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jedishampooTitle: Infinity to One (Part 1 of 2)
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
jedishampoo
Pairing: Hetalia: England/America (in that order)
Rating/Warnings: NC-l7, explicit sex, language
Summary: England and America up the antes on their Halloween contest, and then another situation reaches a critical point as well. Present-day fic.
Author’s Notes: Dear readers, expect country names, some brief crossdressing, drunkenness, first-time smut, more smut, silliness, and a minimum of politics. I hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing. About 16,300 words. Thanks to my patient betasharpeslass; she Brit-picked for me but I’m US American so I write with American spelling. Thanks also to Mosh!
Infinity to One: Part 1 of 2
Halloween may have started in the British Isles, but it was the United States of America that had made Halloween so super-cool. Made grinning pumpkins a universal symbol, made candy corn a required food, made movies as scary and kickass as Alien.
So why was it that England always managed to win the Halloween scaring contests? Every year America would come up with some awesome new idea and plan how much he’d gloat when England screamed and admitted utter pwnage and then, next thing America knew, England was laughing his evil laugh-- somehow it worked on him-- and pulling out his ancient scorecard and fountain pen and scratching a hash-mark in the “England” column. He’d barely stick around for coffee before taking off, the jerk.
America finished drawing the line around his eyes and dropped the black make-up pencil onto the sink, then turned his head from side to side to admire his handiwork from all angles. The thick black liner really made the whites of his eyes pop. He dug around the pile on the countertop for the blood-red pencil. Holy crap, he was going to blow England away this year.
Eighty-eight to one. Eighty-nine to one. Ninety to one, and on and on it had gone until only England knew the actual score. America only knew that he had one, and he’d gotten that the year Japan and Russia had helped him out.
America had half-considered calling Russia back, but to be truthful Russia scared America almost as much as he scared England. Besides, Russia was busy dealing with his country’s organized crime, or running his country’s organized crime, or whatever it was he did nowadays. And America had discovered that Japan had some sort of residual polite guilt regarding England and wouldn’t offer any more pointers.
“I’ll bet even Japan couldn’t have come up with something as awesome as this,” he mumbled at his reflection. He smacked his lips together and looked at Tony, who was perched on the toilet tank. “How’s it look?”
“Fuck,” Tony said.
“Yeah, I know,” America agreed. “More red.”
It wasn’t that he minded letting England win most of the time. Halloween was one of the few times a year that England seemed to truly enjoy being around America. Politics and the Middle East situation being what they were, they spent a lot of time together. But England spent eighty percent of that time either trying to ignore America or berating America for being an uncultured, hopeless idiot-- though America didn’t really mind that; that was just how England dealt with being frustrated. But another fifteen percent of the time England was all awkward ‘cause he was feeling guilty for being frustrated and was trying to figure out how to be nice without being, well, nice, and then only ten percent of the time could they actually have fun.
Hmm. Five percent of the time. America had never claimed to be good at math, preferring to leave that to China and India. Still, he wasn’t a complete moron. And five percent was just too depressing.
America finished smearing blood-red on his lips and stood back from the mirror, twisting his head again. He looked fantastic. The long black wig was worth every penny he’d paid. He put on his glasses and peeked through his darkened bedroom at the alarm clock. It wasn’t even five, yet. England never showed up before dawn.
“Fuck,” Tony said.
“S’yeah. He’s going to hate this so much,” America said. He shook the black satin of his Elvira skirt, trying to fluff out the static cling. France had been trying to get America into a dress for two hundred years. Maybe after he’d scared the crap outta England, they could Skype France and say hi--
Yeah. France. Who snorted through UN meetings, anymore, and spent the receptions guzzling wine and berating America for the recession and teasing England about how cute they were with their sexual tension and all, and winking at America like he didn’t already know what it was, shut the fuck up, France.
England had the right idea; it was easiest to just pretend France was full of shit. To just keep things as they were. After all, England had spent nearly a hundred and forty years hardly speaking to America just because he’d asked to be treated like an equal. Besides, if everyone was denying everything, then nobody had to fear rejection or failure. It was rare that there were things America sometimes wanted for himself and never got, but in this case that was all for the best. He had a badly-needed friend, at least, and international relations could remain stable. Oops, sorry, they could say when they screwed up, and then hand over more gifts and more assurances and everyone smiled and said that yes, everything was just fine...
There was a noise from outside, like a car door being shut.
“Bu bu bu bu fuck--” Tony started chittering.
“I hear it.” America blinked, checking his amazing false eyelashes through his glasses. What was freakin’ cute was how excited and happy Tony got whenever England came over. “He’s awfully early, the jerk.”
He blew a final blood-colored kiss to himself in the mirror, then picked up his skirt and ran down the hall to the front door. He peeked through the peephole and saw England’s blond head and pale face, warped in the flickering porchlight and the peephole’s round lens. He was raising a hand to knock--
“Hahah!” America threw the door wide and waited for the screaming to begin.
There was no screaming, just the wind and the crackle of dead leaves. A leaf tried to blow up America’s nose. He brushed it away and watched England, who was staring at him. At the black ribbons crossing his chest, rather, and America wished he’d sprung for the fake boobs, after all-- England raised wide eyes to America’s face.
“You bloody... Oh, dear Christ--” he said, and broke out laughing. It wasn’t even screaming laughter, just loud guffaws like America didn’t think he’d ever heard from England.
America raised his hands to chin-level and waggled his fingers to show off his skull rings. “Woo,” he said.
“Just sh-- hah-- shut up. Haha hee-- you idiot--” England snorted and started waving his black-gloved hand at America in a helpless-looking gesture, and laughed. Then he wrapped his arms around his middle and bent over, laughing some more. Finally he just fell backwards and sat on the porch, sniggering like he was choking.
America straightened his shoulders and frowned. “You don’t think it’s scary?”
“That’s the best. You’re the-- hah-- best, lad.” It looked like he was weeping.
America crossed his bare arms over his gothy, beribboned chest. “If you’re on the ground, does that mean I win?”
“Good God, no,” England snorted. He held out one of his leather gloves. “Help me up, silly git.”
“Hmph,” America said, then felt very stupid for having said it aloud. He caught his own lips curling up in a smile, and then he felt stupid for that, too, but only for a second. England’s laughter was catching. And it wasn’t like America had really lost yet. He hadn’t screamed, either, and if England was cracking up, maybe he’d be too busy to do whatever scary thing he’d been planning. America grabbed England’s hand and yanked him up.
“Fuck,” Tony said from somewhere behind America.
“I know, it’s freezing,” America said. He gestured England inside and shut the door to stop the influx of wind and dead leaves into his foyer. He stuck his arms out in front of him. They did look pretty funny. And he’d forgotten to take off his glasses before answering the door. He suddenly couldn’t stop giggling at himself. “Look. I’ve got goosebumps.”
England wiped his eyes and looked at America’s chest again. “You’re half-naked.”
“I know! Kind of sexy at least, right? Like Morticia Addams?” America hunched to create non-existent cleavage, and leaned over to flutter his eyelashes in England’s face. He made kissy-lips. “Mi amore.”
“Heh-- ah, no,” England said and put up his hand. His face, already pink from cold and laughter, had gone a little pinker, and his grin went stiff. America backed off and England’s smile relaxed a little. America kept the tight, warm little knot growing in his stomach a secret; keeping things as they were meant a lot of time was spent resolving his issues in privacy. Best place for it, of course. “Ah. Make some hot tea or something.”
“I’m not gonna turn my back on you,” America said, and then stopped speaking because he’d heard a strange thumping noise. It sounded like it was coming from outside, maybe from down the road. The thump grew louder and louder and the ground trembled beneath America’s bare feet.
“Fuck,” Tony said.
“Fuck!” England said. “I forgot the--” A giant roaring sound cut him off; it sounded like an angry monster, an angry monster that was standing on America’s house, howling like one of the dinosaurs in Jurassic Park--
America started screaming and everything went to hell. The stomping noise joined the roaring and then they heard the horrendous crack of splitting wood, like America’s house was being snapped in two. England threw himself on top of America and slammed him into the ground, knocking the breath out of him and smothering him. America stopped screaming but didn’t move, couldn’t move as bits of his house started flying around them. England was shouting something but America screwed his eyes shut and prayed that he wasn’t about to be flattened by a ceiling beam or sliced to bits or eaten by a Tyrannosaurus Rex, and he prayed that England and Tony wouldn’t die, either--
“Stopstopstop!” England was shouting.
Miraculously his shouts seemed to work: the roaring and stomping halted. The creaking of splintering wood was loud in the sudden near-silence, but anything was an improvement from the roaring, as far as America was concerned. England pushed himself off America to stand and America was suddenly cold.
It was because the wind was blowing inside, and that was because his house was missing an entire wall. England was standing and waving his hands at the giant hole where the front of America’s house had once been. His black cloak whipped around him in a crazy-seeming cyclone of wind and leaves and dust. America shrugged off his panic and jumped to his feet, ready to help with... whatever.
“You didn’t say stop until after I’d already hit it,” a deep voice was whining. America couldn’t see the source of the voice.
“Yes, yes, yes, dammit!” England was bitching. It was the same tone of shout he used when he was ticked at America. “I know! Just... Just bugger off! Begone!”
“It’s been a long time since I was able to knock over a house,” the voice rumbled, beginning to sound sort of ... pleased with itself. “Well. Bye, then.”
With that the cyclone quieted all at once. The dust settled. Somewhere, another roof-beam fell with a crash.
“Hell,” England said. He turned to look at America. He was looking up with wide eyes and he was biting his lip. It was the closest to sheepish America had ever seen England look.
America knew he should be pissed off. His house was destroyed. There had been a huge ghost... thing. He knew he should be still screaming in fright or kicking the crap out of England or bitching or something. Instead, he laughed again. He would be able to gloat over this for-- for forever.
“You definitely win this year,” America said.
England winced and started to brush off his coat. “I’m-- Ah. I’ll rebuild your house.”
