DISCLAIMER: Hetalia: Axis Powers – Hidekaz Himaruya
AND The Newlywed Game (1966–2013)
THE NEWLYWED GAME
AUTHOR'S NOTE: A lot of my friends have gotten married recently, so I've played—and hosted—this game an embarrassing amount of times in the past two years. And every single time I did, I thought: "Do you know what this game is missing? My boys!" :P So, I hope you all enjoy my 'Hetalia'-flavoured game-show parody. Stay safe and awesome, dear readers!~
Newlywed Game, what's that—?"
America grinned slyly at his assembled guests, his cheeks puffed with Chicago-style, deep dish pizza. ("A gross bastardization," scoffed Romano, refusing to touch it.) He swallowed the mouthful, his lips tomato-red with sauce, sucked melted cheese off his fingers, and said: "It's a game show."
"It was a game show," England corrected, "from the 60s."
"Hey, it ran for forty-seven years," America protested, insulted by England's easy dismissal. "And I seem to recall someone tuning-in every week to watch it, until he decided to make one of his own. What was yours called? Mr. and Mrs., wasn't it?"
"That was Canada's, originally," England argued.
America shrugged. "He took it from me, you took it from him. As always."
"What is it?" Italy repeated in interest.
"It was a quiz game," America explained, reaching for another slice of pizza. Netherlands nudged it closer to him to prevent an inevitable accident. "The contestants were couples who had to answer questions about each other to earn points. The host asked questions to one partner from each couple, and they had to write down their answers. Then the other partner would come out and answer the same questions. And they got points every time their answers matched. It was funny, especially when the couples got into fights over the correct answers, which always happened."
"Didn't it cause actual divorce?" England asked.
"Well, yeah—maybe once or twice," America admitted. "But it was still really popular."
"And you want us to play it because—?"
"Because it's fun!"
"Fun for you, maybe," said Romano, still eyeing the pizza in disgust. "Your boyfriend isn't here tonight."
"I'll be the host," America said, taking a bite.
"It sounds stupid."
America faced Romano with a goading grin. "Afraid that you and Spain will lose?"
Romano narrowed his gold-flecked eyes—very cat-like in disapproval—but before he could reply, his younger brother laughed.
"Didn't you say the game was about knowing your partner?" Italy teased.
"Are you seriously suggesting that I don't know Spain as well as you know junior potato-bastard?"
Italy rolled his shoulders in self-assurance. Romano glared.
"Please, I'm begging you, no—" England said, but too late.
"Fine," said Romano, accepting the challenge. "Let's play."
America leapt to his feet and tripped over Netherlands' outstretched legs as he sped to the sliding-glass door.
"GUYS!" he shouted into the garden, summoning the rest of his guests. "WE'RE GOING TO PLAY A GAME!"
"I'm not," said England, but nobody heard him.
Well, hello," said America, dropping his voice an octave and smiling a perfectly plastic smile. (Canada chuckled.) "I'm your handsome host, The U.S. of A, and we're going to play The Newlywed Game! Contestants, you may now choose your partners. Choose wisely," he added in mock-warning, "because your victory depends on you knowing each other inside-and-out!"
"I thought this game was PG, but if that's how we're playing it," Denmark joked, throwing a lecherous look at Norway, "then we've got nothing to fear, Norge. They might as well give us the gold medal right now." He winked.
"Don't be creepy, Dan," Norway reprimanded half-heartedly, stirring cream into his large coffee. "They won't invite us back if you're creepy."
"So, tell me again," said Prussia, pausing to finish his beer, "why are we doing this?"
"Because we're bored and we've been drinking since noon," Spain supplied.
Romano pointed at him from across the lounge. "Hey, take this seriously," he ordered, glancing sideways at his slyly smiling brother.
"It's just a game, Roma—"
"Spain."
"Yes, sir!" Spain wiped a hand theatrically across his face from brow to chin, his lips dropping into an intense line, his eyes narrowed sinisterly. "Serious."
Italy giggled. Romano rolled his eyes.
