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fae_boleynFic Title: Lost Inside A Foolish Disguise
Chapter Title: All The Thoughts Lead Back To You
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Pairings/Characters: England/America, Scotland/Ireland, side Prussia/Canada, Northern Ireland, Wales
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Sick of watching their oblivious loved ones suffer, Northern Ireland and Canada plot to matchmake England and America, as well as Ireland and Scotland, once and for all. By July, they vow, both couples will be together. But their targets are going to both help and hinder their cause in ways the two could never have expected.
A/N: Yeah, so, I ship PruCan kind of hard, and I do have a habit of tossing my ships into stories, even as sidenotes. Some part of me is nudging to make them a triad with North, but I'm not sure whether I really want to do that, or have North find love of his own at all whilst helping his family. What do you guys think?
What would you do
You do
If you knew?
What would you do?
All the pain I thought I knew
All the thoughts lead back to you
Back to what was never said
Back and forth inside my head
I can't handle this confusion
I'm unable
Come and take me away - Take Me Away, Avril Lavigne
March
Ireland’s never been entirely sure how she feels about St. Patrick’s Day in America. To most Americans, even if they’re Irish, even if they’re Irish Catholic, making this a saint’s day, it’s an excuse to get drunk, or watch a parade, or both. It bothers her a little, because she knew the real Saint Patrick - she named her little brother after him, since she found him in the same field where she and the human Patrick had talked about shamrocks and the Trinity - and she isn’t sure how he’d feel about this.
But even so, parades like the one she’s watching in Philadelphia this year have to make her smile. The energy is catching, and besides, it shows how far the people whose blood goes back to her have come in this new country. She still remembers being furious with America, in the 1890s, the first time they met, over the “No Irish Need Apply” signs. But now, look at this, the Irish-Americans have found their place.
The high school marching band playing now is from one of Philadelphia’s Catholic high schools, a school system that the Irish started in this nation. Archbishop Ryan, she notes absently, because she’s listening to America chat to the little girls standing with their mother next to the two nations. America has a way with kids, she’s noticed over the course of their acquaintance, and she thinks it’s because he’s sort of a big kid himself. Most of the time.
They stop for lunch after the parade, a tiny place in the city where America orders “cheese steaks” for both of them. Ireland bites into her long sandwich uncertainly, but it's pretty good, though she barely eats half of it. She gives America the other half.
He isn't shoveling food down as quickly as usual, though. “Hey, Ireland...” He toys with his Coke before he continues. “How's your brother doing?”
America has asked this question of her once before, over a century ago. She didn't let him off easy then, and she won't now. It's obvious which brother he means – she's not even sure he remembers her other brothers, after all – but even so. Ireland's not in the habit of making things easy for people, and even if she were, she doesn't really like discussing Arthur with America.
“Which brother?” she asks mildly.
America glares at her. “You know which one.”
“America,” she sighs, “I have several brothers, all of whom you've met at least once.”
“Fine. England.”
Ireland shrugs. “I haven't seen him since the conference, same as you. I'm sure Thuaidh – Northern Ireland, sorry – would have told me if something was actually wrong with him, though. Why do you ask?”
America shrugs, looking uncomfortable. God, you're both such utter fools, she thinks, watching him struggle to come up with an excuse. Not that she's much better, but at least she admits it. To herself, anyway, if not anyone else.
Finally, the younger nation says, “I just wondered, y'know? I mean, it's not like he'd tell me even if life sucked, he doesn't really tell me much of anything.”
Ireland makes a noncommittal sound deep in her throat, but says nothing. Slowly, the topic of conversation turns to other things, to her great relief.
When she gets home, it's only an hour before she gets a phone call from England. At first they talk about the usual things; the latest gossip in their lands, what their family members are up to, plans for the next British-Irish Council meeting, so on and so forth. But she's expecting it when, out of the blue, England asks, “So, you were just in the States for St. Patrick's Day, right? How's Al- America doing?”
