Fifty Times
A/N: Once again, ideas for states are welcome!
For this fic, I intend on mainly using what I've seen on TV, in movies, and classic stereotypes for different states. As I've pointed out before, I'm not exactly the most traveled person, when it comes to the States. Just like Hetalia, this fic is meant to poke fun at stereotypes and the like, so things may not be entirely "accurate" and "like real life".
As for the next state, I'm debating between Vermont (which I am having trouble coming up with ideas for, other than a basic place I want them to visit), Minnesota (which would most likely be rather long, considering I have the main idea down and it may take some time to write), California, or Florida. I suppose I'll just let everyone vote!
Also, I was asked if there was a Yu-Gi-Oh: The Abridged Series reference in the last chapter. Indeed, there was. I love Little Kuriboh, and add in the fact that he is British… Well, it doesn't get much better.
Also, this seems to have turned into more of a "fly wherever the hell we feel like" sort of thing instead of a road trip…. But whatever.
As a last note, I do intend on doing a chapter for every state in the United States, plus a chapter for Washington, D.C.!
~*~*~*~USUK~*~*~*~
Two: Everything's Bigger in… (Texas)
Appearances were surprisingly deceiving. It was surprising, really. America had never really thought about it before, but he knew that that old saying rang true. With his pale complexion and slight build, England looked like the farthest thing from a strong country, let alone an empire that had at one time controlled nearly two thirds of the globe, stretching around the world and holding it with an iron grip—including America himself. Those thin arms and long, girlish legs; the gentle smile (when the adorably irritable nation smiled at all, that is; thankfully, that had become more often in the last few years), and of course that "gentlemanly" disposition didn't suit the image France and Spain painted of England during his pirate days. Spain claimed that England had absolutely demolished his beloved Armada and that the island had taken the helm of one of the English ships into his own hands. Mentioning the failure still brought tears to the Spaniard's eyes.
America couldn't even imagine England dressed as a pirate, let alone swinging from the ropes that connected the sails, steering the ship, or any of the other "pirate" things he had seen in Hollywood movies. England was more the type to sit and relax with a hot cup of tea, read a book, and perhaps watch some kind of sport on the television (America believed it was called cricket, but he had never really paid attention to it and it didn't make much sense to him—all he knew was that it was like baseball's gay cousin).
All the same, he knew that (most of) the stories were true, even though he had never heard England himself say anything about them. He knew that the green-eyed man absolutely adored the sea. He had seen how England's eyes lit up whenever he was near the coast, breathing the fresh sea air. America enjoyed the seaside as much as anyone else he knew, but England would probably live on the water if he comfortably could. Which America supposed he had, for a time, when he had taken all of those trips to visit his former colonies in the Americas, Africa, and Asia. Traveling back then hadn't exactly been swift. When he had been young, he hadn't really understood that. He had been more focused on the fact that England's visits were too far apart, even if four months of their time apart was simply spent traveling across the open waters. He had been angry at him for that, usually, even though it was hardly England's fault, and the nation visited America far more than he visited any of his other colonies.
The former colony looked over at the sleeping former empire sitting next to him. England's head was drooped down, lolling onto his shoulder, and his breathing was even and deep in his sleep. A Styrofoam cup of now-cold tea was near his hand, and a book (leather-bound, hand-written, and looking about as ancient as England himself) was still lying open in his lap. The plane still had another hour or so left in the air before they landed. America was positive that this leg of their trip would be even better than the last one. He loved Texas. And now, finally, he could show England around the Midwestern state. He had a feeling that England could definitely use the laid-back and friendly atmosphere the state had to offer, anyways. He knew that he still felt rather out of place in the States, despite having the best tour guide ever at his side. He supposed it must be the culture shock. Not being surrounded by tea shops and fish and chips stands had to be depressing for the poor guy.
In other words, England probably felt the same way America did every time he went to England, or when he had to go to drag the nation out of a pub as the elder laughed drunkenly and maniacally—or, occasionally, sobbing and crying. He would usually have to dump him at his house to sober up and play babysitter for the rest of the night. England wasn't exactly what anyone would call a "sane" drunk. Quite the opposite, actually. England tended to act weird whenever he was under the influence. America shuddered at the thought as unwanted memories of some of the times England had finished off one too many (usually more than one too many). In particular, he was reminded of the time England had gotten into a drunken argument with some hairy guy in a skirt, and had nearly gotten into a full-blown bar room brawl. Though he knew England would never admit it, he was still a small country when compared to some of the others out there. And that skirt guy had been pretty intimidating—America had the feeling that he could have easily snapped England in half like a twig.