"Okay, Denmark and Norway, Sweden and Finland," America wrote down. "Spain and Romano, Germany and Italy, Prussia and—Canada?" he glanced up to ask.
"Obviously," Prussia affirmed.
Beside him, Netherlands chuckled. "You're so going to lose," he said. "You've only been together for, what? A decade?"
"Two decades!" Prussia corrected. "Right, schatzi?"
Canada nodded shyly.
"What about you, Netherlands? You and Portugal?" America suggested, his pen hovering over his notebook.
"We're not a couple," Portugal protested.
"Oh, who cares?" Spain poked his older brother. "You've known each other for centuries, haven't you? Even lived together for a while. You expect us to believe you never—"
"Okay, okay!" Portugal yelled. He elbowed Spain in the stomach. Hard. "Netherlands and I will be partners, yes?"
Netherlands shrugged in lazy amusement. "Sure."
"So, that just leaves..."
Collectively, everyone turned to stare at England and France, who were conveniently sitting side-by-side.
England was perusing Rolling Stone magazine while France inspected the cleanliness of his fingernails, but they both looked up when the conversation stopped.
"What?" asked England, nervous of the sudden, expectant silence. He looked sideways at France, then closed the magazine abruptly. "Oh. Oh no, not a chance," he folded his arms.
"For once, I agree," France stated firmly. "I'll be partners with literally anyone else."
"Everyone else is taken," America grinned.
"No," England repeated. "I told you, I'm not playing this stupid game. I don't—United States of America," he growled at his former-colony, using a parental tone that utterly failed, "do not write down my name!"
"—and France," America finished.
"America, do not ignore me. America! Oh for God's sake," England sighed in exasperation. "I'm not invisible, right? The rest of you can see me?"
"Do you guys hear something?" said Spain, glancing around the lounge.
"Sod-off, Spain."
"Okay," said America excitedly. "Ready to play?"
"We can trade partners, if you want—" Canada offered, but Prussia and England simultaneously protested; Prussia because he didn't want to trade his partner, and England because he didn't want to play.
"Let's just start," Romano cut in impatiently.
"But I—"
"Oh, just do it!" he snapped at England and France. "It's just a stupid game, right? God forbid any of us think you two actually know things about each other after a couple thousand years."
England's look was argumentative, but France deflated.
"Fine," he said, leaning back into the couch cushions. He forced a considerate smile, and said: "Go on then, America, chéri."
England sulked, but didn't speak.
Okay, let's start with an easy one," America began. "Everyone write your answer down without letting anyone see it. When I say so, you and your partner will reveal your answers at the same time. If your answers match, you get a point. Ready?
"What year is officially recognized as your partner's birth-date as a nation?"
"I thought you said it was an easy question," grumbled Romano.
"Isn't it?"
"Have another go at European History, dear, and I think that will answer your question," Finland teased.
America shrugged. "Well, it doesn't have to be right, it just has to match what your partner writes down," he justified.
"Are you honestly suggesting we might not know our own birth-date?" England chided, but America ignored him.
He gave them a generous minute to write, then asked for their answers.
"See?" he smiled, looking from notepad to notepad as the contestants all confirmed their matched answers. "That wasn't so hard.
"Good, good—yep," he pointed to them one-by-one, recording their scores. "Looks good. Okay, moving on—"
"Scheiße, schatzi, I'm not that old!"
Canada blushed when everyone turned to look at him and his incorrect answer. "I, um—sorry, love. Remind me again—?"
"1527!" Prussia burst. "I became a recognized nation in 1527, not—! Jesus Christ, sweetheart, is that how old you think I am?"
"I told you!" Netherlands teased Prussia while Denmark howled in laughter, hollering: "Look everyone, it's Germania, back from the dead! Did you help build the Giza pyramids, Prussia? What was China like as a child? And tell us, how was the First Ice Age?"
"Oh, fuck-off!"
Prussia leapt on Denmark and began pummelling him. They wrestled for a minute—urged on by Spain—until Netherlands and Germany pulled them apart at France's request. Both overgrown, childish combatants were panting and grinning and Denmark's hair was standing on-end.
