[Axis Powers Hetalia, America/England: Electronically Foiled]
Title: Electronically Foiled
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Genre: Romance/Humor
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairing: America/England
Word Count: 1,580
Summary: Fencing, or as England had first learned it as the Arte of Defense with Henry the VIII, was not something he ever expected to become modernized. Or well, at least not modernized to this degree.
Notes: For the usxuk Summer Camp "Sports" prompt. Also, hi I love fencing.
"Please, you promised," America whined.
England sighed. It wasn't the fact he was armed with a fencing foil or the fact he had promised that made him relent. No, it was those big blue eyes and that pout that America had mastered years ago.
"Oh bollocks it all. Fine, fit me into your fancy fencing gear."
America's million-watt grin was enough to quash England's lingering doubts over what he was about to undergo.
Fencing, or as England had first learned it as the Arte of Defense with Henry the VIII, was not something he ever expected to become modernized. Or well, at least not modernized to this degree. It was an archaic sport, and as much as France might claim to be the one who started it, the methods dated long before he ever touched them.
Though, that bloody frog still laid claim to the terms used in the sport, blast him.
But despite the fact that they'd developed rudimentary electronic foils back in the earlier part of the 20th century, England had downright refused to use one. He'd learned the foil itself (blasted French invention) to duel in the 18th century and he wasn't about to go modern with something that was such a part of his history.
Then along came America, who absolutely loved the thrill of electronic fencing, always letting out a very ungentlemanly 'whoop' whenever he lit up the light on the board by striking his opponent successfully.
And, like far too many things in his life, if anything was going to get England to try something new- it was America.
“Okay, are you suited up?” America asked, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet.
England cleared his throat and held himself up to full height. “Plastron on the weapon arm, jacket, breeches, mask and bib, and a glove for the weapon arm,” he said pointedly. America might have mastered the electronic version, but England knew he was the master when it came to dry fencing.
America repressed a smirk. “Okay, take your jacket off.”
England flushed. “Excuse me?”
“Or I could take it off for you, if you want,” he replied, cocking an eyebrow.
With a huff, England reached up with his ungloved hand and unzipped the front of his jacket. “Right then, what now?”
America held up a cord and gently took England’s right arm. “Gotta get your body cord hooked up to the floor reel. This is going to be how the electric foil completes the circuit.”
He couldn’t help but smile just a little as America slowly fed the cord down his sleeve and smoothed it out, his warm body pressed up against England’s side as he did so. The cord was soon looped over England’s shoulder and left to rest at his waist.
“Okay, now I need your hand,” America remarked with a smile.
England held it out and America flipped it over, facing the palm up. Slowly, he eased the glove off England’s hand. Once he had, he bent down and pressed a kiss to the center of his palm.
“G-Git,” England grumbled.
America just chuckled, feeding the cord from the sleeve out through the small seam in the glove before he pressed the Velcro back on around it and tugged the glove back onto England’s hand.
“There. Part one of electric foil ready. Still up for it?”
England frowned, glancing down at the wire hanging out by his wrist. “Just don’t see all the need for the fuss, honestly. Got by quite fine for centuries, you know.”
America pressed a quick kiss to England’s forehead at that. “You’ve never been one to like change, I get that. But trust me, this is super awesome cool.”
“Super awesome cool?” England asked skeptically.
“Hero’s promise,” he replied with a wink.
England cursed his face for heating up at that.
Next America fitted the lamé jacket around England, going on about how it was needed to conduct electricity this and complete the electrical circuit that. England couldn’t help but allow himself the slightest of smiles as America prattled on. When it came to anything involving science, the younger nation couldn’t help but become rather excitable over it.
He secured the cord to the jacket and then, handed England a fencing foil with a socket in it. “So it’s basically plug and play. Got you a pistol grip foil, that all right?”
England snuggly fitted the cord into the foil and gripped it firmly. “As if I’d use a French grip. I had to get by for years with an Italian grip because there was no bloody way I’d use that frog’s grip. Or that idiot Spain’s.”
America chuckled, starting to hook up the wires on his own jacket. “Know the feeling. You couldn’t pay me enough to use a Russian pistol grip. American pistol grip all the way!”
