Hetalia 1p Meets 2p

Hungary

Elizabeta Héderváry slumped on her couch and pulled out her Sig Sauer 38h. She was tired from a fistfight she'd just had with Gilbert (and won). She wiped blood that'd smeared on her hands and knuckles onto a towel in her kitchen, then opened her fridge and looked through it's contents. She was a first classer girl, but didn't act or look it. She was given beautiful silk dresses, each strand woven to perfection, but still usually wore baggy cargo pants and a white tee shirt. She had a walk-in closet of dresses, high heels, the most precious jewels, yet she still wore her usual pair of ratty converse all-stars. Occasionally, she'd wear a dress, but always find a way to hide her trusty Sig in the ruffles. She usually wore her cargos and tee on lazy days when she didn't need to leave the house. When she needed to leave, she wore either a simple yet elegant dress or fancy jeans and a real leather jacket. She spun her handgun around her finger by the trigger guard, tossed it up, caught it and tucked it in her black belt. She pulled out a half-eaten salad from last night's dinner, placed it on the counter, and dug in. Sure, she had manners. She always used manners, eating, talking, everything. She hated slang, and always used proper grammar. And she wasn't spoiled. She loved everything she had, and never asked for more.

There was a World Meeting today, and she needed to prepare. World Meetings meant everyone had to look their best. This meant Hungary had to wear a dress. She didn't mind all that much. She was as much a girly dress person as she was a cargos tomboy.

Her phone beeped, causing her to jump slightly. Her house was silent. She'd muted the TV. The Hungarian pulled out her phone and checked her texts. She frowned. A message from Germany, the one who ran the meetings. She pulled open the text and read aloud:

Hungary. Meeting called off. Odd parallel versions of every country have arrived. Opposite of you. Your counterpart. Call themselves 2ps. Everything you're not. Meet yourself -Germany

Elizabeta burst out laughing. Was this a trick? She laughed harder, nearly choking on her own breaths. Germany must've been drunk or something. Prussia got him and won him over with a beer. Liz rolled her eyes, still chuckling. She doubted this was real, but still didn't get ready for the meeting. She finished her salad, wiped her mouth, dumped her garbage in the can and was about to walk back to the TV when there was a knock on her door. What? Her brow furrowed, and she took a U-turn to her door. The Hungarian girl opened the door and nearly dropped her phone. Her eyes bugged. No more laughing. She was standing in front of herself.

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"Ew, girly, we gotta get you out of that ratty outfit," her lookalike said, looking Eliza up and down. Liz fumed.

"Don't insult me," she growled. She couldn't stand insults. Her lookalike was wearing a frilly, puff-sleeved, neon-pink ruffly dress, but her hair was the same light-cocoa, dusty brown as Elizabeta's, and both their eyes were the same shade of emerald green.

"Jeez, sorry, but would it kill you to try out a dress? Perhaps, not...cargo?" Elizabeta's lookalike gagged. Liz slapped her counterpart across the face, and the girl let out a high-pitch "UGH!" of disgust. Elizabeta smiled a bit.

"Who the hell are you?" Eliza asked, grabbing the girl by the wrist and pulling her inside. Hungary kicked the door closed with her heel, pulled out her Sauer, and pointed the barrel at her lookalike's head.

"HOLD YOUR FIRE!" The girl burst into tears. "I'm your 2p."

Hungary froze solid. Germany wasn't kidding. She lowered the gun and hooked it back in her belt. The girl sighed with relief. Hungary narrowed her eyes at her 2p. "You're 2p Hungary?" Liz asked. Her 2p nodded.

"I'm the opposite of you. Girly all the time, giggly, hyperactive, love the boys, hate the fighting...," her eyes trailed to Eliza's Sauer.

Hungary sighed. "Sorry. I panicked. I thought it was a trick of Gil's or something. I'm not gonna hurt you...um...,"

"Franceska."

So that was Hungary's 2p's name. Her opposite. Her counterpart. Parallel her...

Franceska.

"So really girly, you gonna change or what?" Franceska asked.

"No." Eliza replied coldly. "I like the way I dress. I'd rather come off as tough, not soft and...," she trailed off, looking her frilly, girlier-than-Poland 2p.

"Could I at least see your wardrobe?" Franceska asked. Eliza sighed and nodded. Franceska squealed like a happy little schoolgirl, then ran to Hungary's room and started rooting through her dresser. Hungary sighed again and followed her.

"Gross, gross, GROSS! You need new clothes," Franceska said, rooting though Eliza's many white, black, grey, red and deep violet tank tops and tee shirts, baggy jeans and cargo shorts, occasional pair of skinny jeans or slightly-puff-sleeved shirt.

"I've got dresses, if you want to see them," Eliza said. "I don't mind wearing them, I just rather cargos and tees a little bit more. You got a problem?" Liz asked, stroking her Sig. Her 2p shook her head rapidly then bolted to Elizabeta's closet.

"OHHH!!! Look at this perfect violet one! And this pale pink one? The perfect amount of white mixed in! This grey one, oh, Eliza, it looks like a pretty ash-dress! And this blood red one, the one shoulder one, LOOVE ITTT!" She gasped. "I love this cheetah print skin tight one, so cuuute! And this bright green one with the sequin snowflake on the side? Matches our hair! Ohhh, cute zebra print pumps! Love 'em, Lizzie!"

"How do you know my name?" Elizabeta snapped, ignoring her 2p's incessant fangirling over the wardrobe.

"I'm your 2p, silly! I know who you are. I'm surprised you don't know me," Franceska chirped happily. "Want to go look for some guys to take home? You could wear one of these dresses. This icy blue one would make your eyes stand out. Maybe you could do something with that mop on your head, pin it up like mine," she said, flipping her dusty, honey-brown hair which was pulled into a high ponytail.

Elizabeta wanted to pull out a weapon. She was known for getting her hands on odd, out-of-the-ordinary weapons. Everyone was scared of what she'd bring to every World Meeting. People agreed she could be scarier than Russia sometimes. She could stomach anything. She loved gore. Throat scrapings. Brain pickings. Putting a gun barrel up someone's ass and firing. Dislocating and breaking off a jaw and stabbing someone in the throat with their own mouth. She loved and knew it all. Her enemy was England. She hated the Brit-idiot Arthur, and desperately wanted him dead. She wanted to hear him cry as she gouged his eyes out, then knitted the rope that strangled him to death out of his own optic nerves. She wanted to hear his muffled screams of pain through the towel shoved in his mouth as she broke all his limbs backwards. But she couldn't, everyone at the meetings held her back. She was usually tied down with heavy chains whenever England walked in. She had to admit, he was smart though. He stayed away from her, walked on the opposite side of the street. Smart Brit.

Her thoughts were interrupted when Franceska pulled her hair into pigtails. Eliza shrieked and flailed, but her 2p was behind her, pulling her hair back. "Just...get...every...hair...perfect...," she grunted, and Elizabeta whirled around and elbowed Franceska across the face.

"Get out of my house." She growled, pulling a crowbar out of a slit in her wall.

Franceska flinched a bit and tried not to cry. She backed up the tiniest bit, fearful of her tomboy 1p. Now she knew why all the other 1ps (and a few 2ps) were scared of her. Weapons everywhere. Strong stomach. Franceska's voice was quavery, but strong too:

"Hair. First."