A fic, man. Yeah.
An awesome Hetalia valentines one celebrating the love and joy that can form between two people!
Or not, as the case may be.
Title: From Prussia, With Love
Characters: England/Prussia
Rating: PG
Warnings: Language, both English and German. (Go go GCSE German)
Summary: For the drunkendisorder anti-Valentines challenge. The best way to fend off loneliness is to find someone to be lonely with. And some booze, preferably cheap.
It was Sunday, just a normal, average Sunday. A normal Sunday in February. Nothing particularly special about it. No matter what the card shops and sellers of flowers said, it was a plain and ordinary Sunday that just happened, this year, to be falling on the 14th of February. It was also, as it happened, a Sunday that England had decided he was going to get completely wasted on.
These were - just to clarify - two separate issues that had nothing to do with one another. Except that he knew he was more or less guaranteed to not be bothered by anyone; he was fairly sure that last savage beating would keep France away for at least the next two 14th of Februarys and, with a stroke of genius that had surprised even himself, he'd sent America enough toffee to keep his mouth glued shut for the entire day.
It was this disturbance-free evening that England was looking forward to as he queued to pay at the corner shop behind a fair number of people buying their last-minute, slightly droopy flowers and platitude-filled cards. It was this vision of his evening that shattered the moment he set eyes upon a horribly familiar shock of white hair. Below it were a pair of horribly familiar red eyes glinting at him in a horribly familiar way. The grin though, that was by far the most familiar and most horrible part of the set.
England's quiet night in went out the window.
On the bright side, it was incredibly unlikely he'd remember anything tomorrow.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he snapped as Prussia came to stand by his side in the queue.
“Thought I'd get out, see the world,” said Prussia, patting England roughly on the back. England shot an apologetic look at the woman behind him, both for Prussia's queue-jumping and that she nearly got a broken nose courtesy of Prussia's flailing hand. “Experience other cultures!”
“What are you really doing here?”
Prussia's grin stayed fixed under the onslaught of England's flat stare. “Buying booze,” he said with a small shrug. England's stare slipped a few notches closer to a scowl.
“But why here?”
“'S cheap, look!” Prussia waved his selected booze in the air, “Eight-pack for five pounds!”
“That's really classy, Gilbert.”
“Oh! Let's see what you've got, Mr. Suave,” Prussia peered at the bottles lovingly cradled in England's arms. “A two-litre bottle? Oh no, two two-litre bottles! For two pounds each?” Prussia looked at England, wide-eyed and nodding mockingly, “That's so much better than me, you're right.”
“They're on offer,” he grumbled, glancing down at the bottles in question. “But at least I'm in my own country.” He looked back at Prussia, one eyebrow raised, waiting for the next excuse.
“I felt like getting out and about.”
“You felt like trekking across Europe to buy bad alcohol.” They shuffled further forward in the queue. “Really?”
“Well,” said Prussia, eyes already rolling, “West may have insisted I leave the country for whatever reason. I thought I'd show what an awesome brother I am and do what he said.”
“Still doesn't explain why you're here bothering me,” England sighed.
“I didn't come to bother you,” Prussia sneered, actually bothering to act like it had been the furthest thing from his mind. “You're the one that started talking to me.”
“Oh right. You just happen to be in my country, in my local newsagents. Of course you weren't intending on bugging me.”
Prussia shifted from foot to foot, the finally sighed and said, “I was hardly going to bug France--”
England cleared his throat.
“--is,” Prussia continued, “Francis on a day like today. And it's not like you'll have anything better to do.” They stepped up to the till and England took the time to greet the man behind the counter before he fixed Prussia with his harshest glare yet.
“What's that supposed to mean?” he hissed.
“You've got someone over for Valentine's have you?” Prussia leaned against the counter, dropping his eight-pack onto it as England paid and thanked the server in the least thankful and most clipped tones ever uttered.
“I don't need any prissy, over-comercialised holiday to tell me to show the person I love how I feel.” He grabbed his bagged bottles and stalked out of the shop. Prussia slid a fiver across the counter top, grabbed his beer and followed after.
“No,” he said as he caught up, “I don't suppose even the Apocalypse would persuade you to tell anyone how you actually feel.”
England made a nondescript noise by way of answer and kept his pace up. He wasn't heading anywhere in particular, but walking too fast for Prussia to keep up was more or less his last hope in getting rid of him. He managed to keep it up for all of two minutes before the sight of Prussia doggedly sticking by his side wore him down.
