|Hetalia- "Cold Wars"
||[Oct. 11th, 2009|01:29 am]
Title: Cold Wars
Character/Pairing/s: kind of AmericaxRussia in a hateful sort of way (with England, China, Japan, and France chiming in every now and again too)
Warnings/Spoilers: Crack and OOC? I don’t know how to write them okay. So I did historical stuff instead. Sort of.
Word Count: 2,340
Summary: America and Russia fight and make up.
Dedication: Happy VERY LATE birthday, kiwimangoodness! I can’t believe I was later than JAB on something. SHAME ON ME.
A/N: Clearly I have never written for this series before. I started this ON TIME for kiwimangoodness’s birthday, gave up on it because it got cutthroat, and opened it up again tonight because I didn’t want to work on anything useful. Thus, it is finished. And I don’t think I should ever write Hetalia EVER.
Disclaimer: Not mine, though I wish constantly.
Distribution: Just lemme know.
After the end of WWII, there is an argument over what to do with Germany.
“To bring peace back to the world, I feel we should break Germany’s legs at the hip with a crowbar,” Russia starts, fondly. “I have always slept better after crippling and degrading my enemies in front of their families and loved ones.”
“And I know I always have nightmares after listening to him speak at these things,” England mutters to France when he hears, looking a little green already. France, for once, agrees with him.
Russia peacefully continues his presentation. “Without the use of his limbs, Germany can never give the allies problems again, because he won’t be able to move without assistance. Also, any future attempts on his part to get revenge on us for crippling him will fail as well, for the creaking of this rickety wheelchair which I have personally made for him will give us all enough advanced warning of his plans such that, in the event of an attack, we may tip him onto the floor and gather around him in a circle and kick him until he is damaged internally.”
Russia holds up a very rickety, very pathetic-looking soviet wheelchair as proof of this add-on bonus to his plans.
The other European nations instinctively cringe and withdraw at the sight of Russia wielding something heavy and wooden with many protruding nails in it.
In the meantime, an America who is safely ensconced at the other end of the table has become bored. “If Germany’s legs are broken,” he starts, looking at Russia like he is an idiot, “he can’t come over to work off the money he owes me. My porch has stairs.”
The way he says it is fearless and superior and everything that Europe is not so fond of about America.
But given that most of them have also been borrowing money from him in very large quantities over the last few years, they all vote in perfect agreement with him anyway.
Russia is none too pleased with the result, and squeezes his rickety wooden wheelchair into splinters one-handed while smiling sweetly and vowing that he will curse them all to death.
Thus begins Russia and America’s big a fight.
A few months later, on top of being horribly damaged after the war and losing all of their prettiest girls to the visiting America, England and France find themselves mysteriously broke on top of it all, and can think of nothing else to blame but Russia’s cryptic words back at the vote.
“My economy has collapsed,” France whines despondently, because he can barely afford his own wine anymore.
“My house is falling apart,” England agrees, eyebrows furrowed in worry over how he is going to make it through the next winter with only two and a half walls.
“I’m good,” America casually tells them on the phone later, when they both call to see how he’s doing.
England hangs up on him.
One day, Russia suddenly decides to fence off his house from most everyone else’s sight; he vows that he and everyone else behind the fence aren’t coming out to speak to America or his cronies ever again. America generally wouldn’t have noticed it at all, except that China suddenly starts visiting Russia a lot more than before, and as such, sometimes talks about how Russia invites him over for tea and rousing games of See What Makes Latvia Cry Next.
“That’s unfair. China was mine!” America protests when he hears, and takes out the world map he keeps in his pocket. Japan notes that all of the countries on it— outside the US— are labeled “Mine.” “Also, that fence Russia put up is ugly. I thought China had better taste in friends than that.”
But Japan—silent in his cold and unwavering terror of America’s size and power— somehow manages to keep his face impassive as he listens to the enormous ranting foreigner currently stretched out on his floor, eating his food. “I see,” Japan answers vaguely, and offers America more tea (which America promptly puts sugar and ice into). “Perhaps you should go visit China and speak to him, then,” he suggests, with a hint of hope in his voice.
