|With Brothers Like These
Author: Catching Tomorrow PM
The life and times of the four constituent countries living in the small, rainswept and awesome house known as United Kingdom.Rated: Fiction K+ - English - Family/Humor - England/Britain & Scotland - Chapters: 18 - Words: 44,416 - Reviews: 215 - Favs: 155 - Follows: 136 - Updated: 01-19-12 - Published: 08-27-11 - id: 7327971
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
I was feeling soppy the other day, so I was looking through all the family-based fanfictions. I found them for the German-speaking nations, for East Asia, for North America, but none for the British Isles. And that made me sad, because that's where I'm from and, from what little we know of these characters (besides England), they have so much potential. And, knowing the relationships the constituent countries of the UK have with each other, the thought of cooping them all up in the same house gave me a sadistic sort of glee. The result of that glee - and a little bit of character-building - is this, a series of one-shots about the United Kingdom.
If Hetalia was mine, these guys would have much more love. The UK is also not mine, just in case anyone was wondering.
To clear up any confusion for people unfamiliar with the UK, EmeraldIsle is the Republic of Ireland, who lives on her own, and SoBritishRightNow is Northern Ireland, who lives with the rest of the United Kingdom.
What are you doing?
Not much. The guys are making breakfast and I'm talking to you.
You're letting them cook for you?
Northern Ireland looked up from his laptop to see England and Scotland fighting over a strange lump of beige that he quickly identified as haggis. He pulled a face; only Scotland understood the appeal of that kind of food and he had a feeling that only Scotland ever would.
"I told you we weren't having any more of that in the house! It's digusting!"
"It's not disgustin', it's delicious! I have it fer breakfast all the time!"
"It is a sheep's heart, liver and lungs cooked in its own stomach! Only you would find that delicious!"
"It's traditional!" Scotland gave an extra-hard tug and the haggis ripped in half, spilling a kind of brown mush all over the floor. Wales pressed his back to the kitchen counter and stared at it in horror, most likely trying not to imagine the poor sheep that it used to be.
They're not that bad.
They are and you know it. I don't know how I survived all those years in that house without dying from food poisoning.
Wales's cooking isn't too bad.
If you like leeks.
"What are yer doin', Wales?"
Ireland sighed and peered over the top of his laptop. Scotland, having cleared up the ruined haggis, was now trying to get a look at what Wales was up to.
"N-nothing..." said the smaller nation, trying to hide a suspicious-looking green vegetable behind his back.
"Leeks!" England had left the bacon and eggs to cook and snuck up beside Wales, grabbing the leek from his hand before he could protest. "What have you done?"
"It tastes better this way!" he wailed as Scotland grabbed the bowl he had been working on.
"Yer put leeks in the baked beans. Why would yer do that?"
I hate leeks.
They're all right in some things.
Speak for yourself. But if it's not the cooking, it's the arguing. It seems like all they do is shout at each other. I used to get the worst headaches when I lived with you guys.
"What the bloody hell is that?" England was rounding on Scotland with a dangerous look on his face.
"It's French toast, innit?" he said casually, dipping another piece of bread into an eggy mixture.
"This is an English breakfast, Scotland! Why are you making his food?"
"What dae yer mean, his? What's wrong with France?"
"We are not having that cheese-eating surrender monkey's food in our meal. Throw it away right this instant!"
"No. I like France and I like French toast, and yer cannae tell me what ter do!"
"Can we keep it, please?" asked Wales, who had gotten rid of the rest of his leek (Ireland had a strange suspicion he had eaten it raw) and was now putting the baked beans in the microwave. "I like French toast."
"Oh, take his side, why don't you?"
They do argue a lot.
And England always wins, because if anyone upsets him then he just takes away even more of their independence. I don't know why you like him so much, North! He lords it over everyone like he's the bees' bloody knees.
"Why dae ye get ter decide what we eat?" asked Scotland, still defiantly dipping bread into the bowl of egg. "We're makin' this tergether, so we should all get a say in what goes inter it!"
"Because we're making an English breakfast," said England, as though that was that. "Is anyone else here England? No? I didn't think so. So, as the only England in the room, I think I should be the ruling authority on what we put into our English breakfast."
