Psh. Crack-tastic crap? Yes. I liek eet vary meuch :D
Forgot the author's note last chapter, stupid was being a bitch and wouldn't let me fix it. Oh well. Co-author, BloodieMondei, says 'Hai dere gais :D'.
Last chapter wasn't so good, was it? I swear, I'll get better! I've never really written Hetalia stuff, except for that little angsty Prustria thing that I still need to finish . . . shut up.
Well, here's some moar delicious Yao and Ivan . . . hopefully! xDD
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Yao was sweating in places where he should never have had the chance to sweat.
Maybe it was because he was sprinting around in circles and not riding on his prude-of-a-horse-Arthur for once. Why? God knows.
Gripping onto his 'sword' for dear life, Yao didn't know what to do. He was next in line to fight their commanding general – a tall, scary Russian who seemed to always be happy. So far, Yao did not like Russians. They were fucking scary.
"Next, da~" the Commander chimed, twirling his long wooden spear in his hands like a toy. Yao shakily walked up before the blond, and tried his best to stand tall and proud. Which fucking failed, by the way. And even though they had been training for a few days, Yao didn't like where this training was heading.
"You are Kiku, no?" Again with the fake name. Yao nodded his head, unhappy with the forced name, but still scared for his life.
And nuts. A few guys before him had taken it hard where the sun don't shine, and they were all slithering in pain. Yao did not want to join them. No sir, he did not.
"Kiku has very pretty hair, da~ Are we sure that Kiku isn't just a woman in disguise?" There were a few snickers, but Yao held his head up high.
"I am no girl, I can assure you," he growled, holding the wooden stick in a fighting position. The Chinese man lunged at Ivan, a scowl on his face. Ivan let out a dark chuckle, dodging fluidly to the side and crashing his stick down onto Yao's leg. It was a good hit, alright, but not enough to actually harm the boy.
No. Ivan liked him far too much for that.
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Days flew by like nobody's business. Yao had become friends with three other men, with whom he shared his tent with, quite quickly.
First, there was Francis Bonnefoy – the French bastard who was out to rape everything that was alive. But, other than that, the man was truly a gentleman and a smooth talker.
Then, there was Antonio Fernandez Carriedo – a Spanish man who loved tomatoes as much as he loved his 'little Italian lover' back home. He was kind, though somewhat slow at times.
And last, but not least, there was Gilbert Beilschmidt – a self-proclaimed 'Prussian' who loved to talk about how awesome he was, and about how much of a prude the Emperor's foreign-relations note-taker was [though Yao suspected something was going on between the two].
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AN: Bitch, yes. BAD FRIENDS TRIO FOR THE FUCKING WIN!
OH, and BTW, sorry for such a short chapter. It'll be 5 in the fucking morning by the time I get this posted, and I'm DEAD. Soooooo . . . yeah~ 3 Thanks for giving us some of your time~
BTW: Hollandaise sauce is not GHETTO, it is HO-MADE. Bitch. 3