"Just for the record," Prussia said, pointing at his Danish cousin, "he's much old than me."
"Sorry," Canada repeated sheepishly.
Prussia's face softened into indulgence. "C'mere," he said, opening his arms. Canada obeyed, and they moved to sit together in an armchair by the window.
"Well, that game was fun for about two minutes," said Prussia sarcastically. Canada laughed and hid his face against Prussia's neck. Prussia kissed his temple.
"Hands where I can see them," France warned his friend.
Question two!" America announced. "Where was your first kiss? With each other," he clarified, provoking a scoff, a sigh, and a couple of chuckles.
"Hey, just out of curiosity, how many of you were each other's first kiss?" he asked.
Only Denmark and Norway raised their hands.
"Awe, that's so sweet," France smiled, at the same time Spain said: "Is anyone actually surprised?"
Denmark's raised hand became a rude gesture directed at Spain.
"I thought France was your first kiss, England?" America blabbed.
England's cheeks heated, but he didn't raise his head. "He was. But I wasn't his," he said.
"Oh. Who'd you kiss first?" America asked France.
"Him," France pointed at Spain, who waved.
"Spain, focus!"
"Sí, Roma, cariño. Our first kiss was..."
At the window, Canada sighed. "Damn," he said in disappointment, "I know this one."
"Well, you should," Germany mumbled, "it happened practically yesterday."
"Two decades ago!" Prussia growled.
"Um, America?" Portugal raised his hand. "I told you, Netherlands and I aren't a—"
"Just shut up and answer the question, Port," Spain interjected without looking up from his own notebook.
Portugal shot his brother a glare before bowing his head to put pen to paper.
"Wow," America said when the answers were revealed. "Have you all sucked each other's face on a ship? At least England and France are original. Stonehenge, really?"
"We were young!" England snapped, going redder.
"Italy and I didn't kiss on a ship," Germany corrected.
Italy froze, the laughter falling from his face. "Wait, what? Yes we did," he said, revealing his answer. "In the Adriatic. It was on a galley. And it was raining, remember—?"
Germany pursed his lips. Then, as politely as possible, he said: "Italy, that wasn't me."
"It wasn't? Oh." Italy blushed, suddenly remembering.
"HA!" Romano bounced and pointed triumphantly. "Ha ha ha!"
"Okay, but that was my first kiss!" Italy argued. "It just wasn't with Germany!"
"Thanks, honey," said Germany flatly.
He removed himself from the circle of spectators to fetch a beer for himself and his older brother. Solidarity.
"I'm so proud of both of you," Denmark teased them.
"Hey, Denmark?" said Germany. "Fuck-off."
America recorded the scores, and said: "Round three!
"What was the first meal your partner ever cooked for you?"
"Question," said Norway, "when you say cook, does that include anything I killed and roasted over an open flame? What about things like porridge and pottage, do those count? Because we ate a lot of pottage back in the day."
"Uh, I don't even know what that is," said America, confused.
"Really?" Several people gaped at him. "God, we ate that shit for centuries," said Prussia.
"So did we," said France.
Spain nodded, and added: "Ours was better."
"Why didn't we ever eat it?" America asked Canada, who shrugged.
"Because you were picky eaters," England replied.
"No," France muttered, disappointed as he recalled what England had fed them, "they really weren't. There were, err... just better options by the time you were both born," he told his former-colonies. "We never made you eat pottage."
"Why, what is it?"
"It's a stew, or a really thick soup," Norway explained. "You make it in a deep bowl, like a cauldron, and fill it with water and whatever else you can find, and then you boil the living daylights out of it until the bones and fat and organs are—"
"Oh my God, stop," said America, his face twisted in disgust. "No, that definitely doesn't count as cooking."
Finland chuckled. "You colonies are so spoiled. Never had to invent new ways of living for yourselves, always had someone else to teach you."
"Excuse me," said America, crossing his arms in offense, "but we had to fend for ourselves all the time, didn't we, Canada? Because our parents"—he shot a look at England and France—"did nothing but fight."