At any rate, he had better things to be doing than vainly walking wherever the road took him. He slowed and turned up the garden path of his house, which he had oh-so-conveniently lead them to. He unlocked the front door and let them both in. They kicked their shoes off, hung up their jackets and made their way into the kitchen as if this had been the plan all along.
“You don't have anyone who wants to be with you, then.” England phrased it like a question, but spoke it as a statement of fact. Prussia took it as a question anyway.
“Oh, all kinds of people want to be with me. I just don't don't want to be with them.”
“You only attract people with bad hygiene?” He sent Prussia a sly look out of the corner of his eye as he got himself a glass out of the cupboard.
“No,” said Prussia as if explaining the most obvious thing in the world, “Being alone is just too awesome!”
England snorted and shook his head. He poured himself a glassful and then faced Prussia and held it aloft.
“To being alone!” he declared.
“Yeah!” Prussia held his can up. “To being awesome!”
Then they both dutifully chugged their first drinks.
The rest of the night continued in much the same vein.
~~~
A chilly breeze whipped around the room, sending a shiver up Prussia's back. He frowned and snuggled further into the cosy warmth at his front. The cosy warmth grunted and pulled him in tighter.
Prussia's eyes flickered open cautiously and he found himself faced with an expanse of skin. He blinked a few more times and frowned in confusion at a nipple. However, once he remembered what day it was, where he was and - after an alarmingly long time - who he was, he decided it was better not to think about it too much.
Instead, he took a full inventory of his injuries.
Legs: 2 - fully functional - 1 likely bruised shin and a possible grazed knee.
Torso: 1 - entire right side very tender.
Head: 1 - throbbing.
Arms: 1 2 - 1 currently unavailable, other fully functional.
The sound of pained chuckling came from above his head.
“Stop that. Tickles.” Prussia's hand was sluggishly batted away from the armpit it was poked into.
“You're on my arm,” Prussia mumbled back.
“S'rry,” was the sleepy reply, but there was no accompanying effort to get off said arm.
“England.” said Prussia after a few moments of still silence.
“Mmm?”
“Did we...?”
“Still got m' pants on.”
“Oh.” Prussia looked down. “Oh yeah. Me too.”
Silence fell over them again for five of England's breaths (which was all Prussia had to keep time by) until that breeze blew by again and Prussia shuddered with the unpleasant feeling. “'S fuckin' freezing in here,” he groaned.
“Mmm,” said England in agreement, “The window's open.” He sighed and shifted slightly. “I'll close it. Was gonna get up anyway.”
England clumsily slipped himself from underneath Prussia and proceeded to clamber over him to get off the sofa. It took some doing to even get the right way up, and then he had to wait for the wave of dizziness to pass before he could get to any clambering. Despite the smooth, agile movement he'd been going for, the shirt he was still half-wearing and Prussia's incapacitated arm (and so many other things besides) conspired against him.
The long and short of it was Prussia ended up with a knee to the gut.
“Ah! Meine Blase!” he cried, “Scheiße! Get off, get off, get off!” and England was unceremoniously dumped on the floor in Prussia's mad scramble to get to the toilet.
By the time he returned England had shut the window, drawn the curtains and was back on the sofa with a blanket pulled over his head. Prussia surveyed the bomb-site that used to be England's living room. The only upright pieces of furniture were the sofa and a bookcase, England's entire CD collection looked to be strewn across the floor, Prussia's own shirt was hanging from the ceiling light and, strangely enough, a solitary traffic cone was stood in the centre of the room.
“You coming back to bed or what?” said England from under the blanket.
“Bed?” Prussia asked, very nearly cracking a smile.
England threw the blanket off his head and glared at Prussia. With his hair sticking every which way and his skin two shades from death, in a single look he very clearly communicated his contempt for Prussia's pedantry.
“Get in or get out,” he growled.
Prussia got in.
The End.
Translation
Meine Blase! Scheiße! - My bladder! Shit! (hopefully...)
Footnotes
a. For visualisation purposes, Prussia is wearing Prussian blue boxer shorts. He would've worn his Prussian flag ones but they were in the wash.
b. England has on his trusty white Y-fronts. Were he at any point in the mindset to think about these things, he would've been glad that they are a relatively new pair.
c. The traffic cone, having not made it to its intended destination on top of a statue, will now join the two others England has in his cupboard under the stairs, awaiting the council's next Traffic Cone Amnesty.
The next thing I write will not involve England, Prussia or alcohol. Well, it won't invole Prussia or alcohol. Oh ok, it won't involve alcohol. Much.
