From Ghoulies and Ghosties - CH2

[kototyph]

From Ghoulies and Ghosties
» Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
» Rating: T
» Classification(s): Action/Adventure, Supernatural, Humor
» Summary: The nations celebrate Halloween in their own… special ways. Featuring ‘Denmark and Prussia Go to the Liquor Store’ ©, LindaBlair!Iceland, Belarus as a floor shark, Turkey-nomming Greek cats, and much, much more.
» Author Note: I started this last Halloween and wrote almost all of it in a huge hurry, so I can’t guarantee quality or even readability.

[ Prologue] [ CH1] [ CH2] [ CH3] [ Epilogue]


And Long Leggity Beasties

"Italien."

"Mmhm."

"Feliciano, we've arrived."

"Hrn..." The Italian's eyes blinked slowly open. "Che?" he pouted, still not completely awake.

A reluctant smile tugged at the corners of Ludwig's mouth, but he maintained a stern expression. "We're home, and unless you plan to sleep here… no, that was a joke! Italien!"

In the end, Ludwig had to carry him again, Feliciano's head snuggled cozily into the German's shoulder and his arms wrapped loosely around his neck. He knocked softly at the door and was gratified when it opened with barely a pause. "Ach, Roder-what are you wearing?"

The blindingly-besequined and pomaded Austrian gave him a very cold look. "You're late. And Elizabeta chose our costumes."

If he had been a more crass nation, that is to say more like his older brother, Ludwig may have been tempted to cough out, "Pussy whipped!" As it was, he was somewhat shocked the word even crossed his mind and mentally berated himself as he toed off his shoes and followed the retreating nation into the cheery halls of the German embassy.

Elizabeta was in the kitchen, idling over the sink where a few candy-sticky dishes remained. In the adjoining den, an old episode of Scooby-Doo was playing with the sound down. The laugh track swelled as Ludwig carefully lowered the Italian onto the loveseat; it took a moment to convince Feliciano that he wanted to let go of Ludwig, and in the end he dragged the German's jacket with him and spooned himself around it with a sleepy mumble. The small sleeping form of a child with what appeared to be brown Astroturf glued to his entire body was curled up in an armchair next to the loveseat, and a large plush tomato barely recognizable as Southern Italy lay on the floor, covered with a blanket and snoring softly.

Ludwig returned to the kitchen and gladly accepted the mug of hot cider that Roderich handed him. The three nations pulled out chairs and sat around the kitchen table, and, after a long sip, the German asked, "When did Peter and Lovino get here?"

"Oh, we've had quite the party without you," Elizabeta said with a smile, her lips an exaggerated shiny apple red. It clashed horribly with her blue rhinestone glasses. "We agreed to watch Peter for Tino earlier today, so it was going to be just the three of us."

"Then Lovino ran in looking for asylum," Roderich added, taking a sip himself. "Spain dressed him like that and then demanded he go out dancing with him. Schwachsinnige." As he spoke, Ludwig's attention was caught once more by his hair. That hair! It had literally gained five inches of volume off his head, sweeping up and down in a slick wave of ridiculous proportions. Never mind the jumpsuit and tassels, the hair was just wahnsinnig.

While he was distracted, Elizabeta had gone on. "And after that, Sadip swung by with Northern Cyprus. They had the cutest matching costumes! Even Seychelles and Lietchenstein stopped in for a bit while they were trick-or-treating. They managed to somehow loose Vash in the city, but they remembered that you had a house here and we were able to point them home."

"Speaking of lost brothers, I see you don't have yours. Is he gone for good, I hope?" Roderich asked with raised eyebrows.

The German pinched the bridge of his nose to try and quell the headache that threatened at the very mention of Gilbert. "I left him alive and whole at the American's party."

"Tragikus," Elizabeta sighed.

"And sure not to last, Liza. If anyone in this world has more talent for getting into trouble, you and I have yet to meet him."