"Oh, boo hoo," said Romano, pouting in mock-pity. "Your parents spent centuries arguing about who got to love you more. Oh you poor, dear things. Come talk to me when half a continent wants to kidnap you for your nonno's legacy."
"Hey, I apologized for that," Spain muttered defensively.
"I have another question about food," Finland asked, raising his hand. "Does it have to actually be a cooked meal, or just prepared in some way? Like, if I flayed a—"
"Okay! You know what?" America quickly interjected. "I'm just going to rephrase the question:
"What is your favourite food-thing that your partner has made for you within the past one-hundred years?"
America gave them all a courteous two minutes to decide, since the question required two answers: one for their own favourite meal, and one guessing their partner's favourite. Sweden and Finland were the first to be finished, followed closely by Denmark and Norway. Spain and Romano both took a long time to consider their options, and had to be warned not to make faces at each other, which could be misinterpreted as cheating. Italy bemoaned his loss, but decided to share all of his favourite dishes anyway—the dishes that he liked to make for Germany, who was asked each time to confirm his opinion.
"It's so good, isn't it, Germany?" Italy asked, bright and hopeful. "You like it a lot, don't you?"
"Yes, dear," Germany replied with a tired, but indulgent smile.
In contrast, Prussia frowned thoughtfully and asked Canada: "Have I ever cooked for you?"
"No," was the easy reply.
"Huh. Should I?"
"Can you?" Canada countered.
"Probably not," Prussia ceded with a shrug. "Unless you want to try pottage."
Eventually, there was only one person left tapping his pen thoughtfully against his notebook.
"Twenty seconds left," America urged.
France shot him an annoyed look.
England crossed his arms and faced his partner. "Really?" he asked indignantly. "You can't think of anything I make that you like?"
"I'm thinking," France replied through his teeth. His pen-tapping grew more furious until, finally, just before America's countdown ended, he recorded his answer.
"Okay, let's see," said America.
"Good, good—weird, but okay. Ooh! We should totally have that tomorrow, Spain. That sounds good."
"It's fucking delicious," Romano agreed. He and Spain slapped palms.
"Does anyone else think it's fucking adorable that Sweden and Finland both wrote cinnamon buns and it was right both times? No?" said Prussia, scanning the room. "Just me?"
"Your turn, England."
England sighed, mentally fortifying himself before revealing his answers. The first one was an exquisite five-course meal that France had made for him at Christmas, using all of his culinary skill to craft the perfect, traditional English dinner. England had appreciated the taste and the thoughtfulness of it equally, especially since he and France hadn't been on the best of terms at the time. But he had earnestly told France how much he had loved it, and France had remembered too, because his answer matched. It wasn't until France read his second answer—guessing which meal of England's had been France's favourite—that the Frenchman's eyebrows shot up in surprise.
"It's because... well, it was just... a memorable night," England told his lap. "I thought maybe... you liked it."
Someone wolf-howled, but France ignored it. Regrettably, he said:
"I didn't."
"Right." England stood. "Of course you didn't, fine. See, I told you this was stupid—"
"I didn't like the food," France admitted, grabbing England's wrist to stop him, "but I wrote down the same thing for exactly the same reason. That night was amazing," he smiled, reeling England back down onto the loveseat, "and it wouldn't have happened without that awful meal. That's why it's my favourite."
"Is this how you pay me a compliment?" England asked, cocking an eyebrow.
France shrugged.
Denmark said: "If you're not going to tell the actual story about this amazing night you had, let's move on."
"Shame on you, Denmark," Spain chided, "interrupting France and England's special moment."
England hurled a throw-pillow at him. France said:
"Yes, what's next?"
"We're out," said Netherlands, drawing everyone's attention.
Portugal was shaking his head, looking hurt. "I can't believe you lied to me. You said you loved that dish."
Netherlands had the decency to look sheepish, at least. "Sorry, Port. It was just... so spicy. I don't like spicy."
"Then why didn't you just tell me that? It's not like I would've been mad. And I wouldn't have kept making it for you! Do you have any idea how expensive saffron was at that time? It cost me a fortune!"
"I didn't tell you, because I—" Netherlands closed his mouth too quickly to be innocent. "It doesn't matter."
