I do not own Hetalia, the characters, events, places, people, cooperations, things, habits… Hidekaz Himaryu owns it. Thanks to all those who inspire me!
And that song America sings was found on a Russia AMV and I take no credit for finding it or making it (it's called Russians {surprise surprise} by Sting if anyone wants to know, and it's not really meant to be screamed but America just would scream anything)
Part Two-
6. Brothers: Lost And Forgotten
America danced in the middle of the airport with the ear buds dangling from his ears. He held the iTouch in his hands, rattling as he screeched out in the empty waiting room with England to his back and France waiting patiently with a magazine on his crossed knee.
"MR. REAGAN SAID WE WILL PROTECT YOU- I WON'T SUBSCRIBE TO THIS POINT OF VEIW! BELEVE ME WHEN I SAY TO YOU, I HOPE THE RUSSIANS-!"
"America, shut up, before you get shot!" England cried panicky. A humble guard in the corner of the dark waiting room looked over at the people babbling in a different language, and didn't ask questions. England swiveled around in the leather bench placed all around the rooms of the terminal. "Sit down," He hissed. "If you want to make it out of the country alive."
Flop, America plopped down on the seat mirrored from England's, with a good two spaces between he and France, who sighed and flipped the page of a perfume-scented magazine. "Canada's not going to make it out alive," he mumbled, and crossed his arms over his chest. He turned down the volume of his iPod and wound the buds around the rectangular device. England ignored his comment and buried himself busily by examining the buttonholes on his jacket. "Blast it," America could've sworn him mutter as he mumbled about patching up his jacket with his finger wiggling through the place a button should've been. Sewing was one of England's less-than-dignified hobbies that he commonly practiced, and America let his tongue poke his cheek in and our over again as he concentrated on England's outlook- there was nothing else to do.
And being in Russia still was really just peeving him. The fact that he was a legit country of the world should've made it easy for him to go anywhere in it whenever he wanted to, he figured, and yet, he still had to wait five hours before a flight to England even arrived. Of course, he had made a rather loud fuss when he saw all the planes leading him back to his homeland- a flight that would've left by now to New York had been calling his name like food was.
He remembered he never really did get food from Russia- proving to himself mentally that he actually could go without eating for more than two hours. He wasn't about to share that bit of information to England, however, because that was just a lecture about his eating habits waiting to happen.
America busied himself with a list of foods he would eat when he got to England. Despite the fact that England himself couldn't cook worth a darn didn't mean that America's fast-food industry hadn't spanned over there. There had to be a cheeseburger and fires over there or something, with some really crunchy lettuce and a nice juicy tomato, lots of ketchup and the crispiest, saltiest, freshest fires ever with an ice-cold Pepsi and-
"America, would you like to share why you are drooling on the chair?" France asked sarcastically.
America tried to wipe of the wetness running down his cheek before England saw, but it was too late. England shook with silent laughter as he turned away from America and hunched over the seat, his hand clamped over his mouth.
To add onto the embarrassment, his stomach gave a loud growl. He clapped his arms around his waist just as France gave a repulsive laugh. America grit his teeth and stood up. "There's gotta be something to eat around here," he mumbled, holding his aching stomach. "Don't they usually have restaurants in airports?"
"Usually," said England. "But, America, our flight is going to be leaving in a little less than an hour. Can't you wait until we get on the plane? They'll be serving dinner there."
"Dinner?" America cried. "I'm worried about LUNCH. And since when has it been dinnertime anyway?"
England looked at the watch on his wrist, and turned it toward him haughtily. "It's almost six at night, America."
"What?" America gasped.
"You stupid idiot," France interjected as he opened the flap of a scented page on his magazine. "He's six hours ahead of you, remember?"
America did remember, and he relaxed. "Right. Thanks, dude, I was kinda freaking out there."
France let the magazine flop as he tossed it behind him, crossing his arms at America lazily. "And it wouldn't matter if there was restaurants in this place, anyway. Your America money would never go over well with these Russians, considering that they use a "ruble" and all."
America stiffened, remembering. He wandered away, stricken, mumbling about using the bathroom then exited the area, inaudible talking to himself about foreign money.
France picked up England's wrist when America was around the corner, and scowled at the time. "I hate waiting. Especially when there's plenty of pretty Russian girls around here, it's really heartbreaking to me, England. Have you heard their language? It makes positively no sense, but, ah, who cares what language they speak, none of them can resists the likes of me, right?"
"I should think so," England said deviously. "Especially since they're probably be taller than you. And not to mention that America would probably hurl an atomic weapon at you if he saw that coming back from the loo."