“He's fine. Asked about you, though. Maybe the pair of you should try talking to each other for once, and not going through third parties.”
An irritated sigh from the other end of the phone. Ireland can almost see England's brows drawing together in a scowl. “I'll do that when you pay a visit to Edinburgh,” he mutters.
Ireland doesn't really know how to reply to that – they've had this conversation over and over again, it seems, she and Arthur, and it never changes. They both have their reasons for keeping their feelings secret from the ones they love, and neither can really criticize the other without coming off as an utter hypocrite. So she says nothing, and turns the conversation to other matters.
When she hangs up, though, she reaches out and picks up a picture frame that sits on her desk, always within her view. The photo was taken last Christmas, at Patrick's insistence. It's all of them, Patrick, Wales, Cornwall, England, Scotland, even Sealand. Looking at it, she's struck once again by how much of an eerie mix Patrick is of her and Arthur, with her bright red hair and eyes a few shades darker green than England's, but England's bushy eyebrows and unruly hair type. She can see both of them in his face, and wonders yet again if he's technically more like their son than their brother.
There's Bran, Wales, a bit off to the side, his black hair falling into his dark blue eyes and making his skin look even paler. She still remembers Bran teaching her to sing and Arthur to play a little wooden flute; he was the one who'd been their most hands-on brother. He's in the shadows now, quiet and mostly forgotten, but the one all of them really get on with best. He makes it easy for them.
Arthur grew up to look so much like Cornwall, Perran, that it's downright unsettling. Same thick brows, wild blond hair, and rather similar features and build, too. Perran is a tiny bit shorter than Arthur, making him shorter than any of them, except Sealand. Hazel eyes are his most obvious difference from the younger brother who has eclipsed him, eyes that have seen so much. He's the only one who remembers Brittania, the woman who came before any of them and was taken away by Rome in the time of Julius Caesar.
Sealand, in his usual sailor suit, looks like a blue-eyed replica of them both. Ireland doesn't know her youngest brother that well, but Peter's learned that she'll let him sit with her at world meetings instead of ushering him out the way England or even his adopted parents Sweden and Finland do, so he likes her. She likes him too, seeing the determination that all their family has in his quest to be recognized. She just hopes his history won't be as bloody as the rest of the family's.
And Scotland. It's not immediately obvious, how Caledon and Bran look almost as much alike as Perran and Arthur do. It's the hair, since Cal's is auburn and shaggy rather than black and clean-cut. But the arresting blue eyes make it clear. Ireland sighs, looking at the little image of Scotland, lamenting that his eyes can cut right through her even from a photograph.
She loves him. She won't deny that to herself, she's loved him for centuries, since his Stuarts were deposed and he offered her an alliance. Growing up away from her brothers, after Rome took Bran, Perran, and Arthur away, leaving her and Cal to hide in their native lands, it had changed her feelings. She'd been aware of an attraction between them ever since he joined the rest of them in the old London manor.
But he picked France over her in that alliance, because France was an independent country with better resources. And even though Ireland knows he regrets it, that he loves her as much as she loves him, she can't trust him. She can't trust that, if she gives in, someone better will come along once again, leaving her to be broken-hearted.
~ ~ ~
Even as Ireland and England end their call, across the Atlantic, America looks at his contacts list, his finger hovering over the 'Call' button. It would be so easy to press it and call England, but he doesn't do it. Instead he flips his cell phone closed, flopping back onto his couch.
This shouldn't be so hard. Heroes are never supposed to have this kind of problem! Well, Spiderman did, now that he thinks about it, he really had trouble with Mary Jane. But that's because he was still getting used to being a hero instead of a geek, so that's not the same. America's been a hero for years, why can't he just call up England and talk to him? They're friends, right?
OK, that's the problem. They're friends. Sort of. Actually, America's not even sure of that. They're allies, sure, but England kind of acts like he hates America, most of the time. But he still gets depressed on the Fourth of July. America hates that, for a lot of reasons, but a small part of him likes it too; if England still reacts so badly to the memories of America leaving, he has to still care, right?
