[fanfic] In which America is sleepless and good things happen...
Title: In which America is sleepless and good things happen...
Author/Artist: chromatic_coma (myself)
Character(s)/Pairing(s): America, England, Egypt, Greece, Turkey, China, Prussia/Hungary, US/UK
Rating: PG
Genre: Humor, Romance, slight Crack
Warnings: Turkey's mouth
Summary: America cannot sleep, so he finds himself watching informericals at 3 in the morning. Nothing good can come out of this... or can it? Written for smrtypantz's birthday a few days ago, based on Spain's April Fool's Day takeover comics, which I cannot find the link to at the moment...
In which America is sleepless and good things happen...
Alfred F. Jones was annoyed. Not just annoyed, but really, really annoyed. Annoyed like when you have to wait hours on a line on December 26 to return that too-small (not to mention hideous) sweater your aunt bought you, only to have the person in front of you spend a good half hour arguing with the cashier because his receipt was blotted with gravy and the underpaid, overworked, zit covered teenager at the register refused to accept it. Annoyed like when your AC fizzles out in the hottest part of summer and you can’t sleep because it’s just too damn hot and so you spend endless hours in the dark squinting at your ceiling trying to figure out if that splotch is hamburger meat or something seeping in from the attic, but you can’t tell because your glasses aren’t on and it’s dark.
Oh, wait, he had television. Duh.
Kicking off the light sheet he was lying under, Alfred grabbed his glasses off his bedside table and headed downstairs. Hell, it wasn’t like he was getting to sleep anyways, so he might as well see what kind of stuff they aired at… 3 in the morning.
Groaning as he plopped very unceremoniously onto the couch, Alfred grabbed his remote and started the illustrious act of channel surfing. Chick flick, horrible old drama series, blahblahblah… wait, was that? Alfred flick back a few channels, blinking at the screen in confusion and wiping his glasses against his shirt for good measure, but the image stayed the same.
It was… Egypt. And he was… hosting an infomercial? The remote dropped from Alfred’s hand in the nation’s surprise, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the screen.
It was a few minutes until show time, and Gupta Muhammad was once again making the rounds, checking to make sure everything was ready for his international broadcast. Heracles was manning the camera, and gave a thumbs up signal to indicate that he was ready to go. Gupta smiled, before turning to check on the third member of this make-shift team; Sadiq was sitting by the phone, arms crossed over his chest in the picture of annoyance; to Gupta, it seemed as though he’d been taking lessons from Lovino.
“Why da hell am I doin’ this again?” The Turk asked, and as a response Gupta held up a sealed manila envelope, smirking deviously before holding it out in Heracles’ direction. Before the Greek could take it, however, Sadiq stood violently, slamming his hand into the table. Gupta raised his eyebrows, his look becoming more evil, and Sadiq sighed.
“Fine, I get it. I’ll do yer stupid job.” Hey, on the bright side, at least he was getting paid (ignoring the fact that his pay was close to nothing, of course). Gupta smiled at took his place in front of the camera. It was now 10 a.m. in Cairo, and that meant show time.
Alfred had to admit, the Egyptian guy on TV (who looked a lot like Egypt but couldn’t be him because he was talking) wasn’t a bad salesman. The pot he was trying to sell was large, it was capable of reach high temperatures quickly, it was lightweight and durable and…
It was magical. Right then, Alfred face palmed; it seemed as though Arthur’s influence had spread as far south as Egypt now, and just thinking of how many contaminated countries he must’ve hit along the way gave the American a headache (well, actually, the headache was more from trying to figure out just how many countries were between England and Egypt… and where Egypt was… and where England was… but that’s besides the point!).
Looking back up to the screen, where the Egyptian was currently going on about the amazing magical properties of this pot, Alfred just shook his head. Really, was he supposed to believe that this pot could do anything?
“But, in case you don’t believe me.” The Egyptian spoke in a smooth tone, with the implication being that you had no reason not to believe him, that almost made up for his heavily accented English (which almost sounded British, now that Al thought about it), “Here is what some of our previous customers have to say about this product.”
