Rhapsody in Black and Blue
(by Sailor Taichichi Vegeta)
"He's mine!" "No, his parents are yours! He's my American genius!" Don't bring these two to a concert. Rated for slight violence and a drunken ex-commie.
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Disclaimer
Hey, hey, Mama, more hot cider!
Hey, hey, Papa, hey, hey, Papa!
I can't forget the taste of that grilled cheese-and-bacon sandwich that nobody wanted to share with me!
Draw a circle, that's the Earth,
Draw a circle, that's the Earth,
Draw a circle, that's the Earth,
I'm not Himaruya and therefore own nothing!
Alfred was proud of his immigrants and of their children, who overcame all sorts of obstacles to live good lives in a new home. In the past there'd been some antipathy towards people from certain groups coming to his house, but this had diminished, most of his citizens didn't care any more, and now he only had the feeling parents have towards children who don't share their DNA but are their children nonetheless. So when he was strolling through the park and heard a local orchestra playing some Gershwin, he decided to pull up a folding chair and enjoy some jazz with his ice cream.
"Isn't this great?" asked a nearby teenager, who was tapping his foot and scribbling frantically in a worn notebook. "I can have my report finished by tomorrow, and they aren't charging me a penny for it!"
"Yeah, nothing like a free concert." Nothing like not having to deal with a pile of paperwork, nothing like spending time with some of his happy citizens.
"I heard that Gershwin used a real Parisian taxicab horn for An American in Paris."
Alfred thought about the good time he'd had at the premiere for that piece (he didn't care what Austria said, he did have his own culture and George had played a big part in it for a while) and smiled. "Thats what I was told too."
The piece currently playing was loud and full of energy, like America himself. He found himself tapping his heel against one of his chair legs, creating a counter-rhythm to the student's sneaker on the dry grass. Yeah, he liked this one. It was a shame the composer had died so young... Alfred took another large lick of his chocolate cone and nearly choked on it as someone else voiced his opinion of the piece.
"We produced a genius, didn't we, America?"
Alfred swallowed the ice cream, turned and glared at the Russian sitting on his other side. "What are you doing here?"
"I came to enjoy the work of one of my people."
"No, he's one of my people. You had his parents for a while, but they left your house to come live with me."
"So if not for me, you never would have had him."
"What? Uh..."
They weren't using their quietest voices. The student was eyeing them nervously, trying to figure out what they were talking about.
"Do you admit I am telling the truth?"
Alfred sniffed the air. It figured... "Are you drunk, Ruski? You know about the public drinking law!"
He giggled and took a generous gulp from a flask that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere (the way that stupid pipe did). "But I have diplomatic immunity. And I am not drunk. I am only keeping the chill away."
"So the coldest nation on earth is getting the chills in September."
By now, the student had decided to find a new seat closer to the orchestra and farther away from them.
"Are you angry with me, America?"
"No. I just want to listen to a great American composer in peace."
"Then let's listen in peace together." And the Russian pulled his chair right next to Alfred's. To his credit, he genuinely liked what he was hearing, even if he was drinking the whole time; when the orchestra finished their selection, he leapt up and applauded wildly, even whistling.
"Calm down, man," Alfred told him. "Can't you save that for the end?"
"Aren't you proud, America?"
"Of course I am! I love it when my kids do something special with their lives. You, on the other hand, I am not proud of. Your cheeks are flushed and your breath stinks. And quit leaning on me."
Russia took another pull from the flask and did as he was told. If Alfreds words had made him sad, he soon got over it, because about half a minute later the American heard a sound to his left. It was the Russian, humming and tapping his foot to the beat. Well, as long as he was busy humming that was time that wouldn't be spent bothering Alfred. Shrugging, he decided to finish his ice cream before it got too runny.
" 'Your daddy's rich and your ma is good looking...' Will you sing with me, America?" Russia asked as he put an arm around his beloved rival and pulled him close.
America didn't very much look like he wanted to sing. He was too busy giving his venomous "1969-moon-landing-was-just-the-beginning" stare from behind chocolate-spattered lenses. Some of the not-so-frozen treat dripped down his chin to land on what was a perfectly good pair of jeans.
" 'One of these mornings, you're gonna rise up singing'-"
THWACK!
The orchestra stopped. The startled soloist turned to look at the two men at the rear of the area, one sprawled on the ground and the other brandishing a folding chair.
"Don't mind us," said the chair-wielder, his face still smeared with ice cream. "My friend's not feeling too good, so Im going to find him a place to lie down."
And with that he seized the big Russian's arm and went to go find a sandbox to dump him in.
Happy birthday, George Gershwin! I just heard on the radio that he was born to Russian immigrants. It didn't take long for my brain to make the leap to an excuse for a (one-sided) Cold War brawl. XD
(This is the fastest I've ever taken to write a fanfic.)