Birthday Present II: the Special Relationship
Deep Rain
Author's Note: This happy-birthday to US has SO expired, but whatever. Frequent references to guns are purely coincidental, I do not belong to the NRA. And I am not a Fracophobe, since Himaruya was having so much fun punishing him, so will I.
Reload note 9/27: just realized I can't have more than one pairing turned on for a series, so I decided to load different chapters separately. Please visit my page for other chapters. Thanks!
___________
In America, everything is done big. Big cars, big guns, and big parties. So when America's birthday came around, he made sure it was done the old-fashioned American way. A few weeks before July 4th, every country received an invitation to come to his party; whether they were even remotely interested or not. Mailboxes around the world rattled as a big star-striped invitation was dropped inside, and stayed there silently through the early dawn, until their owners decided wake up. All mailboxes except for one, that is.
Outsides of England's house, a shady figure reached into the letterbox and pulled out the invitation card. A shady figure that, as a matter of fact, bore a striking resemblance to France. After pilfering the mail, he went around the house and jammed a wrench into the aging air conditioner hanging through the window.
With the day's work done, he strode off whistling in the cool air.
________
July 4th
The late morning sun slipped through the thin white curtains fluttering at the window, as England sat at his wooden desk reading a book he really didn't care about. Every so often his gaze would fall on the silent phone at the corner of his desk.
It's actually very like that America would call him at the last minute to demand his presence at his birthday party, nothing unusual. Really.
He went to pour himself a glass whisky.
_______________
American's garden was packed. Three barbeque grills sizzled away under the blazing sun, cooking the air into a trembling jelly. And although America wouldn't mind filling all three grills with fatty ribs and corn-on-the-cobs swimming in butter, he was also adventurous with new foods. So after some persuasion by his guests, his sizzling ribs shared the grill with shish kebabs and yakitori and satay, among various other things, all meticulously tended by their respective advocates.
Next to the grill, Veneziano and Romano skewered tomatoes with wooden sticks, while Spain devotedly fanned the later with a paper plate. Behind them, Germany finished seasoning a big bowl of potato salad. Austria meticulously cut up the sachertorte he brought with the aid of a protractor, and Greece coldly pulled his baklava platter from under Turkey's hand. The backdoor of the kitchen was thrown wide open, and Lithuania was busy throwing together a wild berry salad while Seychelles sprinkled nutmeg into her yam pudding. Outside the white picket fence, Zimbabwe and Hungary returned from the nearby liquor store, each carrying a twenty-four pack beer. A radio blared out through an open window with tinny pop music of a local station. Russia absent mindedly mixed a jug of Yorsh while staring at the sun with a brand new pair of shades.
Midst the chaos, France wore the minimal clothing allowed under the American law and lounged in a deckchair with a bottle of Kronenbourg in hand, with no intention of helping whatsoever. He scanned the crowd with appreciation, noting how few fabric everyone was wearing underneath the sun. Even Lichtenstein was wearing a tank top, and Switzerland couldn't seem to decide where to put his eyes.
Gravel crunched, and Sweden's Saab SUV pulled up into the driveway. Compensating for his guzzler, he had offered to carpool his other Nordic friends. As the passengers poured out, Sweden went around to open the door for his sweetheart. France gleefully noted Finland's slightly awkward gait that bespoke of someone who's not particularly flexible compelled to bend to too long too hard. Sweden shuffled closely behind his wife, looking appropriately apologetic.
It appears that their past month had not been spent in vain, France thought with tremendous accomplishment.
A young boy scuttled off the back seat and followed the couple. France frowned. Who was that? Not even Latvia was that short. And those inch-thick eyebrows had an uncanny resemblance to someone who will not be showing up today.
Shrugging, he leaned back and looked at America. The shirtless man kept glancing up from the grill to his driveway, occasionally pulling out his phone as if to dial, only to put it away after a few seconds.
France chuckled and laid back, waiting for the food to be done.
Patience young man, patience.
___________
It was four thirty in the afternoon, and England realized he just went through an entire bottle of whisky. The hot afternoon air packed his drawing room relentlessly, and for some reason his air condition refused to work. Pacing the room like a caged animal, he tripped on a gift-wrapped box, and after staring at it for a second, he kicked it under the sofa.
Bloody bastard.
He threw himself down on a divan near the window. It was cheerfully sunny outside, all bright and happy with chirping birds, and currently he wanted nothing to do with it, despite his very clammy shirt.
Giving his phone another petulant glare, he pulled the cord off and threw an arm over his eyes. He told himself they were blurry because he was getting drunk.