“And replace my priceless antiques?”
England winced and snorted at the same time. “You don’t have any bloody antiques.”
America snorted back, then rubbed his bare arms, trying to warm them up. “It was awfully sweet of you to throw yourself on top of me like that,” he teased. “Maybe you saved my life. Or saved me from being blinded or something,” he added, nodding at the bits of splinter and glass-shards tinkling about England’s feet as he shook out his coat. America would never admit it aloud, but England looked pretty awesome and he could shake his clothes with flair. At his words and gaze England’s face turned even pinker.
“That was merely reflex. You’re wearing a dress, you twat,” he said, and looked America up and down. He grimaced, but his blush didn’t fade. “Where did you get that, anyway?”
“Ha ha ha! When I’ve got a Democratic president, costume shops start stocking dresses in my size,” he joked. He rubbed his arms again and wondered if his coat-closet had survived the maelstrom. Though he would say that England’s sideways glances at him were making him feel warmer. Speaking of. “Why didn’t you think my outfit was scary? I thought for sure you’d be horrified at how tacky I was.”
England snorted for like the fiftieth time that morning. “Shows what you know about British people. Haven’t you read Shakespeare or watched Monty Python? We’re raised from birth to find comedy in cross-dressing.”
“Oh. And you think it’s sexy, too, right?” America teased again, making another kissy-face. Hell, his house had been destroyed; he could make England as uncomfortable as he wished. He waggled his hips for good measure. The adrenaline-knot wrenched a little tighter under his diaphragm. This was the game, knowing how far to take his teasing without crossing the line.
“No, that’s Japan,” England merely said, and looked away. He coughed once, then twice. “Listen, I am-- Well, you find the contractor and I’ll pay. In the meantime, I guess since it was my fa-- Um. I mean to say, why don’t you stay at, ah, my place for a few days?”
America blinked.
England waved his hand. “I, ah. I always said I’d bring you over for the Guy Fawkes celebration, anyway. This is as good a time as any.”
“Really? That’s awesome!” America finally managed to squeeze in around England’s passive-aggressive apology. Something below his diaphragm went pop. He grinned so widely he could feel his teeth getting cold.
“You’ll, ah. Need shoes.”
America nodded and started looking around, trying to decide what he could salvage and pack. Maybe Tony could stay with his brother-- yeah, in fact, he’d instant-message Canada now, Canada was always online in the winter ‘cause there was nothing better to do in the frozen north. Except-- oh, no, where was-- America stepped carefully around the piles of glass and then ran for the study. He’d been on the internet last night--
In the remains of his office he stared in horror at the piles of books and electronics on the floor.
“My computer!” he wailed.
England came up behind him holding shoes, which he must have dug out of the foyer. He waved them at America, thus proving once and for all that his priorities were all wrong.
“Addict. My laptop’s in the car; I’ll loan it to you until I can buy you a new one.”
America glared at him and ignored the shoes flapping in front of his face. “As soon as the computer store opens.”
“I promise,” England said.
America took the shoes.
***
England sipped tea and breathed for a moment in the safety of his kitchen. America was in his house. Filling it up with... with himself, with his bloody loud voice and his wide bum in too-tight jeans and his laughing and--
England was paying for his guilt with stress and jet-lag, and wasn’t sure he’d survive America’s stay, at least without going mental. The promised holiday was four days away yet. Perhaps after that he’d suggest a hotel, or ship America back to his New York flat with a cheque for damages, or... something.
He’d bought plenty of Japan’s computer games for the laptop he’d also bought, hoping to keep America quietly occupied. But America had spent an hour playing games on the plane and had then snored and drooled on England for five more hours, getting in his personal space and being boisterous even when asleep. That trend continued unabated.
“Ha ha ha! Good one,” America laughed in the sitting room. England sighed and carried the tray out to join him.
He was watching something with Rik Mayall. He’d watched some old Monty Python’s Flying Circus but was more interested in the movies he’d already seen (American money) and pointed out that he was sure he’d looked much better in a dress--
--Good Lord, that dress.
The makeup. All that black stuff. Like anything could hide the perpetual earnest look in his eyes. The red lipstick. Jesus, like a bloody whore. England fancied he could still see it on America’s lips as he sat down and watched America grin with his straight, white teeth and his laugh that reached his eyes, confident and happy in all but the very worst of times...
“Tea for me, instant coffee for you,” England said before America could say whatever he was sure America had been going to say.
“Instant? Ick,” America said, but took the cup and a spoon and stirred in far too much sugar. “This show is hysterical! And here I thought the only good things you Brits had were Shaun of the Dead and Blackadder.”
England felt a little miffed for centuries of culture that America was blithely ignoring, then felt a little smug for his comedy. Then he felt miffed at himself for being smug over something so moronic. He wondered if America was merely winding him up. It was hard to remember how intelligent America actually was, sometimes, with all his moods and phases covered in that layer of bravado. Without wanting to, England remembered America as a cute, clinging tot, and then remembered him as he’d been after the American Civil War, nearly ragged with the loss of his idealism. His chest tightened a little and then he heard America slurp his coffee and laugh vulgarly at the telly again and the tight ache dissipated. Temporary loss of idealism, as always.
“All that fuss you made about the computer,” he pointed out.
“Your wireless connection is crappy,” America said around his coffee-cup, cementing England’s return to annoyance. America started to reach for one of the brown biscuits on the silver platter, looked slightly alarmed, noticed England noticing his alarmed look, then picked it up and shoved it into his mouth. He spoke again around his rather dusty mouthful. “That’s the mmphguy from Drop Dead Fred.”
“You are spitting crumbs at me.”
America snorted more crumbs and waved the remote, muting the telly. He gulped his coffee and grinned. “So what are we doing tonight?”
“We? Ah. I offered a place to stay. I did not plan a vacation itinerary.”
America’s lips actually seemed to turn downwards for a moment, but then he was smiling, all white teeth, and England wondered if he’d imagined it. “Ha ha! But I want to have fun. What do you do when you’re not working?”
England looked around at his just-started Christmas embroidery. He looked at his tea-service. At his telly.
“I relax.”
“You’re such a fuddy-duddy when you’re not building empires.”
England felt the tightness in his chest invert, expand. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Let’s go out to see something,” America said.
“You’ve already seen everything you Yanks want to see. In fact, I’ve hauled you and Canada ‘round London enough times. It hasn’t changed.”
“Let’s go say hello to Queen Lizzie.”
England nearly sloshed his tea onto the Victorian-lace tablecloth when he bolted upright in indignation. “Fuck! The Queen is not to be called Lizzie! How many times do I have to tell you that, or try to teach you to be respectful--”
“Ha ha! She is to me! She hugged the First Lady, you know.”
America’s wide grin managed to look suspiciously sly. England settled down to a mere glare once more. “Her Majesty is quite gracious. And she’s not currently receiving visitors. We’re still recovering from your last attempt at polite diplomacy.” He put emphasis on the polite.
America shrugged and hesitated only a moment before snagging another biscuit and shoving it in his mouth. England eyed America’s jeans and white t-shirt and floppy brown knit jacket. He looked a right slob; the dress had been an improvement. That dress--!
“We could find you some proper clothing,” England mumbled.
“No thanks,” America waved at him and settled back on the couch, making a show of uncrossing and re-crossing his jeans-clad legs. His too-tight jeans. “I have suits. And all my suits are Italian these days.”
England thought about the last suit he’d seen America wearing, at some meeting or another. His mouth went an annoying smidge dry at the memory. He sipped his tea. “Not buying American?”
“Of course I am. Veneziano’s people have all the best stores in New York. It is a recession, after all.” America smirked as he said it, but then winced when England’s eyes narrowed. England went in for the kill.
“Yes, and it’s your fault, you git. Your forced housing booms and your crooked banks are trying to take down the world economy, even as we speak--”
“I know! I know. We’re working on legislation. Democrats, remember?” America interrupted with a guilty expression. He crossed his arms and uncrossed his legs. An instant later his perpetual earnest grin returned. He lifted his leg, and actually put his trainer-clad foot on England’s settee, next to England’s thigh, touching him, never mind that he’d actually put a shoe on England’s settee--! “So what are we doing? A show?”
England took a deep breath. He shoved America’s foot from the sofa back onto the floor where it belonged, then made a show of wiping his fingers on a napkin. He breathed again. It was too close in his house. They were too close.
“I need a drink,” he said, finally. “And nosh. We’re going to the pub.”
Was it England’s imagination, or did America shudder? “Oh. Hah. Dinner and drinks, like a date? Can you promise me fish and chips wrapped in newspaper?”
England stood so that he could look down on America and be properly haughty at such foolishness. “No. A quiet pub, not one of those touristy places you fancy, and not a chip-shop. They should have fish and chips, however. On a plate.”
“Awesome! Sounds like fun.”
“It’s called survival, lad,” England told him. Mine, in fact, he told himself. He went to get his coat.
The pub was blissfully quiet. That was, until America followed England in the door, stomping his feet and shaking cold November rain from his hair and laughing as he shrugged out of his coat and tossed it, dripping, onto a hook and generally made an American-sort of spectacle of himself. England tsked at him, showing him how to remove his coat with grace.
“A fire! I love it,” America enthused, his eyes delighted behind his steamed and rain-splattered spectacles. England gave the barmaid, Jilly, a nod of apology, but she was grinning like an even bigger idiot, leaning over the counter and gaping at America.
“Just for you, luv,” she giggled. England noticed the way she ogled America’s plaid button-down (an improvement over the t-shirt) and too-tight jeans as he put his big hands on his hips and swiveled to survey the dark little pub. Jilly, who made fun of Americans on any normal day.
He did look rather boisterously attractive and... Well, America had an annoying heart-stopping effect on first sight. He’d always had that. Sort of like Ukraine without the... England wondered what Jilly would have thought of America’s Halloween getup, the black ribbons over his non-existent bosoms. It had been nearly stunning enough to have been worth giving America the win-- nearly. But England had gone over the top this year as well, with the Ghost of Barmy Roderick the Nearly Unstoppable. Their antes today had reached heights they’d never reached before. England wondered what made today so special.
