A/N: Warning: This chapter may come off as extremely distracted as the author is currently battling a deadly flying insect.
COME AT ME, BUG! I SHALL KILL YOU YET!
…Anyway, at the urging of many of my reviewers (and my own sloth) I have decided to update once a day. Sorry dear Iggy, but you shall not snag your man by Valentine's Day. Deal with it. I've already come to terms. -_-
So if all goes according to plan, this'll all be wrapped up by Friday. (But when did anything in this story ever go according to plan?)
Thanks for all the people who reviewed last chapter. You see these tears in my eyes? They are for you! (But mostly for the bug that just landed on my fricken knee!)
This chapter is dedicated to my lovely friend CarlileLovesAnime who gave me the idea when I was in a creative slump. Feel free to go stalk her profile page, memorize her stories, and spam her inbox. ;)
Disclaimer: France is more likely to become celibate than I am to own Hetalia.
14 Ways to Say
Chapter 9: Love like a Plague
England was currently contemplating the merits of jumping from the top of a sixty meter high ferris wheel. On the upside, he'd manage to escape his choking humiliation and America's vacantly confused stare.
The downside, he'd probably die. (Which would still mean escaping from his humiliation in a roundabout sort of way. It was worth considering.)
England was startled out of his thoughts when a large hand waved in front of his face, nearly taking off his nose.
"Iggy? You okay? You've been glaring at the railing for about a minute…"
England blushed hotly, turning away from the idiot's gaze (God damn it, why don't you just notice already?) Perhaps it was his own overwhelming chagrin, but England wasn't feeling all that amiable at the moment. Part of him (a very large part) wanted to simply grab America and kiss him until the fool had no choice but to except the (bleedin' obvious) truth. The other (much more British) aspect of his character wanted to curl up around a bottle of gin, bemoan the world and all that lived in it, and perhaps throw a few heavy objects at France. Just for the hell of it.
He finally decided on secret option number three: passive-aggressive terseness. The Queen would be so proud.
"I'm fine." England bit out, smiling in an overly forced manner. The part of his brain which still retained some hint of sanity noted that subtlety was what had landed him in this predicament in the first place. (The extremely heart-broken, pissed-the-hell-off part of him beat this notion into silent submission.) "Just contemplating whether or not a fall from this height would be enough to crush a man's spine."
America blinked at him blankly. "I don't get British humor." He looked back out at the (horribly mangled) skywriting, a small smile on his face. The carriages began to move back down towards the ground. "That was such a nice thing for someone to do. I wish I had someone I could do that for, or who would do something like that for me, you know?"
Of course he bloody knew! He was intimately familiar with the feeling. How thick could one person get?
England grunted noncommittally in response, glad that the ride was almost over. He didn't know how much longer he could stay in the cart without sexually assaulting America, beating him within an inch of his life, or choking on his own embarrassment. (The last seemed to be winning out).
The carriage coasted to a stop, and England had to fight the urge to elbow his way out. The mortification of the entire ride was making him sick to his stomach. He needed to get out before he wrote his confession on America's lap in vomit. He was a gentleman, damn it all! And he would remain one till the end (or at least until America was out of sight. Then nothing was off the table).
So he passive-aggressively grunted in thanks when America held the carriage door open for him. He passive-aggressively tripped over the lip of the door. He recovered with a passive-aggressive cry of "Damn it!" And he passive-aggressively ignored the concerned look America shot him before trotting off towards France and Canada's waiting figures. Passive-aggressively. In true English style.
"How was the ride?" France smirked, eyes flicking upwards towards the still glaring message in the sky.
England ignored him, instead turning to Canada who was looking at him like someone had just died. (He found he much preferred France's snide remarks).
"Just don't." He growled at both of them, just as America came trotting up behind.
"Sorry, left my wallet on the ferris wheel." He looked from France's smirk, to Canada's mournful frown, to England's petulant scowl.
He smiled. "Seems like everyone's in a good mood."
England face palmed.