I'M GOING TO WRITE SOMETHING DIFFERENT, DAMNIT.
Or not, as the case may be.
Title: From Prussia, With Love
Characters: England/Prussia
Rating: PG
Warnings: Language, both English and German. (Go go GCSE German)
Summary: For the drunkendisorder anti-Valentines challenge. The best way to fend off loneliness is to find someone to be lonely with. And some booze, preferably cheap.
It was Sunday, just a normal, average Sunday. A normal Sunday in February. Nothing particularly special about it. No matter what the card shops and sellers of flowers said, it was a plain and ordinary Sunday that just happened, this year, to be falling on the 14th of February. It was also, as it happened, a Sunday that England had decided he was going to get completely wasted on.
These were - just to clarify - two separate issues that had nothing to do with one another. Except that he knew he was more or less guaranteed to not be bothered by anyone; he was fairly sure that last savage beating would keep France away for at least the next two 14th of Februarys and, with a stroke of genius that had surprised even himself, he'd sent America enough toffee to keep his mouth glued shut for the entire day.
It was this disturbance-free evening that England was looking forward to as he queued to pay at the corner shop behind a fair number of people buying their last-minute, slightly droopy flowers and platitude-filled cards. It was this vision of his evening that shattered the moment he set eyes upon a horribly familiar shock of white hair. Below it were a pair of horribly familiar red eyes glinting at him in a horribly familiar way. The grin though, that was by far the most familiar and most horrible part of the set.
England's quiet night in went out the window.
On the bright side, it was incredibly unlikely he'd remember anything tomorrow.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he snapped as Prussia came to stand by his side in the queue.
“Thought I'd get out, see the world,” said Prussia, patting England roughly on the back. England shot an apologetic look at the woman behind him, both for Prussia's queue-jumping and that she nearly got a broken nose courtesy of Prussia's flailing hand. “Experience other cultures!”
“What are you really doing here?”
Prussia's grin stayed fixed under the onslaught of England's flat stare. “Buying booze,” he said with a small shrug. England's stare slipped a few notches closer to a scowl.
“But why here?”
“'S cheap, look!” Prussia waved his selected booze in the air, “Eight-pack for five pounds!”
“That's really classy, Gilbert.”
“Oh! Let's see what you've got, Mr. Suave,” Prussia peered at the bottles lovingly cradled in England's arms. “A two-litre bottle? Oh no, two two-litre bottles! For two pounds each?” Prussia looked at England, wide-eyed and nodding mockingly, “That's so much better than me, you're right.”
“They're on offer,” he grumbled, glancing down at the bottles in question. “But at least I'm in my own country.” He looked back at Prussia, one eyebrow raised, waiting for the next excuse.
“I felt like getting out and about.”
“You felt like trekking across Europe to buy bad alcohol.” They shuffled further forward in the queue. “Really?”
“Well,” said Prussia, eyes already rolling, “West may have insisted I leave the country for whatever reason. I thought I'd show what an awesome brother I am and do what he said.”
“Still doesn't explain why you're here bothering me,” England sighed.
“I didn't come to bother you,” Prussia sneered, actually bothering to act like it had been the furthest thing from his mind. “You're the one that started talking to me.”
“Oh right. You just happen to be in my country, in my local newsagents. Of course you weren't intending on bugging me.”
Prussia shifted from foot to foot, the finally sighed and said, “I was hardly going to bug France--”
England cleared his throat.
“--is,” Prussia continued, “Francis on a day like today. And it's not like you'll have anything better to do.” They stepped up to the till and England took the time to greet the man behind the counter before he fixed Prussia with his harshest glare yet.
“What's that supposed to mean?” he hissed.
“You've got someone over for Valentine's have you?” Prussia leaned against the counter, dropping his eight-pack onto it as England paid and thanked the server in the least thankful and most clipped tones ever uttered.
“I don't need any prissy, over-comercialised holiday to tell me to show the person I love how I feel.” He grabbed his bagged bottles and stalked out of the shop. Prussia slid a fiver across the counter top, grabbed his beer and followed after.
“No,” he said as he caught up, “I don't suppose even the Apocalypse would persuade you to tell anyone how you actually feel.”
England made a nondescript noise by way of answer and kept his pace up. He wasn't heading anywhere in particular, but walking too fast for Prussia to keep up was more or less his last hope in getting rid of him. He managed to keep it up for all of two minutes before the sight of Prussia doggedly sticking by his side wore him down.
