffing himself into one of those tiny seats and getting popcorn thrown at the back of his head by loudmouthed teenagers. Then he remembered that they were in Italy this time - so, maybe not.
Still, he made a mental note to thank France later.
Germany’s voice halted his thoughts. “Anyone else?”
Nothing in the room moved.
Germany stood up and moved towards the box -
- the doors flew open with a resounding smash and Poland barreled into the room. Japan tried not to appear affronted while picking splinters out of his hair and uniform, while England stood up and began yelling about “proper entrances” and “private meetings” while dusting himself off.
France and Prussia looked at each other and simultaneously snickered at “private meetings”. England’s fury turned to him instead.
Poland snatched up the box, saying “Hey, gimme that, it’s mine.”
The other nations stared. Some gazes got a distinctly dangerous edge to them.
“It’s yours?” asked an irate-looking England.
Whoops. Quick thinking, Feliks. C’mon. “Uh, yeah. I got this for Liet, and it just, like, disappeared on me. I’m taking it, and the rest of you can suck it.”
Prussia sent him a flat look. “You’re saying Lithuania’s present just magically appeared here. And wait a sec - why the fuck did you get him a present? I call bullshit.”
Ugh, Prussia. So annoying! “Because I always get him a present for Statehood Day. And I am, like, so late this year because of this.”
“So, the remotes are yours too, then?” England grated out.
Poland looked over and picked one up, turning it in his hand, before flippantly stating “Nah. That is totally Estonia’s handwriting, though.” He thought he should probably tell Estonia to stay with Hungary for a while.
Russia looked at his labeled remote. Why did he not notice that before? “Da, it is,” he said in wonder. He still didn’t think this was Estonia’s doing - this screamed Poland. Perhaps he was making fun of Russia?
But as soon as that was out of his mouth, the other nations asked him for confirmation, again.
Poland slipped out in the confusion.
---
...and promptly printed out and mailed ten pieces of paper.
---
America: Russia
Bambi: Prussia
England: France
France: Russia
Germany: America
Japan: Bambi
North Italy: Germany
Prussia: South Italy
Russia: North Italy
South Italy: Japan
Russia read over the list - oh. Oh. America will not like this. He should probably be there in person when his little eagle finds out. When they first started dating, Russia had forseen most fights between them resulting in heated, angry sex (like he’d always dreamed about in the Cold War). Unfortunately...this wasn’t always the case. Russia had, by now, largely learned the difference between something that would make America angry-sex angry, and something that would make him no-sex angry. And while he, personally, didn’t have that high of a libido...America did. When he was sexually frustrated - even if it was self-imposed - it tended to mutate into general frustration. Russia liked a happy America much more than an irritated one.
He sighed. This would probably be no-sex angry.
The envelope was postmarked from Italy - ah, America wouldn’t have recieved his yet. The only unanswered question, now, was whether it was sent to his house or his office.
He wondered whether to visit Poland or Estonia first.
---
One of Japan’s aides handed him the letter. He looked over the list, took a second to memorize it, and placed it into the shredder. He had bigger things to worry about right now than a beauty pageant.
Odd that Canada would pick Prussia, though.
A few hours later, during a business lunch, it hit him that South Italy had chosen him; his sudden blush confused his lunch partners but they made no comment. Japan was familiar with North Italy, of course - but, had he ever talked to South Italy? He wasn’t sure.
That should probably be remedied, at least for the sake of politeness.
---
France always opened his mail over brunch. Reading mail tended to be less stressful when one was armed with fresh fruit, a croissant, and coffee. He shook out the letter with one hand, using the other to bring his coffee to his lips.
He nearly spit it out.
Oh, how wonderful! He’d have to thank Poland the next chance he got - he didn’t believe for a second Estonia would care at all about the nations’ opinions on beauty - perhaps a gift card? Then again, they hadn’t gone shopping together for quite some time...
He read back over the list; there were only a few surprises, here. Russia choosing North Italy over America was strange, but he did like cheery company...he would probably hear the logic behind that one from America, though. Loudly and at length.
Frankly, he was shocked by England’s choice. And a little upset that no one had chosen the cranky Brit, to be honest. The next time he saw him would not be a fun experience, heavens no. Perhaps he should send the man some flowers - both as a thank you and as consolation. Which meant he’d have to dig out that old floriography book - Angleterre would probably think he was making fun of him otherwise.
Japan and South Italy he didn’t know too well, which meant their choices were much less interesting to him. That Prussia had chosen South Italy, though...France would have to get him drunk (not hard) and interrogate him about that.
On the other hand...perhaps they should go out to drink and invite a certain Canadian along...
---
Germany and Italy were seated on the sofa in the living room, Italy cheerily rambling about everyone’s choices. Germany wanted to sink through the floor.
“Ah, listen, Italy - about my vote - “
Italy laughed. “Ve, you couldn’t vote for yourself! America was closest!” He reached out and fluffed Germany’s hair down into his face - Germany squawked and pulled away, trying to right it again. He paused when his vision was engulfed by a pair of large brown eyes.
“Oh, well...Germany doesn’t really look that much like America.” Italy tapped Germany’s nose and cocked his head sideways, mentally noting the differences in facial structure between the two. He didn’t expect Germany to see that though - he knew detail when it came to the concrete, but the subtlety with which an artist notes differences between his subjects - that was foreign to him.
This revelation came to Italy as more of an impression than thought, and he smiled brightly before exclaiming “Oh, Lovino will be angry! I should call him - sometimes he breaks things when he’s angry.”
He bounded into the kitchen to call his brother, leaving Germany spluttering and blushing on the couch.
---
Romano stood in his doorway, half-in and half-out, staring at the bunched-up letter in his hands. He wasn’t angry. No. Not at all.
He was furious. It was surprising that his facial muscles hadn’t started cramping from the intensity of his scowl.
He ripped his cell phone from his pocket - only to see that he was already getting a call from his idiot brother. Great. Probably to talk about how cute it was.
He flipped open his phone and snarled a “What?!” into the reciever.
“Lovino! Let’s go get gelato and pasta! My treat!” his brother cooed from the other end.
“...what?”
“Weeeell, I’m at Germany’s house right now! But their food is terrible! Let’s go get pasta pleaaaaase?!”
“Stop whining,” Romano spat.
“ - and then we could go paint in the Villa Doria Pamphili gardens, and oh! I haven’t been to the Palazzo dei Conservatori for a long time, we could see -”
“Okay, okay, shut up, geez!”
“Yaaay!”
--
A strange letter! - 2009 July 17 (Fri)
A while ago I was at a boring meeting that didn’t deserve to be in my awesome blog. It was so lame!!! But one of the days was very strange - we had to choose who was the most beautiful in the room.
I think it was seriously screwed up, because I didn’t win. I’m too georgeous to lose! Hahahaha!
Today I got a letter in the mail with a list of everyone’s choices, but I don’t think it’s right.
