Title: it's always the quiet ones you have to look out for
Series: Hetalia
Character/Pairing: England/America, France/Canada
Rating: PG-13
Author's note: Hetalia Kink meme! Actually there's some amusing history behind this. Someone made a request (which happens every new kink meme, I swear) of 'anything but USUK' with the title 'it has come to my attention that there is too much USUK on this meme'. A little later, someone in turn requested anything USUK with 'it has come to my attention that there is not enough USUSK on this meme'

I sporfled, commented that it was so beautifully passive aggressive to be Canadian and that somehow turned into a joke of Canada shipping Engand/America and it just spiraled downwards from there.

. .

Despite everything, Canada couldn't bring himself to hate, or even strongly dislike his brother most of the time. Sure, they'd had their fights (three hours of ranting on his part, for one), but they never lasted so long as to even fray at their bonds. In the end, they were family, and Canada had learned that you stuck with family no matter what. Even if said family was trying to kill each other on a regular basis. Canada was fairly sure the stereotype of the family holidays spent with cousins, parents, uncles (or acerbic frenimies) getting drunk and screaming at each other originated from their household. France always managed to invite himself, even if only to ruin England's day or give 'gifts' of a questionable nature. There never failed to be a huge row before the dinner was through. America was always too busy with his new electronic gadget to notice, and Canada always got dishes duty. Always.

It would be a lie if he said he'd never gotten frustrated with the whole lot, though. He was always in America's shadow, especially when it came to England. But he loved the rest of his family, even if half the time he wondered if they even remembered his existence.

Canada knew that most of the time, America could take care of himself. Still, there were little things, like what was right in front of him and he was so obviously disrupting with his coarse obliviousness. They were far from a traditional family, but Canada wasn't about to just stand aside while other nations tried to break the special, if undefined relationship between England and America. He'd seen the sort of crazed looks Russia had given America. The kind that implied he wanted to tie him to his bed and never let him free again. And that was just one thing that Canada couldn't stand for.


He woke up early that morning and breezed past the security in America's house. The morning light poured in just right for the lighting of object A: his brother asleep. America lay on his back, shirtless, with a pair of military dogtags glinting in the light. The sheets were bunched around down to his waist, and his hair was mussed from sleep. He resembled the kind of thing you saw in underwear ads.

America was pure muscle, which meant any pool-party which England was invited to had the older nation spending most of his time drinking and sitting at the deck table with his legs very tightly crossed.

At least until America splashed and teased him into the pool.

Canada snapped a picture. America might have laughed at him still using an old Polaroid when the new and shiny digital models were around, but it got the job done. He shook the picture until it cleared, and then wrote in the lower white frame property of England.. It wasn't like anyone was going to notice his handwriting. They certainly never had before, and he didn't see it starting now.

Then for good measure, he taped it to the middle of the conference room table and waited for a row to rival the family holidays to ensue.


"You perverted frog!"

"I don't know what you're talking about! I didn't do anything – unlike you, who seems to be doing a lot lately– And you say I'm perverted, Rosbif."

"Shut your trap, frog. This time you've gone too far!" England grabbed France's collar and shook him.

"I told you, this time it wasn't me!"

"Like hell it wasn't! It's always you!"

England let go long enough only to punch France in the face. France crumpled to the floor with a moan of not the faaaacceeee. Canada cringed both outwardly and inwardly. He'd hoped to settle it before it went that far.

America stood and slammed his fist on the conference room table "I am not your property!"

"We've established that," England said coldly. "July fourth, when you threw every bit of kindness I'd ever given you back in my face."

They stared each other down, old scars being steadily picked at until soon they'd be reopened.

"Oh yeah, your kindness. Like your food–"

England was twitching in rage. "...You've gone too far."

Any further and England would start cursing – and not merely the kind with profanity, though there'd be plenty of that. Canada quickly slipped out from his seat and tapped America's shoulder. When America failed to notice, he poked harder, and then finally shook him.

"What?" He said, a little annoyed.

"Ahh, it's not that kind of ownership. It's more..." He made an 'o' between his fingers and thumb on his left hand and put his right finger through it. Not even America was dense enough to miss a gesture like that.

"Oh," America said. He did not seem overly surprised at the notion, as if it had been something that he'd known about in some subconscious form all along. He didn't give it much thought, but then, it was America. He never gave anything much thought.

"Sure, as long as I'm on top," he said.

The room fell quiet. Hungary's eyes were shining, her hands clasped at her breast. France was grinning lasciviously, while Greece still slept on. Germany looked as if he were having a massive headache.

"Veee, Germany does this mean they're going to do xxx things now?"

Hungary let out a gasp. Japan started jotting down notes. Canada had never seen England blush so hard, or look so much like breaking something.

"This...this— Gahhhhh idiot idiot idiot!"

He grabbed America's collar and shook him.

"Vee, this English foreplay is violent, Germany."

Canada pried England's hands away from America's neck and pushed them in the direction of the door.

"America, you should go outside to settle those boundary disputes, eh?" Canada smiled sweetly. It was a smile that had gotten him out of whatever trouble he'd managed to get into when he was younger.

He could hear them yelling at each other (or at least, England yelling at America) for quite a ways down the hall...right up until there was a very loud thud.

Which meant that they'd either killed each other or started in more amorous directions. For their sakes, Canada hoped it was the latter.


He slipped out the side door into the kitchen which was kept well stocked, as it always was when America was around. It was bad enough trying to get America to pay attention, but when he was hungry, all bets were off. When he'd gotten what he needed, Canada returned to find the meeting in a state of pandemonium. Hungary and Japan were eagerly discussing the beauty of men loving men, while Switzerland was threatening to shoot them all if they didn't shut up. Germany had given up on order and had his head in his hands, as if his headache had progressed to full out migraine.

"I got some ice," Canada said. "That's going to be a nasty bruise, eh."

He pressed the icepack to France's face. This was another of the family rituals that tended to happen every holiday, though it wasn't always the face.

"Stupid L'Angleterre," France muttered. "Ruining my perfect face..."

"He did worse last Christmas when he gave you that black eye," Canada said.

"Don't remind me," France groaned. "It lasted for weeks, and makeup barely covered it."

He went on into half muttered curses in French against England. Just like old times.

"While your scheming was very cute, you could have given me fair warning."

"England wouldn't have believed even if you gave him proof. But I'm sorry, I hoped to not have it go so far. Poor wording, I guess."

"Well, this meeting is ruined," France said. He wrapped an arm around Canada's waist, and squeezed his ass for good measure. Canada blushed and squirmed. Even if no one was watching, he still hadn't quite gotten used to France's exhibitionism.

"...how about apologizing a bit more in the coat closet?" France suggested in that low, warmed honey voice of his. Canada felt a shiver of anticipation, of wanting. His hand was now at the base of Canada's spine, and then to the small of his back. He couldn't even think of saying no, as if it had fallen completely out of his vocabulary.

France always had that effect on him.

"...a-as long as it isn't already occupied."

And for once, Canada didn't really mind being invisible to most of the world. The right people noticed him, and in the end wasn't that all that really mattered?