Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia, I just rape it with a spork.
This story was kinda inspired by a USUK doujin I found uploaded on Tumblr. If you want the link PM me and let me know - I don't wanna post it here since it's R-18 and such.~
Apparently this is what I do at midnight-2am when I can't sleep. And the title for this story comes from my favorite Elvis Presley movie.
As always, reviews = love. Forreals y'all.
Enjoy?~
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A Change of Habit
About twenty minutes ago England had painstakingly slunk away from his all-too-perceptive French frienemy, bounding up the only cement staircase nestled within the bowels of the World Conference building and emerging on top of the roof, hovering fifteen stories above the city that comprised his heart as well as the capital of his country: London. Emerald eyes skirted over to Big Ben, its face illuminated by feeble rays of midday light that managed to penetrate the omnipresent blanket of salt-and-pepper clouds overhead as a hand darted into his back pocket, seizing the squishy pack of cigarettes that he would forever hide upon his person. With a practised hand he fished the last one out of its place within the menthol-scented cardboard holster and shoved the empty pack back into his pocket so as to resist tossing it over the side of the building and pretending that he hadn't thrown it. He popped the butt of the cigarette into his mouth, affixing it between the incisor on the left side of his mouth and his front teeth, patting his slacks down for the plastic see-through purple lighter that he had snatched from America the last time that he had graced the immense country with his royal presence. Bloody hell, nothing's been solved at this year's World Conference just like in the innumerable years and meetings preceding it… makes me wonder when/if a world problem was solved at one of these idiotic country conventions. Damn bosses… sometimes I question them.
He extracted the miniscule amethyst lighter after discerning it from within the folds of his right pocket and rolled the tip of his thumb gruffly over the igniter as a single perfect orange flame erupted from the hole in the metallic top: he held it up to the end of the cigarette perched off to one side in his mouth until it caught fire, relinquishing his hold on the igniter and dropping the lighter back into his pocket. He inhaled deeply once, after that taking a few absent drags as his light eyes surveyed the city that never ceased to captivate him, the setting of a significant part of his childhood as well as his own country's development, alighting upon such structures as Buckingham Palace and the impervious London Eye, Hampton Court and the Tower of London before simply eyeing the ground in front of him. Mentholated smoke tingled the blooming taste buds of his tongue, insidiously seeping down his throat to waltz upon the epithelia of his lungs… he knew that this habit that he had picked up during the glorious decade of the 1960s would simply serve to kill him later in his existence, but then again… who's ever heard of a country dying from cancer like a fragile little human?
The distinct sound of clumsy booted footsteps rang out from what seemed to be behind the heather gray door leading toward the stairs that would eventually transport England back into the World Conference building where he probably should have been. An impressive eyebrow quirked as England pivoted about-face just before the door crashed open, revealing a rather irritated-appearing caramel-haired country personification that could only represent the United States of America. England's heart all but plummeted straight from the cozy confines of his chest and into his stomach, though he made sure to wear his best cordial countenance as he greeted the younger country. "Hello, America. Nice weather outside today, isn't it? Come to get some fresh air?"
Chartreuse eyes immediately jumped to the unbelievably vibrant crimson box of some novelty snack or another that America had picked up from who-knows-where before flying up to the bespectacled superpower's face and abruptly making contact with the brilliant sky hue of the other's eyes. "Kinda but not exactly," America muttered loud enough for England to easily hear as he paced briskly toward the other blonde nation, "I was looking for you, and when I didn't find neither hide nor hair of you down in the Conference Hall I figured you'd be up here as usual. The roof is where you always go when you need to get away from everybody else... Britain, you're so freaking predictable!"
His masculine chuckle tinkled within the air that separated him from England. England nodded curtly only once before taking a long drag upon the cigarette still burning brightly in his mouth, exhaling the foggy smoke through his nose. "Maybe I am, but I could say the same about you, America. You come looking for me without fail each time I retreat to the roof for some alone time away from the other countries. You can be sure that it happens each and every time I do it."
Before England could really think twice about it America had already closed the gap between them, standing only a foot or so in front of the choppy-haired country. "So, when're you gonna drop that nasty habit you have there?" America asked in a boisterously jovial tone as he abruptly changed the subject, gesturing to the half-extinguished cigarette suspended between England's lips.
England shrugged. "Who said that I was going to stop? I've never heard of a country dying from some petty human disease such as cancer. I'm not sure if it's even possible for one of us to contract the disease in the first place, so why should I worry about it?" As if to emphasize his claim he sipped another drag from the slender, manmade tobacco stick, this time allowing the smoke to cascade over his lips instead of exhaling through his nose.
America opened the scarlet box that he held and slipped something long and thin out of it, much akin to what England possessed though he had the feeling that it wasn't what he thought it would be—he knew America would never resort to something so vile and disgusting as cheap drugs. Quicker than a lightning strike and in one fluid motion America stuck the thing he held between his lips and reached out, yanked the cigarette from England's mouth and allowed it to tumble out of his flimsy grasp before his foot smashed it into the concrete ground underfoot. "What's the meaning—" was all England could manage before America took a handful of steps toward him as the younger country's hands flickered up to the Brit's face and cupped his cheeks, tilting his head slightly upward to look America full in the face.