Who is this Bambi?! I don’t remember any deer in the meeting. Whoever made this list has serious problems.
---
Diary of the Awesome Me
July 17th
It’s only afternoon, but so far I’ve been as cool as ever. You know that G8 meeting I went to with West the other week? With the weird contest? I got a letter in the mail today with the results! Here, I’ll write them down:
America --> Russia - This does not surprise me. America’s really weird. I don’t think people realize how weird he is.
Bambi --> Prussia - I don’t know why the fuck there was a deer at the meeting but the only country not listed is Canada! Did someone get his name wrong?! Could he like me?! I mean, he should anyway, of course. I should crash his place and ask for more maple syrup.
England --> France - Hahaha I always knew that pansy wanted in France’s pants. Hey that rhymes.
France --> Russia - I am disappointed. France should have picked me, we’re pals! And I rule!
Germany --> America - Why did Germany not pick Italy? I hope Ita-chan isn’t sad.
Japan --> Bambi - Hey, that’s mine! Japan is small and cute but I have no qualms beating him up.
North Italy --> Germany - Italy is so cute! Yet predictable.
Prussia --> South Italy - Maybe he’ll talk to me now.
Russia --> WHOA WAIT A SECOND I HAVE TO GO MAKE SURE ITALY IS OKAY
--
Adjusting his glasses, Canada looked again just to make sure he wasn’t seeing things. Bambi? What the hell? Well, even if they got his name wrong, at least he was remembered in the first place.
Still - how embarassing. He was going into hiding for a long fucking time. He finished up any remaining business, packed up some gear, grabbed Kumajiro, and took his car way, way north for a nice, extended camping trip.
A few days later the phone rang through the empty house. The answering machine picked up, and elegant French rang through the living room - “Good afternoon, Mathieu - I was wondering if you would care to join me for dinner and drinks this weekend. It really has been too long since we’ve caught up, darling. I’ll be conducting my business affairs from home, as usual, of course, so do call when you get this. Salut.”
---
America had had a long day. He kind of just wanted to order in some pizza, curl up on the couch, and watch some feel-good classic movie he knew by heart. Forrest Gump, maybe.
He trudged up the sidewalk to his house, only to be stopped by the sight of a coatless Russia happily planting sunflowers in his black-eyed susans. Russia saw him and chirped out a “ привет!”
“Russia,” he replied, rubbing his face with one hand, “what are you doing sitting on my black eyed susans?” Oh, and he’d smashed the purple coneflowers too. Lovely. Hopefully the daisies were okay - though if the guy knew they were a gift from England, probalby not.
Whoops. Russia had forgotten how much America liked his gardening. He lifted up a sunflower in its pot, then nodded to the black-eyed susans. “Yours are like little versions.”
America smiled at that, then scrunched up his face. “Wait - what are you even doing here?”
Russia hopped nimbly over to the sidewalk, then squashed America into a tight hug. “There was a small bit of business, but mainly, I wanted to see you! We were not able to watch your movie while in Italy. I thought we could remedy that.”
Really, America thought, he should be used to Russia just showing up by now. “I really don’t feel like going out tonight, sorry big guy. Work sucked.”
“We stay here? I bought many sunflowers while waiting on you today. We can plant them. Did you know they were having a sale at the greenhouse a few streets over?”
“No, I didn’t,” America’s muffled voice came up from somewhere around Russia’s collarbone. “Haven’t had time to do much gardening. Can you let go now?”
As they parted, America rubbed his hair and said “I didn’t even know they sold potted sunflowers. Anywhere.”
Russia put his finger to his lips and looked up at the sky. “I asked them to grow some a while ago. When I tried to bring my own sunflowers here they died. Your greenhouse people seemed very eager to cooperate.”
America shook his head; he was getting entirely too used to this kind of stuff. “Creep,” was laughingly thrown Russia’s way as America headed toward the porch, snatched the mail, and unlocked the door.
Russia smiled; he knew what letter was no longer in that box. And now he had an evening with America all to himself!
---
England was going to throttle that little dweeb Estonia.
...once he found him, that was. He stood in the middle of Estonia’s deserted kitchen (lockpicking might have been the most useful skill he picked up during his pirate days) and cursed that he hadn’t forseen his not being home.
He looked down at his cell phone.
Now, who would know where he was...
---
Russia, curled around a sprawled, sleeping America on the couch, was interrupted by his phone ringing. His smile dropped when he saw that it was England.
“Yes?”
“Hello, Russia. Where is Estonia?”
Russia wasn’t going to tell him that Poland was the one to look for. But still, this could be fun.
“Ah! And what do I get out of this?”
Oh, bugger. England rubbed the bridge of his nose, frustrated. Of course it wasn’t going to be that easy. They hadn’t really been on great terms ever since that whole thing with the Muscovy Company, and now that Russia was with America...he sighed.
“Russia. I don’t want America - I didn’t even vote for him, as you can see,” he seethed.
Russia hmm’d. “I would like to attend your next Christmas,” was the unexpected reply.
“Wh- what are you on about?”
“You heard me, yes?”
England tried to imagine Russia joining in the family’s Christmas celebrations and groaned inwardly. “Okay, fine,” he conceded. “But we give gifts, so bring some. And none of that mummery rubbish.”
“I don’t do that anymore,” Russia murmured.
“Do what?”
“Mummery. It died out in the Soviet era.”
“Oh. Yes. Well then,” England cleared his throat awkwardly. “Estonia?”
“I have heard that he is staying with Hungary.”
--
Estonia, all said, was having a pretty decent time camping out at Hungary’s. She was nice, intelligent, and let him take over most of the living room with his computers, books, and games. He could almost forgive Poland. Almost.
His eyes flew up from his laptop as the door crashed open and an angry Englishman began yelling obscenities at him.
England had nearly crossed over to Estonia when a searing pain ripped across his skull and he blacked out.
Vision swimming, the first thing that England saw was that one arm seemed to be cuffed pretty solidly to the coffee table. He heard steps; he turned his head to the other side and again, his vision blurred and swam. His eyes recovered and he saw a pair of heavy boots inches from his face.
“You’re not going to touch Estonia. Got it?”
He drew his gaze up carefully to find Hungary, tapping her fingers against her arm, ostensibly waiting for a response.
“Hungary?” he groaned out. “Why am I attached to this coffee table?” The full impact of that statement hit him once he’d said it aloud - oh bloody hell. Not good.
An evil smirk crawled its way across her features. “One: you’re not hurting Estonia. Two: I’ve got a few important questions to ask you. An interrogation, if you will. You’re not moving until I say you can.”
Oh, she needed to not say things like that. England shifted uncomfortably on the floor, just now realizing what a bad predicament he was in.
Hungary sucked in a breath. “England...is that...are you...?” She let it hang in the air, awkwardly.
