Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia Axis Powers or any of the copyrighted objects mentioned below. Copyrights - Hidekaz Himaruya, among others.
DeathBeforeDarkness and I were talking last night and this plot line appeared within our conversation. I felt the need to write it. 8D It's so stupid, lul. But don'tcha hate it when creepers sneak up right behind you at the grocery store?
As always, reviews = love. They keep me writing.
Enjoy?~

England and the Meat Section

Chicken.

The gargantuan daystar showered its rays delightfully upon the bustling town of Boston, Massachusetts, the very same town in which this year's annual World Conference was to be held in a handful of trivial days. The simple fact that no impervious rainclouds lurked in the fathomless azure sea overhead perturbed the short-statured, citrine-haired Brit as he crossed the automatic threshold of the Food Lion just a few streets down from his hotel. He hadn't realized that he had taken the perpetually cloudy sky over his beloved heart-city of London for granted until now. It's so bloody bright... is this why that git always has a grin plastered to his face? The cheery face of the bespectacled, caramel-haired friend that was America popped into his head as if on command.

The scent of freshly-baked bread engulfed the personification of England as he helped himself to an old-fashioned metal basket, insidiously steered over to the bakery section by the enticing aroma. His head cocked to the right as chartreuse eyes surveyed the selection of uncut loaves on a shelf in front of him, all meticulously wrapped in a crinkly sleeve of plastic. French, Italian, Hawaiian... white, wheat, whole grain... without a second thought he dropped a French baguette into the awaiting basket perched upon his forearm.

As if on cue a very familiar, very characteristic honhonhon~ chuckle resonated a few feet behind him, sending subzero shivers dancing down England's spine and erecting goosebumps upon apricot upper arms concealed by a forest-green military jacket. "Well, hello France," England half spoke, half spat the greeting as if the name of his rival were lethal poison dripping from his tongue while he turned to face the flamboyant blonde.

"Salut, l'Angleterre!" France cordially replied as he stepped closer to the barely-shorter-than-him hothead of a man that he somehow considered a friend. "You have la fantastique taste in bread! Seems you can't get enough of me even at America's home, n'est-ce pas?"

France chortled inwardly as the irresistibly amusing look that England wore when obviously caught off-guard overtook his blunt features. Before England could open his mouth to screech denial, France leaned in and silenced his long-time frienemy by pressing one slender finger to his thin lips. "You don't want to make a scene, especially not in a supermarket of all places! Go finish your shopping - you can shout your opinions at me later, non?" France's voice dipped in pitch as he spoke, though it remained high enough for England to understand.

"Maybe you should keep your bloody mouth shut sometimes if you don't want me to cause a scene, you git!" England shot back once unsilenced, promptly pivoting to begin his advance into the bowels of the store.

A swift, practised hand clenched around the plump region of England's ass before he stomped away. "See you later, mon Angleterre! Oh-honhonhon...!"

"Keep your hands to yourself!" England shouted over his shoulder before his voice descended to mumble, "damn bloody wanker" as he crossed the no man's land between the bakery and frozen foods/meat section, hoping that his now beet-red face would return to its usual complexion in a timely manner, ideally before he ran into the frog once again.

Thank God America reserved suites for everyone at the hotel... at least I can cook my own dinner instead of having to pick something up from one of those fast food places that he loves to prattle on about... He found the pre-cooked, pre-sliced chicken that he had meant to buy almost by accident as his reverie shattered, halting in his tracks to peruse the various colorful packages. The whole world sure does love to have variety at their fingertips, don't they?

His ears popped unsettlingly as the short hairs on the back of his neck rose for reasons unbeknownst to the blonde nation. For some reason the feeling would not go away, much like America after gorging on sweets that Japan had given him... he leaned in, chucked a blue box into his basket, pivoted on his heel to trudge away from the chicken, and... smacked square into something tall and soft and freezing cold.

