Alfred kicked back his chair, hands linked behind his head, and glasses perched precariously on his nose. He peered over the top of Texas for a few moments, at the empty table, cursing himself for arriving early. With a practiced twitch of his nose, he pushed Texas back up without moving his hands, and rocked the chair back and forth. His suit was already crumpled, and the attendee fluttering at his side was fussing over it, both trying to use a pocket iron to smooth the wrinkles forming, and also trying to avoid getting the hot iron anywhere near his great fatherland.
“S-s-s-sir! Your suit j-ja-jacket!” The poor man squeaked, and Alfred glanced at him with mild interest. The kid was new to the job and more jumpy than a jack-in-a-box. “A-a-a-ah! Y-you might f-f-faaall!” The man’s voice was now a squeal of panic.
Normally Alfred F. Jones would have taken the time to explain that a tumble off of a chair wouldn’t be enough to so much as leave a scratch in even a smaller European nation, let alone The United States of Ay. Whelps, it probably wouldn’t calm him down anyway, Alfred shrugged, and almost losing his balance quickly jerked back into his seat.
“Aa-AH-AH!” The attendant cried, and America laughed without really meaning to.
“Chill out, man!” The voice of the very embodiment of his homecountry chilled the assistant into silence. “I’m fine, you know,” America tapped the bridge of his glasses in thought. “Why don’t you get me a cup of coffee?” Something to distract this poor man?
“Y-yes sir! How do you like it!”
“The kitchen know,” Alfred waved the man away, who promptly scurried straight into another person entering the room. There was a bark of laughter, and another startled yipe, before the help fled the premises, and the new arrival stepped neatly towards Alfred.
“Ah! América! Olá!” Alfred quickly jumped up, recognizing a spanish accent, and eagerly offering his hand to the European nation, quite quite ready to no longer wait idly.
“Ollah Antonio!” America paused in front of the nation, and looked down into reddish-brown hair with a slow blink. [i]Looked down.[/i] “Huh? - You’re a lot shorter; maybe I’m still growing som-”
Alfred never got to finish that thought, as with a quick skirl of the upper body and leg, ‘Antonio’ gave Alfred’s arm a vicious high-kick, shocking the small group of nations (including the actual Antonio, and a very confounded UK) who had just followed this high-kicking spark into the room.
Germany coughed quietly into the silence, which cued America’s drop to the floor, squalling and clutching his arm. With a practiced sigh, Arthur stepped forward, and nodded politely at the combatant. They stood, arms crossed, and defiantly grinning, and with Alfred swearing in the background, England greeted the vicious attacker:
“Ah, Portugal. It’s very good to see you, but I shall leave you all to carry on the meeting without myself or The United States of America. It seems he would require some coddling.”
Re: Do You Have a Flag? [Part 2a]
anonymous
July 9 2011, 12:32:53 UTC
Okay, so maybe, in retrospect, he’d been known to be a bit of an idiot. Obtuse? Oblivious? Rude? Something else out of the English Dictionary? Admittedly, this was pretty impressively idiotic. Alfred freely admitted that fact, but really, this was too much. Anybody could have made that mistake, he just didn’t see why he wasn’t getting at least a little niceness. After Japan had packed a punch years ago, he’d had some sympathy at least. Really, this was such a small matter. Rude? Well maybe, but not that rude! The point was that it was no justification for England’s quirked (and impressively quirked, at that) eyebrow, and the indifferent line of his mouth;
“I really don’t know how you mistook Pip for Antonio,” Arthur yanked too tightly on the rough sling he had improvised on America’s arm. “How could the two be any more different?”
“Owowow!” So, maybe in retrospect, he might have-
“You completely deserved that.” Arthur added, gritting his teeth and pulling the splint tight, painfully tight, against Alfred’s forearm. “Portugal is very different from Spai-” The taller nation gave a high-pitched yipe. “Oh stop being a baby.”
America grunted, and bit his lip as Arthur finished off the makeshift contraption of jacket, tie, and what might have been length of medical splint. At least Arthur had been generous enough to lend his coat and tie to Alfred’s sore arm, though where he had gotten the splint was a small mystery. “S’not my fault Porty’s never shown up to the last meetings…”
“Portugal,” English corrected, in the crispest, clearest accent America had heard. “Attended the WWI summits, and frequently lent support throughout the WWII campaign. You remember the eggs? Where do you suppose we got those?”
“France?”
“Under Ludwig’s nose, I suppose, you git.” Arthur patted at the sling, obviously satified and shifted, glowering fiercely at his ally. Flash of the eyes, and snarl of the lip, and America grinned nervously. “Alfred Fitzwilliam Jones,” England never used Alfred’s full name unless he meant trouble. The sort of trouble Alfred had been in when he threw the tea in the pond. He stretched the grin out a little more. “You simply have never noticed Pip. The reaction was entirely justified: Portugal and Spain are completely different.” England pushed away from America, hands on hips. “To be honest, Portugal should have hit you harder, bloody rude, I don’t know how I raised you to be such a goddamn prat.” England carried on, railing at America, who had quickly lost the plot. Instead he took the time to check out the bloke who could strut down the street, telling everybody to go to hell, and still be the hottest thing this side of Greenwich.
“Senhor Inglaterra?” A bright, smirking smile poked round the doorway. “Practicing your Shakespeare still?” England twisted, a bright flush curling up from under his collar, muttering now directed at the invading Portugal. “Ah, is América back together again, then?” With a graceful, but fluent step, Portugal stepped into the room, and scanned their bright green eyes up and over America. “Hope I didn’t hurt you, gatinho.” America poked his tongue out.
“You’ll need to do better next time to do any real damage to nation like me!” America proclaimed. England back-handed him to the head. “Hey!”
“You should say thank you.”
“Geez, what for? Getting punched?” America ruefully looked at the slight Iberian country. “Can’t really thank for that, derp.”
Re: Do You Have a Flag? [Part 2b]
anonymous
July 9 2011, 12:34:09 UTC
Arthur sighed, made a mental note that were he still in charge, he would certainly ban America from the internet. “Pip supplied the splint I used on your arm.”
“Got to be prepared.” Portugal chimed in. “Got to be prepared for anything on the highseas!” With a toss of the head and red hair, the country erupted into genuinely terrifying, and confident laughter. Alfred decided he either liked the little wildcat for their adventurous attitude, or the spirit it would take for such a tiny place to take on a much larger place like America. But he definitely liked Portugal. Green eyes sparkling, Pip stopped laughing, and settled on a confident smirk at England. “Never know what sort of pirates you can embarrass, Art?”
“You’re a pain, Pip.”
Portugal, was very similar to England, yes. That was probably why Alfred liked them already. England was a spitfire, who insisted on taking on most of the known world, and Portugal was a wildcat who had no misgivings about socking a superpower, and furthermore they both had vivid green eyes.
“Well, who’s being rude now UK?” America poked his tongue out at England. “I apologize for thinking you were Spain.” America did a clumsy bow, grinning from ear to ear.
“And?” There was a tap of the foot.
“And calling you a man.” America added.
Portugal gave a satisfactory nod, smiled at America, before she adjusted her goggles and with a swish of the flag tied about her shoulders, flicked at her short red hair. “I cut it back during the 18th. Couldn’t have helped you América. Or my clothes.” She gestured at the tomboyish, informal jeans and may have gestured at her fairly flat chest with a slight giggle. The giggle twisted into another confident, bordering on addictive laugh, and she sauntered over to the door. England yanked it open, teeth ground together, but polite to a t.
“Don’t overspend, Pip.” Arthur growled to her as she passed, and she swung round, kissing him on the cheek with her swift, careful way of doing things. “And try not to have any more of your damn revolutions.”
