Your Cooking Sucks!

Summary: America hates England's cooking. He really does. But, wait—"Who did you make those scones for if not me?" USUK

Warning(s): Characters might be OOC

Author's Note: I've been getting very interested in Hetalia recently, especially USUK, and so here is a silly two-shot. P.S. America really doesn't know how to read the atmosphere; but you probably knew that already.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything; Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya. Also, I'm not American or British so anything regarding these two countries should not be taken too strictly.

Part One

America hated England's cooking. Honest. It was an unsaid truth. Nobody liked England's cooking so it wasn't as if it was some big surprise. The only reason why he even ate England's scones whenever some were offered to him was because they were usually given at the most convenient time—when he was hungry. And no, unlike what England thought, he wasn't always stuffing himself like a 'gluttonous swine'. He just had a healthy appetite, not like England who ate such small portions that America sometimes wondered how it could possibly satisfy him.

But perhaps that was due to the fact that England couldn't even stomach his own cooking. That must be it, America thought, and it felt like he had just unearthed the secret to the world's most unsolvable mysteries. But he still eats it to keep his pride. Poor thing! Subjected to endless torture because he's too proud to admit that he sucks at cooking.

America reflected on this, pity bubbling inside of him. Sad, sad England. Never knowing the pleasures of real food…someone needs to save him from such a depressing lifestyle. Wait—he could do it! After all, what else would a hero do but to save the poor damsel in distress, even if it was from hers—himself?

"Don't worry England. Your hero will save you!" America shouted in determination, before shoving a burnt scone in his mouth.

Don't look at him like that—it was a gift from England and he just wanted to rid of it as soon as possible. Seriously.

"He-llo! Your hero is here!" America pressed the England's doorbell furiously—he preferred knocking but the last time ended with the door having to be fixed and an hour long lecture from England on how he should learn to control his strength—greeting England with his signature Hero Pose and charming smile as soon as the door was yanked open. England scowled, like he always did, though America could tell he wasn't upset. Who was upset at getting a visit from a hero, after all?

England raised one of his abnormally large eyebrows. "Wait—why are you here America? We didn't schedule any plans, I'm most certain."

England's forehead creased a little, as if he were trying to recall. America thought it was a cute look on the smaller male. Not that that thought would ever, ever come out of his mouth. Ever.

"Haha! No, no. No appointments! But 'tis still important! I've learnt something major and absolutely need to fix it. It's just who I am, don't need to thank me for this—"

"What are you blabbering on about you fool?" England cut America off, not understanding a single word coming out of the American's mouth.

"Well duh. I've finally figured out why you're so short—"

"I'm not bloody sho—"

"—and scrawny. Because you don't eat enough! And—"

"Hey! All because I prefer not to be morbidly obese—"

"—that's obviously because you don't eat much besides your own cooking and we all know why that's not a smart option—"

"What are you implying you gi—"

"—and I'm here to fix your taste buds and show you what's real food!" As soon as America finished his last word, he pulled out a hotdog and hamburger stand, as well as a slushie machine from his right and started to bring them into England's house.

England, in the meantime, was feeling quite appalled. His eyes were bulging (how did he miss those humongous objects) and he couldn't seem to be able to get the angry words out of his throat, so choked by his indignation he was.

Oh wait, now he could.

"Wait just a minute you damn git! You don't just burst in here all willy-nilly and dump all this on me. Stop!" England tried to block America from entering his house any further but America easily shoved him to the side and persisted onwards. And he did it as if it didn't take any effort. Cursing America's idiotic strength under his breath, England continued with his rant.

"Hey you daft fool, didn't I just tell you to stop it? Our special relationship does not give you free rein to just burst into my house—"

"Free country!" America sung, having already reached England's kitchen and dumping all the things he'd brought along down.

"Not your country," England argued, dismaying at the mess America just made of his kitchen. He shivered. All that fat, greasy food in his kitchen. Yes, America usually brought over hamburgers and other fatty treats whenever he came to visit—always resulting with England wondering where he had gone wrong in raising him—but this, this was an abomination.

"Aw…England, you know you're my country," America replied with a flirtatious wink. Feeling his cheeks burning red, England reflexively turned to face the other direction.

"Uh…well…that is to say—" England stuttered.

"The gentleman's flustered! Hey everyone, I managed to make the perfect gentleman fluster!" America teased as he pulled out a hotdog from the hotdog stand and dangled it in England's face.

"Stop it! And get that out of my face you wanker!" England cried out, pushing the disgusting processed meat out of his face. "What do you think you're doing?"

America stared at England as if he was dumb and said, "Well duh. I explained it to you just now. Dude, I'm trying to get you to eat better food."

"Better? You call that greasy mess in your hand better than my own food?"