So maybe he does, but the thing America can't figure out is how England cares. And that's important, since he's been pretty much head over heels for England since the Second World War. At least, that's when he figured it out. He's not entirely sure when it started – he can remember getting more and more frustrated and hurt by the way England sent his siblings to meetings rather than speak to America himself before World War One, but he doesn't think it started then.
It doesn't really matter when, though, because he can't get rid of these stupid feelings. He's tried, really hard. But it doesn't work. And England is impossible to read, even, America thinks, for someone who can read the atmosphere. He knows he can't half the time, and sometimes he can but doesn't want to, but when it comes to England he's tried. And failed, miserably.
He's considered just throwing all caution to the winds and just... grabbing England and kissing him, or something equally obvious and dramatic, but he's afraid to risk it. He remembers those years of speaking to every part of the U.K. but England, and World War One where all he got from the older nation was a frigid politeness. And even World War Two, where England bit his head off for every other thing he said. He still does that, sometimes, but even before the end of the war that had come to be more like playful banter between them, most of the time.
America doesn't want to go back to when it really was hostile, or to England freezing him out. And if he does something like kissing England out of nowhere, and his former brother doesn't feel the way he does, that might be what would happen. He doesn't usually think before he acts – or speaks – but he's given way too much thought to everything that could go wrong when it comes to him being in love with England. Unfortunately, all that thought hasn't done anything but give him a headache, and definitely hasn't helped him figure out what to do.
~ ~ ~
“Well,” North says, leaning back in his chair, “the next British-Irish Council meeting is next month. Bran is supposed to chair it, but I think he'll let me switch with him. So I'm thinking that I can assign Cal and Brigid to work together on some project or other, which will make them have to spend time together.”
Canada frowns. “But I thought you said Ireland and Scotland are the worse pair. Do you think it'll be enough?”
North shakes his head. “They're worse because their reasons for not being together are more ridiculous. It's just this one thing – a couple centuries ago, before I was born, Cal and Brigid were in an alliance against Arthur, but then Cal's boss told him to break it off with her and work with France instead.”
“That's awkward.”
“Pretty much, yeah. Brigid says she's forgiven him, but she still won't... trust him the same way. I don't really get it, but I'm hoping if I can come up with some way to make them talk, it might help.”
Canada drizzles more maple syrup on his pancakes and offers the bottle to North, who shakes his head. After taking a bite of his breakfast food – even though it's actually lunchtime – Canada says, “I think I need to start there for Alfred and Arthur too. There's this America show Al talked me into watching called NCIS, and the main character has a habit of having important talks in elevators. He hits the emergency switch so the elevator's stuck mid-floor. So at the next world meeting, which is also next month...”
North bursts out laughing, almost choking on a bite of pancake himself. “You're going to trap Arthur and America in a lift? Good God, I wish I could see that. I'm definitely going to have to try and get ahold of the security footage. Unless something kinky happens, in which case I'd have to fight Hungary for it and her frying pan scares me. Also seeing my brother... Yeah, that would scar me for life.”
“With my brother as the other partner? Yeah, me too. But anything else probably will be really fun to watch,” Canada agrees, grinning.
“What would be fun to watch? Certainly nothing that doesn't involve the awesome me!” yells a new voice, and the two plotters look up to see Prussia in the doorway.
“Er, nothing, Gilbert, just a prank North and I are planning for the next world meeting,” Canada says, shrugging. “We're thinking about trapping Alfred and Arthur in an elevator.”
Prussia says nothing for a long moment, just staring at them, before he bursts out laughing. “Ha! What are you trying to do, have them kill each other? Francis and Antonio are going to love this! I'm sorry I don't go to those boring things!”