‘This should be good for a laugh.’ The American thought, but once the first testimonial began his eyes widened and his mouth fell open.
It was that annoying ex-nation guy Gilbert, with his arms wrapped around… Elizaveta? And the girl didn’t even seem to mind, she seemed… happy?? And, were they wearing matching rings on their fingers??!
“Damn, this pot is so ***** awesome, it’s almost as awesome as I am.” The Prussian smirked. “It’s so awesome, it unblinded this once very stupid girl, and made her see that I am a far more manly man than certain Austrian sissies that shall remain unnamed coughRoderichcough.” Elizaveta reacted to that by smacking Gilbert on the arm, but it was obviously gentle and… playful? Oh, no way.
By the time Alfred was back in his right mind, that testimonial had (fortunately) ended, and now the screen was filled with the familiar face of Wang Yao, who was going on about how he couldn’t make enough of his sweets to keep up with the demand, although he seemed more pleased about this than anything else.
“It’s all because of the pot Egypt sold me, aru.”
Wait a minute… a talking Egypt look-alike with his own infomercial, Prussia dating Hungary, and people actually eating China’s sweets… this could only mean one thing.
That pot was magical.
Alfred’s eyes widened behind Texas as he sat at the edge of his seat, his mind wandering to all the things he could do with such a pot. He could finally defeat that commie-bastard and save the world from the Reds, or he could fix the economy so that other nations stopped complaining when he sneezed on them, or… or…
Or, he could make England finally admit that he was a hero!!! That was the perfect plan; Iggy was too stubborn to reveal the truth on his own, but it was obviously true, and this pot was going to be just the thing that would make him admit it!!
Turkey was annoyed; he was being paid less than minimum wage, manning a telephone that was not going to ring, and he had to deal with Heracles’ cats roaming the floor. Deciding that this whole infomercial was stupid, and that Egypt couldn’t not pay him if he fell asleep, because hey, the phone wasn’t about to ring and so he wasn’t going to miss any precious callers, the Turk settled his head down on the table and closed his eyes…
…only to have the phone ring once he started to drift off. Ugh…
“H’llo?” The Turk slurred. Annoyed at being roused from his nap.
“Hello there!! I’d like to buy one of your magical pots so that jerk England will finally admit that I am the awesomest nation he’s ever met and a HERO!”
The only thing worse than being woken by a phone call was being woken by a phone call from a complete idiot, Sadiq figured.
“Don’t waste yer money on this. It’s all crap.” He decided to spare America the lost money, because hey, the guy had bailed him out before (and besides, anything to get back at Egypt for not even paying him enough to buy a box of Turkish Delight, and making him work with that Greek.)
The American hesitated. “Really?”
Turkey smirked. “Yep. Doesn’t work at all, the bastard’s just tryin’ ta get it outta his hands.”
“…Wait! I know what you’re trying to do!! You want to keep it all for yourself, don’t you, familiar sounding phone guy?!”
The next thing America heard was something that sounded suspiciously like a face palm.
“No, I’m tryin’ ta warn ya’, but apparently you’re too thick ta get it! This pot is-” And the Turk’s exclamations were cut off with what sounded like a smack on the head with a heavy wooden stick, and was soon replaced with a quieter, similarly accented voice.
“Hello sir, are you interested in buying a pot?” The voice sounded just like that of the Egypt look-alike salesman.
America spent the next few minutes ordering his magical pot, and after being told that it would arrive in 2 days and that his credit card would be charged with the cost (which had been oddly muffled… oh well.)
As promised, the FedEx man knocked on America’s door two mornings later, and the Western nation wasted no time in ripping opening the packaging and admiring his latest purchase. It was exactly as it looked on the infomercial, and he couldn’t wait to test it out. So, he quickly grabbed his telephone and dialed the number for England’s house, shaking in excitement as he tightly gripped the pot’s handle (and, for some reason, he found himself understanding why Elizabeta made a weapon out of a frying pan; maybe if this plan failed he’d use the pot to smash Ivan on the head, or something).
“Hey, Iggy! What’s up?”
