So, can I just say, "WOW!" I had no idea that this was going to get so many favorites and alerts in one day! Thanks everyone! And if you all wanted to make me a very happy camper, I would love it if you all reviewed! :D Thanks you so much for the support! :)
Anyways, once again, some quick disclaimers! I don't own Hetalia or any of the related characters. They are property of Hidekaz Himaruya and Funimation. Please, don't sue me. :P
Well, here's the next chapter! Please review!
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Something wasn't right.
England groggily opened his eyes, an unsettling feeling forcing him out of his slumber. But when he attempted to, he was forced to squint for a while before he could actually make anything out, the light in the room being far too bright. As his vision began to clear, he began to become more and more panicked. He felt his heart beat uncomfortably hard as he realized he had absolutely no idea where he was. He prayed hard that he hadn't gotten drunk again and had broken into someone's house.
Or slept with someone.
Feeling his skin crawl at that horrid possibility, he jolted upright and threw the covers off of him. He prepared himself for the worst, but found that he was still fully dressed. Not even his shoes had been taken off. He sighed with relief that he wouldn't have to explain how he gotten someone pregnant. After he had calmed down a slight bit, he gave the room a quick look around. He suddenly had no difficulty finding out where he was once he actually saw his surroundings. This was without a doubt America's room. There were American flags all over the walls, hamburger wrappers crumpled on the floor, and several medals, trophies, and plaques all talking about how great America was. The only question he had was how he had gotten there. He remembered arriving here yesterday and finding out that he had done the wrong spell. His face flushed as he remembered how America had called him "freakin' hot" and then ran into his room. He also remembered hearing America swearing loudly for a good five minutes until he just faded into silence. England, with a headache, had decided to just give his eyes a rest for a few minutes. But, seeing as he had just woken up in a bed, it had turned into a few hours. England stood up, trying to straighten out his now wrinkled clothes. But he soon found it difficult to make them look presentable, seeing as he had slept in them. With a sigh, he gave up and decided that he would just have to change into something else. Luckily, he had decided to pack a few extra clothes just in case America hadn't wanted to beg for forgiveness. Which he definitely didn't want to now.
England exited the room and walked down the hall to the living room. Not even at the end of the hall, he could tell that America was sleeping in the living room—he could hear him snoring. He stuck his head in the room, and, indeed, America was sleeping soundly on the couch. One leg was hanging off the side, foot placed on the floor, the other leg dangling off the arm of the couch. America's head was propped up on the opposite arm, his neck looking like it was at an uncomfortable angle. America's left arm was lying across the back of the couch, his right thrown over his stomach. Why he had decided to sleep on the couch that was obviously too small for him, England had no idea. But, in the end, he decided that it was his house after all, so he really didn't care.
"Hey, git," England said loudly, trying to wake him up. He silenced himself though when he realized that the house would be a lot less interesting if America was asleep. Maybe if America just continued to sleep, he could actually figure out how to rid him of this damned curse and just get on with his life. So he gave America one last glare as he grabbed his bags he had left from the night before.
After some searching, he found the closest bathroom to change in, seeing as he didn't want to change in front of pictures of America. Things were already far too awkward between them; he didn't need to feel his eyes on him when he was undressing. As he rummaged through his bags, he sighed at the outfits he had chosen for this trip. One, in reality, he hadn't picked out that many. He was going to run out of them soon and have to ask America to wash them—ugh, the humiliation! Plus he had only picked out his usual suits to make himself look more intimidating, more powerful. But, once again seeing that the curse had gone wrong, he found this image that he had prepared was no longer needed. For a split second, he thought of maybe asking to borrow some of America's clothes, but he shoved that option to the very bottom of his list of possibilities. No way was he going to put himself at the level of needing help, especially from America. Not having any other good options in mind, England pulled out one of his simpler dress shirts and a neatly folded pair of pants. This would just have to work for now.
Once he was dressed, he realized how hungry he was. He hadn't eaten anything since he had arrived, and his stomach was not approving of this. He hoped that he would be able to find something actually edible in this house, but he didn't get those hopes up too high. Knowing America, he probably only had a bunch of crap laying around that he somehow considered "food."
