ENJOY!!! :D
Description: When England has had the last straw, he decides to put a curse on America to teach him a lesson. But he quickly discovers that his curse has only made things between them much more interesting. (NOT A ONE-SHOT!!!)
Chapter 1:
The room was dark, only lit by a few candles, their flames flickering eerily. A large circle was carved into the floor, shapes and words of a long-forgotten language intricately decorating it. Before the circle stood a cloaked England, spell book in hand. He flipped through the pages, looking for just the right spell to use. He thought back to how stupid America had been the other day at one of their meetings, how he had yet again insulted his cooking, how he had tried to shove a hamburger down his throat, how he had just been rude and inconsiderate as usual. England wasn't going to take America's antics anymore. For only a few moments had England actually thought of killing him, but then memories of their past flashed through his head, making him immediately change his mind. So he had decided to just make America sick. He scanned over the pages, looking for just the right spell. He wanted something that would just make America really sick, but not something that could kill him. Something just to teach him that if you mess with England, you'll get screwed over like none other.
He had been looking through his spell book for a while now, but had not yet found just what he was looking for. There had been a spell he'd found that caused a horrible fit of giggles. But America already laughed far too much, so that would just make England's problem worse. There had been another that caused the victim to become forgetful, but that would just make America complain about everything even more than he already did. That was definitely not the spell that England wanted.
A spell caught his eye. It said that it would cause the person to have a horrible case of stomach flu. England thought it over. It would make America uncomfortable and put him in his proper place—on the ground before him, puking his guts out. Britain smiled as he imagined it. He'd tell America that he was the one who cast the spell, and that if America actually grew up and started acting like an adult, he'd remove it. He could see it now: America begging him to stop it, begging to be able to actually keep his precious hamburgers down.
"Perfect," he purred as he readied himself. He couldn't wait to see America at his feet, begging for mercy. He would finally be able to get back at him for all he had ever done to him. It was going to be the best moment of his life.
"Obiectum oculus meus, ut me diligat," Britain chanted, the image of America's pleading face in his mind, "No alii Habebis eum, mea ei!"
All of the candles flickered as he ended the spell, a chill running through the room. The spell—it was done. England couldn't contain his laughter as he thought of how America was going to respond, how he was going to beg for relief.
"I'll go see him now," England muttered to himself, a sneer on his face. He couldn't wait to rub his victory in America's face. For once, he would be the winner! He laughed as he exited the room to prepare his bags.
x-x-x-x-x
"Ha ha ha!" America laughed, nearly at tears. "Ha ha, dude! He took a potato chip! Ha ha, and ate it! Man, that's classic!"
America turned off his television as he got up to grab another hamburger. He really didn't have anything to do today besides stay home and do random things to keep himself entertained. Usually he'd hang out with Tony, his righteous alien friend, but was out of galaxy right now. He hadn't given America that many details—just something about "probing." That was all he needed to hear to know that he probably didn't want to know all of the details. So, with Tony off doing whatever he was doing, America was just chilling out at his house, doing what he did best—being awesome.
Just as he reached to grab another hamburger from the huge piled he had on his table, something happened. He felt his stomach clench, surprising him. He gripped his stomach, looking down at it curiously. He hadn't had that many hamburgers really—well, at least not a lot for him. He shouldn't be sick. He looked up, trying to think of what else he could have eaten that might have made him sick. But his eyes stopped on a picture on the table that he had gotten out earlier. It was an old picture of England. One that had been taken before the Revolutionary War. One taken back when he used to actually smile.
America felt his stomach clench again as he blushed. England. Just thinking of him made his stomach flip. He brushed back his hair as he tried to understand what was going on. Why did looking at England make him feel like this? It had never really happened before. Why now?
Maybe someone had drugged his food or something?
x-x-x-x-x
It had taken a few hours, but England finally arrived at America's house. He could barely contain himself, extremely excited to see just how sick his spell had made him, and how desperate he was to have it lifted. He wondered just what America would do to make England take off the curse. He smiled as he thought of just how much fun he was going to have with this.
He knocked on the door, but suddenly realized that America just might not be able to answer it. He might be so sick that he was collapsed on the floor, unable to move. A seed of worry planted itself in him as he pondered over how he would get into the house if this were the case—maybe he could break through a window? Then, to his relief, the door opened, proving his worrying unnecessary.
America poked his head through the open door and, to England's surprise, began to blush furiously. "H-Hey, Britain," he said, smiling nervously, still hiding behind his door. "What are you doing here?"
England tried to look him over to see if he looked physically sick at all, but he was concealed by the door. Curiously, he peeked around the door to see that America was dressed down in sweats and a hoodie, but looked completely normal. His clothes looked far too clean for him to have been throwing up. Irritated, he glared at him, upset that America wasn't begging for mercy. But, once again surprising him, America jumped back, blushing more.