“Viva o Rei to you too.” Pip spat back, honey-toned, but still friendly and warm. With that, the short, and boyish nation left America and England to themselves. America jerked round to look at England; perhaps, in retrospect, he was an incredibly obtuse, oblivious, and downright idiotic person at times, but that really didn’t diminish what had sunk in.
Re: Do You Have a Flag? [Part 3a]
anonymous
July 9 2011, 23:44:07 UTC
“Will you drop the matter, Alfred?” England snapped irritably, yanking on the door of his house, and letting it swing open as the American trailed after him into the house, (“Shut the ruddy door; I didn’t raise you in a barn.”) obviously distressed. England tossed a heap of files to a chiffonier, and continued on his way, trying to evade America’s skittery footfalls.
“How am I meant to drop it!” Alfred protested, eyes wide, and mouth open in objection to everything, and anything Arthur had to say. Really, things hadn’t changed that much since America was a boy, he still would never listen. “How come you never told me about her?” America jerked back, gasping in shock. “Ohmygod, you two are actually twins, separated at birth and she doesn’t know but you do and it’s really awkward and hard for you and-?”
“What the fuck?” England whipped round suddenly, and found himself inches from America. He took a step back, jumping slightly. Damn tall bastard; he walked too quickly.
“I’m kidding.” America narrowed his eyes, and followed after England, who continued stepping back. “But how come I don’t know anything about her? You two have had an alliance for years, and I’ve never once heard you mention her at all. So. What’s the game?” England edged back, and America kept perfect pace, until England’s back bumped gently into the wall, and America shoved his face (long bridge of the nose, girlish lashes, glint of Texas and flare of blue eyes) right up to England’s face. “Well?” He demanded.
England paused, brows furrowed, and flushed slightly. The pause shifted and slid into an uncomfortable silence, England wilting under America’s gaze, and America’s good hand took England’s chin in his hands. The raw strength of the country simmered; even under the current economic strain, America’s infrastructure, ferocity, military, resources, confidence, gold standard, beliefs, and education system writhed, and roiled in his skin. America was hardly being gentle, as he tipped England’s head either way.
“You’re so secretive…” America murmured, somewhere between the eager and anxious country that had followed him home, and the dark, reserved one that had Arthur pressed up against his own wall. Alfred’s index finger brushed against Arthur’s lips. “Especially about your past.” Alfred pushed closer, tasting the heat of England’s body through the gauze of his shirt, weave of his jacket, before stopping short at the hard bulge between them.
The two glanced down at America’s injured arm, bumping between their bodies. “Ah.” England murmured, his voice pale like weak tea, brewing in his throat. “Your arm…” His voice drained. Alfred leaned away for a moment, scanning up and down England, blue eyes harsh and probing; a physical thing sliding over The United Kingdom. Arthur shivered without entirely meaning to.
Re: Do You Have a Flag? [Part 3b]
anonymous
July 9 2011, 23:45:18 UTC
With careful, and unwavering precision, America undid England’s tie from his arm, drew the splint away, and tossed both tie and splint to the side. Arthur watched the stick clatter and bounce across the floorboards, distracting himself with remembering what trees, what stain, what grain, and America pulled England’s crumpled jacket away from his arm, coolly tossing it after the tie. Arthur haplessly stuttered a nonsensical phrase, before clearing his throat. “Everything has its place Alfred, including my clothes.”
Alfred shrugged his own jacket off, loosened his tie, and undid his top button with a nonchalance that had shivers bubbling down England’s spine. Slowly he flexed the injured arm, then with a more confident flourish; completely healed, and strong as ever. Satisfied, he returned his piercing gaze to Arthur; “How exactly do you know her?” America pressed forward again, nose almost brushing against England, Texas glinting fiercely, and the intensity alone had England colouring, sliding his hands up the wall to hold them up in front of him defensively. This America, England’s lukewarm blood murmured, was the one who had kicked and kicked at Japan to stop the Pacific front, before finally, and irrevocably altering the nation, securing for himself the title of the only nation to actually deploy nuclear warheads in an attack on civilians. This America, England’s panicking and pounding head informed him, could be brought to the point where he would fight completely, and raze his opponent to the ground. This America, England’s brain (slightly confounded by the razor-sharp eyes) added, was the one he would have shot.
They stared at one another for a few moments, Arthur’s mouth falling unceremoniously open as he grasped and groped for words. Alfred’s fingertips fluttered across England’s face again, much more restrained now, but the tension in them was enough to have Arthur shiverjolt from the action, feeling like someone was dancing a jig on his grave - probably Ireland, he reflected wryly. The tension slipped in, as Alfred tilted England’s face up to look at him, and America coolly stared at England, who flushed, held his own arms between them. This did not stop America’s onslaught of pressure, and America pressed, leaned, and laid his body fiercely against England’s. “What history do you two have?” America added once more, voice almost furious if the emotion had not been quite so subtly different.
The jarring sound of the doorbell, fanciful but ‘proper’ as befitted the residence of a nation, made them both turn to look down the winding corridors, looking after the sound. Already, the palpable sensation of Alfred’s intensity was dimming, and when Alfred turned to look back at Arthur, his eyes once more had the look of the one England would never have shot. Arthur lifted his arms, shoved America away from him, and stalked past: “My history is hardly secret, you cretin, take out a bloody library book on it.”
England’s voice carried down the corridor, full of far too much ire for it not to be a cover-up for the waver in it. “And pick up those clothes!”
Re: Do You Have a Flag? [Part 3b]
anonymous
July 13 2011, 12:52:42 UTC
The style of writing is...amusing. I'm trying to get used to the 'run off the mill' conversational sentences. And Alfred is damn full of himself eh.
Pip. An interesting OC. I'm so used to Candesceres' smooth, smart, strong privateer Gabriel dos Anjos and the hot-piratey-sexy-sista in pixiv, this petite-tomboyish-older-sista takes some time getting used to, too. Pip is refreshing, tho. And I've never really interacted with real Portuguese, so I don't know which is more accurate to RL.
Just one thing. The scene where America cornered England. It doesn't seem as tho Alfred is jealous of Pip. Contrarily, it seems as though America is astonished by Pip, quickly fell for the quirky, energetic, confident woman and is jealous by England. May be because Alfred is described so coldly and his touches are described as a way to show power, and not so much with possessiveness or the intent to seduce. And Arthur's interactions with Pip are described like those of siblings, with Pip as an older sister (Arthur isn't really blushing so much, and Pip isn't romancing him)
Re: Do You Have a Flag? [Part 4a]
anonymous
July 13 2011, 01:36:31 UTC
A/N: Accidental deanon there, let's hope no one spotted that, and I'll try to remember to log out haha!
Either way, glad you're liking Pip. Portugal is a very awesome country, and I hope I can do it justice =] That aside, it is an Izzard reference, but it's sort of a working title. Izzard's flag sketch is good to watch whilst remembering Hetalia
Posessive!America is very hot in my opinion and you'll see more if it~!
Sorry for delay, hoping to get two more updates or so done by the end of the day.
---
The sound of bickering, and fussing like a pair of mother hens with a vendetta between them soon fell down the hallway to America, and thus he was not surprised when Arthur padded back into the room with Francis trailing after him. England’s arms were full of binders, but as always, he was griping at France.
“Why the hell didn’t you turn up to the meeting, frog?” England asked snippily. “It’s not like your economy is looking particularly peachy right now, and wipe that smug grin off your face.” Apparently Arthur was referring to Francis’ curious smile at the sight of Alfred picking up the jackets.
“Ah, L’Amerique, you look…” Francis glanced up and down America’s ruffled appearance. “As though I am interrupting something, somehow?” France’s (offensively smug) grin settled into a smirk.
“Oh don’t be crude.” England spat. “He skipped the meeting too.”