Of course, when England had finally sobered up a few hours later, he had informed America that the "freaky cross-dresser with the plaid schoolgirl skirt that looks like he's trying to imitate Poland" had, in fact, been England's older brother Scotland, and that the skirt was really a kilt. Needless to say, America was still on Scotland's shit list.
Maybe that was a poor example. Having to adjust to American culture (even with its lack of tea shops—though now that he thought about it, Starbucks served tea, and there was nothing wrong with that) was in no way more difficult to deal with than that. Nothing was more culturally shocking that getting the living tar beaten out of you by a guy in a skirt who seriously needed to learn what a razor was.
In any case, England would eventually come to love American culture as much as he loved America himself. Or, at least, that's what America was hoping for. While England would deny vehemently that he hated him (at least, he had since they had finally confessed to one another—before then, it had been said plenty of times), the Briton rarely said the words "I love you". More importantly, he rarely called America by his seemed too formal, to the laid-back nation. Unless they were around humans or having sex, it was always "America", never "Alfred". For a moment, America toyed with the idea of voicing this concern to England, but decided against it. He knew that England was already going to be in an irate mood after the long plane ride. He had hoped that their stay in NewYork would be a pleasant experience for the other, which he believed that it had been, but with England, it was hard to tell. He would never show an unpleased face when someone important to him was trying so hard to make him happy. And he was far too polite to say outright that he didn't like something unless France had made it.
An announcement came on over the loud speaker, claiming that they were to land in fifteen minutes. The stewardess requested that all of the passengers buckle their seatbelts and return their seats to an upright position with a falsely cheery tone that America knew was hiding boredom and exhaustion. The people working on his airlines had tough jobs and long hours, and America held a lot of respect for them. Especially the pilots, considering America himself flew. America reached over to England and gently tapped on his shoulder. "Arthur, time to wake up," he prodded gently, giving the other a small shake.
England's eyes fluttered open slowly as the nation winced against the light streaming in through the half-lidded window. Exhausted emerald eyes stared ahead sleepily from behind mussed blonde hair for a few moments before blinking once and turning their gaze to the American. "We're there already?" England murmured, sitting his chair up. As he moved it forward, he arched his back and stretched his arms above his head. He yawned quietly, and America could hear a few of his joints pop in protest.
"Nearly. Time to buckle up, we're landing soon," America replied.
"Ah." England took his belt and fastened it. He had slept oddly, and his neck had a crick in it that was killing him. He rolled his head a tad to the left, attempting to work out the painful muscle. He hated sleeping oddly. "Where were we going again?"
"We're going to Amarillo," America said brightly, his smile like a sixty-watt bulb. Arthur didn't perk up as much as Alfred might have hoped. In fact, he seemed to wilt a tad. He really must be tired.
"Which would be in which blasted state again?" England replied tiredly, raising an eyebrow. "I'm afraid I don't know your exact geography as well as one may have hoped."
"In the amazingly awesome state of Texas," America replied with a wide smile.
England glanced out the window, almost looking unimpressed. He was greeted with the sight of a large expanse of flat, dead-grass-brown land. Texas looked like a flat land with no interesting characteristics, if his first impression had been correct. He wasn't sure if he should be glad about that or not (after all, after the excitement of New York, he could do with some "down time"). On one hand, Texas would—most likely—be less crowded than New York City had been, and would hopefully have fewer homeless people with projectiles of Yoplait. On the other, he had never really heard much about Texas, other than some saying about everything being "bigger" there and that they did a lot of cattle ranching.
They landed right on schedule a while later, and America picked up their bags from the bags from the baggage claim. The exuberant nation led England out to the parking lot, chattering away the entire time. He'd booked a rental car ahead of time, and it was waiting for them outside. England tossed his back into the trunk of the car, and crossed around to the left side of the car. He stopped, staring at the car, momentarily confused.
"What's wrong, Artie?" America asked, tossing his own bags into the back alongside England's in the back of the relatively small two-seater. At least it was a change for the Hummer he had loved so much, and wouldn't guzzle gas like a person drinking water in the desert.