"Dude, seriously, did… did you need anything?"
"Have you been sick at all?" Britain asked, just hoping that maybe, just maybe, the spell was taking its time to take effect.
"S-sick?" America asked, scratching his head, ruffling his light brown hair. "Uh…Well, I don't know if you'd call it sick, but…"
"Well, have you been experiencing anything weird?" England asked forcefully, taking a step towards him. "Anything out of the ordinary?"
"Ha ha, w-weird?" America asked, taking another step back. "Uh… heh, weird. Um…"
"Just answer the question, you git!" England demanded, quickly losing his patience.
America's face became tense, his blue eyes flicking from side to side, never landing once directly on England. "Uh, well… I… I've been… kind of… I guess…"
"Get the bloody hell on with it!" Britain cried.
"I can't stop thinking about you, man!" America blurted, his face going yet another shade darker. "I've been thinking about you for hours! I just keep on seeing your face! I keep on hearing you talk to me! It's really freaking me out, dude!"
To say the least, England hadn't been expecting to hear that. "Huh?" He cocked his head to the side, utterly confused. "What… what have I been saying?"
America once again broke eye contact with Engalnd. "Er, well… stuff like… Uh… Like… Like you…" His voice trailed off as he looked at the door frame like it was the most interesting thing he had ever seen.
"Speak up!" England said. He needed to find out where he had gone wrong with the spell. He wouldn't be able to do that if America didn't tell him what the bloody hell was going on.
"You keep saying that…" America's voice cut off once again. England was about to hit him when he finally said, "You keep saying that you love me."
England almost passed out. "What?"
"You keep saying that you love me and that you… you want me…" America's face went yet another shade red as he saw that England was not at all happy with what he was saying.
"What the bloody hell is this," England muttered to himself. He set down his bag and started rummaging through it. Luckily he had set the spell book near the top, so it was fairly easy to find. "Hey, America," England said, looking back up at him. "Can I come in? I need to look over something."
"Huh?" America said, flustered. His eyes once again flitted every which way as if literally looking for a reason to decline. But after a moment, it seemed that he gave up. "Uh, yeah, sure."
America shuffled away from the door to let England inside. England walked past him, somewhat concerned with the way he felt America's blue eyes latched on to him. Yet another reason he had to fix whatever spell he had put on him as soon as he could.
England took a seat on America's overstuffed couch as he flipped back through the pages of his book. It took him a minute, but he found the page with the curse he had used. He scanned it to find the incantation.
"Hey, what's that?" America asked, sitting down next to England. He sat close to him. Too close for his liking.
"None of your business," England said dismissively as he scooted over a few inches away from America. He returned to the page, his green eyes instantly finding the spell. He read over it, and didn't see where he could have messed up. He remembered reading it perfectly! Nothing should have gone wrong. But then he read the title of the spell. The one he had wanted to do was the one right above what he had read. He had skipped the line! He wanted to shoot himself in the foot for his complete and utter stupidity. Looking over it, the one that he had read instead had an extremely different effect. Remembering the Latin he had learned many centuries ago, he translated it. And felt his stomach sink like a rock.
The object of my eye, make him love me. No others shall have him, make him mine.
He had made America fall in love with him.
"Hey, you okay?"
England nearly fell off the couch. He looked over at America, and felt himself flush. The way he was looking at him made his skin crawl. America didn't really have any respect for personal space in the first place, but now he was even more ignorant of it. He had left barely an inch between the two of them. For God's sake, he could feel his breath on his neck. England tried to scoot farther away from him, but found that he was pressed against the arm of the chair.
"G-get away from me, wanker!" he cried as he jumped up from the chair. He felt like his face was on fire, and he wanted nothing more than to get out of there. Now. But, as he thought through it, he realized that this would only get worse if he didn't fix it. Suddenly, the image of America fawning over him during a meeting flashed through his head. A horrible chill ran through him. No. He had to fix this now.
"What?" America asked as if practically sitting in another man's lap was something completely acceptable. "I wasn't trying to do anything."
England glared at him, straightening out his clothes. "America, if you don't mind, I'd prefer it if you'd stay away from me while I'm here."
A surprised look flashed on America's face. "While… you stay?" he repeated, gripping the edge of his hoodie. "You're… staying ? For how long?"
"For as long as it takes to make you stop acting so…" He stared at America, and shivered inwardly. "Creepy," he finished.
America stayed silent for a while, his eyes not leaving England for a second. But a sudden smile crossed his face. "Okay!" he said happily. "I don't have a guest room, so we can sleep together!"