Francis nodded, the gesture simple and yet it still struck America as overtly fancy, like lace doilies. On the first look, just a white cloth, on closer inspection filled with nit-picky little details and patterns. “Oui, Oui.” France thought for a moment. “Ah, Angléterre, but I believe our friend L’Amerique was hosting the meeting.”
“He was.” England added, stepping past both of them, and towards his office. “I’ll just make photocopies for you Francis. But no, both of us had to leave.”
“Oh?” France raised a querulous eyebrow, situating himself onto a nearby couch, and gesturing for Alfred to join him. “The both of you?” He questioned. Slowly.
“He mistook Portugal for Spain,” Arthur explained with a flashing glare over his shoulder, and shifting his grip on the pile of binders in order to open the door to the study. “Pi- Filipa kicked his arm. I got the files, however, and Alfred did not. I was helping with…” England trailed off into his study, voice fading, and preoccupied with getting the files (and possibly the Frenchman out of his home).
Meanwhile, France had turned to look at America, and promptly given a snort of delight. Alfred, pride stinging, sat down on the opposing couch, and tucked the two jackets over his arm, crumpling them further. “My arm’s fine now.” He finally protested. Francis wiped at his eye lightly, chuckled again, and somehow the restraint of the laughter made it all that much worse. “I was never introduced to her! Okay?”
“Non?” France smiled at America. “Ah, but le Anglo-Portuguese alliance, it is-”
“He didn’t tell me anything!” America’s voice was a bit loud, and no doubt England could hear it from the other room.
“Ah, and you two, you two are so close!” Francis slyly glanced at the study, but Alfred was too distressed to notice this.
“I know!” Alfred crossed his arms, and leaned back into the couch. “I mean, I thought we were, like-”
“Companions of the heart, non?”
“Yes!”
“Yet, he doesn’t tell you of the other woman, oh, oh what shall we do, L’Amerique?”
Re: Do You Have a Flag? [Part 4b]
anonymous
July 13 2011, 01:37:18 UTC
“I know! I thought he trusted me-m-miii…meh? Huh? Other woman? What?!” America crashed to his feet, tried to step back, and instead tripped into the back of the couch, and promptly was sent head over heels down the back of the couch to finally splutter on the other side of it, on the floor, in an untidy heap. “Oof?” He looked up at the blurry shape of England who was standing over him, arms crossed across his chest. Alfred blinked, and gently pushed his glasses back into position.
“What on earth are you doing; are you trying to destroy my living room, you wanker?” Arthur’s fingers tapped on his arm, and he gave a very slightly twitch. “I honestly can’t leave you alone for five fucking minutes before you end up getting yourself into trouble.”
America rolled over, and clambered to his feet, laughing nervously. Francis, attempting to swallow up his laughter, helped America right himself, and quickly scooped up the suit jackets. “Here, Angleterre~” France smiled, and collapsed into subdued guffaws.
“Thank you.” England stiffly answered, accepting the jackets, he passed America’s back to him. “What were you two discussing?”
“You have a lover!” Alfred blurted out, eyes bugging slightly.
“I was just telling L’Amerique here about your…” Francis paused, tapped his chin lightly as he looked for words, then clicked his fingers in delight. “Special relationship with Mademoiselle Portugal. How many years has it been now, my dear friend, five hundred or so? Half a millennia, goodness.” Alfred closed his mouth, suddenly quieter, looking between Arthur and Francis. “You and her are practically married, after-all.”
Arthur shrugged, “The Anglo-Portuguese Alliance is not exactly a secret matter. Just as I was telling Alfred here.” He pointed at a nearby bookshelf. “I’m sure I have the records somewhere, feel free to borrow some texts.” He pointed at a counter. “The files are there.” England crossed his arms.
America tipped his head at England, mouth set in a hurt line.
“Ah, Angleterre, you’ve upset our good friend here by being so secretive.” Francis smirked. “Ohh, but what pos-”
“Can you get out of my house?” England asked harshly.
France and England looked at each other steadily for a few moments; apparently an armistice was found, because Francis shrugged with a non-particular elegance. “Oui, bonsoir.”
Alfred and Arthur met eyes, listening to the creaking sound of France leaving the house. Clearing his throat, America shuffled his grip on the suit jacket; “Arthur it-”
“I meant you too.” Snapped England. Almost straightaway the isle softened. “Forgive me, I’ve had a long day. I would appreciate you leaving me in peace.”
America nodded awkwardly, and stepped over to the bookcase, crouching down and scanning the shelves. Arthur was sure Alfred was taking more time than he might need, and just as Arthur was about to aggressively demand Alfred take his leave at that exact moment, America stood up, a book clasped in his hand, and with an uncommon nervousness, shuffled away.
“Night, England.” Alfred mumbled, and England listened to his footsteps echo away. Before sinking into one of his armchairs, and flopping back in it, sighing, eyes closed and finally alone. He gave a groan, and stretched out; long day did not begin to cover it.
Re: Do You Have a Flag? [Part 5a]
anonymous
July 13 2011, 08:31:49 UTC
A/N: Starting on Bonus 3 in this chapter as I bring in some more oc. Oh dear, this ficlet is getting a bit populated.
So, here's what we've got so far, plus some notes, take care for an info-dump;
Portugal - Filipa Avis - Filipa comes from the daughter of John Gaunt who was involved in the Anglo-Portuguese alliance, and is a common portuguese name. Avis comes from the name of an early Portuguese royal lineage descended from the House of Burgundy. Pip is sort of a tomboy.
Ireland - Ruairi Cétchathach - Ruairi or Ruaidhi (or other variants haha) is considered to have been the last King of Ireland. This is mostly due to Ruairi primarily representing Northern Ireland. His last name comes from the surname of the first presumed King of Ireland who envisioned Ireland's monarchy. Ireland is sort of detached from the others. Arthur used to bully him a lot, and at times, Ruairi stands up to him.
Wales - Myrddin Llywelyn - First name is the welsh form of Merlin, and last name is taken from the particular man Gruffyd Llywelyn (variants for both names exist of course) who managed to hold the territories of wales together. He was a cool dude. Wales is also pretty cool, and more passive-aggressive than anything else. Arthur used to bully him a lot.
Scotland - Gawain Alpin - Gawain was a Knight of the Round Table, and that's pretty much where I got the name. I wish it was a better reason! That aside, Alpin is an early royal lineage of scotland. Gawain has a tendency to steal British landmarks (and the crown jewels) but is fond and protective of his brothers; used to stand up to England to prevent him from bullying his brothers.
Right enough infodumping =]
----
It was one thing for Filipa Avis to show up to a meeting; this had happened over the years. Admittedly, since the colonies had slipped through the fingertips of the old powers, she had grown quieter and less likely to turn up to meetings. Filipa hadn’t even bothered to directly associate herself with the second war: she was injured, tired, and her spirit was warring with itself, it was understandable. So, Arthur had dealt with her appearances over the years, and yes, they were still close, what he had yet to deal with was Alfred F. Jones getting not only her attention, but her getting his attention too. France didn’t help.
That made for a long day.
America cornering him in his own house also made it an extremely long day.
With a groan, Arthur reached to the side, plucked his mobile off the counter, fingers missing the teacup (filled with brandy, and definitely not tea) but only just, and stabbed at the keypad.
“G’wain?” Arthur slurred into the phone.
“Yer drunk.” A distinctly Scottish brogue replied. “What happened?”
“Pip.” Arthur mumbled. “ ’Lfred.” There was a light smashing noise as Arthur made a grab for his cup and missed. “Oh balls…”
“Right.” Gawain interrupted Arthur. “Sounds like yer bin on the dram, I’ll get Ruairi and you-” Scotland paused, “You phone Myrddin, alright? And stay put.”
“Cheers.” The muffled sound of England flopping out of the chair, followed by a wincing owch made Scotland roll his eyes.
