Wee! Chapter three! I'm excited! Are you excited?
...
Of course!
Well, that's my ego speaking. Enjoy!
"Guess what, dudes?" America asked.
Russia tried not to groan. America's tongue kept on flapping away, filling the room with idle chatter that the giant country simply didn't appreciate. Besides, his patience was already wearing thin. Ever since he'd been tricked into signing on to that hellish bet, Belarus had tried to kill him at least twenty times for "not being faithful" and he still couldn't find the human girl! To make matters worse, it appeared that the Baltic countries had signed on to the bet as well, except for little Latvia. Russia didn't like competition.
"Da, America?" he asked pleasantly, sitting comfortably on his chair. The other former Allies were seated around a table on which lay a map of the world, covered in bright red marker and emblazoned with the words, "Where the F*** Is Samantha Quarius?" courtesy of America.
"I was just chilling out with Japan," America said, "and he was all like, 'oh no, I have to go meet my friend!', so I was like, 'Dude, why?' and he was like, 'Don't you know it's rude to ask personal questions like that? This whole situation is highly embarrassing for me' and then he ran away."
"What is the point to this story, America?" France growled. He was in a horrific mood; not only did he now have to focus his love on one particular person, but she was nowhere to be found. It was enough to drive France insane.
America laughed obnoxiously. "Well then he left, and his computer was open, so I checked it, and guess what? He was chatting with some guy about Samantha!"
The room was suddenly quiet. Everyone was staring daggers at America. He fidgeted uncomfortably. "What, guys?"
"Where is she?" China snapped. "You are so immature, America."
"She's in Germany!" America exclaimed happily. Everyone groaned.
"Oh God, not Germany!" France lamented, putting his head in his hands. "I hate Germany!"
"I don't know," Russia said. "I think Germany is kinda nice." Everyone glared at him, and he chuckled. Everyone immediately stopped glaring and looked away, sweating and grimacing. Russia had no idea why everyone did that when he laughed, maybe it was some kind of respectful gesture? Russia certainly liked the idea of that! Russia got to his feet, cracking his knuckles loudly. "Let's go get her, da?"
"Yeah!" America crowed, punching the air with his fist. "C'mon, China!"
"You always make me do your dirty work for you," China mumbled, standing up along with France. America continued jumping around and generally making a fool of himself. Russia smiled.
With these idiots on his side, Samantha wouldn't hesitate to become one with him.
"I'm not wearing that," Samantha said.
"Yes you are!" Italy sang, waving the frilly pink dress in Samantha's face. She shook her head.
"No, Italy," she said firmly. "I think it's great that you made me pasta and a dinner and everything, but I'm not putting on that dress."
Italy's eyes filled with tears. "But it would make you look so pretty!" he wailed, sobbing into her mattress. She looked down at him coolly.
"What? Am I too ugly for you, pasta boy?"
"Well, you're certainly not amazing," England chipped in. Samantha turned to him, a death glare etched onto her face.
"Wanna say that again?" she threatened, rolling up one of her sleeves. England eyed her arm and swallowed.
"I was just saying how lovely you'd look in that dress," he squeaked quickly. She smirked.
"That's what I thought you were saying… Italy, what are you doing?" The Italian had run to the broken door and was now yelling as loud as he could down the stairs.
"GERMANY! GERRMAANNYYY!"
"WHAT?"
"I NEED YOUR HELP!" Despite the fact that he was a floor below her, Samantha could have sworn she heard Germany's annoyed sigh. There were footsteps on the stairs, and the German poked his blonde head through the hole in the door with a sigh.
"What do you need, Italy?" he asked resignedly. Italy pointed a trembling finger at Samantha.
"She won't put on her dress!" he wailed, eyes welling up again. Germany looked at her and sighed deeply.
"Look, Samantha," he said, ducking into the room. "Could you put on the dress? He'll be like this all day unless you do it."
Samantha wrinkled her nose and poked the dress with a finger. "No," she said stubbornly. Italy wailed.
Germany growled, putting a hand to his temple. "Samantha…" he said warningly.
"Make me," she hissed, scooting away from the dress. The three males both jumped slightly, as though they had all gotten an idea at the exact same time.