Jerk. See if I care.
______________
The sinking eight thirty sun painted the sky red, under which a game of beach ball raged on the lawn. It was Kenya, Belarus, Lichtenstein, Seychelles, and Ukraine, versus Zimbabwe, Hungary, Belgium, Taiwan, and Canada, who was invited to make up five players on their team. France protested intensely over why they didn't pick him.
The less active portion of the world sat around with their second or third beer of the day. America, on the other hand, drained the last can in a six pack. He seemed bent on topping Russia's blood alcohol content with beer, which is a futile endeavor considering his opponent's choice of beverage. One could probably get high on Russia's blood.
"America-san, you shouldn't be drinking so much." Japan reminded the sullen man as he cracked open another can. America shrugged as he unwrapped China's present: an ornate back scratcher and a deadly wok.
"Oh don't bother the man, 'tis an occasion to drink to." France said, grabbing a handful of dried sardine fries from Japan's bowl while watching Ukraine jumped to block a volley. "Great party you threw, America. And it's very kind of you invite so many people."
America took another gulp of beer murmured. "Apparently England thinks it's not good enough for him…"
Tsk. Look at all that pent up anger and pent up something else. France feigned a surprised and cautious tone.
"England? But I thought… I though you didn't want him here?"
American frowned and put the can down "Why do you say that?"
"Well, I just thought you two fell through and… well, I didn't think you invited him!"
"Of course I did! His invitation card was the first to be sent out!"
"Fascinating! Because just yesterday England told me that he didn't receive an invitation card, and I thought there might be something awkward going on so I didn't ask more… "
It took America a tad longer to figure that out than France expected. Meanwhile, Belarus served the ball straight into Canada's face, who was then being escorted off the court by Kumajiro while Cuba took his place.
"Oh my god! The card must have gotten lost in the mail!"
You're almost too dumb for my plan, America. France pushed the business a bit more.
"Oh, that would be terribly unfortunate! You should call him up now and have him come! He must feel tremendously left out!"
America pulled out his phone and dialed.
"The call's not going through…"
"He must be throwing a tantrum now! Well, go find him then! You're birthday will be over in less than four hours! Sweden, drive our birthday star to England's place this instance!"
Sweden, who was still holding a grudge against him, glared. Then his better-half whispered.
"Su-san, can you go? You're the only one here who hasn't drank and has a car, and England must feel really lonely now…"
So the pushover stood up and went to his car.
America was about to get into the car when Sweden yanked him back.
"Put on ya' shirt."
"Oh right, right."
A nosy pushover at that, thought France.
As Sweden's car pulled onto the road, America rolled down the window and yelled to his guests.
"The fireworks start at ten thirty! Don't fall asleep!"
France shooed. "We'll be fine ourselves. Now off with you both! "
________
The evening breeze gradually woke American from his beer-induced haze. He rubbed his eyes and tried dialing England's again.
I should have called much earlier.
America sighed and snapped his phone shut. He turned to the driver, looking apologetic.
"Thanks for driving me."
"Hm."
"Can't believe he didn't get the invitation…" He murmured again.
There was a short silence filled only by the whistling wind and the engine. Then Sweden spoke up.
"Did ya' get France's present yet?"
"No, I didn't think he got one for me."
"Hmm."
The interjection stretched a bit longer this time, and America got suspicious.
"Why? You know what he's got for me?"
Sweden looked as if he was about to explain, but settled for anther question.
"Do ya' like 'ngland?"
America was slightly taken aback, then stuttered to answer.
"Well, I guess… I mean, he's a bit of an ass some times, actually most of the time, and especially when I was a kid…"
"But do ya' like 'im?"
America was glad Sweden had to keep his eyes on the road, or else he would have gotten a very piercing glare.
"I guess… so, most of the time—"
"I really like Finland."
"W…what?"
Sweden pulled over and stopped the car, then turned to meet him in the eyes.
"I said I really like Finland. Matter fact I'm madly in love with 'im. An' not just mosta th' time."
America was starting to feel distinctly cornered.
"And if ya' can't say the same 'bout 'ngland, I don't think ya' should go find 'im now."
"Why?"
"Ya'd make 'im feel lika fool. An' I'm speakin' from experience. Now make up ya' mind, I'm gonna go make a call."
Sweden stepped out of the car, leaving America to himself.
America pulled out his phone again, letting the backlight lit up his face.
Easy for him to say. America thought as he glowered at the blue light. It's not a particularly dignifying kind of feeling for him admit towards his former colonist. And England's personality doesn't make it any easier.
