Author: Pixie-Rings

Fandom: Axis Powers Hetalia

Pairing: England/America

Genre: humour, fluff

Rating: PG

Disclaimer: APH belongs to Himaruya, and the countries factually belong to themselves. Or their bosses and the people that live there, rather.

Word count:

Warning: silliness

Summary: Marmite is certainly an acquired taste

A/n: based on my personal love of this delicious spread, and a small personal celebration at actually finding it in this retrograde country that is Italy (sorry, Veneziano)!

England sighed, feeling particularly content. He had a nice cup of tea, the weather was just the right notch between hot and cold to be remarkably comfortable, he'd decided he was up for a long overdue reread of the Collected Works of William Shakespeare. And, to crown the perfect moment, he also had a Marmite sandwich.

Ah, bliss.

He'd just bitten into his sandwich quite happily, enjoying the oddly indescribable taste of the dark brown spread mixed with butter and white Hovis when the front door imploded, almost making him choke. Although, he berated himself, swallowing with difficulty, he should be used to it by now.

"Honey, I'm home!" America bellowed. England cringed. What would the neighbours think? Of course, it was a bit late for such thoughts, he supposed, after years of semi-cohabitation and stable (enough) relationship. Considering what the neighbours probably knew about the goings-on in this specific house, it was miracle they hadn't called the police already.

England sank lower in his seat, praying maybe America wouldn't see him and he'd go away. A horrible thought to have about one's other half, but nonetheless necessary at the present moment. No such luck, however, as he was sitting at the window seat and being very obvious about it.

"Oh, England, there you are!"

"Hello, America," England replied, straightening with a sigh. He took another bite of his sandwich for want of something better to do.

America threw himself down on the window seat next to England and snuggled up.

"Didja miss me?" he asked in a purr, rubbing his nose against England's neck. The older nation tried to pretend he didn't like that feeling.

"If one can miss the human equivalent of a bull in china shop," England said, refusing to be won, for the moment. He knew fully well by the end of maybe ten minutes they'd be snogging each other senseless.

"Aw, England, you're so mean sometimes… Hey, kiss?"

England rolled his eyes. "Have you lost the faculty to construct proper sentences?"

America scoffed and pulled England into a rather nice kiss. Ok, make that all of five minutes, not ten.

Just when England was getting into it, America reeled back, unsticking his lips with a rather humorous sound and gagging. England stared.

"What?" he asked, a little hurt at America's reaction. He'd always been quite a good kisser, if he did say so himself, and he wondered what on Earth was wrong with the other country.

America dashed into the kitchen, tore open the fridge and popped a can of Dr Pepper, which England only kept in because of him, and downed nearly all of it in one gulp.

"Oh, jeez…" he groaned, swilling it around his mouth before swallowing it. England stood and wandered into the kitchen after America, his arms folded.

"What is it?" he demanded. America gave him a terrified look. He held a hand out, keeping him at bay.

"Don't come any closer!" he ordered. "Not when you taste like shit!"

England scowled and automatically raised a fist. "What the bloody hell do you mean by that, you Berkshire hunt?" he snarled.

America scowled right back. "You taste like crap! Honest! What the hell have you been eating?"

Then it clicked. England lowered his fist with a chuckle, covering his mouth with his other hand.

"Oh, America, I was eating a Marmite sandwich," he said, his voiced laden with amusement. America made an eloquent face that clearly conveyed his disgust.

"You're so not kissing me until you brush your teeth," he said. If you'd looked up 'evil' in the encyclopaedia that particular grin of England's would have been the picture you'd have found.

"Oh? And how are you going to stop me?" he asked silkily. America froze, turned to England and swallowed.

Just as England lunged, America bolted with a cry of "you'll never take me alive!" and sped towards the French doors in England's dining room, that lead onto the patio and the lawn. England gave chase, pausing to take another bite of sandwich before sprinting after him.

America was fast, but England had been running across this very same lawn to escape from a visiting (read: assailing) Scotland for centuries and had home advantage. He grabbed America around the waist and the younger nation toppled with a squawk, falling with a thud onto the soft, well-tended grass.

"Gotcha!" England crowed triumphantly, keeping a tight hold on the struggling American nation.

"No!" America wailed, the laughter in his voice now evident. "Spare me! Mercy!"

"Show no mercy, take no prisoners!" England growled, rolling America over easily (he may not have been as mighty as he once was, but he still had plenty of strength), pinning him and sealing their lips together. America once again struggled, pounding the ground with one hand, before giving in, laughter bubbling from his chest, muffled by England's insistent mouth.

When England finally relinquished his hold, he smirked.

"There, still taste like crap, do I?"

America coughed embarrassedly, stubbornly not looking England in the eyes. "I guess I could get used to it…" he mumbled. England laughed and rolled off him on the grass, staring up at the sky, strewn with fluffy white clouds and downy plane trails.

"Hey, what is Marmite anyway?" America asked after a moment. England chuckled.

"It's yeast extract," he replied. America made another face, but England didn't see it.

"Sounds revolting," America remarked. England sniggered.

"Just wait until you try Bovril!"

Berkshire hunt: Cockney rhyming slang. No prizes for guessing what it means… Coincidentally, it's also the origin for the word 'berk'. Can also be found as 'Berkeley hunt'.