"I'll hold her down," England said evilly, cracking his knuckles.
"I guess I'll pull on the dress," Germany said, cheeks turning pink.
"I'll stand here and watch!" Italy said happily.
Samantha made it about two paces before England brought her down. "Get off me, bastard!" she shrieked, but it was to no avail.
"Stop… struggling," the nation exclaimed, sliding on top of her and pinning her down with his legs.
"Help me!" Samantha screamed. "Rape! RAPE!"
"Shut up," England groaned.
She realized that Germany was sliding the dress over her head, and continued to thrash, even though she knew it was hopeless. She felt the fabric sliding over her tank top and wriggled, trying to free herself, but it was too late. England was pulling her arms through the sleeves, and suddenly she was wearing something she'd never thought she'd wear: a pink dress. A frilly pink dress.
She got to her feet shakily. "I hate you guys," she muttered, going to sit on her bed. "And this dress," she added.
"But you look so nice!" Italy said. "Just take off that tank top underneath and it will be perfect!"
She sighed, rolling her eyes and pulling the tank top from underneath her dress, crumpling it into a ball and hurling it at Italy's fat head. The country gave a squeal and ducked for cover, and she smirked slightly.
"Well," England said. "Now that you aren't wearing that ridiculous clothing, you don't look half as horrendous." She shot him a look and he shut up, miraculously.
Germany cleared his throat. "You look… ahem… very nice," he mumbled, cheeks redder than a boiled lobster. Samantha looked at him; he might have been somewhat scary to the other countries, but he seemed to be very awkward around girls. She grinned; she could exploit that later, if necessary. Germany caught the grin and turned even redder, hurrying out of the room.
"Alright, Italy," she said, yawning and stretching. The damn dress moved with her, riding up to her thighs, and she growled at it, crossing her legs hastily. "Take me to your stupid pasta."
"Bene!" Italy shouted, jumping up and grabbing her around the waist, nuzzling his forehead against hers. "This will be so much fun, no?"
She glared at him. Their proximity made his suddenly nervous eyes at least twice as big, and probably magnified her enraged ones at least twenty times. "No… nuzzling," she said, through gritted teeth. Italy quailed.
"Sorry, Samantha," he said, hanging his head. She sighed.
"The puppy dog eyes won't work on me, buddy," she said. "Now quit acting all depressed. I'm wearing this dress, aren't I?"
"Right!" Italy said, suddenly happy again. She rolled her eyes; the nation really was bipolar. "Come on!" he sang, pulling her along with the arm still around her waist. He was wearing his dinner jacket again, she realized. This whole situation was very, very awkward. Her cheeks turned a slight pink before she could stop them, and she glared at England when he chuckled.
"You're so funny," she muttered to him, sarcastically, of course. He nodded slowly.
"I suppose I am rather amusing," he said, and she rolled her eyes. They were really starting to hurt from all the eye-rolls she'd had to do in the past few hours. And she still had three months left with these psychos. And that was only if she didn't get kidnapped by other psychos who were also apparently after her.
At least I'll have that annoying asshole England with me, she thought. I suppose that's better than nothing.
She hadn't been paying attention, but Italy had dragged her to a room in the house with a table in the center, the shades drawn to create mood lighting, apparently. Candles were everywhere, which seemed like a fire hazard, and there was the most delicious-looking pasta meal on the center of the table that Samantha had ever seen in her life. Samantha's stomach growled and she licked her lips.
"Paassttaa…" she and Italy said, staggering towards the deliciousness on the table. England wrinkled his nose in disgust, giving Samantha a cheerful nod.
"Call me if he does anything awkward," England said. "I'll be waiting outside."
"Sure, whatever," Samantha said, pulling up a chair. "Oh yeah… I swear to God, if I need you and you're not there, I'll punch the living daylights out of you."
"So you're admitting that you need me?" England mused. She frowned.
"I'm not admitting anything," she said. "Anything I say can and will be used against me in a court of law."
England cocked his head. "What?"
"Oh, right," Samantha realized. "That's an American thing…" At the name "America," England winced.
"Stupid little brother," he muttered, closing the door and leaving Samantha alone with Italy and the pasta.
