Chapter 5 of A Midsummer Night's Mischief
“So…” the toga-clad England twirled his star-tipped wand in his right hand as he lounged in his future self’s rocking chair, “let me get this straight. You-“ here, he pointed his wand to Sealand, “are my future son and you were practicing your magic with my spell book (which you should not have been doing in the first place) when you accidentally summoned us instead of extraterrestrials from the sun.”
Sealand gave a curt nod. “That’s basically it.”
“Wait….aliens on the sun? That’s so cool!” America exclaimed as he bounced in his seat on the couch, his bolo tie flapping in time to his jerky movement. Soon, his garrulous side took control of his mouth. “Iwonderifsunpeoplewouldbeallhotandsteamywouldn’ttheyburnyoudotheyhavesuperpowersheymattiewhydon’twegoandseethepeopleofthesunsomeday?” At the conclusion of this sentence, America was gazing intently at his brother, excitement twinkling in the sea of blue.
“Don’t be silly, Alfred. There are no such things as aliens,” England placated the young boy.
America frowned sourly. “How can you not believe in aliens when you have a bunch of fairies flying around you all the time?”
“Fairies and little green people are two different things,” the Englishmen’s stern countenance softened as he returned his attention to Sealand, “Now, could you show me the spell that you used to get us here? I might be able to tell you what the reversal would be.”
The micro nation tenderly handed the worn volume to England, opening to the appropriate page, which he had bookmarked. After a silent moment of scanning the page, Sealand’s father returned his attention to the assembly of Europeans opposite him. “It’s quite a straightforward incantation. I don’t see where you could’ve made an error.”
“The rune emit threw me off. I thought it was the rune nus.”
“Nus is with six sections, not twelve.”
Sealand’s jaw tightened in a self-anger. “I know, I know! I forgot, okay?” he whined, fingers curled into fists. “It’s not like you haven’t ever made a mistake.”
“Yes. I’ve made plenty of mistakes, but that doesn’t mean you’re stuck with us forever….” England paused, picking at the string hanging off of the bookmark. “Of course, that will all depend on whether I have the reversal spell or not…”
“Even if you don’t, there’s always the Internet. There’s got to be a site for these types of spells out there somewhere.”
“Internet? What’s that? A funky magical device that’s some sort of library?” France scoffed, idly scratching his wavy locks.
“…..You could put it that way…” Sealand responded, not having the desire to explain the intricacies of the Internet to people who still fervently believed that a sneeze might release your soul. “In any case, you all are going to have to stay in this house until I find a way to send you back home. I don’t want anyone getting hurt or making fools of themselves.”
“Awwwwww!!!” America whined. “I wanna see the future more! I wanna know what type of technology they have and if there’s any good food and stuff.”
Sealand felt a smirk flash across his features. The little colony had so many traits his older self still retained; it seemed as if he had only grown to better fit his enormous ego. Canada was similar in the sense that he remained quiet and submissive the entire time, overshadowed by his brother’s more prominent persona, a complete facsimile of the perpetuating differences.
“Can we at least change into something more suitable for the time period?” France inquired the micro nation, “I want to see the fashion of tomorrow while I have the chance.”
Sealand was pensive for a moment. France’s suggestion was seemingly mild enough. Besides, it wasn’t any invasion of privacy or stealing, since him and the future France were the same person. “I don’t see why not,” he replied, concurring to France’s will, “Your room is upstairs, last door on your right.”
France nodded rising to his feet and collecting England’s hand in his. “I’m sure we can find something for you to wear, ” He cooed, satisfied to see the slight pleasure on England’s face (although it was masked by disgust.)
----
France stood akimbo in the doorway to a walk-in closet, articles of clothing hanging on either side, shoes lined up orderly underneath the pants and shirts. Without wasting any further time, he began to browse the miscellaneous outfits. England followed suit on the opposite side. In less than two minutes, he had selected a simple button-down shirt, and light brown trousers to accompany it. “What odd clothing! I can’t imagine myself wearing this sort of thing.”
