Chapter 1 Hetalia
It was a harsh, rainy afternoon, the waves pounded on the sea shore with a furious fascination, forcing any normal being to stare in awe and fear at its hostility. Next to the beach, stood a a three-story house, which while was vast and beautiful, was empty and isolated in this little shore. Neither a house or a road or a person could ever be found within miles of this place, except the owner of this house. The owner only visited this place a few days in every other month, and it seemed that today was one of those days.
As the rain continued to pour, a short figure opened the pale door of this house. With a murderous glint in his eyes, the man marched toward the kitchen, not bothering to lock the door. There he roughly grabbed a kettle from a cabinet, filled it with water and placed it on a stove mouth, turning it on. Then, began a pace rapidly in the available space of the kitchen, subconsciously set upon wearing a hole on the ground before the evening was over.
To some people he might have been seen as the equivalent a ranging dragon, perhaps even the source of all legends of hominoid dragons. However, someone who knew this irritated blond would also know that no overgrown lizard could dish out as much pain as this man could: for this man was none other then the personification of England himself, with the temper to prove it and any one who had half a brain cell would prefer to face a dragon rather then to cross his path when he was angry.
Once the kettle began to sound, he halted goal of destroying the floor in favor of pouring himself some water in the closest clean cup available. He placed a tea bag on the cup and mixed it with a spoon. When he raised the cup to his lips, ready to drink his beloved ambrosia, some of it spilled into his hand and arms. He immediately let got of the china cup out of reflex, and watched in horror as the cup fell and shattered on the floor. Stunned, he stared at the remains of what was his favorite teacup, a gift from Queen Victoria herself on the day of her nomination before he punched a cabinet door out of rage, wincing slightly at the sharp pain from the impact. Then, as if the throbbing had grounded him, he kneeled and started to carefully collect the different porcelain pieces before cleaning the spilled liquid with a nearby towel.
'Today seems to be getting worse.' He thought. 'And it all began in that stupid meeting.' This meeting, in Germany, was a G8, which he, as the nation of England, was required to attend, if only for his own benefit. Yet, today had been the first day of the usual weeks of the occasion and already he had flown back to his land. Right now he was in a beach house that he had never mentioned to anyone with the exception of the royal family. The house had no cell phones, and no Internet, which made it nearly impossible for him to be tracked by a phone system or by entering his e-mail, which made it the perfect place to run off to whenever he needed a break from the idiots he is flocked by on the day-to-day basis.
'Actually it all began with America being a jerk' he remembered, sluggishly going up the stairs to the second floor where he had a bedroom. He laid down on the wood bed of the room.
He had been fighting with France, like he always did at one point in those meetings, when France had poked him in his stomach. Being incredibly ticklish, England had no choice but to falter when he felt the (almost) foreign sensation. It was the only thing he had never expected in the middle of a fight, and his shock must have shown on his face because Francis glanced at him, and gleefully shouted: "So you are ticklish after all! I thought it was just a rumor!"
Of course, America, who until this moment had been having a discussion with China about whether or not McDonalds was more famous then Chinese restaurants, chose that moment to hear what France was saying. From then on he proceeded to repeatedly test the 'rumor' true, much to England's irritation. The meeting finally ended when Germany, Russia, China, Prussia (who shouldn't have been there in the first place), and France had to hold down an enraged England from beating America into a bloody pulp, while the unconscious American was being carried out of the room by Japan and Canada and Italy cowered behind a nearby cluster of chairs. When England was finally calmed down and agreed to not kill America, the room was a mess, China had a bloody nose, Germany a purple eye, and everyone looked a little worse to wear (including England himself.).
'That was a great punch! It knocked that bugger out before he even noticed. He bloody deserved it too, that bloody idiot. It was his own to disregard me when I told him to stop.'
And indeed no one in the meeting could remember how many times England had growled out a "stop it!" or a "Don't make me hurt you!" It was unfortunate for the American to not notice that they weren't just empty words.
"Sometimes he just seems to have no respect for me, like as if what I say is just something to be ignored." England whispered sadly to himself, all of his magical friends having had disappeared when they saw him angry. "He used to respect me once, back when he was little, but I suppose that I lost that respect when he became independent, huh? I wish he remembered why he respected me back then. Surely he respected me for more reasons then me being stronger then him. If he remembered that other reasons then maybe he will respect me again, right?"
He received no response for his questions, except the constant sound of the rain outside, but that didn't matter because he already had a plan. There was a tricky little spell in one of his magic books that would do perfectly. Ditching the bedroom, he rushed to another room in the second floor where he left most of his magic related things, including his potion ingredients, the many things that he normally used for rituals (which consisted mostly of candles, chalk, and a little free space.), and his many, many trinkets. Ignoring the space where Busby's chair used to be, Arthur went to the shelf closest to the room's only window. There he took a thick book from near the bottom and flipped the pages until he reached a particular title. The spell was white-gray magic, mostly because while the intent was light, it also left a person open and vulnerable. It was not uncommon for the effected party to be murdered or mauled by a enemy or a wild animal while under its influence. However, England can protect America should it be the case, he was powerful after all.