After a little bit of walking around the house, England was able to find his way back to the living room. America was still fast asleep on the couch, but he had adjusted himself while England had been gone. His right arm hung over the back of the chair, his face pressed against back cushions with his mouth half open, once again leaving his neck at what must have been an uncomfortable angle. His legs were curled up towards his body, pressed against the arm of the couch. Really, England had no idea how he was able to stay sleep like that.
Stupid idiot, he thought looking down at him. He was far too tall for this couch. England would have been able to sleep on it without any problem. Why had he decided to take the couch and give England his bed? It was ludicrous. It made no sense. Why would he do such a thing?
Because he loves you.
"Tch!" England said, hitting himself in the head for thinking such a thing. Well, of course he loved him—that's what the spell was supposed to do, right? That's the only reason America was acting like this! England quickly turned away from him, refusing to let himself ever think that thought again.
He figured that a good way to take his mind off of America's ridiculous fascination with him was to try and find something to eat. And he was right. As usual, the main things that America had stored in his kitchen were hamburgers from McDonalds, ice creams of several flavors, and some Mountain Dew. Typical idiotic American. There was no way in hell that England was going to disgrace his stomach with such rubbish. So he started looking around the kitchen for such things as flour, sugar, and etcetera for what was needed to make something that wouldn't make him sick. But of course America had to put them in such illogical places, so England had to search for a while to actually find anything he was looking for.
England straightened back up from his searching of cabinets, suddenly aware of how quiet it was. He could no longer hear America's snoring. He was about to turn around to investigate when he felt two arms slip around his waist. He nearly screamed as he heard America say, "Good morning, England," in his ear. America's breath on his neck sent chills down his spine, his face burning. America was much, much too close, having left no space between them. England's back was pressed up right against his front, America's chin perched on his shoulder, his light brown hair tickling the side of his face. England meant to protest, but all he could get out was a choked, "Gah!"
This needed to stop. Now. If it didn't, he was going to go completely insane.
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America was woken up by the shuffling he heard in his kitchen. For a second, he was worried that he was going to have to beat the living crap out of whoever had broken into his house. Then he remembered the reason why he was sleeping on the couch. England must be up. America stretched as much as his achy body would allow, feelings its complaints as his joints cracked. He would take some pain meds later on, so as to not make England think he wanted his bed back. To be perfectly honest, he'd love his soft, comfortable bed, non-pain-causing bed back. But If England refused to sleep with him, then he guessed that he should just continue to sleep on the couch to be considerate.
Standing up, he stretched a little bit more, trying to loosen his sore muscles up. As he stretched, it really occurred to him that England was in the kitchen. With a smile, he figured that he should at least say good morning to him.
Quietly, he walked into the kitchen, wondering just what he was doing. He smiled as he saw England searching in his cupboards, obviously looking for something. America had never been really great with putting things in their rightful place, so he could tell that England wasn't exactly pleased with his massive amounts of disorganization. He had to keep his laughter hidden—he loved how it was still pretty early, yet England was already dressed up as if he was at an important meeting. He loved how he always had to be so professional, even when he was just at home relaxing.
America walked up behind him, about to ask what he was looking for, when England straightened back up. He wasn't facing America, and must have not noticed that he was there yet. America smiled as he realized just how much taller he was than England. There was about a six-inch difference between them, which had shocked England when he had returned from a trip that had lasted several years longer than intended. After that, England would often be found giving him a look of, "How dare you get taller than me." But now that America thought about it, that look of disdain he always gave him was pretty cute.
With a mischievous smile, he put his arms around England as he pulled him right up against his chest. He felt England stiffen like a board, but was a little surprised when he didn't immediately try to push him away. America whispered, "Good morning, England," as he lowered his head down on his shoulder. He felt England shiver against him, the only sound from him being a little sound that was similar to a gasp. America hugged him a little tighter, and he felt England stiffen even further. America could tell that England wasn't exactly comfortable, but was still surprised by the lack of a fight he was putting up. Maybe, just maybe, he thought, England was realizing that he did feel something for him.
"…off."
America cocked his head, not sure what England has just said. "What?" he asked, once again resulting in a shiver from England as he talked into his ear.
"Get… off."