He swallowed heavily. Well, in a word....yes. Yes he was.
---
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Germany, North Italy, South Italy, Prussia, Russia/America, Japan, Canada, England, France, Hungary, Poland, Estonia
Summary: The G8 + South Italy + Prussia end up locked in a room with two boxes, a letter, no easy way out, and a way to vote for who they each think is the best looking among them. Who do they pick? What is the prize? And why are they even stuck in this situation?
Warnings: One character makes a very offensive comment about Germany's choice.
---
There were two boxes at the head of the G8 Conference table, from what Germany could see. One large, wrapped one, and a smaller one filled with little electronic devices.
Germany had been the first to enter the room, the voices of Prussia, Italy, and...America (maybe?) filtering in through the open door. It was a loud voice, but it didn’t sound like Italy’s brother. Plus, Germany didn’t hear anything breaking. Supposedly Romano was still angry with Gilbert, for...now that he thought about it, Germany had no idea what had happened. It was probably better that he didn’t.
“Make that two large boxes and a letter,” he amended, looking over the paper that was perched atop the large box.
The other nations filed in, peering curiously at the box. Germany thought they would be crowded around asking questions, but he belatedly realized that they thought the boxes were his.
Once everyone was seated (totally out of order, to Germany’s discomfort - his moving to the head of the table had forced everyone to re-shuffle) he picked up the paper, cleared his throat, and read:
“The gift in this box is for the fairest one of all. Who is the most beautiful in the room? It’s up to you to decide.
To play:
- grab the remote with your name on it
- type in your vote by country name and press “enter”
- once all votes are in, a message will be sent to all devices with the winner
- the door out has been locked”
At this, England, closest to the door, gave it a yank - it stayed put. Facial expressions varied from alarmed, confused, to totally apathetic.
“ - it will remain locked until all votes are in
- you can’t vote for yourself - this is why all the remotes are named”
After bit of blame-throwing, chair-throwing, tantrum-throwing, general panic, yelling, and mayhem, all of the nations had settled down with their respective devices in silence.
---
Italy didn’t even have to think about his choice - not that he normally thought things through, really. He was always one to go by instinct, heart, the “feel” of something. So he smiled down at his device, typed “Germany,” and then alternated between openly watching the other nations and drawing whatever came to mind on the back of his notes.
---
Romano could give less of a shit about this. Why was he here again? He heaved a sigh and looked around the room at the other nations. Okay, so, the fairest of them all. If one took that literally, then, well, Prussia was the winner by a long shot. And Prussia was a fairly attractive man, if Romano was honest with himself. Luckily, Romano was good at avoiding that last one. On top of that, come on, Potato Bastard’s brother? Finally, he was still pretty pissed about the time Prussia had walked in on him and that hot chick from the espresso bar - thus his gaze continued around the room.
A shaft of sunlight filtered through the window and had backlit Japan. He really was quite striking, Romano thought, straight line of spine and subdued monochrome color only serving to highlight his quiet strength, grace, hidden artistry.
Some half-formed thought flickered through Romano’s mind - the two shared something in that, artists who went unseen by the rest of the world - and without letting it go to completion, he typed in “Japan”.
---
Japan had somehow ended up seated between France and England. He was surrounded by European nations at a meeting (basically) full of European nations. Internally he sighed, though on the outside there was simply a change in the light in his eyes.
What an odd decision he was faced with, this morning.
Europeans....they were fairly hairy...and he was stuck between France, who proudly showed it off with open shirts, and England, who, well. A twitch of Japan’s mouth would have betrayed his thoughts on England’s eyebrows, if anyone had been looking.
Japan was a neat freak. Additionally, and perhaps somewhat related, Japan could not stand body hair. He looked down at the table, mentally running over who was in the room. Appearing to be lost in thought, he discreetly observed the displayed hands and forearms of the countries present.
Ah. Perfect. Young, slender, quiet, polite - and most importantly, largely hairless.
Japan swiftly and delicately typed in “Canada,” and returned to looking (mostly) at the table.
---
Russia thought that this whole thing was quite silly. A mysterious box, how exciting.
There was no question, to him, as to who the most beautiful of all nations was - but that nation was all his. America’s word for Russia’s stance on this was “suffocating”, but Russia couldn’t help that he didn’t want anyone else to know the true beauty of America. Yes, America was very attractive as he presented himself everyday to the world - full of sunlit energy and childlike exuberance - but Russia knew. He knew that America was less like his gilded-gold, blinding facade and more like the blast furnaces of his Rust Belt, composed of equal parts smoldering fire and hard steel.
Russia had seen flashes of this when they had first known each other. Ironic that he should be fully exposed to this beauty only once they wanted to kill one another. Perhaps, Russia mused, he had a skewed concept of beautiful....but just in case, he would prefer that the rest of the world remain just as ignorant of this side of America as he was in the 1800s.
But enough musing - he could watch America to his heart’s content later in the hotel room. (Watching America sleep was one of Russia’s favorite hobbies, after all.) Russia debated between choosing a nation at random and typing in what he truly thought. Well, if anyone tried to hit on America, Russia would simply hit right back.
But still. Russia was kind of tired of hitting. He looked up - Italy gave him a wide smile. Italy was always so happy. He painted pretty landscapes, too. Once America mentioned that Russia liked sunflowers, Italy had gone on and on and on about them, and had even shown them around a few of his own fields.
Russia returned with a small smile, and chose Italy.
He straightened up in his chair and looked over - America was deep in thought, mouth twisted while chewing on a nail. Russia chuckled. Obviously America had only heard part of what Germany said. He stared at America: during the Cold War, America and Russia had gained an almost unnatural ability to know when one was looking at the other. Staring for more than a moment usually worked, though Russia had overheard that the other countries thought it a bit strange. An internal shrug, and Russia upgraded his stare to a glare. Still no response. Something....a bit more attention-grabbing, perhaps?
---
America was having a rough time. On the one hand: obviously, he was a total babe. A total babe who was totally deserving of whatever it was in that box on the table. On the other hand...he wouldn’t be dating someone who was not equal to his hotness. And Russia - all of his six-and-a-half-feet of strong, solid man - was absolutely, positively worthy of dating America and his super babe-aliciousness.
Why couldn’t they just both win and share the prize? America sent a puff of air out of the side of his mouth that sent his bangs straight up into the air a moment.
Then he realized that he’d been spending too much time with that ex-commie. Both win?! Share the prize?! Yeah right. He was a good, old-fashioned capitalist - fuck sharing equally!
Back into the proper spirit of things, America realized he was back where he started. Damn.
A pipe tapping the table in front of him stole his attention. He sent a glare at that no-good...communism-instilling...ugh, total fox, fine...
“America.”
The glare intensified, and picked up a scowl for good measure.
“You did not hear the last part of the note, yes?”
The scowl twists into more of a curious quirk. “So?”
“You cannot vote for yourself.”