France twitched. He turned away from England, in the seats that were against his back. "You must spoil all my fun all the time, don't you? Well. I think I know the perfect punishment for that-"
"Get away from me, you poetic bastard!" England shoved France's pursed lips out of his face and scooted down the row of chairs. "Ugh- the nerve-must you make everything so difficult?" He asked and rubbed the side of his face that France's lavender-smelling face had gotten so close to.
"Oh, England," France sighed, throwing his body over the chairs like a mop. If anything was possible, there would probably be a spotlight on his with shining handfuls of glitter being cast down on him, England thought, because there was no denying that France was absolutely gorgeous- but that was a well-known fact. "It doesn't have to be difficult if you don't want it to be."
"That's absurd! And close your legs!"
Meanwhile…
Germany walked through the grocery store with Italy next to him with the shopping list. The piece of paper drooped once as they turned down the isle, and to his complete distress, he saw things like "tomatoes, garlic, onion, bread, gnocchi, spaghetti," written there. He turned his head away from him and silently made a mental note not to ever let Italy make the grocery list again, because now it was going to be impossible for him to remember everything they needed- necessity things that Italy often chose not to use, like soap. But they weren't out of soap, last Germany remembered, but the dishwasher was, and the dishwasher needed a fixing anyway, so he would get that later. Food-wise the only thing on his mind was a nice sausage, being hungry a while after the soccer game. He was still tired, so there was a good chance that he would end up practically taking Italy's head off before the list was finished.
He looked back at his companion, who was still scribbling things down in the miniscule space left there was to put things down. He sighed. "Italy, why don't you go down the pasta isle and get what you need," he said, playing the oblivious. "I'm just down to get a few things, and then we'll go back home."
Italy smiled proudly. "Can do, Germany!" he said. Then he took off in that pathetic run of his with his arms out like he needed extra balance.
Germany rubbed his aching forehead and breathed out. Aside from having Italy as a roommate being the affecting candidate for the enormous jumble that made up a headache, he could blame his loud apartment neighbors (who also had to be either extremely Italian or something, with all the noise they made) for keeping him awake night after night, and Italy waking him up because he didn't want to get out of bed without a light on because he was afraid of the dark, and Italy waking him up when he crawling into the small bed after having a nightmare, or Italy waking him up because he couldn't get the wine open for a midnight snack, or Italy waking him up to show him one of his atrocious movies that somehow got put on the play list, or Italy snoring to loud, or Italy singing in his sleep, or Italy complaining about his sausage, or-
He almost bumped into someone going around the corner. "Excuse me," he mumbled, and started to step around them, when he realized he recognized that person. "Hungary?" He asked, honestly surprised.
The ashy brunette lifted her face to him. Of course Germany would recognize her- she was all he heard about from his brother, Prussia, whenever he was in an agreeable mood. She was surprised as well, holding a basket of low-priced items, but then her face shaped a smile. "It's nice to see you, Germany," she said. Her hair was tied back in one of those bandanas, matching the color of her dress that easily marked her as a maid. Germany didn't know how to greet her, and he wasn't that good at small talk, so he settled with the obviously question; "What are you doing here?" He would've thought Austria would've had his own groceries stores, but it wouldn't have surprised him if the green-thumb had eliminated them to save money.
"Oh," Hungary said, a little breathlessly. "Mr. Austria has invited Switzerland to his house for some discussion. Since he'll be staying a few days, I thought it might be nice for him to have some food he would recognize, and I heard that his meals were influenced by yours, so I thought I might have a look around and see what I could find."
"Right," Germany said, embarrassed that he had almost accused Hungary of intruding. He was more surprised that she wasn't chained to Austria, but somehow she had always been able to be the humble servant, so he didn't question it. He sighed. "Just give him some cheese and he'll be happy as a clam," Germany sighed. "They're not too picky."
"Thank you," Hungary said, and they fell in step together. Germany's chest felt a little tight with how awkward the situation was, considering that neither of them knew they had the exact same question on their minds. Hungary finally asked it as Germany took a bag of potatoes form the produce isle and set it in his basket, "Have you seen-"
"I haven't," Germany answered before she could even finished. Silence took over them again, and Hungary looked nervous and bit her lip. He looked at her. "I was hoping you would've seen him."
Hungary shook her head sadly. "It's been decades," she murmured.
"Me too," Germany said. "About after the collapse of the Berlin Wall. I didn't see him after that."