The voice on the other end was clipped and exasperated. “What is it, America? I’m busy at the moment, so this had better be important!”
Alfred was undeterred by this rage. “I just wanted to hear you admit to how totally awesome you find me, cuz I know you think I’m the awesomest hero in the world.”
There was a pause, and America started to wonder if maybe he’d lost signal.
“YOU BLOODY WANKER!! I am in the middle of something very important, and you have the GALL to INTERRUPT ME for something so DAFT? And another thing, ‘awesomest’ is NOT a word you TWIT!!”
Alfred, knowing from experience that there was no way to placate England when he was overworked and pissed at him, held the phone away from his ringing ears and shouted “You need to get laid, old man!” before promptly hanging up in his face.
Okay, so that plan had not gone as America had expected. He tried calling Hungary, Prussia, and China to ask how they’d gotten their pots to work, but none of them answered, and when he tried re-calling the merchant the people who answered were trying to sell ceramic tiles; apparently, the pot salesman had left the studio, and had not left contact information behind.
Alfred sighed, and tried to wonder a new way to get this to work in his favor. After all, Americans NEVER gave up (even when all the other nations begged him to, he would never do such a thing!). After hours of careful deliberation, Alfred realized that maybe the pot had to come in physical contact with the thing it was magic-ing. Like, maybe China made his sweets in his, and that’s why they’re so popular, and maybe Prussia was trying to get revenge on Hungary by hitting her with his when they… yeah.
Blue eyes brightened once again, and Alfred hurriedly pulled up a travel agency website. Next stop, London.
So, maybe even the best laid plans didn’t always work; it was really an easy mistake that anyone could’ve made. But, Alfred mused, this could’ve gone a whole lot better.
Mistake #1: Alfred’s plane left from Washington D.C. at noon, which meant that he was going to get to London at 8:00 pm. This would’ve been very logical, but the American had forgotten to take into account the 5 hour time difference between the East Coast of his nation and the capital of England’s, and so when he did arrive it was 1:00 am.
Mistake #2: Alfred had opted not to rent a hotel room. He figured that when he did arrive in London, one of two things would happen; either Arthur would agree to his awesomeness and allow him to spend the night, or he would agree to his awesomeness but kick the American out nonetheless, which would force Alfred to spend the night in a local pub. Unfortunately, by this late hour the pub was full of creeps that leered at the fit, highly attractive American, and all of the rooms were filled. Sighing, Alfred brushed hair out of his eyes and set to work looking for a spare key under a doormat which someone as precautionary and uptight as England would no doubt keep. When the spare key was located, Alfred silently slipped into the house, trying his best to keep from waking his ex-guardian, and not being able to remember for the life of him whether Arthur was a light or heavy sleeper. Deciding not to push his luck, Alfred made himself at home on the couch, and drifted off to sleep still holding the pot in his hand.
Which brings him back to his current situation; Arthur cursing at him so loudly and rapidly that his sleeping mind couldn’t possibly keep up, but he definitely thought he heard the words “trespassing,” “cops,” “bloody hell,” and “indolent twat,” in the mix. And it was a very colorful mix, he mused, before slowly standing up and striding across the room, hoping to calm the Englishman down.
Arthur’s gaze shifted from Alfred’s face to the heavy pot he was brandishing in his hand, and he started to become nervous.
“Why the bloody hell are you waving that thing around?!”
Alfred, catching sight of Arthur’s apparent worry, frowned, before remembering his magic pot.
“Oh, it’s supposed to make you admit that you think I’m awesome!”
“…Are you smoking, Alfred? I knew I should have been more forceful against letting Matthew pass that law.”
“I’m not high, Arthur. If anyone’s high, it’s you, Mr. Fairy Boy.” Alfred retorted, annoyed at the attack on his brother. Sure, Matt made lots of mistakes, but he was Al’s twin and therefore almost as awesome… like a hero in training!
The Briton pressed his fingers into his forehead as if he was warding off a migraine. “America, a pot will not ever cause me to admit to your alleged ‘awesomeness’. Now, if you do not have anything important to tell me, then please feel free to leave.”