[Schwachsinnige- imbecile; wahnsinnig - mindboggling; Tragikus - tragic]

"Oh holy Gott, I think I'm dying! Dänemark, Dänemark, are you there? Bring out the holy wafer! Read me my latht riteth!" The cold wind whistling in and out of the Prussian's strained lungs felt like fire, and he had his eyes squeezed shut in pain as his chest heaved and his abused legs muscles twinged and shook. He lay spread eagle in the soft dirt of a frostbitten flowerbed, next to a fountain filled with dead leaves.

The idiot Dane, who was sprawled in a similar position next to him, panted out a slightly hysterical laugh. "We escaped! We're alive! We were not chopped to bits by the Arrowed Green Lantern Head!"

"But where the hell are we?" the Prussian wheezed out. "We ran for hourth!" It had been more like forty minutes, the Green Arrow proving extremely persistent in his homicidal intent. They'd finally lost him by jumping brick fences, one after the other, until they reached a park and jumped behind the fountain. Now, they were exhausted, bloody and covered in mud, but at least they were alive.

Mathias moaned pitifully. "And it's so cold! Can't feel m'fingers, Preussen; er så slemt?"

Gilbert twisted his head to the side and managed to grin at the Dane. "Nein, nein. It's only too late when you can't feel your di-"

Had the two been less wrapped up in their own bodily misery, they might have heard the approaching footsteps. As it was, Gilbert's eyes shot wide as a voice just above his left ear said, "Eho, gentlemen. Tiptoeing through the tulips, are we?"

He looked up and for a moment, all he saw was green. He was still so breathless that all he managed was a shrill shriek reminiscent of a hamster being stepped on. The hazy mass of green resolved itself into a sphere; Gilbert kept screaming, just in case it remained necessary. The airheadedly smiling face in the center of the green sphere, and Mathias's closed fist swinging into his stomach, finally stopped the noise.

"Onkel... Rom?" he coughed out, hardly daring to believe his refocused eyes.

Then: "… are you drethed ath a giant M&M?"

"I am!" The once-great nation confirmed, grabbing Gilbert by the arm and jerking him to his feet. "As you younguns would say, the chickens dig it."

"Chicks, ret?" Mathias corrected, sitting up. "Preussian's Onkel, I am quite sure that they don't. You look like a fifth-grader. Eller en pædofil."

"Nonsense!" the Roman exclaimed cheerfully, helping him up as well. "Now, why were you in the flowerbed? You can tell Uncle."

Gilbert waved his arms wildly. "Thome crazy fuck in green accothted uth with a crothbow!"

"That… sounds somehow familiar," the Roman said slowly. "Go on."

"Then he chathed uth with an ax for mileth after we broke hith crothbow!"

The Roman winced. "That sounds painfully familiar, actually. But! Boys, I think I have the solution for you."

Despite themselves, Mathias and Gilbert found themselves leaning in as the Roman beckoned them closer, putting a friendly puffy-white-gloved hand on each of their shoulders.

"Listen to me, boys," he said, glancing from side to side before lowering his voice conspiratorially. "The three necessities in this world are booze, drugs and women. You can substitute many things for that last one, but believe Uncle when I tell you that nice, compliant, ax-less non-Germanic women are the best. Now, if you stand on that corner," and here he pointed to a dimly lit curb on the other side of the street, "you should get all three in short order. Bonam noctem!"

And the ancient, possibly senile nation released them and wandered off into the cold night, singing some old song only he knew the words too. Mathias and Gilbert stared after him until the darkness swallowed him whole.

"Your uncle… is engalning," the Dane pronounced solemnly.

"Ja, I know."

[Er så slemt? - Is that bad?; Eller en pædofil- Or a pedophile; engalning - a lunatic]

Tino was worried.

They were more than halfway into the movie, and onscreen, nothing alarming had happened for quite some time. Sweden's arms were loose around him, and the other nation had relaxed into couch and seemed almost calm. The Finn risked a glance over his shoulder and saw that Berwald's eyes had drifted nearly closed behind his glasses. He closed his own eyes in relief. No, there was nothing on that front to cause anxiety.