Ah. Well. Problem solved.
---
Guilt. Germany wanted to hit his head against the table. Repeatedly. Why was his entire existence always, always, always plagued by guilt?
He liked Italy. Truly, despite their ups and downs. Italy was very attractive. But...the most attractive in the room? No.
When it came down to it, Germany liked men. Real men. With broad shoulders and long legs and some chest hair to go along with the oil and dirt smeared on his clothing from working in a garage all day. A man who could dish it out and take it too, give as hard as he got, and not run away at the first sign of trouble. And yet, once trouble was over, would be ready with a beer, a grill, and some laughter.
He swallowed, let his hand hover over the device, swallowed again, and finally responded with “America”.
---
“You can’t vote for yourself, what bullshit,” Prussia grumbled under his breath (only to immediately be shushed by Germany).
Alrighty. The prettiest one of these pansies. Prussia leaned back in his chair with his arms behind his head, using one foot to spin around and methodically leer at the other nations present.
Germany wasn’t bad looking, but he certainly wasn’t “pretty”. And the guy needs to get that stick out of his ass. Next.
Italy was pretty, but...his brother’s boyfriend. Er, sorta, kinda thing. Sometimes. Weird. Prussia wasn’t really one to get involved in relationship drama - except with Specs. Because that was always fuckin’ hilarious. Every time. Too bad that poof wasn’t here, because he would absolutely be Prussia’s first choice for the “pretty boy” slot. More than that even... gorgeous, probably. But in Italy’s case, drama was bad. Plus there was his twin, who happened to not be - oh, yeah - next.
Romano happened to not be dating Germany, so between the two that was the logical choice. Keep that one in mind.
France had a goddamn girly face. And hair...and hands....shoes....clothes... But Prussia’s seen him naked (“Hell, who hasn’t?” escaped his mouth without him realizing) and for all of his namby-pamby focus on looks and couture and assorted bullshit....his body was definitely that of a man. Next.
Japan. Now there was a girly guy. He’s so small and cute! Prussia had to hold down a squee both to protect his dignity and his physical well-being, if the angry twitch of Germany’s mouth was anything to go by. Keep that one too.
England. Yeah no. Next.
America. Eh, “America the beautiful,” sure, whatever, still a total dude - next.
Rus- no.
Canada. Another cause of squee-supression, though not because he was small. Slight, sure, but strong - Prussia saw him fight in the World Wars, and he’s nothing to mess with. Yet...there was something almost vomit-inducingly cute about his long limbs, slight smile, and large eyes. Ugh, Prussia was gonna make himself sick with all of these thoughts. Okay so Canada’s a girl and is also in the running.
That narrows that down to three. Hm, Japan, Canada, Romano. Out of all of them, the only one he’s seen naked is Romano, so he can’t even just choose who has the best body. But Romano’s is niiiiice. Maybe he’ll pick Romano. Plus, Canada’s kinda...uh...seated pretty close to him really. Not that he shouldn’t be flattered that Prussia would even deign to choose him, but - uh, yeah. Romano’s further. Prussia types in his answer.
---
The first time Canada saw Prussia was just a stormy glimpse from England’s line during America’s war of Independence - he was a blood-drenched, wild-eyed demon, mowing down British soldiers with his bayonet, with a hysterical cackling laugh that curled into a snarl as soon as a new opponent presented himself.
That night, Canada dreamed of that viper-like body twined with his out in the storm, of getting fucked hard into the stinging grass and mud, of hearing that odd mixture of pleased laugh-and-snarl, of licking the blood off of Prussia’s face and letting his blood-slicked hands slide down his naked torso.
It’d been over two hundred motherfucking years since then and Canada still had that fantasy on occasion.
Yeah. Canada knew he was weird.
Not that he would ever, ever, ever admit this out loud, which was his conundrum. There was no one else in the room that Canada lusted after more, but he wasn’t sure if he could admit this even to a tiny electronic device which didn’t have a brain and, you know, couldn’t have given a fuck if it wanted to.
Canada fidgeted in his seat, then looked around to make sure no one was looking at him, then promptly facepalmed. Of course no one was looking at him.
He put in “Prussia” as fast as he could, all the while wanting to melt through his seat. Who knew he would one day find invisibility insufficient?
---
England wished that he could choose from nations that weren’t present, because instead of being mired in indecision he would have been done with this within three seconds.
Because that answer was simple. He’d pick Hungary. Hungary kicked ass. Bashed heads. Punched groins. And England? England was into that. Into a girl who wouldn’t put up with all the bullshit and wankery of other nations. Or even his bullshit and wankery...because, masochism. It bears repeating that England was kinda into that.
Plus he’d heard she was a total pervert. He could sympathize.
But alas, he was here, with all of these idiots. Who, as his luck would have it, were all quite attractive.
Hmph. May as well go the predictable route - he’d always been jealous of France’s beauty.
---
France had one arm crossed across his hips, the other brought up to rest his face against as he dealt with this turmoil. All of the nations present were so beautiful in their own way! What a cruel idea this -- ah, wait, whose idea was this? A mysterious box shows up as a “prize” and everyone has to pick the most beautiful nation? France nearly snorted. Sounded like something he would come up with.
Well, no matter, it seemed harmless. Certainly more enjoyable than a meeting.
France was not about to cast a vote for anyone he hadn’t seen naked, which at least took Romano, Canada, and Japan out of the running. Merde. Still too many people to choose between. It has never been his intention to get around as much as he has...it just sort of happened. France knows that he likes sex, is open about sex, and is open about liking sex. He hums as he thinks on this - from what he’s heard, he’s good in bed. While admittedly, he’s a flirt - truly, it is just in his nature - if someone wants to sleep with him he usually lets them come to him.
Ah, but he’s lost in daydreaming again.
The most beautiful of them?
He goes through his experiences with those in the room, ruminating on “beautiful” - delighting the senses or mind streaks like a shooting star through these thoughts, bright but only for a moment - and -
Much, much older days with one who is much, much changed. After a night spent arguing philosophy and comparing literature with one with so much strength and hope in bright eyes and a shy smile - so much ahead of him - morning light casts a sleepy white glow across a broad nose and broader shoulders, the whole affair cautious and awkward, gentle and reverent, definitely not the best -
- but, delighting, indeed.
France looks over to Russia. Much of the world used to think that that strength had mutated into something grotesque, and France himself was afraid that the hope had faded away and washed the deeper tones of violet out of his eyes...
But France has always known that the grotesque contains its own type of beauty, and lately, those eyes have been shining brighter.
France goes with the one who can remain beautiful even when going through Hell and back. He chooses Russia.
---
---
Hungary burst into the small room with a wicked grin eerily reminiscent of Prussia. Not that Poland would ever say that to her face. Even drunk. He likes his junk right where it is, thankyouverymuch.
Instead he leaned so far back his chair was on two legs, and voiced the second thing on his mind. “Did ya lock it?”
