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historizeTitle: S'mores~
Author/Artist:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
historyblitz, kept track of at historize
Character(s) or Pairing(s): America, England, Canada, Australia, New Zealand Germany, Prussia, Italy, Romano, Spain and Belgium.
Rating: PG
Warnings: some language, dropbears
Summary: England has never heard of s'mores so America and Canada decide it's time for a camping trip!
I had a lot of fun doing this one.
Posted here
America ticked his head to the side. “What do you mean what are s’mores? Are you for real?”
England snorted and looked up at him under his eyebrows. “It sounds like the name of a terrible sore.”
America grimaced and then drew himself up. “You have food called Spotted Dick, okay. That sounds like a damn disease! You can’t even begin to slam our names.”
“Our?”
“Well, yeah,” said America. “It—“ and then he cut himself off, raised his index finger and pulled out his cell phone. He hit the ‘2’ on his speed dial and when it stopped ringing said, “Canada, what are s’mores?”
There was a beat of silence. “What do you mean what are s’mores? You know what s’mores are.”
“England doesn’t think they’re real.”
“Well, of course they are.”
America raised his eyebrows at England, see, I told you. “I’m gonna put you on speaker, Canada.” He laid his cell phone on the table and did so.
“All right,” said England, bracing himself. “Fine. Then let me try one. We can have one with tea.”
Canada must have been taken a drink of something at the moment England said that because he snorted and choked. “You can’t eat s’mores with tea!”
“And I don’t have any graham crackers,” America added.
England was looking mutinous. “What’s a graham cracker?”
There was silence from the phone and from America for a second. And then the present one said, “Huh?”
England grumbled. “I don’t think I know what you mean. Graham cracker.”
America was trying to suppress a smile. He bit his lip, shaking a little.
“They don’t have graham crackers in England?” came Canada’s voice. “Well, I guess they were invented in New Jersey. By a vegetarian, no less.”
“Yeah, I guess they aren’t as weird as I thought.”
England waved a hand irritably. “What do these graham crackers have to do with s’mores?”
“Well, you…,” and then America trailed off and he smiled. “Hey, Canada. You know what we should do, right?”
There was a beat of silence and then a gasp. “Yeah! We should! That’d be great!”
“Should what?” said England, sounding wary.
“We’ll come up to you, then?” America said. “You’ve got more choices and you’re nearer the Great Lakes.”
“Might be cheaper for you guys to come here—well, our borders are—hey, we should invite Poland, Belgium and Germany—“
“What the hell would Poland want to be outdoors for? He’d end up getting bored and painting lines on my truck with his nail polish again. Germany would be cool though. France won’t come, right?”
“No way,” said Canada. “He’d bitch the whole time about not having a hair dryer.”
“But if Germany comes—“
“Prussia will too.”
America burst out laughing.
England crossed his arms, lifting his eyebrows. “Are you talking about camping?”
“Yes,” said Canada, loudly, as America was still laughing. “See, s’mores are, traditionally, a camping food and they’re best enjoyed in their native setting.”
“Why?”
“They just are,” said Canada, in a tone that expressed he was probably waving the question away with his hand. “They just aren’t as good on the stove or microwave.”
“Definitely not,” America agreed.
England sighed. “I can’t afford to—“
“Oh, c’mon, England,” America groaned. “Please?”
“Please,” Canada added, a needling whine to his voice. “C’mooon, we never do anything fun anymore.”
“It’s always work,” America tacked on.
England glared at him. “Both of you—stop ganging up on me!”
“America! Use the secret weapon!”
America nodded, saluted the phone and took off his glasses. He turned those July sky eyes on England.
“Oh, bugger.”
America’s lip quivered. “Please?” And then, in a near-perfect imitation of Canada, “Pretty please?”
England’s lips pressed into a thin line. “America—“
“England…we just want to spend some time with you….both of us…” America curled his glasses into his hands and somehow managed to look under his eyelashes at him.
England snorted. “Fine, fine. Just leave me alone.”
America’s glasses came back on and he pumped is fist, whispering, “Yes!”
Canada cheered.
“We’ll meet you in three days time.”
England didn’t much like going to the store with America. They were always so big and people told him ‘hello’ so many times that he felt like he had a target on his jumper. And once he spoke to them---some of them would get all excited when they realized he was English and would immediately ask him questions like, “Can you say more? Please? Your accent is awesome.”
Well, you should have kept it then! He thought, bitterly and his answers would get steadily more terse until America noticed that England wasn’t walking beside him anymore and he’d come back and retrieve him, saying, “Sorry, he’s repressed. Don’t bother. I have to get him some Hob Nobs, else he gets cranky.”
“Hob Nobs,” the person would inevitably imitate, in a poor English accent. And if the person had anyone with him or her, that person would apologize profusely for his companion.
“Why do your people like English accents so much?” England asked, scowling as he followed America down an expansive cracker aisle.
“Because it’s different,” said America, shrugging, as if that were obvious. “We know all our accents over here.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “The basic four come down to, New York, Boston, Southern, and Californian. With lots of slight variations—especially in the big cities like Chicago—and almost-Canadian near the border.”
“What about the Midwest?”
“They don’t have one.” America looked around at all the boxes and then propelled himself forward, taking down three boxes of and handing one to England. “These are graham crackers.”
“They look like digestives. Only rectangular. And they certainly do have an accent in the Midwest.”
“I guess they are kind of like that,” said America, shoving two extra boxes into the cart and clearly not paying attention to accent talk anymore. “Except they don’t dissolve as easily. But you use them to make crusts for cheesecakes and stuff—we use graham crackers to do that too.”
In the next aisle, America picked up several packages of chocolate bars. England’s eyes went wide. “What do you need all that chocolate for? There must be—“
“We just do,” said America. “Trust me.”
“That’s never ended well.”
America threw him a dark look. “Wait til you see the marshmallows then.”
England stared when America picked up five bags of marshmallows and threw them into the cart. “How do you plan to make anything out of this rubbish in the middle of the forest?”
“Canada and I know what we’re doin’, okay?” America picked up a bag of balloons, a can of bug spray, some snacks and a sandwich from the deli (for the ride up).
At the checkout, he paid in cash and the gum-chewing cashier smiled at him. “Going camping?”
“You bet,” he told her. “Hard work and no play makes us boring as hell.”
“Speak for yourself,” England interjected.
The girl did the slightest of double-takes but she didn’t comment on his accent. “Workaholic?” she said instead.
