A/N: A little Thanksgiving fic for the geeky American in all of us. It may seem that the narrator is really OOC. I have my reasons, and they are detailed at the end of this story.
Once upon a time, a little girl borrowed Axis Powers: Hetalia in order to bring joy and laughter to the masses. However, it did not belong to her.
Pairings and Warnings: T for vague sexual references and language. Greece/Japan mainly.
I was not pleased America made that preposterous proposition, if only because England nearly spit his tea all the way across the table and I was seated directly across from the Brit.
This exemplary expelling of hot liquid was no small feat considering the diameter of the United Nations conference table. I was rather fond of that diameter, that darling thing. It was a strange property of that diameter that if one were to extend any line segment across that very circle (not necessarily a diameter, mind you), the product of the measure of the length of the part between the region defining the circle and its intersection with the diameter multiplied by the measure of the length of the segment between the intersection and the circle boundary on the other side would be equal to the product of the corresponding parts of the diameter! How wonderful!
As America said on that occasion, "We should go around the table and give thanks for the wonderful things in life!"
He also said, "And then have a politically incorrect feast honoring the Indians – er, sorry, Radhesh, I mean Native Americans."
In addition, he stated, "But I think it's total bullshit that the UN has to meet today! I mean, it's an American holiday!"
At this, the other nations twittered amongst themselves, sharing stories of national holidays ignored by the international calendar. It only made sense, I privately thought, tilting back in my chair. It was marvelous how my weight could be distributed perfectly enough to balance upon the chair leg, which had a remarkably small surface area with which to bear me.
However, I did not share my views, observing the other side of the table with interest instead. I should have liked to exchange a bored glance with Japan, but his eyes were lowered, as is custom in the Orient. In any case, Japan's manners far exceed any lackadaisical schoolboy antics such as the meaningful glances that uninterested youths practice.
Oh, Japan. My uninterested gaze was free of manners, free to wander idly across the table, free to dance across his porcelain face, his sweet eyes, his prim shirt collar to which his rising sun flag was affixed and which my fingers longed to reach for...yet his face was the object upon which I was most fixated, that pale, pure face, as innocent as he had once been…
"Greece, you're daydreaming." So spoke Spain as he – in layman's speak, which can in certain cases be far superior in expressing the ideal sentiment – nudged me.
"Oh, am I?" I asked, smiling benignly. "Sorry. What's going on?"
"Well," Spain said, pointing (quite rudely, for he was no Japan) across the table to where England and America were locked in an argument. "England and America are fighting."
"Comme d'habitude," France sighed, interjecting. "Mais, l'homo-érotisme…c'est pas banal, oue?"
"Huh?" I inquired, though of course I understood the man, given my extensive knowledge of most European languages. After all, their origins were rather familiar to me, as was Tokyo, though not in the same manner. It was best not to get involved in discussions with France.
"Oh, look." Spain pointed again. "Oh. Dear God. They're actually going to make us do it."
"Do it?" France beamed.
"Bastard! No, have you not been paying attention? We're doing a little American-style giving of thanks…Dear God save me, please…" Spain's eyes rotated three hundred and sixty degrees, though the orbs were indeed tilted off of their axes by roughly thirty degrees, though I had been in a rush to leave that morning so I did not have my pocket protractor. That is to say, he rolled his eyes.
With good reason! My dear reader, it was indeed as the Spaniard said. America was insisting that every nation, every nation, give thanks for something! And, it appeared, he would not be satisfied with a cop-out response.
"Ve~! Me first! Me first!" It was my fellow southerner, of course, who volunteered. "I give thanks for painting, and friends," meaningful glance at Germany, of course, "and Pinot Grigio and sheep and the Medicis and and and and-"
"Thank you, Italy, for your enthusiasm!" America shouted at a volume completely inappropriate for a meeting, even such a meeting that had been completely inappropriately interrupted by a holiday that only a lone member of said meeting participated in. "Who's next, who's next?"
"I'm giving thanks for beer, and West, and Frederick the Great."
"M'wife."
"I'm thankful for tortilla – eggs, not that disgusting bread, you stupid bitch, Mexico – and sangria, and Miguel de Cervantes."
"I'll give thanks for…um…snow…and flowers…and massive retaliation! And vodka, of course, and Peter, and Lithuania coming to me broken and senseless with blood and -"
"Thank you, Russia!" America grinned broadly, restraining a furious Poland with one heroic extremity. "That's enough. How about…Japan?"
"Eh?" Those eyes. No symmetry at all, and yet I was captivated. They met mine for the briefest moment, which I was sure could be no more than several hundred nanoseconds, though I did not have time to use my stopwatch. "I suppose I will give thanks to…computer technology, and hot plum sake…and cats."
I felt my cheeks grow warmer by several degrees (Celsius, of course) though it was likely no one else would notice.
Next was China. "Rice and rice wine! Not to mention underage girls, aru!"
Silence reigned, save for the muffled chuckles of France to my left.