Alfred pouted. This was so not going the way he planned. And why did Arthur always have to get mad at him anyways; sure, he made his mistakes, but didn’t everyone? And couldn’t Arthur see that he was trying to help people, and that he succeeded at it too?
Couldn’t he see that Alfred was always trying?
“Alfred?” The American couldn’t tell if Arthur’s voice had gotten softer, but it sure did sound that way. And since when did Arthur use his human name?
“This pot is magical. It was supposed to make you admit that you secretly think I’m awesome because I know you do, and I’m not about to leave until it works!” The American announced defiantly, and whatever softness that had entered Arthur’s expression quickly faded.
The Briton scoffed. “Of course, because a pot is suddenly going to make me admit to feelings I don’t have. Go home, America.”
“No.”
England gave an exasperated sigh. “Why does this mean so much to you, anyways?”
And then the impossible happened; America froze. He simply didn’t have an answer. Why did it matter so much what England thought of him, anyways? The island nation was a horrible cook who saw hallucinations and had caterpillars for eyebrows, not to mention he was just a notch below Austria on the stuck-up ladder, and so uptight it made America choke. But…
He was also incredibly brave, as proven in both World Wars when he managed to stay alive, no matter how hard the bombs hit and how broken he became. And he was caring, proven countless times from America’s entire childhood to just recently, when he came to his aid on 9/11/01. And he was smart, and witty, and eyebrows aside he was moderately attractive-
Wait, what?! Alfred cut off the part of his mind that was obviously starting to ramble, pretending that he didn’t feel warmth on his cheeks. It wasn’t there, it wasn’t there, it wasn’t-
“America, are you… blushing?” It looked as if England was smirking; that bastard.
“Heroes don’t blush!” The younger nation protested, but Arthur boldly leaned in and touched his cheek.
“Oh? Then I suppose you are certainly not a hero, because your cheeks are completely pink. What happened, were you thinking about me?” America suddenly was reminded of all of those pirate stories France and Spain had told him when he was a boy, and wondered when his England was replaced with this more blunt, less “tsundere” (as Japan put it) England.
Sadly enough for the younger nation, that tone of voice only made his blush deepen, and he had to clear his throat before retorting. “Why in the world would I blush thinking about someone as not awesome as you?”
Once he’d said those words, even before he saw England’s face, America regretted it. When he did look up, he knew why; all signs of England’s previous smug playfulness had gone, and were replaced with a blank look that seemed to be covering up sadness. That face quickly morphed into one of annoyance.
“Wait, Iggy, I didn’t mea-”
“If I am so ‘not awesome’ as you say, then why are you looking for my approval? Why did you bother to come all the wa-”
The rest of Arthur’s rant was promptly cut off by a brief, chaste kiss courtesy of a broadly grinning America.
England stared at him wide eyed for a moment, before shaking it off quickly. “Don’t you know it’s rude to cut people off, boy?”
“Boy? Hardly, Iggy, face it. I’m all man now. And, hmm, I suppose I forgot my manners. Are you going to punish me, Arthur?”
The flush on the Briton’s face grew. “I- that is- You- GAH!”
Alfred had to resist the urge to laugh. “You’re so cute when you’re flustered, Iggy.” And he leaned in once more, seizing Arthur’s lips in a kiss that was slightly more forceful and longer than his last. Because Alfred had known all along why he was seeking Arthur’s approval.
It was because he loved him, simple as that.
When Alfred did pull away, the Briton being too frozen with shock to react, they spent a good moment staring at one another.
“A-America?”
“Call me Alfred, seriously.”
“Yes, well-” Arthur started, pulling at his shirt collar. “That was… unexpected-”
“But?” The hopeful expression on Alfred’s face caused England to chuckle a bit.
“But… it was bloody ‘awesome’, alright?”
Alfred grin, flashing his pearly white teeth in a way that never failed to make girls swoon. Lucky for Arthur, he had a bit more self control.
“Oh yeah it was!! And hey, looks like the pot’s magical after all!”
“Alfred.” England deadpanned after a moment.
“Yes?”
“You’re a bloody moron.”