America was leaning over the bar, chatting up Jilly. England elbowed him aside and ordered two Stellas with a tight smile. He elbowed America again and headed off to the furthest, darkest corner of the pub. He could hardly blame Jilly. He himself indulged America for an array of reasons he didn’t care to quite pinpoint or understand and found it best to ignore. England had already downed two-thirds of his Stella by the time America made his way to the table.
“Drink up,” he told America, shoving the full pint across the table.
“Should we get food, first?” America said. He looked at England’s glass and then picked up his own and took a few healthy gulps.
“In a bit.” England sipped his and vowed to slow down. He had four days to endure, starting with several hours tonight. Maybe after a few real British lagers, America would drink himself to sleep; he hadn’t had a head for liquor since American Prohibition had ended. Or had he ever had a head for liquor?
However, America, for once, seemed to be taking his drinking seriously. He didn’t talk to England through the first pint or halfway through the second. He just drummed his fingers on the table between gulps and laughed inanely at Jilly and watched the football on the telly mounted in the corner with incomprehension. And he watched England now and then and drummed his fingers.
“Admit it. You’re happy to have company, aren’t you?” he finally said, obviously unable to remain silent for too long.
England snorted. “Stick to subjects you know little about and leave the ones you know nothing about.”
“Eighty percent. Perfectly normal,” America mumbled and drank his ale.
“What are you on about?” England demanded.
“Nothing. Hi there, Honey!” America burbled at Jilly, dark-haired Jilly, darling Jilly who carried pair of pints number three. Jilly, who only last week had decided that all Yanks were worthless but was now turned idiot by blue eyes and straight teeth. Yanks and their love of dentistry.
“Bring me a couple of whiskeys, neat, there’s a luv,” England told Jilly, ‘cause he had to get America drunk and home and sleeping; hell, how long had he himself been awake now? At least thirty-six hours; it had taken eight for the summoning alone.
No, she had no clue what America was, just knew he was pretty. Not that any of their kind were ugly per se, except perhaps France. It was just-- he’d always shone, and he’d become so very much. Much--
“You know, England,” America began. His cheeks were pink and his eyes were bright. Glassy, even. Pink, blue white, red, white, blue, much-- America was talking again. “That green thing at your house scared the crap outta me at first.”
England paused in draining the last few drops of his ale. “Green thing.”
“The floating one.” America said.
“You can see her?”
“Not anymore.”
“That’s because she’s not here.” America smiled and nodded at England’s words. He looked a bit floaty. England was glad his plan to knock America out was going so swimmingly. “Sweet girl. Very sweet. Not like that little grey bastard that’s planted himself at your place.”
“Huh. I thought you liked Tony. He adores you. He’s shy.”
“Rubbish. Prolly gonna take over the world. America’s next gift to the Earth.”
“Wow, this is good beer,” America said, rubbing his huge hands together. “Don’t you want any food?”
“Not hungry. ‘Snot beer. Ale. Ale is like bread, y’know.” England waved his empty pint-glass at Jilly and said bring us something and picked up the tumbler of whiskey. “And this is rye. Like bread, too.”
“Ah,” America said. He looked sort of sad, but then he didn’t and England wondered why he’d thought America was sad, because America was smiling very widely. “I’ve heard that before! Ha ha. It’s like, bullshit, right?”
England goggled. “You,” he said and pointed.
“Me?”
“You,” England repeated. Are dead. Are a bastard. England sucked down whiskey to keep from killing America. He was much too much too much-- indulgent. “Are being disingenuously nasty, aren’t you?”
“You’re so weird, England,” America said. And then he leaned forward and patted England’s hand, quick tattoos like he’d drummed his fingers on the table. One-two-three-- and then he turned his head and his hand lingered on England’s afterwards for a few moments like he’d forgotten it was there. “Oh! I was trying to follow the game, earlier. So which team is wearing the blue socks? Is one of them your team?”
England squinted at the screen. His hand felt warm being touched like that. His face was hot. He yanked his hand away to grab America’s ignored whiskey. “Crystal Palace. They’re all right, I s’pose.”
“We have major-league soccer now, too. Ha ha! We’re playing you in the World Cup thingy. At least, I think that’s what Canada IM’ed me the other night.”
“World-- Wait. Don’t even mention soccer to me. You have no idea what you’re talking about, you berk.” England drank America’s whisky to drown his horror. “It’s a wonder Canada tried to teach you. I thought he had more sense than to try.”
“Hmm. You are being cunningly nasty. Or just plain nasty. How comfortable.”
“What? I--” England paused to assess the situation. America had his hands clasped before him on the table and was looking away, at what England couldn’t tell. He had nothing to drink and that was because England had drunk it all. He’d destroyed America’s favorite house today. England realized he was being a bit of an ass. Perhaps. “Sorry,” he said eventually.
“No prob,” America said, and then it sounded like he mumbled fifteen.
“Wot?”
“Nothing.”
Jilly brought an array of tasty-looking beverages in an array of glasses. She simpered at America.
“Not sure what you normally have, luv, other than the ale. So I brought you a choice of the best,” she said. England noticed that she was wearing a tight, red t-shirt and that her lovely breasts were very close to America’s appreciative eye-level. She unloaded her tray and put her hand on America’s shoulder.
“Why, thank you, honey. That was super-sweet of you!”
England thought he might like to do that. Touch America. No he wouldn’t. Why had he had such a daft thought? England took a deep breath.
“What I ah-- meant to say was, your Canadian brother doesn’t know football nearly as well as I. He’s also got your game. Perhaps I can explain again,” he said, in his calmest, steadiest voice. And that got America’s attention. He looked away from Jilly’s bosom to England, his eyes round and surprised. The corners of his lips curled up a tiny bit.
“Really? Tell me,” America said. He picked up one of the ales Jilly had brought and took a sip. He stared at England, waiting. Jilly pouted and tripped off but left the drinks. Darling Jilly.
“I’m the father of modern football, you know,” England said, choosing the most scotch-looking of the drinks Jilly had bought and tossing back a burning gulp (he’d been right about the contents). Perhaps he’d been an ass, but he was going to be nice now, dammit. “Wrote the laws of the game.”
He continued to be nice and they spent a pleasant while, talking about association football. Sport, at least, was something America understood, despite his daft comments about how Spain had said this or Chile had said that. America laughed and looked cheered and even drank his ale, there’s a good lad, while England sampled the other bevvies to tell America what they were.
England pointed out a particularly brilliant play by the Eagles and America’s cheeks were pink and he dribbled ale down his chin as he tried to look at the screen and drink at the same time and England thought he might like to lick it off for him or hug him, but it was full-time in the game and why did England want to do those things?
He wondered who America was shagging. Had shagged. He wondered if America had shagged Japan. Japan would never tell, the close-mouthed bastard. Close-mouthed when it suited him, anyway, with his red thingums and his fucking brass gong wotcher...
And that had been an arousing thought. Well, he rationalized, it had been a few decades since he’d gotten off in the company of another person, after all. Still, England was annoyed with himself because he was comfortable and smiling and muzzy-nuzzy warm and red and white and blue and pink but he couldn’t stop thinking about who America had shagged and what he looked like when he did it, though he should never think that, and hell, Jilly was back and groping America again and America looked warm and gropable and goddamn, but England was horny. America. It must have been the drink. Everything makes you horny, the France in his head told him, but he ignored that bastard and drank some more to kill his incipient hard-on.
“You know what would be really awesome, hon? Food. Do you have fish and chips?” America was asking Jilly, and she gave him a face-full of lovely bosom and said of course, luv, and America said yes, he’d love that...
What England loved... What he loved was. Fine. He loved. Things. Cute tykes who got too fucking tall too fast. Who left, bastards. Even then and a hundred years after and during both world wars and several smaller ones and now and fuck... He was getting too close to thinking about things that shouldn’t be thought about. Damn, but Jilly had brought decent scotch.
Still, there was nothing wrong with love, right? ‘Cept it didn’t equate to being in love with someone, or being able to stand them, no matter how much one’s heart and hands wanted to touch them, no matter how much one’s gonads wanted to fuck them silly... America, dammit.
And there, fine, he was pissed, because he’d have to be pissed and... and mental and dying to admit that. Thank Christ he’d never admit it aloud, no matter how white and tighty.
“France. Not once. Never,” England said, at least he might have. He thought he might have. “Bastard.”
“Are you all right?” America said, at least he might have. He looked sad, why pink and sad?
“Fuck. You fucking bastard fuck,” England said.
***
When England started crying, America knew it was time to go home. He hadn’t even gotten to eat his dinner.
The cute bartender looked concerned but America waved her off. He finagled England into his coat and put his arm around England’s shoulder and steered him out into the drizzling rain, unable to open an umbrella to cover the pair of them because his hands were full. England was weeping and bitching into America’s coat-collar.
“Too fucking. Tall, you. Bastard,” England was mumbling in a voice filled with tears and snot.
“Why, haha. I’m barely taller than you,” America soothed. He stumbled when England tried to walk them sideways off the curb but managed to keep them both upright. He couldn’t say the drunkenness and the weeping had been entirely unexpected. England’s benders were rare but memorable. America tried to decide if drunken moaning time qualified under the eighty-percent rule. He wondered if it was always him, or if England did the in vino, veritas thing to berate whoever happened to be close by. He had a suspicion he already knew the answer to that.
“Thousan’ years. Old, thousand. Shouldn’ put up with this.”
“Hmmm,” America said and patted England’s shoulder with the hand that wasn’t strong-arming him down the street. England stumbled on the cobbles or perhaps air molecules and his face went into America’s hair.