Hungary sighed, looking anywhere but Germany's face. She had always wondered how it was possible that Prussia and Germany could be related, because they had no similarities whatsoever. She took some potatoes as well from the shelf, taking his advice from earlier. She shook the image of Prussia's face as a child out of her head as it nagged her like a fish nibbling on the leaf of a plant. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "It was nice running into you, though. Maybe you could come-"
"GERMANY! GERMANY!" Germany's basket of the things he managed to remember to pick up went flying as Italy soared straight at him. They crashed to the floor and Italy sobbed loudly clinging to him like a startled child. "Germany, an old lady with a cane threatened me because I asked to borrow her scarf because I really had to blow my nose, and when I tried she hit me with her stick, and it really hurt, Germany, I want to go home, this place is scary and your old ladies are scary and how can you make old ladies scary, they're supposed to stay at home making pies for their grandchildren, not hitting beautiful Italians like me-e-e-e-"
Germany managed to dodge falling over the stand of oranges in the corner of the store, and had collapsed over the newspaper rack. Everyone within ten meters of distance turned to watch the scenario taking place there. He managed to push Italy off of him and stand, hauling Italy to his feet as well. "What did I tell you about keeping your hands to yourself?" Germany growled, trying to ignore the beaming stares being thrown at them from every direction.
"I know, I'm sorry Germany, but I really have to blow my nose and all of you Germans are too tight to carry around a handkerchief," Italy sobbed. "And, do you have a tissue or something?" He tried to wipe off what was coming from his nose, and Germany looked away, disgusted.
"I don't, but we'll get you some. Now could you please try to act like a human being and behave?" He let go of Italy's shirt collar and backed away, collecting the tossed items all around them. "Hungary, you wouldn't have something Italy can blow his nose on, would you?"
"Hungary?" It appeared that the Italian hadn't realized who they were with yet. Then he saw her, and threw himself at him. "Hungary! It's so nice to see you here, it's been so long, and what are you doing in Germany's grocery stores, usually they're really bare, but he drove me to a really nice one this time! Germany's a really good driver, it puts me to sleep almost every time we go somewhere, isn't that cool? You should try his highways sometime, people go really fast, and sometimes so does Germany, but he'll never admit that to you."
Germany gave an embarrassed gasp behind their backs and scooped up what he'd had and put it back in the bag as Hungary explained to him why she was here. He turned around, composed again, and tapped the rambling Italy on the shoulder. He turned around.
"Did you get what you wanted?" Germany asked him. "I'd like to get home soon."
"Yep!" Italy thrust at him a single box of pasta- and Germany, dumbfounded, tried not to be overly surprised that there was only one box. He put it in the basket anyhow.
"Is that all you wanted? This will only be good for spaghetti, you know," Germany asked.
"That's okay. I don't want to go back down that isle again, because that cranky old lady might still be there."
"Alright," he said. He looked at Hungary. "We'll be going now. Have a good night- if I hear anything from Prussia, I'll make sure to tell you."
"Me too," Hungary promised, and they passed each other.
Italy was silent as he suddenly felt the weight of the conversation hit him like a cinder block. His always-present dreamy smile faded from his face as Germany lead him to the check-out area. As Germany stacked the few items onto the counter for the cashier to scan, Italy was deathly silent, which was extremely rare. The few things were bagged and Germany carried them out, Italy clinging to his single box of pasta as they got into the car.
"Why were you and Hungary talking about your brother, Germany?" Italy finally asked after it had nagged him for about ten minutes.
"Well," Germany started. Then he paused. It was going to be very hard to explain to Italy why he had been so anxious about his brother who had been missing for so long. He didn't even know why he was. It was just a feeling, and Italy was of course going to turn that around into something disgusting, so he thought for a long time, before starting again with; "Do you miss your grandfather sometimes?"
"Sure," Italy said enthusiastically. "But he sings to me when I'm sleeping, so I see him now and then."
"Right," Germany said, choosing to ignore how strange that was. "And he's been gone a long time, hasn't he, but you still miss him."
"Sometimes," Italy admitted.
"It's like that, then. I just didn't miss Prussia right after he disappeared because I was so busy after to war- I suppose you could say it's just sinking in."
"Oh, I get it…" Italy said. Germany sighed with relief. Then he said, "It's like after you stop sleeping with your girlfriend for a long time and how it feels weird to be sleeping with clothes on!"
"That is not what I meant at ALL, Italy!"
Silence in the vehicle the rest of the way home.
Meanwhile…
"I wonder what Canada will have for dinner," America mumbled as they sat in their seats. They had boarded the plain a few minutes ago, which had moved down the runway, and was now sitting there as the pilots got it ready.
"Drop it, America," England sighed from behind the safety procedure brochure.
America was wedged between France and England, probably for the safety of the twenty other people on the plane. He didn't like it. England had the window seat, which America had wanted, and France was taunting the stewardesses by feeling up their legs every time they walked by on dangerous heels. They didn't protest, but they didn't flirt back either, which was only making France even more persistent. He also knew it was going to be impossible to take a nap or go to the bathroom without having to touch either of them, so the seven to eight hour long ride to London would be a long one. He sighed.
"I wonder if this means that Canada is called "Russia Junior" or something now. Dude, that would suck to be topped by Russia, man, could you imagine that?" He continued, sinking low in his seat.
