AN: I'm kind of a Hetalia virgin. Which is probably incredibly obvious from how utterly out of character this is and...um...just bad. I know. I'm working on it. Anyway, it's America/Canada. I only wrote this to write smut, but, uh, I never got around to the smut part. So yeah. Enjoy. Hopefully.
Heroes Don't Wear Dresses
OR How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Tolerate America
Lights rise on the weekend estate of a certain Matthew Williams (aliases: Matthieu, Mattie, Canada, WHO?), in the sitting area. Across from him sits his 'hero', brother Alfred Jones (AMERICA, FUCK YEAH). A pleasant family discussion commences.
"No, no, no, no, NO, Alfred! Absolutely not!" Canada may have spoken his denial in exclamations, but his voice still remained soft, almost tantalizingly so.
"Aww, come on, Mattie, live a little, wouldja?" America grinned his typical shit eating grin (redundancy; fuck yeah), tilting his head back to better expose the blue of his eyes. Blue as his seas. Damn you, manifest destiny. "First prize is—"
"I don't care what first prize is." Canada bit back the urge to add an 'eh' to the end of his sentence. The last thing he wanted at this moment was his brother to mock his accent. "I said no."
"And I say yes. And my word means more than your word, so there."
"America, I don't want to be your dance partner!" Matthew could feel his lips form into a pout, eyes widened as if already preparing for a defeatist's tear jerk. "Don't you know how embarrassing that'll be for me? We're brothers!"
"So?" Alfred shrugged. "Francis and Arthur are partners, you know." They were sort of brothers, right? And their fathers as well. Or was England his brother…? It was all very confusing, especially to the hamburgerphile.
"Papa's going to be in it?"
"Duh!" Then, laughing, "And Italy and Romano are probably going to be partners. Or maybe Romano and Spain. Can't remember. Not that it even matters, because they're not nearly as awesome as I'll be." He paused. "We'll be, I mean."
"Well…no. No, I said no already. I can't even dance."
"Everyone can fuckin' dance, Mattie. Besides, everyone'll be so wowed by my skills that they won't even notice you." Not that that was anything new, amirite? America grimaced. "Unfortunately, though, the rules say it's gotta be two people. Trust me, I've tried to get them to change their minds, but noooo. And believe me, Matthew, if I could get another partner, I would."
Canada blinked, unsure just how offended he should be by that final statement. Why bother, though? He was going to get conned into this eventually, doncha know.
"What do I get, eh?"
"First prize is—"
"I don't care about that. What will I get from you?"
"What do you want from me?"
…why did America sound so flirty when he said that? He was sure it was accidental, but… Canada blushed. "N-nothing like that! I…" He considered it for a moment. What did his brother have that he didn't?
Besides charisma and charm and extreme popularity (as polarizing as it may be).
"My…what?" Alfred pulled away from his brother, eyes narrowed behind his glasses. "You want my WHAT?"
"Your jacket," Canada repeated, voice softer the second time.
"Screw you, Canada!" America poked his finger into his northern brother's chest. "Nobody wears this jacket but America. See? It even says "Made in America"," He pointed out the tag on the collar.
"…it says made in China…"
"Like hell I'm giving you this!"
"Fine," Canada folded his arms over his chest. To prevent himself from folding. Whatever, he needed all the support he could get when it came to standing up to his brother. "Then…t-then I'm not dancing with you."
"It won't even fit you," Even though they were the same fucking size, basically. Alfred couldn't just hand his jacket over, though. That would be like Superman giving his cape to Lois Lane or whatever. Heroes never take off their costumes.
Uh…not that his brother was the Lois Lane to his Clark Kent. I mean, that would be…that's just sick. Incest and…ew. No. Alfred didn't swing that way. He wasn't Canada-sexual.
What would sleeping with Mattie even be like? He'd constantly be moaning "eh" and "maple". In fact, he'd probably taste like maple, considering all the syrup he ate. And…mmm, pancakes actually sounded pretty good right now…
"Um…America? Alfred? You…you okay? ?"
The feeling of his brother's hand on his forehead right now was a little more contact than he needed. Alfred jerked away, his glasses falling off his face in the process. "Sure thing, bro!" He scooped them off the ground, placing them back on the bridge of his nose. "I'm fine. And…fine, if we win, the jacket's yours."
Huh. It wasn't like America to cave so easily (even after sexually fantasizing about his baby bro).
Must have been something in this Canadian air. Kryptonite or something. Every hero has a weakness, right?
Maybe that meant dancing with Canada might actually be a hindrance.
…pfft, fuck it, heroes have to face their weaknesses eventually, right?