England furrowed his brows then glanced down at the grip he had. “I see I got an American grip as well, hmm?”
At that, America went a bit pink around the ears. “Well, didn’t want you having to hold onto you know…someone else’s grip.”
England playfully poked America with the point of his foil. “Idiot. It’s just a blasted foil.”
“Yeah well, figured you deserved the best.”
“And in your opinion, there’s nothing better than the American?”
America tentatively grinned. “Yep.”
“Prat.”
“Aww, you love it,” he retorted, sticking out his tongue.
England averted his eyes, already knowing his cheeks were probably betraying him again.
“The only reason there isn’t an English grip is because I found it hilarious to beat France with his own foil.”
“You should make one,” America added, moving around to finish hooking up the body cords. “I’d use it.”
“Git,” England replied, prodding him again with the foil.
But this time, the scoreboard lit up with a green light and small buzzer sounded. England blinked. “When did it…”
America pointed to the floor reel behind England. “I just plugged you in, so now if your foil point hits my target area, the scoreboard will be triggered.”
He walked back down the fencing strip and plugged his body cord into the floor reel at the opposite end. “So, without further ado, we are ready to go.”
Now England felt back in his element. Despite the cords and the buzzer and all that fancy electrical rigmarole, the methods of fencing were still the same. Here, he knew he was still at an advantage.
“Right then. Are you ready?”
“First to three wins it.”
-----------------------------------------------------
“Salute.”
America did his with a theatrical flourish, while England did an elegant twirl of his foil as he brought it down. They both pulled their masks on.
“En garde!”
“Bloody French calls…”
“Ready?”
“Much better in English.”
“Fence!”
Attack. Parry. Riposte. Point. 0-1
Attack. Counterattack. Parry. Riposte. Remise. Point. 1-1
Attack. Parry. Riposte. Parry. Attack. Counterattack. Parry. Remise. Point. 1-2
Attack. Parry. Remise. Point. 2-2
Attack. Parry. Riposte. Parry. Off target.
Attack. Feint. Remise. Point. 2-3.
A very ungentlemanly cheer echoed throughout the hall as the final light lit up on the scoreboard. America, who had fallen for England’s well-executed feint, just laughed, barely managing to finish the calls of the bout.
“Halt. Winner, England. Masks off. Salute!”
As America finished his salute, he just smiled.
“So, what was that about electric fencing being rubbish?”
England tossed aside his mask and started unplugging his foil. “Well, all foil fencing is technically rubbish, being as it’s French.”
America snorted, unplugging his foil and body cord and crossing over to unhook England’s body cord from the reel.
“Also, I happened to notice that you seemed to…get a bit worked up there towards the end of the bout.”
England turned around, now that he was free of the cord, and reached out to take the mask out from under America’s arm. He tossed it aside and it clattered to the floor. Before America could do much more than give a questioning glance after it, England had grasped the front of his jacket and pulled him into a fierce kiss.
America’s foil clattered to the ground noisily as he reached up with his ungloved hand to cup the side of England’s face.
They were both warm from the bout, England’s hair even more mussed than usual due to the mask and America’s sticking up at all kinds of odd angles. As England deepened the kiss, he felt a trickle of sweat from America’s neck drip onto his fingers where they still held the other nation’s jacket hostage.
For want of air, they finally drew apart.
America grinned lopsidedly, resting his sticky, sweaty forehead down against England’s.
“Yeah, I totally need to get me an English grip. Very firm hold and quick on the attack.”
“Oh hush,” England shot back.
But his verbal counterattack was easily parried as America launched an attack all his own, whispering against England’s lips, “Come on, admit it. Electric fencing is awesome.”
England felt a shiver go down his spine that had nothing to do with the adrenaline from the bout wearing off.
He leaned up, whispering into America’s ear very pointedly. “I do believe there are American grips I like better.”
America flushed and England chuckled. “Come on love, let’s get out of this gear and relax.”
“Right,” he replied scooping up their things and heading towards the showers, “And this time England, I promise- no French calls.”
England leaned his head over against America’s shoulder and laughed. “I should bloody well hope not.”