"What the hell!" England yelped after hopping backward, reflexively putting distance between himself and whatever he had run into.

Emerald eyes locked onto a familiar star medal before lifting to find the extremely-tall, powerful visage of Russia. One of his eerie, Cheshire-esque smiles had already upturned the corners of his mouth as he stared holes into England's face with unyielding amethyst: his smile never seemed to touch his eyes. "привет, England! How nice to run into you here, да?" England noticed the extra emphasis on the verb in Russia's greeting.

The island nation tittered uncomfortably. "Erm, yes, same to you. Sorry to have bumped into you like that... how are you?" A sense of foreboding seemed to emit from the Siberian nation standing before him in waves: no wonder the Baltic states trembled so fervently when Russia happened to be nearby.

"Oh, not too bad," Russia remarked amicably, "though... something's been on my mind recently..."

One of England's impressive eyebrows arched in a questioning fashion. "Hmm? What's been bothering you, old chap?" he forced his voice to stay calm albeit the midnight hatred from centuries long since past simmering within the unconscious vector of his mind.

Russia shrugged though his plastic smile never faltered. "Well, you see, I've become bored as of late... the Baltics give in willingly because they are obligated to do so, and China has unfortunately learned to enjoy it... and since my sisters are of course out of the question, I think I'll have to branch out and find new countries for it..."

The pulse in England's neck electrified, kickstarting to thrum underneath his skin twice as fast as before while his brain constructed premature explanations that would clarify Russia's problem. Is he alluding to... war...? And is he hinting that he's going to target me?"E-Erm... Russia, I hate to ask, but... are you trying to tell me that you're going to declare war on someone?"

Russia's head tilted to each side as if appraising England's word choice. "You could call it that, да. Война плоти..."

What was that...? The Brit could have sworn that his heart and stomach had swapped places at that point: he audibly gulped as his next question painstakingly formulated on his tongue. "So then... I'm not your target, am I...?"

The silence that filled the finite gap between the two nations was equipped with a deafening, pregnant quality. The miniscule muscles that held Russia's smile in place imperceptibly twitched before his accented, carefree voice filled the air. "Hmm, да. I think it would be more fun that way. You're coming with me. Right now."

"W-What? Can't it wait until after the conference?" England's voice cracked an octave higher than its usual timbre, stepping back as Russia padded forward until the chilly surface of the industrial, glass-encased freezer behind him contacted his back, its iciness easily permeating his military jacket, his long-forgotten grocery basket slipping from his arm and clattering against polished linoleum. "W-Why the hell are you so bloody c-close to me?"

Russia seemed to scrunch his nose for an instant before he muttered something indistinct in his native tongue, leaning in even closer to the fretting nation before coiling one toned arm around England's waist and hoisting him over a broad shoulder with apparent ease. England's handed instinctively balled into fists and beat on Russia wherever he could, shouting trivialities like "help" and "save me!" that only served to widen Russia's smile. "W-Why did you feel the need to pick me up, for God's sake? Aren't we going to negotiate war?"

"да, though there isn't much negotiating to be done on your part! There never is when you negotiate with me in Дел плоти," Russia vaguely notified him, a tone of childish amusement prevalent in his voice.

"You're speaking in goddamn riddles... and was that last part in Russian?" After a positive " да," he continued, "P-Pray tell, w-what does it mean...?"

"Oh, you'll find out soon enough, silly England... though there isn't much talking in affairs of the flesh, wouldn't you agree?" With a lighthearted cackle Russia stepped through the double doors leading out of the grocery store. "You'll become one with me whether you like it or not, silly England. Though, personally, I hope you don't enjoy it. It's much more fun when my prey fights back!"

All of the sanity that had remained at this point abandoned England as his helpless howl pierced the crisp air outside.

"I will not have it! War is bloody better than this...!"

And so, for innumerable days following Russia's 'war of the flesh,' England had acquired a noticeable limp in his step.

Fin.
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