stop talkin' bout your boyfriend since he is not me, you drunk 'n' hot girl;;
Title: L'incendie à Londres
Doctor: inuyashacooks
Characters: France, England, Germany; mentions of America, Sealand, Japan; slight France/England
Rating: PG-16
Warnings: language, drunkenness, fucking epic storytelling that deserves a Nobel fizzacking Prize
Summary: France and England ditch a world meeting to get drunk and do epic stuff. Written by request for tupelo_thief, who makes me write the stupidest stuff XD Original prompt was "because of hetalia epiosde 41- France and England, drunkenness and city buses."
KABLAM
☆L'INCENDIE à LONDRES
What were these fucking meetings for, anyway? Why did England even agree to host them? All they did was put him in a mood, get anger coursing through his blood- some kind of bad music, energy like a curse. Fucking stupid Germany- that was probably the reason...
It had been...as bad as it usually was. France was alternately insulting and hitting on him the entire time, Germany was his usual Super S&M King self. America had been particularly annoying. Aside from his usual cheer and obnoxious ideas, he had done something irritating with his vocabulary. He’d kept saying the adjective “hella” (as in “that was hella stupid,” or “that was hella cool”) because he had previously been banned from using the adjective “mad” (as in, “that was mad fucking wicked awesome boss and cool”). England had tried to berate him, but had only gotten a condescending hamburger eagle laugh in return.
Then there had been an argument about bananas, and it had erupted into violence before Germany told everyone to shut up (probably because Italy had started crying- playing favorites yet again). Then an intermission had been called and England, not wanting to deal with seeing any of the nations for the blissful half an hour he was allotted, went down to the hotel bar, hopefully to get a buzz going that would help him deal with the rest of this bullshit meeting.
He was in the middle of a second whiskey when somebody slid into the seat next to him; he suddenly felt a bad aura, a presentiment of danger- he turned to his right to see none other than fucking France, the last person he wanted to see when he was in a bad mood.
“Oh, fucking Hell,” England said, moving to call for his bill.
France put a hand on England’s shoulder, as if to quiet him. “A moment, England- are you really that irritated by my mere presence?”
“Should I even answer that?” England asked.
France shrugged. “Well, fair enough- I was going to offer to buy you another drink, but if I’m that much of a bother I suppose I could just go off and offer my money to somebody more worthy.”
And although England would have liked to think he had more dignity than to accept money from this French idiot just to spend on vice, he really didn’t, and so he grudgingly acquiesced to France’s company.
France’s plan, originally, was to pour England so full of whiskey that he would make himself a perfect idiot back in the meeting room. And he stuck with it for all of two drinks; but England was, when he was buzzed, rather entertaining, so he began to think- why not drink as well? There was no harm in that. So, on that note, he ordered himself a glass of wine to go with England’s next drink.
-And things escalated from there. They started, at first, to reminisce laughingly about the 100 Years War, earning reproachful looks from other patrons (as if that was something to reminisce over!)- lots of “Remember when I pulled a whole patch of your beard out? Haha!” “Ah oui, and in retaliation I shaved one of your mammoth eyebrows off! They were huge even then!” “Right! And then I pushed you into a moat! Such fun!” “Huzzah!”- and then they started making jokes about the patrons, at which point some people got up.
Then England started to be his usual drunken self- talking endlessly, slurring, about the broken heart he’d been nursing for 200 years, and didn’t that idiot know, and fucking Sealand always giving him problems- knighthood, now! And goddammit he could never tell what Japan was thinking! And these meetings sucked!
“Well, I won’t argue on that point,” France slurred, smiling and dragging his hand across the surface of the bar, “Hardly meetings- they’re more- boxing matches! Or community wrestling!”
“Right! Goddammit, I can’t go back in there,” England said, wiping his face of fresh tears.
France paused; he took another sip of his wine, and smiled. “Well, it’s not as though- they’re terribly important. Or that we need to be there.” He paused, then wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Catch my drift?”
“Not exactly, but if you’re asking to fuck me you can toss off.”
