We Say It The Same Way
By AnimeDutchess
A/N: This has been brewing in my head in several forms, but either way, I felt that I should write something funny about literature, since I, you know, really do want to eventually write a book…
So, enjoy it, please!
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Disclaimer: In America, neither of us owns Hetalia. In Soviet Russia, Hetalia DOESN'T own YOU!
…Wait, that came out wrong…
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As far as America was concerned, this whole thing started when England left that strange message on his voice mail.
"Goddamn…bloody…Alfred, get yourself across the pond IMMEDIATELY. I want to have a…TALK…with you…"
From his tone alone, even a blockhead like America could tell that England was infuriated. As if the use of his human name wasn't enough…
So, of course, since he didn't want to inflict anyone else with the wrath of an infuriated England, America went to the older country's house. Hey, a true hero would take the brunt of whatever anger someone was feeling, in order to protect the others from it, right? Yes, this made him truly heroic.
So, as he stood in front of England's door, not sure what to expect, he knocked, a grin on his face and all fear absent. After all, he could handle anything! He was a hero!
Then the door slowly creaked open, revealing the dark interior of England's home. It seemed that no one had come to open the door.
Now, a rational human being might panic at first, but then realize that, maybe, the door had been left open, or someone had broken in and carelessly forgot to cover their tracks, and either way, the knock on the door made it open. But America was not rational, nor a human, so his brain came to one logical conclusion:
The door had been opened by a ghost.
"HUWAAAAGH! ENGLAAAAAND!!!" So much for the 'hero' appearance; America was huddling in England's very green, very tidy front bushes. "A GHOST OPENED YOUR DOOOOOOR!"
For a few minutes, he got no response. Then, he heard the creak of something else opening, and, not realizing that that something was right above him, was promptly doused with cold water.
"GAH!"
"That's what you get for mussing up my bushes and screaming at my front door!" Blinking through the water, America looked up; England was hovering above him, half his body leaning out a windowsill, a bucket in his hands. He was very close (the window was on the first floor, after all), and America could see the redness in the older man's eyes. Oh, geez, don't tell me he's been drinking again…
"Well, I'm sorry I got scared, I mean, I can't help it…" He tried to put as much sarcasm in his voice as he could. England just glared at him.
"Oh, shove it," He growled, placing down the bucket with a clunk and tossing something out the window. Squeaking, America dodged it, only to realize what it was when it hit the bush; a fluffy, white towel. As America popped out of the bush, he took the towel in his hands and examined it. It was embroidered in gold thread around the edges, and, in very fancy lettering, the letters 'A.R.K.' were swirled together. America chuckled, using the cloth to wipe off the water dripping from his hair and nose.
"You're the only straight man I know," America said through the window, looking at England's turned back, "Who embroiders his own towels." As he chuckled some more, England turned around and shot him a dirty look.
"Embroidery is relaxing," He said through clenched teeth, "And I never said I was straight."
America shrugged. "You're the straightest guy I know. Straighter 'n France."
"Hm, point taken…" For a moment, England's face softened, but it immediately hardened again, now flushed. "N-Now wait a second! I'm angry at you! I'm not supposed to agree with you!"
"But England, why would you be angry at me? I'm awesome!"
"…Just get in here. I'll explain it then."
"Alright." And with that, America grabbed the windowsill and swung himself over the edge, landing on both feet with a sturdy thump. England looked positively livid.
"Why the bloody hell would you leap through my window when the door is OPEN?!?"
America pouted. "Well, a ghost opened it."
"I sent Jubilee to open the door for you!"
"England, just because you think you see little magical creatures doesn't mean they can do things for you." As you can see, he was just making things worse for himself. Oh, America, if only you could read the atmosphere…
After clenching and unclenching his fists a few times, and counting to ten in his head, England took a deep, deep breath. "No. You know what? I'm dropping it. I don't care."
"So I can come through your window every time I visit you?!?"
"NO!!!!!!!"
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After that little…episode…America found himself sitting in England's stuffy parlor, in a stiff chair (How could it be so stiff? It had cushions!!), hands in his lap and eyes curious. England sat on the other side of the room, on the equally stiff couch, a table between them, sipping a cup of tea, his legs crossed, wearing that sweater vest…God, is he tiny…and so damn feminine…and-
"America."
He's got that kind of aura that makes you want to listen to him when he's mad.
England's eyes were like two dark orbs of jade, cold and hard, as he glared at America, the bespectacled man sinking in his chair from the gaze. With a few soft clinks, he set down his teacup and steepled his fingers.