“No, wait, you can't tell them,” North jumps in quickly. “I mean, France would probably keep his mouth shut, but Spain's horrible at keeping secrets, my sister's told me that he's never been any good at it. So they might say something, which would either mean America and Arthur don't get in the lift together, or if they're there, Germany will find out.”
“So what if West knows? This idea is almost as awesome as me, that doesn't matter!”
“I think Patrick's afraid Germany will think it's his responsibility to get them out, which would ruin the prank,” Canada suggests quietly. He doesn't really like lying to Gilbert, especially when they haven't been dating that long, but he has a bad feeling that his lover would get Francis and Spain involved, which Canada suspects really, really won't end well.
“That's true, West is so unawesome and boring he would do that, unless Feli distracted him or something. Anyway, I got more maple syrup!”
Canada blinks. “But... We have more than enough for pancakes.”
“Who said anything about pancakes?” Prussia says with a smirk that is way, way too much like France's for North's liking, especially since he's one of the few who knows Matt and Prussia are dating.
“Uh... I'm gonna go now,” he says, rushing out of the house. He has to go see Bran anyway.
~ ~ ~
The human personification of Wales, also known as Bran Llywelyn, has not lived as long as he has by being stupid, or unable to see what's right under his nose. “All right, North, what's going on?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at his second-youngest brother. North – and Sealand, who thankfully doesn't seem to be involved with this – are terrible about their pranks, and he really doesn't want any part of it.
“Well... I'm trying to matchmake Cal and Brigid,” the younger nation says, looking down at his feet. “I mean, it's been centuries! You know that better than I do!”
“Is that what you were whispering to Canada about?” Wales wants to know. “I could have sworn you were talking about Albion and America, that day.”
“Well, them too, but Canada's taking care of them for now.”
Wales laughs so hard he starts coughing, and then shakes his head. “So basically, you, one of the and the quiet boy everyone ignores are trying to matchmake two of the most stubborn pairs in the world? Patrick, have you lost your mind?”
North scowls at him, looking alarmingly like his sister when she's about to tear into someone, but all he says is, “No, and I don't see why it can't work, thank you very much. Between the two of us, we know all four of them very well, and know just where to push. It could work.”
“Or, it could blow up in your faces and then where will you be?”
“You think it could get worse?”
Wales shudders. “Actually, yes. You're not old enough to remember when Albion was freezing America out so much he wouldn't even speak to him. Sent me and then Brigid instead. And as for Cal and Brigid, I really don't want to witness another fight like the one they had once Cal recovered from Culloden. I really don't.”
“Well, it's not like you live with them anymore,” North points out cheerfully, “so you won't.”
“Oh God, we're all going to suffer for this, aren't we?” Wales mutters to himself. Out loud he says, “Fine, you can chair instead of me. But. In exchange, you and Peter are forbidden to prank me for a year. Understood?”
North hesitates, then nods. “Deal.”
Chapter Title: All The Thoughts Lead Back To You
Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia
Pairings/Characters: England/America, Scotland/Ireland, side Prussia/Canada, Northern Ireland, Wales
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Sick of watching their oblivious loved ones suffer, Northern Ireland and Canada plot to matchmake England and America, as well as Ireland and Scotland, once and for all. By July, they vow, both couples will be together. But their targets are going to both help and hinder their cause in ways the two could never have expected.
A/N: Yeah, so, I ship PruCan kind of hard, and I do have a habit of tossing my ships into stories, even as sidenotes. Some part of me is nudging to make them a triad with North, but I'm not sure whether I really want to do that, or have North find love of his own at all whilst helping his family. What do you guys think?
What would you do
You do
If you knew?
What would you do?
All the pain I thought I knew
All the thoughts lead back to you
Back to what was never said
Back and forth inside my head
I can't handle this confusion
I'm unable
Come and take me away - Take Me Away, Avril Lavigne
March
Ireland’s never been entirely sure how she feels about St. Patrick’s Day in America. To most Americans, even if they’re Irish, even if they’re Irish Catholic, making this a saint’s day, it’s an excuse to get drunk, or watch a parade, or both. It bothers her a little, because she knew the real Saint Patrick - she named her little brother after him, since she found him in the same field where she and the human Patrick had talked about shamrocks and the Trinity - and she isn’t sure how he’d feel about this.