“I said t’stay put, Art.” England punched at the phone with a finger, and then put it to his ear again.
“Merlin, y’ there?”
“Still Gawain.”
“Bullshit, put in ‘is numb-”
“I’m hangin’ up now Arthur.”
“Fuck you.” England spat into the phone, before poking at it again, and trying to remember who he was meant to phone exactly.
Re: Do You Have a Flag? [Part 5b]
anonymous
July 13 2011, 08:34:11 UTC
A very long day, but regardless of the state of the brothers’ relationships with one another, it wasn’t long before Wales, Ireland, and Scotland were bundled at the front of Arthur’s house, and stomping in, bearing gifts of alcohol. It came as only partially surprising when Ruairi stepped on England. England lashed out, kicking at Ireland. “Fuckin’ tw’t!” He roared, before flopping back into a puddle of nation.
“Rainy days in England.” Myrddin added from the side, before propping Arthur up with Gawain, and the two of them dragged him over to the couch. Ruairi, muttering to himself, stalked to England’s armchair and proceeded to attack the rest of the mess.
“Eh wouldn’t drink this slop with ‘is mouth.” Ireland muttered, picking up the porcelain chips. “Why do I ‘ave to be ‘ere then?” Despite this, he finished tidying the floor, and then pushed the offensive armchair towards the couch, and plopped down in it. “ ‘Ow drunk is our dear brother, then?”
“Head over tits,” England supplied, almost muffled in the couch. “Trolleyed, Piss-poor drunk, hammered, arseholed-”
“Yer always an arsehole.” Gawain snapped, pulling Arthur upright.
“This stuff is utter swill.” Ruairi snapped, sniffing at the chair.
“Y’rs no better.” England glowered, swaying slightly on the spot. “Bloody twit; why arnt ya go b’ck ta Erin I’ yer hate me so.” Arthur groaned. “T’ British are comin’.”
Wales passed a glass of scotch to Gawain, and a can of beer to Ruairi. “ ‘Ere.”
Gawain slugged the scotch down, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Goin’ to be a long night.” England leaned heavily against Scotland, mumbling haplessly about whether or not he’d be ready for the Armada. “Any o’ yer got an idea as to what happened?”
“He was bitchin’ about Pip and Alfred t’ me.” Myrddin supplied from the side, sipping his own drink. Myrddin stood up awkwardly. “Want some food?” Myrddin left, heading towards the kitchen, without needing to hear the following requests. Also, none of the brothers expected Arthur to keep their requests in the house; likely Myrddin was heading to a local chippie. The jangle of housekeys and slam of the door confirmed this.
Arthur began to snore heavily against Scotland’s side, and Gawain carefully stole England’s wristwatch. Ruairi sniffed at the gesture, but said nothing, instead listening intently to a pooka at his shoulder. Gawain slipped England’s watch onto his own arm, and waited for Ruairi to finish consulting the goblin-esque creature.
“Seems Alfred ‘ttempted to rape our brother.” Ruairi yawned.
“Yer joking.” Scotland pursed his lips, shifting England’s position against his shoulder with a grunt.
“Alfie made friends wiv’ Portugal.” Ireland clarified. “Cornered Art in here; Froglegs stuck ‘is bill in. Alf’s still got ‘is questions, and ‘e was close ‘nough to lick Art’s face.” The Island shrugged “Seems clear-cut t’ me: anglo-guese ‘lliance verse special relationship,” Ruairi yawned once more, tucking his legs up.
“Wonder who ‘e-” He nodded at Arthur. “S’drinking for.”
“Arthur wouldnae appreciate yer sittin’ like that on ‘is stuff.” Scotland remonstrated.
“Art ‘wouldnae’ appreciate your takin’ of ‘is stuff.” Ireland snapped back, and settled in the chair, looking to the side with a sigh. “Still don’t see why I ‘ave to be ‘ere.” Despite looking away, and being curled up away from Scotland and England, Ruairi did not so much as move from his chair. “Long night.”
Re: Do You Have a Flag? [Part 5c]
anonymous
July 13 2011, 08:35:08 UTC
“Long day…” Arthur murmured from Scotland’s side, raising his head and looking around blearily. “Hi Ireland…”
“Alfie’s a good kid.” Ireland commented. “Ya’ should give ‘im a chance.”
“Chance f’ what?” England snuggled up to Scotland, outright nuzzling him. “Git, g’t your feet offa’ my chair.” Ruairi made no movements to put his feet down, shrugging.
“Heard Pip dropped by.” Gawain interrupted. “How are you and ‘er?”
“Mrf.” England stared at his wrist, a baffled expression sliding onto his face. “Where’s Ben?” It was a groggy statement.
Ruairi shrugged from the armchair. “Ayedunno.” It came out as a single word, and was more insulting than anything else. Ireland looked at Scotland with a quiet, and pensive smirk. “Not France. ‘e has better taste tha’ nat. Trust me this is between Pippa n’ Alfie.” Ireland folded his hands across his chest, and gave a defiant nod. “Mark my words.”
“We oft’n do.” Myrddin commented, shrugging his coat off and setting a parcel of newspaper wrapped fish and chips to Ruairi. “Come now, Art.” Wales passed two packages to Gawain, who then opened one up for Arthur. England turned a rather vivid shade of green at the smell of the oily chips.
“Oh Christ.” Arthur sucked in a gulp of air, and then the mighty, great and proud nation of England promptly leant his head forward and vomited on the floor.
“Tax returns?” Wales sighed, and Ireland with a noise of annoyance put his food to the side and jumped to his feet, ready to clean up the mess.
Re: Do You Have a Flag? [Part 5c]
anonymous
July 13 2011, 19:06:33 UTC
I really liked this update! And yes, I do know there's more below. I wanted to say that I'm happy to see an semi-normal relationship between the UK brothers. It's nice and refreshing.
One thing, if I may? I think the phonetic accents can be a bit confusing sometimes. I hope I haven't offend you.
Re: Do You Have a Flag? [Part 6a]
anonymous
July 13 2011, 08:54:15 UTC
The Anglo-Portuguese was over six hundred years old. Over. Six. Hundred. More than twice America’s age.
Alfred gaped at the book, holding it away from him, as if it might actually bite him. If he measured history in Americas (which didn’t seem like that bad a unit of measurement) then England and Portugal had been officially allies for at least two Americas before he was born. By the time Alfred had been old enough to talk, Arthur and Portugal had probably been kissing in cupboards, or maybe on the deck of some romantic ship.
“I don’t ship it!” America managed to cough out. In fact, if he’d been on that type of ship, he would have abandoned it. He dragged the book back under his eyes, and adjusted Texas.
The Anglo-Portuguese alliance was the oldest enforced alliance in the world, and was still active today. Portugal had provided assistance of some kind in both the world wars, and even volunteered her lands for bases. I mean, you just didn’t take that kind of risk unless you really cared for someone. She’d even been trading with England during the Napoleonic wars, and got invaded because of it. That was some serious commitment.
On the other hand, he, America had showed up late to both wars, and threw a revolution in England’s face. Against Pip’s loyalty and dedication, there wasn’t really much Alfred could say for himself. He swallowed. With an ally like that, even he’d be loathe to turn his back on her.
God in heaven, Pip had introduced Arthur to tea? His most-beloved drink. Portugal had introduced him to it. She lay claim to something he still indulged in. “I mean maybe E-England just likes his tea.” America stuttered to himself. “I mean he does, so.” Or maybe it was attachment to her…”
Re: Do You Have a Flag? [Part 6b]
anonymous
July 13 2011, 08:55:20 UTC
Arthur had escorted her royal family (monarchist that he was) to the Portuguese colonies? What a gentleman. What a fucking gentleman.