“Smell like. Fuck! Why’s I so fucking stupid? Should never’ve trusted,” England slurred in the vicinity of America’s ear, and tried to hit America, or grab him. He ended up with one hand clutching America’s shoulder and one shoved inside his coat, punching him, or groping him, or something. “Yer selfish. There’s a world, y’know. Fucking selfish. Bastardhic.”
“Haha, not me, surely?” America mumbled lamely. He was starting to feel a little tight and floaty and unsure. He’d never had to drag England home before. They’d reached England’s doorstep and America stared at the door for a moment, collecting his thoughts. Then he yanked England’s hand out of his jacket and guided it to the doorknob. The place was unlocked, he knew that, but who knew what creepy magical curse-thingies England used to keep his house safe?
Some remnant of normal duty let England turn the doorknob. The door swung in and pulled them together inside with it. America was hit again with the scent of England: tea, dust, sachets of something, burned cookies, rain. England was still plastered to his side, and out of the rain, America could smell him, too. Booze and the same aftershave he’d used since the eighteenth century. The scent and the way England was pressed against him made the room blur and he swayed with memory. So rarely did he feel nostalgic for things not his own, but suddenly the feeling of shared history was overpowering. And England was still going on like nothing had changed.
“With France! Fucking fuck. You and him, bloody cunts-- I poured everything, everthin’. Money. M’heart. Always. ‘Merca you bastard yarrghhic.”
England trailed off on a sob and America felt the tiny, glowing knot under his diaphragm spin and grow and form pity and regret and rebellious pride and when he tried to stop it he suddenly wanted to cry, too. Perhaps he’d had too much to drink, himself, because England’s sobs were wrenching and comforting at the same time, breathed and drooled into his skin like that.
“Why don’t we get you to bed? I always have to take charge, don’t I? Heroic and sexy, that’s me,” America joked, still lamely. He nudge-shoved England toward the stairs.
England finally pulled his nose out of America’s ear, but rather than allowing himself to be led he lurched around to face America full-on. His green eyes were wet, his hair was wet, his whole face was wet from the rain, and the picture was so different from the one he’d presented only that morning, when he’d been confident, bad-ass, scary England, that it was a tough sight to bear. Yet his features were still so familiar and appealing that America looked straight back at him and grew warm all over.
“Why do ah care? T’others. You know. I can take charge. Pink and blue. Too gorgeous t’stare at,” England slurred in a low voice. His hands had a surprisingly strong grip on on America’s shoulders, so much so that America couldn’t move, he told himself. England’s glassy eyes glinted in a way that reminded America of England’s age, his unforgotten power in reserve. America’s eyes were drawn to England’s rain-wetted lips because he was so close and moving closer and it looked like England was going to kiss him, and the knot in America’s belly exploded and his whole body shuddered at once. Definitely they were crossing some line that America had never crossed and America didn’t care because he wanted-- but then England’s forehead slammed into America’s chin and rattled his jaw. “Ow. Pot-valiant. ‘S pathetic.”
“No, just regular drunk,” America said. That chin-knock had shaken him out of his weird stupor. England clutched him and bit the front of his coat and scolded him for wasting perfectly good, expensive East India tea like that and America sighed and grabbed England’s wrists and held him away a few inches. Seriously. It had been over two hundred years since that; was his every mistake or action that England didn’t like to be remembered forever? Nostalgia was for England and other ancient places.
“And the Middle East is fucked all to hell. Yer idea. So I shouldn’t,” England was saying, and America realized that England’s litany of woes had at least reached the present again.
“That’s not true and you-- Oh, just go sleep it off,” America ordered. He rattled England’s wrists. Something in his voice or movements made England look up at him again.
“Yeah. ‘Sfor the best. Wouldn’ wanna. Oh, fuck.” England struggled until America released him, then swiveled on unsteady feet and stumbled for the stairs. “Bed. Fucking America. Fuck, I’m sick.”
America followed him to make sure he didn’t break his neck on the stairs-- he still needed friends after all, ha ha. On the way England shrugged off his coat and hung it on the banister. Again America was assailed by England’s scent, and when he put his hand on England’s back to push him up the narrow stairs, he felt the warmth of his body through his scratchy sweater-vest.
It was apparently a night for damned nostalgia; America suddenly remembered being small and could see, as perfectly as if it was happening, his small hand clutching England’s scratchy woolen winter waistcoat-- no silks necessary for Virginia until it had actually become prosperous-- and begging him not to leave. Remembered the feeling and fear of sitting on the edge of vast space, alone. Remembered adoring and trusting England despite his too-visible faults.
His irritation dwindled in a wave of affection and America realized his feeling of wanting things hadn’t gone away at all, had only settled low in his belly with the ale and the scent of... everything. His fingers squeezed deep into the wool, so tightly that England teetered back and America caught himself just in time to push again, rather than pull.
They managed the last few steps. England lunged at the first door on the right and America had to release him to let him open it. He followed just to the threshold to make sure England made it to the bed, but was stopped short when he saw that England was hanging on the doorknob, looking blearily at him.
“The scotch jus’... just hits me like that, sometimes.” England swayed. “Yer just such a twat. Ye make me so bloody cross.”
And that had just beaten all of England’s past passive-aggressive apologies to bloody pulps. America didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He settled for hurt and annoyed and said the first thing that came to mind.
“You’re such an asshole, sometimes. Make up your goddamned mind.”
“Hnh.” England released the doorknob and yanked his sweater-vest over his head, then stumbled over and fell backwards and spread-eagled onto his bed. He’d stopped crying, at least. “Pissed and mental and dying. ‘M dying now. Wanna sleep here’th me?” His voice had gone low again. He patted the bed next to him.
America stared. He’d asked England to make up his mind. The ache throbbed lower than his stomach. He thought about licking the tears from England’s eyes. The rain from his hair.
England started moaning. “Dying... pissed and dying.”
America had a hard-on and England was drunk and moaning and dying.
“Nope. I’ll take another room,” he said in a thick, bright voice, and turned to make his desperate escape.
“Oh. Hokay. Don’ go in the basement. Don’ look,” England mumbled after him.
“God, no,” America said, and thumped down the stairs. Something green and worried-looking hovered at the edge of his vision. “Please, not now,” he said, and whatever-it-was disappeared.
He still had a hard-on. Must have been the liquor. Still, he’d answered no. Well, who wanted to screw a drunken asshole? Not him. Duh. He found the bathroom downstairs and brushed his teeth and tried to decide if he should jerk off. There was a knock at the door. The outside door.
On the doorstep was a teenager with a buzzcut and baggy jeans and a surly expression. He handed America a brown paper bag.
“Jilly said ta bring this to yer,” the teenager said. America took the bag, and the teenager slumped off into the rain.
The bag held fish and chips, wrapped in newspaper. America laughed, quietly, so as not to wake England. He got a plate and poured himself some cold tea and parked on the couch with his nice, greasy food and lots of napkins and malt vinegar, and turned on his shiny, new laptop.
Canada was online, of course. America got an IM from him almost as soon as he got the shit-tastic wireless connection up and running.
‘You in UK?’ Canada asked.
‘Y. How Tony?’ he typed back one-handed, and used his other hand to shove a malt-vinegar-soaked French fry into his mouth. It was still somewhat hot and completely awesome.
‘OK. How’s E?’
‘Passed out. :(’ America typed. Normally he wouldn’t give Canada that much information, but he was feeling a little put-upon.
‘Haha,’ Canada messaged. Then, ‘He yell at you, eh?’
America shoved another fry into his mouth and frowned. Nosy jerk, Canada. He especially loved to hear that England was ticked at America for something. Still, Canada sometimes had some good advice about how to deal with England.
‘Y. idk what his prob is,’ America whined electronically.
‘You’re stupid,’ Canada wrote back. Canada was always snarkier in etherland than he ever was in person.
‘ur an asshole, WTF?’ America wrote. He broke off some fish and popped it into his mouth. It was amazing stuff. It was made from fish that had surely never been frozen. Grease dripped down his chin. He wiped it off and checked to make sure that he hadn’t dribbled onto England’s couch. Yelled at, teased, yeah, okay. But he wasn’t willing to be murdered.
‘*sigh*’ Canada wrote. ‘Just do it, already.’
America stared at the screen. ‘lolwhut?’ was all he could think of to say.
‘Tony says, quote, ‘fuck,’’ Canada answered.
“Asshole!” America said aloud. He ate another fry and washed it down with cold tea that desperately needed sugar. Eventually he typed, ‘Hi back to T. Now WTF?’
‘*sigh* . . . Everyone already thinks you and E are doing it, anyway. F is jealous. Just go have sex or something.’
This was the first America had heard of ‘everyone.’ France was always a perv; that was to be expected, and he’d made his thoughts clear to America long ago. But everyone? Were they seriously that bad?
He couldn’t say, though, that things hadn’t reached a bit of a head earlier tonight. England groping him. Pot-valiant. Wanna sleep here with me? The way England had looked at him in that dress.
‘England so repressed, :(’ he typed back, eventually.
‘Whatever. >.>’ Canada told him. ‘You’re the hero, grow some, will you? Gotta go, bye.’
‘Don’t >.> me’ America typed, but it was too late; Canada had signed off.
“Asshole!” America said aloud again. He surfed the CNN site and the president’s blog and ate his wonderfully greasy food and composed a nasty e-mail to Canada in his head demanding an explanation, but never sent it because he already knew the answer. He’d known for decades and had just never really asked the right question, because he’d been afraid to.
But some time tonight he’d bypassed that fear; if only for a few moments, he’d reached a point where it had become more critical to do something than not. He was still feeling the tense, unfinished aftermath of that and knew that when he got up the next morning and England had forgotten everything and acted like absolutely nothing had changed, it would only get worse.
America could up the antes. Push the line to the limits. Grow some, as Canada had asshole-ishly suggested. After all, England had knocked down his fucking house. He’d had to explain to Homeland Security that no, terrorists had not done it. If America could take that, then England could take America making up his mind, too.
He popped off a quick IM for Canada to find next time he logged on: ‘thx.’
On to Part Two!