“I think I will!” America agrees, and much to Japan’s relief, goes to see China post-haste.
“Russia-san knows how to play games I’ve never heard of before,” China explains later, when America tries to tell him that Russia is a no-good creepy-voiced girly man who doesn’t love hard work and buying shiny things just because he can.
China frowns. “America shouldn’t speak ill of others behind their backs,” the older country chastises, sagely.
“Hey, I’d say it to his face too, if he were here,” America responds. “It’s not my fault he isn’t here to hear me speak ill of him. It’s his. Because he’s stupid.”
China looks skeptical.
Not long after that, China starts ignoring all of America’s invitations to cool parties and get-togethers in lieu of going to Russia’s house instead, and full of righteous indignation at this unexpected turn of events (countries full of tiny people who all look like girls should, every one of them, adore America, after all), America begins increasing his visits to Japan in an attempt to mollify himself with the knowledge that at least this Asian country seems to really, genuinely love him with all of his tiny, tiny, girly-man heart.
“Japan’s way better than China anyway,” America sniffs around a cup full of cold, sugary tea. He crosses China off of all of the guest lists for any of the parties he’s ever going to have in the future, while Japan silently wonders if this means he’ll have to actually go to them from here on out.
Russia’s only response to the matter is: “China is bigger.”
America wants to say something smart in reply like, “Size doesn’t matter,” except that to America, size totally does.
He sulks in silence (in Japan’s tiny, tiny house) instead.
“Yesterday Russia was flying a kite and shooting bottle rockets in his yard,” Germany reports to America diligently sometime later, from where he has been peeking over the fence with his binoculars at Russia, on America’s behalf. America is the only reason why he can still walk, after all, and Germany is all about repaying his debts of gratitude. “He seemed like he was having fun.”
“Dammit,” America curses when he hears, “now I have to make a better, bigger kite and a bigger, better bottle rocket and fly them both right in his face.”
Germany blinks. “What’s the point? Aren’t those things just for fun?”
“I’m doing it so that he’ll know I’m better than him. Then he’ll want to be just like me like all the rest of you guys, obviously,” America replies, as he looks at Germany in what can only be considered a supremely condescending way. “Wow, you really suck at this whole strategy thing, don’t you? No wonder it was so easy to beat you.”
Germany grits his teeth and reminds himself that the reason why he can still walk is because of America.
Not long afterwards, America can be seen flying his kites and bottle rockets on all of the world’s television screens, so big and bright and powerful that it seems like they’re all touching the surface of the moon.
He names the biggest one Apollo and considers it kicking Russia’s ass.
Even though, as Germany noted, there really isn’t a point.
“Why are you so bent on competing with Russia in this stupid, overblown tiff of yours?” England asks wearily one morning, after everyone who has borrowed America’s money had dutifully sat in front of their TVs until they were bleary eyed, watching America launch his precious bottle rocket through the air very close to thirteen times in a row. “There isn’t a prize you get awarded in the end if you do end up winning this, you know.”
America snorts. “Winning is its own prize! I just need to show Russia that his strange, red-tinted views are wrong and that he should come running into my arms like the rest of you silly old fogies.”
England blinks. “So,” he begins, because he is the best at interpreting America’s boorish speech patterns whether he wants to be or not, “what you’re actually saying is, you’re doing this because you want Russia to like you?”
America’s face turns red. “What? No! I’m doing this because I like winning, silly England.” He laughs and poses by the window. “America is always a winner, after all!”
England studies him for a moment and almost smiles; it has been a long time, after all, since he thought of America as cute.
Even though he thinks that stunt America had pulled last week by waving bags of flour and fat rolls of squishy-soft two-ply toilet paper in front of Russia’s bloc while wide-eyed Latvia and Lithuania had looked on longingly from beyond their tall, iron fence had been a little bit uncalled for.