“Like you wouldn’t believe,” America said, chuckling, as she gave him his change. “We’re taking our knives so that my brother and I can cut off his suit while he’s sleeping.”
The girl chuckled. “Good luck,” she said to him.
England flustered. “I’m not that bad.”
“You totally are,” said America, grinning. He thanked the boy who bagged their items and took the cart with them out to America’s truck. It was already packed with tent, sleeping bags and other equipment (and an axe, because it would be a hassle to bring his rifles over the border and besides, Canada had rifles).
And one long ride in America’s truck later, after listening to AC/DC, the Eagles and the soundtrack to 42nd Street (which America sang along with cheerfully), England took over the iPod and put on Pink Floyd. They arrived at the border guard where they handed over their passports, answered some questions and were waved on.
America took out his cell phone and dialed Canada. “Hey, bro, we’re over the border—“
“You mobile phone driver!” England grumbled, plucking the phone from America’s ear and talking instead. “Are you in Ottawa?”
“No, I went ahead and got to the camp site—America has a GPS, you should be fine. I already picked up Belgium and Germany from the airport. Prussia and Italy and Romano and Spain came too…oh, and, uh…I, uh, invited some extra people…”
“Who?” England intoned, forbidding.
“Uh. Australia and New Zealand.”
“Oh.” Well, at least he didn’t invite Ireland and Scotland. “That’s not so bad.”
“They keep talking about dropbears.”
England snorted. “There are no dropbears.”
“What the hell are you two talking about?” America’s eyes kept flicking between him and the road.
“Nothing,” England snapped and then turned his attention back to the phone. “We’ll meet you up there.” He hung up.
“The fuck is a dropbear?”
“It’s nothing.”
They heard their campsite long before they reached it. Mostly because of the familiar whooping and hollering of Australia, who—when America rounded the last bend in the dirt road—saw that he and Prussia had teamed up and were pelting Germany and Spain with water balloons. That is, until Belgium ran up behind them and attacked.
“I’ve outflanked you all,” she cried and continued pelting them. While they were distracted, Germany grabbed some handfuls of mud to retaliate and Spain ran over and stole their bucket of balloons.
America blew his horn, waving as they drove up.
“Where’s New Zealand?” England wondered aloud.
BOOM!
America yelped, slammed on the brakes and ducked, shielding his head with his arms. England flinched. “What was th—“
New Zealand’ face popped down over the windshield. And this time, England yelped too, jumping back into the seat.
America threw the truck in park and rammed his door open. “You son of a bitch—“
“You shoulda seen y’faces!” New Zealand yelled, roaring with laughter as he slid off the top of the truck, to the ground.
“How the hell did you do that!”
He pointed up and America looked, seeing a thick overhang of trees. He couldn’t help but give a grudging smile. “Y’fuckin’ monkey. Goddammit.”
“I know, yeh!” He ran up and tackled America. “Nice to see yeh, big brother!”
America rubbed his knuckles in New Zealand’s hair. “You too, Zea.” He laughed.
Australia, Spain and Prussia were laughing too, pausing in their battle with Belgium and Germany. Australia ran up to them. “Tha’ was perfect!” He clapped New Zealand on the shoulder and then clasped America’s forearm, shaking it.
“You plan that?” America laughed.
“Well, yeh! He’s always looked like a dropbear!”
“’ey!” New Zealand shoved him.
“What the hell is a dropbear?”
Australia’s eyes twinkled. “They live in forests like this one. Up in the trees and they drop down on people as they pass.”
“Holy crap, for real?”
“Australia!”
The nation looked at the severely glaring England with a big grin, “What?”
“Stop it.” England rolled his eyes. “Now, America come with me and get the tents out.” He turned away to go to America’s pick-up truck.
America looked down at New Zealand and asked, quietly, “Was he for real?”
New Zealand gave him a very solemn look and then nodded profusely.
“Holy shit,” America muttered and went to follow England.
Australia looked at New Zealand and they high-five’d, grinning.
America took over putting the tent up because England just couldn’t seem to get the pegs in. Too used to crappy tents made out of canvas, America had muttered and it got the two of them arguing until Canada appeared and told England to help build a firepit.
“Thanks, Canada,” America said, holding a flexible rod up while Canada drive a peg down.
“No problem. Did you bring everything?”
“Yep and some snacks and stuff but I didn’t bring any meat. It wouldn’t have kept.”
“Prussia and I went and bought some at the store after we arrived. We’ve got steaks and ground beef—cause I told them you’d want to make hamburgers. Which, actually, despite their complaining about how much you like them—Prussia and Germany were actually looking forward to them because you always make them really thick.”
“Heh! Heh!” America laughed. “I knew they secretly liked them.”
“Spain brought a lot of alcohol—wine mostly. He likes his Sangria and Romano has been in the tent since they put it up.
“Hey, brat,” Prussia called, jumping up into the back of America’s pick-up. “I’m going to borrow your axe, okay!” He grabbed it and hopped back out.
America glanced over and waved. “Okay!” He looked back to Canada. “Well, that’s no big surprise. Where’s Italy?”
“He found the water,” Canada laughed, “and has been there all afternoon.”
“Man, he’s gonna be hungry when he gets out. I hope you guys bought pasta.”
“Actually, he brought his own. A whole suitcase of it.”
America laughed. “Ah, geez.”
They finished putting the tent up and they carried two sleeping bags in. When America grabbed England’s kettle, Canada eyebrow-piqued at him.
“He’s gonna want tea,” America said, as if that were obvious. “I might as well do it now before he can get cranky. Then he won’t be mad at me anymore.”
“You guys are so weird,” Canada told him, laughing.
America went and got some water that Canada had already collected from the pitcher pump, poured it in the kettle and walked over to the firepit, which England and Germany had lined with rocks and Prussia had started the fire using a torch.
“Did you need the blowtorch?” America asked, grinning.
“Course I did,” exclaimed Prussia, but he laughed. “Gotta make a bonfire!”
“We’ll do that tonight. Right now, I need a manageable size.” He raised England’s kettle. “See, you’ll be able to have tea.”
England flustered and grumbled but muttered a thank you and watched America put the kettle on a charred cooking rack over the flames.
They spent the rest of the day setting up camp until Italy came back from the lake and badgered them all to come swim with him. America stayed behind to start cooking the meat and Romano stayed behind to start some of Italy’s pasta.
