dear_mun | Joining acquariet... Any nations want to come with?

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canon: hetalia

Joining acquariet... Any nations want to come with?

Well. I guess I really won't need the ring, after all.

So you'll be taking 'em now, huh? For real? For good? Fair enough, I s'pose. There's no real point in keeping memories that are only making me... uh, not myself and stuff? Okay, I can deal. I mean, it's not like I'll remember or anything, and they ain't bein' used, sooo...

Just... stay away from that place, okay? Just 'cause I won't remember, doesn't mean you don't, and you really got a lot of work to do, right? You've only got a week to canon review so Amelia can go to

discedo and the hold over at the water tree... place... town... thing... is gonna expire soon too. Quit lazing aroun' and focus! Get to sleep early, so you can wake up early, and then we can go have pretendy fun times everywhere. You promised a lot of stuff to people, you know!

...Romano's gonna be at this water tree place. He's cranky like England all the time! It'll be almost like old times! Except... y'know, with more hair-curls and better food and all that junk. I'm not sayin' it wouldn't be cool to have more of us! I'm jus' sayin' that it's not gonna be lonely. There's gonna be fresh faces to make friends with and everything! Plus, you already have friends there. You'll find somewhere for Dragon Mom to call home again too someday.

It's gonna be okay, dude. Don't worry. One step 'atta time.

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Oh, you're a fine one for complaining about lack of focus.

[England scowls at the other nation, showcasing that crankiness America just mentioned.]

...And my food's just as good as the damn Italian's.

[ America blinks, surprised at first by the sight of England, but he relaxes after a moment as realization comes to him and he recognizes this particular Briton. He smiles and doesn't bother hiding his amusement when he catches the older nation muttering about Romano. ]

I dare you to say that to him one day. The rest of us can take bets on whose yelling breaks the sound barrier first!

[ He, rather conveniently, seems to have not heard the remark regarding his own attention span, inadvertently proving England right. It's a small price to pay, he figures, for avoiding talking openly about what's got his mun all in a tizzy. ]

[England would be lying if he said he wasn't curious about the ring America mentioned, about the "memories" he'll no longer be keeping. But for now America doesn't look all too willing to discuss it and it's not really his business, so he manages to hold his tongue.]

It's hardly my fault Romano is too much of an idiot to see how brilliant my food is. ...Him and everyone else.

[He frowns, giving America a look that says he is perhaps on the top of that list of "everyone else".]

[ America hardly seems fazed by the look he's given, responding to it simply by wandering over to the other man and putting an arm around him very casually and lightly tapping him on the nose with a forefinger. ]

7 billion people can't be wrong, y'know. Your own people think your food is horrible!

[ And America knows this because lots of England's people have told his mun this. Why, she's only ever met one person before who didn't think scones were terrible and that person was an American. Yes, America is forever ashamed of that incident and he will forever deny said individual citizenship. Yep. Forever. ]

[This is unsurprising, but only makes England's scowl deepen somewhat and he glares up at America, blushing pink despite himself, as the younger nation's arm winds itself around him.]

I have plenty of friends who like my food, you know! [And it's hardly his fault America can't see them.] And my people - they love my food! I know my mun loves it. ...even if she does seem a little too partial to American rubbish sometimes.

[Well. His mun's love for "his" food is mostly true. She is quite sure that if she were given the option to eat food England made himself, she would... well, she would eat it, hate it and tell him it was delicious to save hurt feelings. But ~~true, British~~ scones? Made by a competent baker here? Quite wonderful, actually.]

[ Privately, America can't help but find the ruffling of England's metaphorical feathers cute and amusing, but he doesn't allow the sentiment to reach his features as he continues to grin stupidly and lean against the island nation with the casual air of one who is far too accustomed to such easy friendliness. Perhaps he got that lofty disregard for personal boundaries from France. ('Sorry, England.) ]

There's a difference between actually loving something and saying you love it because you feel sorry for it!