"Your wheel is on the wrong side," England commented, glancing to look back towards his lover. He was too tired to remember the differences between American and English cars, apparently.
America blinked, before he himself remembered the difference. He smiled a bit, shyly. "Oh, yeah. You guys have the wheel on the right side, don't you? In America, they're on the left, remember? And we drive on the right side of the road."
"Bugger it all," England mumbled with a sigh as he crossed over to the passenger side. "You have to do everything the opposite way I do, don't you?" he muttered, slightly exasperated.
America laughed it off easily, and climbed into the driver's seat. He made sure England was secure in his seat before he set off towards their hotel. England, who still seemed to be exhausted in spite of his three-hour nap on the plane, was almost instantly asleep again, his head leaning against the window.
~*~*~*~USUK~*~*~*~
England and America took advantage of the hotel's exceedingly comfortable bed (America had booked a single-bed suite, much to England's embarrassment and annoyance; what was the hotel staff going to think?), and they both slept in the next day until nearly noon. When the two of them finally pulled themselves out of bed, it was moreso due to necessity than the desire to be awake.
"I feel so useless," England muttered. "I never sleep away a whole day like that."
"What's the big deal?" America replied. "I do it all the time."
England raised an eyebrow at him, unsurprised. "Right."
There was a pause before something clicked in America's mind, and he retorted. "Hey, that isn't very nice…" Despite his pouting, America's stomach decided that now was a good time to complain and growled loudly.
"Do you think the hotel still has the complementary continental breakfast going?" England questioned off-handedly at the sound of his lover's complaining abdomen. He looked as if he were praying there was a small "British" selection (he was craving a nice crumpet), but they both knew the chances were slim to none. England would have to make do with a Belgian waffle or an English muffin.
"It ended at eleven," America said, glancing at one of the little reminder items that littered hotel rooms. "And in any case, it's nearly lunch time anyways. And I know just where to take you," he declared, smiling widely.
England glanced at him, nonplussed, and raised an eyebrow. "Do you, now?"
"It's one of my favorite places around here," America replied proudly.
England continued to stare at his lover, not seeming to be very pleased or impressed by the other's apparent pride in the establishment. "Please tell me everything there isn't fried."
"Not all of it," America said defensively, though he still smiled that million-watt smile that England enjoyed in spite of himself.
"At least there's that," England murmured. America led him out of the hotel, half dragging him, and complained the entire way about being "so starved he could eat a horse", while the Englishman half-heartedly scolded him, claiming that it was his own fault for staying in bed past the hotel's breakfast hours. The growling of said man's stomach had nothing to do with it.
~*~*~*~USUK~*~*~*~
America pulled into the parking lot in front of his anticipated restaurant a short time later. All England could tell was that it was a rather boring-looking establishment, rectangular in shape and with nothing, really, setting it apart from any of the other buildings around. It was actually on the small side for a restaurant, when England thought about it. Before the island nation could even read the name of the place, America was already dragging him into it (literally) by his arm, smiling that wide, idiotic grin of his and babbling away about how "Coyote Bluff had the best in town", and why that was the reason he had chosen to take England there. England, for one, simply accepted the America's excited behavior and his fate, and allowed himself to be taken to one of the booths lining the wall. He still had quite the bout of jet lag (he had always hated flying), and unlike America, he never took well to new time zones. Where he lived, it was already past dinner time—and he was only just eating lunch. His stomach growled at the thought, and he looked over towards America, who was talking animatedly to one of the servers by the front of the building.
The waiter glanced over at England, smiled widely, and laughed quietly to himself before he walked back into the kitchen. England could have sworn he heard the young man yell the words "we have fresh meat" a few moments later, as well as the muffled laughter of the cooks, but he hoped that it was simply his imagination.
America joined England a few moments later, sliding into the booth across from the island. After the nation had made himself comfortable, England spoke: "What was that about?"
"I was just ordering," America said, smiling that beautiful movie-star smile of his. England could sense a mischievous glint in it—the same one that America always had when he was a child and had done something naughty, such as the time he had hidden a snake in what's-his-name's bed after England had taken his side in a childish argument. If England recalled correctly, it had been about the distribution of sweets or some other such nonsense (it was hardly what-was-he-called's fault that America had eaten his share so quickly).
"What are you plotting?" England asked bluntly.