“Ah, well, that’s not something I’d want- diseases, you know, and not- not on my part. Non,” France said, shaking his head and setting his glass down. “I dread the Englishman. Although, I’m sure you’d be a pleasure,- submissive- it’s an English thing. Pas du tout- I would actually love to-”
“Oi, you’re not making any fucking sense.”
“Ah, excuse me. What I was saying was- why not stay here?” France said, running his hand through his hair. “It’s too nice a day to waste away in a stuffy meeting room.”
England paused, seeming to consider it heavily. But then, he made a forward movement, as though to punctuate a point he’d not yet made. “ALTHOUGH-”
“Shh, lower your voice.”
“Right- although, I was just thinking- fuck this altogether!” England continued, waving his arms wildly, gesturing to the room. “Let’s fucking- let’s fucking blow this joint!”
“A splendid idea! But first, let’s get drunker!”
“Indeed!”
They tumbled, laughing, onto the bus, and everyone already sitting or standing was immediately befallen with cold dread. England’s tie was askew, and he was loudly singing “Ave Maria” in butchered German to the unwilling crowd; France, behind him, was doing something that seemed like a cross between dancing and showy advertising. The bus driver gaped at them, but could only manage, in a heavy Cockney accent:
“Sorry, got ta pay t’ git on my bus!”
“AH- RIGHT- I SHOULD KNOW,” England chuckled condescendingly, and whipped out his Oyster card.
“What is this?” France slurred heavily, snatching the card from England with a quick hand. England jumped up in a futile attempt to get it back, but France maneuvered swiftly out of his way.
“Give me my fucking Oyster card! They’ll kick us off the bus!”
“Oyster card?” France questioned, eyes nearly popping out of his head. He turned to England with a showy, glittery laugh. “I alway- always knew you preferred les hommes, Angleterre cher, but you didn’t have to come out to me this way-”
“What the fucking Hell! There is nothing gay about Oyster cards! Don’t you dare- insult- my- hic,” England finished, bursting into a fountain of tears.
“Oh, now he’s crying,” France said, laughing and turning toward his fellow passengers, as if it was all an inside joke even though they were all strangers. “You pathetic little raincloud- I am the King of Europe!”
“Shut the fuck up! I like being alone!” England said, jumping up to get back his Oyster card. He had sense enough to slip it twice into the slot; then, jolted by the momentum of movement underneath their feet, the two of them stumbled over to the seats.
“So there I was,” England started, pushing France into a seat, “It was- hot- Egypt’s place, don’t you know- and there Napoleon was, and then I got the letter and- haha- I kicked your ass!”
“No, no, get back to the part where you published the letter!”
“OH RIGHT,” England said, “That was- hahahahahahah- oh God, I feel like I’m covered in bees!”
“Certainment! We are covered in bees!”
“BEE’S KNEES!”
“Oi!” cried a young man sitting nearby, breaking through their "conversation". “I don’t suppose you’d mind belting the fuck up!”
England snapped his eyes over to the man, an indignation like electricity crossing into them. “And who are you?!” he cried; he went white in the eyes, beat his chest with an open palm. “I am the British fucking Empire, I can party!”
“I- I believe we have a mis-un-der-standing,” France said, index finger raised, and then he laughed.
“I don’t like you, for some reason,” the young man answered, narrowing his eyes at France.
“Of course you don’t! Look at him!” England cried wildly, with a violent conviction that seemed almost religious- he waved his hands over France. “Couldn’t be anymore- fucking French! All he needs is a black-and-white striped bathing suit and an easel and a fucking bicycle and a baguette! Then the goddamn picture’d be complete! It’d be a masterpiece- hang it in the fucking Louvre- Tour de France my ass- avast!” England interrupted himself, lunging toward France, not entirely threateningly.
“Ah, don’t talk to him!” France advised England, “After all, he’s English!”
“-Eh!? What the Hell’s that mean!?” England asked, poking France in the chest.