"Oh, I think it does," Prussia goaded mischievously.
Netherlands glared at him.
"Ned," said Portugal, misunderstanding the tone. Like his brother, he prided himself on his food and took it very seriously. He was, therefore, offended by his partner's dishonestly and was too invested now to let it go. He stood to emphasize his point, and said: "Because what?"
"Port, you really don't want me to—"
"No, I do," Portugal insisted. "Why don't you tell everyone here why you lied to me?"
"Because I wanted to have sex with you!" Netherlands threw up his hands in surrender. "I lied because the food didn't matter that night. I wasn't there for the food, Port, I was there for you. Because I liked you. I still like you.
"Are you happy now?" he added rhetorically, indicating their audience. An audience who had erupted in a chorus of childish whoops! and wolf-howls and a "that's so romantic!" from Italy.
Portugal stared, frozen, his face beet-red. But there was more than embarrassment in his green eyes, which were fixed on the Dutchman.
"You... like me?"
"Yeah," Netherlands said, joking aside.
Portugal pursed his lips, then quietly asked: "Can we talk in private, please?"
"Yeah."
"See," said America proudly, as Portugal and Netherlands stepped outside, "I told you, there's always at least one couple fight."
"We're not a couple!"
"Fifty euro says that changes by midnight," said Prussia.
"Goddamn it," said Spain.
Okay, let's spice things up a bit for round four," said America, wiggling his eyebrows mischievously. "Has your partner ever had a threesome?
"Wow, that was fast," he said a few seconds later, when everyone signalled their readiness to answer. "Okay, let's take a look. Denmark, has Norway had a threesome?"
"Of course he has. I was there," he grinned.
"I assume you wrote the same thing then, Norway?"
Coffee mug at his lips, Norway held up his notebook one-handed, which simply read: YES.
"France, has England ever—"
"Yes."
"And England, has France—"
"Yes."
"Were you both there for each other's, too?" America goaded knowingly, and received stern silence in reply.
"Okay, Romano?" he redirected. "Has Spain ever had a threesome?"
"Yes, he has. But I haven't," he added quickly, earnestly, before anyone could make jokes at his expense. "The time you're all thinking of," he accused his audience, "was just a rumour. I didn't actually do it. So, you had better not have written that I did, Spain, because I swear to God—"
"Relax, Roma." Spain's smile was gentle as he showed his answer, which said: NO. "I know you better than that, cariño."
Romano relaxed enough to tentatively return Spain's smile, then his cheeks and neck grew hot and he busied himself with a pile of serviettes at the sideboard, determined to look at anything but Spain.
"And lastly," America continued, "Sweden, has Finland had a threesome?"
"Yes."
Finland nodded, and offered: "Sweden has, too. So I guess no one gets eliminated this round—What?" he asked in surprise when Sweden pulled down on his wrist, lowering his notebook.
"I haven't," he said in his deep-water voice. It seemed to fill the room, which fell immediately into awkward silence.
There were couples you teased for their wrong answers, and couples you didn't. Sweden and Finland were a rare example of the later.
"What? Yes you have," Finland laughed nervously. "It was a long time ago, but it still happened. With them," he bobbed his head to Sweden's neighbours. "Right?"
Norway shook his head.
Denmark said: "Fuck no."
"It's not that he wasn't invited—" Norway began to explain, but Denmark snapped a hushed: "Norge, shhh!"
"I've had sex with Norway, a long time ago, but never while Denmark was present," Sweden said bluntly.
"Oh good," said Denmark sarcastically, "I was hoping that would come up."
"Were you?"
"Of course not!"
Ignoring Denmark, Finland turned his big, round eyes up at Sweden, who was sitting stoically beside him. "I'm sorry, Sve. I really thought you had, but you... haven't?"
There was hope in his voice, and a good kind of shock as well—maybe even amusement, like he was happy to know that, even after so long, Sweden could still surprise him.
"No," Sweden said, his expression unchanged to everyone's eyes but Finland's.
"Well," said the Fin, smiling tenderly up at his partner, "I guess we just lost the game."