"He's just so thick, ya know? And wus wit tha' 'air o' 'is 'nyway? Tha' one bit always stickin' up in the front?"
England was talking to a cactus. At least, that's what is looked like. Everything was a little blurry around the edges at the moment. (In other words, England didn't have a bleedin' clue what exactly he was looking at). But it was green and sharp to the touch, so England had dubbed it a cactus and a cactus it would remain.
"I've tried to tell 'im, but the git's too thick too see it. Too thick in the brain and the middle. Needs to stop eatin' so many ruddy hamburgers…" England mumbled incoherently into his glass of tonic. What the hell was he drinking anyway? It was purple and smelled like the bad end of an elephant.
" 'ey barman, wus this?" He waved the glass above his head, spilling its contents every which way. " 'ey! D'you 'ear me? I'm talkin' to ya!" England scowled at the cactus. "Can't get any blasted service around 'ere."
Which wasn't true seeing as said bartender had attempted to pry the glass from England's unwitting fingers on several occasions that night to no avail. He sighed to himself as he watched the strange blond man wave his glass above his head. He'd stopped serving him actual alcohol a while ago and had been slipping him smashed blackberries every time the blond drunkenly slurred for "Anuthur!" But his customer hadn't even seemed to notice and continued to ramble on to the plant next him about some person he'd dubbed everything from "my baby" to "a right fucking prick".
Currently he was on "prick" mode.
"I jus' don't understand why 'e can't see it! It's pret'y bleedin' obvious, am I right?" England punched the cactus/plant/whatever-the-hell only to quickly jerk back his hand in pain. "Wha' d'you go an' do that for? Christ, that 'urt!" He slapped the plant which only resulted in more cursing, which resulted in more slapping, then more cursing, and more slapping again.
It was a vicious cycle.
Finally deciding to jump in and save the poor guy's hand from total mutilation, the bartender moved forward and gently grabbed the blond by the wrist. England was not pleased. "Don't you lay a bloody finger on meh! I'll kick your sorry arse! Le' meh the 'ell go!"
"I think you've had enough for tonight."
England's shouts of indignation quickly turned to sobs of anguish. The bartender sighed. Not this again.
"I jus want'd 'im to know, ya know? But 'e don't 'nd I'm gonna end up alone. Damn ungrateful brat! Shouldn't a left me in the first place! What'd I do wrong? Why'm I always doin' things wrong?" England attempted to cradle the cactus to his chest as he rocked backwards and forwards in the fetal position, only to cry out again as it stuck him.
"You wanna go you tosser!" He screamed at it. "I'll take you right 'ere, right now!"
The bartender pinched the bridge of his nose. He was never working this shift again. He grabbed the man's cell phone which was sitting on the bar in front of him. When the man had first come in, he'd simply sat there drinking and tracing the edges of his phone as though debating whether or not to call someone. Of course, that had been before the second, third, and fourth bottles of brandy. Now he was just a blubbering mess with a cactus.
"Hey bud, is there anyone I can call to come and get you?"
The man didn't seem to notice, wrapped up as he was with kicking the ever-loving crap out of a plant. The barkeep took this as a sign of agreement, and scrolled through the blonde's contacts. This didn't really tell him much as all of the guy's contacts were listed as countries. Weird…
With a shrug, he opted on the most recent call and waited on the dial tone.
The conversation with the person on the other end was short a bit confused. He had the strangest accent… But it didn't matter because he promised to pick up his friend within the next five minutes.
The bartender slid the phone back across the table to the now violently ranting and flailing blond who hadn't even noticed it was gone. "Stupid git! 'e'll never understand! 'e's just so bloody stupid it 'urts! I mean, 'ow 'ard do I gotta try before 'e sees?" He went off into a disjointed and tear-filled tirade revolving around a Russian, a puzzle, and what sounded like a summary to the movie Pride and Prejudice.
"Dude, your friend is gonna come pick you up soon, okay?" The bartender cut in just as the blonde started on something about autocorrect being a filthy whore. The man didn't register that he was being spoken to, but continued to sob into his glass. "Whatever." The bartender finally gave up, returning to his other customers. Let the weirdo drown in his bizarre miseries, his part was done.