“So you’re the reason I had to come to this?” Romano sneered, stirring the pasta with a fork.
America laughed. “It’s good for you. Who doesn’t like the great outdoors!”
“Me!” snapped Romano, “I just wanna go home.”
“Oh, c’mon. It’s not that bad. We’re gonna have s’mores.”
“What’s a s’more? It sounds like some disgusting sauce.”
America did a double-take. “You guys are, like, communist or something.”
“Shut up, you stupid Yankee! You would think we’re communist! What do you know about the world!”
“I don’t actually think you’re communist, dumbass!”
“Shut up! Stupid Yank!”
America sniffed and grinned. “You’re just jealous.” He turned the meat over.
“Of what?!”
America paused and looked at him and then shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”
“I’m not jealous of anyone.” Romano looked down sulkily and stirred the pasta.
America watched him for a moment and then sighed, reaching into the bags of food and taking out one of the chocolate bars. He snapped it in half and offered it.
Romano looked up at it and glared at America. “What?”
“C’mon, we’ll share one while the others are gone.”
Romano snorted. “It won’t be as good as our chocolate.”
America pressed the half into his hand. “Shut up and eat it,” he commanded and bit into his half.
England arrived back at camp in a grumpy mood. Australia and New Zealand had drug him into the water and dunked him several times. And then Prussia had joined in and then Spain had yelled, “For the Armada!” and joined in too.
Canada had sat on a log on the beach with Belgium and laughed.
So now England entered the campsite to the smell of cooking meat and to the sight of America and Romano chatting about pizza. How typical. With Italians and Americans, food would always end up bringing them together. Or, the mafia.
America looked up and instantly started laughing. “Wow! England! You should have changed clothes!”
“Belt up!” he snapped. “I hate camping with you lot! War is all the camping I ever need!” He stomped into the tent to change clothes.
Romano stifled a snicker but it was short-lived as Spain tackled him from behind. That sent up an intense volley of cursing.
Belgium and Canada appeared, walking side by side in a way that instantly caught America’s eye. He grinned and gave Canada a nod and a wink that made Canada look away and scratch his hair. “Get some paper plates you guys. They’re basically done.”
Italy flopped down beside Romano and Spain and pulled Germany down next to him. Prussia appeared a moment later with New Zealand and Australia, saying, “Goddamn, what the hell was that thing!”
“That was a dropbear,” Australia said, solemnly.
“Biggest one I ever saw,” New Zealand added. “They’re a bit smaller in Australia.”
“I guess ‘cause no one knows about them ‘ere,” Australia agreed.
America did a double-take. “You guys saw one? What’d it look like?”
“Well, it was dark!” Prussia said, waving his arms emphatically. “And it fell out of the trees and nearly crushed me!”
“We had to jump around in a circle and yell to scare it off,” Australia added.
America eyed them. “Are you guys fuckin’ with me?”
As one man, they all held up their right hands. “We’re not.”
“Hmm,” said America. “Maybe we ought to be careful tonight…”
“Are you all still talking about dropbears?”
The three of them jumped. “No,” said Australia, quickly, “we just saw a bear out in the trees.”
New Zealand whispered to America, “See, England is secretly scared of dropbears. When ‘e first arrived in Australia, he’d never seen one before. They’re pretty vicious and gave him a nasty scar on his chest. It hurts ‘im whenever ‘e thinks about dropbears.”
America frowned and looked over at Prussia and Australia, who were taking up England’s attention. “Oh…that sucks. I didn’t know that. He never says what he got all his scars from.”
“Y’know how noble he always wants t’be,” New Zealand went on, getting some bread and taking a thick burger with cheese melted on it.
“Well, I’ll protect him,” America said cheerfully. “It’s not a problem.”
“Oh, but, mate,” New Zealand said, “you have to put toothpaste behind your ears. They don’t like the scent.”
“That’s weird…but, I guess people do eat those small bananas or take B-1 pills when they don’t want to be bitten by mosquitoes. So I guess toothpaste isn’t that far-fetched.”
New Zealand nodded.
After supper, America and Canada took center stage and showed off the graham crackers, chocolate bars and marshmallows. Spain seemed particularly interested in the marshmallows, taking one out and playing it with it.
“Now, this is really easy. Everyone grab a poker or a stick,” Canada told them. They had brought metal pokers and so everyone grabbed one. “And stick a marshmallow on the end. Put it over the fire. No—no—Italy, not in the fire! Just hold it above the flames. The outside will caramelized and make the outside crispy and the inside warm and gooey.”
“Like warm maple syrup,” suggested Belgium.
For some reason, Canada looked at her and blushed to the roots of his hair. “Y-yeah.”
America snickered and helped England steady his. “I like to burn mine,” America told him. And he did so, sticking his own in the fire and letting it catch. He lifted it and let it flame for a few seconds and then brought it near and blew it out. “Then it’s really crispy on the outside and molten on the inside. It’s also super hot.” He ate that one right off the poker.
“Mine—it’s coming off,” England said, getting up on his knees. “It’s going to fall off!”
“Oh, you stuck it near the edge!” America lamented. “You gotta pierce it in the middle, else when it gets soft it’ll come right off. Bring it back slowly.”
England tried but the poor marshmallow fell off into the fire. He swore quietly and looked down. America nudged him. “It’s not like we don’t have more. C’mon. I’ll do one for you.” America cleaned off England’s poker and stuffed another marshmallow on it. He toasted it slowly to a golden brown and brought it back. “See, now try it.”
“It’s gooey and sticky.”
“So. Don’t be such a baby!”
England huffed and pulled the marshmallow off and quickly popped it into his mouth. Then he blinked. “Oh,” he said and chewed it up and swallowed.
America couldn’t help but feel delighted. He made a couple more and when it seemed everyone had managed, he took over for Canada. “Okay, now. Everyone take a graham cracker and snap it in half. And take a piece of chocolate and lay it on one half of the graham cracker. Like this.” He showed them, laying it in the flat of his palm. “Then you set the marshmallow on it.” He flipped the poker into his hand, laying the marshmallow on the chocolate. “And then put the other side of graham cracker down on top of the marshmallow. That way, when you draw it off the poker, you won’t burn your fingers.”
There was some fumbling with this. Romano ended up swearing and cursing and Germany just forwent the idea and did his and Italy’s with unsurprising efficiency. Prussia was already making a little tower of blackened marshmallow and chocolate. And Canada held the poker while Belgium put hers together. New Zealand and Australia had already constructed theirs and were eating them happily.