America gave the Englishman a rather hurt look. "Arthur, I feel insulted. You honestly think that I would ever, ever do anything to hurt you?"
"Hurt me, no," England replied crisply. "Torture me, I have no doubt that you would."
"That hurts, Iggy," America sighed dramatically. He had obviously been paying far too much attention to Francis lately. "That hurts right here." He put his hand over his heart, shaking his head sadly. Yes, he had definitely been spending too much time with the Frenchman.
"Hmph, right," England muttered sarcastically. "Git." However, he reached his hand across the table, laying it on top of America's in a subtle gesture of affection. America smiled back at him, flipping his palm so that it faced upwards and gripped England's hand softly. England stared at their intertwined fingers. England's pale, sun-starved skin stood out against his former charge's fading summer tan. The smaller nation's cheeks turned a few shades darker when he fully realized what America had done, and he pulled his hand away.
America laughed knowingly, sending England another sugar-sweet, but brief, smile. "Afraid of a little affection, Artie-kins?"
"Don't call me that," England grumbled in reply. It was his customary response to any nickname the other chose to call him, unless it was something he genuinely found sweet (a rare occurrence, considering America's fondness for the oddest pet names).
"Fine, fine," America relented. "I hope Iggy does it for you."
England's answering wry stare could have wilted flowers. "It's hardly any better."
"But Arthur sounds so formal," America complained. "Are we lovers, or aren't we? It feels weird to always call you by your full name!"
England's cheeks flushed momentarily darker. He nearly argued that he didn't have the other call him by his full name—after all, even England admitted that The United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland was a mouthful—but he was saved when the waiter decided to arrive with their food. "Ah, look, the food is here."
America thanked the waiter, who began by setting down a plate of cheese fries between the two nations, followed by what Arthur could only assume was—of course—a burger. "What the hell is this?" England asked, staring down at the strange collection of fat and cholesterol that had been placed before him.
"The Burger From Hell," the waiter replied, his all-too-fake food service smile plastered on his face. "Our best seller."
"The Burger from… what?"
"The Burger From Hell," America repeated, chipper, as the waiter took his leave of them. "A half-pound burger with cheese, jalapenos, onions, and habanero hot sauce!"
"Are you insane?" England asked immediately, wondering just how many screws were loose in his lover's head. He had to be. It was the only excuse England could think of.
America popped the top of his burger off, and began to pour more of the habanero hot sauce from a bottle in the center of the table on top of it, before he had even taken the first bite of his burger. England stood corrected. Now America was insane. "Alfred, that's disgusting," he muttered.
"Don't knock it 'till ya try it," America quipped with a good-natured laugh.
"This thing is huge, though," England replied. "Who needs a half pound patty on one of these things?"
"Then save half, or give it to me," America offered. "Besides. Everything's bigger in Texas!"
England felt sick at the thought of eating that much food, but decided that he'd humor America and at least try the burger. Hellish, indeed. "If I don't eat it all, I'm sure as hell not going to give it to you. I swear, Alfred, I should put you on a diet," he warned. He was hesitant to take his first bite, as he wasn't exactly a fan of spicy foods. Curry was fine and dandy, but America's growing love for things made from habanero and "ghost" peppers, whatever those were, was growing slightly worrisome. But he had agreed to go on this damned road trip of America's, so he supposed that agreeing to what America had planned for "activities" along the way was also a part of the package.
He took a bite, trying his best to remain open-minded. His first impression was that of the burger itself—juice, well-seasoned, and cooked perfectly.
That was when the heat began to set in.
He forced himself to swallow, barely chewing, and coughed. "Jesus Christ—" he managed to bite out, a few short coughs trying to clear his throat of the burning sensation.
"Huh? Too spicy?" America seemed amused by Arthur's predicament, and smiled at him across the table before proudly taking another bite. England watched in horror as America dipped his sandwich in even more hot sauce that he had poured onto his plate, and took another large bite. He could feel his own throat combust at the mere thought of eating such an amount of spice. "They're not that hot, you know, Artie," Alfred said teasingly.
"Perhaps not for you," England coughed. "I despise spicy foods…"
America smiled widely. "Awe, come on! It's good!"