"Honestly, I thought you couldn't sink any farther." His words were curt, sharp, as if he'd taken them to one of those old, stone wheels, and grinded the edges until they were sharp enough to split hair. "After all these years, I thought the worst thing your country could cook up was that load of bollocks that Dan Brown spewed forth." At this, America gave him a confused look. "The research was flawed, my countrymen were vilified, and France was made to look like God's Chosen Country! But still, it was well-written, and I pardoned it for that." The look on America's face spiraled further into confusion. "And yet…" At this point, England started to shake. "To think…the worst was yet to come…"
"…Wait, wait, hold up..." America held up a hand to try and get England to calm down. "You asked me to come over here, scared me with your little magical creatures, poured water on me, and berated me for coming in through your window…just so you could talk to me about-"
"The sanctity of LIT'TRATURE!" England's fist pounded the little table between them, the teacup almost toppling. "Your people have defecated on the art of the written word!!!" He was panting, face stained an angry red, and his large eyebrows were knitted together.
The whole combination just sent America into a laughing fit.
"STOP LAUGHING! I'M SERIOUS!!"
"But, but…" Mirthful tears leaked from America's eyes, and he reached up to wipe them away. "Y-You said 'lit-trah-chure'. It's 'li-tur-ah-chure!"
"You, of all people, shouldn't harass my pronunciation!" He pointed an accusing figure at America, who was caught in a giggle-fit. "And how would you even begin to understand lit'trature if this," And he pulled out a thick volume from somewhere, slamming it onto the table and actually toppling the teacup this time, not caring that tea was staining his rug, "Is what your people think is a good read!"
America was still suffering from the giggles.
"I'll wait."
And he did. He waited a whole three minutes, for that was how long it took for America to calm himself, look at England, snort, and start back up again before the laughter finally died down with a big sigh, America's cheeks ruddy and his mouth muscles hurting.
"Ah, hah…okay…so, what's got your knickers in a twist this time?" He asked casually, leaning forward to examine the book. Before England could make a retort about the knickers comment, America's blue eyes widened considerably at the cover. "Oh! This is that Twilight book, right? The one with the movie with the sparkly people?"
"…" England gave him a blank stare. "You mean, you've never read it?"
"Nope! It's easier to see the movie!"
"…I know I'm going to regret asking, but…how was the movie?"
"Eh, 's okay." America shrugged. "The special effects were cool. The sparkly people were AWESOME. The romance was kinda 'meh'. You know?" At that, England couldn't help but sigh.
"Leave it to an idiot to stare at anything for an extended period of time if it sparkles."
"Huh, what was that? I didn't hear you." America had been too busy staring at England's sparkly teacups in his china cabinet.
"…"
"What?"
"…Anyway…" England slammed his hand on the book, as if he could push it through the table, into the ground, and never see it again. "This….this book, if you can even call it that…"
"Hey, England!"
"…What?"
"Since you read the book, I was wondering something. Are you on Team Edward, or Team Jacob?"
Oh, geez. He really was asking for it, wasn't he? He was begging for it on his hands and knees, and while, in a different context, England would have loved that. But this time…
You could've said that he'd finally cracked under the pressure. He gave America a crooked smile, and, in what his opinion was a truly cruel move, he picked up the book with as much gentleness as he could, leaned over, and set it in America's lap.
"Why don't you read it," He said, in a calm voice that hid a deadly edge, "And you tell me what you think of it."
"Oh, no, I don't need to. A lot of people have told me how awesome it is."
"Why don't you read it…and experience the…awesome…for yourself?"
"Hm…that's a good idea. Why didn't I think of that?"
And so, England sat, and crossed his legs again, and watched as America opened the book to the first page, and started to read. The younger one's expression started off as excited, then, as he got further down the page, his face twisted, and he was obviously somewhat stumped, then confused, then just…blank. And he hadn't even turned the page yet.
It was a solid five minutes before America moved at all. His head shakily came up from the book, his eyes meeting England's.
"Hey, England."
"Yes?"
"…" He looked down at the book, then back at England. "I…I think I died a little inside." England let out a frustrated sigh at this.
"Finally, some sense comes out of your mouth…" He crossed his arms in front of his chest and leaned forward slightly. "See, this is what I've been trying to tell you! That…that thing, that wildly popular thing, is nothing more than a shoddy romance novel for disillusioned preteen girls! And it's not even well-written!" He jabbed a finger at the text. "There's purple prose everywhere, and I'm certain that some of the Eastern European countries aren't too thrilled with how their supernatural creatures are being portrayed, fighting over a self-centered girl and being mind-numbingly 'perfect'!" Through this whole tirade, America's eyes were locked with England's, and his lip trembled.