“Me neither.” France’s voice was muffled by the fabric surrounding him. “It’s almost like I decided to be a sans-culotte for the rest of my life.” He swung his own outfit over one arm and strode into the main bedroom, laying his clothes on the sheets. He then proceeded to strip himself, despite the prominent facts that both the door was wide open and the shades were pulled up.
Once England emerged from the closet, he gaped as he saw France undressing shamelessly without a care that a poor passerby could possibly see. “Don’t you have any decency, France?” he exclaimed, skin flushing red. “At least close the door! I really don’t think any of the kids wish to see you getting dressed!”
France didn’t respond, pulling his shirt over his head. He padded over to wear England stood, a marble statue, and pushed the Brit against his bare chest. “Perhaps the kids wouldn’t like it,” a playful glitter shone in his irises, “but I know of one male who internally desires to see me strip.”
England freed himself from France’s hold on him, folding his arms in defiance. “What would give you that idea?”
“Oh, come on, Arthur. It’s not like you have never seen me nu before,” he approached England and slowly traced his upper arm in an erotic motion. “Isn’t that right?”
England gulped, his temerity steadily collapsing. Although he seemed too proper to be coerced into sex, it happened more often than one would believe at first. In truth, England actually found himself craving France in that state, but centuries of self-control had hardened England far past a doting princess, who would marry at first sight.
Lips sucked on England’s neck, rubbing tender sides with slender fingers. “Let me help you with that toga.” France mumbled into flesh. His hands slithered up England’s inner thighs, liking how sleek the skin felt on his fingertips.
A groan vibrated in England’s throat, for one second engrossed in the sensation, before he was reminded of the proper gentleman he was supposed to be. He suddenly took flight, escaping from France’s exploring hands. He hovered in the air, hair lightly tickling the ceiling. “So…’ he asked, glaring at his partner. “…what do you want?”
----
Alfred crouched by the doorway, chancing a look into the master bedroom. It was a moronic thing to be spying on his parent when they were in the same room together. The stupidity of the act doubled since, this room was a bedroom, but curiosity just had to drag America up the stairs to where the two countries had disappeared to.
He hadn’t left Sealand and Canada’s company without having to hear them plead for him to reconsider eavesdropping, but stubborn will urged him on.
Now, he sat on the floorboards, his blue eyes peering, figuring if his parents hadn’t taken the time to shut the door, the occurrence must not be all that private, right?
He observed England floating in midair, wings lightly flitting to keep him out of the grasps of gravity, and France gazing up at him, a wistful expression on his face.
“So…what do you want?”
France raised a blonde eyebrow at the Brit. “For you to come down.”
England shook his head. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Then what else could you have meant?”
“I want to know why you’re so interested in seducing me.”
An immediate drainage of color in France’s face said it all. “So you figured it out?”
A chuckled left England’s month as he shifted to the side. “Of course. Do you think I’m stupid enough to not see through you?”
“If you are so smart, tell me what I want.”
England didn’t hesitate. “You want to try and convince me to allow you to take America and use him for your army.”
An intense wave of shock undulated through America as he gawked at his parents. His mouth fell open, eyes augmented, goose bumps pronounced on his skin. Just how long had France been trying to convince England of this? His heart pounded, suddenly feeling vulnerable.
“You guessed correctly, mon ange.” he admitted, seating himself on the bed; he lay on his back, so as to gaze at his husband from a comfortable angle. “I still don’t understand why you refuse.”
A rough sigh came from above. “How many times do I have to tell you? I’m not going to forfeit my son so he can fight in your wars in your army.”
It was France’s turn to be annoyed at England’s recalcitrant words. “He is my son, too,” he reminded the Britannia Angel. “I have as much of a say on the matter as you do.”
“He’s my territory! I don’t see your flag being waved in America.”
France’s sea-blue eyes shut themselves out to the world. He drew in deep breaths, calming his angering brain. “Perhaps, but I see him as much as you do.”
England gritted his teeth, despising France’s persistence. “If you want a bigger army, why don’t you just stick Matthew in there?”
France jolted into a sitting position, appalled. “How dare you suggest such a thing? Poor innocent Mattieu? In so much danger? I wouldn’t even think of doing that to him.”
“And Alfred isn’t the same? What happened to ‘He’s my son, too?’?” England flipped and lowered himself until his feet grazed the comforter. “Don’t tell me you are favoriting one over the other.”