She realized that the little pig had already begun eating, shoveling pasta into his mouth with a fork and making happy eating sounds. He glanced up at Samantha, half a strand of pasta dangling from his mouth. "Dndyouwnnsm?"
"Huh?"
Italy swallowed. "Don't you want some?" he asked, looking hurt.
Samantha rolled her eyes. "Of course I do, pasta boy," she said, stabbing a tomato viciously with her fork and bringing it to her lips. It tasted quite good, actually. Trying to keep an expression of delight off of her face, she scarfed down the meal in seconds flat, leaning against the table and making happy noises when she was finished. Very out of character for her, but damn, Italy was a good cook.
"You liked it!" Italy exclaimed. He'd finished too, she realized. "Bene! I'm so happy!"
"I'm sure you are," Samantha said, good mood evaporating as quickly as the taste of pasta in her mouth. Italy didn't seem to notice this, as he was reaching behind his chair for a guitar.
"I wrote you a song!" the nation exclaimed, strumming the guitar experimentally. Samantha went white.
"A… song?" she asked. Nobody had ever written her a song before. Of course, the warm fuzzy feeling vanished when she remembered that he was really only doing it because he had to. I wonder what the penalty is, anyway, she thought. I really have to ask England about this whole bet.
"Samantha," Italy began, closing his eyes and singing lustily, or at least what he imagined sounded lusty. Samantha squirmed in her seat, dress suddenly uncomfortable. This is so awkward, she complained mentally. Please let this be a really, really short song…
Apparently it wasn't, because Italy's fingers were moving along the guitar strings in a complicated way.
"Samantha," he sang again.
"You are so pretty,
And funny,
Even though you've tried to kill me seven times!
You aren't ugly,
Like England says you are!
And you're nice and cuddly when you're asleeeeep!"
"WHAT?"
"You get real angry,
And rage-y,
But I bet you're nice inside that nasty shell!
So will you please please please please please be my girlfriend
So I don't have to be a prostitute for old people? Yahoo!" With a flourish, Italy bowed and slung the guitar back over his shoulder, placing it gently behind his chair. "Did you like it?" Italy asked, looking excited. She opened her mouth to respond, but Italy jumped. "Wait, I drew a picture of you too!" He fished around behind his chair and yanked out a large-looking canvas, running over excitedly to show Samantha.
She felt her cheeks turning pink, despite the fact that she always did her best not to blush. "Italy…" she said, slowly. "WHY THE HELL AM I NAKED?"
Italy flinched away. "It's the Italian tradition! Please don't hurt me!"
"How is this," Samantha asked, jabbing a thumb at the picture of her lying on a couch with a pair of grapes dangling in front of her cheek, bare to the world and a lot curvier than she actually was, "Italian?"
Italy shrugged. "I'm a good artist, no?" he asked, changing the subject. She groaned.
"Wonderful, Italy," she grumbled, snatching the canvas and turning it face down, making a mental note to burn the thing as soon as possible. Not that it wasn't flattering, but if someone like England ever managed to see it her life would be over.
She squirmed, pressing the painting down into her lap. "Well, this has been fun…" she began, but trailed off as Italy whipped out a box of chocolates, and what looked suspiciously like red wine. "Well, I'm a minor…" she began, but he poured the wine in her glass anyway, ignoring her protestations.
"Wine is molto bene!" he exclaimed, taking a healthy swig from his own glass. "Perfetto!"
Samantha plucked up the slim stem of the glass with her thumb and forefinger, tentatively taking a sip. It burned on the way down her throat, but if she stopped drinking now Italy would have one-upped her. That would just be embarrassing. Grimacing, she swallowed the whole glass in one gulp, slamming it back on the table when she was finished.
Italy glanced at her. "You drink like Russia!" he said. "No worries though, I have more!" He giggled, pouring another dose of cherry-red wine in her glass. She groaned mentally, snatching the glass and pouring it all down her throat. There was a strange ringing in her ears as she slammed the glass on the table. Suddenly she was having a lot more fun than before. It felt like she was on top of the world, in fact. Now what had changed? Eh, it didn't matter. "Hit… me," she gasped, smiling weakly. Why am I acting like this? Oh well, it's not as if I'm drunk or anything… hee hee hee.
