Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia. I don't own "It's America" by Rodney Atkins. I do own New York. Deal with it.
A/N: My late birthday present to my friend Zippy who cosplays Russia (to my New York) and to Ivan in the series. happy Birthday, dudes.... even if my birthday wishes to Zippy are a bit late, sorry;;;.
New York hates Russia. For various reasons. The Cold War was one of the causes, but what really scares him is when Russia goes "Kholkholkhol" and gets all scary like (i.e. NY is a big wuss). Just backstory. Yeah. Enjoy NY, and all of his lazy, teenager dumbassery. I love him, my dumb little OC state. -heart-
Happy Birthday, Uncle Russia
The weather was cold, and the wind rushed around the skyscraper the teenager lived in. He wore his thumbs out on his game controller, fighting mutant zombies and dispatching them. Strewn around the penthouse apartment were soda cans, dirty boxers, and empty but very greasy boxes that once contained NYC's Pizza Pub pizza. He blue eyes were fixed solely on the big-screen television, blocking all the sounds coming from the city below.
"It's a high school prom, it's a Springsteen song, it's a ride in a Chevrolet! It's a man on the moon, and fireflies in June, and kids sellin' lemonade! It's cities and farms, it's open arms, one nation under God! It's America~!"
The ringtone blared and the brown-haired teenager paused his game and grabbed the cellphone. Flipping it open, he greeted, "Yo, Dad, 'sup? New York here."
"Alex, do you know what day it is?"
"Uh…Wednesday?"
"Yes, but what's the date?"
The teenager had to look at his clock. "The thirtieth . . . ?"
"Whose birthday is today?"
"Uh . . ."
"Your Uncle Russia's."
There was silence. "What about Uncle Russia."
"It's his birthday today."
"And . . . ?"
America sighed. "Call your Uncle and wish him a Happy Birthday."
"Do I haaaave to?" New York whined piteously.
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I said so."
"I hate Uncle Russia!"
"Do it anyway."
"Fine! I'll call fucking Uncle Russia and wish him a goddamn happy birthday." America sighed as the line went dead. New York angrily opened a folder in his phone and typed out,
'To: KolKolKol
From: New Yorkster
Message: Dear Uncle Russia; Happy Birthday. U suck. New York.'
He clicked the green button to send the text, threw the phone away and picked up his game controller. "Damn Uncle Russia and his damn birthday, fuck, I hate him." He resumed his game and proceeded to beat zombies to undead pulp.