.
Author:
jedishampooPairing: Hetalia: England/America (in that order)
Rating/Warnings: NC-l7, explicit sex, language
Summary: England and America up the antes on their Halloween contest, and then another situation reaches a critical point as well. Present-day fic.
Author’s Notes: Dear readers, expect country names, some brief crossdressing, drunkenness, first-time smut, more smut, silliness, and a minimum of politics. I hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing. About 16,300 words. Thanks to my patient beta
sharpeslass; she Brit-picked for me but I’m US American so I write with American spelling. Thanks also to Mosh!Infinity to One: Part 1 of 2
Halloween may have started in the British Isles, but it was the United States of America that had made Halloween so super-cool. Made grinning pumpkins a universal symbol, made candy corn a required food, made movies as scary and kickass as Alien.
So why was it that England always managed to win the Halloween scaring contests? Every year America would come up with some awesome new idea and plan how much he’d gloat when England screamed and admitted utter pwnage and then, next thing America knew, England was laughing his evil laugh-- somehow it worked on him-- and pulling out his ancient scorecard and fountain pen and scratching a hash-mark in the “England” column. He’d barely stick around for coffee before taking off, the jerk.
America finished drawing the line around his eyes and dropped the black make-up pencil onto the sink, then turned his head from side to side to admire his handiwork from all angles. The thick black liner really made the whites of his eyes pop. He dug around the pile on the countertop for the blood-red pencil. Holy crap, he was going to blow England away this year.
Eighty-eight to one. Eighty-nine to one. Ninety to one, and on and on it had gone until only England knew the actual score. America only knew that he had one, and he’d gotten that the year Japan and Russia had helped him out.
America had half-considered calling Russia back, but to be truthful Russia scared America almost as much as he scared England. Besides, Russia was busy dealing with his country’s organized crime, or running his country’s organized crime, or whatever it was he did nowadays. And America had discovered that Japan had some sort of residual polite guilt regarding England and wouldn’t offer any more pointers.
“I’ll bet even Japan couldn’t have come up with something as awesome as this,” he mumbled at his reflection. He smacked his lips together and looked at Tony, who was perched on the toilet tank. “How’s it look?”
“Fuck,” Tony said.
“Yeah, I know,” America agreed. “More red.”
It wasn’t that he minded letting England win most of the time. Halloween was one of the few times a year that England seemed to truly enjoy being around America. Politics and the Middle East situation being what they were, they spent a lot of time together. But England spent eighty percent of that time either trying to ignore America or berating America for being an uncultured, hopeless idiot-- though America didn’t really mind that; that was just how England dealt with being frustrated. But another fifteen percent of the time England was all awkward ‘cause he was feeling guilty for being frustrated and was trying to figure out how to be nice without being, well, nice, and then only ten percent of the time could they actually have fun.
Hmm. Five percent of the time. America had never claimed to be good at math, preferring to leave that to China and India. Still, he wasn’t a complete moron. And five percent was just too depressing.
America finished smearing blood-red on his lips and stood back from the mirror, twisting his head again. He looked fantastic. The long black wig was worth every penny he’d paid. He put on his glasses and peeked through his darkened bedroom at the alarm clock. It wasn’t even five, yet. England never showed up before dawn.
“Fuck,” Tony said.
“S’yeah. He’s going to hate this so much,” America said. He shook the black satin of his Elvira skirt, trying to fluff out the static cling. France had been trying to get America into a dress for two hundred years. Maybe after he’d scared the crap outta England, they could Skype France and say hi--
Yeah. France. Who snorted through UN meetings, anymore, and spent the receptions guzzling wine and berating America for the recession and teasing England about how cute they were with their sexual tension and all, and winking at America like he didn’t already know what it was, shut the fuck up, France.
England had the right idea; it was easiest to just pretend France was full of shit. To just keep things as they were. After all, England had spent nearly a hundred and forty years hardly speaking to America just because he’d asked to be treated like an equal. Besides, if everyone was denying everything, then nobody had to fear rejection or failure. It was rare that there were things America sometimes wanted for himself and never got, but in this case that was all for the best. He had a badly-needed friend, at least, and international relations could remain stable. Oops, sorry, they could say when they screwed up, and then hand over more gifts and more assurances and everyone smiled and said that yes, everything was just fine...
There was a noise from outside, like a car door being shut.
“Bu bu bu bu fuck--” Tony started chittering.
“I hear it.” America blinked, checking his amazing false eyelashes through his glasses. What was freakin’ cute was how excited and happy Tony got whenever England came over. “He’s awfully early, the jerk.”
He blew a final blood-colored kiss to himself in the mirror, then picked up his skirt and ran down the hall to the front door. He peeked through the peephole and saw England’s blond head and pale face, warped in the flickering porchlight and the peephole’s round lens. He was raising a hand to knock--
“Hahah!” America threw the door wide and waited for the screaming to begin.
There was no screaming, just the wind and the crackle of dead leaves. A leaf tried to blow up America’s nose. He brushed it away and watched England, who was staring at him. At the black ribbons crossing his chest, rather, and America wished he’d sprung for the fake boobs, after all-- England raised wide eyes to America’s face.
“You bloody... Oh, dear Christ--” he said, and broke out laughing. It wasn’t even screaming laughter, just loud guffaws like America didn’t think he’d ever heard from England.
America raised his hands to chin-level and waggled his fingers to show off his skull rings. “Woo,” he said.
“Just sh-- hah-- shut up. Haha hee-- you idiot--” England snorted and started waving his black-gloved hand at America in a helpless-looking gesture, and laughed. Then he wrapped his arms around his middle and bent over, laughing some more. Finally he just fell backwards and sat on the porch, sniggering like he was choking.
America straightened his shoulders and frowned. “You don’t think it’s scary?”
“That’s the best. You’re the-- hah-- best, lad.” It looked like he was weeping.
America crossed his bare arms over his gothy, beribboned chest. “If you’re on the ground, does that mean I win?”
“Good God, no,” England snorted. He held out one of his leather gloves. “Help me up, silly git.”
“Hmph,” America said, then felt very stupid for having said it aloud. He caught his own lips curling up in a smile, and then he felt stupid for that, too, but only for a second. England’s laughter was catching. And it wasn’t like America had really lost yet. He hadn’t screamed, either, and if England was cracking up, maybe he’d be too busy to do whatever scary thing he’d been planning. America grabbed England’s hand and yanked him up.
“Fuck,” Tony said from somewhere behind America.
“I know, it’s freezing,” America said. He gestured England inside and shut the door to stop the influx of wind and dead leaves into his foyer. He stuck his arms out in front of him. They did look pretty funny. And he’d forgotten to take off his glasses before answering the door. He suddenly couldn’t stop giggling at himself. “Look. I’ve got goosebumps.”
England wiped his eyes and looked at America’s chest again. “You’re half-naked.”
“I know! Kind of sexy at least, right? Like Morticia Addams?” America hunched to create non-existent cleavage, and leaned over to flutter his eyelashes in England’s face. He made kissy-lips. “Mi amore.”
“Heh-- ah, no,” England said and put up his hand. His face, already pink from cold and laughter, had gone a little pinker, and his grin went stiff. America backed off and England’s smile relaxed a little. America kept the tight, warm little knot growing in his stomach a secret; keeping things as they were meant a lot of time was spent resolving his issues in privacy. Best place for it, of course. “Ah. Make some hot tea or something.”
“I’m not gonna turn my back on you,” America said, and then stopped speaking because he’d heard a strange thumping noise. It sounded like it was coming from outside, maybe from down the road. The thump grew louder and louder and the ground trembled beneath America’s bare feet.
“Fuck,” Tony said.
“Fuck!” England said. “I forgot the--” A giant roaring sound cut him off; it sounded like an angry monster, an angry monster that was standing on America’s house, howling like one of the dinosaurs in Jurassic Park--
America started screaming and everything went to hell. The stomping noise joined the roaring and then they heard the horrendous crack of splitting wood, like America’s house was being snapped in two. England threw himself on top of America and slammed him into the ground, knocking the breath out of him and smothering him. America stopped screaming but didn’t move, couldn’t move as bits of his house started flying around them. England was shouting something but America screwed his eyes shut and prayed that he wasn’t about to be flattened by a ceiling beam or sliced to bits or eaten by a Tyrannosaurus Rex, and he prayed that England and Tony wouldn’t die, either--
“Stopstopstop!” England was shouting.
Miraculously his shouts seemed to work: the roaring and stomping halted. The creaking of splintering wood was loud in the sudden near-silence, but anything was an improvement from the roaring, as far as America was concerned. England pushed himself off America to stand and America was suddenly cold.
It was because the wind was blowing inside, and that was because his house was missing an entire wall. England was standing and waving his hands at the giant hole where the front of America’s house had once been. His black cloak whipped around him in a crazy-seeming cyclone of wind and leaves and dust. America shrugged off his panic and jumped to his feet, ready to help with... whatever.
“You didn’t say stop until after I’d already hit it,” a deep voice was whining. America couldn’t see the source of the voice.
“Yes, yes, yes, dammit!” England was bitching. It was the same tone of shout he used when he was ticked at America. “I know! Just... Just bugger off! Begone!”
“It’s been a long time since I was able to knock over a house,” the voice rumbled, beginning to sound sort of ... pleased with itself. “Well. Bye, then.”
With that the cyclone quieted all at once. The dust settled. Somewhere, another roof-beam fell with a crash.
“Hell,” England said. He turned to look at America. He was looking up with wide eyes and he was biting his lip. It was the closest to sheepish America had ever seen England look.
America knew he should be pissed off. His house was destroyed. There had been a huge ghost... thing. He knew he should be still screaming in fright or kicking the crap out of England or bitching or something. Instead, he laughed again. He would be able to gloat over this for-- for forever.
“You definitely win this year,” America said.
England winced and started to brush off his coat. “I’m-- Ah. I’ll rebuild your house.”
“And replace my priceless antiques?”
