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hetalia2010-10-15 07:23 pm
[Fanfic] There's Something In The Air
Author: uro_boros
Characters/Pairings: America/Canada
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Cussing, kissing, really fluffy
Summary: Something smells good and America's determined to find out. Problem is, that something may or may not be Canada. And you know, it's kind of awkward just to sniff someone.
It smells like pancakes.
Okay, to be precise, it smells like maple syrup but that goes on top of pancakes and so it makes sense that if something smelt like maple syrup it would therefore smell like pancakes.
So it smells like pancakes. Or maple syrup. The logic’s starting to get a little circular here.
America takes in a deep whiff, flares his nose and breathes in deeply.
It smells really, really good. Like lazy Sunday mornings spent with Canada, covered in flour and laughing. Those mornings when the sun filters in through the windows just right and illuminates everything, lights everything up from the inside out and all the pieces just fit together, perfectly.
The smell is like coming home after a long day of work, beat up and tired, and laying down in a soft bed, the familiar comfort of the soft pillows and warm blankets. The smell feels like home.
America breathes in again.
Canada next to him shifts a little.
America turns to him and squints his eyes. “Canada,” he says, “do you smell that?”
Canada only turns a bright shade of pink and shakes his head. He looks uncomfortable and a little embarrassed.
“You don’t?” America asks. It can’t just be him. The smell has to exist.
Canada shakes his head again. “I-I…no,” he says quietly.
America shrugs his shoulders and frowns. Well, quest to find the mysterious smell of pancakes is ago.
--
It’s only later that he figures out the source of the smell.
And it’s not so much that America figures it out as it is he gets hit in the head with it.
He’d been spending the day with Canada, in Canada. That kind of sounds dirty, now that he thinks about it.
But he’d been with Canada and he’d started a snowball fight because that’s what brothers did when stuck in the snow. They threw balls of the stuff at each other as hard as they could.
It was later, soaked to the bone (and of course Canada would come out relatively dry, he had the home-field advantage) that America figured out the origins of the pancake-maple scent.
Canada tossed him an old red jacket, fleece-lined and warm, to replace his own wet clothes.
America had tugged it over his head and stopped, face firmly buried in the red fabric. It smelt like maple.
It still smells like maple a week later, tucked under America’s pillow. It still smells like maple every time he brings it up to his nose and breathes.
Canada is the source of the smell.
And America’s going to have some problems with that one, judging by the way he’s been reacting to the smell.
--
After that, he’s always sniffing when he’s around Canada. It makes Canada’s ears go pink, and his face go red. But it’s hard to stop, because Canada smells like every good thing there is, wrapped up into a tidy little package. It’s the smell of Christmas morning and of good coffee, the scent of oranges and sunshine—except, well, it’s maple.
But the point is Canada smells good.
Like, addictively good. Like, America wants to bury his head into Canada’s hair and never stop breathing.
It’s also getting hard to prevent himself from doing just that.
--
Canada’s taken to avoiding him. America wonders if it’s because he sniffs around him like a dog at all times.
It’s really frustrating and it’s putting him in a bad mood.
“I want pancakes,” he demands the waitress.
“Sir,” she says, frowning. “We stopped serving breakfast three hours ago.”
Well, fuck.
--
So maybe he’s started stocking up on maple syrup.
And maybe he’s taken to leaving them open on the counters and on his bookshelves.
Maybe he has one, or two, or four, open by his bedside.
The jacket still smells better than all of them combined
--
“Canada,” he whines, and wraps his arms around his brother. The scent is overwhelming and it makes his head feel funny.
It makes America feel calm.
Canada shrugs out of his grip and skitters away. “E-eh, you’re being friendly today, America,” he says.
America laughs and tugs at a lock of Canada’s hair. “You say it like it’s a bad thing,” and he tries not to notice how Canada’s hair smells better than any bottle of syrup he’s bought.
Canada lets out a short, stuttered laugh and ducks away. His hands fidget nervously.
America gets why that would be the case. He’s being unusually touchy, even for himself. Canada’s used to noogies and punches in the arm. He’s used to wrestling and hearty slaps on the back.
He’s not used to being wrapped around like a coat, being hanged off of. He’s not used to America twining his fingers through his hair and giving it gentle tugs.
America’s acting more like a lover than a brother and he should stop. He’s just not sure if he wants to.
--
Canada smells like roses today. Like dying, decaying roses, thick and cloying. When America twitches his nose to catch the scent, all he can do is gag.
“What is that smell?”
Canada stutters, “I’m trying a new shampoo,” and leaves it at that.
America spends the entire day standing as far away from him as possible.