Alfred sighed, leaning back at his desk, and snapped the spine of the book, flattening it on the desk, and too distracted to wonder exactly what Arthur would tell him if he saw. America should have been looking at the files for the meeting, but it was difficult t-
America’s phone rang, noisily interrupting his reverie (minor reverie, but reverie nonetheless). He flipped it open and pressed it to his ear. “Heya.” His generally perky greeting was tinged with listlessness, but thankfully his boss presumed it to be tiredness and asked America to update him on the day’s events. This was slightly more distracting, and Alfred allowed it to distract him, focusing on the details and relating them.
When the phone call finally ended, Alfred sighed and was forcefully returned to his thought-processes. His brain was swiftly running out of the will to keep considering the matter, but it still managed to demand why Alfred was going through this. The simple, and short answer: jealousy. Jealousy would of course me- -his phone went off again, and Alfred stared at it, wondering at the sort of coincidences involved in holding a phone that began ringing. Not a number he recognized either.
He snapped it open, “Heya. Alfred Jones here?”
“Noswaith dda, America.”
“Pardon?”
There was an annoyed scuffling at the other end of the phone call. “Good Evening America. How are you?”
“I’m…goo-ooood…” America replied suspiciously. “Uhm. Who is this?”
“Myrddin.” America stared at the ceiling dumbly. “Myrddin Llywelyn.” America hummed. “Merlin.” Still nothing. “…Wales.”
“Oh right! England’s brother!” Alfred blinked and swore. “Shit, what can I do for you?”
“I have something to discuss with you in private.” Myrddin sounded extremely annoyed, but heavily disguising it. “Could we meet, perhaps? I know a café that is ideal.”
“Uh. Isn’t England meant to be the one who arranges this kind of thing? I mean he repr-”
“They are matters of a revolutionary nature.” Myrddin supplied. “I’d prefer it if you didn’t tell Arthur about it; he would not approve of my separating from his representation.”
“Ah.” America stopped short. “Wait, what? I don’t really want to go behind Arthur’s back y’know.” Alfred’s eyes narrowed.
“I simply require moral support from as inspiring a person as you.” Myrddin answered smoothly.
Realistically, that dry voice should have tipped Alfred off.
---
Alfred kicked back his chair, hands linked behind his head, and glasses perched precariously on his nose. He peered over the top of Texas for a few moments, at the empty table, cursing himself for arriving early. With a practiced twitch of his nose, he pushed Texas back up without moving his hands, and rocked the chair back and forth. His suit was already crumpled, and the attendee fluttering at his side was fussing over it, both trying to use a pocket iron to smooth the wrinkles forming, and also trying to avoid getting the hot iron anywhere near his great fatherland.
“S-s-s-sir! Your suit j-ja-jacket!” The poor man squeaked, and Alfred glanced at him with mild interest. The kid was new to the job and more jumpy than a jack-in-a-box. “A-a-a-ah! Y-you might f-f-faaall!” The man’s voice was now a squeal of panic.
Normally Alfred F. Jones would have taken the time to explain that a tumble off of a chair wouldn’t be enough to so much as leave a scratch in even a smaller European nation, let alone The United States of Ay. Whelps, it probably wouldn’t calm him down anyway, Alfred shrugged, and almost losing his balance quickly jerked back into his seat.
“Aa-AH-AH!” The attendant cried, and America laughed without really meaning to.
“Chill out, man!” The voice of the very embodiment of his homecountry chilled the assistant into silence. “I’m fine, you know,” America tapped the bridge of his glasses in thought. “Why don’t you get me a cup of coffee?” Something to distract this poor man?
“Y-yes sir! How do you like it!”
“The kitchen know,” Alfred waved the man away, who promptly scurried straight into another person entering the room. There was a bark of laughter, and another startled yipe, before the help fled the premises, and the new arrival stepped neatly towards Alfred.
“Ah! América! Olá!” Alfred quickly jumped up, recognizing a spanish accent, and eagerly offering his hand to the European nation, quite quite ready to no longer wait idly.
“Ollah Antonio!” America paused in front of the nation, and looked down into reddish-brown hair with a slow blink. [i]Looked down.[/i] “Huh? - You’re a lot shorter; maybe I’m still growing som-”
Alfred never got to finish that thought, as with a quick skirl of the upper body and leg, ‘Antonio’ gave Alfred’s arm a vicious high-kick, shocking the small group of nations (including the actual Antonio, and a very confounded UK) who had just followed this high-kicking spark into the room.
Germany coughed quietly into the silence, which cued America’s drop to the floor, squalling and clutching his arm. With a practiced sigh, Arthur stepped forward, and nodded politely at the combatant. They stood, arms crossed, and defiantly grinning, and with Alfred swearing in the background, England greeted the vicious attacker:
“Ah, Portugal. It’s very good to see you, but I shall leave you all to carry on the meeting without myself or The United States of America. It seems he would require some coddling.”
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“I really don’t know how you mistook Pip for Antonio,” Arthur yanked too tightly on the rough sling he had improvised on America’s arm. “How could the two be any more different?”
“Owowow!” So, maybe in retrospect, he might have-
“You completely deserved that.” Arthur added, gritting his teeth and pulling the splint tight, painfully tight, against Alfred’s forearm. “Portugal is very different from Spai-” The taller nation gave a high-pitched yipe. “Oh stop being a baby.”
America grunted, and bit his lip as Arthur finished off the makeshift contraption of jacket, tie, and what might have been length of medical splint. At least Arthur had been generous enough to lend his coat and tie to Alfred’s sore arm, though where he had gotten the splint was a small mystery. “S’not my fault Porty’s never shown up to the last meetings…”
“Portugal,” English corrected, in the crispest, clearest accent America had heard. “Attended the WWI summits, and frequently lent support throughout the WWII campaign. You remember the eggs? Where do you suppose we got those?”
“France?”
“Under Ludwig’s nose, I suppose, you git.” Arthur patted at the sling, obviously satified and shifted, glowering fiercely at his ally. Flash of the eyes, and snarl of the lip, and America grinned nervously. “Alfred Fitzwilliam Jones,” England never used Alfred’s full name unless he meant trouble. The sort of trouble Alfred had been in when he threw the tea in the pond. He stretched the grin out a little more. “You simply have never noticed Pip. The reaction was entirely justified: Portugal and Spain are completely different.” England pushed away from America, hands on hips. “To be honest, Portugal should have hit you harder, bloody rude, I don’t know how I raised you to be such a goddamn prat.” England carried on, railing at America, who had quickly lost the plot. Instead he took the time to check out the bloke who could strut down the street, telling everybody to go to hell, and still be the hottest thing this side of Greenwich.
“Senhor Inglaterra?” A bright, smirking smile poked round the doorway. “Practicing your Shakespeare still?” England twisted, a bright flush curling up from under his collar, muttering now directed at the invading Portugal. “Ah, is América back together again, then?” With a graceful, but fluent step, Portugal stepped into the room, and scanned their bright green eyes up and over America. “Hope I didn’t hurt you, gatinho.” America poked his tongue out.
“You’ll need to do better next time to do any real damage to nation like me!” America proclaimed. England back-handed him to the head. “Hey!”
“You should say thank you.”
“Geez, what for? Getting punched?” America ruefully looked at the slight Iberian country. “Can’t really thank for that, derp.”
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“Got to be prepared.” Portugal chimed in. “Got to be prepared for anything on the highseas!” With a toss of the head and red hair, the country erupted into genuinely terrifying, and confident laughter. Alfred decided he either liked the little wildcat for their adventurous attitude, or the spirit it would take for such a tiny place to take on a much larger place like America. But he definitely liked Portugal. Green eyes sparkling, Pip stopped laughing, and settled on a confident smirk at England. “Never know what sort of pirates you can embarrass, Art?”
