There are two times of year I most look forward to: Thanksgiving, and ImmortalxSnow's birthday. Thanksgiving because of all my family's lovely traditions; Snow's birthday because it means it's the time of year to write some more Hetalia crack.

So I present this gift-fic to you all, and especially to my beloved Snow, for your enjoyment and general hilarity.

England rarely asked his brother to stay with him these days. Their countries were busy, he rationalized; a transatlantic fight was hardly practical in this economy; his flat was in a constant state of disorder because France kept rearranging his furniture every time he visited. England told himself all kinds of things to keep from admitting the truth: he was afraid.

The last time America had visited, things had started out well enough. The President had come to visit the royal family, and America had tagged along with him. Since it was more than a one-day affair, England thought it only polite to ask his younger brother to stay. After all, they hadn't had an extended visit in several years. Within twenty-four hours, England was wishing the hiatus had extended for several more.

After a long, formal State dinner, where England had felt drab and dull next to America's crisp tuxedo and sparkling personality (The Prime Minister had laughed at one of his jokes. He never laughed at England's jokes, though he often seemed to be laughing at England), they took a cab back to England's flat. England sulked the whole way home, while America, still buzzed from God knew how many glasses of champagne, waxed eloquent about the various superiorities of American cuisine. Upon arrival, England shut the front door with an unnecessary amount of force and suggested rather snappishly that America go and have a shower.

He should have known better than to send America into the bathroom still tipsy.

In the time it took him to boil a kettle full of water and brew a cup of tea, the shower had not started running. Instead, what sounded through the thin walls was a series of muffles noises that sounded like America alternately chuckling and muttering to himself, which England found deeply unsettling. He returned to the sitting room, teacup in hand, and sat heavily down in his favorite armchair, massaging his temples. After what seemed an age of suspicious sounds that still did not include the shower running, the door creaked open and England stared apprehensively at the hallway, whence came America, completely dry but wearing England's favorite fluffy bathrobe. He kept snickering quietly to himself, which only reinforced the appearance of his being up to something. It was bad enough that he was clad, unbathed, in England's £75 monogrammed robe and lounging carelessly in his second-favorite armchair (he only had two); that he also seemed inordinately pleased with himself–for no apparent reason, England might add–was absolutely insupportable.

"Haven't you forgotten something?" England asked snidely over the gold-painted rim of his teacup.

America looked up with an expression of alarm that did nothing to assuage England's fear of mischief.

"You were going to have a shower?" England prompted, and America's hand flew up to his hair, still crunchy with an over-abundance of some smelly product, and he stood bolt upright.

"Oh yeah! Thanks, bro," the younger country hollered as he ran down the hallway, slamming the bathroom door so hard the whole flat shook.

England sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, wondering what on earth had induced him to invite his brother to stay. He waited until he was sure he heard the sound of the shower running, then picked up a book and tried to pretend that he was the only one in the flat.

When America emerged once more, clean, smelling like an overabundance of manly body wash, and still wearing the bathrobe, England heaved himself up from the chair and practically sprinted to the bathroom. With the door finally shut and locked behind him, he allowed himself to relax, slumped against the wood that was still warm and damp from America's shower. England didn't really feel he had the energy for his own shower, but he needed to wash off the day, so he loosened his tie and turned on the water.

. . .

When he awoke the next morning, the air seemed thick and hazy, and the scent of bacon pervaded the entire flat. England threw an arm across his face; he wasn't ready for this. But he was hungry, and in desperate need of a good strong cup of Earl Grey, so he pushed off the blankets and, with a yawn, swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Rubbing his eyes with fists almost covered by too-long pajama sleeves, he shuffled his way down the hallway to the bathroom. He flipped on the lights, looked up at the mirror, and screamed. It was a truly bloodcurdling sound, followed by a long, tortured howl.

"AMERICAAAAAAA!"

Moments later, his brother sauntered into the bathroom, his face the picture of casual interest. It didn't stay that way long, however, because the minute England turned to look at him, he collapsed against the doorway in paroxysms of gleeful laughter.

England's face was practically purple with incredulous anger. His eyes were slits and his lips were pursed so tightly America thought he might bite them clean off. But the whole picture was rendered thoroughly unintimidated by the vast, bare expanse of forehead wrinkled petulantly above it all. England had no eyebrows.

"STOP LAUGHING!" England wailed. "WHAT DID YOU DO?"

"Put–put–I put–" America tried to gasp out his response between bursts of hilarity, but his inability to do so only made him laugh harder.

"GODDAMMIT AMERICA WHAT DID YOU DO TO MY EYEBROWS?" England was close to tears at this point, though that may just have been from the dry, burning sensation he was beginning to notice on his forehead.

"I–" America managed to say after a long gulp of air, "I didn't do anything!" Then he doubled over laughing again.

"WELL I CERTAINLY DIDN'T DO IT!"

"Actually." America still struggled to keep a straight face, but he seemed to have composed himself for the moment. "Actually, you did do it."

England glared at him, but without his eyebrows, the expression didn't say 'cut the crap,' so much as 'please keep laughing at me.'

Now it was America's turn to bite his lips.

"Did you wash your face last night?" he asked with a smile once he had himself under control again.

England's eyes widened in horror and he fled to the shower, groping for the bottle of hypoallergenic, gentle-on-the-skin soap that he always used to wash his face. With trembling hand he squeezed a bit of it into the sink, and it came out a strange, faint green color that he hadn't noticed in the sleepy haze of last night's hot shower.

"What did you do to it?" England's voice was no more than a horrified whisper, and his face's color change from red to white was really something to behold.

America snorted. "Relax. It's just hair remover. I added some to the bottle."

"But why?" England moaned softly, turning once more to the mirror and gingerly touching the naked patches of pale skin. "My beautiful eyebrows!"

"Why?" America pretended to think for a minute. "Uhh...Because I thought it would be frickin' hilarious?"

England's face began to grow red once more.

"And...oh yeah! Because your eyebrows look like giant flesh-eating caterpillars trying to devour your head!"

"THAT'S IT!" England exploded. "THAT'S IT! OUT! OUT OF MY HOUSE! GET OUT!"

America dodged nimbly out of the way of his swinging fists and began to laugh once more.

"You got it, big bro," he said cheerfully, bouncing away from yet another errant punch. "I'll just be going then."

"GET OUT!"

"I'm going, I'm going," he laughed. "Just mail me my stuff back, then, k?"

"OUT!"

And just like that America was gone, the sound of his self-satisfied chuckles still ringing in England's ears, and the smell of burning bacon beginning to assault his nose.

His forehead was cold.

. . .

Remembering all this, England looked in the bathroom mirror and shuddered. His eyebrows were still not back to their former glory (they had been hundreds of years old, for cripes' sakes!), but at least they were there. America was coming today on another friendly visit, but England would not be asking him to stay.

France had switched the positions of his two favorite armchairs, after all.

Oh man that was fun. What with TYD and all the FMA angst I've been writing, it's been too long since I wrote some good old-fashioned crack. Somehow it always ends up involving America... In any case, I hope you all liked it (if you have time, please let me know)!

As for you, my dear Snow, have the happiest of birthdays :3 I love you so much and I am blessed to call you my friend!

–Vic