But Why Budweisers
But Why Budweisers - America and Canada.
America and Canada are the bro-est of bros. But is their bro-hood their greatest strength...or their greatest weakness? Also, can you say "cool" so many times that it becomes meaningless?
Genre: Comedy/Slice of Life.
Modern. PG-13.
I have reached some kind of critical laziness threshold. I have three more finished fics in my notebook that I just can't be bothered to type up. This one's been sitting around all week. Along with all those other drabbles from that meme. I need, like, a secretary. Or whatever you'd call somebody who could type for me and like, peel grapes and feed them to me. One of those.
Anyway, this one's for bluef0x.
---
"I can't believe you know how to break into the grocery store."
"Can you please watch for cars?"
America half-turned to look at the road out past the solitary streetlight and half an acre of damp asphalt, then went back to watching Canada. Canada grimaced, dragged a credit card out of his wallet, hiked up the door handle, and slid the card against the locking plate. His shoulders rode high around his ears inside his windbreaker.
"I've only ever seen this done in movies," America marveled.
"Cars? America? Cars."
"It's cool, nobody's coming." America pushed his hands deeper in his sweatshirt pocket. "So, like, do you do this a lot?"
"Only when I'm out of essentials," Canada mumbled. He jimmied the card higher. A lock of hair fell into his eyes. "And it's, you know, it's wicked late, and…"
"…And you're really high, and like, you could just totally go for some peanut butter cups right now?" America finished.
The lock plate squeaked, and Canada ducked his head lower and tried as hard as he could to develop sudden tunnel vision so he wouldn't have to see America smirking.
"My brother, the hardened criminal."
"I always pay for everything," Canada offered weakly. The door popped open. America stared at him, his smile freezing wider.
"Come on. Let's just grab some toilet paper and some beer and--America--?"
America unfroze to gush "Oh you do not!"
Canada rocked back on his heels and twitched his hair into place. He smiled uncertainly.
"You pay for everything. You get toasted, go out for munchies, break into Wegman's to get some Nutter Butter bars and some nacho spread, and then you pay for everything."
"Well…yeah…" Canada stuck his credit card into his left pocket and dragged a flashlight out of his right. He flicked it on and led the way into the store. "What, you wouldn't pay for everything?"
"Dude, I don't break into grocery stores at all, but if I did, I wouldn't leave three bucks at a random checkout to cover it."
"The lights are in the back--but that's stealing!"
"And this is breaking and entering, and you are even less cool than you were ten minutes ago. Okay? You are now operating from a cool deficit."
Canada scrunched up his eyebrows and looked over his shoulder at America. "I'm in a cool recession?"
"Employment in the cool industry has dropped ten percent this quarter," America confirmed. He scanned the shelves as they scrolled by, poked a couple sacks of potato chips.
"I didn't know. That sounds pretty serious."
"It is. You're probably gonna have to call up some foreign investors to refinance your cool."
"Cool was never really one of my boom industries," Canada sighed.
"Yeah, tell me about it."
"…Okay, but you don't get to agree with me when you own three Alanis Morisette albums."
"--Is she Canadian?"
Canada switched off the flashlight, and aisle two was dumped into darkness. He could hear America freeze a few paces behind him.
A few seconds later, America found his voice. "Dude, you are seriously piling on the uncool, now."
"Say I'm cool." Canada fingered the switch on the side of the flashlight.
"Okay, I would? But--it's like the cherry tree thing, you know, I cannot tell a lie--"
"Say I'm cool or I'm leaving you by yourself in the dark!"
America's voice got a little thinner, a little higher. "How about you turn the light back on, or I kick your ass all the way to aisle nine?"
"I bet this store is haunted! Say I'm cool!"
"There's no such thing as a haunted grocery store!" America's sneakers squeaked on the linoleum floor as he changed stance.
"Sure there is! Thousands of people die in grocery stores every day!"
"This is not making you any cooler!"
Canada couldn't help himself; not when that note of real panic crawled into America's voice. He switched the flashlight back on. America blinked at him, wide-eyed, blanched white, his whole body shrunk two inches in on himself like he was trying to hide behind his own spine. A second later, he spotted the switch for the overhead lights on the store wall and banged it on. The dim cone from Canada's flashlight was drowned out.
"Have we said 'cool' so many times that it's lost all meaning yet?" Canada asked. He stuck the flashlight back in his pocket.
