Title: Rentboy [Part 1/2]
Genre: Humor/Romance/Major Embarrassment on the Part of Our Dear England
Warnings: Adult themes, Francis, cursing, you can guess the rest...
Summary: Alfred encounters a random hobby of England's, as well as a strange new word. He should never have asked Francis about it.
A/N: This was such a random idea brought on by me randomly thinking about the movie Wilde, which, unsurprisingly, was about Oscar Wilde. Oh, you saucy aesthete you. May you rest in peace. This is probably going to be a twoshot, unless something cataclysmic happens.
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia... really. As if I could have thought up something so awesome. Psh.
Alfred didn't like driving in England. The whole country was more oriented towards mass transit, the people drove on the wrong side of the road, and he constantly had to navigate those friggin' roundabouts. Parking also proved improbable – apparently everyone in the damn country was attending a 'football' match (seriously, it was called a soccer game; when would Arthur, and the rest of the world, grasp that?) at the exact same time he was trying to get to a world meeting. Finally giving up on any pretense of trying to park legally, he whipped into a fire lane and parked his SUV.
Oh, and it was just his luck that there was a policeman not three feet from where he'd parked.
"Alright, you fucking wally, and what do you think you're doing?" a familiar – and irritated – voice questioned. Alfred rolled down the driver's side window to find Arthur, decked out in fully bobby regalia, pulling out a book of traffic citations and looking utterly pissed. He was as taken aback by seeing Alfred as Alfred was by seeing him, especially in what he was wearing, but he recovered far quicker.
"I should have known," he growled, scrawling in the citation notebook as an excuse not to look at his former colony. "No respect for rules, not even the ones about where you can park your bloody car…"
Alfred was still flabbergasted.
"Whoa, Artie, what are you wearing? You almost look like a cop!"
Arthur rolled his eyes and tore the citation he'd written up out of his booklet.
"I am a cop," he said. "For today anyway."
"So, wait," Alfred, ever curious, pressed him, "you're just a cop for today? What about tomorrow? You gonna be a firefighter?"
"Maybe; it depends," Arthur retorted. "I just try to do the various jobs my people do, you divvy. And do try to use at least a semblance of grammar."
Alfred let himself out of his car so he wouldn't have to crane his neck to look at Arthur. At the sight of the multitude of fast food debris in the floorboard of the younger nation's car, Arthur shook his head, disgusted. Alfred just ignored him and kept asking questions.
"So, you do all sorts of jobs? What are you, seriously bored? I could always loan you this awesome video game me an' Tony were playing the other day. It's totally awe--"
At the mention of America's insulting alien playmate, England groaned and almost slapped the (embarrassingly) taller man upside the head.
"Trust me, doing all sorts of jobs is a great deal more entertaining than any one of your video games could be," he snapped. Alfred looked doubtful.
"I dunno, Revenge of the Return of the Reckoning of the Beast VI is pretty entertaining."
England rolled his eyes again, feeling the throb at his temples growing more insistent.
"There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Alfred, than are dreamt of in Revenge of the Return of the Reckoning of the Beast VI. I've been more things than your silly video game designers could fathom – a pirate, a lawyer, a bomb squad member, a rentboy--"
Arthur stopped abruptly, as if he'd let something slip that he would've rather died than reveal. Alfred gave him a blank look, and the other man quickly pivoted in place and charged off in the opposite direction of the American, but not before slapping the citation he'd written up on the windshield of Alfred's excessively large car. Where the offense should have been written were simply the words "he's a git".
"Don't be late for the meeting!" the Englishman called over his shoulder, apparently storming off in a huff, though for what reason Alfred had no idea.
"What's a 'rentboy'?" he asked. He got no reply.
Alfred trailed off, and his brother, who meekly walked at his side down the hallway towards the meeting room, sighed and prompted him.
"I'm Matthew… Canada… remember?"
"Oh, right, Mattie," Alfred said, cheering instantly. "Hey, do ya know what a 'rentboy' is?"
Matthew was blank, but he did take the time to think about it, unlike his brother.
"I don't know…" he murmured, frowning slightly. "Maybe it's a kid who has to go around to all the houses in an apartment complex and collect the rent?"
"I dunno," the American said doubtfully. "That doesn't sound exciting… Don't think that's what Iggy meant…"
"Why don't you ask Francis?" Matthew suggested. "I've heard he knows a lot about… 'exciting' stuff."
Alfred paused for a second – all the time he needed to mull over the idea – and then nodded enthusiastically.
"Hey, you're right, that might be a good idea… um…"
"Matthew… I'm Canada… please remember…"
"Whatever," the American said, waving the other man off with a grin, "it's meeting time, and thusly, it's HERO TIME!"
On the last two words he burst into the meeting room, giving nearly all of the assembled nations heart attacks.
"Aiyah! America, don't do that!"
Matthew sighed and entered in his brother's wake, hoping against hope that this time someone might remember who he was.
France turned to find Alfred rushing up to him at lunch break, which was unnerving to say the least.
"Bonjour, mon ami. Do I happen to be wearing a shirt with the McDonald's symbol on it?"
When Alfred didn't grasp the joke right off the bat, Francis just shook his head and idly waved a hand in the air, laughing.
"Never mind, mon cher, sometimes you are too dense for your own good. What can I do for you?"
"Oh, right, so I was talking to Iggy earlier, and he said something I didn't understand," the American explained. Francis raised a brow.
"And this is unusual how?"
"No, c'mon France!" Alfred whined. "I seriously have a question!"
"Alright, alright," the Frenchman relented. "What's your question?"
"What's a 'rentboy'?"
Francis hadn't been drinking or eating anything, but he still looked like he was choking as he started coughing and laughing hysterically. Alfred began vigorously slapping the man on the back, as if that would help, and Francis had to recover, or risk having his spine broken by the other nation.
"I'm alright, I'm alright! You just caught me off guard…" the Frenchman purred, voice already dripping innuendo even though he was just getting warmed up. "A rentboy? Oh, that Angleterre would use such a saucy term… May I ask what context this was in?"
"I dunno, he was just telling me about jobs he's had in the past, 'cause, y'know, he does random jobs apparently…" Alfred explained, looking bewildered. "Whaddya mean, 'saucy'? What's a 'rentboy'?"
"How to put this as… concisely… as possible?" Francis mused, rubbing the bristle of beard on his chin as recalled England's former job. "If I had to completely boil it down, mon ami…"
"Yeah?" Alfred prompted, getting impatient. Francis's lips curved into a smirk.
"A 'rentboy' is a male whore."
And suddenly, America's world imploded.
A/N: Ahahahaha, to be continued!
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