"The burger itself isn't bad," England grudgingly agreed. "That is, if I can ever taste anything again." Instead of going for the burger again, which he had decided truly was from Hell, he grabbed one of the cheese fries, nibbling on it while he watched America eat his burger as he did all the other times—in a few bites. "I'll stick with the chips. You can have your burger, but I'll be damned I fI let you eat my burger as well. You need to watch your calorie intake. That's why your weight keeps fluctuating, you know," he pointed out.
"Hey! England! I'm so not fat!" America complained.
"Perhaps not, but you can still take better care of yourself," England pointed out.
"Well… At least I go to the gym every day," America defended. "Unless I forget, that is…. You're always doing paperwork! There's no way you do that!"
England felt an eyebrow twitch in irritation. Despite how he looked, he had to work for his physique. He hated how Alfred could keep his strength up without truly trying; Alfred's form of exercise seemed to consist of a few push-ups and video games most of the time. England could do nothing but work out every day, and he never gained an ounce of muscle. But he also knew that the weight he did have could easily be lost if he forgot to eat (a common occurrence during election years or high-stress times; the fact that he'd lost weight was almost always immediately evident on his thin frame, and one of his secretaries had claimed he had developed an eating disorder and had begun forcing food on him every time he went past her in the office), but he had issues when it came to putting on muscle. So he'd begun working with Kiku in the mid-80s in order to make use of the few muscles he was fortunate enough to have.
He doubted he could beat America in a battle of brute strength, but if he could get a well-placed roundhouse kick or palm-heel strike to work, he had a feeling the larger nation would be worse for the wear, if not down for the count. Not that he expected to fight America anymore. He'd used the techniques a few times in the past few years with France, though, and they had come in rather handy. Scratch that—they were true life savers.
"I run three kilometers every morning before going to the office, Alfred," he stated blandly.
"How long is that? Half a mile?" America questioned, clueless. Those beautiful baby blue eyes of his blinked a few times.
England's icy demeanor warmed a tad. "It's over a mile, you git," he muttered. "And I weight train with Kiku, when I have time. Just because you have the advantage of brute strength…"
"Oh yeah!" America exclaimed, reminded of something. "Kiku and I were talking about that! He said that you're getting pretty good at fighting, when you wanna be. He said something about France getting drunk and you turning him into a bloody pulp when he hugged you from behind or something."
England shuddered at the memory. "Of course I kicked his arse," he muttered darkly. "He wouldn't get the hell off of me. And I prefer not to have anyone grab my back side, thank you very much."
America chuckled, mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like "You like it when I do it" under his breath, and finished his Infernal Burger. England continued to eat his less hellish fries, and had to beat America off when he attempted to snatch up England's burger, as well. They eventually came to an agreement—England forced himself to finish half of his burger, and America could finish what was left. How America managed to continually fit that much food in his stomach was beyond England.
On the way out the door, England felt a hand on his bum. He stared at America dangerously for a few moments. When the younger nation made no motion to remove his offending hand, England physically removed it himself. "When I said 'anyone' earlier, that included you," he muttered dangerously. America only laughed.
~*~*~*~USUK~*~*~*~
It was late now. The Burger from Hell hadn't exactly agreed with England's stomach (he'd found that America had ordered both of their burgers with extra habanero sauce, forgetting that England couldn't stand spicy foods; he really could have throttled America for that one), and as a result, he hadn't been feeling up to much after traveling and walking all afternoon seeing the sights. Well, America had eaten dinner—England certainly felt nauseous at the idea of food after what he had gone through.
They were at the bar down the street from their hotel now, with country songs blasting from an outdated sound system that somehow kept the place feeling homey and friendly. In the corner, a loud group of college students were playing a game of beer pong. One particular student was playing a horrid game, though it was hard to tell if it was on purpose or not. Another group was loudly cheering on a person who had decided to give the bar's mechanical bull a go. England had at first wondered what the hell could possibly possess a person to decide to get within fifteen feet of the contraption, but after the third glass of whiskey, England was starting to think that it looked interesting.
Sometime during a song that America seemed to adore singing along to in that oh-too-beautiful Texas drawl of his ("She thinks my tractor's sexy~ It really turns her on~ She's always starin' at me~"), England made his way over to the wall surrounding the padded pit around the mechanical animal. He watched, intrigued, for a few minutes as a girl held on for dear life, yelling and whooping in excitement.
America appeared behind him. "That looks awesome, huh?" he questioned, smiling widely.