It was Iceland and Norway. They had yet to return to the living room, nor was there any sign that they would; after the crash and the few soft scuffles following it, no more sound had emerged from kitchen-but the kitchen light was still on; he could see a thin stripe of yellow against the dark wall of the hallway from where he sat. Mitä ihmettä he tekevät?

Experimentally, Tino shifted forward against Berwald's slackened grip and was relieved when the other nation allowed him to. He attempted to rise to his feet, and could only sigh as a still half-asleep Swede instantly clung to him. The nation's eyes slid further open, and he squinted up at the Finn with an expression that on normal people might have been sweetly sleepy or adorably confused. On the Swede it could only be described as a deathly glare. "Hn…? Wh't's h'pp'ning?"

Tino swallowed, telling himself that under there somewhere was adorable sweetness. Adorible sweetness! "I want to check on Lukas and Iceland. They've been gone for so long… that I… er…" The deathly glare was only increasing in intensity. "Really, I'll be just a se-"

The door to the kitchen swung open with a long, drawn-out creak of hinges.

Both of the nations turned in the direction of the noise, as a man-shaped shadow imposed itself on the square of light projecting on the hallway wall. The light clicked off, and the shadow disappeared.

Slow dragging footsteps made their way down the short hallway, and Tino became aware of suddenly being unable to breathe as Sweden arms tightened like vises around him. A figure stepped into the pool of light cast by the television, and Tino managed a short gasp.

It was Iceland, and he was covered in something dark and dripping. His hands, his feet, and a few smears on his face were a slick purple in the flickering blue light of the screen, and his eyes were huge and fixed on his wet fingers. Tino leapt like a salmon out of Berwald's grip and ran to him.

"Iceland! Iceland! Are you alright? Where's Lukas?" He grabbed his hands, and the smaller nation mumbled something soft and inaudible and curled his fingers around Tino's. The Finn turned to the lone nation still on the couch. "We're going back to the kitchen. No, stay here, I'll be just a second, okei? I just need to find Lukas."

The Swede, who had been in the midst of rising, slowly sat back down as Tino guided the younger nation back down the hallway and out of sight. The Icelander left dark, distinct footprints on the wood floor.

Onscreen, sudden dramatic music rang out, and Berwald turned his head just in time to see the possessed girl scuttling in a crabwalk backwards down the stairs. A close-up of her contorted, rictus grin had him pressing wide-eyed back into the cushions, clutching a Finn-replacement pillow to his chest.

[Mitä ihmettä he tekevät?- What on earth are they doing?]

"Gilbert."

"Ja?"

The Dane looked at him, dragging on the filter of his very last, end of the carton, no-stubs-in-his-pockets-and-no-one-to-bum-off cigarette. "We've been waiting here for a while now."

"Ja." The Prussian was sitting on the curb with his arms around his knees, head resting sideways across them.

Uncle Rome's questionable state of mind aside, the Prussian and the Dane had found themselves by unspoken agreement loitering on the darkened street corner for a bit longer than absolutely necessary, but it had been close to half an hour now and the Dane's unspoken agreement had run out some time ago. Adding to that, there was nothing but burnt synthetic fiber entering his lungs now. "I was just wondering-"

Gilbert lifted his head. "Thhhh, do you hear that?"

The Dane finally conceded the end of his smoke and flicked the butt into the street. "Ha ha, meget sjovt."

"Ernsth, Dänemark! Don't you?"

After a moment of silence, Mathias did indeed hear something: the sound of a motor, a large one, approaching from an unseen end of the street. He looked up, and one of the signs jutting out of the brick sidewalk was indeed a metropolitan bus stop sign.

"Are we supposed to catch the bus?" he wondered out loud as he climbed to his feet with Gilbert, a hand on his neck as he tried to stretch out the kinks.

"Vielleicht," Gilbert shrugged.

The noise of the motor grew nearer, and Mathias was aware of another sound growing along with it: the sort of dull roar that only hundreds of conversations going at once could produce. It wasn't until the vehicle in question lumbered into view that the Dane understood the implications of the two sounds in the same place, and he began to back away from the street as the bus sagged to a stop in front of them. "Er, Preussen-"

The doors of the bus burst open, and all hell broke loose.

