Love of the Half Eaten Peach

I
thought since this is starting to shape up in some unposted parts to be
a touch dirtier than I was planning I might as well post it here. I'll
apologize in advance because the "good stuff" doesn't start until
chapter 3 and even then it's just a tease til chapter 6 ;) Enjoy
everyone! C&C is always welcome.



Love of the Half Eaten Peach

By Cyrelia J




“Those manipulative little bastards!” America exclaims for
what seems
to be the millionth time that night. He hadn’t let up the entire walk
back to the room. “Did you see they way they were hanging all over
him?!” He nearly slams the door on Canada’s face as they enter the
hotel room. America’s already furiously pulling at the obi as he stomps
through the sitting room not even noticing the angry glare that’s fired
in his direction. They’re sharing the suite with England, but neither
of them expect him back any time soon. He’d passed out in the middle of
the banquet hall right after dessert. America and Australia had every
intention of taking advantage of the situation if it wasn’t for the
murderous little moppets guarding that old fucker like the goddamn hope
diamond. America’s hand is still smarting from where the British Indian
Ocean had bitten him.

The grubby little brats are probably picking his fucking pockets
right
now. It’d serve his pedo ass right if they rob him blind! He
thinks Canada is saying
something but in his fury he hardly notices. “‘You promised to build me
an airport daddy~’” he grits out in a mocking childish voice, playing
St Helen. “He’s not even their father! He’s their damn pedo “brother
and they’re just playing to his gross little fetishes! Well fuck Helen.
Fuck her and her overpriced coffee.” He throws his hands up in the air
as he paces. “I’ve been trying to get him to discuss this trade
agreement for the last month and nothing! And did you see the looks we
were all getting? I was embarrassed to be an english speaking nation!
Even Jamaica was disgusted!”

England had a decadent head start on the rest of them seated with
twelve of his fourteen territories clustered around him like an
underage harem. There were already several empty sake bottles by the
time the mochi had been brought out. Upon seeing the little brats,
America had immediately protested that they weren't proper nations and
that England could very well send the lot of them back home- not cause
he was jealous or anything- but because they were a bunch of nasty
little leeches who all seemed to universally hate him even if their
people didn’t.

Japan had mildly pointed out that they were nonetheless countries and
this was a world conference. World conference his Uncle Sam;
eyebrows
must’ve had dirt on him. But America, fair minded guy that he was, had
remained silent until dinner that night. Even he had to say something
when the blonde haired blue eyed “child” that was the Falkland Islands
had taken it upon himself to sit on England’s lap and feed him sake:
with his mouth.

“Christ you fucking limey pedo can’t you keep it in your pants til
we’re done eating!?” Canada had tried to slide under the table; an
impressive feat considering they were all kneeling. England had glared
at him about to say something when the country in question turned on
him with a growl and lunged. England- in an impressive display of drunk
fu- grabbed him by the waist before he could move from the table. The
dinner had rapidly deteriorated from there.

Canada takes a moment to recall the usually laid back Jamaica leaving
with a snort of “fuck di baty bwoy dem.” He decides not to
waste his
breath reminding America that Jamaica would’ve been just as offended by
two grown men holding hands.

America throws the yukata to the floor and then throws himself
on the
bamboo sofa outside clad in only his boxers. He runs furious fingers
through his hair with a snarl and gives the floor a petulant stomp.

“I don’t know what those little fuckers have that we don’t,” he starts.
“Has that little bastard’s balls even dropped?” Canada doesn’t answer
him to point out that thirteen is plenty old enough for that. He only
sighs. Whatever ridiculous thing between America and the Falkland
Islands over England is none of his business.

“I think it’s pretty obvious what the difference is, Al.” One look
shows that America hasn’t even heard him speak.

“Do you know?” he asks the bear lying on the cool floor in his
frustration.

“Puppy.” It answers back brilliantly. The single word causes him to
pause where he hadn’t even heard his brother and Canada not for the
first time marvels at how he’s even overshadowed by his own pet.
America looks down as the while ball of fur makes itself comfortable in
the cool evening air. The bear rolls over and looks up at him
expectantly. “Reward?”

“What the hell?”

“I got it, Al.” Canada goes to the small refrigerator in the room and
fishes out a hard boiled egg. He tosses it to Kumajiro in thanks.

“Thanks Kumakiko.” The bear catches the egg and enjoys the treat much
to America’s bemusement. “Never hurts to reward good behavior right?”
Canada holds up a bowl of cherries waving one like an enticing treat.
“Can Al guess what he means?” America yawned and shook his head.