He summoned his magic wand from the invisible dragon leather holster in his wrist. It was a white rod made from an albino apple tree that he had found in his woods back when he was just a little child. The tree's wood and leafs had been turned into dust by his helpful brownie friend Sally (sadly brownies are extremely misunderstood; today they are called house elves and are treated as slaves by wizards.). The dust had then been collected and frozen by the Irish 'blue hag' Cailleach Bheur herself, but only after a lot of pleading from both him and his many friends.
The result was a never melting pykrete tablet that was later cut into the appropriate shape for a wand, a ring, and a rod. The wand had the fur and a fang of a devil dog that attacked him (and of which he had slayed) as its core, thus balancing the previous white magic of the wand into a gray. On the head of the wand was a yellow star, which oddly enough was made from a mix of aquamarine stone and fairy dust. The ring he had made hollow and filled its inside with willingly given unicorn blood. The blood gave the ring powerful healing and protecting properties. Today the ring was inside a box in his main house's basement, a place that he could always reach should he need it. The third object was his ritual rod, which he used quite often but not enough to justify taking it to wherever he wanted.
Enough about his trinkets though; he had a spell to cast. After gazing at the page once again to see if he had it right, he closed his eyes and prayed like he usually did before the more specific spells.
'Hecate, goddess of magick, / Guide the magic of this spell to ensure it of its success/ Guide us in the path of the charm and allow the results to come/ Keep away the danger of vulnerability/and expose us to the occasion necessary for the spells' triumph/ So mote it be.'
He opened his eyes and instead of the normal sea green they were instead neon green. He opened his mouth, and from then an older form of English flowed. The sound, much like another language altogether, was then accompanied with the seemly random movements of the wand in his hand. However, these movements weren't random, and the evidence of that appeared when the tip began to glow neon, very much like his eyes. Then he turned the wand towards himself and a small flash of light jumped to his skin. Although it couldn't be seen, the energy from the spark was spreading evenly above his skin, and as soon as America touched the energy with his own skin the spell would activate.
He smirked proudly; part 1 was a success. Now all he needed was to get the American to activate the spell. His smirk faltered. Alfred was still in Germany, and since Germany was a few hours ahead of England, he was most likely going to bed at this time. There was no way that he would get there before at least 9:00 p.m. (German time), and no one would want to be visited at this hour when they had to be up early the next morning, much less if its by the guy who had socked them unconscious earlier that day.
He had no choice but to go back to Germany and try to activate the spell the next day in the G8 meeting. Hopefully his desire for the plan to work might be sufficient to keep his anger in check when he gets close to the American. He isn't quite ready to forgive him yet, not until he apologizes.
A few Hours ago, back in Germany:
Alfred winced when he opened his eyes. His body ached all over, and not in a good way. The second thing he noticed was that there was a man next to his bed. Next, he became aware of is that this man was no other then his younger brother Matthew. His brother seemed tense, worried, and a true hero shouldn't allow anyone to worry, specially over them.
"Someone please get the name of the driver that ran me over," America cried dramatically "I need to sue 'em."
His (somewhat) loud statement was met with some shock from his sibling, but soon enough Canada smiled lightly and played along:
"Arthur Kirkland is his name." America winced once more.
"Did I really have to go to the hospital?" He asked annoyed.
"This is an infirmary. We are still inside the Germany's G8 building." Canada replied swiftly. "It's good that you woke up though, we were beginning to get worried. That was some punch."
"I didn't think he would punch that hard. He never did before." America responded before becoming silent, thinking. 'normally I'm the one who lets my temper take control of me when it come to losing track of strength, not England. Even when I insult his cooking he still doesn't hit me as hard as he could. That's why annoying him is so fun; In spite of everything I do he can still restrain himself to not hurt me severely even if he wants to.'
"Nor did I. I knew that he was going to hit you before the meeting was over, but I thought that he would stop after you fell unconscious. However, he didn't stop trying to kill you until after everyone managed to pin him down. He typically stops as soon as Germany begins to scream."
America opened his mouth to reply despite the fact that he had trouble believing this new set of events, when the door to the room opened to reveal France and Japan. They were looking at each other so it was obvious that they had been talking, however as soon as they saw America they abruptly stopped their conversation.
"Oh, Amerique, you are alive!" France gushed happily, jumping to the injured nation's bedside. "I was so scared that your injuries would be the end of you. Oh, what would I have done without you my beloved Amerique? I could not go on! Why if. . ."
"France, please, we talked about this. No flirting with my brother! Specially not when I'm around, or when he is healing." Matthew interrupted the nation of love, his scolding tone losing its effect thanks to the smile that he was trying to contain.