England got his off and set the poker down and America and Canada both watched him as he squashed it together. “The chocolate’s melting.”
“It’s supposed to.”
England nodded and took a bite. He couldn’t speak for a moment, for the sweetness but when he finally could he managed, “It wouldn’t taste very good with tea.”
“That’s why they’re best out here,” America told him.
“I suppose they’re all right.” England admitted grudgingly.
America beamed and hugged him.
“Get off of me, you oafish fool!”
That night, in their tent, America curled up closer to England, nudging his sleeping bag right up against his.
“What are you doing?” England grumbled.
“I don’t want you to get scared,” America whispered, as if a camp counselor might be around and tell them to shut up.
“Shouldn’t that be the other way around?”
“No—look, hey, it’s okay. New Zealand told me about it. You and the dropbear.”
England turned over and looked at him. “What?”
“About you—and the dropbear—and you know, how you’re scared of them. Don’t worry though! I’ll protect you. That way whenever you want to come out and make s’mores, you won’t have to be nervous. I won’t make fun of you, I promise.”
England stared at him, looking dumbfounded for a moment and then he rolled his eyes and turned back over. “Next time, we’ll just make them on the gas stove.”
This story was started a long time ago and I finally got the inspiration to finish it this morning (because I've been working on my other bit for a long time and needed a break). It was during a conversation with my English friend,katamanda that I discovered that they don't have graham crackers in England! (And I was just as confused when she started talking about Digestives.) I was surprised by this--and dismayed when I learned she had never had a s'more!
Apparently, upon actually looking it up, I discovered that it was a North America Brother thing. So. *North American Brother fist bump* I thought it would be funny to have Canada and America teaching the others about s'mores.
1. For more on s'mores.
2. If an Aussie starts telling you about the vicious Dropbears---they are lying to you.Or are they?
3. When I was talking to a foreign exchange student from Spain, he told me that he had never really had marshmallows. The ones they do have are pink and apparently aren't very common. However, I couldn't find any backup information for this online. But when that boy went back to Spain, we sent two bags of marshmallows with him because he thought they were great.
4. About the Midwest not 'having' an accent. The Midwestern accent is seen as the sort of general American accent. So we're seen as just not having one.
Oh, and if other countries do, in fact, have s'mores and they're pretty common--sorry. I couldn't really find any information on other countries that might eat them. I just found that it was something that was really popular in the USA and Canada and not really anywhere else.
Author/Artist:
historyblitz, kept track of at historizeCharacter(s) or Pairing(s): America, England, Canada, Australia, New Zealand Germany, Prussia, Italy, Romano, Spain and Belgium.
Rating: PG
Warnings: some language, dropbears
Summary: England has never heard of s'mores so America and Canada decide it's time for a camping trip!
I had a lot of fun doing this one.
Posted here
America ticked his head to the side. “What do you mean what are s’mores? Are you for real?”
England snorted and looked up at him under his eyebrows. “It sounds like the name of a terrible sore.”
America grimaced and then drew himself up. “You have food called Spotted Dick, okay. That sounds like a damn disease! You can’t even begin to slam our names.”
“Our?”
“Well, yeah,” said America. “It—“ and then he cut himself off, raised his index finger and pulled out his cell phone. He hit the ‘2’ on his speed dial and when it stopped ringing said, “Canada, what are s’mores?”
There was a beat of silence. “What do you mean what are s’mores? You know what s’mores are.”
“England doesn’t think they’re real.”
“Well, of course they are.”
America raised his eyebrows at England, see, I told you. “I’m gonna put you on speaker, Canada.” He laid his cell phone on the table and did so.
“All right,” said England, bracing himself. “Fine. Then let me try one. We can have one with tea.”
Canada must have been taken a drink of something at the moment England said that because he snorted and choked. “You can’t eat s’mores with tea!”
“And I don’t have any graham crackers,” America added.
England was looking mutinous. “What’s a graham cracker?”
There was silence from the phone and from America for a second. And then the present one said, “Huh?”
England grumbled. “I don’t think I know what you mean. Graham cracker.”
America was trying to suppress a smile. He bit his lip, shaking a little.
“They don’t have graham crackers in England?” came Canada’s voice. “Well, I guess they were invented in New Jersey. By a vegetarian, no less.”
“Yeah, I guess they aren’t as weird as I thought.”
England waved a hand irritably. “What do these graham crackers have to do with s’mores?”
“Well, you…,” and then America trailed off and he smiled. “Hey, Canada. You know what we should do, right?”
There was a beat of silence and then a gasp. “Yeah! We should! That’d be great!”
“Should what?” said England, sounding wary.
“We’ll come up to you, then?” America said. “You’ve got more choices and you’re nearer the Great Lakes.”
“Might be cheaper for you guys to come here—well, our borders are—hey, we should invite Poland, Belgium and Germany—“
“What the hell would Poland want to be outdoors for? He’d end up getting bored and painting lines on my truck with his nail polish again. Germany would be cool though. France won’t come, right?”
“No way,” said Canada. “He’d bitch the whole time about not having a hair dryer.”
“But if Germany comes—“
“Prussia will too.”
America burst out laughing.
England crossed his arms, lifting his eyebrows. “Are you talking about camping?”
“Yes,” said Canada, loudly, as America was still laughing. “See, s’mores are, traditionally, a camping food and they’re best enjoyed in their native setting.”
“Why?”
“They just are,” said Canada, in a tone that expressed he was probably waving the question away with his hand. “They just aren’t as good on the stove or microwave.”
“Definitely not,” America agreed.
England sighed. “I can’t afford to—“
“Oh, c’mon, England,” America groaned. “Please?”
“Please,” Canada added, a needling whine to his voice. “C’mooon, we never do anything fun anymore.”
“It’s always work,” America tacked on.
England glared at him. “Both of you—stop ganging up on me!”
“America! Use the secret weapon!”
America nodded, saluted the phone and took off his glasses. He turned those July sky eyes on England.
“Oh, bugger.”
America’s lip quivered. “Please?” And then, in a near-perfect imitation of Canada, “Pretty please?”
England’s lips pressed into a thin line. “America—“
“England…we just want to spend some time with you….both of us…” America curled his glasses into his hands and somehow managed to look under his eyelashes at him.
England snorted. “Fine, fine. Just leave me alone.”