"Yes," Sweden agreed, enveloping Finland's entire hand in his. "That was the rule America explained at the beginning. Our answers don't match, so we've been eliminated," he explained helpfully.
Finland's smile grew wider. Someone else might have mocked the Swede's literal interpretation of the world, but Finland just squeezed his hand, and said: "Thank-you, kultsi."
Wait," said Prussia, frowning now. "If Denmark and Norway's threesome wasn't with Sweden, then who was it with? Who else would you both have wanted to—"
"Next question, America!" Denmark hollered.
"Only three teams left!" America announced, clapping his hands together and rubbing them maniacally. "Can you feel the pressure?"
"I feel something, but that's probably the deep-fried pizza," Spain joked, rubbing his stomach.
"Deep dish," America emphasized.
Spain shrugged. "What's the next question?"
The game progressed as before, with all three teams avoiding elimination. It was agreed between contestants that Denmark's handwriting was worse than Norway's, but that Norway was a messier housekeeper than Denmark. It was revealed that Romano was more likely to sing karaoke, but Spain was more likely to get arrested. And England agreed, after some debate, that France was the better kisser.
Then America asked: "What is your partner most afraid of?"
The room fell into an abrupt, tense silence, and everyone—except America and Canada—exchanged weary glances.
"Is something wrong?" America asked.
"No, it's—it's fine, chéri," France lied.
A silent agreement passed between the remaining six contestants to forgive the former-colony's misstep, not understanding how desperately his predecessors guarded their fears; how much they feared that any of their enemies might discover a weakness or secret shame. A pair of hazel eyes met green, green glanced at blue, and blue looked into violet, and collectively they agreed to protect each other by not sharing the deep, dark truths of their fears: rejection, hatred, abandonment, jealousy, loneliness, legacy, being forgotten.
"Spiders?" said America, frowning at Denmark. "You know you're a lot bigger than a spider, right?"
"You know I'm not venomous, right?" Denmark countered.
"Whatever," America dismissed. More eagerly, he asked: "What's England afraid of?"
France offered his partner a small, apologetic smile before revealing his answer: Thunderstorms.
"Pah!" America laughed. "Seriously? Not tornados or hurricanes or blizzards, just regular thunderstorms?"
England narrowed his eyes. "You wouldn't be saying that if you'd ever had to sail a galleon through a storm."
Spain shivered in agreement. "If you ever want to learn how to pray, go to sea," he said ominously.
"Exactly," said Norway darkly. "If you don't respect the ocean, you die."
"O-kay, um... good advice," America chuckled nervously, cowed by the seriousness of his seniors. Canada pat his shoulder consolingly on his way to the kitchen.
"Romano?" asked Italy, casually redirecting attention for the sake of America—who was feeling belittled, and Germany—who disliked tangents. "What are you afraid of?"
"Shouldn't you be asking Spain?" Romano said, turning expectantly to his partner.
Spain met his gaze and held it for a long, thoughtful moment.
Come on, Spain, said Romano's eyes. What do I hate the most?
Spain pursed his lips, then wrote down his answer.
"Well—?" Italy prompted, too sweetly not to be bitter about losing.
Spain smiled. "Roma is most afraid of—" he flipped his notebook to reveal his answer, "—stupid people!"
"Yes!" Romano threw his fists up in triumph. "Absolutely fucking yes!"
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," Italy muttered, slumping against Germany's side. "That's not even a real fear!"
"Um, it absolutely is!" Romano argued. "Just look at the amount of dumb-ass world leaders right now. That's terrifying."
Italy started to argue, but Spain interrupted:
"It doesn't matter anyway," he grinned as Romano kissed his cheek. "It only matters that our answers match, right, America?"
"That's the rule," America confirmed. "Okay, last one: Romano?"
"Spain's not afraid of anything," Romano smirked.
"Pft," said Prussia.
Romano crossed his arms and eyed his younger brother smugly, waiting to be awarded his points. But they didn't come.
"Uh..." came the Spaniard's hesitant reply. His humour was gone, replaced with embarrassed apprehension.