"My dearest Matthew, do not be jealous! There is plenty of love and affection for you too!" Francis cried dramatically, then lowered his voice into a husky whisper, "Besides, you shall always be the only syrup for my pancakes."
Whatever that meant was lost on Alfred, who knew that he was not supposed to have heard that, but he could tell that they weren't talking about breakfast food at all due to the prominent blush that crept on his brother's face.
"I am very glad that you are alright Alfred-san. We were not sure of your well-being before." Kiku stated calmly since it seemed that no one had anything to add.
"Thanks Kiku! But there was not that much to worry about to begin with. Its not like a few little punches would have kept me down for long. I am a hero after all, and a hero ain't a hero if he can't heal fast." America quipped proudly.
"Alfred, I haven't seen Arthur act this brutal since WW2." France answered seriously. "Maybe you should take some time to prepare a apology for him, since this was no mere bicker."
"But France, England and I fistfight all the time. Today's incident will be forgotten about in a few hours, I swear. Iggy just overreacted."
"If I may comment?" Asked Kiku, raising his hand a little to bring attention to himself. He took everyone's stare as a yes. "Alfred-san, Francis-san is right. I suspect that England's actions earlier in the meeting was based on some kind of past experience. If I am right then his anger will be tied down to you until he can forget the memory itself, which we cannot much about. It would be better if you take this seriously unless you wish to hinder your friendship?"
"His past, you say?" Alfred replied, some worry creeping into his voice. He hated it when Arthur began to mourn his revolution. Hated how he would drink himself silly until all he could do was cry and sob about how stupid America was, how mean his older brothers were to leave him to do all the paperwork, and how awful the War of Roses had been. More then once had America been called by one England's ministers or Royals to either have his ear screamed off or be quilt-tripped into luring England out of wherever he had holed himself in during his drunken haze; be it a roof, underneath a car, or in the stage of a punk rock show.
'That had been a very shocking experience. Who knew England could sing?' America thought, amused remembering that England had completely dazed the crowd. 'He is always so gentlemen-ish, its hard to believe that England could be so rebellious, specially when he began to insult his own government. Who on earth goes on stage to insult themselves, anyway?'
He was rudely taken from his memories when Japan said:
"Affirmative, not much else could have been the catalyst of his reactions. I fear that it isn't you who is at fault, which would make it harder for him to forgive you since he seems to have blamed you."
"But if I'm not to blame, then why should I apologize in the first place?" America said confused.
"As Kiku just said, you might not be at fault but he is blaming you. Therefore, his anger is directed at you and that will effect the connection between you two more then it will effect the relationship between England and the one who is to blame." Canada stated tiredly. 'He really is incapable at reading between the lines. No wonder Arthur is always mad at him. England is to subtle in conveying his inner thoughts, and he frequently denies any intent that Alfred does picks up on, which America immediately believes.'
"England has been known to do so before." France stated gloomy. He didn't elaborate any further when the others sent him questioning looks.
"Fine, I will." America stated. "But does anyone know where he is?"
"His hotel room is 307." Japan responded. Surprised a rigid America turned to stare at him, his face set in a glare without his notice. ' I could understand it if he knew where Iggy is but why does he know England's room number?'
His unstated question must have been obvious because Japan hurriedly said: "Do not worry America-san, I say him when he first got here two days ago, so I helped him take his baggage to his room."
The glare lessened. America relaxed his shoulders. 'Japan always does these things for everyone, and that includes Iggy. Besides Iggy would tell me if he liked anyone, right? Right. After all, I am one of his closest friends.' He stood up, careful to not let neither his brother nor his friends, if France could be considered that, know how much it hurt to move.
"I'll see you later guys!" he waved cheerfully, walking out the door. Canada cast the American a worried look, not convinced that the American would know how to apologize correctly before following his brother outside.
As soon as the door closed, France turned to Japan. "How long do you think it will take for the two get over the fight and go back to their subtle flirting? I say it might be about a week, maybe two."
"I believe that if they find themselves in the right situation, then perhaps they might be aware of how much they like each other. It would be great for my manga series if they were to understand the full connotations of their arguments, particularly since they eventually begin to flirt shamelessly once they begin to see the other's reaction to it." Japan declared, fingering the spy cam that he hid in his shirt's button. He wasn't allowed bring cameras to the meetings, not after everyone took a vote on it (well, he had filmed all of them after someone had spiked all the drinks in the room -Go, Prussia, Go!-, and he had stuck to the drink he had brought. Good times, good times.). Still, there was a lot of Usuk footage in those meetings, and he was not going to miss them.
"I doubt it, America is too dense to see it unless it hits him in the face, and England will deny it to hell and back." France said. "It is a matter of time; these two can't have it any other way."
"I disagree."
"You have the right to do so." France looked a Japan looked solemn, "I just hope that England doesn't do anything stupid. That might slow their progress down."
Japan hummed an affirmative, not bothering to defend his friend against the accusation. It was very much possible.
Together the two wandered of the infirmary, continuing their conversation.