America’s glasses came back on and he pumped is fist, whispering, “Yes!”
Canada cheered.
“We’ll meet you in three days time.”
England didn’t much like going to the store with America. They were always so big and people told him ‘hello’ so many times that he felt like he had a target on his jumper. And once he spoke to them---some of them would get all excited when they realized he was English and would immediately ask him questions like, “Can you say more? Please? Your accent is awesome.”
Well, you should have kept it then! He thought, bitterly and his answers would get steadily more terse until America noticed that England wasn’t walking beside him anymore and he’d come back and retrieve him, saying, “Sorry, he’s repressed. Don’t bother. I have to get him some Hob Nobs, else he gets cranky.”
“Hob Nobs,” the person would inevitably imitate, in a poor English accent. And if the person had anyone with him or her, that person would apologize profusely for his companion.
“Why do your people like English accents so much?” England asked, scowling as he followed America down an expansive cracker aisle.
“Because it’s different,” said America, shrugging, as if that were obvious. “We know all our accents over here.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “The basic four come down to, New York, Boston, Southern, and Californian. With lots of slight variations—especially in the big cities like Chicago—and almost-Canadian near the border.”
“What about the Midwest?”
“They don’t have one.” America looked around at all the boxes and then propelled himself forward, taking down three boxes of and handing one to England. “These are graham crackers.”
“They look like digestives. Only rectangular. And they certainly do have an accent in the Midwest.”
“I guess they are kind of like that,” said America, shoving two extra boxes into the cart and clearly not paying attention to accent talk anymore. “Except they don’t dissolve as easily. But you use them to make crusts for cheesecakes and stuff—we use graham crackers to do that too.”
In the next aisle, America picked up several packages of chocolate bars. England’s eyes went wide. “What do you need all that chocolate for? There must be—“
“We just do,” said America. “Trust me.”
“That’s never ended well.”
America threw him a dark look. “Wait til you see the marshmallows then.”
England stared when America picked up five bags of marshmallows and threw them into the cart. “How do you plan to make anything out of this rubbish in the middle of the forest?”
“Canada and I know what we’re doin’, okay?” America picked up a bag of balloons, a can of bug spray, some snacks and a sandwich from the deli (for the ride up).
At the checkout, he paid in cash and the gum-chewing cashier smiled at him. “Going camping?”
“You bet,” he told her. “Hard work and no play makes us boring as hell.”
“Speak for yourself,” England interjected.
The girl did the slightest of double-takes but she didn’t comment on his accent. “Workaholic?” she said instead.
“Like you wouldn’t believe,” America said, chuckling, as she gave him his change. “We’re taking our knives so that my brother and I can cut off his suit while he’s sleeping.”
The girl chuckled. “Good luck,” she said to him.
England flustered. “I’m not that bad.”
“You totally are,” said America, grinning. He thanked the boy who bagged their items and took the cart with them out to America’s truck. It was already packed with tent, sleeping bags and other equipment (and an axe, because it would be a hassle to bring his rifles over the border and besides, Canada had rifles).
And one long ride in America’s truck later, after listening to AC/DC, the Eagles and the soundtrack to 42nd Street (which America sang along with cheerfully), England took over the iPod and put on Pink Floyd. They arrived at the border guard where they handed over their passports, answered some questions and were waved on.
America took out his cell phone and dialed Canada. “Hey, bro, we’re over the border—“
“You mobile phone driver!” England grumbled, plucking the phone from America’s ear and talking instead. “Are you in Ottawa?”
“No, I went ahead and got to the camp site—America has a GPS, you should be fine. I already picked up Belgium and Germany from the airport. Prussia and Italy and Romano and Spain came too…oh, and, uh…I, uh, invited some extra people…”
“Who?” England intoned, forbidding.
“Uh. Australia and New Zealand.”
“Oh.” Well, at least he didn’t invite Ireland and Scotland. “That’s not so bad.”
“They keep talking about dropbears.”
England snorted. “There are no dropbears.”
“What the hell are you two talking about?” America’s eyes kept flicking between him and the road.
“Nothing,” England snapped and then turned his attention back to the phone. “We’ll meet you up there.” He hung up.
“The fuck is a dropbear?”
“It’s nothing.”
They heard their campsite long before they reached it. Mostly because of the familiar whooping and hollering of Australia, who—when America rounded the last bend in the dirt road—saw that he and Prussia had teamed up and were pelting Germany and Spain with water balloons. That is, until Belgium ran up behind them and attacked.
“I’ve outflanked you all,” she cried and continued pelting them. While they were distracted, Germany grabbed some handfuls of mud to retaliate and Spain ran over and stole their bucket of balloons.
America blew his horn, waving as they drove up.
“Where’s New Zealand?” England wondered aloud.
BOOM!
America yelped, slammed on the brakes and ducked, shielding his head with his arms. England flinched. “What was th—“
New Zealand’ face popped down over the windshield. And this time, England yelped too, jumping back into the seat.
America threw the truck in park and rammed his door open. “You son of a bitch—“
“You shoulda seen y’faces!” New Zealand yelled, roaring with laughter as he slid off the top of the truck, to the ground.
“How the hell did you do that!”
He pointed up and America looked, seeing a thick overhang of trees. He couldn’t help but give a grudging smile. “Y’fuckin’ monkey. Goddammit.”
“I know, yeh!” He ran up and tackled America. “Nice to see yeh, big brother!”
America rubbed his knuckles in New Zealand’s hair. “You too, Zea.” He laughed.
Australia, Spain and Prussia were laughing too, pausing in their battle with Belgium and Germany. Australia ran up to them. “Tha’ was perfect!” He clapped New Zealand on the shoulder and then clasped America’s forearm, shaking it.
“You plan that?” America laughed.
“Well, yeh! He’s always looked like a dropbear!”
“’ey!” New Zealand shoved him.
“What the hell is a dropbear?”
Australia’s eyes twinkled. “They live in forests like this one. Up in the trees and they drop down on people as they pass.”
“Holy crap, for real?”
“Australia!”
The nation looked at the severely glaring England with a big grin, “What?”
“Stop it.” England rolled his eyes. “Now, America come with me and get the tents out.” He turned away to go to America’s pick-up truck.
America looked down at New Zealand and asked, quietly, “Was he for real?”
New Zealand gave him a very solemn look and then nodded profusely.
“Holy shit,” America muttered and went to follow England.
Australia looked at New Zealand and they high-five’d, grinning.