And no sooner had France gotten up than a full-blow fist-fight had started. France landed a punch in the chest, but England went straight for the hair- reeling- both tipped over on a drunken balance- stumbling into some old woman’s shopping bags-
And neither knew what exactly had happened, except that they knew it had something to do with a rush of violence, a crowd of passengers, Cockney accents yelling curses...and that it ended with both of them stumbling onto the sidewalk outside, almost falling, heads spinning.
France made a vulgar gesture to the driver once on the sidewalk, but the driver did nothing but stick his tongue out at France. On that note, France turned around to England, wondering what was next.
“Well,” he slurred, “is it far- are we far from wherever you’d intended to go?”
England looked at him as though he was the stupidest person on the face of the earth. “Excuse me? I wasn’t intending on going anywhere, you stupid git.”
France stared at him blankly for a moment; England responded by forming his right hand into a gun and shooting at the retreating bus, and a lightbulb flashed in the dim attic of France’s drunken mind.
“Mon ange,” he said, with a carefree laugh, “You’ve given me an idea.”
So here they were, suddenly in black suits and black sunglasses. To tell the truth neither of them really knew where they’d gotten them, but all that mattered was that this was the way they were currently dressed and it was mucho fab and chic and cool and all that jazz.
-Jazz, that was what they were heading toward now. They stumbled down the darkened streets, arm-in-arm, laughing...but laughing in that way that’s suddenly self-conscious. Both of them were aware that the mad mental rush, the buzz, was wearing off, and needless to say they were not too keen on that happening. So they were heading to some club that England said was “filled with a bunch of pretentious shitheads,” and France fast agreed, because that was exactly what one needed when one was drunk.
They neared the place (all lights and stale horns, blasting drums) and were about to make their way inside, but England suddenly kneeled down- overcome with a moon sickness crowding his throat, trickling salt at the back of his tongue. “Oh God,” he groaned, “I think I’m going to throw up.”
“Quoi!? You musn’t! You must be strong! British Empire! British Empire! The French are coming!” France cheered, holding England up.
England paused; teetered a bit; then held up his index finger. “Right, then. I’m okay. Let’s be off!”
They hurried inside, as France chimed “Thug life!” for no reason.
“Hey, wait!” the doorman said, beginning after them.
“Shh,” France hissed, bringing a finger to his lips, “We’re the police.”
“Quite,” England added (as in, “quite the police,” or...?). The doorman looked after them, seeming confused, but didn’t press the matter further.
The main room was bustling, but not in any way that was alive. The band wasn’t that great, was playing standards, and every note seemed recycled or rephrased. Second-hand stuff, but everybody seemed to be laughing, enjoying it...
And this was where France and England came in. They slipped in between the people, wearing serious, stern expressions, adjusting their sunglasses just so. Then, in time with the muic, they started to bop their heads. And snap their fingers. All cool and beat and oddly really loud.
Some people next to them looked their way, baffled- but nobody bothered to say anything for the first five or so minutes, considering that, you know, maybe they were just doing that or maybe that was normal or...but they kept on snapping and bopping. A man in a brown cordury suit jacket turned to them furiously.
“Excuse me,” he grunted, “But is there a reason you’re doing that?”
They turned to the man, and said simultaneously- not breaking the rhythm- “Jazzzzzzz.” Although it sounded sort of funny on France’s part given the French accent and all.
The man paused. “Yes? What about it?”
“The heart,” England said, not even laughing.
“Oh God- what are you two morons, drunk?” the man asked in dread, righteously indignant at the fact that two retards were ruining his only night off to enjoy sweet, sweet jazz. He lifted his head, scanning around the room, and it registered with France that he was looking for security.
France put a hand on his shoulder and fixed him with a reproachful look. “I think you’d better not do that, mon ami,” he warned.
“Oh?” the man asked.
“Oui.” He paused, leaned in- in a way that would usually be considered predatory given that it was France, but it was actually rather platonic, if only because the man resembled a business-walrus. “We are the police.”
The man’s face reddened, his expression twisted. “Excuse me! What sort of tripe is that!” he exclaimed. “Show me your badges, then!”