“You’re a pain, Pip.”
Portugal, was very similar to England, yes. That was probably why Alfred liked them already. England was a spitfire, who insisted on taking on most of the known world, and Portugal was a wildcat who had no misgivings about socking a superpower, and furthermore they both had vivid green eyes.
“Well, who’s being rude now UK?” America poked his tongue out at England. “I apologize for thinking you were Spain.” America did a clumsy bow, grinning from ear to ear.
“And?” There was a tap of the foot.
“And calling you a man.” America added.
Portugal gave a satisfactory nod, smiled at America, before she adjusted her goggles and with a swish of the flag tied about her shoulders, flicked at her short red hair. “I cut it back during the 18th. Couldn’t have helped you América. Or my clothes.” She gestured at the tomboyish, informal jeans and may have gestured at her fairly flat chest with a slight giggle. The giggle twisted into another confident, bordering on addictive laugh, and she sauntered over to the door. England yanked it open, teeth ground together, but polite to a t.
“Don’t overspend, Pip.” Arthur growled to her as she passed, and she swung round, kissing him on the cheek with her swift, careful way of doing things. “And try not to have any more of your damn revolutions.”
“Viva o Rei to you too.” Pip spat back, honey-toned, but still friendly and warm. With that, the short, and boyish nation left America and England to themselves. America jerked round to look at England; perhaps, in retrospect, he was an incredibly obtuse, oblivious, and downright idiotic person at times, but that really didn’t diminish what had sunk in.
“…’Pip’?”
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“How am I meant to drop it!” Alfred protested, eyes wide, and mouth open in objection to everything, and anything Arthur had to say. Really, things hadn’t changed that much since America was a boy, he still would never listen. “How come you never told me about her?” America jerked back, gasping in shock. “Ohmygod, you two are actually twins, separated at birth and she doesn’t know but you do and it’s really awkward and hard for you and-?”
“What the fuck?” England whipped round suddenly, and found himself inches from America. He took a step back, jumping slightly. Damn tall bastard; he walked too quickly.
“I’m kidding.” America narrowed his eyes, and followed after England, who continued stepping back. “But how come I don’t know anything about her? You two have had an alliance for years, and I’ve never once heard you mention her at all. So. What’s the game?” England edged back, and America kept perfect pace, until England’s back bumped gently into the wall, and America shoved his face (long bridge of the nose, girlish lashes, glint of Texas and flare of blue eyes) right up to England’s face. “Well?” He demanded.
England paused, brows furrowed, and flushed slightly. The pause shifted and slid into an uncomfortable silence, England wilting under America’s gaze, and America’s good hand took England’s chin in his hands. The raw strength of the country simmered; even under the current economic strain, America’s infrastructure, ferocity, military, resources, confidence, gold standard, beliefs, and education system writhed, and roiled in his skin. America was hardly being gentle, as he tipped England’s head either way.
“You’re so secretive…” America murmured, somewhere between the eager and anxious country that had followed him home, and the dark, reserved one that had Arthur pressed up against his own wall. Alfred’s index finger brushed against Arthur’s lips. “Especially about your past.” Alfred pushed closer, tasting the heat of England’s body through the gauze of his shirt, weave of his jacket, before stopping short at the hard bulge between them.
The two glanced down at America’s injured arm, bumping between their bodies. “Ah.” England murmured, his voice pale like weak tea, brewing in his throat. “Your arm…” His voice drained. Alfred leaned away for a moment, scanning up and down England, blue eyes harsh and probing; a physical thing sliding over The United Kingdom. Arthur shivered without entirely meaning to.
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Alfred shrugged his own jacket off, loosened his tie, and undid his top button with a nonchalance that had shivers bubbling down England’s spine. Slowly he flexed the injured arm, then with a more confident flourish; completely healed, and strong as ever. Satisfied, he returned his piercing gaze to Arthur; “How exactly do you know her?” America pressed forward again, nose almost brushing against England, Texas glinting fiercely, and the intensity alone had England colouring, sliding his hands up the wall to hold them up in front of him defensively. This America, England’s lukewarm blood murmured, was the one who had kicked and kicked at Japan to stop the Pacific front, before finally, and irrevocably altering the nation, securing for himself the title of the only nation to actually deploy nuclear warheads in an attack on civilians. This America, England’s panicking and pounding head informed him, could be brought to the point where he would fight completely, and raze his opponent to the ground. This America, England’s brain (slightly confounded by the razor-sharp eyes) added, was the one he would have shot.
They stared at one another for a few moments, Arthur’s mouth falling unceremoniously open as he grasped and groped for words. Alfred’s fingertips fluttered across England’s face again, much more restrained now, but the tension in them was enough to have Arthur shiverjolt from the action, feeling like someone was dancing a jig on his grave - probably Ireland, he reflected wryly. The tension slipped in, as Alfred tilted England’s face up to look at him, and America coolly stared at England, who flushed, held his own arms between them. This did not stop America’s onslaught of pressure, and America pressed, leaned, and laid his body fiercely against England’s. “What history do you two have?” America added once more, voice almost furious if the emotion had not been quite so subtly different.
The jarring sound of the doorbell, fanciful but ‘proper’ as befitted the residence of a nation, made them both turn to look down the winding corridors, looking after the sound. Already, the palpable sensation of Alfred’s intensity was dimming, and when Alfred turned to look back at Arthur, his eyes once more had the look of the one England would never have shot. Arthur lifted his arms, shoved America away from him, and stalked past: “My history is hardly secret, you cretin, take out a bloody library book on it.”
England’s voice carried down the corridor, full of far too much ire for it not to be a cover-up for the waver in it. “And pick up those clothes!”
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Is the title an Ediie Izzard reference? Because if it is, well, awesome.
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please continue!
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Pip. An interesting OC. I'm so used to Candesceres' smooth, smart, strong privateer Gabriel dos Anjos and the hot-piratey-sexy-sista in pixiv, this petite-tomboyish-older-sista takes some time getting used to, too. Pip is refreshing, tho. And I've never really interacted with real Portuguese, so I don't know which is more accurate to RL.
Just one thing. The scene where America cornered England. It doesn't seem as tho Alfred is jealous of Pip. Contrarily, it seems as though America is astonished by Pip, quickly fell for the quirky, energetic, confident woman and is jealous by England. May be because Alfred is described so coldly and his touches are described as a way to show power, and not so much with possessiveness or the intent to seduce. And Arthur's interactions with Pip are described like those of siblings, with Pip as an older sister (Arthur isn't really blushing so much, and Pip isn't romancing him)
I'm liking it so far, will read more.
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Either way, glad you're liking Pip. Portugal is a very awesome country, and I hope I can do it justice =] That aside, it is an Izzard reference, but it's sort of a working title. Izzard's flag sketch is good to watch whilst remembering Hetalia
Posessive!America is very hot in my opinion and you'll see more if it~!
Sorry for delay, hoping to get two more updates or so done by the end of the day.
---
The sound of bickering, and fussing like a pair of mother hens with a vendetta between them soon fell down the hallway to America, and thus he was not surprised when Arthur padded back into the room with Francis trailing after him. England’s arms were full of binders, but as always, he was griping at France.
“Why the hell didn’t you turn up to the meeting, frog?” England asked snippily. “It’s not like your economy is looking particularly peachy right now, and wipe that smug grin off your face.” Apparently Arthur was referring to Francis’ curious smile at the sight of Alfred picking up the jackets.
“Ah, L’Amerique, you look…” Francis glanced up and down America’s ruffled appearance. “As though I am interrupting something, somehow?” France’s (offensively smug) grin settled into a smirk.
“Oh don’t be crude.” England spat. “He skipped the meeting too.”
