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Summary: England reconnects with his Germanic siblings, making the British Isles nations jealous. Written for the Axis Powers Hetalia Kink Meme.


“…and then, the guy finally gets to the place…” Prussia set down his beer, shaking the condensation from his fingers. “…and he’s running up and down the beach waving the arms, and West is like…”

Germany buried his face in his hand.

“…‘oh, he’s just a Moroccan, selling the trinkets, ignore him’…”

Must you tell this story?” Germany grumbled. “It’s so embarrassing.”

Prussia shushed him, and continued. “So at last the guy stands there with his hands on his hips making the most awesome bitchface…” He cracked up, slapping Germany on the back. “…and finally the pfennig drops!”

Germany groaned. England snorted and had another sip of strong German beer. The pub was lively without being thronged or noisy, his head was swimming pleasantly, and it was rather nice not to be the butt of the joke for a change. He set down his glass and gazed at the group. Germany released Prussia from a mock-headlock, and Prussia tousled his hair – horseplay without smashing tables. Switzerland and Austria had grumbled, but paid for their rounds instead of hiding in the toilet. And Liechtenstein was sitting quietly in her brother’s lap, sweetly tipsy and nursing a soft drink, instead of making roaring noises and starting a fight with herself. All in all, he was incredibly glad he’d reached out to his Germanic brothers and sisters…especially given the rather interesting side-effect it had had on Scotland and Wales. Suddenly they were falling over themselves to be nice to him. They paid for his drinks, reminisced with him about the good old days – Wales had even loaned him Y Ddraig Goch to get to and from World meetings.

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t milking it a little.

England had another drink and sat back contentedly in his chair. There was only one thing missing. The Republic of Ireland had been avoiding him since he’d started spending time with the Germanic nations. He’d rather hoped she’d get jealous like Scotland and Wales. They’d never had the happiest relationship, but he’d always hoped that she still felt some sort of sisterly affection for him.

And then he heard a clatter and cursing, and saw a flash of red hair stumbling through the crowd clustered around the bar. England sat up straighter as Ireland weaved her way over to the table, a pint gripped tightly in each hand.

“Oh, Ireland,” England remarked. He stretched his hand out for the second pint. “You’re too kind.”

Ireland pulled back slightly, and glared at him with disdain.

“Oh, you think this pint is for you?” she slurred. “D’you think I’m like them other two clowns?” She jerked her head towards a table where Wales and Scotland were sitting, then turned her attention to Austria. “Oh he’s right eejits made of the two boys. Buyin’ him drink. Ferryin’ him around the place. ‘D’you remember this, d’you remember that’. And he playin’ em –” She leaned in closer and raised her voice. “ – playin’ em like fuckin’ FIDDLES.”

Austria leaned away, grimacing at the overpowering stench of alcohol coming off the older nation. He breathed a sigh of relief as Ireland straightened up again, and took his glasses off to cleanse them of flecks of beer and spit. Honestly, no wonder England had always felt like the outsider among the British Isles.

“Well I had to come see it to believe it,” Ireland went on, shaking her head. “You’ve some short memory, boy.”

England blinked up at her tipsily, but before he could form a reply, Prussia spoke up.

“We were just telling some stories, Ireland,” he remarked with a smirk. “Why don’t you join us and tell us what you did in the war, apart from hide in your house away from all the fighting?”

Hey,” Switzerland warned.

Ireland glared at Prussia, swaying unsteadily on her feet.

“Oh it’s a story you want, is it?” she slurred. “I’ll tell ya a story. Story of the worst fuckin’ spy I ever saw during the Emergency, an albino with a German accent. ‘Oh bitte, when is ze next train’, and all weeds growin’ up through the fuckin’ tracks!”

England spat a mouthful of beer all over the table and leaned over, giggling helplessly. Switzerland glared at Ireland as he covered Liechtenstein’s ears. A bright red blush crept over Prussia’s cheeks. Ireland leaned forward, both pints wobbling dangerously. “Did yeh like the inside of me shed, did yeh?”

Germany began to stand up. “Let’s all calm down –” he began, but Ireland cut him off.

“Shut up, you!” Ireland barked. She turned to England, ignoring Germany’s look of surprise. “D’yeh remember what he did in the war, do yeh? Bombed you. Bombed the child. Shot at me, and I goin’ over and back to America’s house puking the whole way, getting the messages for you and the boys.”

She wobbled and dumped half a pint in Austria’s lap.

“Oh for Christ’s sake!” Austria exclaimed. He stood up to examine the damage. Ireland gazed at his soaked trousers and the puddle on the floor, then turned back to England.

“This one can’t even walk to the bloody toilet.”

Austria spluttered indignantly and Prussia burst out laughing. Ireland was unamused.

“And you want to sit here and drink with them?” She glared at England and stepped back, turning away to rejoin Scotland and Wales. She paused after a few steps, calling over her shoulder. “You get your arse back over there where you belong.”

“Always a pleasure,” Austria grumbled, trying in vain to wring out his clothes.

England gazed at the table for a few moments, then picked up his pint and began to rise.

“Hey, hey!” Prussia reached out and put a hand on his arm. “You don’t have to go anywhere. You’re part of our awesome family now.”

England shook his head. He looked up at Prussia, Germany, Switzerland, Liechtenstein and Austria, unable to keep the smile from spreading across his face.

“You don’t understand,” he said. He felt ridiculously, joyfully happy. “They miss me.”


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September 2015


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