Even during normal circumstances, America wasn't the best one at listening to orders. He always liked to bend the rules just enough so they didn't break, just so he could see what fun he could get away with. Especially with England. So, knowing he'd probably regret it later, he grazed England's ear with his lips as he spoke, making him jump. America could feel the blood rushing up to his face and ears, making him grin. "And if I don't?"
The breath rushed out of him as he felt England's elbow lodge directly into his stomach. Taking the hint, America released him as he backed up, coughing as he clutched yet another sore spot on his body. He looked up just in time to see a very pissed off England, his face dark red. He was breathing hard, once again straightening out his clothes as he always did when he was stressed. "If you ever do that again," he growled, his green eyes deadly serious, "I swear to God, I will castrate you."
Suddenly, America was much more willing to listen to what England had to say. Never had England threatened him with such a thing. Threats of slapping, he got them just about every time the two of them were together. But castration? That was definitely a new one.
Now that he thought about it, maybe he had gone just a little bit too far. Maybe.
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For England, it was never too hard to be angry with America, seeing as he made it so incredibly easy. But this was almost the most angry he had ever been with him. Not even the time where he had spilled his coffee all over him and one of his best suits had made him this angry. Here he was, just holding him captive as he was trying to seduce him. He felt his lips on his ear, making him suddenly lose the ability to breathe. He wasn't able to remember how to inhale or exhale as America spoke, sending chills through him as his breath caressed his skin.
Suddenly, he miraculously remembered how to move. Gritting his teeth, he sent his elbow flying back, feeling it ram into America with a nice 'thump.' Thankfully, this make America let him loose, allowing him to take a few desperately needed steps away from him. He quickly spun around to face his attempted rapist to see him bent over holding his stomach. England had some satisfaction that he had been able to harm him, glad that he had been able to escape from his grasp. Yet, at the same time, he was upset with himself for having put him in that pain. He quickly shoved that thought out of his mind, focusing on his anger at the situation America had put him in. He wasn't going to let America do that to him and get away with it.
"If you ever do that again," he said, trying to get his breath back, "I swear to God, I will castrate you." America looked surprised at this threat as if he thought he really didn't deserve such a thing. Perhaps threat of castration was a little bit extreme, but, by God, didn't he have the right to defend himself from such attempts? He had the right to threaten America, the stupid git! No one could do such a thing to Great Britain and get away with it!
"Dude," America said, straightening himself back up. "Sorry, man, but seriously, you need to chill."
"I need to 'chill'?" England said, outraged. "I'm not the one who just tried to take advantage of someone! If anyone needs to relax, it's you!"
"Well, at least I'm not the one who hits people all the time and threatens to cut their balls off!" America retorted.
"If you didn't want to be hit," England yelled back, "then you should know better than to make a move on another man, you wanker!"
"I wasn't trying to make a move on you, dude!" America said defensively, only making England even more pissed off. "I was just—"
"You were trying to snog with my bloody ear!"
America gave him a dumfounded look. "Wh-what! No I wasn't, you idiot!" he said, his face reddening. "I was just trying to saying hi!"
"Normal people don't say 'Hi' by sneaking up on someone like that!" England growled. "And I swear to God, if you do something, anything, like that ever again, you can expect to never see me again!"
America became abruptly silent as he just stared at England. He was looking at England's face as if trying to tell if he was actually being serious or just saying it to make him shut up. Once he saw that England wasn't fooling with him, he looked away from him, his blue eyes angry. "Sorry," he muttered, now refusing to look at him.
Usually, England would be overjoyed that America had finally decided to stop talking for once in his life. But, to his resentment, it made him feel awkward and upset. He looked at him and had the sudden urge to hit him for moping pathetically like that when he had obviously done something that wasn't acceptable. But what America said about him hitting people all the time suddenly struck a chord with him. Irritated, he decided not to strike him.
Diverting his eyes from America, becoming sickened by his pouting, he decided to speak. "Listen," England said, crossing his arms to still the temptation to smack America across the face. "I'm just not comfortable with you… doing such things. I'm willing to stay if you are able to control yourself." He let himself have a quick glimpse at him, curious about his response. America was now looking at him, his eyes wide with wonder. A smile crawled across his face, sending a jolt through England. He suddenly realized just how much he liked it when America smiled. And along with that sudden realization, he gave himself a mental slap to the face. He just felt sorry for the idiot, that's all! Most sane people didn't like to see people sad, right? So it was just normal to feel happy that others were happy, right? Right! "Now, get out of the kitchen," England said dismissively. "I was going to make us some food."