At any rate, he had better things to be doing than vainly walking wherever the road took him. He slowed and turned up the garden path of his house, which he had oh-so-conveniently lead them to. He unlocked the front door and let them both in. They kicked their shoes off, hung up their jackets and made their way into the kitchen as if this had been the plan all along.
“You don't have anyone who wants to be with you, then.” England phrased it like a question, but spoke it as a statement of fact. Prussia took it as a question anyway.
“Oh, all kinds of people want to be with me. I just don't don't want to be with them.”
“You only attract people with bad hygiene?” He sent Prussia a sly look out of the corner of his eye as he got himself a glass out of the cupboard.
“No,” said Prussia as if explaining the most obvious thing in the world, “Being alone is just too awesome!”
England snorted and shook his head. He poured himself a glassful and then faced Prussia and held it aloft.
“To being alone!” he declared.
“Yeah!” Prussia held his can up. “To being awesome!”
Then they both dutifully chugged their first drinks.
The rest of the night continued in much the same vein.
~~~
A chilly breeze whipped around the room, sending a shiver up Prussia's back. He frowned and snuggled further into the cosy warmth at his front. The cosy warmth grunted and pulled him in tighter.
Prussia's eyes flickered open cautiously and he found himself faced with an expanse of skin. He blinked a few more times and frowned in confusion at a nipple. However, once he remembered what day it was, where he was and - after an alarmingly long time - who he was, he decided it was better not to think about it too much.
Instead, he took a full inventory of his injuries.
Legs: 2 - fully functional - 1 likely bruised shin and a possible grazed knee.
Torso: 1 - entire right side very tender.
Head: 1 - throbbing.
Arms: 1 2 - 1 currently unavailable, other fully functional.
The sound of pained chuckling came from above his head.
“Stop that. Tickles.” Prussia's hand was sluggishly batted away from the armpit it was poked into.
“You're on my arm,” Prussia mumbled back.
“S'rry,” was the sleepy reply, but there was no accompanying effort to get off said arm.
“England.” said Prussia after a few moments of still silence.
“Mmm?”
“Did we...?”
“Still got m' pants on.”
“Oh.” Prussia looked down. “Oh yeah. Me too.”
Silence fell over them again for five of England's breaths (which was all Prussia had to keep time by) until that breeze blew by again and Prussia shuddered with the unpleasant feeling. “'S fuckin' freezing in here,” he groaned.
“Mmm,” said England in agreement, “The window's open.” He sighed and shifted slightly. “I'll close it. Was gonna get up anyway.”
England clumsily slipped himself from underneath Prussia and proceeded to clamber over him to get off the sofa. It took some doing to even get the right way up, and then he had to wait for the wave of dizziness to pass before he could get to any clambering. Despite the smooth, agile movement he'd been going for, the shirt he was still half-wearing and Prussia's incapacitated arm (and so many other things besides) conspired against him.
The long and short of it was Prussia ended up with a knee to the gut.
“Ah! Meine Blase!” he cried, “Scheiße! Get off, get off, get off!” and England was unceremoniously dumped on the floor in Prussia's mad scramble to get to the toilet.
By the time he returned England had shut the window, drawn the curtains and was back on the sofa with a blanket pulled over his head. Prussia surveyed the bomb-site that used to be England's living room. The only upright pieces of furniture were the sofa and a bookcase, England's entire CD collection looked to be strewn across the floor, Prussia's own shirt was hanging from the ceiling light and, strangely enough, a solitary traffic cone was stood in the centre of the room.
“You coming back to bed or what?” said England from under the blanket.
“Bed?” Prussia asked, very nearly cracking a smile.
England threw the blanket off his head and glared at Prussia. With his hair sticking every which way and his skin two shades from death, in a single look he very clearly communicated his contempt for Prussia's pedantry.
“Get in or get out,” he growled.
Prussia got in.
The End.
Translation
Meine Blase! Scheiße! - My bladder! Shit! (hopefully...)
Footnotes
a. For visualisation purposes, Prussia is wearing Prussian blue boxer shorts. He would've worn his Prussian flag ones but they were in the wash.
b. England has on his trusty white Y-fronts. Were he at any point in the mindset to think about these things, he would've been glad that they are a relatively new pair.
c. The traffic cone, having not made it to its intended destination on top of a statue, will now join the two others England has in his cupboard under the stairs, awaiting the council's next Traffic Cone Amnesty.
The next thing I write will not involve England, Prussia or alcohol. Well, it won't invole Prussia or alcohol. Oh ok, it won't involve alcohol. Much.
I'M GOING TO WRITE SOMETHING DIFFERENT, DAMNIT.