“Here- you poor sod!” England said with a condescending smirk, whipping out his Oyster card and shoving it in the man’s face.
The man stared.
“It’s a collective badge,” France explained, and then fell into careless laughter.
“Jealous?” England asked with a British smirk.
The man proceeded to loudly call for security, startling his fellow audience members.
-But before the burly man standing by the stage could reach them, they dissolved into fluttering laughter and began to go on their merry way. “Well! Our work here is done, oui?” France asked.
“Indeed it is!” England answered gallantly.
And so they left, but not without picking up some cocktails that were lying on empty tables and downing them uninhibitedly.
They pretty much ran out, with England cursing France under his breath the whole way. “Great going, you stupid French bastard!” he snapped, sharp, kicking France in the shin.
“What!? You had a hand in it, too!” France answered, tugging on England’s hair.
“Yes, but- you know!” England answered.
“Know what?”
“You’re- a fucking moron!” England answered, and collapsed backwards- but luckily France caught him in time.
“England- I’m very sorry to say, but this is not an appropriate time to hit on me,” France slurred, managing to sound grave, as he lifted England up.
“I’m not fucking hitting on you!” England cried, punching France in the shoulder.
“You’ve always been the king of Denial! But- tu sait- eh- who wouldn’t want to embrace the très bien moi!?” France answered, with a laugh that was full of roses and other French finery.
“Oh be quiet.”
Silence enveloped- the sun was past down and there was no sound that was immediate, no sound too close, but France singing a couple of lines of “Qu’est-ce qu’on attend pour être heureux;” England looked up to France with a scowl, a little lightning in his eyes.
“Don’t sing in that fucking language...eh...I’m- proving-...What now?” England asked.
“Oh, anything should do,” France said, with a shaded smile.
England paused, looking at France thoughtfully. “Shit,” he spat, “I think I’ve lost my Oyster card. When did that happen?”
It was odd- the way the alcohol rushed so fast to their heads- the way vision and judgment was clouded so quick...the way there was nothing closer than this new idea, new need. They decided to go back to the hotel, and were impatient in the taxi the whole way back.
And true, they may run into their fellow nations, but it was a concern far from their minds. Because the meeting was over, the hour was late, and nobody’d be there to see them as they were now- drunk, under the spell of frenzied feeling, the line between enemies blurred and deconstructed, to make them something much closer- but how close was it? Going up the elevator, England flustered, France taking off his tie hurriedly...
The plush sound of the elevator doors sliding open. An empty hall.
And then a vaguely British voice humming the theme of Mission Impossible.
“DUN-A-NAA-DUN-A-NAAA-DUN-A-NAAAAA-DUN-NA!”
A blur of black and crisp white as England tucked and rolled into the hall, and then faced the emptiness with a completely srs-faec expression and his hands clasped together like a gun. There was a tinny gold elevator ding and a loud crashing sound as France followed behind him.
“Je suis très desolee Monsieur-le-potted-plant!” France said grandly, brushing some soil and a bit of green off his suit.
“Shut up! They might hear us!”
“Oh, of course-” then he clasped his hands into a gun, similar to England, and sidled up along the wall, very shady, very shifty- “How is it looking?”
“We’re clear, I believe- BLAST, AN ALIEN!”
And they proceeded to make loud shooting noises.
“Eh, look, you got shot,” France slurred, kicking England in the shoulder.
“Fucking frog! I’m the Invincible British Empire, that doesn’t happen to me.”
“Oh, invincible? Yes, particularly against small amateur militias, hm?”
“You fucking- I’m going to go to headquarters and have your ass fired!”
“Well they like me better so-”
But France’s childishness was interrupted by the sound of a door squeaking on its hinges- and then the thud and slam. They looked at each other, expressions suddenly swept down in complete seriousness, and readied for the bomb, or the double agent, or whatever obstacle they thought they’d be facing in the next five minutes.