"But…but it's American…" He said, his voice sounding like something between a whine and a sob. "It has to be awesome…"
"Well, unfortunately, it's not!" England stood up, in the heat of the moment. "And I can't believe you would send me such an atrocious thing to read! I thought you at least skimmed the books you send me!"
"…England…"
"What?"
"…I didn't send you this."
"…What?"
"You can't just assume that because it's American that I sent it to you." He had a hurt look on his face. "And I do read things before I send them to you – Gatsby, Streetcar, In Cold Blood…I read them, and made sure they were the best, before I sent them to you." His gaze faltered. "Honest, I wouldn't have sent you…this…if I had ever read it!"
"…Oh…" It was like someone had shot England with a tranquilizer; all the anger in his body just dissipated into nothingness, only to be replaced by a funny mixture of confusion and guilt. "I'm…I'm sorry…"
"You can't just go accusing people, England!" America wailed dramatically, and even if his reaction was a bit over-the-top, it was honest.
"I said I was sorry! God, really…I don't want to get into another shouting match…" He gave America a wary look. "You're not…crying, are you?"
"NUH-UH!!" Even though there were little droplets forming at the corners of America's eyes, there was no way he'd acknowledge them. England, feeling so drained from all of this, just sighed, and walked over to America, standing behind his chair and hugging him from behind. He kept telling himself it was only to get the younger nation to stop crying. That's all it was. He didn't feel horrible about it, not one bit. Guilty, yes, but not horrible. Oh, no.
"I-I'm sorry, I…" His voice was soft. "The book just...I read the whole thing, and it made me so mad that I went 'n got piss drunk last night…and as I did, I ranted about it at the bar, and someone mentioned that it was written in America, and I just…"
He didn't continue. America kind of just sat there, a little fazed by the hug and sudden sweetness. He mumbled England's name, sniffling and feeling some heat in his cheeks.
"Anyway…" And England let go, giving America a soft pat on the shoulder before completely disconnecting. He reached down and took the book in his hands, looking at it with disgust. "It really makes me wonder just who sent it to me…there was no return address." America sniffled again, and shrugged.
"Well, I sure don't know." England looked back at him.
"Do you suppose it could've been…oh, what's his name…Canada?"
"Matthew? No, I don't think he likes the book."
"…Sealand?"
"I don't think he likes to read."
"Then who in blue blazes-"
He was interrupted by the sound of airy, pompous laughter. Both men turned to the source, the still-open window, to find a certain sneaky Frenchman peeking in and laughing, laughing at their misfortune, and a tape recorder in hand.
"Ooh, je suis desolé!" He exclaimed, not sounding the least bit sorry. "I know it's in bad taste, but I couldn't resist! You two are trés mignon!"
A split second later, France was running for his life, laughing all the way, as England and America tore after him down the London streets, England clutching the accursed tome in his hands, because no one would stop him from completely obliterating France's vital regions with it.
Fin
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OMAKE
"Hey, England, I was wondering…"
"Hm?"
"What does the 'R' on your towel stand for?"
"…Oh. It's my middle initial. Arthur R. Kirkland."
"…Okay, what's it stand for?"
"W-Why do you want to know??"
"Because I never knew you had a middle name!"
"…Well, what does the 'F' stand for in your name?"
"Oh. Alfred…Fred Jones."
"…Fred?"
"Hey, it sounds cool."
"…No, it doesn't…"
"Ah, who cares? Now, tell me what the 'R' stands for!"
"…Arthur…rmgghhbf…Kirkland."
"Huh? I couldn't hear you."
"Arthur Reginald Kirkland."
"…Pffft-"
"DON'T YOU START LAUGHING!!!"
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A/N: XD; I really wanted to add that little bit at the end, just to tie things up. Those aren't their real middle names, as far as I know, but I found it funny, and I hoped you would, too. Now, for the notes!
England is referring to The Da Vinci Code. Hey, I liked it, but I would imagine that he would have a few bones to pick with it.
From this area, we say literature as America pronounces it. I don't know how the British pronounce it, but, lit'trature sounded right to me.
No. I haven't seen the movie, or read the book, and I still don't like it, and I don't wanna be subjected to either. I've heard enough about it. However, I do not posses rabid hatred like England. I would think that, since he's got Shakespeare and Mary Shelly and Charles Dickens (etc.), great literary classics, he would be very picky with what he reads.
Gatsby, Streetcar, and In Cold Blood – The Great Gatsby, A Streetcar Named Desire, and In Cold Blood. Some truly awesome American works, if I do say so myself.
Je suis desolé – I am sorry; trés mignon – very cute. A little French class in junior high/high school goes a long way.
Anyway, I really do hope you enjoyed this! Thank you for reading this far, and please review! Ja Ne! - AnimeDutchess