America took over putting the tent up because England just couldn’t seem to get the pegs in. Too used to crappy tents made out of canvas, America had muttered and it got the two of them arguing until Canada appeared and told England to help build a firepit.
“Thanks, Canada,” America said, holding a flexible rod up while Canada drive a peg down.
“No problem. Did you bring everything?”
“Yep and some snacks and stuff but I didn’t bring any meat. It wouldn’t have kept.”
“Prussia and I went and bought some at the store after we arrived. We’ve got steaks and ground beef—cause I told them you’d want to make hamburgers. Which, actually, despite their complaining about how much you like them—Prussia and Germany were actually looking forward to them because you always make them really thick.”
“Heh! Heh!” America laughed. “I knew they secretly liked them.”
“Spain brought a lot of alcohol—wine mostly. He likes his Sangria and Romano has been in the tent since they put it up.
“Hey, brat,” Prussia called, jumping up into the back of America’s pick-up. “I’m going to borrow your axe, okay!” He grabbed it and hopped back out.
America glanced over and waved. “Okay!” He looked back to Canada. “Well, that’s no big surprise. Where’s Italy?”
“He found the water,” Canada laughed, “and has been there all afternoon.”
“Man, he’s gonna be hungry when he gets out. I hope you guys bought pasta.”
“Actually, he brought his own. A whole suitcase of it.”
America laughed. “Ah, geez.”
They finished putting the tent up and they carried two sleeping bags in. When America grabbed England’s kettle, Canada eyebrow-piqued at him.
“He’s gonna want tea,” America said, as if that were obvious. “I might as well do it now before he can get cranky. Then he won’t be mad at me anymore.”
“You guys are so weird,” Canada told him, laughing.
America went and got some water that Canada had already collected from the pitcher pump, poured it in the kettle and walked over to the firepit, which England and Germany had lined with rocks and Prussia had started the fire using a torch.
“Did you need the blowtorch?” America asked, grinning.
“Course I did,” exclaimed Prussia, but he laughed. “Gotta make a bonfire!”
“We’ll do that tonight. Right now, I need a manageable size.” He raised England’s kettle. “See, you’ll be able to have tea.”
England flustered and grumbled but muttered a thank you and watched America put the kettle on a charred cooking rack over the flames.
They spent the rest of the day setting up camp until Italy came back from the lake and badgered them all to come swim with him. America stayed behind to start cooking the meat and Romano stayed behind to start some of Italy’s pasta.
“So you’re the reason I had to come to this?” Romano sneered, stirring the pasta with a fork.
America laughed. “It’s good for you. Who doesn’t like the great outdoors!”
“Me!” snapped Romano, “I just wanna go home.”
“Oh, c’mon. It’s not that bad. We’re gonna have s’mores.”
“What’s a s’more? It sounds like some disgusting sauce.”
America did a double-take. “You guys are, like, communist or something.”
“Shut up, you stupid Yankee! You would think we’re communist! What do you know about the world!”
“I don’t actually think you’re communist, dumbass!”
“Shut up! Stupid Yank!”
America sniffed and grinned. “You’re just jealous.” He turned the meat over.
“Of what?!”
America paused and looked at him and then shrugged. “Doesn’t matter.”
“I’m not jealous of anyone.” Romano looked down sulkily and stirred the pasta.
America watched him for a moment and then sighed, reaching into the bags of food and taking out one of the chocolate bars. He snapped it in half and offered it.
Romano looked up at it and glared at America. “What?”
“C’mon, we’ll share one while the others are gone.”
Romano snorted. “It won’t be as good as our chocolate.”
America pressed the half into his hand. “Shut up and eat it,” he commanded and bit into his half.
England arrived back at camp in a grumpy mood. Australia and New Zealand had drug him into the water and dunked him several times. And then Prussia had joined in and then Spain had yelled, “For the Armada!” and joined in too.
Canada had sat on a log on the beach with Belgium and laughed.
So now England entered the campsite to the smell of cooking meat and to the sight of America and Romano chatting about pizza. How typical. With Italians and Americans, food would always end up bringing them together. Or, the mafia.
America looked up and instantly started laughing. “Wow! England! You should have changed clothes!”
“Belt up!” he snapped. “I hate camping with you lot! War is all the camping I ever need!” He stomped into the tent to change clothes.
Romano stifled a snicker but it was short-lived as Spain tackled him from behind. That sent up an intense volley of cursing.
Belgium and Canada appeared, walking side by side in a way that instantly caught America’s eye. He grinned and gave Canada a nod and a wink that made Canada look away and scratch his hair. “Get some paper plates you guys. They’re basically done.”
Italy flopped down beside Romano and Spain and pulled Germany down next to him. Prussia appeared a moment later with New Zealand and Australia, saying, “Goddamn, what the hell was that thing!”
“That was a dropbear,” Australia said, solemnly.
“Biggest one I ever saw,” New Zealand added. “They’re a bit smaller in Australia.”
“I guess ‘cause no one knows about them ‘ere,” Australia agreed.
America did a double-take. “You guys saw one? What’d it look like?”
“Well, it was dark!” Prussia said, waving his arms emphatically. “And it fell out of the trees and nearly crushed me!”
“We had to jump around in a circle and yell to scare it off,” Australia added.
America eyed them. “Are you guys fuckin’ with me?”
As one man, they all held up their right hands. “We’re not.”
“Hmm,” said America. “Maybe we ought to be careful tonight…”
“Are you all still talking about dropbears?”
The three of them jumped. “No,” said Australia, quickly, “we just saw a bear out in the trees.”
New Zealand whispered to America, “See, England is secretly scared of dropbears. When ‘e first arrived in Australia, he’d never seen one before. They’re pretty vicious and gave him a nasty scar on his chest. It hurts ‘im whenever ‘e thinks about dropbears.”
America frowned and looked over at Prussia and Australia, who were taking up England’s attention. “Oh…that sucks. I didn’t know that. He never says what he got all his scars from.”
“Y’know how noble he always wants t’be,” New Zealand went on, getting some bread and taking a thick burger with cheese melted on it.
“Well, I’ll protect him,” America said cheerfully. “It’s not a problem.”
“Oh, but, mate,” New Zealand said, “you have to put toothpaste behind your ears. They don’t like the scent.”
“That’s weird…but, I guess people do eat those small bananas or take B-1 pills when they don’t want to be bitten by mosquitoes. So I guess toothpaste isn’t that far-fetched.”