Looking out the windshield, he saw Sweden pacing slowly while talking into his phone. Was he talking to Finland? America can't deny he was a bit jealous at how candid their relationship was. Sure, Finland liked to keep his private life exactly that, but he certainly wasn't trying hard enough to hide the fact that he lives with man.
And England? Well… he… he comes over reluctantly when he wants to watch The Ring?
America tried again.
Well… he complains about his cooking but eats it anyways, a favor that he returned.
He went through thick and thin with him when he had an overblown staring contest with Russia.
And told him not to go tearing down Iraq's house without a plan to rebuild it, and when he didn't listen, England went in and stayed with him anyways. He stayed even after what happened on the subway…
The car door opened and Sweden peered in.
"So?"
America looked up, slightly despondent.
"You think he likes me? I caused him so much trouble…"
Sweden frowned at the question.
"Are ya' serious?"
"What?"
He got in the car and started the engine.
"Ya'r lack of perception is disconcertin' consideratin' how much powe' you wield."
"Wait, you think he likes me too? How do you know?"
"'is face."
"What, did his face give him away?"
"Yeah. I see that face in th' mirror everyday. Now put on ya' seatbelt, ya' don't have much time."
____________
Another round of kalashnikov fired, and England ducked behind a crumbling wall of Kuwait's house. He could feel the grit of sand in his mouth. When silence settled again, he slowly pushed the barrel of his SA80 through a crack in the wall. Heavy sand blew behind the black cross of his rifle scope.
A shadow emerged, and he laid his finger on the trigger.
Then he saw America walking towards him, sand trailing his steps and an M16 dangling jauntily in his hand. He smiled straight at him through the rifle scope and raised his gun.
The thunder of bullets exploded, and England felt something grazed his face. He fell back and yelled.
"Stop! It's me! England!"
Silence followed, and England exhaled in relief; until he heard another cartridge being loaded. He braced as America emptied another round on the wall in front of him.
"Stop! America! It's me, England! Stop it!"
He heard a shuffle of footsteps, and looked up to see young America standing above him on the low wall, chubby hands hauling the still smoking assault rifle.
"I found you England!" He grinned happily.
Put it down America…
When the bullets ripped his chest, his own gun was still laying limply on his lap.
He couldn't breath. He was burning.
A glass shattered.
England jerked awake on the divan, chest heaving with heartbeat throbbing in his ears. He had dropped the whisky glass, and the floor was now covered with shards gleaming from the moonlight outside. The room was pitch dark otherwise.
He mechanically got up to pick up the pieces, then the full bottle whisky hit his brain. His left hand landed on the glass shards, trying to break the fall. Muttering a curse, England sat down next to the divan, head bowed.
He was a wreck in so many ways. His shirt was drenched, and to his horror, so was his face. England was about to wipe his face when he realized they were bloodied. Pulling out the shards with his other shaking hand, he observed the sliver of glass with morbid curiosity.
And it was just a stupid birthday party.
He peeled off his shirt, and the doorbell rang. England couldn't decide if the blaring doorbell or the prospect of a guest was more infuriating.
"What?" He yelled with a hoarse voice.
"England! It's me! Are you alright? Let me in!"
Bloody hell. I can't handle this.
"Fuck off!"
"I'm sorry you didn't get my card! But let me in!"
"I don't fucking care! Get lost!"
"England!"
He was about to escape to his room when he heard the big ape broke down his door. Just like that.
Shit. I'm gonna kill him.
_________
America got off the car in front of England's doorsteps, and Sweden drove off behind him. Just as he wondered how he was supposed to get back later, he heard the shattering of glass inside the house. He banged on the door.
"England! It's me! Are you alright? Let me in!"
"Fuck off!"
Uh-oh. He must be drunk.
"I'm sorry you didn't get my card! But let me in!"
"I don't fucking care! Get lost!"
America rattled the door harder. "England!"
Something crunched, and the door gave away. Just like that. He stumbled into the room.
Shit. England's gonna kill me.
One look at the occupant and the unhinged door in his hands threaten to slip. England stood shirtless by the tall window, a sheen of tear and sweat on his face and body glistened under the moonlight. There was a smudge of blood on his already flushed cheeks, topped off with an intoxicated death glare from underneath his wet fringes.
God bless loose board shorts.
"…Ah…hi… ah… I'll fix the door. I swear! Um... Are you alright?"
America stuttered and leaned the broken door gingerly against the wall.
A silky, measured voice. "You're not invited. Get out."
Sarcasm? He must be very drunk.
"Look, I'm very sorry you didn't get my card. I swear I sent it out! I wrote yours first! Wait! Where are you going—?"