Just then the door to the bar flew open and Japan came rushing in. "England-san? Are you alright?" He touched the other man gently on the shoulder. England turned at the touch, surveying Japan through bleary, blood-shot eyes. "…China?"
He deadpanned. "No England-san. It is me, Japan."
"Oh Japan! Good 'ol chap. China's a right tosser. Bloody ruinin' everything! I'll get 'im back though…kick 'is sorry arse all the way back to Beijing!" He was rambling and clutching at what appeared to be a cactus. Japan decided to let the strangeness of the situation slide in favor of getting England back to the hotel alive.
"Come on, England-san. You are not in your right mind at the moment. You need to go home and rest. Let me help you." He attempted to pry the cactus from England's hands so that he might hoist the blond into a standing position, but England would have none of it.
"No, Timothy stays!"
Japan quirked a brow. "Who?"
"Timothy!" England pulled the plant closer, glaring daggers at it. "'is name's Timothy Filbert. We 'ave a score ta settle."
"…Alright then."
Japan helped England to his feet (an extremely difficult task seeing as his had absolutely no sense of coordination and was clutching a cactus as though his life depended upon it). Placing what he hoped to be an adequate amount of money on the counter, Japan led England out of the bar. The establishment was not far from the hotel most of the nations were staying at, but the entire five minute walk was spent either keeping England from blindly stumbling into traffic with cries of "e'll never love me! What's the point?" or trying to convince the blond that Japan was in fact not China and therefore it would not be a good idea to keep trying to beat him around the head with 'Timothy Filbert'.
Still, when England wasn't attempting to kill himself or others, he would mumble heartbrokenly into Japan's shoulder about an "oblivious git" whom Japan was fairly certain he knew the identity of. The compassionate, shoujo manga-reading part of Japan was touched by England's plight. He wanted to help him, not only to make up for his previous failed assistance, but to prevent what sounded like drunken declarations of war from England.
And Japan knew just the way to do it.
When England awoke, it was to a splitting headache, unfamiliar sheets and the taste of bile coating the inside of his throat. Déjà vu. (And he wasn't even French).
With a groan England sat up, hands scrabbling along the bedside table where he found a glass of water and two aspirins already waiting for him. Not even pausing to think about where the hell he was or if the water even safe to drink, England downed the pills and finally cracked open his eyes.
It was still early morning if the dim light filtering through the window was anything to go by. But that was not what caught England's attention. No, that was glowing computer screen in the corner and the haggard, sleep-deprived nation clacking away at the keyboard in front of it.
"Japan?" He asked cautiously.
"Ah Enlgand-san, you are awake!" Japan turned to face him, brown eyes ringed with purple crescent moons. "I take it you took the pills I left out for you. You should drink some more water though. What you Westerners dub 'hangovers' are actually the result of dehydration due to-"
"Japan, why the ruddy hell am I in your hotel room?"
"Ah yes, well," Japan turned back to his computer screen, fingers gliding across the keys once more. "I received a call last night to come and pick you up at the tavern down the street. You were a bit…" his voice trailed away as he searched for more delicate phrasing "…incapacitated to a degree. But it is no matter. I brought you back here because I feared you might cause yourself harm if left alone."
"…Cause myself harm?"
"You kept punching Filbert-san."
"Who the bloody hell is Filbert?"
"Your cactus." Japan pointed the bedside table where Timothy Filbert stood proudly next to England's empty glass of water.
England blinked at it. Now that Japan mentioned it, there was a rather (excruciating) throbbing in his right hand. Just what the bloody hell happened last night? (And why in the name of Christ did it involve a cactus?)
Deciding to go with his motto of "things better left forgotten", England peered over Japan's shoulder at the glowing computer screen which was filled with lines and lines of code. "Japan, just what are you doing?"
Japan smiled groggily up at him, the dark circles beneath his eyes even more pronounced in the blue light from the screen. "I am creating your perfect confession."