Italy laughed, pouring her another glass. This time she only managed to take a few sips before collapsing in her chair, spilling the wine all over the table. For some reason, she found this hysterically funny, and burst out laughing, slapping her hand against the table cloth. "Spilled… I'm so clumsy… Hahaha!"
Italy laughed too, hiccupping and slumping against the wine bottle, knocking it over. At the sight of so much wine on the table both of them immediately went into hysterics, falling out of their chairs and rolling around on the floor. Italy was the first to recover, and he crawled towards Samantha on hands and knees before collapsing next to her. "You're so pretty… Yahoo!"
"Shut up, Italy!" she giggled, kicking her legs. Her painting had fallen onto the floor next to her, and at the sight of it she gave a screech of laughter that nearly brought up all the pasta in her stomach. "Ah God," she moaned, still laughing. "I think I'm gonna hurl."
"Me too!" Italy laughed, crawling off to do whatever it was he was about to do behind a chair. Samantha was in a daze; who knew you could get drunk so quickly after… was it two or three glasses? She honestly couldn't remember, ha ha!
She could hear knocking on the door. It sounded frantic… Who could that be? Stuffy old England, probably! "Englann!" she slurred, waving her hands like the drunken maniac she was. "Come in, dude!"
The door burst open and a disheveled-looking England took in the scene. He smacked his forehead. "Good God, did you get her drunk, Italy?" he complained; crossing over to Samantha and kneeling at her side. "She's a minor, you idiot!"
"Whaaa?" Italy asked innocently, smiling at England.
Samantha rolled her eyes. "I'm nah drunk!" she giggled, waving her hands again. "…Lookame!"
"If it wouldn't be completely hypocritical of me I'd be warning you about the dangers of drinking," England said sternly. Samantha realized dimly that he was wrapping a hand around her waist, and blushed. England's trying to flirt with me? Ha-ha, I can do that too!
"You're so seeeeeexy, England," she joked, pawing at the flat stomach underneath his shirt. England's bushy eyebrows shot up to his hairline and he tossed her over his shoulder grimly, cherry red. Samantha pouted.
"Lemmego!" she wailed, trying to kick her legs. A wave of nausea took over her and she stopped moving, hanging from the country's shoulder limply. She felt England take a sharp breath.
"Samantha? Are you alright? Good God, woman, answer me!" When she didn't respond, he smacked her lightly on the cheek a few times, which got on her nerves enough for her to open her mouth.
"Stoppit," she complained. She felt England sighing in relief, and he began to walk again.
"You're an idiot," he lectured. She wasn't really listening; the ringing in her ears was sort of starting to hurt, and her stomach kept on rolling back and forth. She had the feeling that she was going to hurl any minute, which would be funny because then she'd vomit all over England! She gave a short hiccup punctuated laugh which she cut short as acid began to rise in the back of her throat.
"… and you should never drink again if you know what's good for you," England finished. She groaned, flopping her arms and legs. England was so boring.
"Yurr so boring," she complained. He sighed.
"Shut up, will you?" he asked mildly. She could hear him opening a door and suddenly they were stepping into a darkness which was punctuated as England flipped on the lights. Samantha groaned as he dropped her onto her bed. She felt the acid rising in her throat and turned over; vomiting until she thought there was nothing left in her system.
"Ahh," she moaned, falling back in bed and somehow avoiding the vomit patch, thank the heavens. She heard England sigh.
"I'm going to have to clean that up, little moron," he said. She tried to think of a snappy retort but when she opened her mouth more vomit came out before she could stop it. This time it got all over Italy's dress, but she was too disorientated to care. It's not as if she would have cared anyway, but still.
"Stop that!" England exclaimed. "You're only making things worse for me, you know." Samantha made a weak sound and twitched a bit, rather like a fish. She heard England sigh. "Stop with the sounds," he ordered. She made another, weaker sound as he pressed the rim of something against her lips. "It's water. You're probably going to vomit it up… There you go."