England felt himself gag. "What the bloody—no!" he said, taking a huge step away from the couch. "No way in bloody hell!"
America's eyes widened, blood rushing to his face. "N-no! Not like that!" he replied nervously, tensing up. "I meant that we could—"
"I don't care what you meant!" England retorted, holding his forehead, feeling a headache coming on. "We are not going to sleep together, you twit!"
America brought his legs up and rested his chin on his knees. "Okay, okay, sorry," he said, staring off into space. England wanted to punch him as he just sat there and pouted like a child. This was the exact reason he hated him so much. He fought for his independence just so that he could complain about how people didn't do what he wanted them to. He had been independent from England for two centuries, and he still acted like he did when he was just a few years old.
With a sigh, England picked up his spell book and went to sit in the farthest possible chair away from America. He honestly couldn't wait for America to get back to normal. America being a complete git, he was used to. But America asking him to sleep with him? No, this had to change.
x-x-x-x-x
America sat on his couch, pouting about England and his overreactions. There was no way he would have asked to have sex with him! He just wanted them to sleep together, that's all. They could sleep in the same bed, that's all he was saying he wanted to do. But, no, England, him and his stupid British ways, had to jump to the conclusion that all America was, was a sex-hungry pervert. And he was definitely not a pervert—he was too much of a hero for that!
But as America was sulking over England and his overreaction, he suddenly realized that he had been watching England for a while. He wasn't doing anything interesting, yet America couldn't take his eyes off of him. The way his messy blonde hair poked out around his head, the way his thick eyebrows furrowed when he was concentrating, the way his emerald green eyes moved so smoothly across the page he was reading. One of his legs was crossed over the other, one hand holding his book as his other held his chin. He just looked so sophisticated as he sat there, so intellectual. So…
Beautiful.
"Eeh!" America gasped, ducking his face behind his knees. England gave him a weird look, but then went back to ignoring him. Even though England didn't seem concerned, America was being freaked out beyond what he thought was ever possible. How could he be thinking what he was thinking? He shouldn't ever be thinking about England like that! They were barely friends! They were two guys! His thoughts wandered as he realized just how far apart they had grown from each other. He really didn't mind being around England, but he could tell that England wasn't necessarily fond of him. There were still times that he thought of England as an older brother, but he knew that, after all they had gone through, it was unlikely that they'd ever be able to get back to how they were before.
Thinking about how the two of them used to be didn't usually bug America. But for some reason now, it really hurt. He thought back to how they used to be when he was little. England, whenever he would actually come home from wars or business, would always be smiling, always happy to see how much America had grown. He'd bring back gifts and stories to tell America, and would be excited to get to hear all of his stories too. America wouldn't leave England's side at all if possible, and he'd always cling to him when he tried to leave on business. The only thing that'd make him let go of England was when he'd promise America that he'd be back soon. He'd let go and watch him leave, hoping that he'd keep his promise this time and be back when he said he would. But, as America found out through the years, England was never great at keeping promises.
England suddenly looked up from his book, an irritated glare on his face. "Will you stop staring at me?" he growled. "I'm trying to focus."
America jumped, turning his head so fast that he almost broke his own neck. "S-sorry," he stammered. He felt his face flushed; he wasn't trying to be a creeper! He really wasn't! But he couldn't help looking at him and his gorgeous body.
Oh dear God. He needed to stop this.
He started to look around the room, trying to find something, anything, that would take his mind off of England. His eyes searched the entire room, but there was nothing that could hold his attention for more than a few seconds. And every time he would look away from one object, his eyes would always find their way back to England. It was as if he was a magnet, and America's eyes were just unwillingly drawn to him.
"Stop it, you wanker!" England cried, his face reddening with anger. "Honestly, do you want me to slap you across your face?"
"Gaah!" America said, burying his face in his hands. "Dude, I'm sorry! I don't mean to stare!"
"If you didn't mean to," England grumbled, "you would've stopped by now."
"I seriously can't stop!"
"And why the bloody hell not?" England hissed.
"Because you're freakin' hot!"
England's face went to a shade of red that America had never seen before. It took a second for America to realize what he had just said. When he did, he nearly screamed. He wanted to go and find a deep hole, jump in it and die.
"I'll just leave now," America said. He didn't wait for any response from England as he jumped up and ran to his room, slamming the door closed as fast as possible. He face planted on his bed, shoving his face into a pillow. He hoped beyond all belief that England couldn't hear him as he shouted profanities into his pillow.