Lights rise on a dance hall in the southern part of America. Not…not America as in the anthropomorphized form; not Alfred. As in the actual landmass. You sick fucks. Stop thinking about his vital regions, would you?
Okay, some weaknesses really weren't going to be addressed within a day, were they?
"Mattie, why are you so sucky at this?" Alfred pulled away from his brother, groaning and slapping a hand to his forehead. A forehead slick with sweat. From, you know, dancing. Chest to chest with his brother.
"You're the one who keeps stepping on my feet," Canada pulled off his shoes, sitting on the sidelines and rubbing the aches out of his toes.
"Yeah, well, you have no rhythm."
"Yes I do! You just have terrible taste in music." Matthew hardly thought it would get them any style points to dance with his brother to some…some gang banger music.
"What are you talking about? EVERYONE likes Biggie Smalls. You're just isolated from culture up in your log cabin."
"I don't live in a log cabin! I—"
"Look, Matt, we're not getting anywhere, with you trying to pick fights with me," Alfred smiled, as sweetly as he could, holding a hand up to silence his brother (who, of course, was already trying to find a way to point out that it was America who'd started the conflict in the first place. It was ALWAYS America).
Despite the flare of anger, Canada steadied himself, rubbing his forehead. It would do him no good to attack his brother. Either America would laugh it off or, infinitely worse, start crying. "Look, Al," He cursed himself for using the same sentence beginning his brother had used mere seconds ago, "I just don't think Austria will appreciate the fact that you're using a Notorious BIG song for his ballroom dance competition."
"Ohhhhh," Alfred nodded. "You know what? You're right. I should have seen this before."
Wait, had America just admitted Canada was right? Matthew perked up, smiled stretching his mouth out, light blush along the bridge of his nose.
"I mean, Austria's totally a Tupac fan! We'll just change the song to California Love. Aren't you lucky to have a brother who pays attention to details?"
Lights rise on the Mall of America. Specifically a dress shop within the mall, fitting Matthew into a tacky mauve dress, a shade reminiscent of bridesmaids (poor Mattie; always the bridesmaid, never the bride) and a grandmother's living room. Blonde hair manages to conceal his eyes, as if this would shade his shame as the salespeople (salesmen, but we're being politically correct, this being the US of A and all) laughed, tightening the fabric around Canada's midsection.
"Maple!" Matthew squirmed, despite the fact that he was genuinely trying to hold still, make this easier on the men. He glanced at America, scowling as much as he could manage. "Why do I have to wear this again, eh?" If he said anything about his accent, Canada swore he'd go War of 1812 on his sorry Yank ass.
"Because part of the judging has to do with style or whatever. And—" Canada looked cute in a dress. America didn't blush, though—that wouldn't be heroic. His face turned red because…um…because of the lights. Yeah. "And heroes don't wear dresses."
"I doubt Papa or Dad will be wearing dresses."
"Yes, but this is part of our theme. Get it?"
Tupac Shakur and second tier wedding attire? No. Matthew certainly did not "get it". Though he wasn't going to admit that much to his brother. Or say anything at all for that matter, shoulders slumping forward.
One of the tailors accidentally stuck a pin into him. "M-Maple!" He screeched again, eyes watering. "What was that for?"
"Oh. Sorry," The man smiled. "I forgot you weren't a mannequin."
Matthew stared at his brother, who stuffed his face with the hamburger.
Not really stuffing his face, actually. True, he had a tendency of talking with his mouth full, but he wasn't really a slob.
And he actually wasn't talking at all, his eyes shut as little hums of pleasure, satisfaction escaped his flower petal lips.
"Mmm…Mattie, these are almost as good as Big Macs," He looked over at his bro with half-lidded eyes, swallowing. "I thought you only cooked that French crap."
"I'm more than just France's colony, you know," Not that he was even Papa's country any longer. A wave of nostalgia washed over the younger country, his eyes betraying his sudden sadness.
"French fries aren't even really French. What kind of crap advertising is that?"
Matthew's nose crinkled slightly as he looked at his brother. "Eh?"
"It just pisses me off, that they named them that." Alfred set his burger down, his own face scrunched up in a similar fashion to his brother's.
"What's that have to do with anything?" Matthew smiled slightly, despite himself.
"Nothing," America grinned, reaching over and ruffling his bro's hair. "You don't gotta look so sad whenever Francis is brought up, you know. He's still your 'papa' or whatever. Just like Arthur's still my pops." And/or older brother. Again, confusing shit, this family stuff. "And anyway, it doesn't even matter, because we're still gonna beat their asses tonight, aren't we?"