New Zealand nodded.
After supper, America and Canada took center stage and showed off the graham crackers, chocolate bars and marshmallows. Spain seemed particularly interested in the marshmallows, taking one out and playing it with it.
“Now, this is really easy. Everyone grab a poker or a stick,” Canada told them. They had brought metal pokers and so everyone grabbed one. “And stick a marshmallow on the end. Put it over the fire. No—no—Italy, not in the fire! Just hold it above the flames. The outside will caramelized and make the outside crispy and the inside warm and gooey.”
“Like warm maple syrup,” suggested Belgium.
For some reason, Canada looked at her and blushed to the roots of his hair. “Y-yeah.”
America snickered and helped England steady his. “I like to burn mine,” America told him. And he did so, sticking his own in the fire and letting it catch. He lifted it and let it flame for a few seconds and then brought it near and blew it out. “Then it’s really crispy on the outside and molten on the inside. It’s also super hot.” He ate that one right off the poker.
“Mine—it’s coming off,” England said, getting up on his knees. “It’s going to fall off!”
“Oh, you stuck it near the edge!” America lamented. “You gotta pierce it in the middle, else when it gets soft it’ll come right off. Bring it back slowly.”
England tried but the poor marshmallow fell off into the fire. He swore quietly and looked down. America nudged him. “It’s not like we don’t have more. C’mon. I’ll do one for you.” America cleaned off England’s poker and stuffed another marshmallow on it. He toasted it slowly to a golden brown and brought it back. “See, now try it.”
“It’s gooey and sticky.”
“So. Don’t be such a baby!”
England huffed and pulled the marshmallow off and quickly popped it into his mouth. Then he blinked. “Oh,” he said and chewed it up and swallowed.
America couldn’t help but feel delighted. He made a couple more and when it seemed everyone had managed, he took over for Canada. “Okay, now. Everyone take a graham cracker and snap it in half. And take a piece of chocolate and lay it on one half of the graham cracker. Like this.” He showed them, laying it in the flat of his palm. “Then you set the marshmallow on it.” He flipped the poker into his hand, laying the marshmallow on the chocolate. “And then put the other side of graham cracker down on top of the marshmallow. That way, when you draw it off the poker, you won’t burn your fingers.”
There was some fumbling with this. Romano ended up swearing and cursing and Germany just forwent the idea and did his and Italy’s with unsurprising efficiency. Prussia was already making a little tower of blackened marshmallow and chocolate. And Canada held the poker while Belgium put hers together. New Zealand and Australia had already constructed theirs and were eating them happily.
England got his off and set the poker down and America and Canada both watched him as he squashed it together. “The chocolate’s melting.”
“It’s supposed to.”
England nodded and took a bite. He couldn’t speak for a moment, for the sweetness but when he finally could he managed, “It wouldn’t taste very good with tea.”
“That’s why they’re best out here,” America told him.
“I suppose they’re all right.” England admitted grudgingly.
America beamed and hugged him.
“Get off of me, you oafish fool!”
That night, in their tent, America curled up closer to England, nudging his sleeping bag right up against his.
“What are you doing?” England grumbled.
“I don’t want you to get scared,” America whispered, as if a camp counselor might be around and tell them to shut up.
“Shouldn’t that be the other way around?”
“No—look, hey, it’s okay. New Zealand told me about it. You and the dropbear.”
England turned over and looked at him. “What?”
“About you—and the dropbear—and you know, how you’re scared of them. Don’t worry though! I’ll protect you. That way whenever you want to come out and make s’mores, you won’t have to be nervous. I won’t make fun of you, I promise.”
England stared at him, looking dumbfounded for a moment and then he rolled his eyes and turned back over. “Next time, we’ll just make them on the gas stove.”
This story was started a long time ago and I finally got the inspiration to finish it this morning (because I've been working on my other bit for a long time and needed a break). It was during a conversation with my English friend,
katamanda that I discovered that they don't have graham crackers in England! (And I was just as confused when she started talking about Digestives.) I was surprised by this--and dismayed when I learned she had never had a s'more! Apparently, upon actually looking it up, I discovered that it was a North America Brother thing. So. *North American Brother fist bump* I thought it would be funny to have Canada and America teaching the others about s'mores.
1. For more on s'mores.
2. If an Aussie starts telling you about the vicious Dropbears---they are lying to you.
3. When I was talking to a foreign exchange student from Spain, he told me that he had never really had marshmallows. The ones they do have are pink and apparently aren't very common. However, I couldn't find any backup information for this online. But when that boy went back to Spain, we sent two bags of marshmallows with him because he thought they were great.
4. About the Midwest not 'having' an accent. The Midwestern accent is seen as the sort of general American accent. So we're seen as just not having one.
Oh, and if other countries do, in fact, have s'mores and they're pretty common--sorry. I couldn't really find any information on other countries that might eat them. I just found that it was something that was really popular in the USA and Canada and not really anywhere else.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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Date: 2009-08-20 03:23 pm (UTC)And I ended up rolling all over the floor laughing.
(I laughed so hard at the dropbears. At America using the weapon. At America and Canada double-teaming England. At the description of the American accents. At the fangirling of the English accent [I have a cousin who lives in England, and I just love hearing her talk with the accent]. At the blowtorch.).
*glomps the shit out of you*
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Date: 2009-08-20 03:45 pm (UTC)I AM SO GLEEFUL!!!! *hugs like whoa!!!!*
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Date: 2009-08-20 04:02 pm (UTC)MOTHERFUCKING DROPBEARS
I really need tot ry and make a s'more sometime. normally I only have marshmallows in hot chocolate. But we like never have bonfires unless its Nov 5th.
But hee~ This had so many great moments, America's puppy eyes, the English accent thing, Spain yelling 'for the armada', Canada and Belgium cuteness and of course bloody New Zealand and Australia XDD I adore how you write those two. ♥
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Date: 2009-08-20 04:15 pm (UTC)DUDE. You do! I will send you more graham crackers (fresher ones) or maybe they would work on a digestive or something. I dunno. Maybe those are too soft?
And NZ and Aus are my favorite brother-pair to write. They are so hilarious. I just flippin love 'em and their dropbears.
*loves*
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Date: 2009-08-20 04:24 pm (UTC)Yessssss \o/ ♥
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Date: 2009-08-20 04:31 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-08-20 04:13 pm (UTC)I LOVE YOU SO MUCH FOR THIS. SERIOUSLY. LIKE, CRAP.