But even so, parades like the one she’s watching in Philadelphia this year have to make her smile. The energy is catching, and besides, it shows how far the people whose blood goes back to her have come in this new country. She still remembers being furious with America, in the 1890s, the first time they met, over the “No Irish Need Apply” signs. But now, look at this, the Irish-Americans have found their place.
The high school marching band playing now is from one of Philadelphia’s Catholic high schools, a school system that the Irish started in this nation. Archbishop Ryan, she notes absently, because she’s listening to America chat to the little girls standing with their mother next to the two nations. America has a way with kids, she’s noticed over the course of their acquaintance, and she thinks it’s because he’s sort of a big kid himself. Most of the time.
They stop for lunch after the parade, a tiny place in the city where America orders “cheese steaks” for both of them. Ireland bites into her long sandwich uncertainly, but it's pretty good, though she barely eats half of it. She gives America the other half.
He isn't shoveling food down as quickly as usual, though. “Hey, Ireland...” He toys with his Coke before he continues. “How's your brother doing?”
America has asked this question of her once before, over a century ago. She didn't let him off easy then, and she won't now. It's obvious which brother he means – she's not even sure he remembers her other brothers, after all – but even so. Ireland's not in the habit of making things easy for people, and even if she were, she doesn't really like discussing Arthur with America.
“Which brother?” she asks mildly.
America glares at her. “You know which one.”
“America,” she sighs, “I have several brothers, all of whom you've met at least once.”
“Fine. England.”
Ireland shrugs. “I haven't seen him since the conference, same as you. I'm sure Thuaidh – Northern Ireland, sorry – would have told me if something was actually wrong with him, though. Why do you ask?”
America shrugs, looking uncomfortable. God, you're both such utter fools, she thinks, watching him struggle to come up with an excuse. Not that she's much better, but at least she admits it. To herself, anyway, if not anyone else.
Finally, the younger nation says, “I just wondered, y'know? I mean, it's not like he'd tell me even if life sucked, he doesn't really tell me much of anything.”
Ireland makes a noncommittal sound deep in her throat, but says nothing. Slowly, the topic of conversation turns to other things, to her great relief.
~ ~ ~
When she gets home, it's only an hour before she gets a phone call from England. At first they talk about the usual things; the latest gossip in their lands, what their family members are up to, plans for the next British-Irish Council meeting, so on and so forth. But she's expecting it when, out of the blue, England asks, “So, you were just in the States for St. Patrick's Day, right? How's Al- America doing?”
“He's fine. Asked about you, though. Maybe the pair of you should try talking to each other for once, and not going through third parties.”
An irritated sigh from the other end of the phone. Ireland can almost see England's brows drawing together in a scowl. “I'll do that when you pay a visit to Edinburgh,” he mutters.
Ireland doesn't really know how to reply to that – they've had this conversation over and over again, it seems, she and Arthur, and it never changes. They both have their reasons for keeping their feelings secret from the ones they love, and neither can really criticize the other without coming off as an utter hypocrite. So she says nothing, and turns the conversation to other matters.
When she hangs up, though, she reaches out and picks up a picture frame that sits on her desk, always within her view. The photo was taken last Christmas, at Patrick's insistence. It's all of them, Patrick, Wales, Cornwall, England, Scotland, even Sealand. Looking at it, she's struck once again by how much of an eerie mix Patrick is of her and Arthur, with her bright red hair and eyes a few shades darker green than England's, but England's bushy eyebrows and unruly hair type. She can see both of them in his face, and wonders yet again if he's technically more like their son than their brother.