"That sounds disgusting, America," England pointed out, his face a hysterical shade of red.
"You know what I think?" France said, for a second leaving the stewardesses alone as they checked the air ventilation.
England sighed loudly. "What do you think, France? And please, keep you voice low so no one else hears the vulgarity you're about to spew at us."
"I think that Canada and Russia will get along quite well. Canada might not be the toughest of countries, but, ah, they have plenty of similarities between them to keep each other occupied. And not to mention this match will do good for me as well, seeing that Canada is my younger brother and I have a good relationship with Russia, unlike you two pinheads."
"Match?" America wondered. "What do you mean by 'match?' Russia's not gonna like, keep him there for forever, right?"
"You silly boy," France laughed. "You really couldn't explore with your tiny mind what Russia could possibly mean when he tells you to 'become one' with him, did you?"
America's expectant face melted into horror. "Oh crap," he said. The plane's engine started up, and he was thankfully drowned out as he moan: "My brother is about to be molested by a six-foot giant, and I'm sitting here."
"Hush," England said, gripping the seats armrests as the plane shot down the runway. Flying didn't bother him. "I really doubt that Russia would possibly take that far, contrary to what our French friend here thinks. Russia has always had a sort of…take-over-the-world outlook on this, and I think you should know that better than anyone else, America. Canada will be fine."
"W-w-whatever you say, man," America said shakily as they plane lifted off the ground. He was a little concerned about Russian planes, and tried not to recall to clearly that Russians were just as acquitted to the atmosphere as he was. "I'm just really worried about him."
The flight commenced without much happening. France had unbuckled the seatbelt and excused himself to the bathroom the second the seatbelt alert was turned off, and America had swiveled around halfway through the first hour of the flight to see France glued by the mouth to an exceptionally tall and slender maid. He turned back in his chair, groaning "blech" with his tongue out and nose scrunched up, and England understood immediately. Annoyed, he reached up and jammed his hand in the air to alert one of them, and the frizzled looking girl managed to make it over to him in time for his to ask for a blanket, and America requested one as well as she walked away. He caught France making a rude gesture toward them, and America scowled as England got the peace-sign backwards toward France. He restrained from telling him, because the stewardess came back with thick blue blankets and he passed England one, who turned toward the window and shut his eyes. America did the same, turning toward France's empty seat, and shut his eyes. He tried to relax enough to get the image of Canada and Russia out of his head, but the thought nagged him until he turned around in his seat toward England.
"Hey, dude?" he whispered in case he was asleep.
"Mm?" England moaned so that America could heard.
"Are you sure Canada will be okay?" America hissed back.
"Yes, I'm sure," England hissed. "And if you're so worried, you can call him to make sure when we get to London. I don't think Russia would really go as far to as block a call from you."
"Right," America said. He paused for a while as the plane rattled with turbulence. "I hope he doesn't get lonely up there."
England bit back the comment he was about to share, and turned around to face America. It was really because he was actually caring about someone that made him worry more about America than Canada- who had proved easily that he could take care of himself- so he sighed. "What are you afraid of, America? Canada hasn't done anything wrong to Russia."
"Well, I know that," America said. He took a deep breath. "I guess it would kind of be my fault if something did happen, because he still hates me about the Cold War thing and Canada is my brother."
England's eyebrows furrowed. "Are you blaming yourself for this?" he asked.
"I dunno," America said tiredly. His eyes started to droop sleepily. England wasn't surprised, he had been walking around in the snow for a while. "I guess I would really miss him if he decided Russia was a better friend than me."
America lightly snored as England sighed and closed his own eyes. He wouldn't say it out loud, but he missed being brothers with America at times as well, and he promised himself to try and make the few days he would spend in London as enjoyable as possible.
I'd just like to point out I don't really see England and America as a pairing (though it can be cool when they are :D) I just have sort of a soft spot toward their brotherhood.
Just so any of you are not aware, a backwards peace sign showing your first and middle finger in England is basically the same as flipping someone the bird in America.
Also, the few reviews I've had have said I've kept everyone relatively in character… I was happy to get them, and I enjoyed it, but I don't know, it might just be me, but I'd like to know if I'm keeping Germany in character, because he's really hard for me to get his down for some reason. My usual method of making the characters like themselves is to picture their accents in my mind, and I haven't heard a German accent a lot outside of Hetalia (I have one German great-grandmother who is technically not related to me, and she sounds Polish XD) so that's why he might be wavering in and out of character. I don't know- you tell me! Please review!
And thanks to those who put this story on their watch list again, it makes my day ten times better!
I do not own Hetalia, the characters, places, events, people, anything. Hidekaz Himaryuu does. I don't own anything I might've stolen- and please review! Thanks to those who inspire me!