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Genre: Romance/Humor
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairing: America/England
Word Count: 1,580
Summary: Fencing, or as England had first learned it as the Arte of Defense with Henry the VIII, was not something he ever expected to become modernized. Or well, at least not modernized to this degree.
Notes: For the usxuk Summer Camp "Sports" prompt. Also, hi I love fencing.
"Please, you promised," America whined.
England sighed. It wasn't the fact he was armed with a fencing foil or the fact he had promised that made him relent. No, it was those big blue eyes and that pout that America had mastered years ago.
"Oh bollocks it all. Fine, fit me into your fancy fencing gear."
America's million-watt grin was enough to quash England's lingering doubts over what he was about to undergo.
Fencing, or as England had first learned it as the Arte of Defense with Henry the VIII, was not something he ever expected to become modernized. Or well, at least not modernized to this degree. It was an archaic sport, and as much as France might claim to be the one who started it, the methods dated long before he ever touched them.
Though, that bloody frog still laid claim to the terms used in the sport, blast him.
But despite the fact that they'd developed rudimentary electronic foils back in the earlier part of the 20th century, England had downright refused to use one. He'd learned the foil itself (blasted French invention) to duel in the 18th century and he wasn't about to go modern with something that was such a part of his history.
Then along came America, who absolutely loved the thrill of electronic fencing, always letting out a very ungentlemanly 'whoop' whenever he lit up the light on the board by striking his opponent successfully.
And, like far too many things in his life, if anything was going to get England to try something new- it was America.
“Okay, are you suited up?” America asked, practically bouncing on the balls of his feet.
England cleared his throat and held himself up to full height. “Plastron on the weapon arm, jacket, breeches, mask and bib, and a glove for the weapon arm,” he said pointedly. America might have mastered the electronic version, but England knew he was the master when it came to dry fencing.
America repressed a smirk. “Okay, take your jacket off.”
England flushed. “Excuse me?”
“Or I could take it off for you, if you want,” he replied, cocking an eyebrow.
With a huff, England reached up with his ungloved hand and unzipped the front of his jacket. “Right then, what now?”
America held up a cord and gently took England’s right arm. “Gotta get your body cord hooked up to the floor reel. This is going to be how the electric foil completes the circuit.”
He couldn’t help but smile just a little as America slowly fed the cord down his sleeve and smoothed it out, his warm body pressed up against England’s side as he did so. The cord was soon looped over England’s shoulder and left to rest at his waist.
“Okay, now I need your hand,” America remarked with a smile.
England held it out and America flipped it over, facing the palm up. Slowly, he eased the glove off England’s hand. Once he had, he bent down and pressed a kiss to the center of his palm.
“G-Git,” England grumbled.
America just chuckled, feeding the cord from the sleeve out through the small seam in the glove before he pressed the Velcro back on around it and tugged the glove back onto England’s hand.
“There. Part one of electric foil ready. Still up for it?”
England frowned, glancing down at the wire hanging out by his wrist. “Just don’t see all the need for the fuss, honestly. Got by quite fine for centuries, you know.”
America pressed a quick kiss to England’s forehead at that. “You’ve never been one to like change, I get that. But trust me, this is super awesome cool.”
“Super awesome cool?” England asked skeptically.
“Hero’s promise,” he replied with a wink.
England cursed his face for heating up at that.
Next America fitted the lamé jacket around England, going on about how it was needed to conduct electricity this and complete the electrical circuit that. England couldn’t help but allow himself the slightest of smiles as America prattled on. When it came to anything involving science, the younger nation couldn’t help but become rather excitable over it.
He secured the cord to the jacket and then, handed England a fencing foil with a socket in it. “So it’s basically plug and play. Got you a pistol grip foil, that all right?”
England snuggly fitted the cord into the foil and gripped it firmly. “As if I’d use a French grip. I had to get by for years with an Italian grip because there was no bloody way I’d use that frog’s grip. Or that idiot Spain’s.”
America chuckled, starting to hook up the wires on his own jacket. “Know the feeling. You couldn’t pay me enough to use a Russian pistol grip. American pistol grip all the way!”