America took a deep breath and straightened. He rubbed a hand through his hair. "Cool never loses meaning, Canada."
Canada shook his head. "You're so deep."
"Yeah, well. I guess that's what makes me the cool one."
It was too bad America was standing in front of the switch for the store lights. Canada sighed, "I guess so."
America drew up a smile from inside himself and pushed up his glasses. "Hey, but dude, you're gonna have to pay for this stuff, is that okay?" He stood up on his toes and inspected an assortment of single-serving cereal boxes on the top shelf. "Make sure to leave them an apologetic note, too. And maybe your insurance information. Or do you only have to do that for car accidents?"
Canada sighed again, deeper, and elbowed America in the kidneys as he passed him. America squeaked in surprise.
"Oh yeah," Canada assured him, "You're cool."
"All the way to aisle nine, Canada."
They both looked across the shelves to the sign overhanging aisle nine.
"First aid and feminine hygiene," Canada read.
"That's perfect," America beamed. "Holy shit."
Canada turned on his heel, peered at him. "…What, feminine hygiene?"
"Yeah." America banged their shoulders together. Canada staggered a step and fixed his crooked glasses. "So that when I'm done kicking your ass, you can patch up your broken vagina."
Canada elbowed him again, harder. "Or maybe I should kick your ass all the way to mince and poultry."
"Are you calling me chicken? --Who do you think I am, Marty McFly?"
"Can we please just get our stuff and go?" Canada felt a grin twitch at the side of his mouth.
"No." America squared his shoulders and planted his hands on his hips. Justice pose. "No; we have broken into this grocery store--"
"You just stood there."
"--And we are not leaving until we do something cool in it."
Canada squeezed his eyes shut, opened them, and tried to summon up The Calm Voice. "America, this is a Wegman's." The Calm Voice was sounding more like the That's Certainly An Interesting Point Of View But To Be Honest I'd Sort Of Rather You Shut Up Voice. "You can't do anything cool in a--"
"Find the janitor's closet!" America strode off, strode, like it was his word of the day and he was a really kinesthetic learner. "And I'll track down the canned fish."
---
Twenty minutes later, the brooms were hockey sticks, the adult diapers were knee pads, the canned tuna was the puck, and the score was 9-5. Then Canada slammed the tuna off the wall, through America's legs, and into the gap between the muffin display and the Fish and Shrimp counter, and said, "Ten-five. Am I cool yet?"
"Fuck," America admitted. "Hockey may have been a bad call on my part." He limped behind the counter to scrounge up their puck.
They'd gone through most of a six-pack of Budweisers, too, which also served a vital hockey function, although that vital hockey function was just "being a six-pack of beer." Canada backtracked to the empty display table in aisle two and cracked open the last can. "If Death ever came for me," he called between gulps, "And he was like, 'hey, normally I do this with chess, but if you want to try to win back your soul in a game of hockey, that's cool too,' then I'm gonna live forever."
America grumbled in response. A minute or two passed before he joined Canada at the beer table.
"I couldn't find the tuna. That's the third one." He braced the heels of his hands against the edge of the table and leaned back, and crooked his head to grin sidelong at Canada. "Are you gonna pay for all the tuna we've lost, too?"
Canada chugged his beer, eyes on the ceiling. His shoulders dropped as he finished the can and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
"Probably," he admitted.
America shook his head and tore open another six-pack. They drank in silence for a while.
"America…" Canada worked a finger under one of his diapers and scratched his knee through his jeans. "Do you ever think we don't take each other seriously enough?"
America glanced at him. "What, tuna hockey isn't serious enough for you? We could play for stakes, I guess--"
Canada shook his head and looked down the aisle. "No, I mean…it's cool how we're good at the whole brother thing, but…it's kinda, I mean, all we do? Like…you borrow my stuff without asking, and I make fun of you all the time but I still drive you to the airport, and…you know…that's kinda how our foreign policy goes, too."
"I make fun of you too!" America chirped.
"That's great, but I mean…you ever think we should treat each other more like, I don't know…real nations?"
America scratched the side of his nose with the lip of his can and thought about it for a few seconds. "Not really," he said at last. "I mean, nobody treats you like a real nation."
There was a ringing silence.
"Wow, thanks," Canada marveled.
America waved his beer. "Oh, come on, don't give me that look. I'm the only one who always remembers who you are, I totally don't deserve that look."
"…You are such a dick!"