Logically, there could only probably be seventy, perhaps a hundred people on a bus meant to seat forty. As the rushing, running streams of people battered, bruised and drug him bodily away from the curb, they seemed to number in the thousands, their painted faces and howling, drunken voices recalling his battles against Arthur's woad-dyed peoples all those centuries ago. The press of bodies swept him away and into the side of a tall stone retaining wall, where it pinned him. "Preussen!" he tried to call out, but the noise of the crowd swallowed his yell. The situation was growing dire as the volume of people swelled and he was crushed harder and harder into the wall; any second now, he was going to go under, and lort, people died in stampedes-

Damn that Russian bastard, anyway. Who the hell drinks twenty-two highballs and stays upright?

"¡Upita!" shouted a cheerful voice, and Mathias suddenly found himself hoisted by the armpits out of the thronging crowd and pulled onto the top of the wall he had been crushed against. He tilted his head back and was looking into the smiling face of Spain, oddly enough sporting curly horns of some kind. "¡Hola, Dinamarca! ¿Qué diablos estás haciendo aquí?"

Mathias was silent for a moment, as passengers pressed past his still dangling legs and the hue and riot below them grew. "… I don't suppose you have booze, drugs and women, do you?"

The Spainard tilted his head to the side, quizzically. "Well, I have a few bottles, yes, and mi Holanda has plenty of drugs as well. As for the having of women, you will have to ask mi Bélgica herself." He nodded over to their right, to where Holland and Belgium were bodily hauling Gilbert up by his flailing limbs. "She is very particular, though, I warn you."

Gilbert clawed his way away from the edge and collapsed in the dead grass next to Antonio, his head in the Spaniard's lap. "MeinGott! 'Tonio, I thought I was dead! Why are you wearing a shag rug?"

The Spainard laughed and pet his head. "For so many years I've been eltorero, but this year I decided, why not be eltoro instead? What, you do not like my costume?"

"It's very… fuzzy," the Prussian said, spitting out some of that fuzz.

"Eh, you sound like Lovino. Ay, he was so cute in his tomato suit this year! Just as he is every year."

"Poor kid," Gilbert mumbled under his breath.

"Hah?"

In lieu of an answer, Gilbert each up and tugged at Antonio's furry sleeve. "Na,so, what did you do instead of coming to the American's house?"

"Well, let's see," Antiono began, bracing his hands behind him and letting his head fall back, grinning goofily up at the night sky. "I lost my poor Lovino, but found my dearest Low Countries!"

Half of the Low Countries in question rolled their eyes, and the other half simply continued to smoke the long, thin pipe he had produced from somewhere on his person. Seeing Mathias's longing glance, he passed it over. It made the Dane's eyes water.

"We went many places, raves, clubs, the campus, someone's apartment. I tell you, America is not the place to have a holiday. So many policemen! One party had a drink limit, do you hear? And that bus was horrendous. We waited for hours, and when the bus came the driver wouldn't let us on!"

Belgium rubbed at the pale green glitter dusting her face. "C'estvrai. The crowd had nearly tipped it over before he opened the door."

"You almost toppled a bus?" Mathias started to laugh. "I wish I was there, we would have rolled it to the river!" He passed the pipe back to Holland, and the nation gave him a little baggy of brightly-colored something. Mathias scooped out a few before passing it to the prone Gilbert, who ate one, made a face and mumbled, "Th'thnot a Thmartie."

"And then, I had to ride the entire way under a seat. Under it!"

"Brother sat on top of him," Belgium elaborated. "I sat on Hollande's lap. And a few people sat on top of me. We were, how do you say? Entassés comme des sardines."

"Why were you taking a bus here?" Gilbert asked, his head turned to tuck into the curve of Spain's hip.

The Spaniard stared down at him. "Eh?"

"Why here? Is there anything überwältigend around?"

