England shivered and glowered at his adopted younger brother. "Why in the bloody hell are we here?" He snapped.
"Because, I have something awesome planned." America grinned, as though this were some inexplicably fantastical answer.
"Of course." England sneered, giving him a forced smile. "Could you be a bit more vague? I think I almost gleaned some details from that. Why are we here? In the bloody winter? Did you know how bleeding cold Russia's house is in the winter? Should we even be here –?"
"Jeeze, England." America cut in. "I knew you were a buzz kill but could you tone in down? Besides, I told you to dress warm."
England opened his mouth to retort, but shook his head, his hands running up and down his bare arms in an attempt to gain some warmth from the friction. He thought America had meant warm weather. Bloody American slang..."What are you up to?"
"Not me, we." America corrected. He stepped back, revealing a satchel that had previously been slumped against his leg. America dropped to one knee and reached into the shoulder bag. England craned his neck to see what America was doing, but all he caught was a flash of something smooth and pale and a flare of orange-yellow light that grew into a subdued glow.
America turned to face his former guardian, the stupid grin still smeared across his face. But England's eyes weren't on America's idiotic smile. Instead, they were focused on the flaming length of cloth leading into the slender bottle of pale liquid in America's hand. England blanched.
"What…in the bloody hell…is that?" He managed to blurt through grit teeth.
"It's Molotov cocktail of course! Best freakin' drink in the whole freakin' world." America chuckled.
England massaged the bridge of his nose with his index finger and thumb. "And I'm guessing your plan is to throw it through Russia's window."
"Exactly! You catch on quick!" America nodded.
"Have the repercussions of this occurred to you at all?" England asked tightly.
"Like I was saying, this is gonna be great." America prattled, turning back to the mansion in front of them. "This'll warm up that stupid Red!"
"For the last time, he's not Communist anym–"
"Am I pretty freaking genius for come up with this or what?" America laughed.
England snorted and shifted in place. Jeans, a t-shirt and pair of sneakers were no way to tromp around in the snow. Especially if that snow was on Russia's front walk. England glanced up from his snow-caked calves and noticed America was still rambling. "…the roof will freaking come off the house! I mean, I've seen this before and it's awesome. Well, not to the people inside but it freaking explodes!"
"That's what alcohol and fire do, America. They explode." England muttered, exhaling a long, white breath on his pale hands. He looked at the bottle in America's grip, then the soaked rag leading out of it. "Are you going to put that out or…?"
America followed his gaze to rapidly shrinking the makeshift fuse and nodded. "Right. This." He shifted his grip from the neck to the body, titled his torso back, and sprang forward, whipping his arm through the air as he did. England watched the bottle as it spun through the air until it tore through the window with a gut-wrenching cacophony of shattering glass. He then averted his eyes, shoved his hands in his pockets and waited for the wave of heat and sound from the explosion.
But it never came. England looked at his ex-charge for confirmation that the homemade bomb had in fact not gone off, only to find that the man had scampered off somewhere. England followed America's footsteps to a small snowdrift and found him crouched behind the miniature ridge of snow. He climbed over the drift and knelt next to the blond. America was slightly hunched, fingers in his ears, that sloppy grin still dancing on his lips. His excitement waned, then faded and turned to frustrated disappointment. "What the hell?" He demanded, gesturing angrily at the still very intact house.
"Congratulations, America." England frowned. "You've managed to make the most surefire explosive in the world fail. I'm not sure if I should more surprised by that, or by the fact that you've just reached a new level of incompetence."
America ignored him and clambered over the snowdrift they were crouched behind. He dusted himself off and strode forth, pausing every now and then as if expecting some sort of delayed reaction from inside. England blinked.
"America?" He called, straightening slightly. He jumped to his feet. "America! What in the blazes are you doing? Answer me, dammit!" He followed America over the snow bank, muttering darkly about 'ungrateful wankers' and 'bloody stupid revolutions' under his breath.
"Hey! Open up you stupid freak!" America shouted, slamming his hand on the door. "I wanna talk to you!" England's eyes moved from the elegant brass knocker to the slender white doorbell.
Of course he chooses to pound on the door. England shook his head. And here I thought I'd raised him better.