The smile on America's face suddenly disappeared and was replaced with a grimace. "You're going to cook?"
And he wondered why England hit him all the time. Stupid git.
x-x-x-x-x
America sat on the couch once again, pouting about how England was going to make his crappy British food. He had tried to convince him to not make anything, saying that he did have some food stored in his house, but England had said that he had wanted to eat something that wasn't packed full of heart-stopping cholesterol. So, instead, they were going to eat the blandest food on the whole freaking planet. And not only that, he had been chased out of his own kitchen! England always had always had the bad habit to take control of everything, even if it didn't belong to him.
But at least he wasn't going to leave. Even with his house being taken over, America guessed that he could live with it, as long an England was around.
With America's pouting, he suddenly noticed England's book lying on the table where he had left it the night before. England had been acting kind of suspicious and uber secretive, so America still didn't know what the book was or why England had brought it with him. Listening in to make sure that England was still busy in the kitchen, he moved over to the chair England had fallen asleep in last night to examine his book. At first, America had absolutely no idea what the title of the book was. The writing on the cover was worn with age, making it hard to read. Along with this, on further inspection, America realized that it was a different language. For a second, he felt the sting of defeat, depressed that he couldn't get any more information out of it. Then America remembered: Google Translate! He always used it for all of the other languages that weren't awesome enough to be known by him—meaning every language besides American English. So, after a minute or two, he returned to the chair with his laptop in hand. Once he had found his way to Google Translate, he quickly typed in the title of the book. The site recognized the language as Latin, giving him a result that surprised him: Book of Charms. Charms? As in spells? Why had England thought that using his creepy Black Magic would be necessary here? Now even more curious than before, America opened up to the page that he had marked last night.
It was obvious upon looking at the page that England had been trying to figure out something about one particular spell. He had several parts marked and underlined, and several annotations that he had somehow squeezed into the minuscule margins of the page. He was sure that England could read them, but America was lost, not wanting to read the tiny letters. Moving on, he typed in the spell, not sure of what to be expecting. He felt blood rush to his face upon reading the translation. The object of my eye, make him love me. No others shall have him, make him mine.
It was a freaking love spell! What the crap was going on? Why was England looking into this so badly? What was he trying to do?
"America?"
"Gah!" America cried, slamming his computer shut. He looked up, preparing himself to face the wrath of England, but was able to calm himself once he realized that England was just calling him from the kitchen. "Yeah, s'up, England?" he called back in the most innocent, non-reading-books-that-weren't-his voice he could manage.
"Breakfast is nearly ready, and I have no bloody idea where you keep your dishes!"
Even though America was so confused about what England was trying to pull off, he was able to laugh about how frustrated England sounded. He could already see how his thick brows were furrowed with irritation. "'Kay, be there in a sec'," America called back as he closed the book and put it back as close to the position he had left it before. He then quickly returned his laptop to its plug in and ran to the kitchen to show England where he kept his plates and such. As he walked, he tried to think of the best way to ask why he would be so interested about love spells. But as he thought about it, he realized that it definitely was not going to be an easy thing to do.
But he had to try, didn't he?
x-x-x-x-x
The majority of the day went pretty much without much incident. During breakfast, America had tried to not say too much about England's food, but he was not great at hiding his opinions on his face. Every time he took a bite of food, his face would get screwed up, but then he'd try to cover his obvious dislike with a, "Mmm!" or, "It's good." But England, having raised America, knew that all of the compliments meant, "Part of me just died right now because I ate this." Sure, he had gone through centuries of hearing people talk about how his food sucked compared to everyone else's, but it still hurt to know that people didn't really appreciate his work. Once breakfast was over, England went back to studying his book, trying to decipher how to undo the spell he'd put on America. After all that happened the day before, he just decided to ignore America's constant stares and just focus on his book. He figured that the sooner he figured out how to make America "normal" again, the sooner he wouldn't have to put op with his stares any longer.