England winced and snorted at the same time. “You don’t have any bloody antiques.”
America snorted back, then rubbed his bare arms, trying to warm them up. “It was awfully sweet of you to throw yourself on top of me like that,” he teased. “Maybe you saved my life. Or saved me from being blinded or something,” he added, nodding at the bits of splinter and glass-shards tinkling about England’s feet as he shook out his coat. America would never admit it aloud, but England looked pretty awesome and he could shake his clothes with flair. At his words and gaze England’s face turned even pinker.
“That was merely reflex. You’re wearing a dress, you twat,” he said, and looked America up and down. He grimaced, but his blush didn’t fade. “Where did you get that, anyway?”
“Ha ha ha! When I’ve got a Democratic president, costume shops start stocking dresses in my size,” he joked. He rubbed his arms again and wondered if his coat-closet had survived the maelstrom. Though he would say that England’s sideways glances at him were making him feel warmer. Speaking of. “Why didn’t you think my outfit was scary? I thought for sure you’d be horrified at how tacky I was.”
England snorted for like the fiftieth time that morning. “Shows what you know about British people. Haven’t you read Shakespeare or watched Monty Python? We’re raised from birth to find comedy in cross-dressing.”
“Oh. And you think it’s sexy, too, right?” America teased again, making another kissy-face. Hell, his house had been destroyed; he could make England as uncomfortable as he wished. He waggled his hips for good measure. The adrenaline-knot wrenched a little tighter under his diaphragm. This was the game, knowing how far to take his teasing without crossing the line.
“No, that’s Japan,” England merely said, and looked away. He coughed once, then twice. “Listen, I am-- Well, you find the contractor and I’ll pay. In the meantime, I guess since it was my fa-- Um. I mean to say, why don’t you stay at, ah, my place for a few days?”
America blinked.
England waved his hand. “I, ah. I always said I’d bring you over for the Guy Fawkes celebration, anyway. This is as good a time as any.”
“Really? That’s awesome!” America finally managed to squeeze in around England’s passive-aggressive apology. Something below his diaphragm went pop. He grinned so widely he could feel his teeth getting cold.
“You’ll, ah. Need shoes.”
America nodded and started looking around, trying to decide what he could salvage and pack. Maybe Tony could stay with his brother-- yeah, in fact, he’d instant-message Canada now, Canada was always online in the winter ‘cause there was nothing better to do in the frozen north. Except-- oh, no, where was-- America stepped carefully around the piles of glass and then ran for the study. He’d been on the internet last night--
In the remains of his office he stared in horror at the piles of books and electronics on the floor.
“My computer!” he wailed.
England came up behind him holding shoes, which he must have dug out of the foyer. He waved them at America, thus proving once and for all that his priorities were all wrong.
“Addict. My laptop’s in the car; I’ll loan it to you until I can buy you a new one.”
America glared at him and ignored the shoes flapping in front of his face. “As soon as the computer store opens.”
“I promise,” England said.
America took the shoes.
***
England sipped tea and breathed for a moment in the safety of his kitchen. America was in his house. Filling it up with... with himself, with his bloody loud voice and his wide bum in too-tight jeans and his laughing and--
England was paying for his guilt with stress and jet-lag, and wasn’t sure he’d survive America’s stay, at least without going mental. The promised holiday was four days away yet. Perhaps after that he’d suggest a hotel, or ship America back to his New York flat with a cheque for damages, or... something.
He’d bought plenty of Japan’s computer games for the laptop he’d also bought, hoping to keep America quietly occupied. But America had spent an hour playing games on the plane and had then snored and drooled on England for five more hours, getting in his personal space and being boisterous even when asleep. That trend continued unabated.
“Ha ha ha! Good one,” America laughed in the sitting room. England sighed and carried the tray out to join him.
He was watching something with Rik Mayall. He’d watched some old Monty Python’s Flying Circus but was more interested in the movies he’d already seen (American money) and pointed out that he was sure he’d looked much better in a dress--
--Good Lord, that dress.
The makeup. All that black stuff. Like anything could hide the perpetual earnest look in his eyes. The red lipstick. Jesus, like a bloody whore. England fancied he could still see it on America’s lips as he sat down and watched America grin with his straight, white teeth and his laugh that reached his eyes, confident and happy in all but the very worst of times...
“Tea for me, instant coffee for you,” England said before America could say whatever he was sure America had been going to say.
“Instant? Ick,” America said, but took the cup and a spoon and stirred in far too much sugar. “This show is hysterical! And here I thought the only good things you Brits had were Shaun of the Dead and Blackadder.”
England felt a little miffed for centuries of culture that America was blithely ignoring, then felt a little smug for his comedy. Then he felt miffed at himself for being smug over something so moronic. He wondered if America was merely winding him up. It was hard to remember how intelligent America actually was, sometimes, with all his moods and phases covered in that layer of bravado. Without wanting to, England remembered America as a cute, clinging tot, and then remembered him as he’d been after the American Civil War, nearly ragged with the loss of his idealism. His chest tightened a little and then he heard America slurp his coffee and laugh vulgarly at the telly again and the tight ache dissipated. Temporary loss of idealism, as always.
“All that fuss you made about the computer,” he pointed out.
“Your wireless connection is crappy,” America said around his coffee-cup, cementing England’s return to annoyance. America started to reach for one of the brown biscuits on the silver platter, looked slightly alarmed, noticed England noticing his alarmed look, then picked it up and shoved it into his mouth. He spoke again around his rather dusty mouthful. “That’s the mmphguy from Drop Dead Fred.”
“You are spitting crumbs at me.”
America snorted more crumbs and waved the remote, muting the telly. He gulped his coffee and grinned. “So what are we doing tonight?”
“We? Ah. I offered a place to stay. I did not plan a vacation itinerary.”
America’s lips actually seemed to turn downwards for a moment, but then he was smiling, all white teeth, and England wondered if he’d imagined it. “Ha ha! But I want to have fun. What do you do when you’re not working?”
England looked around at his just-started Christmas embroidery. He looked at his tea-service. At his telly.
“I relax.”
“You’re such a fuddy-duddy when you’re not building empires.”
England felt the tightness in his chest invert, expand. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Let’s go out to see something,” America said.
“You’ve already seen everything you Yanks want to see. In fact, I’ve hauled you and Canada ‘round London enough times. It hasn’t changed.”
“Let’s go say hello to Queen Lizzie.”
England nearly sloshed his tea onto the Victorian-lace tablecloth when he bolted upright in indignation. “Fuck! The Queen is not to be called Lizzie! How many times do I have to tell you that, or try to teach you to be respectful--”
“Ha ha! She is to me! She hugged the First Lady, you know.”
America’s wide grin managed to look suspiciously sly. England settled down to a mere glare once more. “Her Majesty is quite gracious. And she’s not currently receiving visitors. We’re still recovering from your last attempt at polite diplomacy.” He put emphasis on the polite.
America shrugged and hesitated only a moment before snagging another biscuit and shoving it in his mouth. England eyed America’s jeans and white t-shirt and floppy brown knit jacket. He looked a right slob; the dress had been an improvement. That dress--!
“We could find you some proper clothing,” England mumbled.
“No thanks,” America waved at him and settled back on the couch, making a show of uncrossing and re-crossing his jeans-clad legs. His too-tight jeans. “I have suits. And all my suits are Italian these days.”
England thought about the last suit he’d seen America wearing, at some meeting or another. His mouth went an annoying smidge dry at the memory. He sipped his tea. “Not buying American?”
“Of course I am. Veneziano’s people have all the best stores in New York. It is a recession, after all.” America smirked as he said it, but then winced when England’s eyes narrowed. England went in for the kill.
“Yes, and it’s your fault, you git. Your forced housing booms and your crooked banks are trying to take down the world economy, even as we speak--”
“I know! I know. We’re working on legislation. Democrats, remember?” America interrupted with a guilty expression. He crossed his arms and uncrossed his legs. An instant later his perpetual earnest grin returned. He lifted his leg, and actually put his trainer-clad foot on England’s settee, next to England’s thigh, touching him, never mind that he’d actually put a shoe on England’s settee--! “So what are we doing? A show?”
England took a deep breath. He shoved America’s foot from the sofa back onto the floor where it belonged, then made a show of wiping his fingers on a napkin. He breathed again. It was too close in his house. They were too close.
“I need a drink,” he said, finally. “And nosh. We’re going to the pub.”
Was it England’s imagination, or did America shudder? “Oh. Hah. Dinner and drinks, like a date? Can you promise me fish and chips wrapped in newspaper?”
England stood so that he could look down on America and be properly haughty at such foolishness. “No. A quiet pub, not one of those touristy places you fancy, and not a chip-shop. They should have fish and chips, however. On a plate.”
“Awesome! Sounds like fun.”
“It’s called survival, lad,” England told him. Mine, in fact, he told himself. He went to get his coat.
The pub was blissfully quiet. That was, until America followed England in the door, stomping his feet and shaking cold November rain from his hair and laughing as he shrugged out of his coat and tossed it, dripping, onto a hook and generally made an American-sort of spectacle of himself. England tsked at him, showing him how to remove his coat with grace.
“A fire! I love it,” America enthused, his eyes delighted behind his steamed and rain-splattered spectacles. England gave the barmaid, Jilly, a nod of apology, but she was grinning like an even bigger idiot, leaning over the counter and gaping at America.
“Just for you, luv,” she giggled. England noticed the way she ogled America’s plaid button-down (an improvement over the t-shirt) and too-tight jeans as he put his big hands on his hips and swiveled to survey the dark little pub. Jilly, who made fun of Americans on any normal day.
He did look rather boisterously attractive and... Well, America had an annoying heart-stopping effect on first sight. He’d always had that. Sort of like Ukraine without the... England wondered what Jilly would have thought of America’s Halloween getup, the black ribbons over his non-existent bosoms. It had been nearly stunning enough to have been worth giving America the win-- nearly. But England had gone over the top this year as well, with the Ghost of Barmy Roderick the Nearly Unstoppable. Their antes today had reached heights they’d never reached before. England wondered what made today so special.