Francis nodded, the gesture simple and yet it still struck America as overtly fancy, like lace doilies. On the first look, just a white cloth, on closer inspection filled with nit-picky little details and patterns. “Oui, Oui.” France thought for a moment. “Ah, Angléterre, but I believe our friend L’Amerique was hosting the meeting.”
“He was.” England added, stepping past both of them, and towards his office. “I’ll just make photocopies for you Francis. But no, both of us had to leave.”
“Oh?” France raised a querulous eyebrow, situating himself onto a nearby couch, and gesturing for Alfred to join him. “The both of you?” He questioned. Slowly.
“He mistook Portugal for Spain,” Arthur explained with a flashing glare over his shoulder, and shifting his grip on the pile of binders in order to open the door to the study. “Pi- Filipa kicked his arm. I got the files, however, and Alfred did not. I was helping with…” England trailed off into his study, voice fading, and preoccupied with getting the files (and possibly the Frenchman out of his home).
Meanwhile, France had turned to look at America, and promptly given a snort of delight. Alfred, pride stinging, sat down on the opposing couch, and tucked the two jackets over his arm, crumpling them further. “My arm’s fine now.” He finally protested. Francis wiped at his eye lightly, chuckled again, and somehow the restraint of the laughter made it all that much worse. “I was never introduced to her! Okay?”
“Non?” France smiled at America. “Ah, but le Anglo-Portuguese alliance, it is-”
“He didn’t tell me anything!” America’s voice was a bit loud, and no doubt England could hear it from the other room.
“Ah, and you two, you two are so close!” Francis slyly glanced at the study, but Alfred was too distressed to notice this.
“I know!” Alfred crossed his arms, and leaned back into the couch. “I mean, I thought we were, like-”
“Companions of the heart, non?”
“Yes!”
“Yet, he doesn’t tell you of the other woman, oh, oh what shall we do, L’Amerique?”
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“What on earth are you doing; are you trying to destroy my living room, you wanker?” Arthur’s fingers tapped on his arm, and he gave a very slightly twitch. “I honestly can’t leave you alone for five fucking minutes before you end up getting yourself into trouble.”
America rolled over, and clambered to his feet, laughing nervously. Francis, attempting to swallow up his laughter, helped America right himself, and quickly scooped up the suit jackets. “Here, Angleterre~” France smiled, and collapsed into subdued guffaws.
“Thank you.” England stiffly answered, accepting the jackets, he passed America’s back to him. “What were you two discussing?”
“You have a lover!” Alfred blurted out, eyes bugging slightly.
“I was just telling L’Amerique here about your…” Francis paused, tapped his chin lightly as he looked for words, then clicked his fingers in delight. “Special relationship with Mademoiselle Portugal. How many years has it been now, my dear friend, five hundred or so? Half a millennia, goodness.” Alfred closed his mouth, suddenly quieter, looking between Arthur and Francis. “You and her are practically married, after-all.”
Arthur shrugged, “The Anglo-Portuguese Alliance is not exactly a secret matter. Just as I was telling Alfred here.” He pointed at a nearby bookshelf. “I’m sure I have the records somewhere, feel free to borrow some texts.” He pointed at a counter. “The files are there.” England crossed his arms.
America tipped his head at England, mouth set in a hurt line.
“Ah, Angleterre, you’ve upset our good friend here by being so secretive.” Francis smirked. “Ohh, but what pos-”
“Can you get out of my house?” England asked harshly.
France and England looked at each other steadily for a few moments; apparently an armistice was found, because Francis shrugged with a non-particular elegance. “Oui, bonsoir.”
Alfred and Arthur met eyes, listening to the creaking sound of France leaving the house. Clearing his throat, America shuffled his grip on the suit jacket; “Arthur it-”
“I meant you too.” Snapped England. Almost straightaway the isle softened. “Forgive me, I’ve had a long day. I would appreciate you leaving me in peace.”
America nodded awkwardly, and stepped over to the bookcase, crouching down and scanning the shelves. Arthur was sure Alfred was taking more time than he might need, and just as Arthur was about to aggressively demand Alfred take his leave at that exact moment, America stood up, a book clasped in his hand, and with an uncommon nervousness, shuffled away.
“Night, England.” Alfred mumbled, and England listened to his footsteps echo away. Before sinking into one of his armchairs, and flopping back in it, sighing, eyes closed and finally alone. He gave a groan, and stretched out; long day did not begin to cover it.
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So, here's what we've got so far, plus some notes, take care for an info-dump;
Portugal - Filipa Avis - Filipa comes from the daughter of John Gaunt who was involved in the Anglo-Portuguese alliance, and is a common portuguese name. Avis comes from the name of an early Portuguese royal lineage descended from the House of Burgundy. Pip is sort of a tomboy.
Ireland - Ruairi Cétchathach - Ruairi or Ruaidhi (or other variants haha) is considered to have been the last King of Ireland. This is mostly due to Ruairi primarily representing Northern Ireland. His last name comes from the surname of the first presumed King of Ireland who envisioned Ireland's monarchy. Ireland is sort of detached from the others. Arthur used to bully him a lot, and at times, Ruairi stands up to him.
Wales - Myrddin Llywelyn - First name is the welsh form of Merlin, and last name is taken from the particular man Gruffyd Llywelyn (variants for both names exist of course) who managed to hold the territories of wales together. He was a cool dude. Wales is also pretty cool, and more passive-aggressive than anything else. Arthur used to bully him a lot.
Scotland - Gawain Alpin - Gawain was a Knight of the Round Table, and that's pretty much where I got the name. I wish it was a better reason! That aside, Alpin is an early royal lineage of scotland. Gawain has a tendency to steal British landmarks (and the crown jewels) but is fond and protective of his brothers; used to stand up to England to prevent him from bullying his brothers.
Right enough infodumping =]
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It was one thing for Filipa Avis to show up to a meeting; this had happened over the years. Admittedly, since the colonies had slipped through the fingertips of the old powers, she had grown quieter and less likely to turn up to meetings. Filipa hadn’t even bothered to directly associate herself with the second war: she was injured, tired, and her spirit was warring with itself, it was understandable. So, Arthur had dealt with her appearances over the years, and yes, they were still close, what he had yet to deal with was Alfred F. Jones getting not only her attention, but her getting his attention too. France didn’t help.
That made for a long day.
America cornering him in his own house also made it an extremely long day.
With a groan, Arthur reached to the side, plucked his mobile off the counter, fingers missing the teacup (filled with brandy, and definitely not tea) but only just, and stabbed at the keypad.
“G’wain?” Arthur slurred into the phone.
“Yer drunk.” A distinctly Scottish brogue replied. “What happened?”
“Pip.” Arthur mumbled. “ ’Lfred.” There was a light smashing noise as Arthur made a grab for his cup and missed. “Oh balls…”
“Right.” Gawain interrupted Arthur. “Sounds like yer bin on the dram, I’ll get Ruairi and you-” Scotland paused, “You phone Myrddin, alright? And stay put.”
“Cheers.” The muffled sound of England flopping out of the chair, followed by a wincing owch made Scotland roll his eyes.
“I said t’stay put, Art.” England punched at the phone with a finger, and then put it to his ear again.
“Merlin, y’ there?”
“Still Gawain.”
“Bullshit, put in ‘is numb-”
“I’m hangin’ up now Arthur.”
“Fuck you.” England spat into the phone, before poking at it again, and trying to remember who he was meant to phone exactly.
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“Rainy days in England.” Myrddin added from the side, before propping Arthur up with Gawain, and the two of them dragged him over to the couch. Ruairi, muttering to himself, stalked to England’s armchair and proceeded to attack the rest of the mess.
“Eh wouldn’t drink this slop with ‘is mouth.” Ireland muttered, picking up the porcelain chips. “Why do I ‘ave to be ‘ere then?” Despite this, he finished tidying the floor, and then pushed the offensive armchair towards the couch, and plopped down in it. “ ‘Ow drunk is our dear brother, then?”