"Wait, Canada--Canada Canada Canada--wait, stop punching me--"
"No!" Canada whacked him in the arm again; beer splashed onto the floor.
America got his drink put down on the table, then started trying to catch Canada's fists. "Hey--woah--dude--okay, a little misplaced aggression, here! --Ow!"
Canada glared at him from being caught in a half-arm lock, and kneed America in the thigh. The diaper went crunch. "How would you like it if people ignored you all the time?"
America blinked, eyes wide, his whole expression crestfallen. "Nobody would ignore me. I'm awesome."
"--Such a dick!" He shoved against him.
It wasn't so much a tackle as it was a slow, graceless, grappling crumble to the floor. Canada's head whacked a table leg, and America's beer tipped off the edge and crashed to the floor. They struggled half-upright and watched the puddle spread across the off-white linoleum.
America bit his lip. "We're kinda making a mess."
Canada dragged his legs away from the puddle, then climbed back up to his feet. "Yeah." He wobbled as he unstrapped his diapers and dumped them on the table. "Maybe we should go."
"Yeah." America did the same. "Like, before we get arrested."
"Yeah."
They both reached for their wallets. Canada glanced at his brother. America didn't make eye contact.
"We'll go Dutch this time," America muttered, and flipped out a twenty. Before Canada could comment, he went on, "Hey, do you figure the Netherlands invented splitting the bill? You know, 'cause it's called…"
Canada counted out bills and gnawed on his lower lip. "I think it's because he had a trade empire back in the day. Making deals, and stuff?"
"Oh…" America scratched his cheek with the corner of his wallet. "Did you just make that up?"
"…Well…maybe."
"Hey, it sounds good enough to me." America ripped the diapers off his knees and dropped them next to Canada's. "Hey, can I have the flashlight?"
They hit the store lights on their way out, and America clung to the flashlight, hopping along after the wider pool of light ahead. The door thunked shut behind them, gave a dull reverberation; the street outside was damp and quiet. There still weren't any cars. Canada shoved his hands in his pockets.
They walked a block and a half in silence before America blurted out, "Are we fighting?" The flashlight was gone again.
Canada watched the bricks disappear underfoot, and didn't say anything.
"Canada?" America pressed.
"No," Canada sighed. "We're not fighting."
"Okay." A sweep of relief uplifted America's voice. "I can never tell when we're fighting."
"I know," Canada mumbled. He tucked a lock of hair over his ear.
Another block of silence. Their sneakers went pappap, pappap on the wet sidewalk, half a beat out of sync. America played with his sweater zipper.
"Then are you…upset, or something…?" he tried.
"You're so dumb," Canada sighed, and his neck dropped an inch lower.
America didn't say I am not! or Dumb but awesome; he just looked down, and blushed a shade under the streetlights.
Canada yanked off his glasses, rubbed his eyes, then fumbled them back on. "I mean, you don't have to be such a jerk all the time."
America murmured, "So we are fighting."
"We're not fighting."
A flickering glance. "You're just…mad at me."
Canada's jaw tightened for a few steps, then loosened, as he said, "I'm not mad."
"You are so mad. It's okay."
"Sorry," Canada muttered.
America gave a that's-not-very-funny sort of laugh.
"But, you know," he reflected a few seconds later, "It's cool, though, really."
Canada looked up at him.
"Because, like…" America's smile rushed back in like a closing tide. "I'm the only person you really get mad at, yeah?"
Canada gave him a screwed-up look of bewilderment. "Yeah, I guess…?"
"So that's good! It's good that you have somebody you get mad at."
Canada blinked at him once, then twice.
America kept looking more and more pleased with himself. "It's kinda like I'm helping you out, really! Helping you learn to, like, assert yourself!"
Canada fixed his stare on the sidewalk and eked out, "It's good that you're so annoying. That's what you're saying."
"Oh come on, you love me."
"So annoying! You are the most annoying!"
"You looove meee…."
"Ever! Most ever!"
"It's cool, dude, I know it's like, total bro-love. Nothing funny."
"How do I put up with you!"
"Because I can pick you up over my head, watch--"
"Put me down!"
America laughed, and Canada kicked at him and flailed and started laughing, too, helpless, his glasses half-jostled loose. He elbowed America in the side when America swung him back to his feet, and they traded punches and Ows until a woman in a third floor window shouted down at them to shut up.
Even when they both tried to muffle their giggles, the sound floated up to the rooftops.