The door creaked open a hair's breadth at first, but when a purple eye appeared in the crack, it swung wide. "America!" Russia cried enthusiastically. There was a brief pause and England coughed harshly in an effort to fill the heavy silence. "And England!" Russia added somewhat less enthusiastically, his eyes barely flicking away from America to acknowledge the European. "What brings you two here?" He addressed the American in front of him more so than the two together.
"Can I come in?" America asked, trying to peer past Russia's bulk and gain a glimpse into the room. England forced himself not to wince at his sheer audacity and instead searched Russia's face for some hint at his response.
There was another silence before Russia finally stepped back. "Of course. Welcome." America all but pushed Russia aside in his eagerness to enter; England, meanwhile, stepped carefully around the nation, keeping a careful watch on him for any warnings – er, signs – of a reaction.
Inside, America stared hard at the window and the floor, but the shards of glass held no answers.
"Are you looking for something, America?" Russia said gently. England flinched as he heard the door close behind them, but relaxed slightly when he didn't hear the click of lock tumblers fall into place. America turned.
"Yeah, I'm wanted to know if –" He broke off and England stopped his fierce examination of the floorboards. "Uh…Russia? Where did you get that?" England faced Russia as well, curious.
He took a bottle of vodka away from lips, his eyebrows drawing together as though concerned. "Eh? This?" Russia held up the bottle. "It's your gift, da?"
The rag hung from the bottle's lip, smoldering gently. A line of gray and orange embers still crept along its length, slithering down towards the translucent liquid.
"It is horrible, pellucid American swill that tastes like rubbing alcohol…" Russia trailed off and stared at the bottle with a vague look of disdain before breaking into a innocent smile. "But it is the thought that counts, da?"
"My thought wasn't to give you a gift. I wanted to give you a taste of your own booze, you jacked-up com–" England dug his elbow into America's side and gave Russia a strained smile.
"You're welcome I'm glad you enjoyed our gift we'll be going now." He droned through clenched teeth.
"Do svidanya." Russia nodded, raising the bottle to his lips.
America finally recovered by the time England had dragged him back to the stationary Ford. "You're such a bloody idiot, I can't even…I just…By George, America you're so…" England hung his head and leaned against the car. "We're going home."
America jammed the key into the lock. "My place or…?"
"Does it look like I give a damn where the hell we go?" England snapped.
America slipped into the driver's seat silently. As he fidgeted with the ignition, he posed a question. "Hey, England."
"What?" England demanded, staring out at the white expanse.
"Russia has hardwood floors, right?"
"Your powers of perception are formidable. And your point is?"
"Shouldn't the bottle have like, smashed or something?"
England sat up. "Yes, I suppose it should have."
"But there was some vodka on the floor." America noted. The car shuddered and jumped, but didn't start. "I think he…caught it or something."
England looked back at the house and felt his heart palpitate. "For the love of God, America, make your crappy car move!"
"Hey! This is an American-made –"
"Bloody hell, drive!"
The car lurched forward and rumbled through the snow in the unpleasantly loud fashion Fords were infamous for.
"What was that?" America asked. England slumped down in his seat.
"He can see your bloody car from the curb." England muttered. "He knew we were there the whole time."
"Oh. Damn." America muttered. He let out a choked snort of laughter, giggled and coughed a bit to cover it up.
"What?" England demanded. "What could possibly be funny about this?"
"I dunno. It's just…he was drinking it with the rag still…freaking…in. What the hell, right?" America gave England a thousand-watt smile and England let out an exaggerated sigh before allowing himself a small snicker.
"Bloody hell." England rested his head on the window, chuckling. The idiot's cheer was infectious. "I have to admit…it was pretty ridiculous."
America nodded and they continued in silence for a few miles before adding, "Maybe I should do it with beer next time."
England tried to refrain from grabbing the wheel and booting him out of his own car. He really did.
Author's Note: Go plot bunnies! Run free! This is what happens when I start discussing Hetalia, specifically Ivan and his vodkaholism with my brother at midnight.
Do svidanyai means "good-bye" in Russian.
And now some facts on vodka courtesy of Vodkaphiles . com.
Vodka should smell sweet and grainy, not medicinial. In the words of Vodkaphiles, "A fine vodka will have a thick and creamy texture when frozen; it may also have a bluish or yellowish tint." Good vodka should have a "soft...creamy...smooth" taste, and it shouldn't burn your mouth.
Because I'm a nerd like that.