Alfred grinned. “Love you too, Iggy.”
Author/Artist: chromatic_coma (myself)
Character(s)/Pairing(s): America, England, Egypt, Greece, Turkey, China, Prussia/Hungary, US/UK
Rating: PG
Genre: Humor, Romance, slight Crack
Warnings: Turkey's mouth
Summary: America cannot sleep, so he finds himself watching informericals at 3 in the morning. Nothing good can come out of this... or can it? Written for smrtypantz's birthday a few days ago, based on Spain's April Fool's Day takeover comics, which I cannot find the link to at the moment...
In which America is sleepless and good things happen...
Alfred F. Jones was annoyed. Not just annoyed, but really, really annoyed. Annoyed like when you have to wait hours on a line on December 26 to return that too-small (not to mention hideous) sweater your aunt bought you, only to have the person in front of you spend a good half hour arguing with the cashier because his receipt was blotted with gravy and the underpaid, overworked, zit covered teenager at the register refused to accept it. Annoyed like when your AC fizzles out in the hottest part of summer and you can’t sleep because it’s just too damn hot and so you spend endless hours in the dark squinting at your ceiling trying to figure out if that splotch is hamburger meat or something seeping in from the attic, but you can’t tell because your glasses aren’t on and it’s dark.
Oh, wait, he had television. Duh.
Kicking off the light sheet he was lying under, Alfred grabbed his glasses off his bedside table and headed downstairs. Hell, it wasn’t like he was getting to sleep anyways, so he might as well see what kind of stuff they aired at… 3 in the morning.
Groaning as he plopped very unceremoniously onto the couch, Alfred grabbed his remote and started the illustrious act of channel surfing. Chick flick, horrible old drama series, blahblahblah… wait, was that? Alfred flick back a few channels, blinking at the screen in confusion and wiping his glasses against his shirt for good measure, but the image stayed the same.
It was… Egypt. And he was… hosting an infomercial? The remote dropped from Alfred’s hand in the nation’s surprise, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the screen.
It was a few minutes until show time, and Gupta Muhammad was once again making the rounds, checking to make sure everything was ready for his international broadcast. Heracles was manning the camera, and gave a thumbs up signal to indicate that he was ready to go. Gupta smiled, before turning to check on the third member of this make-shift team; Sadiq was sitting by the phone, arms crossed over his chest in the picture of annoyance; to Gupta, it seemed as though he’d been taking lessons from Lovino.
“Why da hell am I doin’ this again?” The Turk asked, and as a response Gupta held up a sealed manila envelope, smirking deviously before holding it out in Heracles’ direction. Before the Greek could take it, however, Sadiq stood violently, slamming his hand into the table. Gupta raised his eyebrows, his look becoming more evil, and Sadiq sighed.
“Fine, I get it. I’ll do yer stupid job.” Hey, on the bright side, at least he was getting paid (ignoring the fact that his pay was close to nothing, of course). Gupta smiled at took his place in front of the camera. It was now 10 a.m. in Cairo, and that meant show time.
Alfred had to admit, the Egyptian guy on TV (who looked a lot like Egypt but couldn’t be him because he was talking) wasn’t a bad salesman. The pot he was trying to sell was large, it was capable of reach high temperatures quickly, it was lightweight and durable and…
It was magical. Right then, Alfred face palmed; it seemed as though Arthur’s influence had spread as far south as Egypt now, and just thinking of how many contaminated countries he must’ve hit along the way gave the American a headache (well, actually, the headache was more from trying to figure out just how many countries were between England and Egypt… and where Egypt was… and where England was… but that’s besides the point!).
Looking back up to the screen, where the Egyptian was currently going on about the amazing magical properties of this pot, Alfred just shook his head. Really, was he supposed to believe that this pot could do anything?
“But, in case you don’t believe me.” The Egyptian spoke in a smooth tone, with the implication being that you had no reason not to believe him, that almost made up for his heavily accented English (which almost sounded British, now that Al thought about it), “Here is what some of our previous customers have to say about this product.”
‘This should be good for a laugh.’ The American thought, but once the first testimonial began his eyes widened and his mouth fell open.