America was leaning over the bar, chatting up Jilly. England elbowed him aside and ordered two Stellas with a tight smile. He elbowed America again and headed off to the furthest, darkest corner of the pub. He could hardly blame Jilly. He himself indulged America for an array of reasons he didn’t care to quite pinpoint or understand and found it best to ignore. England had already downed two-thirds of his Stella by the time America made his way to the table.
“Drink up,” he told America, shoving the full pint across the table.
“Should we get food, first?” America said. He looked at England’s glass and then picked up his own and took a few healthy gulps.
“In a bit.” England sipped his and vowed to slow down. He had four days to endure, starting with several hours tonight. Maybe after a few real British lagers, America would drink himself to sleep; he hadn’t had a head for liquor since American Prohibition had ended. Or had he ever had a head for liquor?
However, America, for once, seemed to be taking his drinking seriously. He didn’t talk to England through the first pint or halfway through the second. He just drummed his fingers on the table between gulps and laughed inanely at Jilly and watched the football on the telly mounted in the corner with incomprehension. And he watched England now and then and drummed his fingers.
“Admit it. You’re happy to have company, aren’t you?” he finally said, obviously unable to remain silent for too long.
England snorted. “Stick to subjects you know little about and leave the ones you know nothing about.”
“Eighty percent. Perfectly normal,” America mumbled and drank his ale.
“What are you on about?” England demanded.
“Nothing. Hi there, Honey!” America burbled at Jilly, dark-haired Jilly, darling Jilly who carried pair of pints number three. Jilly, who only last week had decided that all Yanks were worthless but was now turned idiot by blue eyes and straight teeth. Yanks and their love of dentistry.
“Bring me a couple of whiskeys, neat, there’s a luv,” England told Jilly, ‘cause he had to get America drunk and home and sleeping; hell, how long had he himself been awake now? At least thirty-six hours; it had taken eight for the summoning alone.
No, she had no clue what America was, just knew he was pretty. Not that any of their kind were ugly per se, except perhaps France. It was just-- he’d always shone, and he’d become so very much. Much--
“You know, England,” America began. His cheeks were pink and his eyes were bright. Glassy, even. Pink, blue white, red, white, blue, much-- America was talking again. “That green thing at your house scared the crap outta me at first.”
England paused in draining the last few drops of his ale. “Green thing.”
“The floating one.” America said.
“You can see her?”
“Not anymore.”
“That’s because she’s not here.” America smiled and nodded at England’s words. He looked a bit floaty. England was glad his plan to knock America out was going so swimmingly. “Sweet girl. Very sweet. Not like that little grey bastard that’s planted himself at your place.”
“Huh. I thought you liked Tony. He adores you. He’s shy.”
“Rubbish. Prolly gonna take over the world. America’s next gift to the Earth.”
“Wow, this is good beer,” America said, rubbing his huge hands together. “Don’t you want any food?”
“Not hungry. ‘Snot beer. Ale. Ale is like bread, y’know.” England waved his empty pint-glass at Jilly and said bring us something and picked up the tumbler of whiskey. “And this is rye. Like bread, too.”
“Ah,” America said. He looked sort of sad, but then he didn’t and England wondered why he’d thought America was sad, because America was smiling very widely. “I’ve heard that before! Ha ha. It’s like, bullshit, right?”
England goggled. “You,” he said and pointed.
“Me?”
“You,” England repeated. Are dead. Are a bastard. England sucked down whiskey to keep from killing America. He was much too much too much-- indulgent. “Are being disingenuously nasty, aren’t you?”
“You’re so weird, England,” America said. And then he leaned forward and patted England’s hand, quick tattoos like he’d drummed his fingers on the table. One-two-three-- and then he turned his head and his hand lingered on England’s afterwards for a few moments like he’d forgotten it was there. “Oh! I was trying to follow the game, earlier. So which team is wearing the blue socks? Is one of them your team?”
England squinted at the screen. His hand felt warm being touched like that. His face was hot. He yanked his hand away to grab America’s ignored whiskey. “Crystal Palace. They’re all right, I s’pose.”
“We have major-league soccer now, too. Ha ha! We’re playing you in the World Cup thingy. At least, I think that’s what Canada IM’ed me the other night.”
“World-- Wait. Don’t even mention soccer to me. You have no idea what you’re talking about, you berk.” England drank America’s whisky to drown his horror. “It’s a wonder Canada tried to teach you. I thought he had more sense than to try.”
“Hmm. You are being cunningly nasty. Or just plain nasty. How comfortable.”
“What? I--” England paused to assess the situation. America had his hands clasped before him on the table and was looking away, at what England couldn’t tell. He had nothing to drink and that was because England had drunk it all. He’d destroyed America’s favorite house today. England realized he was being a bit of an ass. Perhaps. “Sorry,” he said eventually.
“No prob,” America said, and then it sounded like he mumbled fifteen.
“Wot?”
“Nothing.”
Jilly brought an array of tasty-looking beverages in an array of glasses. She simpered at America.
“Not sure what you normally have, luv, other than the ale. So I brought you a choice of the best,” she said. England noticed that she was wearing a tight, red t-shirt and that her lovely breasts were very close to America’s appreciative eye-level. She unloaded her tray and put her hand on America’s shoulder.
“Why, thank you, honey. That was super-sweet of you!”
England thought he might like to do that. Touch America. No he wouldn’t. Why had he had such a daft thought? England took a deep breath.
“What I ah-- meant to say was, your Canadian brother doesn’t know football nearly as well as I. He’s also got your game. Perhaps I can explain again,” he said, in his calmest, steadiest voice. And that got America’s attention. He looked away from Jilly’s bosom to England, his eyes round and surprised. The corners of his lips curled up a tiny bit.
“Really? Tell me,” America said. He picked up one of the ales Jilly had brought and took a sip. He stared at England, waiting. Jilly pouted and tripped off but left the drinks. Darling Jilly.
“I’m the father of modern football, you know,” England said, choosing the most scotch-looking of the drinks Jilly had bought and tossing back a burning gulp (he’d been right about the contents). Perhaps he’d been an ass, but he was going to be nice now, dammit. “Wrote the laws of the game.”
He continued to be nice and they spent a pleasant while, talking about association football. Sport, at least, was something America understood, despite his daft comments about how Spain had said this or Chile had said that. America laughed and looked cheered and even drank his ale, there’s a good lad, while England sampled the other bevvies to tell America what they were.
England pointed out a particularly brilliant play by the Eagles and America’s cheeks were pink and he dribbled ale down his chin as he tried to look at the screen and drink at the same time and England thought he might like to lick it off for him or hug him, but it was full-time in the game and why did England want to do those things?
He wondered who America was shagging. Had shagged. He wondered if America had shagged Japan. Japan would never tell, the close-mouthed bastard. Close-mouthed when it suited him, anyway, with his red thingums and his fucking brass gong wotcher...
And that had been an arousing thought. Well, he rationalized, it had been a few decades since he’d gotten off in the company of another person, after all. Still, England was annoyed with himself because he was comfortable and smiling and muzzy-nuzzy warm and red and white and blue and pink but he couldn’t stop thinking about who America had shagged and what he looked like when he did it, though he should never think that, and hell, Jilly was back and groping America again and America looked warm and gropable and goddamn, but England was horny. America. It must have been the drink. Everything makes you horny, the France in his head told him, but he ignored that bastard and drank some more to kill his incipient hard-on.
“You know what would be really awesome, hon? Food. Do you have fish and chips?” America was asking Jilly, and she gave him a face-full of lovely bosom and said of course, luv, and America said yes, he’d love that...
What England loved... What he loved was. Fine. He loved. Things. Cute tykes who got too fucking tall too fast. Who left, bastards. Even then and a hundred years after and during both world wars and several smaller ones and now and fuck... He was getting too close to thinking about things that shouldn’t be thought about. Damn, but Jilly had brought decent scotch.
Still, there was nothing wrong with love, right? ‘Cept it didn’t equate to being in love with someone, or being able to stand them, no matter how much one’s heart and hands wanted to touch them, no matter how much one’s gonads wanted to fuck them silly... America, dammit.
And there, fine, he was pissed, because he’d have to be pissed and... and mental and dying to admit that. Thank Christ he’d never admit it aloud, no matter how white and tighty.
“France. Not once. Never,” England said, at least he might have. He thought he might have. “Bastard.”
“Are you all right?” America said, at least he might have. He looked sad, why pink and sad?
“Fuck. You fucking bastard fuck,” England said.
***
When England started crying, America knew it was time to go home. He hadn’t even gotten to eat his dinner.
The cute bartender looked concerned but America waved her off. He finagled England into his coat and put his arm around England’s shoulder and steered him out into the drizzling rain, unable to open an umbrella to cover the pair of them because his hands were full. England was weeping and bitching into America’s coat-collar.
“Too fucking. Tall, you. Bastard,” England was mumbling in a voice filled with tears and snot.
“Why, haha. I’m barely taller than you,” America soothed. He stumbled when England tried to walk them sideways off the curb but managed to keep them both upright. He couldn’t say the drunkenness and the weeping had been entirely unexpected. England’s benders were rare but memorable. America tried to decide if drunken moaning time qualified under the eighty-percent rule. He wondered if it was always him, or if England did the in vino, veritas thing to berate whoever happened to be close by. He had a suspicion he already knew the answer to that.
“Thousan’ years. Old, thousand. Shouldn’ put up with this.”
“Hmmm,” America said and patted England’s shoulder with the hand that wasn’t strong-arming him down the street. England stumbled on the cobbles or perhaps air molecules and his face went into America’s hair.
“Smell like. Fuck! Why’s I so fucking stupid? Should never’ve trusted,” England slurred in the vicinity of America’s ear, and tried to hit America, or grab him. He ended up with one hand clutching America’s shoulder and one shoved inside his coat, punching him, or groping him, or something. “Yer selfish. There’s a world, y’know. Fucking selfish. Bastardhic.”
