Warning(s): Historical inaccuracy is my jam, man. Please don't take this seriously. Besides that, language.
Disclaimer(s): Don't own Hetalia.
George Washington Totally Ate People
Some people say "you're full of shit" to convey that whatever you have to say about something is probably a lie, irrelevant, or just garbage in general. America found it funny that there was a time when England was literally full of it. The London Sewage System had been... Less, than impressive. It was his favorite thing to bring up when they had tea. England would be rambling about how awful everything in the United States was. You know. Straight up nagging him, though he swore he saw the nation as his equal rather than the snot nosed colony he'd owned two some odd centuries ago. He'd say, "Even your own people think you're a failure, lad. It's not just me." And America would lean back in his chair, shoot him his biggest brightest smile, and say, "Yeah? Well you're full of shit." It never failed to make the man lose it.
Everybody always thinks "grace" and "composure" when they say the name England. America personally thought "spontaneous fire" and "mismatching socks".
And, mismatching socks were what he was currently looking at.
Normally they'd have their talk about America being a disappointment and England's glorious history with plumbing over tea. Today, it was wine. Or, at least America remembered that it was wine. He glanced at the bottle, which was rolling along his patio towards the grass now. Yes, it may have been wine. Or hard cider. England did tend to prefer it... America blinked heavily. Must've been hard cider. The mismatching socks were just by his face, and he was watching England's toes flex around in them with the vague impression that that was probably a strange thing for him to do. "They say you're jus' like me, but I don't... I don't see the resemblance, ya know? 'Talk to me when he owns half the world', s'what I tell 'em... What've you got? Fuckin'... Fuckin' Guam? Puerto Rico?" England was embarrassingly drunk and he could only discuss three topics when he was in that state: him being a great empire, him regretting the things he did as an empire, and how much he missed being an empire. Option one seemed promising. Oh, boy!
America didn't know why he listened. He didn't even know why they talked, outside of when they were obligated to. Every time they met they picked back up on the same conversation. Like they were senile androids, or stuck in a horrifying time loop, or- Or maybe they just didn't have very much in common. He stared at England's socks. The two of them had been sprawled out on the patio since they'd stopped drinking out of glasses. He didn't know when night had showed up to the party, but hey, there it was! Bloated moon, city miasma, New York roaring against his fence.
"You 'member what they use'tuh say about me? The empire-"
"-On which the sun never sets. I know man. You were a real popular dude back in the day, I get it."
England knocked his knuckles against America's ankle lightly. Possibly for interrupting him.
America was anticipating the moment he'd bring up-
"S'all his fault... All started with him."
-George. He picked at a piece of lint clinging to England's left sock.
He humored him,
"Oh?"
"He's the reason we had to go through that awful war over... What was it...?"
"Ohio Country."
"Ohio Country! That war lasted for bloody ages! It was a... A domino effect, tha's what it was... It all started with him."
America sighed. He was not drunk enough for this. He didn't think it was humanly possible to ever be drunk enough for this.
He put his hands behinds his head and stared at the dead wasp nest hanging from his ceiling.
"...Well let's hear it then."
George Washington was tall. If The World Trade Center had flesh and was, strictly speaking, evil... Well, that's exactly what he'd look like.
Picture him green and hissing, with miniature reed stakes lodged in his gums. I often do, and I find it to be fairly therapeutic.
There was only a single charming thing about him: He couldn't speak French.
I'd met the man a handful of times. Most of those meetings were after- after The Unpleasantness. That whole... Revolution, mess. I can't say I ever cared for him. I always had the sneaking suspicion he'd eat you alive. Or, me, I suppose, but it was mostly you I worried about. I remember that he used to... Used to stare at you, like he was imagining you slathered in molasses. I'm sure he had a sweet tooth. What's a treasonous cannibal without a sweet tooth?
("Did he steal babies, too?")