It was that annoying ex-nation guy Gilbert, with his arms wrapped around… Elizaveta? And the girl didn’t even seem to mind, she seemed… happy?? And, were they wearing matching rings on their fingers??!
“Damn, this pot is so ***** awesome, it’s almost as awesome as I am.” The Prussian smirked. “It’s so awesome, it unblinded this once very stupid girl, and made her see that I am a far more manly man than certain Austrian sissies that shall remain unnamed coughRoderichcough.” Elizaveta reacted to that by smacking Gilbert on the arm, but it was obviously gentle and… playful? Oh, no way.
By the time Alfred was back in his right mind, that testimonial had (fortunately) ended, and now the screen was filled with the familiar face of Wang Yao, who was going on about how he couldn’t make enough of his sweets to keep up with the demand, although he seemed more pleased about this than anything else.
“It’s all because of the pot Egypt sold me, aru.”
Wait a minute… a talking Egypt look-alike with his own infomercial, Prussia dating Hungary, and people actually eating China’s sweets… this could only mean one thing.
That pot was magical.
Alfred’s eyes widened behind Texas as he sat at the edge of his seat, his mind wandering to all the things he could do with such a pot. He could finally defeat that commie-bastard and save the world from the Reds, or he could fix the economy so that other nations stopped complaining when he sneezed on them, or… or…
Or, he could make England finally admit that he was a hero!!! That was the perfect plan; Iggy was too stubborn to reveal the truth on his own, but it was obviously true, and this pot was going to be just the thing that would make him admit it!!
Turkey was annoyed; he was being paid less than minimum wage, manning a telephone that was not going to ring, and he had to deal with Heracles’ cats roaming the floor. Deciding that this whole infomercial was stupid, and that Egypt couldn’t not pay him if he fell asleep, because hey, the phone wasn’t about to ring and so he wasn’t going to miss any precious callers, the Turk settled his head down on the table and closed his eyes…
…only to have the phone ring once he started to drift off. Ugh…
“H’llo?” The Turk slurred. Annoyed at being roused from his nap.
“Hello there!! I’d like to buy one of your magical pots so that jerk England will finally admit that I am the awesomest nation he’s ever met and a HERO!”
The only thing worse than being woken by a phone call was being woken by a phone call from a complete idiot, Sadiq figured.
“Don’t waste yer money on this. It’s all crap.” He decided to spare America the lost money, because hey, the guy had bailed him out before (and besides, anything to get back at Egypt for not even paying him enough to buy a box of Turkish Delight, and making him work with that Greek.)
The American hesitated. “Really?”
Turkey smirked. “Yep. Doesn’t work at all, the bastard’s just tryin’ ta get it outta his hands.”
“…Wait! I know what you’re trying to do!! You want to keep it all for yourself, don’t you, familiar sounding phone guy?!”
The next thing America heard was something that sounded suspiciously like a face palm.
“No, I’m tryin’ ta warn ya’, but apparently you’re too thick ta get it! This pot is-” And the Turk’s exclamations were cut off with what sounded like a smack on the head with a heavy wooden stick, and was soon replaced with a quieter, similarly accented voice.
“Hello sir, are you interested in buying a pot?” The voice sounded just like that of the Egypt look-alike salesman.
America spent the next few minutes ordering his magical pot, and after being told that it would arrive in 2 days and that his credit card would be charged with the cost (which had been oddly muffled… oh well.)
As promised, the FedEx man knocked on America’s door two mornings later, and the Western nation wasted no time in ripping opening the packaging and admiring his latest purchase. It was exactly as it looked on the infomercial, and he couldn’t wait to test it out. So, he quickly grabbed his telephone and dialed the number for England’s house, shaking in excitement as he tightly gripped the pot’s handle (and, for some reason, he found himself understanding why Elizabeta made a weapon out of a frying pan; maybe if this plan failed he’d use the pot to smash Ivan on the head, or something).
“Hey, Iggy! What’s up?”
The voice on the other end was clipped and exasperated. “What is it, America? I’m busy at the moment, so this had better be important!”