There's Bran, Wales, a bit off to the side, his black hair falling into his dark blue eyes and making his skin look even paler. She still remembers Bran teaching her to sing and Arthur to play a little wooden flute; he was the one who'd been their most hands-on brother. He's in the shadows now, quiet and mostly forgotten, but the one all of them really get on with best. He makes it easy for them.
Arthur grew up to look so much like Cornwall, Perran, that it's downright unsettling. Same thick brows, wild blond hair, and rather similar features and build, too. Perran is a tiny bit shorter than Arthur, making him shorter than any of them, except Sealand. Hazel eyes are his most obvious difference from the younger brother who has eclipsed him, eyes that have seen so much. He's the only one who remembers Brittania, the woman who came before any of them and was taken away by Rome in the time of Julius Caesar.
Sealand, in his usual sailor suit, looks like a blue-eyed replica of them both. Ireland doesn't know her youngest brother that well, but Peter's learned that she'll let him sit with her at world meetings instead of ushering him out the way England or even his adopted parents Sweden and Finland do, so he likes her. She likes him too, seeing the determination that all their family has in his quest to be recognized. She just hopes his history won't be as bloody as the rest of the family's.
And Scotland. It's not immediately obvious, how Caledon and Bran look almost as much alike as Perran and Arthur do. It's the hair, since Cal's is auburn and shaggy rather than black and clean-cut. But the arresting blue eyes make it clear. Ireland sighs, looking at the little image of Scotland, lamenting that his eyes can cut right through her even from a photograph.
She loves him. She won't deny that to herself, she's loved him for centuries, since his Stuarts were deposed and he offered her an alliance. Growing up away from her brothers, after Rome took Bran, Perran, and Arthur away, leaving her and Cal to hide in their native lands, it had changed her feelings. She'd been aware of an attraction between them ever since he joined the rest of them in the old London manor.
But he picked France over her in that alliance, because France was an independent country with better resources. And even though Ireland knows he regrets it, that he loves her as much as she loves him, she can't trust him. She can't trust that, if she gives in, someone better will come along once again, leaving her to be broken-hearted.
~ ~ ~
Even as Ireland and England end their call, across the Atlantic, America looks at his contacts list, his finger hovering over the 'Call' button. It would be so easy to press it and call England, but he doesn't do it. Instead he flips his cell phone closed, flopping back onto his couch.
This shouldn't be so hard. Heroes are never supposed to have this kind of problem! Well, Spiderman did, now that he thinks about it, he really had trouble with Mary Jane. But that's because he was still getting used to being a hero instead of a geek, so that's not the same. America's been a hero for years, why can't he just call up England and talk to him? They're friends, right?
OK, that's the problem. They're friends. Sort of. Actually, America's not even sure of that. They're allies, sure, but England kind of acts like he hates America, most of the time. But he still gets depressed on the Fourth of July. America hates that, for a lot of reasons, but a small part of him likes it too; if England still reacts so badly to the memories of America leaving, he has to still care, right?
So maybe he does, but the thing America can't figure out is how England cares. And that's important, since he's been pretty much head over heels for England since the Second World War. At least, that's when he figured it out. He's not entirely sure when it started – he can remember getting more and more frustrated and hurt by the way England sent his siblings to meetings rather than speak to America himself before World War One, but he doesn't think it started then.
It doesn't really matter when, though, because he can't get rid of these stupid feelings. He's tried, really hard. But it doesn't work. And England is impossible to read, even, America thinks, for someone who can read the atmosphere. He knows he can't half the time, and sometimes he can but doesn't want to, but when it comes to England he's tried. And failed, miserably.
He's considered just throwing all caution to the winds and just... grabbing England and kissing him, or something equally obvious and dramatic, but he's afraid to risk it. He remembers those years of speaking to every part of the U.K. but England, and World War One where all he got from the older nation was a frigid politeness. And even World War Two, where England bit his head off for every other thing he said. He still does that, sometimes, but even before the end of the war that had come to be more like playful banter between them, most of the time.