France was about to argue that England’s mindset behaved the same way, but he expelled the words from his brain. His impatience with England would bring forth yelling and the last time that happened, divorce had almost transpired. An awkward silence between the two nations passed before England swept up his new clothes, glided to the bathroom and slipped in. The metallic click heard moments later seemed to warn France that merely turning the knob wouldn’t earn him access.
Outside the confines of the bedroom, America wept, tears snaking down his cheeks. His own parents were discussing his fate without even considering his voice in the equation. He was slightly appreciative of England refusal to just hand him over into French custody, but how long would the Brit remain true to his stance? Would he eventually be broken? Through the cloud of tears, America saw France’s face curl in satisfaction as a devious plot formed in his head.
The ice America stood on had just melted to a papery sheet. If France struck the platform too hard, he would tumble into the frigid waters of combat, no chance of ever surfacing.
Canada never understood where America got his determination from. It seemed he was a sort of tree whose roots were so gnarled and twisted into the ground that a violent storm would merely stir its leaves and nothing else. Give America an opinion, provide a few reasons to back it up, and he would fight for his life to protect that simple point of view, even if he could be sent to the grave for it.
Although the northern territory hated to admit it, he found himself admiring America’s valor and willingness to stand up for the worthy cause. Sometimes, he desired to parrot his brother’s bottomless vigor, but his own being seemed to forbid the Canadian from even expressing his opinion when the majority disagreed. If only he could learn….
The sound of boots clacking against steps heralded America’s return from his ‘expedition’ to find out what France and England were doing upstairs. The sounds of sniffling accompanying the American, though, didn’t suit the self-proclaim hero at all.
Canada leaned forward in his seat, his gaze filled with concern. “What happened, Al?”
America swiped away the excess water leaking from his eyes. Embarrassment overtook his emotions, as he didn’t want his brother seeing him in such a distraught state. “Nothing…” he replied hoarsely, retrogressing back up the stairs.
“Come on, Alfred.” Canada urged softly, getting to his Mary Janes and striding over to the colony. He placed two consoling hands on each of America’s vested shoulders. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
America, weakened by the violet eyes fastened on him, allowed the issue to tumble from his lips. “Dad and Papa were…were talking about…me…P-p-papa- sniff- wants me in his a-a-army, b-but- sob - I don’t -hic - d-d-don’t wanna!” He submerged into tears, burying his face into Canada’s shoulder.
The other nation rubbed his brother’s back in soothing, circular motions. “It’s okay,” he whispered, now patting America with his palm.
The latter draped his arms around Canada’s shoulders, finding bizarre nourishment in Canada’s words and motions on his back. He lifted his mess of a face from the attire and shot Canada a watery smile.
Canada smiled back, America’s grin extremely contagious. “Thanks for being there for me,” America croaked, “You are the best brother anyone could ever have!”
Canada’s pulse speeded at America’s last sentence, as if the compliment was too much to bear. “Get a grip!” he chastised his heart, “He just said you were a good brother! That’s normal!” Yet, his cardio muscle seemed to hold a different opinion. This ordeal returned Canada’s thoughts to the things he had been mulling over before America had appeared in the living room. “So, why do you not want be part of the army?” he inquired nonchalantly, surprised at how effortlessly the phrase was uttered.
America tilted his head in perplexity. Having assumed Canada completely understood his position, he hadn’t anticipated this type of interrogation from him. “I don’t want to fight for France, that’s all. I mean, Papa’s great and all, but I have to take care of myself, you know? Besides, I want to have my own army.”
Canada calmed his respiration, unsure how to put the thoughts into words that wouldn’t offend or disappoint the twelve year old. “Wouldn’t you like to at least learn some fighting techniques or something? It might help you in the future,” his nerves were whirling with anxiousness, praying America would be receptive of his opinion.
Any trace of a complacent mood on America’s visage was eradicated, substituted with deprecation. “Are you saying….that you’re on…their side?” he rasped, voice cracking in sorrow.