Alfred was undeterred by this rage. “I just wanted to hear you admit to how totally awesome you find me, cuz I know you think I’m the awesomest hero in the world.”
There was a pause, and America started to wonder if maybe he’d lost signal.
“YOU BLOODY WANKER!! I am in the middle of something very important, and you have the GALL to INTERRUPT ME for something so DAFT? And another thing, ‘awesomest’ is NOT a word you TWIT!!”
Alfred, knowing from experience that there was no way to placate England when he was overworked and pissed at him, held the phone away from his ringing ears and shouted “You need to get laid, old man!” before promptly hanging up in his face.
Okay, so that plan had not gone as America had expected. He tried calling Hungary, Prussia, and China to ask how they’d gotten their pots to work, but none of them answered, and when he tried re-calling the merchant the people who answered were trying to sell ceramic tiles; apparently, the pot salesman had left the studio, and had not left contact information behind.
Alfred sighed, and tried to wonder a new way to get this to work in his favor. After all, Americans NEVER gave up (even when all the other nations begged him to, he would never do such a thing!). After hours of careful deliberation, Alfred realized that maybe the pot had to come in physical contact with the thing it was magic-ing. Like, maybe China made his sweets in his, and that’s why they’re so popular, and maybe Prussia was trying to get revenge on Hungary by hitting her with his when they… yeah.
Blue eyes brightened once again, and Alfred hurriedly pulled up a travel agency website. Next stop, London.
So, maybe even the best laid plans didn’t always work; it was really an easy mistake that anyone could’ve made. But, Alfred mused, this could’ve gone a whole lot better.
Mistake #1: Alfred’s plane left from Washington D.C. at noon, which meant that he was going to get to London at 8:00 pm. This would’ve been very logical, but the American had forgotten to take into account the 5 hour time difference between the East Coast of his nation and the capital of England’s, and so when he did arrive it was 1:00 am.
Mistake #2: Alfred had opted not to rent a hotel room. He figured that when he did arrive in London, one of two things would happen; either Arthur would agree to his awesomeness and allow him to spend the night, or he would agree to his awesomeness but kick the American out nonetheless, which would force Alfred to spend the night in a local pub. Unfortunately, by this late hour the pub was full of creeps that leered at the fit, highly attractive American, and all of the rooms were filled. Sighing, Alfred brushed hair out of his eyes and set to work looking for a spare key under a doormat which someone as precautionary and uptight as England would no doubt keep. When the spare key was located, Alfred silently slipped into the house, trying his best to keep from waking his ex-guardian, and not being able to remember for the life of him whether Arthur was a light or heavy sleeper. Deciding not to push his luck, Alfred made himself at home on the couch, and drifted off to sleep still holding the pot in his hand.
Which brings him back to his current situation; Arthur cursing at him so loudly and rapidly that his sleeping mind couldn’t possibly keep up, but he definitely thought he heard the words “trespassing,” “cops,” “bloody hell,” and “indolent twat,” in the mix. And it was a very colorful mix, he mused, before slowly standing up and striding across the room, hoping to calm the Englishman down.
Arthur’s gaze shifted from Alfred’s face to the heavy pot he was brandishing in his hand, and he started to become nervous.
“Why the bloody hell are you waving that thing around?!”
Alfred, catching sight of Arthur’s apparent worry, frowned, before remembering his magic pot.
“Oh, it’s supposed to make you admit that you think I’m awesome!”
“…Are you smoking, Alfred? I knew I should have been more forceful against letting Matthew pass that law.”
“I’m not high, Arthur. If anyone’s high, it’s you, Mr. Fairy Boy.” Alfred retorted, annoyed at the attack on his brother. Sure, Matt made lots of mistakes, but he was Al’s twin and therefore almost as awesome… like a hero in training!
The Briton pressed his fingers into his forehead as if he was warding off a migraine. “America, a pot will not ever cause me to admit to your alleged ‘awesomeness’. Now, if you do not have anything important to tell me, then please feel free to leave.”