“Haha, not me, surely?” America mumbled lamely. He was starting to feel a little tight and floaty and unsure. He’d never had to drag England home before. They’d reached England’s doorstep and America stared at the door for a moment, collecting his thoughts. Then he yanked England’s hand out of his jacket and guided it to the doorknob. The place was unlocked, he knew that, but who knew what creepy magical curse-thingies England used to keep his house safe?
Some remnant of normal duty let England turn the doorknob. The door swung in and pulled them together inside with it. America was hit again with the scent of England: tea, dust, sachets of something, burned cookies, rain. England was still plastered to his side, and out of the rain, America could smell him, too. Booze and the same aftershave he’d used since the eighteenth century. The scent and the way England was pressed against him made the room blur and he swayed with memory. So rarely did he feel nostalgic for things not his own, but suddenly the feeling of shared history was overpowering. And England was still going on like nothing had changed.
“With France! Fucking fuck. You and him, bloody cunts-- I poured everything, everthin’. Money. M’heart. Always. ‘Merca you bastard yarrghhic.”
England trailed off on a sob and America felt the tiny, glowing knot under his diaphragm spin and grow and form pity and regret and rebellious pride and when he tried to stop it he suddenly wanted to cry, too. Perhaps he’d had too much to drink, himself, because England’s sobs were wrenching and comforting at the same time, breathed and drooled into his skin like that.
“Why don’t we get you to bed? I always have to take charge, don’t I? Heroic and sexy, that’s me,” America joked, still lamely. He nudge-shoved England toward the stairs.
England finally pulled his nose out of America’s ear, but rather than allowing himself to be led he lurched around to face America full-on. His green eyes were wet, his hair was wet, his whole face was wet from the rain, and the picture was so different from the one he’d presented only that morning, when he’d been confident, bad-ass, scary England, that it was a tough sight to bear. Yet his features were still so familiar and appealing that America looked straight back at him and grew warm all over.
“Why do ah care? T’others. You know. I can take charge. Pink and blue. Too gorgeous t’stare at,” England slurred in a low voice. His hands had a surprisingly strong grip on on America’s shoulders, so much so that America couldn’t move, he told himself. England’s glassy eyes glinted in a way that reminded America of England’s age, his unforgotten power in reserve. America’s eyes were drawn to England’s rain-wetted lips because he was so close and moving closer and it looked like England was going to kiss him, and the knot in America’s belly exploded and his whole body shuddered at once. Definitely they were crossing some line that America had never crossed and America didn’t care because he wanted-- but then England’s forehead slammed into America’s chin and rattled his jaw. “Ow. Pot-valiant. ‘S pathetic.”
“No, just regular drunk,” America said. That chin-knock had shaken him out of his weird stupor. England clutched him and bit the front of his coat and scolded him for wasting perfectly good, expensive East India tea like that and America sighed and grabbed England’s wrists and held him away a few inches. Seriously. It had been over two hundred years since that; was his every mistake or action that England didn’t like to be remembered forever? Nostalgia was for England and other ancient places.
“And the Middle East is fucked all to hell. Yer idea. So I shouldn’t,” England was saying, and America realized that England’s litany of woes had at least reached the present again.
“That’s not true and you-- Oh, just go sleep it off,” America ordered. He rattled England’s wrists. Something in his voice or movements made England look up at him again.
“Yeah. ‘Sfor the best. Wouldn’ wanna. Oh, fuck.” England struggled until America released him, then swiveled on unsteady feet and stumbled for the stairs. “Bed. Fucking America. Fuck, I’m sick.”
America followed him to make sure he didn’t break his neck on the stairs-- he still needed friends after all, ha ha. On the way England shrugged off his coat and hung it on the banister. Again America was assailed by England’s scent, and when he put his hand on England’s back to push him up the narrow stairs, he felt the warmth of his body through his scratchy sweater-vest.
It was apparently a night for damned nostalgia; America suddenly remembered being small and could see, as perfectly as if it was happening, his small hand clutching England’s scratchy woolen winter waistcoat-- no silks necessary for Virginia until it had actually become prosperous-- and begging him not to leave. Remembered the feeling and fear of sitting on the edge of vast space, alone. Remembered adoring and trusting England despite his too-visible faults.
His irritation dwindled in a wave of affection and America realized his feeling of wanting things hadn’t gone away at all, had only settled low in his belly with the ale and the scent of... everything. His fingers squeezed deep into the wool, so tightly that England teetered back and America caught himself just in time to push again, rather than pull.
They managed the last few steps. England lunged at the first door on the right and America had to release him to let him open it. He followed just to the threshold to make sure England made it to the bed, but was stopped short when he saw that England was hanging on the doorknob, looking blearily at him.
“The scotch jus’... just hits me like that, sometimes.” England swayed. “Yer just such a twat. Ye make me so bloody cross.”
And that had just beaten all of England’s past passive-aggressive apologies to bloody pulps. America didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He settled for hurt and annoyed and said the first thing that came to mind.
“You’re such an asshole, sometimes. Make up your goddamned mind.”
“Hnh.” England released the doorknob and yanked his sweater-vest over his head, then stumbled over and fell backwards and spread-eagled onto his bed. He’d stopped crying, at least. “Pissed and mental and dying. ‘M dying now. Wanna sleep here’th me?” His voice had gone low again. He patted the bed next to him.
America stared. He’d asked England to make up his mind. The ache throbbed lower than his stomach. He thought about licking the tears from England’s eyes. The rain from his hair.
England started moaning. “Dying... pissed and dying.”
America had a hard-on and England was drunk and moaning and dying.
“Nope. I’ll take another room,” he said in a thick, bright voice, and turned to make his desperate escape.
“Oh. Hokay. Don’ go in the basement. Don’ look,” England mumbled after him.
“God, no,” America said, and thumped down the stairs. Something green and worried-looking hovered at the edge of his vision. “Please, not now,” he said, and whatever-it-was disappeared.
He still had a hard-on. Must have been the liquor. Still, he’d answered no. Well, who wanted to screw a drunken asshole? Not him. Duh. He found the bathroom downstairs and brushed his teeth and tried to decide if he should jerk off. There was a knock at the door. The outside door.
On the doorstep was a teenager with a buzzcut and baggy jeans and a surly expression. He handed America a brown paper bag.
“Jilly said ta bring this to yer,” the teenager said. America took the bag, and the teenager slumped off into the rain.
The bag held fish and chips, wrapped in newspaper. America laughed, quietly, so as not to wake England. He got a plate and poured himself some cold tea and parked on the couch with his nice, greasy food and lots of napkins and malt vinegar, and turned on his shiny, new laptop.
Canada was online, of course. America got an IM from him almost as soon as he got the shit-tastic wireless connection up and running.
‘You in UK?’ Canada asked.
‘Y. How Tony?’ he typed back one-handed, and used his other hand to shove a malt-vinegar-soaked French fry into his mouth. It was still somewhat hot and completely awesome.
‘OK. How’s E?’
‘Passed out. :(’ America typed. Normally he wouldn’t give Canada that much information, but he was feeling a little put-upon.
‘Haha,’ Canada messaged. Then, ‘He yell at you, eh?’
America shoved another fry into his mouth and frowned. Nosy jerk, Canada. He especially loved to hear that England was ticked at America for something. Still, Canada sometimes had some good advice about how to deal with England.
‘Y. idk what his prob is,’ America whined electronically.
‘You’re stupid,’ Canada wrote back. Canada was always snarkier in etherland than he ever was in person.
‘ur an asshole, WTF?’ America wrote. He broke off some fish and popped it into his mouth. It was amazing stuff. It was made from fish that had surely never been frozen. Grease dripped down his chin. He wiped it off and checked to make sure that he hadn’t dribbled onto England’s couch. Yelled at, teased, yeah, okay. But he wasn’t willing to be murdered.
‘*sigh*’ Canada wrote. ‘Just do it, already.’
America stared at the screen. ‘lolwhut?’ was all he could think of to say.
‘Tony says, quote, ‘fuck,’’ Canada answered.
“Asshole!” America said aloud. He ate another fry and washed it down with cold tea that desperately needed sugar. Eventually he typed, ‘Hi back to T. Now WTF?’
‘*sigh* . . . Everyone already thinks you and E are doing it, anyway. F is jealous. Just go have sex or something.’
This was the first America had heard of ‘everyone.’ France was always a perv; that was to be expected, and he’d made his thoughts clear to America long ago. But everyone? Were they seriously that bad?
He couldn’t say, though, that things hadn’t reached a bit of a head earlier tonight. England groping him. Pot-valiant. Wanna sleep here with me? The way England had looked at him in that dress.
‘England so repressed, :(’ he typed back, eventually.
‘Whatever. >.>’ Canada told him. ‘You’re the hero, grow some, will you? Gotta go, bye.’
‘Don’t >.> me’ America typed, but it was too late; Canada had signed off.
“Asshole!” America said aloud again. He surfed the CNN site and the president’s blog and ate his wonderfully greasy food and composed a nasty e-mail to Canada in his head demanding an explanation, but never sent it because he already knew the answer. He’d known for decades and had just never really asked the right question, because he’d been afraid to.
But some time tonight he’d bypassed that fear; if only for a few moments, he’d reached a point where it had become more critical to do something than not. He was still feeling the tense, unfinished aftermath of that and knew that when he got up the next morning and England had forgotten everything and acted like absolutely nothing had changed, it would only get worse.
America could up the antes. Push the line to the limits. Grow some, as Canada had asshole-ishly suggested. After all, England had knocked down his fucking house. He’d had to explain to Homeland Security that no, terrorists had not done it. If America could take that, then England could take America making up his mind, too.
He popped off a quick IM for Canada to find next time he logged on: ‘thx.’
On to Part Two!
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Date: 2011-01-07 09:43 pm (UTC)