"Um…y-yeah. Yes. We are," He'd almost forgotten that he'd made this meal to give them more energy for their performance tonight. Canada, of course, had eaten pancakes (absolutely drenched in maple syrup) as opposed to the burgers he'd made for his brother.
They're not stereotypes at all. Nope.
Lights rise on Austria's home, specifically in his auditorium—because he has one in his house, being the epic son of a cunt that he is—which is populated by mostly male-on-male partners (except, of course, for Belarus and Russia—poor Ivan) . The first round of competitors have already danced, Canada and America eagerly (at least in America's case; not so much in Mattie's) awaiting their turn backstage.
"You look like a couple o' fucking retards," Lovino's laugh was both irritating and infuriating (and intimidating, at least if one didn't know Romano very well), the hairs on Matthew's neck standing up as the dancer exited the stage, his partner dragged behind him.
"Romano…" Spain trailed off, as if he were about to lecture him, though judging from the sudden flush to his face, he'd instead found himself fixating on his dance partner's firm, Italian ass, hugged so sinfully tight by the spandex he wore (sure, Spain wore spandex as well, but for some reason, it looked so much better on his young lov—um, his partner. Dance partner).
"There better be fucking tomatoes here," Lovino snapped, looking away from America and Canada (who really weren't that interesting to him—he just liked to talk shit whenever possible), pushing his face close to Spain's, grabbing him around the collar and yanking him down to eye level. "Or I will fucking gut you."
Spain only laughed, his hands snaking around the boy from behind, roaming carelessly up his lithe form. "Bonito, it makes me so hot when you try to put on that tough boy act."
Romano's face turned as red as the tomatoes he loved so much. "You…y-you… son of a bitch! Get off me!" He squirmed away from Spain, snarling one last time at America (Canada, he didn't even see, even in the dress). "Be sure to save a spot on your shelf for a second place trophy." His insults were cut short as Spain reached out for him, pale fingers craving the touch of the young dancer's skin (though it had to be noted, Romano's whole "run away" strategy seemed just the tad bit rehearsed—or at least, not as quick as he could possibly retreat. Not implying that he wanted to be caught or anything, heaven forbid!).
Canada considered Romano's words long after he'd run off. Second place…actually, second place wouldn't be awful. It was higher than he anticipated, that was certain.
"That jerk!" America snapped, his glasses steaming up in his anger. "Second place? Ha! He doesn't realize who he's competing with. The hero ALWAYS wins in the end!"
"Oui, Alfred, you'll certainly beat little Lovino. Their routine was, how you say, horrible," Francis laughed, having appeared out of nowhere (glass of wine cradled in his hand). "Of course, that doesn't mean you'll beat someone with actual talent."
Alfred's eyes narrowed. Before he perked up, grinning broadly. "That's alright, frog. Nobody here HAS any actual talent." Except for him, of course.
Francis's face reddened, clearly annoyed. Though his complexion cleared as he noticed Canada. "Ah. Matthieu, mon petit chaton, I thought you weren't going to compete."
"I wasn't," He admitted, blushing slightly. Alfred tilted his head slightly, watching the conversation play out.
"But you turned down poor Cuba. Three times, if I remember correctly."
"Four actually, Papa," His ears were completely red now, head slumped completely forward.
"And yet here you are." France smirked, stroking his peach fuzz. "Interesting…"
"Wait, that commie asked you to dance with him?" Alfred glanced at his brother, shaking slightly in his sudden anger. He hated that chain smoking fuckface! The way he always hung all over Canada…er, the way he always…um…his politics were messed up. That was why.
"Yes," Matthew really didn't want to get into this, right now of all times. "Before you asked me, actually."
It took him a moment to realize the effect this had had on his brother.
As if his head wasn't inflated enough.
Alfred grinned, wrapping his arm around his brother's shoulders. "You chose me over your Cubanito?" He butchered a Cuban accent on that final word, snickering to himself afterwards. "I'm touched, Mattie."
By this point, Francis had grown bored. After all, he'd already danced—quite elegantly of course, despite his graceless dance partner. He smiled, grabbing Canada and kissing his cheeks. "Break a leg, mon cheri."
He didn't break a leg.
And although this is the shortest scene in our little love play, it certainly wasn't the shortest moment of dear Matthew Williams's life.
The lights were on all along. From the beginning, every eye glazing over him as they danced—probably laughing slightly at how out of sync they were (or maybe making snide comments like "why's Alfred dancing by himself?", the usual things).
All he knew for sure was he'd tripped. And Alfred hadn't been able to catch him—some hero. Not that it was his fault that there had been a nail in the floorboards.