China looked around in confusion until, mercifully, Japan leaned over to whisper in his ear, and China amended his previous statement. "I mean, did no one watch the Beijing Olympics, aru?"
A collective sigh ruffled my hair as the assembled nations relaxed. America stood, again, slamming an overenthusiastic fist into the table. "Speaking of Olympics! Greece, your turn!"
I affixed to my face a look of wide-eyed confusion. "OK…I guess I'll give thanks for…um…ouzo, and olives…and Plato's The Republic…and…cats…"
"I'll go next, eh?" said Canada, but his suggestion was drowned out.
"I am giving thanks…" France belted out at the top of his lungs. "For Cabernet Sauvignon and le terroir and Louis XIV and [this section has been censored to limit reader disturbances as the author is in no way prepared to be financially responsible for psychological treatment as a result of exposure to extremely graphic literary sequences]."
A collective shudder ran across the circle of gathered nations, analogous looks of disgust on every nation's face.
"And, no," France finished. "Unlike China, I am not, strictly speaking, referring to sports. Not in a typical sense."
"Th-thank you, France…" America stuttered, a glazed look remaining on his face for several seconds longer than I had previously thought possible given my measurements and calculations during previous such meetings. "My turn! Finally!"
"Sod off," England muttered, eyes downcast. I hypothesized that his disturbance was more due to being forgotten in the circle of thanks than reluctance to hear America's preposterous claims. However, either motivation was likely, so I refrained from drawing a conclusion until further observation had transpired.
"I GIVE THANKS," America began at 2.3 times his previous decibel level, which really is saying something. "To my dear President, and to beef-"
France grinned slyly at England, who blushed. Ah, the wonders of etymology. It's all Greek to me, of course. But now I feel rather like Korea, which is not an entirely pleasant sensation.
"-and turkeys, and the Stars and Stripes, and to the republic for which it stands, and cocktails, and blue jeans-"
N. Italy winked at France, who beamed back, much to the confusion of the ever-jealous Germany hovering by Italy's right shoulder.
"-and being a hero!" Hero, hero, hero…the words echoed into nothingness as the motley collection of nations looked on in awe. Somehow, it felt like Thanksgiving and heroism were physically present in the room, in the resounding quality of the American's powerful voice.
"Gyro?" I inquired, lifting my head sleepily from where it had rested on the table.
"No, Greece," Spain whispered in the near-reverent atmosphere which I had so deliciously destroyed. "Go back to sleep."
"Nai, nai, Sancho Panza…" I murmured, feigning sleep once more.
It did not take long, only four minutes and twenty-eight seconds by my careful calculations, for the bored committee to realize the sole thing that they had all agreed to be thankful for, with the exception of Sweden. However, considering the mean concentration of words per sentence in Sweden's speech versus the analogous concentration in a typical nation's speech, it was highly likely that the poor man entirely meant to express his thankfulness but could not bring himself to say it aloud. That lone agreed-upon thing was, of course…
Alcoholic beverages.
Hence we found ourselves roughly thirty four meters south-west of the U.N. conference room, down the street at a strongly scented bar. I performed a quick cost-benefit analysis and arrived at the conclusion that, if I purchased the first six drinks for England at no more than an estimated €36, I could persuade him to pay for the rest of the committee's drinks himself given his estimated level of drunkenness after aforementioned beers.
It was a fortunate event that I had joined the European Union, since it was hence no trouble at all to convert the other Europeans' offerings once they learned of my planned course of action. I was accepting international financial aid to get England totally pissed, as they say…perhaps it was not so fortunate to join the EU after all. However, it was as it was.
Spain agreed with me, apparently, considering his rather horrible rendition of Que Sera Sera. As usual, lubrication via alcohol did nothing for his voice.
Finally, England was suitably drunk and whistling God Save the Queen at random passerby. It was, apparently, time for his Thanksgiving speech after all.
"I'm so, soooo thankful," he slurred. "I'm SO thankful that you seceded from me, you little prat, America, because YOU are an ungracious bastard!"
"Dude," America said, patting England's shoulder casually. "I'm so not apologizing."
"I'M NOT ASKING YOU TO!" England shouted, collapsing into a limp pile of sobbing rejection. I noted that the rather empty bar we were located in was adjacent to an inn with highly inexpensive rooms to spare.
Two minutes and forty-three seconds later, I reaffirmed my hypothesis relating to the surprising decibel level Japan can reach in certain circumstances.
Okay, IMHO Greece looks like a stoner in APH. Have we forgotten Euclid? Plato? IMHO(2) he's secretly a genius.
References that may not be entirely clear:
After Italy, the unnamed people who give thanks are: Prussia, Sweden, and Spain. Just in case it wasn't clear.
China's thanks for underaged girls: Google "He Kexin". Be sure to watch her bar routine! EPIC!
The reaction to "blue jeans": they were originally produced in Nimes, France and Genoa, Italy. Hence, "Genoa pants - Genoas - Genes - Jeans" and "De Nimes - Denimes - Denim". I learned this in French class. I hope it's correct, considering how senile my teacher was.
Hope y'all like it!