“Head over tits,” England supplied, almost muffled in the couch. “Trolleyed, Piss-poor drunk, hammered, arseholed-”
“Yer always an arsehole.” Gawain snapped, pulling Arthur upright.
“This stuff is utter swill.” Ruairi snapped, sniffing at the chair.
“Y’rs no better.” England glowered, swaying slightly on the spot. “Bloody twit; why arnt ya go b’ck ta Erin I’ yer hate me so.” Arthur groaned. “T’ British are comin’.”
Wales passed a glass of scotch to Gawain, and a can of beer to Ruairi. “ ‘Ere.”
Gawain slugged the scotch down, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Goin’ to be a long night.” England leaned heavily against Scotland, mumbling haplessly about whether or not he’d be ready for the Armada. “Any o’ yer got an idea as to what happened?”
“He was bitchin’ about Pip and Alfred t’ me.” Myrddin supplied from the side, sipping his own drink. Myrddin stood up awkwardly. “Want some food?” Myrddin left, heading towards the kitchen, without needing to hear the following requests. Also, none of the brothers expected Arthur to keep their requests in the house; likely Myrddin was heading to a local chippie. The jangle of housekeys and slam of the door confirmed this.
Arthur began to snore heavily against Scotland’s side, and Gawain carefully stole England’s wristwatch. Ruairi sniffed at the gesture, but said nothing, instead listening intently to a pooka at his shoulder. Gawain slipped England’s watch onto his own arm, and waited for Ruairi to finish consulting the goblin-esque creature.
“Seems Alfred ‘ttempted to rape our brother.” Ruairi yawned.
“Yer joking.” Scotland pursed his lips, shifting England’s position against his shoulder with a grunt.
“Alfie made friends wiv’ Portugal.” Ireland clarified. “Cornered Art in here; Froglegs stuck ‘is bill in. Alf’s still got ‘is questions, and ‘e was close ‘nough to lick Art’s face.” The Island shrugged “Seems clear-cut t’ me: anglo-guese ‘lliance verse special relationship,” Ruairi yawned once more, tucking his legs up.
“Verse Frenchie,” Gawain added. Ireland nodded acceptingly
“Wonder who ‘e-” He nodded at Arthur. “S’drinking for.”
“Arthur wouldnae appreciate yer sittin’ like that on ‘is stuff.” Scotland remonstrated.
“Art ‘wouldnae’ appreciate your takin’ of ‘is stuff.” Ireland snapped back, and settled in the chair, looking to the side with a sigh. “Still don’t see why I ‘ave to be ‘ere.” Despite looking away, and being curled up away from Scotland and England, Ruairi did not so much as move from his chair. “Long night.”
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“Alfie’s a good kid.” Ireland commented. “Ya’ should give ‘im a chance.”
“Chance f’ what?” England snuggled up to Scotland, outright nuzzling him. “Git, g’t your feet offa’ my chair.” Ruairi made no movements to put his feet down, shrugging.
“Heard Pip dropped by.” Gawain interrupted. “How are you and ‘er?”
“Mrf.” England stared at his wrist, a baffled expression sliding onto his face. “Where’s Ben?” It was a groggy statement.
Ruairi shrugged from the armchair. “Ayedunno.” It came out as a single word, and was more insulting than anything else. Ireland looked at Scotland with a quiet, and pensive smirk. “Not France. ‘e has better taste tha’ nat. Trust me this is between Pippa n’ Alfie.” Ireland folded his hands across his chest, and gave a defiant nod. “Mark my words.”
“We oft’n do.” Myrddin commented, shrugging his coat off and setting a parcel of newspaper wrapped fish and chips to Ruairi. “Come now, Art.” Wales passed two packages to Gawain, who then opened one up for Arthur. England turned a rather vivid shade of green at the smell of the oily chips.
“Oh Christ.” Arthur sucked in a gulp of air, and then the mighty, great and proud nation of England promptly leant his head forward and vomited on the floor.
“Tax returns?” Wales sighed, and Ireland with a noise of annoyance put his food to the side and jumped to his feet, ready to clean up the mess.
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One thing, if I may? I think the phonetic accents can be a bit confusing sometimes. I hope I haven't offend you.
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Alfred gaped at the book, holding it away from him, as if it might actually bite him. If he measured history in Americas (which didn’t seem like that bad a unit of measurement) then England and Portugal had been officially allies for at least two Americas before he was born. By the time Alfred had been old enough to talk, Arthur and Portugal had probably been kissing in cupboards, or maybe on the deck of some romantic ship.
“I don’t ship it!” America managed to cough out. In fact, if he’d been on that type of ship, he would have abandoned it. He dragged the book back under his eyes, and adjusted Texas.
The Anglo-Portuguese alliance was the oldest enforced alliance in the world, and was still active today. Portugal had provided assistance of some kind in both the world wars, and even volunteered her lands for bases. I mean, you just didn’t take that kind of risk unless you really cared for someone. She’d even been trading with England during the Napoleonic wars, and got invaded because of it. That was some serious commitment.
On the other hand, he, America had showed up late to both wars, and threw a revolution in England’s face. Against Pip’s loyalty and dedication, there wasn’t really much Alfred could say for himself. He swallowed. With an ally like that, even he’d be loathe to turn his back on her.
God in heaven, Pip had introduced Arthur to tea? His most-beloved drink. Portugal had introduced him to it. She lay claim to something he still indulged in. “I mean maybe E-England just likes his tea.” America stuttered to himself. “I mean he does, so.” Or maybe it was attachment to her…”
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Alfred sighed, leaning back at his desk, and snapped the spine of the book, flattening it on the desk, and too distracted to wonder exactly what Arthur would tell him if he saw. America should have been looking at the files for the meeting, but it was difficult t-
America’s phone rang, noisily interrupting his reverie (minor reverie, but reverie nonetheless). He flipped it open and pressed it to his ear. “Heya.” His generally perky greeting was tinged with listlessness, but thankfully his boss presumed it to be tiredness and asked America to update him on the day’s events. This was slightly more distracting, and Alfred allowed it to distract him, focusing on the details and relating them.
When the phone call finally ended, Alfred sighed and was forcefully returned to his thought-processes. His brain was swiftly running out of the will to keep considering the matter, but it still managed to demand why Alfred was going through this. The simple, and short answer: jealousy. Jealousy would of course me- -his phone went off again, and Alfred stared at it, wondering at the sort of coincidences involved in holding a phone that began ringing. Not a number he recognized either.
He snapped it open, “Heya. Alfred Jones here?”
“Noswaith dda, America.”
“Pardon?”
There was an annoyed scuffling at the other end of the phone call. “Good Evening America. How are you?”
“I’m…goo-ooood…” America replied suspiciously. “Uhm. Who is this?”
“Myrddin.” America stared at the ceiling dumbly. “Myrddin Llywelyn.” America hummed. “Merlin.” Still nothing. “…Wales.”
“Oh right! England’s brother!” Alfred blinked and swore. “Shit, what can I do for you?”
“I have something to discuss with you in private.” Myrddin sounded extremely annoyed, but heavily disguising it. “Could we meet, perhaps? I know a café that is ideal.”
“Uh. Isn’t England meant to be the one who arranges this kind of thing? I mean he repr-”
“They are matters of a revolutionary nature.” Myrddin supplied. “I’d prefer it if you didn’t tell Arthur about it; he would not approve of my separating from his representation.”
“Ah.” America stopped short. “Wait, what? I don’t really want to go behind Arthur’s back y’know.” Alfred’s eyes narrowed.
“I simply require moral support from as inspiring a person as you.” Myrddin answered smoothly.
Realistically, that dry voice should have tipped Alfred off.
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