"…What?"
Japan giggled, hopefully from overwork hysteria and not early-onset schizophrenia. "I spent all last night working on it." He clicked a few buttons on the keyboard so that the screen shifted from lines of code to what appeared to be a video game, reminiscent of old pixelated arcade games. "I designed this specifically to help you confess to America. It works like a virus. Once you import it into America's laptop, there will be nothing he can do but finish the game in order to recover his lost data. Each level is a maze of various mind-puzzles which give the player clues to unlocking the next level. In this case, every clue is a short phrase detailing one thing you love about America."
England's cheeks flushed scarlet. "And just how exactly do you know what… things I love about America?"
"You were quite talkative last night, England-san."
"…Ah."
"Anyway, the clues will not be so obvious that America realises the intended speaker is you. He will only find out your true identity when he reaches the very end." Japan smiled softly, his humility and pride fighting for dominance of his face. "I believe it will be quite successful, don't you agree?"
England just stared at Japan, lost for words. Part of him wanted to curl up in a tight ball and slowly erode away from the embarrassment of Japan knowing his innermost secrets. The other was so elated that England could have squeezed the life out of him. (England resisted the latter. Japan looked lifeless enough as it was).
"Thank you, Japan. I don't know what to say." Well he did, but there were several choice words he was sure Japan, particularly in his current state, was better off not hearing.
"It was no trouble, England-san. It was the least I could do after my last attempt to help went so terribly wrong." He pulled a flash-drive from the desktop and handed it to England. "The program is saved in a file marked "USUK". Simply drag it into America's file drive, and the rest will take care of itself.
(USUK, what the hell?) England smiled taking the memory stick from Japan as the other stood and stretched.
"Now England-san, if you will excuse me, I need to rest."
Then Japan promptly crumpled into a heap on the bed.
It was surprisingly easy for England to gain access to America's laptop. All he'd had to do was give the blond a coupon for "ONE FREE BREAKFAST" at the nearby McDonald's and America was sprinting out of the Conference Room doors.
Opening the case, England realised he didn't know America's password. He clicked the 'password hint' button and rolled his eyes as the phrase "A hero's favorite food" popped up. Imbecile. Only America would have airport security tighter than a hangman's noose and make his personal computer password his favourite food.
England typed in HAMBURGER, and waited as the screen loaded. The moment America's background screen appeared (a ridiculous photo of him posed with Ronald McDonald outside of a Burger King) England plugged the flash-drive in and pasted the virus-game-confession into America's computer.
He quickly powered off the device and set it back at America's seat before any of the surrounding nations noticed anything was amiss.
Now to wait for America to (become his) arrive.
This was perfect. It played right into America's heroism and love of brain-rotting video games.
What could possibly go wrong?
Apparently a lot of things.
When America returned with about six egg McMuffins shoved into his mouth, he'd gone straight to his computer and powered it on. England watched him discretely from behind a cup of tea, as America's brows furrowed before lighting up as he beheld the game on his screen. America shot Japan (who was attempting to keep from nodding off) a competitive look before clicking away madly at the keys.
England smiled and turned to watch Switzerland's presentation on international relations. America seemed to be enjoying himself, and that was all that mattered, right?
Wrong.
About two hours into the meeting, America let out a strangled cry, "WHAT IS THIS? Thid game is freaking impossible! Ugh, how do you even…No! Damn it! GOD!" Standing up, America lifted up his laptop and hurled it through the window.
"I freaking hate life!" he shouted, throwing his briefcase after the laptop. "I mean, why, damnit?" He kicked the leg of the chair next to him, Canada falling to the ground with a strangled cry of "Maple!"
Beside England, Japan let out a shaky laugh. "Perhaps I shouldn't have put so many Professor Layton puzzles in there…"
England's right hand began to throb.
Where was a bloody cactus when you needed one?
A/N: Because rage-quitting is the best kind of quitting. Happy Singles Awareness Day! And remember, every time you don't review Romano actually has to do work. Poor Spain…