“Don’t be an ass, Mattie, what the hell is your bear talking about?”

“What he means,” Canada takes a seat next to him feeling like an
overgrown mongoloid, the two broad north Americans easily filling the
small furniture meant to seat three. “Is that we’re like dogs, or
really any animal, Al. We grow up, gain independence, and we’re not
“cute” anymore. Arthur doesn’t need to hold our hands...
orwhateverhedoeswiththeFalklandIslands... And besides,
do
you really
want to-”

“That’s it!” America’s exclamation and quick rise to his feet knocks
his twin off the small couch.

“Christ Al, how many times do I have to ask you not to be so-”

“You’re a genius, Mattie!” He claps his hands together and is already
sprinting back into the sitting room to retrieve his phone. Canada
picks himself up muttering under his breath and ignores the “who are
you again?” that comes from his bear. He hears his brother talking to
Tony and is almost dreading what they’re cooking up together. He’s
tried to block past escapades out of his head. Sometimes he still has
nightmares about America’s “brilliant” idea to turn them both invisible
to spy on Russia; he hasn’t been able to look at a matryoshka
doll
without blushing ever since then.

Canada continues to tidy up from America’s miniature tantrum marveling
at how quickly he trashed the sitting room. He folds America’s yukata,
puts away the scattered DVDs, and slowly starts to unpack his own
things. They’d just arrived earlier in the day and it’s been a mad,
precisely scheduled whirlwind ever since. It’s only 10 PM local time
right now but he feels like he’s been awake forever. He stops to
consider it and realizes that he normally would have been in bed 6
hours ago. They’d shared America’s private jet to cut down on
expenditures and with the nine hour flight... Canada shakes his head.
They don’t really need sleep per se but it would be nice to clear his
head and rest his body.

He blinks as he looks at the long coffee table and gift basket he
swears wasn’t there when they arrived. It looks more like a helping of
what one would find in a love motel and he sighs. Canada picks through
it wondering whatever happened to the days of cheap shampoo and bars of
soap with WC89 or the like engraved onto them. He delicately removes a
neon blue jelly ring that jiggles in his hand. Well that just
screams
classy. It’s one of the most poorly kept secrets that most of their
true negotiations take place under the sheets but he’d have thought
Japan would have been far more subtle about acknowledging it. He unties
the souvenir obi and yukata, shrugging out of the alien garments. He
folds them neatly, setting them aside and out of morbid curiosity
resumes his examination of the basket. They might as well just call
it
“Orgy 2011”, he thinks as he examines the various flavors of lube
and
assortment of condoms.

Magnums? Yeah, that’s giving Al a little too much credit. He
tosses
those aside and glances at an odd little blue bottle with the elegant
asian script. China brush? Guaranteed to enhance sexual
sensation... Hmm, that might have potential. He sets that
aside for later along with the warming massage oil. He stares at the
length of ornate red rope and almost chokes at the Hello Kitty
“massager”. Maybe this basket was intended for China’s room? He looks
at the XXL condoms and thinks that no, this was definitely somehow
theirs.

America’s phone conversation wraps up neatly and with a 100 watt smile,
he looks up brightly.

“We’ve so got him.” Canada raises an eyebrow at this putting the items
back into the basket. Don’t ask too many questions,” Don’t worry,
Al, I
really don’t want to know... “But the package will be here tomorrow
morning. Tony’s got just the thing to put old pedo in his place.”
Package? Canada refrains from pointing out he seriously doubts
that
Arthur is actually a child molester in the true sense of the word and
merely adds another tally to his “how many times America says ‘pedo’
count”. He merely nods and goes into the bedroom thankful that Japan
had given them one of the western style rooms.

The two beds had given him pause and made him wonder why every nation
on earth seemed to think that he and America were fucking on a regular
basis- that’s not to say they didn’t from time to time but still. He
was going to ask if Japan at least had a roll away- not that America or
England would ever agree to be the one using it- but America’s cheerful
declaration of things being “just like old times” led him to believe
they could make it work. And tonight it doesn’t look like England will
even make it back to the room. I don’t care how loudly he yells,
I’m
claiming that bed for the rest of the trip. He’s not sure why
exactly
Japan had reserved a ryokan that can’t accommodate their lot without a
lot of room sharing, but then again he doesn’t notice the cameras that
have been strategically placed in every room either.