***
You can look at a directory of all of my Hetalia fic here!
America and Canada are the bro-est of bros. But is their bro-hood their greatest strength...or their greatest weakness? Also, can you say "cool" so many times that it becomes meaningless?
Genre: Comedy/Slice of Life.
Modern. PG-13.
I have reached some kind of critical laziness threshold. I have three more finished fics in my notebook that I just can't be bothered to type up. This one's been sitting around all week. Along with all those other drabbles from that meme. I need, like, a secretary. Or whatever you'd call somebody who could type for me and like, peel grapes and feed them to me. One of those.
Anyway, this one's for bluef0x.
---
"I can't believe you know how to break into the grocery store."
"Can you please watch for cars?"
America half-turned to look at the road out past the solitary streetlight and half an acre of damp asphalt, then went back to watching Canada. Canada grimaced, dragged a credit card out of his wallet, hiked up the door handle, and slid the card against the locking plate. His shoulders rode high around his ears inside his windbreaker.
"I've only ever seen this done in movies," America marveled.
"Cars? America? Cars."
"It's cool, nobody's coming." America pushed his hands deeper in his sweatshirt pocket. "So, like, do you do this a lot?"
"Only when I'm out of essentials," Canada mumbled. He jimmied the card higher. A lock of hair fell into his eyes. "And it's, you know, it's wicked late, and…"
"…And you're really high, and like, you could just totally go for some peanut butter cups right now?" America finished.
The lock plate squeaked, and Canada ducked his head lower and tried as hard as he could to develop sudden tunnel vision so he wouldn't have to see America smirking.
"My brother, the hardened criminal."
"I always pay for everything," Canada offered weakly. The door popped open. America stared at him, his smile freezing wider.
"Come on. Let's just grab some toilet paper and some beer and--America--?"
America unfroze to gush "Oh you do not!"
Canada rocked back on his heels and twitched his hair into place. He smiled uncertainly.
"You pay for everything. You get toasted, go out for munchies, break into Wegman's to get some Nutter Butter bars and some nacho spread, and then you pay for everything."
"Well…yeah…" Canada stuck his credit card into his left pocket and dragged a flashlight out of his right. He flicked it on and led the way into the store. "What, you wouldn't pay for everything?"
"Dude, I don't break into grocery stores at all, but if I did, I wouldn't leave three bucks at a random checkout to cover it."
"The lights are in the back--but that's stealing!"
"And this is breaking and entering, and you are even less cool than you were ten minutes ago. Okay? You are now operating from a cool deficit."
Canada scrunched up his eyebrows and looked over his shoulder at America. "I'm in a cool recession?"
"Employment in the cool industry has dropped ten percent this quarter," America confirmed. He scanned the shelves as they scrolled by, poked a couple sacks of potato chips.
"I didn't know. That sounds pretty serious."
"It is. You're probably gonna have to call up some foreign investors to refinance your cool."
"Cool was never really one of my boom industries," Canada sighed.
"Yeah, tell me about it."
"…Okay, but you don't get to agree with me when you own three Alanis Morisette albums."
"--Is she Canadian?"
Canada switched off the flashlight, and aisle two was dumped into darkness. He could hear America freeze a few paces behind him.
A few seconds later, America found his voice. "Dude, you are seriously piling on the uncool, now."
"Say I'm cool." Canada fingered the switch on the side of the flashlight.
"Okay, I would? But--it's like the cherry tree thing, you know, I cannot tell a lie--"
"Say I'm cool or I'm leaving you by yourself in the dark!"
America's voice got a little thinner, a little higher. "How about you turn the light back on, or I kick your ass all the way to aisle nine?"
"I bet this store is haunted! Say I'm cool!"
"There's no such thing as a haunted grocery store!" America's sneakers squeaked on the linoleum floor as he changed stance.
"Sure there is! Thousands of people die in grocery stores every day!"
"This is not making you any cooler!"
Canada couldn't help himself; not when that note of real panic crawled into America's voice. He switched the flashlight back on. America blinked at him, wide-eyed, blanched white, his whole body shrunk two inches in on himself like he was trying to hide behind his own spine. A second later, he spotted the switch for the overhead lights on the store wall and banged it on. The dim cone from Canada's flashlight was drowned out.
"Have we said 'cool' so many times that it's lost all meaning yet?" Canada asked. He stuck the flashlight back in his pocket.
America took a deep breath and straightened. He rubbed a hand through his hair. "Cool never loses meaning, Canada."
