Thankyou! OMG two reviews!
That was actually a lot better reception than I thought…
And many thanks to NekoAmi1216 for being my first reviewer! *gives cookies and glomps*
Oh, And Ezzy? Don't call me booboo. I WILL call you Aggie in return.
The translations are at the end of the chapter!
Laters!
I have been in weirder situations than this, Fletcher reminded himself silently. I have.
But in the end, he didn't really think he had. In all the other weird situations he had known, at least a little bit, what was going on. Now he had no idea.
The German had pulled him by the arm all the way to Rydges and deposited him in the middle of the waiting room while he went and talked to the checkin- checkout girl. [what do they call those people again? He could never remember]
Italy gave him a hug and introduced himself as Veneziano and his brooding brother as Romano. Seriously, Romano could have given the constipated guy in TWILIGHT a run for his money.
Fletcher pushed that thought away as soon as it came. Twilight had vampires in it… and he didn't like to think about vampires. It always made him feel like punching something.
On the other hand, who exactly were these people? And what was with their stupid names? Fletcher had never put much store in his cranial capacity, and he was beginning to regret it.
Germany walked over and grabbed Fletcher by the arm yet again. He was promptly glomped by the overenthusiastic Italian, but aside from a slightly irritated expression, he seemed not to notice at all. "America and France are with England at the moment, but it can't be helped," he announced, half-dragging Fletcher over to the elevators. "Dass blutigen amerikanischen1… He is extremely stubborn. And I don't want to think about france at the moment."
Fletcher had the feeling he was fighting back the urge to swear.
They crammed into an elevator next to a terrified man who looked like a bank accountant. The doors opened at the second floor and the accountant hurried out, looking over his shoulder at Romano with fear in his eyes. Romano glared back.
They stopped again at level 3-
Why the fuck does the elevator keep on stopping? Just get the fuck on with it!
The accountant reappeared, checking through his notes. "Well, ma'am, it's stopping because you told it to."
I did no such thing! And why the fuck are you answering me, shitty little half-assed OC? You don't even have a fucking name!
"Why, thank-you, ma'am," he said, adjusting his spectacles. "And yes, you did actually say here that the elevator had to stop a second time to allow Spain to get on."
Shut up, you IMBECILE! You just ruined the surprise!
The accountant rolled his eyes and facepalmed. "Really, it wasn't that much of a surprise in the first place."
Oh, just you wait. I have something so horrible in store for you…
"Ma'am, this is a humorous fic. You therefore can't have me die a horrible death."
Oh, yes, I can. I am the AUTHOR! As long the death is humorous.
"Ve~ what is a fic, Germany?" Italy asked, looking at the accountant curiously. "And why does the strange voice that is not Grandpa Rome say its name is Arthur even though that is a male name and the voice is female?"
Germany shivered and patted Italy on the head. "I do not know," he said, looking dramatically into the middle distance. "But it bodes ill for our free will."
Ahaha! That rhymes! Oh, shit, this wall is in ruins…
The accountant vanished again and the elevator doors finally opened, revealing a short man in a lemon-yellow blouse. Yes, blouse, with poofy sleeves and all. Fletcher hoped that horrible fashion sense wasn't catching.
"Hola!" he said, entering the elevator and standing next to Romano, whose face began to boil red with rage. "Oh, Lovi, su cara parece un tomate2…" he said, glomping the Italian.
Romano's face contorted with rage and he struggled out of the Spaniard's grip, yelling: "Oi! scendere me, cazzo bastardo di pomodoro!3"
"Spain," Germany grunted. "This isn't a great time."
"Perra por favour4," Spain muttered, shoving his hands in his pockets. "It is always a good time to be with my Lovi."
"Wunderbar5," Germany muttered. "Das ist verdammt wunderbar. Treten der Partei verdammte… Don't you have anything else to do?"
"I don't know what you said, amigo, but it didn't sound very nice," Spain said in his cheerful voice.
Just remember, kids! If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say it in English! Now repeat after me: איך בין גערעדט אין פאַקינג ייִדיש און איר קענען ניט פאַקינג פאַרשטיין מיר, איר קליין פאַקינג הור פון אַ פּראָסטיטוטקע-טאַש! [English: I am speaking in fucking Yiddish and you can't fucking understand me, you little fucking bitch of a whore-bag!] By the way, don't check that in Google translate, lost in translation apparently …Moving on!
Fletcher looked at the ceiling of the elevator and shook his head slowly. "Whoever this Arthur person is, she evidently likes swearing just as much as Romano…"
The doors pinged open at the 5th floor and theyt exited, plus one person. They stopped at room 513 and Germany knocked.
The door was opened by someone who was most definitely not English. But Fletcher most definitely was a little in awe of him.
"Yo, dudes, wassup? Germany, my homie, how's it hangin?"
Germany winced. "Just… fine… and you, America?"
"Oh, I'm great!" America yelled, as if trying to make up for the fact he didn't have a megaphone. "But I-" And here he took a giant mouthful of the burger he had in his hand, continuing to talk all through until me finally surfaced. "And I was like, I had no idea he had played Call Of Duty before! And he went-" and again his dialogue was interrupted by a giant bite of hamburger. "Amazing at Twister! And I was so totally shocked!" he said.
Germany massaged his temples and said slowly, "Yes, America, that was very interesting. We would like to see England now, if we could."
America nodded enthusiastically and backed out of the doorway.
"Sure, man! Come on in! But I must warn you, it smells a little smokey 'cause Iggy was cooking earlier. Well, if you can call that cooking."
"Oi, git! I'll have you know that my recipes are much better than anything you could come up with, insolent tosser!"
A man came up the hallway from behind America and Fletcher could only stare for a moment at what had to be the hugest freaking eyebrows in the freaking universe. They were like predictions of the Apocalypse. Cavemen told stories about people who had gotten lost in those eyebrows. Hell, there was probably the only surviving T-rex in those bloody eyebrows.
While Fletcher had been staring at the Brit's eyebrows, the American had replied with what was possibly the best-thought-out insult of all time, also known as a meme.
"Nope!"
The Brit rolled his eyes. "Nope. Amazing. That is probably the stupidest thing I have ever heard in my life, and that includes all the indefinably stupid plans you came up with to beat Germany. No offense intended," he said, glancing quickly at Germany. "Everyone in this room is a little stupider for having heard it. May god have mercy on your soul. Wait, who's the brat?" he said, finally looking at Fletcher and doing a double take. The hair again.
Don't mess this up, Fletcher said to himself. Don't say anything stupid.
"Do you have multiple-eyebrow disorder?" He asked.
OK, TRANSLATIONS!
I'm really sorry if I butchered your language or something, I used Google Translate for everything. Please don't kill me! I'm a virgin!
Dass blutigen amerikanischen- that bloody American
su cara parece un tomate- your face looks like a tomato
Oi! scendere me, cazzo bastardo di pomodoro!- Oi! Get off me, fucking tomato bastard!
Perra por favor- bitch please
Wunderbar- wonderful
Das ist verdammt wunderbar. Treten der Partei verdammte… – that's fucking wonderful. Join the fucking party…