Alfred pouted. This was so not going the way he planned. And why did Arthur always have to get mad at him anyways; sure, he made his mistakes, but didn’t everyone? And couldn’t Arthur see that he was trying to help people, and that he succeeded at it too?
Couldn’t he see that Alfred was always trying?
“Alfred?” The American couldn’t tell if Arthur’s voice had gotten softer, but it sure did sound that way. And since when did Arthur use his human name?
“This pot is magical. It was supposed to make you admit that you secretly think I’m awesome because I know you do, and I’m not about to leave until it works!” The American announced defiantly, and whatever softness that had entered Arthur’s expression quickly faded.
The Briton scoffed. “Of course, because a pot is suddenly going to make me admit to feelings I don’t have. Go home, America.”
“No.”
England gave an exasperated sigh. “Why does this mean so much to you, anyways?”
And then the impossible happened; America froze. He simply didn’t have an answer. Why did it matter so much what England thought of him, anyways? The island nation was a horrible cook who saw hallucinations and had caterpillars for eyebrows, not to mention he was just a notch below Austria on the stuck-up ladder, and so uptight it made America choke. But…
He was also incredibly brave, as proven in both World Wars when he managed to stay alive, no matter how hard the bombs hit and how broken he became. And he was caring, proven countless times from America’s entire childhood to just recently, when he came to his aid on 9/11/01. And he was smart, and witty, and eyebrows aside he was moderately attractive-
Wait, what?! Alfred cut off the part of his mind that was obviously starting to ramble, pretending that he didn’t feel warmth on his cheeks. It wasn’t there, it wasn’t there, it wasn’t-
“America, are you… blushing?” It looked as if England was smirking; that bastard.
“Heroes don’t blush!” The younger nation protested, but Arthur boldly leaned in and touched his cheek.
“Oh? Then I suppose you are certainly not a hero, because your cheeks are completely pink. What happened, were you thinking about me?” America suddenly was reminded of all of those pirate stories France and Spain had told him when he was a boy, and wondered when his England was replaced with this more blunt, less “tsundere” (as Japan put it) England.
Sadly enough for the younger nation, that tone of voice only made his blush deepen, and he had to clear his throat before retorting. “Why in the world would I blush thinking about someone as not awesome as you?”
Once he’d said those words, even before he saw England’s face, America regretted it. When he did look up, he knew why; all signs of England’s previous smug playfulness had gone, and were replaced with a blank look that seemed to be covering up sadness. That face quickly morphed into one of annoyance.
“Wait, Iggy, I didn’t mea-”
“If I am so ‘not awesome’ as you say, then why are you looking for my approval? Why did you bother to come all the wa-”
The rest of Arthur’s rant was promptly cut off by a brief, chaste kiss courtesy of a broadly grinning America.
England stared at him wide eyed for a moment, before shaking it off quickly. “Don’t you know it’s rude to cut people off, boy?”
“Boy? Hardly, Iggy, face it. I’m all man now. And, hmm, I suppose I forgot my manners. Are you going to punish me, Arthur?”
The flush on the Briton’s face grew. “I- that is- You- GAH!”
Alfred had to resist the urge to laugh. “You’re so cute when you’re flustered, Iggy.” And he leaned in once more, seizing Arthur’s lips in a kiss that was slightly more forceful and longer than his last. Because Alfred had known all along why he was seeking Arthur’s approval.
It was because he loved him, simple as that.
When Alfred did pull away, the Briton being too frozen with shock to react, they spent a good moment staring at one another.
“A-America?”
“Call me Alfred, seriously.”
“Yes, well-” Arthur started, pulling at his shirt collar. “That was… unexpected-”
“But?” The hopeful expression on Alfred’s face caused England to chuckle a bit.
“But… it was bloody ‘awesome’, alright?”
Alfred grin, flashing his pearly white teeth in a way that never failed to make girls swoon. Lucky for Arthur, he had a bit more self control.
“Oh yeah it was!! And hey, looks like the pot’s magical after all!”
“Alfred.” England deadpanned after a moment.
“Yes?”
“You’re a bloody moron.”
Alfred grinned. “Love you too, Iggy.”