"It looks like you'd have to be insane to try it," England replied, his words slightly slurred by the amount of alcohol in his system. "We don't have these across the pond."
America laughed, and motioned to a man sitting next to the control panel. "Hey! Mind if I go next?"
"Not at all," the man replied with a quiet laugh and a tip of the large cowboy hat atop his head. After a short amount of time, the girl was flung from the saddle, landing unceremoniously on her backside in the ring. She was laughing, and climbed out, aided by a man who England could only assume was her boyfriend, who seemed to be just as amused (if not more) than the giggling girl.
America leapt over the barrier expertly, then swung his leg over the saddle. He hooked his legs into the stirrups, whooping. "Hit it!" he called, that stars-and-stripes Movie Star smile plastered over his youthful face. England could feel butterflies erupt in his stomach at the sight of it.
"You got it." The employee wasted no time in cranking it up, and England had to wonder how America was even staying in the saddle after a few moments, let alone laugh throughout the entire thing.
The employee spun America off after a little over a minute, and the taller blonde hit the ground hard, though he never stopped his buzzed laughter. America was strong enough so that being thrown had hardly fazed him. America blew a few stray strands of hair out of his face, looking at England with sparkling sky-hued eyes. He needed a haircut. But still, England felt himself melt a little. "That never gets old. Not the same as the real thing, but hey. Still fun!"
"Hey, would you wanna take a swing at it?" The man who was controlling the bucking bronco was addressing England now, gesturing towards the bull. "Maybe you'll be as good as your friend there," he challenged with a laugh. Obviously, it was more for everyone's amusement than any actual belief that England would do well. But it was a mutual thing—everyone made a food out of themselves on it. That was what made it fun.
America smiled gratefully, but shook his head. "Nah, my friend here has had a few, so it probably isn't a good idea—"
"I'm perfectly sober," England protested, glaring at his lover. Did America honestly think that a few drinks would make him that helpless? "I can handle my liquor!"
"Arthur," America replied slowly, as if talking to a petulant child. Hi face had fallen into a "yeah right" sort of expression. "You're tipsy, at the very least."
"You've had more than I have," England pointed out.
"I can hold my liquor better than you can." Though the fact that England always went for the hard liquor probably didn't help his case in this matter.
England glared at America, and then looked at the man behind the controls. "Start the damn thing up. If I can stay on the deck of a ship in the middle of a goddamned hurricane, I can sure as hell stay on this thing," he declared. Ignoring America's warnings to not do anything rash, England stepped into the padded arena, swinging himself into the saddle with practiced ease. He hadn't been in the saddle of a bull before, but it hadn't been long since he'd ridden a horse—and before he'd started riding in carriages and, later, cars, he had ridden on horseback quite often. He was an able horseman, simply out of practice. He had a feeling he could handle this oversized toy. It wouldn't be any and different from breaking in a wild horse (which, admittedly, had been more of America's thing during his cowboy years than it had ever been England's).
It began slowly, and he quickly learned to move his body in tune with the mechanical animal. He couldn't try and sit straight up, as he would on horseback, because it would only buck him straight off. If he let himself fall forward as it came up, it kept him comfortably in the saddle. He would just have to be careful not to smack his face on the back of the animal.
A fraction of a second after he'd gotten the hang of it, the bull began to buck more wildly. England's fingers held onto the reigns, and he watched his knuckles grow white. Maybe this wasn't a good idea. He wasn't completely sober—he was a bit tipsy, and doing things like this while slightly inebriated was never a good idea.
Back and forth, spin around, back, sharp turn—all of these sudden movements were making the British nation dizzy. The mechanical bull's movements sped up as each second passed, becoming more sudden and erratic. He was sure that he only held on as long as he had out of sheer stubbornness and fear, somehow surpassing Alfred's mark in that time. His legs clung at the saddle, his fingernails dug into the cloth cover of the contraption, and he closed his eyes tightly as he tried his hardest to just hold on as his grip began to slip.
A few seconds later, he was flung unceremoniously flung from its back, and the wind was knocked from his lungs as he hit the barrier wall harder than he would have thought. He sat up, coughing a bit, his head spinning. Ouch.
America rushed forward. "Artie! Are you okay?" he asked, worry evident in his voice.
England tried to focus on his significant other, his vision spinning. "I feel sick," he murmured, placing a hand over his mouth. Without needing another word, America grabbed England around the waist and rushed him off towards the nearest bathroom. They only just made it in time.