"Hey! Don't diss the hotdog. And yeah, definitely better. I just thought if I introduced you to a better choice you would realise what you're missing and decide to stop poisoning yourself with the nasty shit you call food."

"You love my food!"

"…"

"You've always loved my food! When you were a child you would always ask for more, whenever I came back you would request my cooking…" England sighed, reminiscing fondly.

"I'm sorry to say this dude but I've always lied about liking your cooking." England shot a glare at America, all the while trying to conceal the hurt on his face. Sure all the other countries have told him about his 'terrible' cooking but somehow it was different coming from America.

America was the one who was supposed to like his cooking. He's always enjoyed it, why would he even say otherwise now?

"Yeah," America continued, oblivious to England's feelings. "I mean, if you actually believe that anyone in their right mind would willingly eat your cooking then you must be a bit coo-coo. The coo-coo king. But don't worry! That's why I'm here—to be your hero!"

"I don't need saving, you utter arse! To think, I always give you my scones—that I made for myself, not for you, I just make too much, so don't be mistaken—and you have the nerve to tell me that you don't enjoy them. Ungrateful git!" England ranted, his entire body stiffened and defensive. Stupid America, why couldn't he just take the hint and shut the hell up. England was sorely tempted to let America taste a Knuckle Sandwich and see how he liked it.

Lied about liking your cooking…

America's words echoed in England's mind and coupled with the fact that it was said so nonchalantly, it felt like a bullet through the heart.

Damn you America. Why must you make me feel this way? England bit his lips and clenched his eyelids shut, lest he began tearing up in front of that insensitive git.

"Get out," England demanded. He won't let America see him crying. Even if he was his lover, America never missed a chance to poke fun at him and he didn't feel like giving the American the satisfaction.

"Whoa," America said, raising his arms in mock surrender. "Don't need to be so extreme, dude. I came all the way, off the map, to help you. So you can't just chase me away. That'll be mean, y'know?"

"I don't care," England said, turning his back to America. His face felt wet. "Go America. Now. You weren't invited here in the first place so just leave, won't you?"

Without waiting for an answer, England stalked off, letting America see himself out. It was such an ungentlemanly thing to do that but surely it was better than breaking down in front of America.

England was beginning to rethink a few things as he walked away…

America didn't understand. It has been a week since the day he decided to free England from his horrid cooking and England was avoiding him. He didn't answer any of America's phone calls, snap chats, tweets…nothing! Even when America took it upon himself to visit him once again to ask what was going on, England didn't even open the door to ask him to "sod off!"

It was weird and uncomfortable. What exactly had he done wrong to warrant such treatment?

When America had decided to visit England and improve his sense of taste, he had expected it to end in something like this:

Oh my goodness America! I am ever so sorry for doubting your country's splendid cuisine. To think, I have been eating inferior food all my life and even nagged at you for eating such delightful treats. Jolly good, jolly good. I will never doubt you again. You're my hero America! Bloody brilliant, you are!

Or something like that, anyway. British people spoke like that, right? Yeah, probably.

But instead of that beautiful expectation, he got this:

You bloody twit! Twat! Prick, prat, plonker! Wanker! Hob-knocker! [Insert more weird British insults here] You've always been so ungrateful since the American Revolution—which I know was my fault but fuck that—and I know you're trying to help me now but I'm going to pretend I don't need a hero 'cause I'm a gentlemen and all that jazz. Also, I'm disregarding your kindness and sending you out of my house this instance! Ta-ta and sod off!

Or at least, America was sure that was what went down.

"Drop dead England," America muttered under his breath. "I was just trying to help you out."

And to make it worse, England hasn't sent him his weekly supply of toxic scones and tea, which England had started since he said it would help him "lose some of the bloody weight", or something along those lines. Honestly, he didn't understand half of what England said these days. Actually, maybe it was because he wasn't really listening and was thinking about all the other fun things they could be doing—

Oh he was digressing. Point was, England wasn't going to forgive easily.

Damn it.

Never mind that for now. Japan just sent him that new video game that he'd been dying, literally dying, to play. It was life and death here. But he promised himself that he would make it up to England—for whatever he had done wrong, with England you never knew. He would go all-out romantic (Hollywood baby!) since he knew England was such a romantic with his Shakespeare and all.

At the next World Meeting, he thought to himself sternly. For sure. In two weeks time. Yeah, I can swing that.

America's eyes drew closer to that awesome new video game in his hands.

I'll do it…after just one quick game. Definitely! And England will love it and forgive me.

And with that, America ordered a shitload of hamburgers, grabbed a few bags of chips from the kitchen, as well as three huge bottles of diet coke (it was true—he was on a diet), and prepared for his game night.