“How is this going to make Russia like you again?” England asks later, tone exasperated as he walks down the street one day, only to see Russia’s lemonade stand on one corner of the block at $0.50 a cup and America’s lemonade stand on the opposite corner of the block at a ridiculous $0.05 a cup. “Also, aren’t you losing money, selling at this price?”
Usually, America hates that.
But America just smiles back at England secretively. “It’ll work,” he promises, because his economists said it would. “You’ll see.”
On the other side of the street, Russia is unhappy; he pushes down savagely on Estonia and Latvia’s heads while an angry purple miasma oozes out of him and into the air, towards the two western countries.
England shudders and hurries on.
Later, America buys four new cars and a big RV that he’ll never need.
He drives it by Russia’s house with the horn blaring.
“America is very kind,” Germany says in stilted tones afterwards, when America parks it in front of his house, well within view of Russia’s front windows. “But I don’t need…”
“It’s just a loaner,” America assures him, with a pat. “You’ll let me park it here for a while, right?”
Germany sighs. “Of course.”
The next morning, Russia has one of his very own sitting in his driveway as well; just as big as America’s and just as unnecessary.
Meanwhile, while Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania are washing Russia’s very expensive new RV, they can’t help but feel a little bit hungry.
“This definitely won’t get Russia to like you,” France tells America with a superior toss of his hair.
He is in the kitchen, making America some extremely delicious sandwiches from the bread he’d baked this morning.
America sits back and watches. France wants to say more, but France still owes America money.
“There,” he announces instead, when he is finished. “Fit for kings.” He feels it is too bad they will be wasted on other things. And America.
America slaps him heartily on the back and says they look exactly like the sandwiches you can get at gas stations in his neighborhood. “Great,” he exclaims, and grabs the sandwiches as he heads out the door, towards Russia’s house.
When he gets there, he peeks over the fence, where Estonia, Latvia, and Lithuania are working in the yard, doing Russia’s laundry.
“Hey guys,” America greets, cheerfully.
They all jump about ten feet into the air at the sound of his voice, shaking horribly when they realize who is here.
“Please don’t hurt us,” Latvia says.
America laughs. “Even though Russia is a big stupid girly-man who has bad ideas, I thought you guys look pretty decent. We should be friends.”
“Um…thank you?” Lithuania says, reluctantly. “But we’re not supposed to talk to yo…”
America holds up the sandwiches. “Want some? I have way too many at my house.”
“Too…many?” Estonia murmurs, transfixed by the sight of food.
America strikes a dramatic pose. “It happens all the time over there! Because I’m great!”
“We can’t take things from America,” the three small countries say, wiping their mouths.
America shrugs. “I’ll just leave these here,” he says, and puts them on the fence.
“This definitely won’t get Russia to like you!” England exclaims in surprise when he finds Latvia, Lithuania, and Estonia seated on America’s couch, eating hamburgers and drinking iced tea.
The sound of Russia’s name makes the three small countries start to shiver again, instinctively. Lithuania wonders—for a moment— how Russia-san is doing without them there to cook and clean and make sure his angry purple miasma doesn’t eat through the walls of their house.
“You’re wrong and silly, England. This plan will definitely work!” America laughs in response to his harried older sibling, and takes another hamburger. By the end of the afternoon, he eats four times the number of hamburgers as everyone else and ends up giving his three new houseguests a pair of Nike sneakers each, just because he can.
“I don’t understand you at all,” England sighs, and fears for the future of the world.
Despite England’s reservations, somehow, miraculously, America ends up being right.
It does work (whatever ‘it’ is).
Because a little while later, Russia’s house suddenly collapses on itself, perhaps because his angry purple miasma could not be kept in check upon finding Lithuania, Latvia, and Estonia out and independent in the world without him there to strike fear into their adorable, shivering hearts.
Russia manages to crawl out of the rubble of the fallen home before too long; his clothes are a little dirty, he seems thin, and dust in the shape of a mushroom cloud rises up over the remnants of his house.
On the street, America is waiting.
“Man, that sucks,” America whistles, when he sees the sudden and stunning collapse. He amiably helps Russia to his feet. “You wanna stay at my place for a while?”