God Save the Queen
Title: God Save the Queen
Characters/pairings: England/America
Summary: England sees an old t-shirt and has a bit of a nostalgia trip.
England wakes up to the smell of coffee, and that pisses him off. Even now he can only associate the overly strong aroma with America, which is, of course, what he finds so irritating. He rolls onto his side to check the alarm clock: 10:30 a.m.
“Fuck,” groans England, pulling the covers back over his head.
“Again?” rings America’s voice, from a few steps away. The offending smells of vanilla and almond are seeping through England’s blanket. Reluctantly, England emerges and accepts the mug being handed to him, only because he needs the caffeine.
“Not that, you douche,” grumbles England, already pulling on his pants, whereas America is strolling about in red, white and blue striped boxers. “I have a meeting in two hours. This tastes disgusting. Where is my shirt?” He picks up a crumpled white dress shirt, but it’s at least a size too big. “Here, this must be yours.” It’s only when he turns to hand America the shirt that he sees what the other man is already wearing.
For a moment, England is too shocked to speak. Then he turns away and asks, a little sharper than he intended to, “Where did you find that?”
America glances down at the t-shirt he’s wearing. It’s one of England’s, that much is obvious from the Union Jack emblazoned across it; but in the center are the words “God Save the Queen” and “Sex Pistols”, printed daringly across the Queen’s eyes and mouth.
“I found it in your closet,” says America, shrugging. “The last time I saw you wear this was in the seventies. You mind if I have it? It’s kind of cool.”
“Suit yourself,” sniffs England, pulling on a crisp shirt and doing up his tie. “I don’t fancy dressing like a delinquent.”
“Anymore,” corrects America, a grin appearing on his face. “I remember the crazy shit you used to do. Drugs and violence, controversy, and what have you done to your poor, beloved Queen here? You think I don’t remember?” He chuckles. “It really wasn’t that long ago at all.”
England can’t deny this, any of it. “Don’t worry about it,” continues America in what he probably thinks is a reassuring voice. “Everyone goes through their rebellious phases. After all, you’re only human, England- or, nation, or whatever we are. Sometimes you expect too much of yourself.” He kisses the top of England’s head, but it’s only habit, almost an obligation.
That’s not it. “That’s not it,” mumbles England. “It’s about hating yourself. It’s about wanting to change yourself and not knowing how the hell to do it. It’s really about not knowing what the hell you want.” What he doesn’t say is that he met Sid Vicious once, and the man spat in his face. But that doesn’t stop England from having an old t-shirt stashed away in his closet.
Everything I say is bullshit, thinks England. He can’t stand it and he can’t help it. Some days he feels so oppressed, and he has no idea just who the hell is oppressing him. Some days he can still see Johnny’s scowling face, and Johnny spits at England just like Sid did, there is no future in your dreaming and England can’t get the tunes out of his head.
A small part of him secretly wishes that those kids had achieved something, had really changed him. But in the end that’s all they were, kids in leather jackets with spiked up hair, and England still sees kids dressed in the same clothes but the spirit is gone, or has relocated, and England can’t find it. Isn’t sure if he wants to. Or maybe it hasn’t changed, but England doesn’t see what he used to see in it. “It’s all a load of bollocks,” he says bitterly. In the end it’s all the same. In the end, England has always been exactly the same.
He can feel America’s hand on his shoulder, and wonders how long it’s been there. “Are you alright? You’re really weird this morning.” America frowns. “Hey, it’s never good to get all nostalgic. Thinking about the past too much is pointless.” He hesitates, fiddles with his coffee mug. “I shouldn’t have worn the shirt,” he says sheepishly.
America is young; as much as he has been through, England doesn’t expect him to understand. Not about this. “I’m fine,” he says. “I need to get going.” He leaves America sitting in bed, with tousled hair and two unfinished cups of coffee. And as he flies back across the ocean to Europe, he is still trying to convince himself that it wasn’t just rebellion. It had a cause. And that’s the bit that gets England nostalgic.