America doesn't want to go back to when it really was hostile, or to England freezing him out. And if he does something like kissing England out of nowhere, and his former brother doesn't feel the way he does, that might be what would happen. He doesn't usually think before he acts – or speaks – but he's given way too much thought to everything that could go wrong when it comes to him being in love with England. Unfortunately, all that thought hasn't done anything but give him a headache, and definitely hasn't helped him figure out what to do.
~ ~ ~
“Well,” North says, leaning back in his chair, “the next British-Irish Council meeting is next month. Bran is supposed to chair it, but I think he'll let me switch with him. So I'm thinking that I can assign Cal and Brigid to work together on some project or other, which will make them have to spend time together.”
Canada frowns. “But I thought you said Ireland and Scotland are the worse pair. Do you think it'll be enough?”
North shakes his head. “They're worse because their reasons for not being together are more ridiculous. It's just this one thing – a couple centuries ago, before I was born, Cal and Brigid were in an alliance against Arthur, but then Cal's boss told him to break it off with her and work with France instead.”
“That's awkward.”
“Pretty much, yeah. Brigid says she's forgiven him, but she still won't... trust him the same way. I don't really get it, but I'm hoping if I can come up with some way to make them talk, it might help.”
Canada drizzles more maple syrup on his pancakes and offers the bottle to North, who shakes his head. After taking a bite of his breakfast food – even though it's actually lunchtime – Canada says, “I think I need to start there for Alfred and Arthur too. There's this America show Al talked me into watching called NCIS, and the main character has a habit of having important talks in elevators. He hits the emergency switch so the elevator's stuck mid-floor. So at the next world meeting, which is also next month...”
North bursts out laughing, almost choking on a bite of pancake himself. “You're going to trap Arthur and America in a lift? Good God, I wish I could see that. I'm definitely going to have to try and get ahold of the security footage. Unless something kinky happens, in which case I'd have to fight Hungary for it and her frying pan scares me. Also seeing my brother... Yeah, that would scar me for life.”
“With my brother as the other partner? Yeah, me too. But anything else probably will be really fun to watch,” Canada agrees, grinning.
“What would be fun to watch? Certainly nothing that doesn't involve the awesome me!” yells a new voice, and the two plotters look up to see Prussia in the doorway.
“Er, nothing, Gilbert, just a prank North and I are planning for the next world meeting,” Canada says, shrugging. “We're thinking about trapping Alfred and Arthur in an elevator.”
Prussia says nothing for a long moment, just staring at them, before he bursts out laughing. “Ha! What are you trying to do, have them kill each other? Francis and Antonio are going to love this! I'm sorry I don't go to those boring things!”
“No, wait, you can't tell them,” North jumps in quickly. “I mean, France would probably keep his mouth shut, but Spain's horrible at keeping secrets, my sister's told me that he's never been any good at it. So they might say something, which would either mean America and Arthur don't get in the lift together, or if they're there, Germany will find out.”
“So what if West knows? This idea is almost as awesome as me, that doesn't matter!”
“I think Patrick's afraid Germany will think it's his responsibility to get them out, which would ruin the prank,” Canada suggests quietly. He doesn't really like lying to Gilbert, especially when they haven't been dating that long, but he has a bad feeling that his lover would get Francis and Spain involved, which Canada suspects really, really won't end well.
“That's true, West is so unawesome and boring he would do that, unless Feli distracted him or something. Anyway, I got more maple syrup!”
Canada blinks. “But... We have more than enough for pancakes.”
“Who said anything about pancakes?” Prussia says with a smirk that is way, way too much like France's for North's liking, especially since he's one of the few who knows Matt and Prussia are dating.
“Uh... I'm gonna go now,” he says, rushing out of the house. He has to go see Bran anyway.
~ ~ ~
The human personification of Wales, also known as Bran Llywelyn, has not lived as long as he has by being stupid, or unable to see what's right under his nose. “All right, North, what's going on?” he asks, raising an eyebrow at his second-youngest brother. North – and Sealand, who thankfully doesn't seem to be involved with this – are terrible about their pranks, and he really doesn't want any part of it.