~*~*~*~USUK~*~*~*~
England was drunk. Well, perhaps that was understating things. After the mishap with the mechanical bull, England had attempted to down his mortification with a large amount of alcohol, ignoring any pleas from America stating that he had already drunk enough.
At the moment, however, America was far from complaining.
England's fingers dug into his lover's shoulders as he cried out, whimpering and writhing beneath his lover. Sometime before this had all started, England had stolen Texas off of America's face to tease him about the frames. Sometime after that, the infamous specs had ended up on England's face. America had to admit, England looked rather sexy with glasses. England always seemed to prefer it when America took off his glasses when they found themselves in this situation—why that was, though, America wasn't entirely sure. He filed it under the "Ask England" section of his mind, which seemed to only be growing fuller and more cluttered the more time he spent with the smaller man.
England wrapped his arms around his lover's neck, pulling himself up and pressing his mouth against America's desperately. England's lips were already swollen and a little bit bruised, and his cheeks were flushed both from the alcohol and their current predicament. Texas graced his cheek bones perfectly, and emerald-green eyes looked up at the larger country with a slightly glazed look, though affectionate. America moved again, and those eyes snapped open wider. England's small mouth moved from America's and opened with s moan, forming into an o. England always was the louder one in bed, surprisingly.
England whimpered against Alfred's shoulder, crying out with each movement. His nails dug deeper into America's shoulders, leaving crescent-shaped marks. America was practically attacking his neck, nipping at the pale flesh and leaving small bruises and rose-colored spots. "Arthur…!"
"Nn—Alfred…" England's legs willingly wrapped around America's waist, and the Briton almost seemed to be silently begging America to move faster, his simpering sounds and cries driving his American off the brink of sanity.
"If you keep making those faces, Arthur, I'm not going to last," America warned.
"Nn—what—faces?" England retorted, his fingers entwining themselves in the sheets as they finally stopped the constant abuse on America's back. His sentence was practically lost in the series of small cries and grunts he tried in vain to hold in.
The two of them lay in bed together soon after. England, flushed but content, lay limp as a rag doll against the sheets of the hotel bed, his chest rising and falling as he tried to catch his breath. "…America?" he murmured. America looked at him expectantly. "What you said earlier…. About everything being bigger in Texas?" he murmured sleepily.
"Yeah? What about it?"
England didn't reply for a time, and it was difficult to tell whether he had fallen asleep or not. "…Never mind," he whispered at last, yawning softly.
America hooked an arm about his waist, pulling the gentleman's back to his chest, and curled around him. He intertwined his legs with England's, noting that his feet were freezing cold, like ice; just as his hands always were. "Your circulation is out of wack, old man," he accused quietly against the back of England's neck. "You're always cold."
"S' jus' cold in here, 's all…" England slurred out sleepily. "An' don' call me tha'… 'm no' tha' old…."
America smiled against England's nape, and kissed the soft flesh beneath his lips. "All right, all right. Good night, Arthur."
"G'night, America…."
England wasn't sure if he could tell America that everything was notably bigger in Texas.
In particular, "Florida".
He'd be hurting tomorrow.
Fifty Times
A/N: Well… This time, it's the lovely state of North Dakota. I grew up in North Dakota from fourth grade onwards, so I was looking forward to writing the state. I will admit that the weather is very moody… Worse than England if he were on PMS.
The next chapter I'm going to write is Virginia, as a gift to my America—you know who you are, and I love you!
I will point out that the giant bison statue is indeed real. It's about 26 feet long, and 46 high… And it's the world's largest buffalo. Why North Dakotans are so proud of this achievement, I haven't the foggiest, but we are. More importantly, it is one of North Dakota's main tourist attractions (if you can call it that). How many people would drive any distance to visit a giant buffalo, I wonder?
The song America sings early on in the chapter is "North Dakota Bois", a parody of Katy Perry's "California Gurls" written by a North Dakota native that I actually went to school with. The video can be found on YouTube, and is good for a laugh not just for those from North Dakota, but the Midwest in general.
Please enjoy the latest addition to Fifty Times!