England furrowed his brows then glanced down at the grip he had. “I see I got an American grip as well, hmm?”
At that, America went a bit pink around the ears. “Well, didn’t want you having to hold onto you know…someone else’s grip.”
England playfully poked America with the point of his foil. “Idiot. It’s just a blasted foil.”
“Yeah well, figured you deserved the best.”
“And in your opinion, there’s nothing better than the American?”
America tentatively grinned. “Yep.”
“Prat.”
“Aww, you love it,” he retorted, sticking out his tongue.
England averted his eyes, already knowing his cheeks were probably betraying him again.
“The only reason there isn’t an English grip is because I found it hilarious to beat France with his own foil.”
“You should make one,” America added, moving around to finish hooking up the body cords. “I’d use it.”
“Git,” England replied, prodding him again with the foil.
But this time, the scoreboard lit up with a green light and small buzzer sounded. England blinked. “When did it…”
America pointed to the floor reel behind England. “I just plugged you in, so now if your foil point hits my target area, the scoreboard will be triggered.”
He walked back down the fencing strip and plugged his body cord into the floor reel at the opposite end. “So, without further ado, we are ready to go.”
Now England felt back in his element. Despite the cords and the buzzer and all that fancy electrical rigmarole, the methods of fencing were still the same. Here, he knew he was still at an advantage.
“Right then. Are you ready?”
“First to three wins it.”
-----------------------------------------------------
“Salute.”
America did his with a theatrical flourish, while England did an elegant twirl of his foil as he brought it down. They both pulled their masks on.
“En garde!”
“Bloody French calls…”
“Ready?”
“Much better in English.”
“Fence!”
Attack. Parry. Riposte. Point. 0-1
Attack. Counterattack. Parry. Riposte. Remise. Point. 1-1
Attack. Parry. Riposte. Parry. Attack. Counterattack. Parry. Remise. Point. 1-2
Attack. Parry. Remise. Point. 2-2
Attack. Parry. Riposte. Parry. Off target.
Attack. Feint. Remise. Point. 2-3.
A very ungentlemanly cheer echoed throughout the hall as the final light lit up on the scoreboard. America, who had fallen for England’s well-executed feint, just laughed, barely managing to finish the calls of the bout.
“Halt. Winner, England. Masks off. Salute!”
As America finished his salute, he just smiled.
“So, what was that about electric fencing being rubbish?”
England tossed aside his mask and started unplugging his foil. “Well, all foil fencing is technically rubbish, being as it’s French.”
America snorted, unplugging his foil and body cord and crossing over to unhook England’s body cord from the reel.
“Also, I happened to notice that you seemed to…get a bit worked up there towards the end of the bout.”
England turned around, now that he was free of the cord, and reached out to take the mask out from under America’s arm. He tossed it aside and it clattered to the floor. Before America could do much more than give a questioning glance after it, England had grasped the front of his jacket and pulled him into a fierce kiss.
America’s foil clattered to the ground noisily as he reached up with his ungloved hand to cup the side of England’s face.
They were both warm from the bout, England’s hair even more mussed than usual due to the mask and America’s sticking up at all kinds of odd angles. As England deepened the kiss, he felt a trickle of sweat from America’s neck drip onto his fingers where they still held the other nation’s jacket hostage.
For want of air, they finally drew apart.
America grinned lopsidedly, resting his sticky, sweaty forehead down against England’s.
“Yeah, I totally need to get me an English grip. Very firm hold and quick on the attack.”
“Oh hush,” England shot back.
But his verbal counterattack was easily parried as America launched an attack all his own, whispering against England’s lips, “Come on, admit it. Electric fencing is awesome.”
England felt a shiver go down his spine that had nothing to do with the adrenaline from the bout wearing off.
He leaned up, whispering into America’s ear very pointedly. “I do believe there are American grips I like better.”
America flushed and England chuckled. “Come on love, let’s get out of this gear and relax.”
“Right,” he replied scooping up their things and heading towards the showers, “And this time England, I promise- no French calls.”
England leaned his head over against America’s shoulder and laughed. “I should bloody well hope not.”