Now came the useless string of syllabication that Canada’s tongue was so infamous for creating. “I….well…uh…….I-I mean…..not….that I completely….well…What I want to say is…Wait…I only was making…..ummm.”
The appearance of abandonment in America’s gaze tore at Canada. Why did his belief have to injure his already agitated brother? “Why can’t you agree with me for once, Mattie?” Alfred yelled, his somber tone cutting deeply into Canada, “Every time there’s a disagreement, you always take Dad and Papa’s side. Always! No matter what, you back them up like a faithful servant. Are you just so afraid of being punished for going your own way that you have to go with the flow? I thought I wasn’t alone,”
Salt water tricked out of Canada’s eyes, stirred out of some unidentified emotion. “Al….i-it’s not like th-“
America stomped away, infuriated, not letting Canada finish his sentence. The blonde solidified, somberly observing his twin vanish behind a wall. He knew what Alfred had misconceived about Canada’s suggestion. They were his opinions, what he truly wanted. They did match up with France’s desires, but derived from two deviating motives. More tears cascaded down his face, as he was painfully reminded of that reason, that bittersweet reason he wished had never formed, yet it couldn’t possibly be given up.
Perhaps this was why he could never reveal his conjectures; since it only seemed to hurt the ones…no…the one he loved the most.
Footnotes:
Section 1: A little setting of the stage bit. Not in original plot
Section 2: France and England begin their argument, which was a lot less playful than it is here.
Section 3: Here is the introduction of the third plot, which says true to the canon plot with the exception of a few Hetalia details. The only reason why this section is separate from Section 2 is due to America’s presence.(Note: In the original plot, Titania (England) and Oberon (France) also were accusing each other of flirting with other people, but I decided that segment to be too troublesome to include.)
Section 4: In Chapter 4, I added in some Giripan smut. Now, it’s AmericaxCanada’s (hereafter known as Matfred) turn. This is more or less a fourth plot section (You heard me. Four plots!) that does not derive from a plot line in AMSND. Of course, I could’ve just had them help out Sealand with the job he later performs for France, but I figured I’d include them in something separate just for the heck of it. J
Characters:
England-Titania: I really have to thank Himaruya Hidekaz for the canon fantasy in Hetalia. Without it, I would have a little difficulty deciding which characters would provide the magic power. In any case, England got this part-no questions asked. I especially enjoyed writing him as Britannia Angel, which helped to emphasize his position as the Queen of Fairies.
France-Oberon: I think France and Oberon both have the same amounts of deviousness, which aids in the execution of the plot. Of course, Oberon is a little more of a gentleman than France is, but nevertheless, the part went to our pervy Frenchman.
Sealand-Puck: Puck and Sealand are as much opposites as England as Titania are alike. Puck, Oberon’s servant fairy, likes to play practical jokes on people and laugh at a lot of things other people don’t find funny. This difference in personas isn’t all that big of a deal, but it’s odd how Sealand was the perfect choice regardless.
America- Indian Boy: In the original, the Indian Boy doesn’t have a physical part. Rather, he is merely mentioned. Since I believed the story would be more exciting if America was actually there, I included him. At first, both him and Canada were really little, but I changed their ages to preteen so I could have more romance without having to worry about age.
Canada: Our maple-loving-polar-bear-hugging-hockey-playing friend is the only character who does not have a parallel AMSND part. I would’ve felt bad if I just had America time-travel with France and England. Plus, the entire FrUK family would make things a little crackier and exciting.
Translations and References:
Who still….your soul: This was a belief popular in medieval time. I’m not all that certain when it was proven that sneezing was a way to get dust out of your nose, but I figured the analogy fit nicely.
Sans-culotte: (means “those without knee britches” in French) A term used during the French Revolution to describe the poor people of France at the time who wore their pants long, instead of the traditional style worn by the nobility. This was done to show animosity to monarchy. The France of this story will not be using the term in common language until America became its own country, but I felt that it would be a cool reference to history in addition to describing how different the clothes appeared to France.
Nu- French for “nude”
Mon ange- French for “my angel”
Phew was this chapter long! I didn’t think it’d be so lengthy, but writing never ceases to surprise me. J As I have said plenty of times before, thank you all for reading my fics! *huggles*
~Curlee1029