Something thin slipped between the parted barrier of England's lips as the straight-laced blonde nation completely froze: his eyes seemed to tremble as he stared back into America's Atlantic pools of fathomless blue, the tip of his tongue brushing against the unknown intrusion. A pleasantly sweet taste lingered upon the tiniest taste buds dappling the end of his tongue before America bit down on his end of the treat, his face looming that much closer to his English counterpart's. A gentle yet cocky smirk upturned one side of his mouth as he continued down the attenuate stick, halting for just a moment once his lips came within a centimeter or so away from England's before apparently deciding against his pause; he bit down on the last leg of the biscuit stick separating himself from his target as their lips pressed together chastely at first, England's small sliver of the treat breaking off and mingling against the surface of his tongue.
An embarrassed blush mimicking the hue of ripe Fuji apples crept across the bridge of his nose and colored his cheeks, heart hammering away like a jackhammer at a construction scene in his chest: it settled after a few seconds before his entire body relaxed, figuratively shaking off the frozen quality that his muscles had adapted moments before. America's head tilted slightly off to the right as England's arms flitted to the other's sides and wrapped around his sinewy waist, fingers sliding underneath the American's leather bomber jacket and kneading the small of his back through the starched fabric of his khaki military uniform. The island nation's tongue skirted across the softly chapped surface of America's bottom lip before prodding the space between his lips—America complied as England's tongue slipped through, waltzing against his own moist muscle and exploring the cavern before dipping out and breaking away from his ex-colony. He noticed with concealed amusement that color as deep as red wine had meshed wonderfully with the apricot hue of America's cheeks and the tip of his nose. After a moment he seemed to rediscover his voice, resurrecting it from his throat as he shattered the silence that had pervaded the infinitesimal space between them, "So… what was that you shoved down my throat?"
America stuck his tongue out as his nose scrunched up. "I didn't shove it down your throat, you melodramatic Brit! Anyway, it was chocolate Pocky, a little biscuit stick snack thing I got from Japan that are freaking addicting."
England nodded, allowing America's arms to encircle his neck without some snarky complaint falling from his lips for one of the rarest moments in their shared history. "Alright, you know what… I'll quit smoking if you do that with me more often," he stated, a tone of ultimate finality lingering within his words.
America's robin's egg eyes bulged immediately as a pearly smile as large and luminescent as his city of New York completely lit up at night broke across his face, coaxing out a miniature dimple from the top of his right cheek—England couldn't remember the last time that he had witnessed that dimple show itself, though it took him back momentarily to the sepia-tinged and sun-soaked days of America's childhood. "You've got a deal, England!" America exclaimed, a hand darting up to England's forehead to brush his citrine bangs out of the way before he leaned in to plant a kiss against the other's light complexion. "So, uh… the Conference should be just about over now… so, wanna come back over to my place tonight? Get totally plastered out of our minds and have a bangin' awesome time?"
England rolled his eyes. "You sound like one of those desperate guys in those high school special movies you love so much, the one that would be at a party trying to pick up some anonymous girl just so that he can get laid."
"Okay, we gotta get this straight right here, right now: it's after school specials, Iggy, not high school specials. I'm not a teenager anymore, c'mon now!" America chided playfully, steering England toward the single door leading down into the extremely narrow cement staircase.
England had dropped one of the arms that had coiled around America as a hand drifted down to dip into the back pocket of America's jeans, only to be met with something prickly contacting his fingertips. "What the hell do you have in your back pocket that could be prickly like that…?" He wondered aloud as he seized the thing and tugged it out of America's pocket, triumphantly holding it up to his face.
Low and behold, the thing nestled securely within England's hand was a white plastic spork, most likely picked up from one of America's fast food chains that held a special place in his artery-clogged heart. With the piquing of a rather bushy eyebrow England peered at America out of the corner of his eye, whose face had now shaded from a clear cream hue to something that mimicked a fresh paint job upon a fire engine. "America…" England began, at first calm though his voice spiked as he finished off his inquiry, "why in the bloody, godforsaken hell do you have a spork in your back pocket?"
"Ya never know when you're gonna need to spork something, Iggy! Just you wait and see!" America shot back, snatching the plastic utensil out of the shorter nation's hand and stuffing it back into his pocket. "Now let's go! I wanna get out of here and catch a semi-early flight back to my house! If we go quick we might be able to make it by nightfall!" America all but bounced in his boots as he spoke, striding with more purpose and more haste toward the staircase door.
"Alright, alright, settle down, damned bloody wanker," England muttered under his breath, though a gentle smile upturned the corners of his mouth.
Only you, America, would ever get me to quit smoking with something so silly and innocent as a biscuit stick. And a spork too, for that matter… god dammit, by some strange method of my own machinations… I think I've come to love you.
Fin.