*
A/N: This was originally on the kink meme. It didn't really turn out how I wanted it to but... err, I like some parts? u___u;
Characters/pairings: England/America
Summary: England sees an old t-shirt and has a bit of a nostalgia trip.
England wakes up to the smell of coffee, and that pisses him off. Even now he can only associate the overly strong aroma with America, which is, of course, what he finds so irritating. He rolls onto his side to check the alarm clock: 10:30 a.m.
“Fuck,” groans England, pulling the covers back over his head.
“Again?” rings America’s voice, from a few steps away. The offending smells of vanilla and almond are seeping through England’s blanket. Reluctantly, England emerges and accepts the mug being handed to him, only because he needs the caffeine.
“Not that, you douche,” grumbles England, already pulling on his pants, whereas America is strolling about in red, white and blue striped boxers. “I have a meeting in two hours. This tastes disgusting. Where is my shirt?” He picks up a crumpled white dress shirt, but it’s at least a size too big. “Here, this must be yours.” It’s only when he turns to hand America the shirt that he sees what the other man is already wearing.
For a moment, England is too shocked to speak. Then he turns away and asks, a little sharper than he intended to, “Where did you find that?”
America glances down at the t-shirt he’s wearing. It’s one of England’s, that much is obvious from the Union Jack emblazoned across it; but in the center are the words “God Save the Queen” and “Sex Pistols”, printed daringly across the Queen’s eyes and mouth.
“I found it in your closet,” says America, shrugging. “The last time I saw you wear this was in the seventies. You mind if I have it? It’s kind of cool.”
“Suit yourself,” sniffs England, pulling on a crisp shirt and doing up his tie. “I don’t fancy dressing like a delinquent.”
“Anymore,” corrects America, a grin appearing on his face. “I remember the crazy shit you used to do. Drugs and violence, controversy, and what have you done to your poor, beloved Queen here? You think I don’t remember?” He chuckles. “It really wasn’t that long ago at all.”
England can’t deny this, any of it. “Don’t worry about it,” continues America in what he probably thinks is a reassuring voice. “Everyone goes through their rebellious phases. After all, you’re only human, England- or, nation, or whatever we are. Sometimes you expect too much of yourself.” He kisses the top of England’s head, but it’s only habit, almost an obligation.
That’s not it. “That’s not it,” mumbles England. “It’s about hating yourself. It’s about wanting to change yourself and not knowing how the hell to do it. It’s really about not knowing what the hell you want.” What he doesn’t say is that he met Sid Vicious once, and the man spat in his face. But that doesn’t stop England from having an old t-shirt stashed away in his closet.
Everything I say is bullshit, thinks England. He can’t stand it and he can’t help it. Some days he feels so oppressed, and he has no idea just who the hell is oppressing him. Some days he can still see Johnny’s scowling face, and Johnny spits at England just like Sid did, there is no future in your dreaming and England can’t get the tunes out of his head.
A small part of him secretly wishes that those kids had achieved something, had really changed him. But in the end that’s all they were, kids in leather jackets with spiked up hair, and England still sees kids dressed in the same clothes but the spirit is gone, or has relocated, and England can’t find it. Isn’t sure if he wants to. Or maybe it hasn’t changed, but England doesn’t see what he used to see in it. “It’s all a load of bollocks,” he says bitterly. In the end it’s all the same. In the end, England has always been exactly the same.
He can feel America’s hand on his shoulder, and wonders how long it’s been there. “Are you alright? You’re really weird this morning.” America frowns. “Hey, it’s never good to get all nostalgic. Thinking about the past too much is pointless.” He hesitates, fiddles with his coffee mug. “I shouldn’t have worn the shirt,” he says sheepishly.
America is young; as much as he has been through, England doesn’t expect him to understand. Not about this. “I’m fine,” he says. “I need to get going.” He leaves America sitting in bed, with tousled hair and two unfinished cups of coffee. And as he flies back across the ocean to Europe, he is still trying to convince himself that it wasn’t just rebellion. It had a cause. And that’s the bit that gets England nostalgic.
*
A/N: This was originally on the kink meme. It didn't really turn out how I wanted it to but... err, I like some parts? u___u;