The last session of vomiting left her so weak that all she could do was move her head listlessly. The light from the overhead was burning into her skull, but she was afraid to open her mouth to ask the country to turn off the friggin' light. She whimpered as something grabbed her around the waist, hoisting her up. "I'm taking you to the bathroom," England narrated. "Maybe you can sleep in there or something…"
She nearly puked while she was in his arms, but managed to hold it in until he'd arranged her at the base of the toilet. He sighed as she clutched the rim with white-knuckled fingers, eyes shut and mouth gaping. "That is disgusting, to be honest. And your dress is simply covered in it." She turned her head to him with an imploring look. His cheeks immediately flamed.
"What? Are you asking me to take it off? No, I'm not going to…" Another round of vicious puking cut him off. He bit his lip and fidgeted slightly, probably trying to fight against his knight in shining armor instincts and failing miserably. "Oh, all right," he growled, crossing over to her and pulling her next to him. "Quit falling over so much. And you'd better be wearing something under there." Samantha was pretty sure the only thing she had on was a bra and a pair of panties, but she wasn't about to tell him that.
She felt him sliding the dress over her head, and heard him give a slight exclamation at her lack of sufficient clothing. "Ah! Err… Ahem. I'll be getting you some clothing!" His voice was an octave higher than usual, and she heard him beating a hasty retreat. With a sigh, she pressed her cheek against the cool of the toilet bowl. What had happened again? She felt her cheeks fill, and reluctantly emptied them into the toilet, the sloshy sounds emanating from it nearly making her vomit again.
"Bleggh," she groaned, clenching her fists. "Ugh."
"I'm back…" England announced. "Are you still… mostly unclothed? Never mind, here are your clothes." She felt a wad of fabric hit her in the back, but she wasn't about to move and get it. She could hear England tapping his foot and then sighing, annoyed. "I never expected that my job would have me working as a nanny," he complained, kneeling next to her. "I'm sorry in advance for anything I see or touch that I shouldn't have," he added quickly, pulling her mostly unresponsive form towards him. She felt him lifting up her arms and pulling her black tank top over her slim form. She sighed, flopping into his chest. She heard him sigh too before gently pushing her off and curling her around the base of the toilet. She heard him walking away, but he came back a few moments later, pulling her onto a blanket and dropping her head on a pillow. Her stomach gurgled and she clenched her fists, biting her lip.
"I'll be going, then," England said. "I guess I'll be checking up on you…" The light in the bathroom clicked off, and she heard his footsteps padding away. For a moment she felt a pang of hurt, but it was quickly drowned out by the copious amount of vomit forcing its way up her throat.
It was going to be a long night.
Jeremy liked the smell of tea, so when he stepped into the Tea Shop he was in immediate heaven. He smiled and stopped, inhaling as much tea as he could. Yum. If this is what Japanese Boy is into, he definitely has good taste. My kind of guy.
He glanced through the small dark shop absently, trying to discern the face of his online boyfriend. There was a fat guy and his fat girlfriend, some guy that looked like a rapist, Japanese Boy, an old lady… Japanese Boy!
"Hey!" Jeremy called waving like a maniac. Japanese Boy glanced up, pale white cheeks flushing a rosy red. Jeremy grinned wider; that was really cute. "What's up?" he asked, weaving through table to sit down at the table for two that Japanese Boy was currently occupying.
Japanese Boy smiled faintly. "I, em… Nothing. Nothing is up. How about you… bro?"
Jeremy laughed. "Who told you to say that? Whoever they were, they're an idiot. Gay guys do not call each other bro. Unless they're really only just friends, of course," he added thoughtfully.
Japanese Boy turned even brighter red. "I am sorry," he said, squeezing his eyes shut. "My friend America said it would please you. I apologize."
"No! No, it's fine!" Jeremy exclaimed. Japanese Boy certainly was… Japanese. "Hey," he said. "What's your name, anyway?"
Japanese Boy cracked open one eye. "It is a part of my story," he said. "Still, I suppose… I am Japan."
Jeremy looked at him blankly. "Japan. Who in the hell would name their son Japan?"
"It's a long story!" Japan said defensively. He put a hand to his temple and inhaled deeply through his nose. "Where do I begin…? I suppose I should start with the bet…" Jeremy leaned forward, inhaling the musky scent of the tea.
"Tell me everything," he said, with a final tone. "Leave nothing out."
Japan swallowed. "Yes," he said, and he told Jeremy everything.