Hungary flashed him a thumbs-up and settled in beside him. Poland made a hum of approval and continued chewing his gum.
Hungary looked over the computer screens - one monitor showed a video feed of the meeting room, while the other had what looked like a spreadsheet with all of the nations’ names. She wondered how Poland had pulled this off. So she asked.
“Estonia owed me,” Poland said with a wink.
Hungary gave him a leer.
“Nah, not like that. He’s a total nerd - I’m not gonna fool around with some dude I have to, like, train.”
“I thought you liked nerdy boys,” Hungary elbowed him in the ribs.
Poland rolled his eyes. “Okay, one,” he held up his finger, “Don’t just ditch the vaj. I like nerdy girls too. The librarian-with-the-glasses thing?” His eyes got a faraway look for a moment, before he continued. “Two: the guys should still know more than how to jack off. And like, have you seen how he dresses? Ew. No thanks. He dresses like a nerd, but he doesn’t rock it.”
“Yeah, but, he’s so adorable! I can overlook fashion.”
Poland appeared to be ready to launch into a rant, but she cut him off.
“Hey,” she nodded toward the left screen. The scene in the meeting room was now utter chaos. France, England, and America all appeared to be screaming at each other (why was there no sound?), and Hungary laughed as Japan tried to appear unfazed while seated in the eye of the storm. Italy seemed happy until his southern counterpart snapped at him, then he looked around the room and promptly started wailing. Prussia, Romano, and Germany immediately began to calm him down; Russia simply sat back with a slightly bemused expression.
A chair sailed across the screen and hit - uh, that one guy - Poland and Hungary both cringed.
“Why can I never remember that guy’s name?” Hungary murmured.
Poland’s gum imploded with a loud pop. He shrugged. “I had Estonia label the remote-things. He always remembers Bambi-guy’s, for some reason.”
Hungary was going to comment on “Bambi-guy,” but then Prussia launched a vase across the room and England narrowly avoided getting smashed in the face.
“Maybe Estonia’s into quiet types,” Hungary laughed. She liked quiet types. Then again, she liked a lot of types.
“Or he’s just a fuckin’ robot who can remember, like, everything.”
---
Italy’s choice showed up on the spreadsheet first. Hungary frowned. “How predictable.”
“Well, yeah, but,” Poland popped a bubble, “he has a thing for blond guys.”
Hungary was skeptical - she’d known Italy a long, long time. This didn’t jive. “Really?”
“Yeah, he like, totally wants to bang Finland.”
“What?!”
“Ohmygod, yes!”
Hungary gave Poland a look which basically meant “give up the goods, now”.
“I kinda peeped on him drawing Finland in the middle of some meeting - “
“That doesn’t mean anything -”
“-so I totally talked up his drawing, you know, to see what the deal was with that, and he talked for, like, ever about how beautiful Finland was, and how nice, and he was - “ here Poland used air quotes “ - “really smart and handy like Doitsu” - ”
“ - this still doesn’t mean anything - “
“Psh, whatever bitch, I just know, alright? He had th-”
Poland found himself on the floor with his gum in his hair. Not cool.
“What the fuck?!”
Hungary glared down at him. “You called me a bitch,” she shrugged.
Poland huffed at the ceiling, picking gum from his blond strands. “So?”
“You’ve known me for centuries. Really, Poland? I know you’ve got a brain - use it before you open your trap.” She helped him up from the floor, then whacked him upside the head for good measure.
Poland shooed her arm away. “Woman, I am so much girlier than you. I mean, Jesus.”
Hungary crossed her arms. “I’m no one’s bitch.”
Poland looked at her, then let out a laugh.
“Oh, def not; but you are so my favorite bitch.” He followed it up with an air kiss.
Silence for a beat - then, riotous laughter.
---
“Canada?” Hungary frowned again. That sounded familiar...
Poland jumped up in his seat with a squeal. “Bambi-guy!”
She looked at the live feed. Bamb- er, Canada - looked like he was going to chew through his lip pretty soon. He looked incredibly, but endearingly, nervous. She could see why Poland had christened him “Bambi-guy.”
“Aww, Japan is such a sucker for cute things,” Poland sighed.
Hungary looked over at his dreamy expression. “I heard somewhere that the Japanese like people who are slender. And, er, not hairy. There was more, but I can’t really remember it.”
Poland looked at Bambi-guy onscreen. He tapped screen-Bambi with his finger, while muttering “Oh come on. That guy definitely has stomach hair going on. Like, happy trail, you know? Except, like, embellished. A happy meadow.”
“Is this more Bambi stuff?”
“Hungary. Seriously girl. Seriously. Just look at him. His stomach is fuzzy, I’m calling it.”
She cocked her head at Bambi-guy and tried to imagine it. “Huh. Yeah, I see that. He probably has a little chest hair too.”
Poland smiled proudly. “Now that’s my bitch.”
Whoops. Why hello again, ceiling.
---
They both stared at the screen.
“You know,” Hungary began conversationally, “I never have understood Romano.”
“He hits on chicks all the time,” Poland halfheartedly gestured. “Japan’s kinda androgynous.”
Hungary scratched her jaw. They stared at the screen some more.
---
They continued staring at the screen, this time updated with Germany’s choice. Hungary quirked an eyebrow; Poland’s mouth twitched upwards.
“Uh. Soooo. How inappropriate would it be for me to make a remark about Ary-”
“Don’t you dare.”
Hungary may as well have had soul-zapping lasers for eyes; Poland observed his nails. This continued until the laser intensity came back down from 11, then -
“But, like, I know you were thinking it.”
Gawd. The next time they spied on their fellow nations, Poland would be sure they were already on a floor. With pillows. He made a sound of excitement followed by “Slumber party!”; Hungary gave him a very bewildered look.
---
“What?!” Poland stood up so fast it knocked over his chair. “Bambi-guy chose Prussia?! That worthless, big-mouthed, totally uncultured balls-for-brains barbarian?! All he ever did was, like, wave his sword around and get his business into places where it was, ew, totally unwanted.” Poland took a quarter-second to breathe. “And now he doesn’t even do anything! He’s, like, not even cute - he looks like a ghost! With red eyes! A demon ghost. A demon ghost that is here on earth to dick around and make everyone’s life miserable.”
Now...overall, Hungary wasn’t too much of a fan of Prussia, either. But that tirade was strong, even for Poland.
“I’m beginning to think you have a crush on this Bambi kid.”
“Oh. Oh. Are you kidding? I would so tap that.”
---
“Are you sure everyone got the right remote?” Hungary asked. Poland was thinking the same thing.
“I mean, I was watching - Germany, you know, did his thing and followed instructions,” Poland supplied.
The screen still read that England had picked France.
