A/N (on 2/5/12): Oh my God I'm so sorry! I was typing this up last night and my stupid computer shut off. Apparently I have "time restrictions" I knew absolutely nothing about. So, SO sorry that I could get this up yesterday. You might just end up with two to three chapters today (depending on what else I have to do). Anyway, on to what I was saying last night!
A/N (on 2/4/12): So I was planning on catching up on that missing chapter, but then my mom decided that today would be a great time to start packing (were trying to sell our house so we have to stage it).
I had no idea one person could accumulate so much useless crap over the course of a decade. I spent seven hours cleaning out my room. Seven freaking hours! Seeing as I woke up around noon, my entire day has been shot. So be grateful for this chapter, damn it! (Or don't… hehe… ohgodI'msorrydon'tgetmad).
Ernyway, to make matters worse I left my "14 Ways" list of witty confession ideas at school… And I don't exactly remember what I had planned for this chapter… (there are 14 of them, okay! Cut a girl some slack.)
So I'm just going to go with the one I remember (plot progression be damned). Do enjoy. ^^
Disclaimer: Japan is more likely to give up salt than I am to own Hetalia.
14 Ways to Say
Chapter 3: It's Outta Here!
England was not hiding.
He was definitely not crouched like a small child behind a potted bush of chrysanthemums outside the conference building. He most certainly did not have his face buried in his knees and his hands wrapped protectively around the top of his head like a participant in an inclement weather drill. There was absolutely no way that he was shaking like a leaf and whimpering at the slightest provocation.
Nope. Not possible.
…England hated his life.
"Uh…what are you doing?"
England did not squeal like a young girl. (He might have gasped slightly in surprise, but that was neither here nor there). His head jerked upwards, horrified eyes searching frantically for the slightest hint of a lacy cuff or wild midnight eyes…
Only to come face to face with an angel.
Or America.
Same difference, really.
Shooting up to his feet faster than should be humanly possible, England straightened out the folds of his slightly ripped coat (Belarus had rather fantastic aim), and coughed nervously. "Nothing, dear boy, just admiring these flowers"
"But your eyes were closed…"
"Your point being?"
"…You can't look at something if your eyes are closed."
"And what makes you think I simply wanted to look at the flowers? I was attempting to experience them with all my senses, hearing, touch, smell, taste-"
"…So you were sitting here eating flowers?"
"NO YOU BLOODY MORON, I WASN'T-"
America cut him off with a shake of his head. "Whatever floats your boat, dude." He put his hands up in a gesture of surrender, smirking derisively.
(That idiotic, muscle-brained, overweight, arrogant, obnoxious son of a-)
"Anyway, I was looking for you. I wanted to know if you'd be cool with watchin' some baseball with me."
Wait, America had been looking for him. America had deliberately sought him out. America wanted to spend time with him. Of his own free will. Just the two of them. Together. Alone.
Wow, it was hot in here.
Blushing furiously and pulling at the suddenly suffocating collar of his shirt, England looked hurriedly away from America's expectant gaze. "Why of course, I mean…um, that is to say...I would quite enjoy…well…" he stammered uselessly, toeing the ground. (Was he a ruddy mute? Why the hell was it suddenly impossible to compose a coherent sentence?)
"Calm down man, it's not rocket science." America placed a jovial hand upon England's shoulder (and oh God America was touching him) "Yes or no? Yay or nay? However you Brits say it."
How the bleeding hell did America expect him to give an intelligible thought when he was touching him and smiling like that? "Yes," England finally ground out, his heart hammering madly in his chest like he'd just agreed "to have and to hold" America forever, rather than just observe a sporting event with him (though he certainly would not have said no to the former).
"Great!" America chirped happily, the hand on England's shoulder clapping down jovially before retracting (but oh if he would leave it there, just a little longer). "Wanna head over there now?"
England was pulled out of his revelry (currently admiring the soft curve of America's neck) to frown at the other in confusion. "Head over to where? Are we not going to your house?"
"Nah man, I got tickets! We're gonna go watch the Nationals live!" America rummaged around in his pocket before producing two nearly identical slips of paper, grinning widely.
So it would be just the two of them anda couple hundred others.
England tried not to let his mood be dampened. It would still be him and America going together. Just the two of them. In a public setting. Like a date…
Bloody hell this room was a furnace!
Trying hide his to blush and not choke all at the same time, England forced a smile and tried to look neutrally pleased with the turn of events. With his flush and the tension at the corners of his mouth it looked more like constipation. "Wonderful. Lead the way."
America crowed, taking England's hand (deargodtheywereholdinghands), and turning in the direction of the parking lot. "Alright! Just follow the hero!"
I could most certainly get used to this, England thought as he sat on a crowded city bus. America had insisted they use public transportation ("The environment, man!"), but England could care less that the seats were probably riddled with staph and that the people were rude and standing uncomfortably close because America was sitting next to him, the taller blond pressed snugly against his side due to the bus' maximum occupancy. Every time the vehicle hit a bump or snag in the pavement, America would lean further against him, his heady smell enveloping England like a warm blanket, their thighs occasionally brushing…
(Japan would probably die of blood loss if he knew the things England was thinking.)