You may not remember this, but at the time, owning Ohio Country was like... It was like you and Russia racing to touch the moon, only more practical and without the constant threat of Doomsday hovering on the morning horizon. France being the absolute mongrel that he was, wanted it all to himself. Color me surprised. It was always mine, mine, mine with him. I'm sure he even breathed it in his sleep. I of course, had to have it for myself. It had the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers- do you know how long those go on for? I only ask because I don't, but I'm sure the answer is massive.. You think I'd cling to any reason to have a go at him, but really, I would've preferred a peaceful arrangement.
You know, him leaving the area permanently and me laying claim to it.
("Can't imagine why he'd have a problem with that.")
Neither can I. Honestly, if he'd just bit the bullet, maybe he wouldn't have lost everything.
Spoiler alert: I kicked his ass.
Unfortunately, being an empire was expensive. That war might've been what drove you to-
("Jesus, do you have to bring that up? You always bring that up.")
The Unpleasantness was very unpleasant, yes, but it's an important part of history.
Washington was supposed to have gone to Ohio Country to politely ask the French to leave their forts. They politely declined. There was polite bloodshed a few months later, though I suspect it could've been avoided had something troubling not occurred. You see, he ate ten Frenchmen. Washington sustained himself on the blood of his fallen enemies, or sometimes just blood in general, and if he went a day without it he'd revert to the pathetic newt he'd always been. Before erecting Fort Necessity with black magic, he'd ambushed a French scouting party shrieking like a mad man. In the heat of the battle, he took a bite out of the commanding officer's brain, which was bad form, even for a crazed cannibal. France was, as you could imagine, horrified by the news. He walked to that fort himself, to chastise the man for his unacceptable behavior. The man was a lieutenant colonel, and lieutenant colonel's were not permitted to eat human flesh in the 18th century. Unfortunately, upon reaching the meadow the fort was wrought in, he found 300 of Washington's men slaughtered, missing chunks of their skin and hair. Some were still writhing and screaming, begging, pleading, for death... And there stood Washington. Green skin pulsing, red smattered reeds in his gums. And he was levitating. Absolutely levitating.
France ran for his life, three of his men being dragged back by Washington's snapping black tendrils.
It was after this that the Seven Years' War began.
Washington was always there, you know. Like a bad omen with legs. He started a bloody war that left me broke, and then he put ideas in your head. Awful ideas. Like a seductive abomination in a powdered wig.
("Please don't use the word "seductive" when describing a founding father.")
And that's another thing! You call that lot your "founding fathers", which I find incredibly offensive. The majority of the population was loyal to me. The majority was quite comfortable with being British. And then here comes this motley crew, band of bastards, whispering. Always whispering. You'd tell me I was paranoid, oh but I knew right from the start. Remember when they suggested the Albany Plan?
("You didn't like it.")
I didn't like it at all!
But Washington, he was the worst of them. He was what hid in the dark of my bedroom at the witching hour, clicking his reed teeth.
He led most of the battles in The Unpleasantness, and it didn't surprise me that you looked up to him. There was something kind about him when he wasn't terrorizing fleeing British soldiers and ripping their hearts out. The few times I'd spoken to him, I must admit I found him to be rather... Quaint. He spoke as if he understood your troubles. He spoke as if he'd known you all your life... And I'm sure he did! He must've been centuries old. A witch. A... A horrible creature from the depths of Hell. He'd seen the seventh circle of Dante's inferno, and it blazed behind his eyes promising damnation. My, damnation. I remember the feeling that struck me when he shook my hand for the very first time. He'd been towering over me, smiling as if all he'd ever wanted to do was meet the Great British Empire, and my heart stopped. My skin had crawled and bunched at my joints; I knew immediately. I knew he loathed me, that he couldn't wait to see you loathe me too.