A couple of moments passed, and then Germany appeared at the other end of the hall, with a neatly collected stack of papers in hand and a wearied expression on his face. France and England didn’t even need to say anything- immediately they popped out from their semi-hiding places and confronted him, makeshift guns held threateningly in his direction.
Germany jumped a bit, appearing startled at the way they jumped out at him. Then he paused. They stared at him, “guns” held out.
A million and a half questions rang through his mind- questions as to their attire, the grave expressions on their faces, why they were wearing sunglasses at night and indoors, why they were holding out makeshift guns in his direction, whether this didn’t have something to do with WWII (because with these two, it always did)- but the only word he could come up with (with flatlined, deadpan expression) was:
“-What?”
And then they started to make gun noises and laugh wildly and wave their hands at him.
At first he was shocked, and then he was disappointed, and then a confusion as violent as anger overtook him, and he shouted- “What the Hell are you two doing!?” He was panicking, actually- England was not usually like this and he thought he finally had France on his side, goddammit- but apparently they thought otherwise-
“The name’s Bond; James Bond,” England said with a superior tone of voice.
“Agent Potato is not going down!”
Germany, through his myriad thoughts, managed to backtrack mentally, to think of things logically: France was normally this weird, and England...well, England was sometimes like this and it was usually only when he was drunk-
Wait.
It was usually only when he was drunk.
Germany grit his teeth and tried hard- very hard- to control his temper. “Are you two drunk!?” he asked, stepping forward.
“Potato advancement!” France cried shrilly in surprise.
“We’re not drunk! You’re drunk!” England contested, stepping forward similarly, poking his makeshift gun at Germany’s forehead.
“Are you high!?”
“Man we’re high on LIFE!” England snapped, and struck a pose with France, both of them back-to-back, arms folded.
“You’re drunk, aren’t you! This is why you skipped out on the meeting!” Germany yelled, rolling his eyes- letting off a noise that was between a sigh and a tired grunt; he turned his attention back to them. “Explain yourselves!” he commanded.
“Monsieur Sauerkraut, there is nothing to explain!” France said, with a showy laugh, “We are arresting you!”
“No, we’re supposed to kill him!”
“You are insane! You brute, how can this world exist if you don’t have- civil order- trials- not everyone’s a sexual deviant- I am not a NUMBER, I am a MAN!”
“What the Hell are you on about!?”
“You!”
“No you!”
“Both of you shut up!” Germany bit out, shoving both of them back. “And don’t tell me you’re not drunk! Otherwise you wouldn’t be- talking nonsense- acting like spies- wearing sunglasses at night!”
“I wear my sunnn-glasses at night, so I can, so I can-” England started to sing, and France hummed along because he didn’t know the words.
And that was the last straw- Germany wrested for control, managed to grasp both of them by the collars of their shirts, and hoist them over toward the elevator-
“Don’t switch the blade on the guy in the shades, oh no!” England sang, trying to kick his way out of Germany’s hold, “Don’t masquerade with the guy in the shades, oh no!”
“Arrêteeee, arrête!” France pleaded, voice thinning because Germany was unintentionally choking him.
“Shut up,” Germany bit out, and pressed the down button on the elevator.
There was a moment of silence; only the ping of the elevator, ascending the floors, and the slight silent sterile hum of a hall in a London hotel. France and England pretty much stopped resisting and started pouting.
France crossed his arms. “As I would expect from a German,” he said, giving Germany a dirty look. Germany rolled his eyes and ignored France. Another pause.
“You bastard kraut,” England sniffed.
“...Are you crying?” France asked.
“Not really,” England answered, pushing up his sunglasses (at night).
Another ding; the elevator doors opened, slick and easy, like caramel or glass. Nobody was inside, thank God. Germany threw the both of them in the elevator and ducked halfway inside, pressing the ground-floor button and the close-doors button- they shouted a wild protest but he managed to slip back from between the doors just in time. The sound of their fists pounding against the door was the only shell their presence left, and Germany turned on his heel, trying not to think about whether he’d just done a completely irresponsible thing by throwing them back into free society.