Canada looks calmer but a little upset as well.
They don’t really talk.
--
Finally, America goes to England. Canada still smells like the unnatural scent of roses and America chokes every time he stands near him. It makes Canada curl in on himself even more self-consciously than he usually does.
“I can’t get Canada out of my head,” he says matter-of-factly.
It makes England sputter. The tea he was drinking dribbles out of the side of his mouth, which has gone slack-jawed. “What?” He asks hoarsely.
“Dude, gross,” America says, but takes a seat in the chair across from England. “And I said I can’t get Canada out of my head.”
England turns a bright shade of red. “W-What you and your brother do is up to you, America. But I do not need nor do I want to hear about it!”
America sighs and leans his head against his hand. His head hurts. “He just—he smells really good. Like crazy good. It makes me want to eat pancakes,” and because he’s America, he adds, “and possibly also him. You think he tastes as good as he smells?”
If possible, England turns an even brighter shade of red.
And ow, tea pots really hurt when thrown against your head.
--
So America goes to France.
Who promptly leers and hands him lube.
It’s maple flavored.
--
Which causes all kinds of dreams and America wonders if Canada would be that flexible in real life.
--
Of course, now he can’t even be around Canada without staring. And well, sniffing, which has caused this entire mess.
But America can’t stop, even when Canada slinks away from him and brushes off his touches. Even when Germany gives him an odd look at the conference when America switches the name plates at the table so he’s sitting next to Canada.
The red jacket, usually kept under his pillow, has taken up permanent residence in America’s arms when he’s at home.
After a month, the scent is still there.
--
Of course, nothing can last. The jacket spends too much time in his arms and it slowly starts to smell like him. Which is great and all but not what America wants.
Of course it’s not like he can just go to Canada and give him the jacket back. That would provoke all sorts of awkward questions about where it had been in the first place and why it hadn’t been returned earlier. But then again, America could just claim forgetfulness with a dopey smile and Canada would open up the door and sigh, but he would be smiling too, gentle. And then America could lean over and kiss the smile off his face, take in Canada’s little gasp of breath, and feel the way Canada would tense up and then relax, melt into his arms and then push back into the kiss. Tangle their tongues together because despite what people thought, Canada was never a passive partner.
And then after, he could bury his face in Canada’s hair and inhale, and feel the world right itself.
It’s too tempting a thought.
--
The thought is also the reason that he finds himself outside Canada’s house. In the snow.
It is fucking cold.
So cold, in fact, that when his brother opens the door, America can only rush inside, teeth-chattering.
“America?” Canada questions.
Christ. He’s only wearing his pajama pants.
And his hair’s wet.
It takes a few seconds for everything to start running in his brain, because all America can hear is: WET. HE IS WET. HE HAS JUST STEPPED OUT OF THE SHOWER.
And as lovely an image as it is, he can’t just stare open-mouthed at Canada, because that would be rude.
--
So he doesn’t return the jacket, though he does get dinner out of the entire ordeal.
America is so very suave. Really.
--
“What am I supposed to do?” He asks Tony.
Tony just stares at him, big red eyes looking a little annoyed. “Fuck,” he says simply.
Well, yeah, that’s what America would like to do.
--
“Um—right, so here’s the thing,” he says to Canada one day, hand scratching his neck. “I really—”
“--I’ve showered! I keep showering and trying different perfumes and colognes! I even went to France and he gave me this special lotion he said would make me smell better, but I guess it’s not working because every time you’re around you keep sniffing the air and I—I--,” and Canada stops, evidently out of breath. His face goes a horrific shade of red.
“Oh,” America says. And then, “Oh.”
He tugs his brother closer and hugs him, pushes his face into Canada’s neck, right where the skin and the jacket meet. He breathes in.
“I really like the way you smell.”
Canada’s body sags in relief in his arms. “Stupid,” he says, fondly.
America laughs and pushes his nose in firmer. He lays a slight kiss on Canada’s neck, a ghost of a touch.
It’s Canada’s turn to gasp. “Oh.”
--
“Ah, Amerique, may I ask—”
“—Fine! It was fine!”
“Ah oui, I figured. Judging by your limp and all.”
--
End
--
Author's Note: More from me! :D
....because I have no life.
Also, this is very fluffy. Very, very fluffy.
Anyways, this was from a prompt on the kink_meme. So if you read it twice....you know why.
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I lol'd. So. Hard. xDDDDD
-Joins France- Oh, do tell, Alfred 8D -Hands over maple lube-
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Also, I really enjoy the narrative of this story. Would it be odd to say I enjoyed reading it out loud? It's just one of those fics. (which is a good thing, don't worry) :D
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