Besides the contact, America kept up a steady flow of conversation. They bickered about the merits of cricket versus baseball and whether or not football (the horrible America version) had supplanted the latter as the true "Great American Pastime" (It's my pastime, isn't it? I'm the one who gets to decide). And for once England didn't care that America was insulting his culture (though the git's pansy-padded "pig-skin" game was no match for a real man's sport like rugby), content to simply enjoy the brash warmth of his voice, to admire the animated light that glinted behind his lenses as defended the "real kind of football".
It was a shame, really, when the ride came to a close. But England consoled himself with the knowledge that it would be just him and America at the game. Perhaps they might share a plate of crisps…they would both reach for it at the same moment, their fingers would brush and America would suddenly meet his eyes, leaning forward to—
England's fantasy was abruptly ended as he ran smack into something solid and distinctively chest-like.
"Ah! Watch your step rosbif! You wrinkled ma chemise!"
(Oh no. Not that. Anything but that…)
"Oh yeah Iggy, I invited France and…um…"
"Canada."
"Right! That guy! I invited them too. I had four tickets so I thought, why not? Hope ya don't mind."
It was at that moment that England realised God had forsaken him.
"- AND THE HOME OF THE BRAVE!"
The stadium burst into cheers, people applauding the performer loudly and pulling on the caps they had discarded while the national anthem was sung. Beside England, America was screaming wildly, all sense of propriety seemingly abandoned (well…he was America). "Man that was awesome!" he yelled, turning bright eyes on his two companions (he could have sworn someone else was supposed to be there, but he couldn't remember at the moment…)."My anthem is the best, hands down!"
"I would have to disagree, Amérique. Nothing can beat La Marseillais."
"Dude, your song is all about blood and death. How is that cool?"
"And wasn't your 'Star-Spangled Banner' written at the conclusion of a battle?"
"That's totally different man! Mine is all about bravery and perseverance! The true America spirit!"
England sunk deeper in his seat, attempting to ignore the two obnoxious blonds squabbling across him. By some stroke of hideous misfortune, his assigned seat had landed him between America and France, and while the former had made him giddy, the latter made him want to curl up in a very dark corner and waste away.
"Um, my anthem can be sung in two different languages."
"Hey France, did you hear something?"
"I did! Mon dieu, what was that?"
"Dude, it's a ghost! England hold me!"
Before England could do more than splutter and turn a violent shade of red, America's attention was diverted as the ceremonial first pitch was thrown and the game officially began (damn it all!)
England neither understood nor cared for the intricacies baseball, and as America became more and more enraptured, England allowed his mind to wander (mainly to the delectable skin between America's neck and collar bone and exactly what he'd like to do to it…)"
"Either the meaning of life is inscribed on dear Amérique's skin, or you are having some unholy thoughts, Angleterre."
England jumped, whirling around to glare at the smirking Frenchman. "I have absolutely no idea what perverted delusions you are suffering from frog, but keep them to yourself." He hissed under his breath, sending a covert glance in America's direction to check if he had noticed anything out the ordinary. The idiot was oblivious as always (and was yelling something rather profane at the umpire).
France laughed, swinging an arm around England's shoulders which he tried to fling off to no avail. "Get your greasy paws off or me!" he growled, trying to be intimidating without drawing America's attention. "I don't want to catch your warts."
"Oh, a frog joke. I must say, you are getting more and more original but the day."
"Can it you wanker!"
"Only when you admit to having just mentally-molested your former charge."
"I will not admit to blatant lies. Now kindly release me before I break your arm off!" England tried to jerk away again, but France only clutched him tighter (surely he would conduct some kind of STD from having been in physical contact with the frog for this long).
"Please you two, calm down. You're starting to make a scene?"
"Did you just say something cheese-monkey?"
"Non, but I was just thinking about how repressed you must be. Waiting around for someone as oblivious as Amérique to catch on. Surely you must quite the case of boules bleues now?"
"That's it!" In less than two seconds flat, England was on top of France, trying to beat the blasted smirk off his god-awful face.
"Dude! Iggy! France! You guys better knock it off before you get us thrown out."
Really, it was amazing how America could pull the two flailing nations apart as easily as ripping paper in half. Amazing and absolutely terrifying.
"Now," he said, setting them down (when in the holy hell had he picked them up in the first place?) and turning the two to face one another. "What do you say?"
England stared at America incredulously. "No, I will say no such thing. I will not be dictated to like some child!"
"Oui, Amérique. This rosbif is hardly worth my kind words anyway."
"Either you two apologize to each other or I post those pictures from last year's Christmas party on Facebook." Both nations went deathly pale at the same moment. "You wouldn't," England gasped, his throat going dry.
America smirked. "Try me."