“Maybe that’s why he hates France so much? He must have emotional repression issues - maybe he says he hates France and they fight all the time but it really means he loves France and -”
“Girl, I think you’re awesome at all, but that sounds sooo melodramatic. Like, is that shit even real?” Poland had to stop her sometimes; she could get on a roll when mentally hooking up other nations. It was fun to speculate - and they did all the time - but right now he’d rather gossip and bitch about what the others really thought.
Hungary huffed.
Poland shrugged and added “But hey, that doesn’t mean the guy can’t think France is totally hot stuff or whatever.”
“They should just fuck already then.”
“Waitaminute. You mean, they haven’t?!”
Oh, well, Hungary didn’t know. And she would really like to know. What a nice mental image. “You mean they have?”
Poland looked at Hungary; Hungary looked at Poland.
“Surely someone knows,” Hungary finally said.
Poland nodded. “They’ve had, um, like a thousand years of UST? Or, I dunno, I guess it would be RST? They’ve probably done it.”
Well. Hungary was going to have to do some investigating later.
---
Simultaneous yells of “Oh, hell no!” and “My little Italy!” filled the room once Russia’s choice appeared.
Poland growled and stood up, apparently too riled up to get out anything coherent. Hungary grabbed him as he attempted to storm past.
“What - what are you doing?!”
Poland whirled around with angry eyes but a manic grin. “Dude, I don’t want that creep even, like, looking at Italy - I’m gonna go say it right to his face, too.”
Hungary was pretty sure her expression betrayed her intense wish smack her hand to her forehead, but she settled for shaking Poland and saying “You can’t just walk right in there - you’ll ruin our fun!”
Poland froze, pursing his lips.
“Look, we’ll tell Prussia later. He’s got a soft spot for Italy, so you know he’ll do something about it. Then we can just sit back and watch the fireworks,” Hungary smirked.
This is why Poland was BFF with this girl. They came up with amazing schemes as a team. And were mutually annoyed by Prussia. He nodded, adding “From, like, somewhere far away. Both of those guys totally suck. And - oh my God, Hungary, you’re a genius - Prussia won’t bother us for a while.”
“Yeah, it’ll be nice to have him out of our hair.”
“Ugh, he’d better not ever go near my hair!”
---
“Oooo, America chose Russia!” Hungary swooned.
Poland could practically see the hearts in the air around her. “Yeah, they’re dating,” he shrugged.
“Hah! You know I told you that the Cold War was entirely UST and they really just wanted to bone each other senseless.” She had that dangerous look - clenched fist in the air and a semi-crazy gleam in her eyes.
“Okay, so fine, you were totally right about that one,” Poland grudgingly admitted. He supposed that since she came up with that kind of stuff all the time, she had to be right at least once.
“God, how hot would it be to watch those two go at it?”
“Ugh, so totally not. Russia’s huge. And weird. And such a creep. And smells like vodka...and, just, ew,” Poland scowled.
Hungary laughed. “But - America? I know you think he’s hot.”
“Psh. Not as hot as Russia is gross.” He stuck his tongue out for good measure.
---
“Huh, that’s weird,” Poland pointed to Prussia’s choice on the screen. “Why choose South Italy when you could choose North Italy? I mean, they look, like, almost the same. ‘cept the eyes.” Both of them were biased toward their cheery friend.
“Ah!” Hungary clapped her hands together; she had forgotten to tell Poland this tidbit of gossip. “Italy said that Prussia walked in on Romano and some girl.”
Poland howled with laughter. “Please,” he gasped out, “please tell me - ahahaha oh God - that Romano, like, threw a table at him.” Oh, but Poland wished he could have seen that.
By now Hungary was laughing too. “I don’t know, but probably.”
Poland was almost crying. “I can’t wait to tell Liet! I should text him.” He dug out his phone, got halfway through a text, then stopped. “But, it would be way better to tell him to his face.”
Hungary pointed to screen-Romano, who was scowling and tapping a beat into the table. “I guess Prussia liked what he saw.”
This sent Poland off on another bout of hysterical laughing.
---
They were watching France, the only one left, seemingly stare at nothing on the video feed.
Poland sighed, looking over to Hungary. “It would take France this long.”
“Probably trying to decide which one was the best lay. If I’d seen most of the room naked, I guess I would too.”
Screen-France moved, and soon enough “Russia” appeared next to his name in the spreadsheet on the right screen.
For a moment, neither of them moved, too stunned to do anything but sit there with a facial expression equivalent to “wut?”
Poland was the first to snap out of it.
“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! Am I the only one in, like, the entire world with any sense of taste?! I mean - France - wha - really, France?! You wear Chanel No. 5!”
A rant about how much better Poland’s taste was in guys, girls, clothes, drapes - anything - continued, but Hungary was pretty proficient in ignoring such things by now. “Guess Russia is better in bed than I thought,” Hungary mumbled.
Poland whirled around to face her. “Hungary, seriously. All admiration for France. Shattered.”
“Um. Poland.”
”Yeah?”
“Bigger things to worry about. I think this means Russia won.”
“Oh, fuck no.”
---
---
All of the remotes chimed, and “Winner: Russia” appeared on the screens. A beat, and then the room exploded with indignant squawks, disappointed exclaimations, and America and Italy’s excited congratulations.
Canada rolled his eyes at America’s “Yeah, I rule!” Who knew what went on in that brain of his.
Romano was grumbling to Italy about how he “shouldn’t talk to that freak,” Prussia was loudly proclaiming that something obviously had gone wrong, as he wasn’t chosen, and France just sat back, content to watch the chaos for now.
Russia frowned. Were they making fun of him? He pulled his coat tighter around his figure, trying to make himself appear smaller. He had a little fat on him, true, but he wasn’t fat. He wasn’t even overweight!
England glowered at him before accusing him of setting the entire thing up. Prussia cut in with an agreement and an insult, which caused America to stand up to defend Russia -
Before it could become an all-out brawl, Germany asked the obvious question in a voice that cut through the room. “Who voted for Russia?”
“I did!” America sent a wink Russia’s way; England rolled his eyes, Japan looked unimpressed, Canada shook his head, Prussia snickered.
Germany frowned.
France waved his hand lazily in the air. “As did I.”
The rest of the room did a double-take.
England broke the silence. “Are you serious?”
France looked over at him. “Yes. And?”
“Hey,” France looked over to see America, leaning over the table toward him, finger pointed threateningly. “Keep your mitts off my man.”
Russia smiled. It was rare to see America so protective! Perhaps he would go with America to see that new action thriller, after all. He’d rather watch something less...explosive...in the quiet of the living room...but America liked the crowds, commercials, the loudness and flashiness of the movies.
France leered, entertained; America moved over and grabbed Russia’s hand, mouthing “mine” at France.
Russia was beside himself with glee. He’d never been able to coax America into displaying affection in public! Maybe tonight they could go to the movies and Russia could hold hands with him again - it would be worth stuffing himself into one of those tiny seats and getting popcorn thrown at the back of his head by loudmouthed teenagers. Then he remembered that they were in Italy this time - so, maybe not.
