Canada and the Kilt

My first ever ScotCan. Don't judge. Blame shadowdancer112. It's all her fault. Not mine.

And chillax, there's no saucy lemons, limes or fluff in it . . . . yeeeeeet.

Now then.

Read.

Review.

And enjoy!

(and expect more ScotCans to come~!)

Disclaimer: I own Hetalia. (Now please explain why I have to do that every time I write a fic it's obvious that I don't own Hetalia isn't it?)

Canada couldn't believe his little maple eyes.

Standing before him was the 'kilt closet.' Canada knew he had a place where he kept all his kilts. But he never let Canada see.

But since the redhead Scotsman was out, and Canada was all alone.

So he decided to inspect the one place he was told to never step foot in.

"Step foot in that closet, and I'll kick yer bahooky so hard yer granny will feel it," Was the warning he was given.

But he was also given the advice of his brother. A little acronym that went along the lines of, You Only Live Once.

So he opened the closet.

His eyes went wide at the sight.

There were all sorts of kilts. Red kilts. Blue kilts. Green kilts. Black kilts. Tartan kilts. Leather kilts. Kilts made out of fur. Kilts made out of feathers. Kilts for celebrations. Kilts for weddings and funerals. Kilts from everything and anything.

Even a kilt made out of the same stuff that was used to make shower curtains. They had little duckies on them.

"Whoa . . ." Canada breathed, reaching in to fetch a neat looking red tartan kilt.

Scotland was going to kill him if he ever found out.

He fumbled to put on the kilt, removing his own pants and trying to work out how he was going to do this. He knew it was a once in a lifetime opportunity, to see the world from a different perspective, from the perspective of a man wearing a kilt.

Well, Scotland always wore a kilt.

And he looked so natural and . . . well, he looked so good in it! Er, I mean, not like that or anything. I mean . . . well . . . er.

Canada got his head in a twist. He shook his head to undo the confusion in his mind and just went on with it. Wearing his new kilt, he tried to search for a mirror. Luckily there was one in the bathroom nearby. He crept in stealthily, suddenly feeling like he was about to get caught doing something so . . . something his brother would do!

He shrugged it off, trying to stay calm. Well, at least if he was invisible, if someone happened to walk in on him, they wouldn't see anyway.

For the first time Canada was glad that he wouldn't be noticed.

Unless the kilt had magical un-invisibility powers that would . . .

No.

Don't even think about it Canada.

You're this far ahead, you might as well enjoy it while it lasts.

He glanced in the direction of the mirror. He blinked, looking at the tartan plaids as it matched his red jumper. He bit his lip, standing there awkwardly and scratching the back of his neck.

Well, so far so good.

He bent his knees a little, unsure what he was doing, and what he should do next. He stood up straight and struck a pose, brushing his golden curls from his hair and smirking.

"How you doin'," He clicked his fingers at the mirror, smirking and winking, doing something he saw his brother doing once. "Lookin' gooood,"

"Lookin' a wee bit strange if ye ask me, lad," Came a thick, gruff accent from behind.

Canada flinched, startled.

He'd been sprung.

"Errm," He looked for something to cover his shame, a towel, a sheet, toilet paper, whatever was useful enough to cover his deed. He felt the Scotsman's gaze burning into the back of his head as he looked around. In the end he sat on the ground, brought his knees to his chest and covered his face with both hands. "Don't look at me."

The poor Canadian.

He was ashamed.

"What's the matter, lad?" Scotland laughed, amused at the sight. "If ye wanted tae wear one then why dinnae ye just ask?"

"I don't know . . ." He whimpered, still covering his eyes, his cheeks bright red. "I was curious."

"Well if yae gunna be curious don't go raidin' my kilt closet." He clipped the Canadian behind the ear, shaking his head.

"How'd you find out?" Canada peeked up at Scotland with big round eyes.

"Ye left the door open."

". . . Oh."

Scotland shook his head, laughing, turning around and walking out of the room. "And if yer gonna wear it, wear it properly."

Canada blinked, standing up. "Er, what do you mean?"

He pointed to Canada's pants that he'd left on the floor, "Ye see that? I don't see any underpants. It means yer wearin' em."

He turned around and walked off, while Canada stood there with his face as red as Scotland's hair.