[ He conveniently fails to mention that his own mun is in the habit of baking British dishes for some strange reason nowadays. Admittedly, they are both foreign and somewhat challenging to pull off, but that's no excuse! …Even if he doesn't have a real problem eating it, of course. ]

[England's frown just gets deeper the more America grins (idiotically, of course) at him, though he can't stop the blush that heats his cheeks at the easy disregard for personal boundaries. Annoyed, he uses the opportunity to flick America on the forehead, still scowling.]

No one feels sorry for me or my food! It's- it's very well loved in the United Kingdom.

[He huffs, not really sure he believes his own words, honestly.]

Carry on that way and you'll never get any cooking from me in the future.

[A lie, of course. England will forever cook things for America whether the younger nation liked it or not.]

[ America initially laughs at being flicked, finding the gesture juvenile and almost playful, but he actually looks very offended when England utters his threat. He even gasps. Sure, he complains about England's cooking as much as the next nation, but he honestly doesn't mind it; he even secretly likes it when England dotes on him, even a little bit. ]

Wha— I— Oh, well, see if I care! Maybe I'll live longer if you won't!

[ And then he just... proceeds to pout. ]

[America's pouting succeeds in making England feel guilty almost immediately. And yet he refuses to give in, despite the lack of truth in his words, turning away from the other nation with his arms folded across his chest and honest annoyance written all over his face.]

For goodness sake— don't give me that face! I'm sure you'd much better off without my — what was it? — "horrible" food. I don't need you to eat anything out of pity, anyway. Plenty of others enjoy my food.

I don't eat your food out of pity!

[ America just shouts back, keeping his expression firmly planted on his features. Judging by England's reaction, he can tell the older man is bluffing, but he notices his pouting got a rise out of him, so he decides to keep it up, of course. He can never not be entertained by pushing England's buttons and even if the other nation gets angry, yells, gets cranky, calls him stupid, and drinks too much, he'll never find it unsatisfactory to see little bits of evidence that England cares more about him than he'd really ever like to admit, that England just can't seem to ignore him even when he tries to. ]

I eat it because there's nothin' else to eat when I visit you! I'd starve if I didn't force those rocks you call scones down!

[ And just to be extra annoying, he reaches out and pulls a tuft of straw yellow hair at the back of England's head. ]

[England huffs, slapping away America's unwelcome hand from the back of his head and beginning to pout a little himself now.]

Well, I suppose you'll just have to starve next time you visit then, won't you? Or if you're that damn hungry, you're quite welcome to disappear to some take-away shop.

[There's a degree of bitterness to that last sentence. The thought of America choosing to go off to a take-out rather than eat his own food annoys and upsets England more than he would ever care to admit.]

It isn't like I care whether you eat my food or not.

Even the take-outs bad in your neighborhood!

[ Oh dear. It's never a good sign when England starts jutting out his lower lip a little more than necessary. Hilariously, they often prove that they are each other's Achilles' heel and this moment is no different. America feels a little bad and just moves closer to England instead of letting himself be daunted by the slaps he's on the receiving end of now too. ]

So I may as well just go straight to the source of it all! I can't believe what everyone calls Mexican food at your house!

Everything at my house is delicious, Mexican or not! And if you think all the take-outs are bad you can't have been to many Fish and Chip shops.

[England scowls at the American, rewarding him for coming closer with a light hit around the back of the head. However used England might be to getting teased and insulted for his cooking, it still always comes as a bit of a frustrating sore spot for him. However much he would deny that.]

I'd cook you something delicious right now to prove it, too.

I only eat fish and chips when you force me to! Like I'd shove that stuff down my own throat willingly!

[ Nevermind, of course, that there are actually plenty of places at America's house that serve England's Fish and Chip dish. ]

You wouldn't dare! Not right now!

[ Nevermind, of course, that America is actually kinda hungry and yes, of course, he'll eat whatever England makes. ]

I don't force you to do anything, you eat it yourself! So either you're a greedy masochist, or- or you enjoy it... at least a little bit!

[For England, that's more his own half-hearted hope than anything. Though, however much he grows annoyed with putting up with the American's insults, it is always quite satisfying to see America actually finish the meals he makes.]

And yes, right now.

[With that, he grabs America's wrist, dragging him in the direction of the kitchens. Yes, he is going to cook something for you, America. And yes, it will be delicious, dammit.]