"Yeah, t-totally," he said with a nervous chuckle. "I mean, obviously I'm not afraid of anything, because I'm super brave and stuff, everyone knows that—"
"Pft," said England.
"—but I, uh... I thought we had to give an actual answer, so I..."
"Oh God," Romano deflated. "What did you write?"
"Nothing," Spain was quick to hide his notebook. When Denmark tried to grab it, he shoved it down the front of his trousers."
"If you think I won't go down there," Denmark threatened, but Norway pinched him.
"What did I say about being creepy, Dan?"
"I can't believe this!" Romano whined. "You're always saying that you're not afraid of anything!"
"Yes, that's right! Of course I'm not, Roma, I just—Ach!"
Prussia grabbed Spain from behind and pulled the notebook from his trousers. "England's food!" he shouted gleefully. "You're afraid of England's food?"
France snorted loudly, then quickly slapped a hand over his mouth. "Spain, that's not very nice..." he said unconvincingly. England kicked his shin.
"What?" said Spain, resigned to defending his choice. "Food poisoning is a very dangerous thing. I'd call it a legitimate fear."
"Call it whatever you want," said America, pressing down on England's shoulders to prevent him lunging at Spain, "you and Romano are still eliminated."
"Urgh! We were so close!" Romano groaned, flopping onto the couch. "I can't believe we lost to France and England! They're not even a couple!"
"Pft!" said everyone else.
Airplanes?" said Canada gently when France met him in the kitchen. "Is it because of—?"
"Yes," France replied, smiling sadly. "I still hear them in my nightmares, the air-raid sirens. The sound of the engines... the whistle of bombs. I think about them every time I board a flight, every time a plane flies overhead..." He fell quiet for a moment, then shook his head. "But I don't need to tell you, you experienced it all too."
"Not the way you did," Canada admitted. He fixed a coffee just the way France liked. "I'm sorry, Papa."
France accepted the mug with a soft: "Merci, chéri."
"Dad—I mean, England," said Canada, stopping France in the doorway. "I'm just surprised you ever told him something like that."
France paused, then a small smile curled his lips.
"I didn't."
And now the round that you've all been waiting for!" America crowed. "Who would've thought that our finalists would be Denmark and Norway—"
"Literally everyone."
"—and France and England? England, who didn't even want to play, remember?" America elbowed England cheekily. England swatted him. "The final question will be the most personal, the most intimate, the most heartfelt of them all! Ahem:
"Who said I love you first?"
"Oh fuck," said Denmark, the confidence fleeing his face. He looked helplessly at Norway, whose violet eyes widened a fraction, indicating his utter shock. "That was a really, really long time ago," Denmark complained. "And I think I was high on bog-myrtle when it happened."
"Romantic," Prussia teased.
"It was after a battle," Denmark argued, but Norway shook his head.
"That wasn't the first time. I thought it was... Fuck," he huffed, staring intensely at his notebook, as if willing the answer to appear. "Was it before or after I went to Scotland?"
"Which time?"
"The first time. I think."
"The time you stole sheep, or the time you stole people?"
"Uh..." said Norway, thinking hard.
"See, kids?" Spain joked. "This is what too much drugs and alcohol does to your memory."
"Fuck you," said Denmark without heat. He was drilling his fist into his forehead, trying to force the memory to surface. "I really thought it was after the battle with Sweden."
"Which one?"
"The first one. I think."
"He's only asking who said it first," Finland said, patting Norway's back, "not where or when it was said. You have a fifty percent chance of choosing right."
Norway did not look comforted, but he eventually wrote down his answer. A minute later, Denmark did too.
"England, France, are you—Oh, you're already done."
"Don't look so excited about it," said Prussia to England, who was sitting with his arms defensively crossed; and France, who was standing stiffly behind him.
"Come on, it was definitely France," Netherlands bet, re-entering the room.
Portugal followed close—very close—behind him. "I don't know, I think England might surprise you. He can be very sweet when he's—"
"Drunk?" Spain supplied.
"So!" said America, who was excited. "Who wants to show their answers first?"