He chased after the swaying figure, reaching out to grab his hand. Either he pulled too hard, or the man was even weaker than he appeared; England stumbled back against him. The temporary contact froze both of them in mid-step, then England flung his hand away. Feeling something sticky in his palm, America realized England's left hand was bleeding. He reached out again, this time pulling him back by the arm.
"Hold on! You're bleeding!"
"Why do you care?"
Pinned, America averted his eyes, trying to find something within reach to bind the wound. He was reluctant to let go of England's hand.
"Well… I just do…"
He settled for a lace doily on the coffee table. Clumsily tying the fabric on, he peeked at England's face, then lowered his gaze again under the icy glare.
"Um… do you… wanna come to my house? Everyone's gonna be staying late…"
"No."
"Oh. Um… how about I order some pizza for us…"
"No."
"Oh…uh… how about—"
"No."
Ouch.
He let go of the bound hand and just stood there, rubbing his own sweaty hands on his pants. What would Sweden say in a situation like this?
"Um… you're beautiful?"
He held his breath and waited. After a long silence came England's tired voice.
"You like to watch me cry?"
Oh crap.
"No no no! That's not what I mean! I… I meant, like, overall…I…" He saw England's exhausted face and muttered. "… Sweden said you like me, so I thought…"
"… so you thought you'd make up some shit to cheer me up?"
"I didn't make—"
Then inebriated tantrum finally set in.
"You bloody bastard! Fucking harebrained git! I didn't raise you to be such a dimwitted waste of carbon—" He punctuated his rant with drunken punches on America's chest, who wondered if he should pretend they hurt.
"— I don't care about your stupid party. I don't care about you. I didn't even care when you bombed me in—"
America hurriedly threw his arms around him. "I'm sorry about the friendly fires, okay! And I didn't make that up! I was serious! I was really serious!"
Looking for a way to stop England from recounting all his transgressions, he tightened his arms to smothered England's face against his chest, who struggled weakly to get away.
"I should have called right away instead of waiting for France to tell me that you didn't receive my card, but I just thought that maybe… maybe you weren't interested in coming… so, well… But I was really happy when Sweden said… said that you like me and stuff…"
The thrashing gradually subsided, and America could feel England breathing heavily against his shoulder.
Then came a low muffled voice.
"Serious about what?"
"What?"
"You were serious about what?"
The embarrassment of his earlier declaration surfaced. Now it felt like a very sappy thing to say.
"Oh. Oh that… um, well, you heard…"
Another feeble punch in the stomach.
"Say it."
"But…"
"Say it, you bastard. Or I'm never talking to you again."
America could feel him clutching the hem of his t-shirt, so he pressed his lips against England's ear and whispered.
_______
There were fireworks at the far horizon. Distant sparkles of red and blue, one after another, flaring up, then slowly petering out before another surge of light. Not unlike his tired eyes, slowly falling shut before he urged them open again.
They were on the roof of his Georgian house with wooden shingles on their backs and the night wind in their faces. He was draped ungracefully over America's lap, soft cotton t-shirt pressed against his cheek. He excused himself by arguing that he was too drunk to remember any of this tomorrow anyways.
Apparently not.
England glared at the morning sun through his bedroom window, then at the snoring idiot next to him who was hogging all the blankets. He sat up and took a good look at America's oblivious face. The last time they shared a bed, America still had a layer of baby-fat on his cheeks.
Taking the mangled doily off his hand, he headed to the shower and turned the water on full force against his body. The whisky was not agreeing with his head at all. England wondered what he would have done if America hadn't shown up. Maybe he would have cracked open another bottle of whisky or the like. What if Sweden hadn't given him away to America? Or if France didn't tell him that he didn't receive…
Wait. Wait a second.
How the hell did France know he didn't get America's invitation?
Oh no no no, that jerk did not…
He was mentally going through the list of curses we wanted to throw when he heard the bathroom door being thrown open.
"Hey England, you're up already!"
He poked his head out of the shower curtain to see America stripping before him.
"What the hell are you doing in here! I'm taking a bath! Get out!"
"Hey can I join you?"
"No!"
America flung the shower curtain aside and stepped in.
Fat load of good his protests did; as always. England was, however, inspired to seek another way of revenge besides hexing. After a very lengthy shower that included various none-ablution related activities, he stumbled out of the bathroom and tossed America the key to his Bentley.
"Drive us to France's. Now."
So forty-five minutes later, he was banging on France's door with America in tow.
"Get out you mangy mutt!"
The door opened to reveal France in a silken red bathrobe.