"It's just a bit of extra egg," said Wales. "He did get rid of his haggis when you asked..."
"I didnae want ter! He broke it!"
"But he wanted it and it didn't end up going in. Isn't it only fair that he gets his toast?"
England crossed his arms and scowled at them. "If you're all so fond of French breakfasts then you can bloody well eat at France's house. I was under the impression that we were the United Kingdom, but obviously I was wrong."
"It's just toast!" shouted Scotland. "I'm nae spittin' on yer bloody flag or anythin'!"
"It's the principle of the thing!"
He's not all bad. He's just... opinionated.
And they can't do anything right! I don't know what it is, but everything those guys touch turns to cac. They're just blessed with suck.
That's not fair.
Wales screamed, making Ireland jump violently and almost fall out of his chair. He hated loud noises. But before he could shout at Wales to be quiet, his eyes were inevitably drawn to the tongue of flame rising out of Scotland's frying pan.
"SCOTLAND!" England rushed over and tried to grab the pan off him.
"Keep the heid, it's under control!" yelled Scotland, trying to pull it back and accidentally setting fire to a kitchen towel. Wales screamed again and raced to fill a glass of water. "I dinnae ken what yer so worried aboot!"
"I told you not to put so much oil in it! Didn't I tell him, Wales?"
"You did tell him."
"I only put a bit in! It's the bloody cooker's fault!" Scotland was beating the towel against the counter, trying and failing to put the fire out. Wales rushed over with his glass, spilling half the water because his hands were shaking so much, and upended it over the towel. The fire sputtered and weakened but didn't go out until Scotland threw it on the floor and jumped on it.
England, meanwhile, had hurled the flaming pan into the sink with an almighty crash - Ireland winced - and turned the tap on full blast. The water submerged the sausages completely but did manage to put out the fire.
Well if you like them so much then why don't you just marry them?
They're my brothers. That would be weird.
Come on, let's be serious here. You can't honestly enjoy living with them. They're loud and obnoxious, they never shut up and not one of them can make a decent meal. England's a stuck-up control freak and no-one can understand a word Scotland says. Wales is all right, but he's way too reliant on England. And I've hated leeks ever since he made me that birthday cake back when I still lived with you guys. Try and tell me a single word of that isn't true.
...Maybe it's a little bit true.
So come and live with me! You can stay friends with your precious England if you like. It'll be just like old times. I really miss you, North. We can hang out and speak Gaelic and never have to worry about Great Britain again.
"Hey," said Scotland, chewing slowly on a mouthful of baked beans and leek. "This dinnae taste too bad."
"I told you," said Wales, trying to look sulky but doing a bad job of hiding his smugness.
"Let me try some." England stuck a spoon in the baked beans and put it tentatively into his mouth. "That's... not as horrible as I thought it would be."
"Thanks," said Wales, in a rare display of sarcasm.
"Since yer bein' so nice..." started Scotland, but England interrupted him.
"Fine, we can have your bloody French toast."
Scotland punched the air in triumph and went to scoop the eggy bread out of the pan.
"And these sausages are burnt to hell..." said England, lifting a blackened stump out of the pool of water filling the sink.
"Innae that what sausages are meant ter be like?" asked Scotland. "A sausage innae a sausage unless it's black as the Earl of Hell's waistcoat."
"You know, you're exactly right," said England, looking at him as though seeing him in a new light. "You know, I think that's the first time we've ever agreed on anything."
"Yeah, well, dunnae git used ter it."
"I don't expect I'll have a chance to." Was it just him, or was there a smile on England's face as he turned to fish the rest of the sausages out of the sink?
It didn't take long for them to put Wales's baked beans and leek, Scotland's sausages and French toast and England's bacon, egg and hash browns onto four plates on the countertop, where they steamed gently and let off enticing smells. Even Ireland had to admit that they looked delicious, except maybe for the blackened sausages. Wales poured four glasses of orange juice and they all carried them through to the dining room where the table was set and ready.
"Ireland!" called England, poking his head through the door. "Breakfast."
North? You there?
Yeah. Sorry sis, I think I'm staying here for now. Gotta go, breakfast's ready.
SoBritishRightNow has logged off.
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