Still, he made a mental note to thank France later.
Germany’s voice halted his thoughts. “Anyone else?”
Nothing in the room moved.
Germany stood up and moved towards the box -
- the doors flew open with a resounding smash and Poland barreled into the room. Japan tried not to appear affronted while picking splinters out of his hair and uniform, while England stood up and began yelling about “proper entrances” and “private meetings” while dusting himself off.
France and Prussia looked at each other and simultaneously snickered at “private meetings”. England’s fury turned to him instead.
Poland snatched up the box, saying “Hey, gimme that, it’s mine.”
The other nations stared. Some gazes got a distinctly dangerous edge to them.
“It’s yours?” asked an irate-looking England.
Whoops. Quick thinking, Feliks. C’mon. “Uh, yeah. I got this for Liet, and it just, like, disappeared on me. I’m taking it, and the rest of you can suck it.”
Prussia sent him a flat look. “You’re saying Lithuania’s present just magically appeared here. And wait a sec - why the fuck did you get him a present? I call bullshit.”
Ugh, Prussia. So annoying! “Because I always get him a present for Statehood Day. And I am, like, so late this year because of this.”
“So, the remotes are yours too, then?” England grated out.
Poland looked over and picked one up, turning it in his hand, before flippantly stating “Nah. That is totally Estonia’s handwriting, though.” He thought he should probably tell Estonia to stay with Hungary for a while.
Russia looked at his labeled remote. Why did he not notice that before? “Da, it is,” he said in wonder. He still didn’t think this was Estonia’s doing - this screamed Poland. Perhaps he was making fun of Russia?
But as soon as that was out of his mouth, the other nations asked him for confirmation, again.
Poland slipped out in the confusion.
---
...and promptly printed out and mailed ten pieces of paper.
---
America: Russia
Bambi: Prussia
England: France
France: Russia
Germany: America
Japan: Bambi
North Italy: Germany
Prussia: South Italy
Russia: North Italy
South Italy: Japan
Russia read over the list - oh. Oh. America will not like this. He should probably be there in person when his little eagle finds out. When they first started dating, Russia had forseen most fights between them resulting in heated, angry sex (like he’d always dreamed about in the Cold War). Unfortunately...this wasn’t always the case. Russia had, by now, largely learned the difference between something that would make America angry-sex angry, and something that would make him no-sex angry. And while he, personally, didn’t have that high of a libido...America did. When he was sexually frustrated - even if it was self-imposed - it tended to mutate into general frustration. Russia liked a happy America much more than an irritated one.
He sighed. This would probably be no-sex angry.
The envelope was postmarked from Italy - ah, America wouldn’t have recieved his yet. The only unanswered question, now, was whether it was sent to his house or his office.
He wondered whether to visit Poland or Estonia first.
---
One of Japan’s aides handed him the letter. He looked over the list, took a second to memorize it, and placed it into the shredder. He had bigger things to worry about right now than a beauty pageant.
Odd that Canada would pick Prussia, though.
A few hours later, during a business lunch, it hit him that South Italy had chosen him; his sudden blush confused his lunch partners but they made no comment. Japan was familiar with North Italy, of course - but, had he ever talked to South Italy? He wasn’t sure.
That should probably be remedied, at least for the sake of politeness.
---
France always opened his mail over brunch. Reading mail tended to be less stressful when one was armed with fresh fruit, a croissant, and coffee. He shook out the letter with one hand, using the other to bring his coffee to his lips.
He nearly spit it out.
Oh, how wonderful! He’d have to thank Poland the next chance he got - he didn’t believe for a second Estonia would care at all about the nations’ opinions on beauty - perhaps a gift card? Then again, they hadn’t gone shopping together for quite some time...
He read back over the list; there were only a few surprises, here. Russia choosing North Italy over America was strange, but he did like cheery company...he would probably hear the logic behind that one from America, though. Loudly and at length.
Frankly, he was shocked by England’s choice. And a little upset that no one had chosen the cranky Brit, to be honest. The next time he saw him would not be a fun experience, heavens no. Perhaps he should send the man some flowers - both as a thank you and as consolation. Which meant he’d have to dig out that old floriography book - Angleterre would probably think he was making fun of him otherwise.
Japan and South Italy he didn’t know too well, which meant their choices were much less interesting to him. That Prussia had chosen South Italy, though...France would have to get him drunk (not hard) and interrogate him about that.
On the other hand...perhaps they should go out to drink and invite a certain Canadian along...
---
Germany and Italy were seated on the sofa in the living room, Italy cheerily rambling about everyone’s choices. Germany wanted to sink through the floor.
“Ah, listen, Italy - about my vote - “
Italy laughed. “Ve, you couldn’t vote for yourself! America was closest!” He reached out and fluffed Germany’s hair down into his face - Germany squawked and pulled away, trying to right it again. He paused when his vision was engulfed by a pair of large brown eyes.
“Oh, well...Germany doesn’t really look that much like America.” Italy tapped Germany’s nose and cocked his head sideways, mentally noting the differences in facial structure between the two. He didn’t expect Germany to see that though - he knew detail when it came to the concrete, but the subtlety with which an artist notes differences between his subjects - that was foreign to him.
This revelation came to Italy as more of an impression than thought, and he smiled brightly before exclaiming “Oh, Lovino will be angry! I should call him - sometimes he breaks things when he’s angry.”
He bounded into the kitchen to call his brother, leaving Germany spluttering and blushing on the couch.
---
Romano stood in his doorway, half-in and half-out, staring at the bunched-up letter in his hands. He wasn’t angry. No. Not at all.
He was furious. It was surprising that his facial muscles hadn’t started cramping from the intensity of his scowl.
He ripped his cell phone from his pocket - only to see that he was already getting a call from his idiot brother. Great. Probably to talk about how cute it was.
He flipped open his phone and snarled a “What?!” into the reciever.
“Lovino! Let’s go get gelato and pasta! My treat!” his brother cooed from the other end.
“...what?”
“Weeeell, I’m at Germany’s house right now! But their food is terrible! Let’s go get pasta pleaaaaase?!”
“Stop whining,” Romano spat.
“ - and then we could go paint in the Villa Doria Pamphili gardens, and oh! I haven’t been to the Palazzo dei Conservatori for a long time, we could see -”
“Okay, okay, shut up, geez!”
“Yaaay!”
--
A strange letter! - 2009 July 17 (Fri)
A while ago I was at a boring meeting that didn’t deserve to be in my awesome blog. It was so lame!!! But one of the days was very strange - we had to choose who was the most beautiful in the room.
I think it was seriously screwed up, because I didn’t win. I’m too georgeous to lose! Hahahaha!
Today I got a letter in the mail with a list of everyone’s choices, but I don’t think it’s right.