"So," America said once they had been sitting there in silence for about fifteen minutes. England knew he had never been that much of a fan of quietness—he liked things as loud and as exciting as they could be. "What're you doing?"
"Studying something," England answered. He still hadn't told America that his infatuation with him had been caused by a spell gone wrong, and figured that it was better if America didn't know. Knowing him, he'd probably freak out about it and tell everyone he knew about it. That was the last thing England needed. Everyone would believe that he had done it on purpose, and everything would just get out of hand. He shuddered inwardly as he thought of that humiliation if France found out. He'd never be off the hook if word got out. No, it was far better if America knew nothing of this mistake.
America paused for a while, making England glad that he had decided to drop the subject.
"Why are you studying a love spell?"
England dropped his book, looking up at America in complete shock. He knew?
"Wh-what are you talking about?" England asked as he quickly picked his book back up. He wanted to shoot himself because of his reaction that had made it completely obvious that America had hit what he was doing right on the nose. He could have at least lied.
"Dude, it's called Google Translate," America said. "So. What are you trying to do with that spell?"
England just stared at him, trying to figure out a convincing lie. He was usually able to come up with magnificent excuses on the spot, but no possibilities came to him now. He just sat there, looking like a complete idiot. "Uh." Oh, such a great way to start an explanation. "Well… you see…"
"I'm waiting." England would have yelled at him, but then he remembered that he had done the exact thing to him when he had been interrogating America.
"I'm looking into this because…" England paused, hoping that a brilliant lie would suddenly some to him, save him from the truth he wanted to avoid from uncovering. But nothing came to his rescue. "Because…er, well…"
"If you're doing it to make me love you, there's no need for that."
England felt blood rush to his face, struck by the seriousness in America's voice. He looked at him, America's blue eyes piercing.
"England, I already love you."
The breath caught in England's throat, once again forgetting how to breathe. That was when he broke. "I know!" England hissed. "That's the problem!"
He could tell that his words were like a punch to the face for America as he saw him shrink into the couch. The look of seriousness deteriorated into one of being absolutely crushed. "What?"
"I meant to make you sick, you idiot!" England cried, putting as much malice as he could manage into his words. "I hated you for giving me all of your crap, and I wanted to make you pay! But I did the wrong spell, and it made this happen!"
England felt something in him being pained by America's expression of sadness, but he let his anger overwhelm it. He had no need for guilt right now. "Hate?" America whispered.
"Yes, you bloody idiot!" England yelled. "And I still hate you! I hate how you don't respect me, how you don't respect anyone but yourself! I hate how you blame everyone but yourself! I hate—!"
"Shut up!"
England quieted as he took the time to really looked at America. Through his anger, he had just seen him sitting there, all other details blocked out by his filter of rage. But now that he wasn't yelling, he suddenly noticed that America was shaking. He looked up at his face and felt his blood chill—America was crying. Even as a child, America wasn't one to be found crying very often. England felt guilt well up in him. He had meant to insult him, just to offend him. He had never meant to hurt him this bad.
"You know, England," America said, his voice much quieter than usual, sending chills through the room. "Even with all we've been through, even after you pushing me away after the Revolutionary War, I have never once hated you."
His words were like a dagger to the heart. England wanted to die. "America."
America stood up, waving his arm violently at him. "I'm done," he said, glaring at him with disdain. "You can continue being a douche all you want. But I'm done."
England jumped up to try to stop America from leaving, but he was once again reminded of how strong America had grown over the years as he shrugged off all of his attempts. So England was left to watch powerlessly as he went off to his room, hurt more than he had ever seen before.
And it was his fault. Again.
He was a real bloody idiot.
"God dammit," he hissed under his breath, storming back to his seat. What else was he supposed to do? America wasn't going to listen to him now that he said that he hated him. He had dug a deep hole that was going to extremely hard to get out of, if he could get out of it at all. But what frustrated him even more were his emotions. Why was he so damn upset? He and America fought all the time; he was never bothered by it before. Why now? Why, dammit!
What had America done to him?
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Aww! D': Poor America! Poor England! D: Sorry it's all emo! But it had to happen!
Please review! I'll love you if you do! :D