[ America is probably one of the few nations who not only can eat England's cooking and survive, but also will actually pester England on occasion to cook for him (take that, Prussia!). Of course he manages to do a whole lot of complaining in the meantime, but the facts remain.

And gosh, it seems like England is doing a whole lot of dragging him around from place to place lately... ]

...What are you going to cook?!

[Quite determined now, England pulls America through into the Kitchen, letting go of him to go and peer into the fridge.]

Hm, Shepherds Pie, I think. You like Shepherds Pie, don't you?

[Nevermind that the older nation plans on cooking it for him whether the American likes it or not. But then, England reasons to himself that if America really, truly didn't want to eat whatever England is going to serve him, then he had the strength and the chance to pull away before they got into the kitchen.]

[ America's knee-jerk response is to make a face, which he does, but secretly, yes, he freaking loves Shepherds Pie. He'll even eat it burnt to a cinder, just the way England makes it. It actually happens to be one of his favorites. ]

[Entirely ignoring the face America makes, England quickly gets to work. Its a good job America will eat it, regardless of the quality, because it isn't long at all before the rather foul smell of burning wafts up from where England is cooking. England doesn't notice though, enjoying himself now and full of determination to cook something wonderful for that ungrateful American. He's even humming a Beatles tune quietly to himself as he cooks.]

[ It doesn't take America long to notice the black smoke wafting from the kitchen. He gets up and tries to discreetly turn down the heat on the stove, going so far as to give England his very best — although still sheepish — innocent grin. ]

[ He starts humming the Beatles song too as though it'll somehow distract the older nation from his attempt to usurp the would-be chef's role. ]

[It doesn't take long for England to realise the American is standing right beside him, messing with his stove, and England stops his humming to whip around to face the other nation, scowling at him.

Annoyed, he tries to push America away from the food.]

I told you, I'm cooking. Everything's fine. You don't need to do anything but sit down and wait.

[He has, at least, forgotten to turn the heat back up.]

[ Drat. Caught red-handed. America allows himself to be pushed away, but he doesn't stray far. He seems to be watching both just for the sake of watching England work and for the sake of the food. ]

[ He's always been fond of watching the gentle flexing and ripples of muscle beneath the other man's fair skin as he moves about, focusing on the task ahead of him. Taking in the subtle grace and nobility of how England carries himself has always held a bit of odd fascination to America, and it's usually in moments like these where his feelings for the Englishman are reaffirmed. ]

[At first England doesn't notice that America's eyes are lingering on him from just a few metres away, happy to continue his cooking. The food is just about done (very, very well done, not that England seems to realise), and he's begun humming softly to himself again. It's only as he is plating up what is supposed to be Shepherd's Pie that he notices America watching him closely nearby.

His humming halts and he once again turns to glare at America, suddenly quite self concious, his cheeks turning a little pink.]

What? What are you staring at?

Edited 2012-10-24 19:38 (UTC)

[ America says nothing though, just shrugging casually and continuing to stare on back at the older nation. He's not exactly trying to purposely annoy him, but he is trying to provoke him into moving closer to him faster. It just so happens to be that the easiest way to do that is to, well, annoy him! ]

[England just glares at the other nation for a moment before turning around to plate up the rest of the food. Then, he quickly marches over with two plates of, uh, what's supposed to be Shepard's Pie in hand, and pushes one toward America, still flushing in the face of the younger nation's shameless staring.]

Well- don't just stand there like that. Here, it's ready!

Edited 2012-11-08 01:27 (UTC)

[ At that, America can't help but laugh. He thinks he'll get another chance to make good on what he was planning after they eat, so he's appeased by the charred plate of Shephard's Pie that's shoved in front of him. He grabs a fork and starts digging in, making an exaggerated face of disgust even though he doesn't spit out the food. ]

[After putting down his plate next to America's and sitting down, England gives the other nation's disgusted face a glare, before tucking into his own meal. Personally, of course, he finds it just as good as ever and is at least pleased that America is eating it.]

Stop your ridiculous complaining. There's nothing wrong with it.