"Oh, good morning England! Ah, I see America's with you, too!"
They walked in and America beamed at their host.
"Good morning France! Thanks for telling me about the card yesterday, or else I would've never thought—"
"Oh shut up." England pulled America down by the collar into a sloppy kiss, then pushed him back and instructed.
"Now, we can continue what we were doing in the shower after you beat this bloody jerk up for me."
After a few seconds of dazed smile, America picked up a chair, decided it wasn't to his liking, put it down and picked the couch instead. France cowed at the corner of the room.
"Wait wait wait! England! I did everything for your sake! It was out of the most sincere and genuine concern for both of your wellbeing! I apologize if it inconvenienced you! I'll make it up! I swear!"
"Hold on America."
England laid a hand on America's shoulder and walk towards France.
"Fewf… thanks…"
With hands in his pockets, England drawled.
"Don't thank me just yet. I wouldn't have called it quits if I didn't have some use for you. So listen carefully. I have a very young brother who has recently ran away from home—"
"Wait, you mean—"
"America, please shut up. Now France, it's high time for the boy to come home now. I believe he is currently lurking somewhere near Sweden's house, so if you can bring him back to me, I will spare you the beating that was planned for the next three hours. The dumb boy will likely scream and yell and make up some outrageous claims, but don't mind him, just bring him back at whatever cost. Understood?"
France cautiously relaxed his shoulders and asked.
"Alright alright. What this boy's name?"
"Sealand."
When the door closed behind France, America finally spoke up. "I thought you were happy that Sweden adopted Sealand? You want him back now?"
"No. But don't worry about that. The bathroom, shall we? Or we can try the couch if you don't mind putting it down"
Happily setting the coach down, America sidled up to him "Hey England, I saw this box on your floor last night—"
"It's not yours."
"But my birthday present—"
England pulled down his tie. "You already got one here, you greedy bastard."
_________
Finland was collecting the laundry in the backyard when he heard the scuffle. He dropped the basket and ran to the front of the house to see France dragging Sealand away.
"France! What are you doing?!" He ran over and tried to pull Sealand back, but France wouldn't let go.
"I'm saving this future-delinquent's ass so I can save my own ass. Come on kid! Time to go home!"
Sealand yelled and kicked. "This is my home! Let go!"
"Oh please. You're just like your brother."
France hauled Sealand up from under the arms, and Finland hastily latched onto the boy's ankles. He screamed.
"Su-san! Help!"
There was some clatter in the house, and moments later the front door was flung open and Sweden came out.
A few quite seconds passed as Sweden took in the scene. France hauling Sealand, Sealand with shirt hiked up to his chest, and Finland holding onto Sealand's ankles for dear life. The later two were on the brink of tears. Hanatamago was tearing at the hem of France's pants.
He stomped back into the house.
His reaction was so unexpected that Finland actually let go of Sealand, carefully taking a few steps towards the house.
"S…Su-san?"
Through the open front door, and then through the still-swinging bedroom door inside, he saw Sweden rummaging through the bottom of their closet.
"Oh no. Oh no. Oh God no. France! Run!" He shoved the clueless man.
"Wait, what?"
"Run! Hurry!"
France took a few haphazard steps backwards until he saw what Finland meant. Sweden walked out of the house with his elk-hunting Winchester M70 in one hand and a magazine of .308 in the other. Finland covered Sealand's eyes and yelled.
"Su-san! Put it down!"
Sweden loaded his rifle.
"Finland, take Sealand inside."
He pushed his glasses up into his hair and aimed, while France tried to run in a serpentine pattern.
_________
July 14th
France birthday party this year was held in his splendid rose garden as usual, though this year the host was constrained to a divan on the lawn, laying face down holding a glass of wine. All the guests enjoyed the fabulous food and weather without France's active participation.
Heartless wretches. Thought France.
Finally, Canada came over with sincere concern and a plate of food for him.
"How are you feeling France?"
"As well as a man could be with a wounded bum."
"I'm sorry to hear that—"
"Put me down you rude peasant!" Someone screamed at the gate of the garden, cutting Canada short.
America walked in carrying a naked Austria tied up in pink ribbons.
"Happy birthday France!"
France scratched his stubbly chin. "Hmm… tactless, exceeding unoriginal, but very sincere and forthright… I like that."
He took a sip of his wine and turned to Canada.
"Don't feel sorry, Canada. I've accumulated an impressive collection of good karma."
**The End**
Lots of review will increase the chance of possible, possible, future Spain/Romano, or Germany/Italy, or more Su/Fin. So bring it on.