Denmark and Norway didn't make eye-contact, didn't even glance at each other, but they moved at the same time to reveal their answers.
Norway's said: DENMARK.
Denmark's said: NORWAY.
"Damn," they said in union.
"You're sure it wasn't after the battle?" Denmark asked. "You said you loved me then, didn't you?"
"I did, but that wasn't the first time. The first time was after I got back from Scotland, during that really bad blizzard. Wasn't it? You said it after we—"
"No, no, no, that was after the battle, remember? We totally did it on the—"
"RIGHT," said America loudly. "Okay, thanks for sharing way too much, guys, but it's France and England's turn. Do you guys remember who said I love you first?" he asked his parents. "If you get it right, you win the game!"
Despite the goading and cooing and lewd faces of their eager audience, France and England looked entirely unmoved by the invasion of privacy and finally accepted their fate.
"I can't believe we just fucking won—" England began.
"—The Newlywed Game," France finished in resignation.
At the same time they held up their notebooks, which showed matching answers:
NEITHER, said one.
NEVER, said the other.
The room was filled with a contemplative silence for a brief moment, before it exploded:
"No fucking way!"
"Never, you've never said I love you to each other? What the hell?"
"I don't believe it, you're both lying!"
"Not that it's any of your business," said England to his audience, "but no, we're actually not lying. I've never said, err... those words to France, and he's never said them to me. It's as simple as that."
Francis sipped his coffee in stalwart agreement.
"We're not a couple," said England, standing up, "and we've never been a couple, so I don't know why you all seem to think that we are—"
"You're always together!"
"You have sex all the time!"
"You had colonies together!"
"You know literally everything about each other!"
"We absolutely do not," said England firmly, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket while automatically taking France's empty coffee mug and placing it on the sideboard. "Just because we won a stupid game—" he argued, sticking a cigarette between his lips and leaning forward.
"—doesn't mean we're close," France finished, lighting it habitually. "We've never even been married to each other, so I don't know what's giving you this impression of us," he said, fixing England's shirt-collar. "It's laughable!" he laughed.
"Ludicrous," England agreed.
LATER
The corridor was dark and quiet. Everyone was asleep in their rooms, shared and separate—and separate now shared, and a couple left empty. ("I'm not giving you fifty euro," said Spain to Prussia when they had found Portugal pinned to the wall under Netherlands.) The party had ended so late that the sun would be rising soon. Some guests would rise with it—sleep-deprivation and hangovers were no match for German routine—and some guests would not, content to stay in bed until someone else dragged them out. The bedrooms in America's house were spacious and soundproof and none were located in the same corridor as another. It was a new house, too. One that France had never stayed in before, but he found his destination without trouble.
He raised his fist to gently knock, but it opened before the sound landed.
England pulled him inside, then re-locked the door behind them.
"These beds are too big," he complained, leading France by the hand. "I mean, who needs this much space?"
"Such a waste," France agreed.
"And the air-conditioning—it's freezing in here!"
"Even the bed is cold," France noted, slipping beneath the sheets. England's body fit snug against his. "Such shameless spending," he sighed, burying his nose in England's hair.
"Shameless," said England, kissing France's neck.
"What time is the conference tomorrow?"
"It starts at six, but we have to be there by four."
"Hm," France hummed unhappily. "I think I left my speech on the airplane," he said, voice hitching a little at the end.
England hugged him closer. "You did. I got it."
"Mm, merci. Oh, the boys want to take us to supper tomorrow night. America chose some awful place where you have to build your own meal."
"I'd rather just go for drinks."
"The boys aren't old enough to drink in the United States," France reminded him. "We can go out afterward."
"Hm," England hummed apprehensively. "As long as it doesn't end with us playing another stupid game."
"Winning a stupid game," France corrected.
England didn't deign to reply. His arms went slack and his breathing became soft and rhythmic. It was easy to sleep in the embrace of someone you trusted, someone you—
"That last question."
France thought England had fallen asleep, until his lover, his rival, his friend spoke softly into the darkness:
"I do, you know. I always have."
France smiled.
"I know," he said, closing his eyes. "I do, too."
FIN
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