Canada shook his head. "You're so deep."
"Yeah, well. I guess that's what makes me the cool one."
It was too bad America was standing in front of the switch for the store lights. Canada sighed, "I guess so."
America drew up a smile from inside himself and pushed up his glasses. "Hey, but dude, you're gonna have to pay for this stuff, is that okay?" He stood up on his toes and inspected an assortment of single-serving cereal boxes on the top shelf. "Make sure to leave them an apologetic note, too. And maybe your insurance information. Or do you only have to do that for car accidents?"
Canada sighed again, deeper, and elbowed America in the kidneys as he passed him. America squeaked in surprise.
"Oh yeah," Canada assured him, "You're cool."
"All the way to aisle nine, Canada."
They both looked across the shelves to the sign overhanging aisle nine.
"First aid and feminine hygiene," Canada read.
"That's perfect," America beamed. "Holy shit."
Canada turned on his heel, peered at him. "…What, feminine hygiene?"
"Yeah." America banged their shoulders together. Canada staggered a step and fixed his crooked glasses. "So that when I'm done kicking your ass, you can patch up your broken vagina."
Canada elbowed him again, harder. "Or maybe I should kick your ass all the way to mince and poultry."
"Are you calling me chicken? --Who do you think I am, Marty McFly?"
"Can we please just get our stuff and go?" Canada felt a grin twitch at the side of his mouth.
"No." America squared his shoulders and planted his hands on his hips. Justice pose. "No; we have broken into this grocery store--"
"You just stood there."
"--And we are not leaving until we do something cool in it."
Canada squeezed his eyes shut, opened them, and tried to summon up The Calm Voice. "America, this is a Wegman's." The Calm Voice was sounding more like the That's Certainly An Interesting Point Of View But To Be Honest I'd Sort Of Rather You Shut Up Voice. "You can't do anything cool in a--"
"Find the janitor's closet!" America strode off, strode, like it was his word of the day and he was a really kinesthetic learner. "And I'll track down the canned fish."
---
Twenty minutes later, the brooms were hockey sticks, the adult diapers were knee pads, the canned tuna was the puck, and the score was 9-5. Then Canada slammed the tuna off the wall, through America's legs, and into the gap between the muffin display and the Fish and Shrimp counter, and said, "Ten-five. Am I cool yet?"
"Fuck," America admitted. "Hockey may have been a bad call on my part." He limped behind the counter to scrounge up their puck.
They'd gone through most of a six-pack of Budweisers, too, which also served a vital hockey function, although that vital hockey function was just "being a six-pack of beer." Canada backtracked to the empty display table in aisle two and cracked open the last can. "If Death ever came for me," he called between gulps, "And he was like, 'hey, normally I do this with chess, but if you want to try to win back your soul in a game of hockey, that's cool too,' then I'm gonna live forever."
America grumbled in response. A minute or two passed before he joined Canada at the beer table.
"I couldn't find the tuna. That's the third one." He braced the heels of his hands against the edge of the table and leaned back, and crooked his head to grin sidelong at Canada. "Are you gonna pay for all the tuna we've lost, too?"
Canada chugged his beer, eyes on the ceiling. His shoulders dropped as he finished the can and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.
"Probably," he admitted.
America shook his head and tore open another six-pack. They drank in silence for a while.
"America…" Canada worked a finger under one of his diapers and scratched his knee through his jeans. "Do you ever think we don't take each other seriously enough?"
America glanced at him. "What, tuna hockey isn't serious enough for you? We could play for stakes, I guess--"
Canada shook his head and looked down the aisle. "No, I mean…it's cool how we're good at the whole brother thing, but…it's kinda, I mean, all we do? Like…you borrow my stuff without asking, and I make fun of you all the time but I still drive you to the airport, and…you know…that's kinda how our foreign policy goes, too."
"I make fun of you too!" America chirped.
"That's great, but I mean…you ever think we should treat each other more like, I don't know…real nations?"
America scratched the side of his nose with the lip of his can and thought about it for a few seconds. "Not really," he said at last. "I mean, nobody treats you like a real nation."
There was a ringing silence.
"Wow, thanks," Canada marveled.
America waved his beer. "Oh, come on, don't give me that look. I'm the only one who always remembers who you are, I totally don't deserve that look."
"…You are such a dick!"
"Wait, Canada--Canada Canada Canada--wait, stop punching me--"
"No!" Canada whacked him in the arm again; beer splashed onto the floor.