After I, unsurprisingly, won the Seven Years' War, whenever you happened to see me coming from the sea, you'd go sit in front of the nearest tavern and pretend that you weren't just bursting with excitement. Fiddling with your stockings ribbons and whistling. My ship would dock, and you'd shoot up. Cup your mouth, shouting, "Gin or tea?" You suddenly had an immense fondness for me. I'd come out the victor of a war fought over three continents and it was so impressive to you, wasn't it? You'd get this funny look when you saw me, like you'd just realized there were things out there more impossible than grasping stars. You respected me. It was all batted eyelashes and, "I'm so grateful." with you, until you realized my pockets weren't as big as your imagination.
("You calling me a gold digger?")
No, I'm calling you cheap. Cheap, and ridiculously greedy.
But that was all Washington too, wasn't it? I don't believe for a second anything you did wasn't influenced by him. The walking nightmare. You never used to glare at me, but by God, it was your favorite thing to do after I started asking for a bit of money. A smidge! All you had to do was stop smuggling, pay a few taxes, house a few soldiers... Was that so much to ask? Probably, because you went and started The Unpleasantness over it, Washington striding before you, his tendrils snatching innocents and bringing them to his gaping mouth. Don't say I'm being dramatic.
("I'll get a dictionary later. Webster okay or should I get Oxford?")
You mock me, but he really was evil.
Do you remember how he died?
("Pneumonia.")
No, he died during a dark ceremony gone wrong in his bedroom. He'd invited a coven of witches into his home during a raging thunderstorm. You see, he'd been weakening over the years. His blood lust had never subsided, but it was growing more and more difficult to pick out an English born citizen and get them to follow him to his creaking stable. The witches were supposed to grant him youth. Of course, the process wasn't conventional by any means. You had to find someone with youth, steal it, then shake salt in their eyes. This forever trapped their soul in a swirling vortex of despair. The ritual was surprisingly common in colonial times. I suspect he planned to sacrifice you due to your practical immortality, but the invitation for supper he sent you must've gotten lost in the post.
So. He chose to sacrifice an unreasonably patriotic neighbor. Though the man knew he was going to die, he felt a swelling pride in his chest- he was going to be absorbed into the congealed mass that was George Washington. What more could an American want? Besides "liberty", anyway.
Shockingly, the coven of witches turned on Washington! They strapped him to a bed, and as tendrils burst out of his chest trying to keep them at bay, he roared in pig Latin. A vortex embedded in his ceiling sucked a few witches in, but those that remained took daggers to his arms and legs, leaving jagged cuts to release screaming demons out of his body. The patriot scrambled out of the room shrieking in horror, because he was terribly American.
"Dude. You're full of shit."
America sat up. The world shifted and he felt uncomfortably out of it. His vision swam. His left hand patted around that patio for another bottle of hard cider to crack open. He often wondered how many bottles it would take for a nation to poison themselves with alcohol. The answer was not five.
"It's the French that run... Ain't that the stereotype?"
His fingers wrapped around the cool neck of a bottle. He lovingly brought it to his chest as England's knuckles, again, knocked against his ankle lightly.
"M'talking! When did ya... When did ya get so rude? Bet it was Washington... You were never... Never uppity, not back then...!"
England tried to sit up himself, but eventually laid back down after realizing the world was, in fact, liquefied. Swimming. At least for the two of them. And it was so cold. Why were they outside when it was so cold? America had a perfectly good thermostat to fiddle with, and there they were, giggling and getting cider on each others slacks. He reached up a hand to loosen his tie, but realized it wasn't around his collar. No, America had it tied around his head. When'd he do that?
America said,
"Ya ought'ta let it go. Mean, things are cool now... Ya know? I forgave ya ages ago."
England glared.
Or, tried to. His face felt like it was melting.
"There was nothing to forgive me for you... You ninny. Haven't you been listeni-"
"C'mere for a sec."
Ah, if looks could kill.
America grunted and laid himself back down on his patio.
"Christ, didn't mean it like that..."
"I'm sure."
They laid there in silence for a while. Or, what the average New Yorker might consider silence, anyway.
America stared at England's socks.
A/N: I was studying for an upcoming history exam... And looking this over, it's safe to say I'm totally going to ace it. Ah... Should def get back to studying. Hope you enjoyed this.