Babel
Title: Babel
Characters: America, England, France, Spain, Austria, Hungary, Prussia, Germany, Feliciano, Lovino, Belarus and Russia. And mentions of others
Rating: PG-13
Warning: Severely unitelligent. And some foreign words.
Summary: An argument over whose language is the best. Sort of.
Notes: Written for pyrrhiccomedy, for her reverse request meme. The prompt was LANGUAGE KINK. I don't care who, I don't care what languages. I just want an argument about whose language is best. Sex is optional. If there is sex, dirty talk in their languages (and bickering about how that's so much hotter/more intimate in my language, you know) is not optional. There is no sex. My apologies, but i just wanted a huge clusterfuck of the Nations yelling at each other.
They were lounging about the World Conference room. Things have progressed far past any actual progress, and it was at the point during the meetings when America was blabbing on and on about God knows what, while everybody else went about their antics. That is, until America, on a roll with whatever he was talking about, proudly declared “--and That is why English is the best language ever!”
Normally, this proclamation would have gone wholly unnoticed. But, as it were, France had not been fondling anybody, nor laid a single well-manicured hand on any of the Nations this particular day. Most would say that this was an act of God. But they could not have anticipated the chaos that would ensue.
“Excusez-moi? You surely jest, mon ami.” France practically sighed the words.
“Oh, don’t bother arguing with the twat. It will save us all some headaches if you just let ‘im ramble on as usual.” A tired British voiced came from a tired British man. England didn’t get much sleep last night, and he desperately needed a drink.
France hmphed in England’s general direction, and decided to ignore him. With a slightly raised voice, France cut through the excited jumble of words that poured forth from America’s mouth. “Mon ami! Did you hear me?”
“What’s up, France? You have something to add on the brilliance of English, and how we should teach it to animals, but not just the ones that can already talk like parrots, the ones that need to be liberated by the awesome language of FREEDOM and--”
“Not exactly. I wanted to disagree with you.” France took on the airs of one dealing with a petulant toddler. England put his face in his hands, his doom-sensors going off like crazy.
“No one is allowed to disagree. And don’t you want birds that can chirp my national anthem?” America’s wide blue eyes were shining at the prospect.
“Not about that part, cheri. The part where Anglais was better than Français. That is a lie.” France’s calm explanation was met by a blank stare on America’s part. France dumbed down his sentence just a tad. “I think my language is better, if not the best.”
“Ha ha ha! Silly France! English is the best! Everyone knows that!” By this time, some of the other Nations had started to pay attention to the exchange that was taking place. And, regrettably, they felt that they had to add in their two cents.
“ ¿Y qué hay de español? I think my language is important, yes?” Spain had interjected cheerfully.
“Yeah, Spanish is cool, but English is still the best.” America was adamant. England laid his head on the table and wished to disappear. This was not going to end up well.
“French is the language of love, mes amis. No arguing with that.” France closed his eyes and leaned back in superiority.
“¿Qué? No, you must be mistaken, amigo. I’m the Country of Passion! Surely that means that my language is more amorous than yours, sí?” The conversation still held the semblance of a friendly one, but Spain’s green eyes were glaring at France in a very unfriendly manner. France shot a glare right back, his dull eyes lit by the fire of pride in his language.
“Passion can mean many different things. Paris is the city of Love! That means exactly what it says. Passion can mean love, true, but it can also mean determination, forcefulness, hatred…”
“Oh, yes, I completely agree. Pero, sin duda, mi idioma es mejor que las tonterías que salen de tu boca.” Spain threw the civility right out the window and straight up insulted France. Cuba and the rest of the Caribbean, all of the Nations of Central America, and most of South America gasped. Since when had Spain been that snippy? France sneered at the Spaniard, not knowing exactly what he said, but getting the jist of it.
“Uh, guys…?” America stood at his podium, all but forgotten by the two arguing nations. Hadn’t he started this argument?
While the France and Spain bickered, the other side of the table decided to interject it’s opinion via a stuffy Austria.
“Hmm, what foolish Nations. Everyone with half a brain knows that German is the best.” A rousing chorus of “Yeah!”s were heard by Prussia, Hungary, and Switzerland. Germany fidgeted uncomfortably and Lichtenstein nodded shyly. Little Feliciano, who always hovered about Germany, no matter where they are, or how uncomfortable it made Germany, was torn. He loved German, but his older brother was glaring at him, waiting for him to say something in favor of German, so he could publicly kick his ass.
“Ve…” Feliciano started uncertainly, not wanting to rile his brother up. Too late. All the shouting had frightened him, and Spain was ignoring him, and that meant that Lovino was royally pissed. More so than usual.
“DON’T YOU DARE SAY ANOTHER WORD! S‘A MATTER YOU, EH?! BEG NONNO ROMA FOR FORGIVENESS!!” Lovino roared at his little brother from across the room. Feliciano instantly clung to Germany for dear life, which of course only made Lovino angrier.
Taking into consideration that Spain and France were fighting amongst themselves, Austria was being snooty to the general assembly as loud as his gracefulness allowed, Prussia and Hungary, finally agreeing on something, were shouting praises to the German language, Lovino was red in the face from hurling insult after Italian insult at his younger brother, who was crying as loudly as he could, and clinging to Germany, suffice it to say that the meeting room was not a quiet place. America was still standing on his podium, looking confused, and England was trying to choke himself with his necktie.
“Big brother’s language is the best. They all will see.” Belarus looked almost too calm as she withdrew her knife. The older brother in question, Russia, placed a big gloved hand on Belarus’s shoulder.
“Do not be getting too hasty, little sister. Ve vill all be speaking Glorious Russian vhen they become one vith me, da?” Russia said this all with his childlike smile on his face. Belarus’s eyes shined with anticipation for the day that they would get married. She never did put her knife away.
“Uhh, guys?” America attempted to restore some peace in the room. He was largely ignored. “Guys! Hey, LISTEN UP!” Making good use of the microphone that he oh so conveniently forgot about, the noise died down. “You all are acting so stupid! Of course English is the best. You’re all speaking it!”
There was a moment of calm following his words before the room practically exploded with shouts and yells. Only this time, the din was incomprehensible to any and all of the Nation, seeing as each Nation was speaking his native tongue. Spain and his little posse of Hispanic nations were fiercely defending their honor, R’s rolling hard and words strung together so fast that they barely understood each other. France had dragged Canada to his side, mostly for show, and was shouting French at everyone, sounding almost like a song if you ignored the curses and the angry tint of his voice. The German-speaking nations were in an uproar, even Austria, consonants being harshly pronounced. Lovino was already shouting in Italian, so he just resumed what he was doing. The collective noise from all of the Nations was so oppressive, so angry, and just so loud, that England couldn’t take it anymore. He stormed up to America’s podium, yanked the microphone out of the idiot’s hands and started screaming into it.
“LISTEN UP YOU BLOODY WANKERS!! NO ONE HERE GIVES A DAMN ABOUT ANY LANGUAGE THAT ISN’T THEIRS! SO STOP ARGUING LIKE A BUNCH OF GITS AND SHUT UP OR SOD OFF!!”