A/N: In all honesty, I have no idea where I'm going with this. But it's like a really bad/totally-absurd-sounding-thing based off of The Jungle Book that will most likely end in USUK, so . . . have fun with The Jungle AU ^J^
So, to tell a bit about this AU, it's like the universe of The Jungle Book but instead of animals there are nations and colonies and micronations though there are still some animals, but these animals don't talk or anything outstandingly-magical, they're kind of just there. And they all live in the Jungle, of course. ^J^
England doesn't exactly show up in this chapter, but he will eventually appear in the story I swear!
Summary: While on his way to find a colony, America just happens to rescue a certain micronation. Sort of. Kind of. Well, not really. But that's beside the point, because now he's in for a lot more than he bargained for. Probably-not-very-well-thought-out Jungle AU that will most likely end in USUK.
This is what happens when I word vomit, but I hope it's still at least a little bit okay. ^J^
Disclaimer: I own neither Hetalia: Axis Powers nor The Jungle Book.
Food had always been priority number one for America. Everyone had to eat, after all, though America has to eat slightly more than most—"slightly more" meaning he had to eat his own body weight on a daily basis, to be precise. And it is precisely this fact that drives him through that fateful patch of jungle that night, running after rumors of a new colony.
"Not the colony of an empire," the Netherlands had revealed to him hours earlier, stiffer than usual as he joined America at the bar. And that was saying something, because usually the Netherlands was pretty stiff. At America's curious look, the Netherlands grudgingly tugged aside part of his scarf to flash the cause of his stiffness—a series of welts creeping up his neck. He replaced his scarf just as quickly and finished, "a colony of bees."
The Netherlands sighed, reaching forward to grab a pint to drink when his hand was stopped halfway across the counter. His followed the length of the arm that had seized his wrist to meet a pair of serious blue eyes.
"Where's the colony?"
So, after having to promise the Netherlands to a) pay for the next round of drinks and b) not come running back as soon as he got stung or tripped or got swallowed whole and passed out the other end of whatever unfortunate jungle beast decided to eat him, America was off. A remarkably-detailed map sketched out onto a napkin was in one hand, the other one making sure his glasses didn't fall off as he ran, eyes glued onto the path the Netherlands had so generously drawn for him to follow.
Which was probably why after running undeterred for several hours longer than expected, his foot hit a bump and America was suddenly sprawling on the jungle floor, glasses knocked aside from the impact. He cast only the briefest of glances at the offending obstacle—"Not cool, tree-root-dude. Not cool."—before realizing that he had absolutely no idea where his glasses had gone. He was about to scramble in search of them when he registered the voice.
It wasn't exceptionally low, but was kept quieter than most sounds America usually found himself exposed to. It didn't have exceptional variation in tone or pitch or any of that, but it seemed to dart through the branches like silver. Like the color of its owner's hair. Like how the owner's scarf would shoot out to ensnare its victims . . .
America felt skin under his fingers and realized that at some point he had absentmindedly reached up to touch his own neck, where the deathly scarf had once wound. The memory was blurry, but there.
Russia.
His head turned toward the source of the voice, and could make out just the faint outline of the figure in a long coat. The moonlight that filtered through the trees behind them made his pale hair appear almost translucent in the night. The scarf around his neck was abnormally stretched out and twisted around some poor little guy America didn't recognize. Too small to be a nation. But not quite the right size for a colony, either. And they were ten-something feet directly above his head, too absorbed in each other to notice him as long as America remained quiet and out of sight.
"Everything will be just fine, comrade . . . all you have to do is become one, da?"
America made a split-second decision:
He really, really needed to find his glasses.
In that same moment, there was a roar, and America looked back up just in time to see a fuzzy shape colliding with Russia. The tendrils of his scarf instantly snapped away from the victim, sending the boy falling down, down, down . . .
. . . Right on top of America's head, sending him sprawling uncomfortably on the ground once more.
"Ow."
A Conversation Between Two Unlike Things
Dude, calm down! I totally saved your butt back there, so you should totally be thankful for your oh-so-wonderful hero!
"Wonderful?" Nothing about this is "wonderful" in the slightest, you bleeding jerkface! Now I demand you let me go this instant!
No way, bro, you totally owe me.
Fine, then I'll show myself out.
Seriously? Dude, where are you going to go?
That effectively shut him up.
America watched with a contented smile as the boy suited up in his giant robot armor. For the past few weeks, Sealand—as he'd found out the boy's name was—had been helping him collect honey from the beehives. It turned out that his robot suit was impenetrable by the bees, and so they were able to collect loads of the liquid gold without any casualties. Sealand would don his armor, blast off up to where the beehives grew off the cliffs, and knock down honeycombs to where America waited with a basket back on ground level.
It was a surprisingly effective system, and made America that much happier with his second split-second decision all those weeks before to quietly drag Sealand off with him. He was reaping almost ten times as much honey as he usually did as a result. The smile hadn't left his face ever since, and America couldn't think of anything that could wipe it away.
That is, until Sealand finished his work for the day and landed next to him on the ground, changing out of his robot suit. America grabbed the oozing basket in one hand and followed Sealand back to the cave he had found for them to live in, sneaking licks of honey as Sealand chattered happily away.
". . . and that jerk England would never let me do that, either," Sealand was rambling on as America tuned back in. America frowned. Sealand had mentioned this so-called "England" before, but the name seemed familiar for a different reason, one that he couldn't quite place. Oblivious to his companion's suddenly-contemplative mood, Sealand continued with a happy sigh, "You know, the more I think about it, I'm actually kind of glad you rescued me that other night. I don't know what would have happened to me if you hadn't stepped in . . . I'm not saying that you're not still a jerk of jerks, of course! Just . . . maybe slightly less of one."
America's stomach dropped at those words. His smile was glued.
Weeks, and he still hadn't told Sealand the truth about that night. No, not yet.
"Hello? Earth to America, are you still listening?"
"Huh? Yeah, totally!" America winked, voice swelling with confidence. "After all, that's what heroes are supposed to do."
Sealand didn't seem to entirely believe in this response, but accepted it nevertheless and proceeded to switch to gushing about their earnings for the day. It really was impressive, the amount of honey America was able to collect thanks to the boy.
But it wasn't enough to cover the souring taste of guilt.
Notes on this Chapter:
Did you see the definition for a certain type of figurative language that I referenced briefly and in bold? ^J^
It's kind of choppy and not too much happens in this chapter but things will pick up soon . . . hopefully! *cough*wow-I-feel-so-evil*cough*I'msosorry*cough*
Does America know about England here? No. Is there a reason England's name sounds familiar? Yes. Am I going to tell you why right now? No. Are you going to find out? Probably. ^J^
Feedback is greatly appreciated!