“Well... I'm trying to matchmake Cal and Brigid,” the younger nation says, looking down at his feet. “I mean, it's been centuries! You know that better than I do!”
“Is that what you were whispering to Canada about?” Wales wants to know. “I could have sworn you were talking about Albion and America, that day.”
“Well, them too, but Canada's taking care of them for now.”
Wales laughs so hard he starts coughing, and then shakes his head. “So basically, you, one of the and the quiet boy everyone ignores are trying to matchmake two of the most stubborn pairs in the world? Patrick, have you lost your mind?”
North scowls at him, looking alarmingly like his sister when she's about to tear into someone, but all he says is, “No, and I don't see why it can't work, thank you very much. Between the two of us, we know all four of them very well, and know just where to push. It could work.”
“Or, it could blow up in your faces and then where will you be?”
“You think it could get worse?”
Wales shudders. “Actually, yes. You're not old enough to remember when Albion was freezing America out so much he wouldn't even speak to him. Sent me and then Brigid instead. And as for Cal and Brigid, I really don't want to witness another fight like the one they had once Cal recovered from Culloden. I really don't.”
“Well, it's not like you live with them anymore,” North points out cheerfully, “so you won't.”
“Oh God, we're all going to suffer for this, aren't we?” Wales mutters to himself. Out loud he says, “Fine, you can chair instead of me. But. In exchange, you and Peter are forbidden to prank me for a year. Understood?”
North hesitates, then nods. “Deal.”
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Date: 2011-06-14 04:45 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-14 09:45 pm (UTC)Great read, it was a lot of fun!
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Date: 2011-06-15 01:46 am (UTC)I'll try to have the next chapter up in a timely fashion. I do know we will be at the British-Irish Council, and finally we'll meet Cornwall (and he's probably not going to be the only one).
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Date: 2011-06-15 01:48 am (UTC)(Is your icon a fem!America, or is it just the angle?)
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Date: 2011-06-15 06:30 pm (UTC)So much, that I think I cannot handle myself anymore!
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Date: 2011-06-16 01:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-06-16 03:12 am (UTC)And yeah, definately right about the Sealand thing... one of my favorite little details about the fic so far is that not everyone knows everyone else's human name. It's really annoying when countries that have absolutely no interaction automatically know them.
Also, I really liked all the introspection in the chapter.
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Date: 2011-06-16 04:46 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-09-23 10:07 pm (UTC)Love seeing Wales in there too, and the inclusion of Cornwall in everything makes me cheerful!
Looking forward to seeing chapter three!
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Date: 2011-09-23 10:23 pm (UTC)I love Wales. I might have to do a little more with him in this fic. (Possibly involving a certain pairing we discussed.) As for Cornwall, he exists largely because once I made Ireland a girl, I needed another character to give England three older brothers, as in canon.
Chapter three got bogged down - Channel Islands, I had to invent their -tans.
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Date: 2011-09-24 11:07 am (UTC)Hehe, I fear I simply tend to ignore canon. But my Ireland is a man, and I listed Cornwall as being England's younger brother.
I worked a little on the Channel Islands myself, and ended up just expanding right the way out, from Faroe, Isle of Man to Jersey, Guernsey and Brittany. And I have barely used a single one. I'm looking forward to seeing your Channel Isles, I'm not sure I'm hitting the right note with mine, so it'll be an education.
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Date: 2011-09-24 02:58 pm (UTC)Ireland walked into my head as a girl, and thus she has stayed. (Parallel universe theory, we're both right, and I wonder what our Irelands would make of each other.)
I have Mann, Jersey, Guernsey, and Brittany, though Brittany is France's sister and only a cousin to the UK sibs. They're all girls - yes, even Mann, I found it a bit ironic. Besides, Hetalia needs more females.