"The image of London as a human body is striking and singular…London has also been envisaged in the form of a young man outstretched in a gesture of liberation…we consider the "heart of London beating warm"…we must regard it as a human shape with its own life and growth…"

- "The City as a Body" by Peter Ackroyd







As the decorative salon door tilted open, England knew from the phantom stench of city-living that the owner of this house had returned.

The stench was pungent, drifting in and overwhelming the room, but the blond nation had forgotten the nature of complaining about it. He knew it so well. It embraced him as did the owner physically, gruffly clapping him on the back. As England let go, he detected on the owner's coat the olfactive and corrosive nature of traffic congestion, of the heavy and sour London fog. His capital shook rainwater from the black dyed ends of his chic, shaggy hair.

"Oh, look, it's bad news," England announced with a small, friendly smile. "…Welcome home."

London finished unpeeling his stained overcoat, throwing it over the upholstered settee he laid on, and returned the smile haughtily.

"Cheers, Da."

"Da?" England said doubtfully at the unmistakable term of affection, raising an eyebrow and placing down his cup of tea. "What happened to 'Dad'? Is that where you have been… living with Ireland?"

"Invited me over for holiday. Went pub-crawling. Tried to convince the bartender to marry us," London snickered to himself at the memory. "Turns out the bartender used to be in training to be a priest." He heaved himself from his lying position of the blue-and-gold settee, facing the blond nation. "So, when did you get in, old man? I see you found the key under the statue of William Shakespeare."

Unimpressed, England drummed his fingers along his cup's thin handle.

"He was always your favorite." He cleared his throat, choosing to sit on the opposite of the settee, "How are your sisters doing?"

"Oi… which ones?" At the sarcastic bite of London's remark, England felt the agonized stupor of a forgotten migraine close in.

"Southeast and East," he explained quietly.

"How the bloody fucking hell should I know?"

"Language." England's emerald eyes glared over at another identical pair to his. "You're British."

London snorted at that observation. "—says the bloke who can't go on the lash an hour without starting a fight in the middle of the pub," he said, casting a deeply critical look at his father figure, and it stung a little… or it might have been the migraine. England was not quite sure at this moment.

For a long time, London had been an "ugly" boy... in several meanings of the term... and always had been that way since England had known him. The rest of London's siblings were a least a little more put-together …though all nine shared the same golden-blonde hair and green color of their eyes… but these days, the youth and slowly-working vitality of his region had softened London's once abrasive features and even made those long lines of visible scars from WWII that curled just so on the side of his face and neck seemed somewhat less unattractive. He was filling out quite nicely… and it could not be denied…

"Easts' breasts haven't gotten any bigger." The blond nation pushed out of his embarrassed thoughts and cringed at the vulgar comment from his speaking capital — though it was true — England truly thought he had gotten better about the rubbish habit. "And she got a cold last week."

"I see…and the other…?"

"Southeast still thinks she is smarter than the rest of us." Something parallel to resentment sparked in London's hooded eyes.

"They all hate me you know," he whispered broodingly. England started, violently.

"…Wh…Why is that?"

"They know I'm your favorite."

The statement froze England in place, wide-eyed and silent — unable to counter it with a lie — it lasted long enough to leave his companion an opening to approach him.

London shifted himself on the patterned cushions of the settee until his hip touched England's. He wrapped his arm around England's shoulders to hold him in place as their foreheads leaned in to each other's. England did not move, but did let it process, as his now uncharacteristically tender capital pressed a lazy kiss to his cheekbone. His own dried lips inched open. "Stop that."

He could feel London's lips curl into a smirk against his cheek.

"I don't want to."

A tug of England's uniform belt and it slipped open with ease.

London's hand followed down, crawling along until he found the nation's sac. "And you don't want me to either, old man."

England stifled back an aroused cry, covering his mouth, when those invading fingers clutched hard.

"What do you think I do most nights I'm not taking an assignment from you?" His capital leered contemptuously, murmuring into his ear and it harden England further, "Do you get a turn-on thinking that when I bang one out I am imagining you naked, your legs spread for me…?"

Flushing, panting, England stood up and ripped him away.

"Stop that right now!"

Despite the order, London appeared unfazed, and in fact, had a bigger and self-assured smile on his face than before. "Don't be thick. I've already told you, I don't want to."

"I'm leaving."

His smiling capital gestured towards the salon door with a slight head tilt.

"Door's open. You'll be back."

He laughed as England scowled at this, as London rose to his feet as well, and walked around him. "Next time invite America along. We both know how you have been wanting to poke him around—" England's hand snatched onto his arm, squeezing warningly and turning the darker-haired back to him.

London shook him free. "You thought you could control what I was capable of..." His own emerald eyes narrowed darkly from their former delight as London grounded out, "...I hope you learned something."

As he moved away, snatching up his charcoal-grey overcoat and slamming the salon door behind him on his way out, England again caught his stench of the fog and the fumes and faintly of rainy afternoons strolling Bloomsbury's garden square of wild flowers.

And it made him feel... light-headed... and ache something terribly in his heart.




IF THE QUOTE DOESN'T CONVINCE YOU THAT LONDON NEEDED TO BE A HETALIA CHARACTER... I DON'T KNOW WHAT WILL. I'm not sure if anyone has attempted writing London along with his siblings that make up the country of England but kudos if this is a first try here. Yes. Englandcest. It just happened a little here. I'm open for exploring more of this idea. Probably in another oneshot. And I wouldn't again resist putting a hint of UKUS in there as well. Eh. I hope whoever is reading is now a fan of London's character. I did loads of research to get a personality for him. Reviews? D'aww... YOU GAIZ ARE TEH BEST.

Slang translations (just in case):

"It's bad news" = pretty self-explanatory and in this case it is referred to as an affection term for someone who is 'trouble'

"Cheers" = "Thanks"

"pub-crawling" = again self-explanatory and meaning going out at night to a bunch of pubs

"go on the lash" = go out drinking

"old man" = Father

"rubbish" = bad

"bang one out" = masturbate

"thick" = stupid

"poke [him] around" = have sexual intercourse [with him]