Descartes non, your mundane did not decide about this terrible place, did she? [ A groan! ] There are so many more interesting places, besides being awful and frightening, the place I have been stuck in is so boring.

Except for Chine marrying a non-country. That is amusing, non?

[ Wait wait. Did he mention something about-- ]

Ring? [ Dashing forward, Francis grabs America's left hand and holds it up to examine it. ] What ring?

[ It takes America all of the space between two heartbeats to laugh a little too loudly and a little too immediately as he quickly snatches his hand back from France, the movement harsh and the sound clearly strained. There's no ring on his finger, but there may have very well been one, if he'd been less shrewd, less of a coward, and more of a brash, impulsive young man guided entirely by the heart Europeans commonly say he wears so unabashedly on his sleeve. (Little do they know, of course.) ]

What gives, France? Is that some kinda joke? China getting married... That old guy?!

[ Marriage is one of the last topics he wants to discuss, so it's far easier for Alfred to simply laugh it off, despite how curious he is. It's to his benefit to focus on France's melodrama rather than wonder aloud for long, so he does. ]

So name one of these "more interesting" places, if you're so sure. And that Hotel doesn't count!

[ Poor America. The funny thing is, France would probably stop his outlandish antics if America did decide to confide in him, but the opportunity is lost when Alfred changes the subject. It's tragically easy to distract France, especially when it came to gossip about other nations. ]

Oui, c'est vrai, I swear on the name of Camus. [ A wry little grin. ] And I shall be baking a cake, a beautiful cake made of profiteroles! [ He clasps his hands together, clearly having forgotten about what they were talking about before. ] It will be marvelous, I am sure, but I juste hope it does not aa.... what is the word, upstage the actual cake, tu sais?

[ He purses his lips. ] I was at one of these more interesting places. I think it was in Japon, and we were all prostitutes. [ TOTALLY BETTER THAN DISCEDO. All of his clients were gorgeous anyway, it was the perfect life. ]

[ America's temple throbs at the very idea of prostitution being a better alternative to Discedo; he can't decide if this implies that the place is really, truly quite that horrific of a location, or if it's just France being France. He's leaning towards the latter though. ]

At Japan's house? Er... GND or something like that? My mun had one of the girls there for a really short time. Pink hair, kinda tomboyish, sorta grumpy?

[ He's about to recall the girl's name (it's Lightning) when his mind wanders off of its own accord and Alfred finds himself suddenly envious Amelia is going to some place with France. Sure, he'll have Romano to harass into cooking for him, but France is France. And there's going to be cake.

One may have to excuse him for a brief moment while he indulges in imagining China's actual wedding cake and France's luxurious self-made cake participating in a dessert show of sorts— complete with catwalk, frosting, and fruit fillings. ]

[As most appearances in this place, there's hardly any warning; England is just suddenly there. He stands there and looks to America quietly, green eyes clear. He looks a lot better than the last time America's probably seen him, looking more normal anyway. Not that America probably cares for such a thing.]

...She's taking them all then?

[His voice is steady, calm. England's quite proud of that. No more blubbering, emotional fool. Good job, old boy. He knows that this is perhaps the last time he'll ever get to speak to this America. He wants to make it count. Perhaps it won't matter after his memories have been erased, but England feels he should at least say something, perhaps a proper goodbye.]

[ No, it's true— America doesn't care for England looking seemingly more in control of himself; in fact, it downright distresses him. He can feel his heart sink straight through into the bottom-most pit of his gut and turn to ice there. He wasn't expecting this incarnation of the man to show himself here, and now that he has, he can't help the regret, the disappointment, and the loneliness that floods him at the sight of the older nation. He misses him, and he's afraid he's not missed back. He supposes it's a good sign that England has bothered to approach him at all, but it doesn't feel like one. In his experience, despite the insistences, England has never been very good at keeping his composure, volatile and easy to offend as he is, so even if England has told him before that, just because he's not outwardly in hysterics, it does not mean he truly isn't, America fears indifference and numbness. The state of calm England schools his exterior into is unnatural in America's eyes and he just wishes England wouldn't.

He's so tired of trying to guess the other man's disposition and true intentions.