~*~*~*~USUK~*~*~*~
Three: Of Giant Statues of Animals and Blizzards (North Dakota)
The flat expanse of land continued as far as the eye could see, covered in a thick blanket of crystal-clean snow broken only by the thin black ribbon of highway the two nations were currently traveling on. Occasionally, England spotted a snow-covered hay bale or cow ("Bison", America corrected; after a moment, Arthur remembered the creature that America had thrown about as a child and grimaced).
All in all, the drive had been rather dull since they had passed over the Red River, which served as the dividing border between the states of Minnesota and their current destination—the state of North Dakota. England had never heard of the name before, but he assumed that because of the name, it would be somewhere along the northern border America shared with what's-his-name… Canadia? Something like that. Anyhow, it was somewhere around there, and that was good enough for England. After all, he had the ultimate tour guide with him, and so long as they weren't separated, he didn't have to worry about getting lost.
For some odd, unexplained reason, the landscape seemed to change dramatically as soon as they had crossed the Red River bridge, from the city of Moorhead to one called Fargo. Whereas Minnesota was full of trees (and, in warmer months, other kinds of greenery), North Dakota was flat as a pancake, in America's words, with the odd exception of a small hill here and there. The closest things England had seen to trees were scraggly bushes that were barely able to poke out of their snowy winter prison. It was surprising, really, how all of this flat, featureless, nearly barren land there was—and it made England realize just how much bigger than him America really was.
Speaking of America, England swore he was going to throttle him. "America, that damn song has repeated on the blasted radio three times already since we began this trip. Turn it off."
America shrugged England's words off, and continued to hum along with the opening of "California Gurls", unabashed by England's sour mood. He was used to England's harsh words by now; and besides, it wasn't the same song… Technically. And the radio wasn't on—it was Alfred's iPod, plugged into the dash and set on shuffle.
Instead of the expected female voice of Katy Perry, Arthur could hear a male begin to sing. While he didn't necessarily have a bad voice, he wasn't the perfect example of what a singer should aim for—though England could tell he was holding back, and for good reason, when he realized it was a parody. America sang along, tapping out the rhythm on his steering wheel as they hurtled down the highway at a speed England was rather sure was over the speed limit, particularly on the rather horrible roads. To his displeasure, there was a healthy coating of ice over them—even more than the blanket that had covered the parking lots back in Minnesota.
"North Dakota boys, we're unreliable,
Hunting's more important than work.
If you don't have a gun, you're not American,
Oh, oh-oh…."
England rubbed his temples in a gentle, massaging motion. This was going to be a long day, he could already tell.
~*~*~*~USUK~*~*~*~
They had been driving for two hours since Fargo, and had passed by only a few small towns—most of them small enough to miss if you blinked. But they had yet to run into another rcar. It seemed as if no one other than America was stupid enough to brave the road conditions.
"Is it always like this?" England asked.
"Is what always like this?" America replied, taking his eyes off the road to look at his companion.
England made an angry tsking noise. "Eyes on the road, watch where you're going, git," he stated, his voice lacking its former bite and scorn. He hadn't meant his insults since before the first World War. The angry effect he was going for was diminished when he smiled ever so slightly at America's "kicked puppy" reaction.
"This state. Are the roads always this horrible?"
"In North Dakota, there are two seasons," America replied. "Winter and road construction." The two of them rounded a bend in the road, and England could see another town laid out beneath the freeway. They drove through it, America slowing down to mutter about police officers being "jerks" here, and England took to staring out the window again.
After a minute or two, on their way out of the town, England found something that caught his eye. He looked up towards the top of a hill, incredulous. "America, what is that?" he asked.
"Hm?" America looked towards the side of the road. "What's what?"
"That giant… thing… poking out of the snow on top of that hill."
"…Oh! That." America grinned. "That's the world's largest buffalo!" he said proudly.
"The world's largest what?"
"Buffalo," America laughed. "Remember when you freaked out 'cause I was playing with one as a kid and—"
England stared at his former colony as if he had lost his mind, interrupting. "Yes, yes, I know what a buffalo is, America. What I want to know is why the blasted hell you have bothered to even build the 'world's largest buffalo'."
There was another long pause as America thought of his answer. Finally, he smiled over at the other with that dazzling Hollywood smile of his. "…'Cause it's cool?" England simply raised a large eyebrow at him. "What? It is!" America protested. "Besides, Jamestown—the town we just passed through—is known as the Buffalo City because of it! Isn't that neat? It was the first