America got his drink put down on the table, then started trying to catch Canada's fists. "Hey--woah--dude--okay, a little misplaced aggression, here! --Ow!"
Canada glared at him from being caught in a half-arm lock, and kneed America in the thigh. The diaper went crunch. "How would you like it if people ignored you all the time?"
America blinked, eyes wide, his whole expression crestfallen. "Nobody would ignore me. I'm awesome."
"--Such a dick!" He shoved against him.
It wasn't so much a tackle as it was a slow, graceless, grappling crumble to the floor. Canada's head whacked a table leg, and America's beer tipped off the edge and crashed to the floor. They struggled half-upright and watched the puddle spread across the off-white linoleum.
America bit his lip. "We're kinda making a mess."
Canada dragged his legs away from the puddle, then climbed back up to his feet. "Yeah." He wobbled as he unstrapped his diapers and dumped them on the table. "Maybe we should go."
"Yeah." America did the same. "Like, before we get arrested."
"Yeah."
They both reached for their wallets. Canada glanced at his brother. America didn't make eye contact.
"We'll go Dutch this time," America muttered, and flipped out a twenty. Before Canada could comment, he went on, "Hey, do you figure the Netherlands invented splitting the bill? You know, 'cause it's called…"
Canada counted out bills and gnawed on his lower lip. "I think it's because he had a trade empire back in the day. Making deals, and stuff?"
"Oh…" America scratched his cheek with the corner of his wallet. "Did you just make that up?"
"…Well…maybe."
"Hey, it sounds good enough to me." America ripped the diapers off his knees and dropped them next to Canada's. "Hey, can I have the flashlight?"
They hit the store lights on their way out, and America clung to the flashlight, hopping along after the wider pool of light ahead. The door thunked shut behind them, gave a dull reverberation; the street outside was damp and quiet. There still weren't any cars. Canada shoved his hands in his pockets.
They walked a block and a half in silence before America blurted out, "Are we fighting?" The flashlight was gone again.
Canada watched the bricks disappear underfoot, and didn't say anything.
"Canada?" America pressed.
"No," Canada sighed. "We're not fighting."
"Okay." A sweep of relief uplifted America's voice. "I can never tell when we're fighting."
"I know," Canada mumbled. He tucked a lock of hair over his ear.
Another block of silence. Their sneakers went pappap, pappap on the wet sidewalk, half a beat out of sync. America played with his sweater zipper.
"Then are you…upset, or something…?" he tried.
"You're so dumb," Canada sighed, and his neck dropped an inch lower.
America didn't say I am not! or Dumb but awesome; he just looked down, and blushed a shade under the streetlights.
Canada yanked off his glasses, rubbed his eyes, then fumbled them back on. "I mean, you don't have to be such a jerk all the time."
America murmured, "So we are fighting."
"We're not fighting."
A flickering glance. "You're just…mad at me."
Canada's jaw tightened for a few steps, then loosened, as he said, "I'm not mad."
"You are so mad. It's okay."
"Sorry," Canada muttered.
America gave a that's-not-very-funny sort of laugh.
"But, you know," he reflected a few seconds later, "It's cool, though, really."
Canada looked up at him.
"Because, like…" America's smile rushed back in like a closing tide. "I'm the only person you really get mad at, yeah?"
Canada gave him a screwed-up look of bewilderment. "Yeah, I guess…?"
"So that's good! It's good that you have somebody you get mad at."
Canada blinked at him once, then twice.
America kept looking more and more pleased with himself. "It's kinda like I'm helping you out, really! Helping you learn to, like, assert yourself!"
Canada fixed his stare on the sidewalk and eked out, "It's good that you're so annoying. That's what you're saying."
"Oh come on, you love me."
"So annoying! You are the most annoying!"
"You looove meee…."
"Ever! Most ever!"
"It's cool, dude, I know it's like, total bro-love. Nothing funny."
"How do I put up with you!"
"Because I can pick you up over my head, watch--"
"Put me down!"
America laughed, and Canada kicked at him and flailed and started laughing, too, helpless, his glasses half-jostled loose. He elbowed America in the side when America swung him back to his feet, and they traded punches and Ows until a woman in a third floor window shouted down at them to shut up.
Even when they both tried to muffle their giggles, the sound floated up to the rooftops.
***
You can look at a directory of all of my Hetalia fic here!