Antonio looked at him to a moment longer, then turned his gaze back to the sky, tapping his chin thoughtfully. "I wonder…"

The Low Countries exchanged looks of deep exasperation. "I knew it!" Belgium said, her accent thickening in pique. "Zere was no reason to get on zat bus, was zere?" The fairy wings attached to her back shook indignantly.

Spain smiled winningly. "It seemed like a good idea?"

"He daar."

The nations all looked over to the previously silent Holland. The nation pointed.

"The street. 'S empty."

"Ah, so it is," Antonio said, and without further ado he propped Gilbert upright and scooted off the top of the retaining wall, back onto the brick sidewalk. "Ah~," he inhaled deeply, and stretched out his arms to the night. "Now that we're all together, queridos amigos, what shall we do?"

And that was when the Green Arrow leapt screaming out of the bushes with two pistols.

[meget sjovt - very funny; Ernst - seriously; Vielleicht - Maybe; lort - shit; Upita - Upsy-Daisy; Hola, Dinamarca! ¿Qué diablos estás haciendo aquí? - Hello, Denmark! What the hell are you doing here?; überwältigend - awesome…?; Entassés comme des sardines - packed in like sardines; queridos amigos - dear friends]

As it happened, Greece's embassy was only a few houses down from the Turkish ambassador's place. After tucking in Cyprus, Sadiq couldn't resist a little nighttime stroll in that direction, and the short pause under the only lit window of course couldn't be helped. The breaking and entering might possibly have been prevented, but the damn lazy Greek had somehow managed to evade him all evening, even in his blindly cute kitten costume, and the Turk was going to see him in it, close up, if it was the last thing he did.

Rounding a corner in an upstairs hallway, he was met by a tiny grey tabby-striped cat padding towards him from the opposite direction. It mewed at him, a thin, cute little noise.

"Awww," he cooed, crouching down to scritch the small thing under the chin. "Hello, kedi yavrusu-"

"Merroow!"

He looked over his shoulder. Another cat- this one an orange marmalade- had appeared behind him. It cocked its head and stared with an unwavering intensity that was slightly spooky.

Still, it was just as adorable as the tabby. He pivoted on the toe of his boot and was reaching out to pet it when a chorus of meows rang out from the direction he'd just turned. He looked back, and five more cats of varying shades and ages had joined the tabby.

"Well, aren't you all such pretty kitties," he said uneasily. They watched him with large, unblinking eyes, and Sadiq felt a slight chill at the expression glinting in them. They all looked so oddly…

Hungry.

He glanced back at the marmalade and nearly jumped out of his skin; he was now facing more than twenty cats, and as he watched, more tricked out of the open doorways lining the hall to join the growing, seething crowd. The meows were growing louder, too, and now they struck a sinister cord in his ear.

"Ah… güzel kediler? İyi kediler?" he tried, rising slowly to his feet. The cats followed him, pressing in a close circle around his feet. There were so many of them! They flooded into the hallway from all directions, until he couldn't see the carpeted floor for furry bodies and gleaming, staring eyes.

"Er, Greece?" he called out softly, swallowing against panic as the cats backed him into the wall, meows growing lower and more intense with every second. "Heracles? Merhaba?" One of the soft bodies brushed against his leg, and he jumped back into the plaster with a thump. "Heracles!"

The circling cats began scratching at his pant legs, their needlesharp claws digging easily into the skin beneath. He yelped and tried to shake them off, but for every demon cat he got rid of two took its place. They were starting to climb him, the din of yowls, mews, wails and howls ringing in his ears like the bells of hell.

"HERACLES! Tanrım, ben ölmek istemiyorum-!"

The small tabby leapt for his face, and Sadiq managed one short, terrified scream before the meowing tide buried him completely.

[kedi yavrusu - kitten; güzel kediler? İyi kediler? - Good cats? Nice cats?; Merhaba - hello; Tanrım, ben ölmek istemiyorum-! - (Oh) God, I don't want to die-!]

A/N: Lesson learned: the Greek embassy is a dangerous place. Do not come without tuna.