America can never tire of the fighting, because long years have taught him that even arguing with his loved ones is a luxury not everyone has. However, he wishes some things were just easier— like trusting England's emotions, even if his behavior is directly in contradiction of what he says he feels. The younger nation never took to the airs his elder tries so hard to put on, so he's not all that surprised that the ideal image of refinement that England purports himself to be, has become one of their problems with each other. He's always preferred the man underneath, rough edges, bad manners, indecency, and all.

He doesn't want to try justifying how he feels anymore, or try to make England change, or try to make him understand why he even should.

That's why he doesn't respond by pointing out that if a better suggestion was offered by the peanut gallery on the other side of the fence, no one mentioned that to him or his mun. It's why he doesn't give England the ring that, for all intents and purposes, really belongs to him. Instead, his first instinct is a desperate, wholeheartedly stupid act that's laced with paranoia and an unimpressive attempt at self-defense. ]

Taking all of what?

[A pause. The pause should just be a second, a few beats at the most, but it feels much longer than that in England's side of the conversation. The words ring in England's head and slowly, in slow motion it seems, he takes America in. The other Nation stands there, looking no worse for wear, composed, blue eyes as clear as the endless sky on a beautiful day, and England loves and England aches. He hates feeling this way, hates how just standing here causes him such emotional and physical pain. Already, his arms and shoulders are prickling and the back of his neck blooms with such pain he feels almost sick. His heart pounds and he wishes it would just stop for surely all is lost. America is so near and yet so far, even the ocean between them has never made him feel this much distance between them before. It seems insurmountable even when all he has to do is step closer and take that hand, kiss those lips. But he can't. What is there for him to do to continue on? And he hates how he thinks all this, for being helpless like this. His pride can't take it, but his heart cares not one whit. It breaks just a bit more and he can do nothing to stop it.]

[Perhaps for a moment, America sees his torment, green eyes flicking down from meeting that gaze as his right hand clenches by his side and his lips purse. He longs to scream, to rage, to race into America's arms and tell him everything, kiss him, love him-- But he doesn't. He has no right to. America's Mundane has done it, taken all that they've shared between them and fought over and he can do nothing. The knowledge rankles him in ways that makes him want to hurt something. His blunt fingernails digging into his palm is just not enough damage, not even if eventually he makes it bleed. But he tells himself he's no hooligan, no pirate, not even an Empire and he hasn't got the right to throw a tantrum of epic proportions. It's not as if it would do him any good. Acting the violent punk would only bring him humiliation that he doesn't have the cheek nor the bravado for anymore. He's much too sober for that. No, and especially not in front of America and in a very public place. Besides, the other doesn't remember a thing. It would be unfair to him and England doesn't want to cause him anymore unnecessary confusion or pain. And so he keeps calm, though a storm rages in his chest and howls in his head, and fights to meet that steady gaze with his own. He hopes mightily that America doesn't see the pain and rage he masks. He hopes his voice doesn't quiver as he answers,]

Oh, it's nothing. Nothing at all.

[He clears his throat for good measure and continues on as if nothing is amiss. It shouldn't be a problem. He's been doing this, has perfected the art of talking of pleasant nothings, for so very long. He's practically perfected the art of small talk. He can do this. Keep Calm and Carry On. Talk about the weather and other mostly impersonal things.]

I see you're going to have a home soon, then. Well, I wish you luck with that. I haven't yet heard any good stories about such places, though. You ought to be careful.

[Or just be England and give unsolicited advice and later, mother hen nagging, because that's what England does when he cares for someone. Though he'd never (or hardly) admit it.]

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Joining acquariet... Any nations want to come with?

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Whoops, wrong account. lol

I was sort of surprised when I saw Scotland in my inbox... |Da

l-lol I've almost done that again so many times.

Oi, Scotty, stfu and wait yo' turn, bro! >:I

IT NEARLY HAPPENED AGAIN. FFS, I'll get to you, Scotland. >:c

I think he needs to get a girlfriend or something to keep himself occupied, gosh.

IKR. Let me spare England attention, Scott. ><

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Excuse the inappropriate default. My icons are all out of whack. D;

that's okay!

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