Who is this Bambi?! I don’t remember any deer in the meeting. Whoever made this list has serious problems.
---
Diary of the Awesome Me
July 17th
It’s only afternoon, but so far I’ve been as cool as ever. You know that G8 meeting I went to with West the other week? With the weird contest? I got a letter in the mail today with the results! Here, I’ll write them down:
America --> Russia - This does not surprise me. America’s really weird. I don’t think people realize how weird he is.
Bambi --> Prussia - I don’t know why the fuck there was a deer at the meeting but the only country not listed is Canada! Did someone get his name wrong?! Could he like me?! I mean, he should anyway, of course. I should crash his place and ask for more maple syrup.
England --> France - Hahaha I always knew that pansy wanted in France’s pants. Hey that rhymes.
France --> Russia - I am disappointed. France should have picked me, we’re pals! And I rule!
Germany --> America - Why did Germany not pick Italy? I hope Ita-chan isn’t sad.
Japan --> Bambi - Hey, that’s mine! Japan is small and cute but I have no qualms beating him up.
North Italy --> Germany - Italy is so cute! Yet predictable.
Prussia --> South Italy - Maybe he’ll talk to me now.
Russia --> WHOA WAIT A SECOND I HAVE TO GO MAKE SURE ITALY IS OKAY
--
Adjusting his glasses, Canada looked again just to make sure he wasn’t seeing things. Bambi? What the hell? Well, even if they got his name wrong, at least he was remembered in the first place.
Still - how embarassing. He was going into hiding for a long fucking time. He finished up any remaining business, packed up some gear, grabbed Kumajiro, and took his car way, way north for a nice, extended camping trip.
A few days later the phone rang through the empty house. The answering machine picked up, and elegant French rang through the living room - “Good afternoon, Mathieu - I was wondering if you would care to join me for dinner and drinks this weekend. It really has been too long since we’ve caught up, darling. I’ll be conducting my business affairs from home, as usual, of course, so do call when you get this. Salut.”
---
America had had a long day. He kind of just wanted to order in some pizza, curl up on the couch, and watch some feel-good classic movie he knew by heart. Forrest Gump, maybe.
He trudged up the sidewalk to his house, only to be stopped by the sight of a coatless Russia happily planting sunflowers in his black-eyed susans. Russia saw him and chirped out a “ привет!”
“Russia,” he replied, rubbing his face with one hand, “what are you doing sitting on my black eyed susans?” Oh, and he’d smashed the purple coneflowers too. Lovely. Hopefully the daisies were okay - though if the guy knew they were a gift from England, probalby not.
Whoops. Russia had forgotten how much America liked his gardening. He lifted up a sunflower in its pot, then nodded to the black-eyed susans. “Yours are like little versions.”
America smiled at that, then scrunched up his face. “Wait - what are you even doing here?”
Russia hopped nimbly over to the sidewalk, then squashed America into a tight hug. “There was a small bit of business, but mainly, I wanted to see you! We were not able to watch your movie while in Italy. I thought we could remedy that.”
Really, America thought, he should be used to Russia just showing up by now. “I really don’t feel like going out tonight, sorry big guy. Work sucked.”
“We stay here? I bought many sunflowers while waiting on you today. We can plant them. Did you know they were having a sale at the greenhouse a few streets over?”
“No, I didn’t,” America’s muffled voice came up from somewhere around Russia’s collarbone. “Haven’t had time to do much gardening. Can you let go now?”
As they parted, America rubbed his hair and said “I didn’t even know they sold potted sunflowers. Anywhere.”
Russia put his finger to his lips and looked up at the sky. “I asked them to grow some a while ago. When I tried to bring my own sunflowers here they died. Your greenhouse people seemed very eager to cooperate.”
America shook his head; he was getting entirely too used to this kind of stuff. “Creep,” was laughingly thrown Russia’s way as America headed toward the porch, snatched the mail, and unlocked the door.
Russia smiled; he knew what letter was no longer in that box. And now he had an evening with America all to himself!
---
England was going to throttle that little dweeb Estonia.
...once he found him, that was. He stood in the middle of Estonia’s deserted kitchen (lockpicking might have been the most useful skill he picked up during his pirate days) and cursed that he hadn’t forseen his not being home.
He looked down at his cell phone.
Now, who would know where he was...
---
Russia, curled around a sprawled, sleeping America on the couch, was interrupted by his phone ringing. His smile dropped when he saw that it was England.
“Yes?”
“Hello, Russia. Where is Estonia?”
Russia wasn’t going to tell him that Poland was the one to look for. But still, this could be fun.
“Ah! And what do I get out of this?”
Oh, bugger. England rubbed the bridge of his nose, frustrated. Of course it wasn’t going to be that easy. They hadn’t really been on great terms ever since that whole thing with the Muscovy Company, and now that Russia was with America...he sighed.
“Russia. I don’t want America - I didn’t even vote for him, as you can see,” he seethed.
Russia hmm’d. “I would like to attend your next Christmas,” was the unexpected reply.
“Wh- what are you on about?”
“You heard me, yes?”
England tried to imagine Russia joining in the family’s Christmas celebrations and groaned inwardly. “Okay, fine,” he conceded. “But we give gifts, so bring some. And none of that mummery rubbish.”
“I don’t do that anymore,” Russia murmured.
“Do what?”
“Mummery. It died out in the Soviet era.”
“Oh. Yes. Well then,” England cleared his throat awkwardly. “Estonia?”
“I have heard that he is staying with Hungary.”
--
Estonia, all said, was having a pretty decent time camping out at Hungary’s. She was nice, intelligent, and let him take over most of the living room with his computers, books, and games. He could almost forgive Poland. Almost.
His eyes flew up from his laptop as the door crashed open and an angry Englishman began yelling obscenities at him.
England had nearly crossed over to Estonia when a searing pain ripped across his skull and he blacked out.
Vision swimming, the first thing that England saw was that one arm seemed to be cuffed pretty solidly to the coffee table. He heard steps; he turned his head to the other side and again, his vision blurred and swam. His eyes recovered and he saw a pair of heavy boots inches from his face.
“You’re not going to touch Estonia. Got it?”
He drew his gaze up carefully to find Hungary, tapping her fingers against her arm, ostensibly waiting for a response.
“Hungary?” he groaned out. “Why am I attached to this coffee table?” The full impact of that statement hit him once he’d said it aloud - oh bloody hell. Not good.
An evil smirk crawled its way across her features. “One: you’re not hurting Estonia. Two: I’ve got a few important questions to ask you. An interrogation, if you will. You’re not moving until I say you can.”
Oh, she needed to not say things like that. England shifted uncomfortably on the floor, just now realizing what a bad predicament he was in.
Hungary sucked in a breath. “England...is that...are you...?” She let it hang in the air, awkwardly.
He swallowed heavily. Well, in a word....yes. Yes he was.
---