I'm just gonna get it over with and say that the very best line in this was “For the Armada!”
But there's just SO MUCH FREAKIN' AWESOME IN THIS THAT IT'S IMPOSSIBLE TO LIST IT ALL. I'll try to list my favorites.
- America's puppydog face
- The realization that, yes, s'mores is a very weird food to explain to someone else. But no one can deny that it's just delicious.
- The grocery store. All of it. ("Well, you should have kept it then!")
- I learned what a dropbear was. Aussie and Zea are evil. &hearts
- Zea attacking the car.
- Romano and America's talk of communism.
- The fact that SPAIN AND ROMANO ARE IN THIS FIC, ILU &hearts
- Canada/Belgium~
- Spain playing with the marshmallow, it makes the cutest scene in my head EVER &hearts &hearts &hearts
- S'mores lesson :D
- The end. No words needed. &hearts
So uh, basically, a long list of favorites. :|;;;
But this WHOOOLLLLEEE thing was like EPIC. SERIOUSLY. EPIC. I had so much fun reading through this thing, and I actually did learn a lot too, AHAH! (Like how s'mores are mainly popular in North America bros, and DROPBEARS.)
Thanks for sharing this!! This is such a clever and hilarious oneshot, and it really made my day. &hearts
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Date: 2009-08-20 04:36 pm (UTC)They really are! I didn't realize it was just an America/Canada thing. Because it just seems so normal and ordinary. But then my poor friend above had never had one and I was like, "OMGWHAT."
It makes me want to go roast a marshmallow right now.
America saying he was communist was kinda funny because--if someone thinks something is abnormal or restrictive or something--some people will say its "communist" but as a joke. But we usually only ever say it to other Americans that get the joke. I don't know anyone who has ever made that joke abroad. (And I hope they have the common sense not to.) But Romano and America are kind of funny together. XD
And now I've got this mental imagine of Spain making his marshmallow dance around and nibble on Romano.
And, OH, the dropbears. XD
So glad you liked it! Wooo! :D
your icon ♥♥♥
Date: 2009-08-20 05:53 pm (UTC)AHAHAHAH, IKR? XDDD It makes me wonder sometimes if Russians make jokes like that, like whenever someone does something weird, if they say something like, "Ha, that's so capitalist!" Even though they're technically not communist anymore. XD;;
But I love the interactions between America and Romano, especially the way you write them, ahahah 8DD They can both be considered assholes, but like, they're totally opposite from each other on the asshole spectrum, y'know? :DDDD
... your mental image beats mine. I... really wanna see that happen, actually. I would die of cute overload. 8|;;;
You're welcome~! ♥
I love them so much. After Obama went to Russia, I was all, "Yeah! Russia/America!"
Date: 2009-08-20 05:58 pm (UTC)Yeah--to me, Romano has this weird sort of bravery to him. I mean--he cries and he run and everything but the shit he says sometimes--he will mouth off the anyone. He'll regret it immediately but I think it's a certain little bit of bravery that makes him do it. Something about it makes him lovable.
Omigod, that would be so frickin cute. I want to see that. Holy crap. My brain is imploding from the cute.
I ALSO LOVE YOU FOR YOUR LAVI ICON 8D
Date: 2009-08-20 06:17 pm (UTC)Which is why he's totally tied for my favorite character (with Spain). He's such a contradicting character, but something about that makes him endearing. He'll insult anyone with no regret, but when actual danger is present, he becomes just as wibbly as his brother. I personally think this is very realistic and it only makes me love him more. XD
He'd probably name the marshmallow too. Spain's just too freakin' adorable. ;u;
I chose it because I like yours too!!! YAY LAVI!
Date: 2009-08-20 07:01 pm (UTC)Absolutely! And I may have to dodge shoes for this but I actually like Romano a lot more than I like Italy.
AWWWWWWWWWWWWW. I wonder what he'd name it! That's so cute!
LAVI IS LOVE. And btw, Road is incredibly creepy in that icon. The LOL makes it worse, methinks :'D
Date: 2009-08-20 08:12 pm (UTC)I can just imagine him getting all attached to it, playing with it and naming it Lovino and whatnot... then eating it whole without a second thought. And getting confused at Romano's horrified look.
SHE LOVES YOU.
Date: 2009-08-23 04:27 am (UTC)HAHAHA. There needs to be fanart of this! XDDD
EEEEEEIIIIIIYYYYAAAAAAHHHHHHHHH
Date: 2009-08-23 05:46 am (UTC)LOL, I can kinda get into Italy's headspace. Apparently I act kinda like him IRL sometimes XDD;; But for some reason, it feels so much more natural for me to write/draw Romano instead. I dunno, he feels more real to me?
I-I'M TEMPTED. I CAN'T EVEN DRAW AND I'M HORRIBLY, HORRIBLY TEMPTED.
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Date: 2009-08-20 05:08 pm (UTC)Ohmigod.
YES.
ALFRED PUPPY DOG EYES, WIN.
This was just ahgfdsgfhilarious and amazing and omg s'mores LOL. I have had to explain s'mores to people before, and the result is always fantastic. As is the looks on their faces when they try them. This was just perfect - I laughed so hard. xDDD
And ohmigod the bit about accents. I lmao'd.
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Date: 2009-08-20 05:25 pm (UTC)Haha! I had so much fun doing this one so I am so flipping happy you laughed too. I was so surprised--I hadn't thought that it might just be an America/Canada thing so I definitely have to make s'mores for all those poor Europeans. They have never known the gooey goodness!
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Date: 2009-08-20 06:13 pm (UTC)Speaking of things Europeans are missing out on- I was talking to a friend who lives in England, and she's never had maple syrup! Her parents didn't even know what it was!
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Date: 2009-08-20 06:17 pm (UTC)Doesn't know maple syrup. Now THAT is mind-boggling. You just blew away any other response I might have had. Holy crap. No maple syrup. That's trippy.
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Date: 2009-08-27 01:11 pm (UTC)I thought they were a species of Pedobears. Orz.
YEAHH PRUSSIA YOU GO AND BUILD YOUR AWESOME TOWER OF BURNT AWESOMENESS.
I've never had s'mores... And most of the marshmallows I've seen here (except those in hotels and stuff) come in individual wrappings. Even when in bags. AND THEY HAVE FILLINGS.
Why did I typo 'fillings' as 'feelings'?