England glared and America glared right back, taking a cool slip of his ridiculously sized cola as he did so. Emerald green and sky blue remained locked in a deadly battle. Neither moved. Neither blinked.
Finally England relented, turning to France with a look of utter disgust etched into every line of his face. "I'm only doing this to protect my own dignity!" Shredding whatever ounce of self-respect he had left, England grown out a very terse "Sorry".
France huffed, twirling a strand of his hair agitatedly between his fingers. "Oui, désolé".
"There you two, was that so hard?" America beamed, leaning down to sweep the other two nations into a rib-shattering hug.
England punched him. (Then screamed because he was fairly certain he had just broken his hand).
It was at the end of an "inning" that England saw it. He'd been having a very silent peanut-throwing war with France when the large screen on the field (which had thus far been showing advertisements and the score) switched to a live feed of the crowd. "Hey America, what's going on?" he asked, nudging the nation who was currently gorging his face with nachos.
"Oh that?" America swallowed thickly. "That's just the 'Kiss Cam'."
"Kiss Cam?"
"Yeah, watch." America pointed back up to the screen, now displaying a blushing young man and woman. Their figures where surrounded on the screen by little cartoon hearts. What on earth…? The entire crowd seemed to have taken notice of this fact and was now chanting "Do it, do it, do it" in discordant unison. America joined in, banging his fists on his knees in time with the words and laughing.
The two on the screen were both awfully red, looking anywhere but at each other. Finally, the boy took a deep breath as though summoning up his courage. He turned to the girl, tilted her chin towards him and…and kissed her?
England went a very bright shade of red as the rest of the crowd erupted into cheers. America clapped and laughed along with the rest as the couple broke apart and waved at the camera. Their image remained on screen for a few more moments before an advertisement for car insurance flickered to life in its place.
"What was that?" England hissed. Beside him, France was wolf-whistling, calling for an encore. On the other side of France, Canada (how long had he been there?) was giggling softly, petting the bear in his lap.
"I already told you, that was the 'Kiss Cam'." America was still chuckling slightly. "They pan around the crowd at the change of every inning. Whoever the camera lands on has to kiss. It's pretty funny, actually."
"What a strange custom." England murmured. "I would never think that such an embarrassing-"
And then England stopped, eyes going wide.
England had a wonderful, awful idea…
England slipped back into his seat, trying to hide the wide grin threatening to take over his face. He was a genius. There was absolutely no way that this plan could fail.
He glanced up at the play on the field: two outs, two strikes and not a single runner on base. Looked like the end of the inning was coming. England tried to ignore the nervous butterflies flittering around the inside of his stomach. This was it. There was no turning back now. All it had taken was an excuse to go to the loo, a quick pop into the press box, a small bribe to the camera operator, and his and America's seat numbers.
And now America would be his. He tried to imagine what those luscious lips would feel like presses against his own… (bloody fantastic). He shivered, inching imperceptibly closer to America as the batter struck out.
This was it. Oh God, this was really happening.
Finally.
Finally.
As the players moved off the field, the "big screen" switched from a fast-food advertisement to a live feed of the crowd. England's fingernails dug into the plastic seating beneath him. Sweat broke out on his brow. One single thought kept playing through England's head like a mantra.
America. America. America.
The boy wasn't paying attention to the screen, preoccupied as he was to his new soft pretzel. But now their section of seating was being featured. He could just make out four heads of blond hair amongst the sea of fans.
The camera began to pan in.
This was real. This was happening.
Closer and closer now, narrowing in on three rows of seats.
America glanced up, eyes wide.
Oh God.
Two rows.
Here it is.
One.
England blinked up at his own face, framed neatly by little cartoon hearts and accompanied by-
France!
On-screen France gave him a seductive wink. His horrible, stubbled face inched closer. "It is tradition, non?"
Oh no, oh no, oh dear sweet merciful baby Jesus no!
And before England had a chance to scream or run (or deck the hell out of that smarmy face), France was kissing him.
Full on, mouth-to-mouth contact.
With tongue.
Fuck his life and all things in it.
I'm going to get warts in my mouth.
A/N: …Because that's what you should be worrying about. *shakes head*. Love ya, Iggy. Love to torture you even more. ^^
So Fruk…yeah…I don't really ship it, but it's in here for humors sake… *is beginning to wonder when this changed into an EnglandxWorld fic*
I hope you liked this. I had a really hard time writing the last few lines for some odd reason. (Iblametherapmusic). Also, forgive me if the baseball seemed at all inaccurate. I know how the game functions, but I'm not a crazy fan or anything. I had to look up the team for D.C. Apparently they're the worst in their league. I felt like America would want to go support the underdogs. ;P
As to who exactly they were playing against…um…Oh look a flying squirrel *shot*.
Ernyway, I hope you enjoyed it. Kudos to anyone who can find the (rather obvious) movie reference. Please leave a review! Our review count has jumped by a few people since last chapter. Dis maked YG vury happeh. :3
Thanks for reading! And remember, every time you neglect to review Prussia loses one 'awesome-point'.