Why did he have to be so stupid?
x-x-x-x-x
When America opened his eyes, his room was pitch black. He tried to see what time it was, but he couldn't read the numbers on the digital clock. Groggily, he searched for his glasses. He tried to find them on his night stand, but nothing was there. He went to brush hair out of his face when he found his glasses lying right next to his face. Weird, he thought as he put his glasses back on. He was confused as he read the time: it was eleven at night. Why was he in bed? How long had he been in bed?
He felt his stomach lurch as he remembered that England had come to his house. He had ran into his room when he had… oh God, he had called him hot. America tried to remember when he had fallen asleep, but everything after he had come back into his room was a blur.
He turned on his light as he sat on the edge of his bed. He wondered what England was doing at the moment. Where was going to sleep? England had flat out refused to sleep with him—even though America had meant nothing perverted about that—and America didn't have a guest room. He wasn't sure where England was going to sleep, but he didn't want to leave England to find a comfortable space of floor to sleep on. America was too much of a hero for that!
America walked down the hall that led into his living room to find that there were still lights on. Staying up late was always normal for America, seeing as night time was when all of the cool stuff happened. But for all of the years that America lived with England, rarely did England stay up past ten at night. He was a big believer of bedtimes and waking up early. So with it being past eleven at night, it would be pretty weird for him to still be awake.
"England?" America said as he poked his head into the living room. A blush crossed his face as he spotted England where he had left him, sleeping soundly with the book still in his lap. His head rested on his shoulder with his hair fallen into his face. His mouth was slightly open, his soft breaths audible from where America was standing. He had to admit, when he wasn't scowling at people with pure malice, England was actually pretty cute.
"Hey, England," America said as he walked into the room. However, England didn't stir. "England?" America cocked his head at him, wondering what to do. He knew that England could fall to sleep in record time, but he didn't know that he was such a heavy sleeper. He didn't want to just leave him there, sleeping on a chair. With the way his head was, he was going to have a horrible crick in his neck in the morning if he just left him there to sleep. He could possibly just let him sleep on the couch, but that didn't seem right either. America had slept on a couch before, and he had been achy for days afterwards.
Suddenly, an idea occurred to him. He had slept on the couch before! He could do it again. He lied to himself, trying to make himself believe that the couch was the most comfortable place to sleep in the whole entire world. It wasn't an exactly convincing lie, but he decided to go with it anyway. So, he'd sleep on the couch. And he'd let England sleep in his bed. It was perfect… well, at least for England it was. But that was his main concern right now.
But there was still a problem with that. How was he going to get England in his bed? Well, he thought, I could always carry him. But his stomach churned as he thought of what could happen. What if he woke up? What if he started freaking out at him? What if he thought he was trying to rape him or something?
What if he left?
America sighed as he couldn't come up with another way to transfer England. He just had to hope that England was a really heavy sleeper. Taking a piece of paper from the coffee table, America put it in England's book to mark his place and set it down with the few others books he had laying around. Then, carefully, he put one arm behind England's back. He waited to see if England would wake up, but he just continued to sleep. With a breath to try and settle his nerves, he slipped his other arm beneath his legs. He gingerly lifted him out of the chair, relieved when England didn't stir. He meant to take him immediately to bed, but the feeling of England in his arms was something that made his nerves go crazy. England was really powerful and cunning during battle, but with him sleeping in his arms, America realized just how small and fragile he was. Sudden thoughts went through his head. He could just take him into his room, lock the door. He could make him his. He could…
America quickly rid his mind of these dark, tempting thoughts. He couldn't just do that to England. That would be wrong. So, with a sigh, he began to carry him to bed.
"America…"
He nearly dropped England as he felt his stomach drop like a boulder. But as he looked down at him, he realized with relief that England was just talking in his sleep. He was talking in his sleep about him. America blushed as he thought of what England could be dreaming of him doing. Maybe, just maybe, England felt something for him too.
"America… you git…"
Or maybe not. With a disappointed sigh, America carried him the rest of the way to his room. Luckily he had kept his door open, so it wasn't a challenge of opening the door with his hands full. Gently, he laid England down on the bed, doing his best not to drop him. For a second he thought of trying to change his clothes, but decided against it—too much temptation if that happened.
Once he had put the covers over him, he turned off the lamp, sending the room back into darkness beside the residual light from the hall. "Night, England," America said. He turned around and walked through the door, and pushed it most of the way closed. The light in the hallway sent a small streak of light into the room, just barely illuminating where England lay. America gave him one last look as he smiled. "England," he whispered, "I… I love you." Smiling, he closed the door, heading to the "comfortable" couch to sleep.
Damn! Long chapter! I'm so proud of myself!!! :D So anyway, fist chapter up! Yay! I will warn you though, the next few chapters may make your eyes tear up, or make you laugh so hard you pee your pants!
~TheHeroOfForever