Or that Matthew's dress had caught in that nail.
Or that, against all statistics, all odds, he fell, and everything tore—not just his perspective or his protective invisibility, but the dress itself, literally popping at the seams and yanking off his trembling syrup-scented body.
And no matter how much people liked to pretend Canada was invisible, no matter how often he was overlooked or forgotten, it didn't stop everyone from laughing. Pointing and laughing, really. At the undressed nation in the spotlights, even his glasses spilling off his face until he had nothing but a flimsy pair of briefs (maple leaf on the left ass cheek) covering him. His stilettos clattered off his feet as he struggled to stand, Tupac blaring as he ran off, blindly trying to be blinded from the world. Invisible once again.
And in front of his brother, too. It was too much, really. He collapsed outside the auditorium's doors, holding his face in his hands as he wept.
Lights rise on America's Texas ranch, his bedroom.
"Mattie?" Alfred hadn't stayed to watch the winners be announced (Germany and Italy). In fact, he would have left sooner, if it hadn't taken him so long to find his brother's glasses. Scooping them up to return to his disrobed Lois Lane.
And then scooping his brother up, nearly catatonic with his grief and shame, and bringing him to the greatest place on earth. One of them, anyway. All of America was pretty spectacular.
Both the country and the person.
"Mattie, come on, you can't still be upset about this," Alfred shook the younger's shoulder, only to have him cringe away from him. "Come on, I redressed you and everything. You should be fine now."
"Leave me alone," Canada murmured, pushing his face against the pillow. "I'm so ashamed."
"Why?" America wasn't being sarcastic or trying to bring up bad memories. He genuinely couldn't see what all the fuss was about.
"Why?" Canada repeated, finally looking up. Alfred cringed at how red his face was, eyes puffy, the violet of his irises somehow lightened from his grief. "WHY? I'll tell you why, you asshole!" His voice gradually grew, choked as he started to sob more. "B-because of you and your stupid…y-you…I…" He hiccupped, unable even to fully breakdown, once more letting his face fall as he cried.
"So what if you flashed every industrialized and/or semi-industrialized country in the world? Big deal! It's not like you're unattractive or anything," Alfred patted his shoulder. "Don't cry about it."
"Don't tell me," He paused to catch his breath in-between sobs, "W-what I can't d-do."
"Really, if I had to see anyone naked tonight, I'm glad it was you," America grinned.
And mentally scolded himself. What the fuck kind of brotherly love crap was that? Still, if he said it, it was all in good natured, innocent fun. Not…nothing filthy about it. Nope.
Matthew didn't dignify that with a reply—though to be fair, by this point he was sobbing fairly loudly (loud by Canadian standards, not American).
Still, loud enough to startle his brother. "Come on," He wasn't saying this so much to Canada as to himself, running his fingers through his own hair as he tried to find the right strategy, the foolproof way to cheer up his Mattie.
Matthew felt the bed shift. He looked up, wiping his eyes on the back of his arm, as he tried to search out his brother. "A-Alfred?" Why had he left? He blinked, sitting up. The tears weren't falling as heavily now, though they hadn't quite stopped yet. "A-Al…? Wh-where'd you go?"
"Calm down, Mattie. Jeez." He came back in then, his jacket slung over his left shoulder. Matthew watched his brother walk closer, jacket swaying slightly as he knelt before him. "So I was thinking…well, we didn't win, so...yeah, I mean…jeez," Heroes were supposed to have witty lines at their disposal, right? But…god, Matthew's eyes made it difficult for him to think of the correct order of words. Noun then verb, right? Right! That was American—er, English. English was his language.
"I know," Canada's face fell, somehow managing to look depressed within his depression. Like the last candle had been blown out on his birthday cake or something—blown out by someone else. Which, uh, America had done to Canada once, when they were kids. Maybe he still, like, carried over tension from that. "We lost because of me. I already know, Alfred."
"Right. Yeah. But…that's not really important, is it? And besides, first place was something lame anyway. Who cares? Heroes don't have to always win to be…um, winners. Right?"
"I guess…? Look, America, I have no idea what you're talking ab—"
To say he was stunned when his brother kissed him would have been an understatement. His body quivered, hands hesitantly patting an uneven rhythm at his brother's back, lips awkwardly parting as the other's tongue slipped into his mouth.
Just a teaser, really. A blend of syrup and beef. Which, strangely enough, wasn't the worst thing Canada had ever tasted.
And, just like that, it was over. Alfred's face mirrored his brother's in redness, the hero awkwardly biting his bottom lip before tossing the jacket over his brother's shoulders.
Who knew Lois Lane could look so cute in Superman's cape?