Meanwhile, inside the elevator, England and France were between continuing their masquerade and realizing the gray shift of reality. “A German trapped us in this elevator! We require aid!” France said to the ceiling.
“Oh, belt up,” England said, standing up, “We can get out of here ourselves. We’re not stupid. Well, perhaps you are. But I’m not. No, I’m extremely intelligent, and- aside from that-”
“Ah well, at least I’m not ugly.”
“I AM NOT UGLY! For the last fucking time. I’ll have you know, I have beautiful hands and feet. Yes,” England continued, that whitish look taking over his eyes behind the shades, as he held his hands out before him, “I should be a fucking hand and foot model.”
“Well. Be that as it may.”
A pause. “Were you going to continue that sentence?”
“Not particularly. Merde, I’ve got a headache,” France hummed, almost to himself.
They lapsed into quiet; only the vague sounds of elevator music- or was it elevator music? They were both at the point between imagination and perception, when you’re not really sure what you’re seeing, feeling, is real. A self-conscious sort of down-hill feeling.
“The Queen says no to pot-smoking FBI members,” England pointed out, not realizing that France probably didn’t know the song he was quoting.
-Then, quite suddenly, the elevator doors hissed open- and in stepped an older woman in formal attire and red heels. Some sort of maman. Neither of them seemed to actually see her- they just saw the opened doors, and ran out like madmen, with a white-eyed England yelling “FREEDOM AT LAST!” The woman peered around the elevator curiously, but it closed before she could make a second guess.
-And then they ran down the hall; almost crashed into some late-night hall haunter- reached the door to the stairs, and busted right through. They started to go down the stairs- England singing “For You Blue,” in breathless intervals, France a little ahead, tossing his tie down to the flights below.
“Oh, let’s not run,” England whined, “I feel like I’ve been beaten with a meat tenderizer.”
France paused; turned around on the flight ahead. “Well, you don’t have to run,” he said, “As long as you don’t mind being losing a race to a Frenchman.”
So England gritted his teeth and collected his willpower and ran down the stairs behind France.
“Shiiiiiit,” he groaned- feeling like he’d been beaten from metal wall to metal wall- feeling the weight of blood press hollow down to his feet every time he took a step. “This is so fucking stupid.”
France shrugged, picking up his tie which he had just found lying across some steps. “You’d think you’d be used to it, Eyebrows,” he said, looping it over his neck, “After all, you’re constantly drowning your sorrows in liquor, aren’t you?”
“Oh, shut up,” England answered, “I’m too tired to argue with your brie-eating Revolution-botching ass.”
“Fair enough,” France shrugged, opening the door for England- England stumbled out with a curt “thank you,” and France grabbed his ass, because England wouldn’t notice in the state he was in and England really did have a nice ass.
Ho-ho. Indeed. Anyway, they came out into the lobby, not noticing the kinds of looks they were getting from the hotel employees, the clientele. England saluted some old people and stumbled through the revolving doors; France followed but had to go around twice to orient himself.
-The night cold rushed onto their skin- the blithe lights, ice-colored- and the small clusters of people going to and fro, even at this hour. Dark vultures, nocturnal pariahs, the most sympathetic crowd you could run into. They walked along for a couple of blocks until they found a bench to sit on.
“You goddamn frog,” England sighed pleasantly, sinking down into his place.
“Aha, I have no energy to retort,” France mused, looking up to the telephone wires, the tops of buildings, the grime and beyond that, a handful of stars.
There was a pause. A car or two sped by; France watched girls in heels walk past them and smiled to himself. “Lately I’ve been thinking about the economy,” England said...voice grayed, slightly worried, and he leaned forward, halfway off the bench.
France shrugged, taking England by the shoulder and putting him back in place. “Ah, well, you’ll fall from star to star,” he shrugged, “It happens.”
“Very true,” England nodded, holding up his index finger in a certain scholastic manner that was particular to him. He paused, and then his head dropped on France’s shoulder. “Well, g’night.”
“Oui,” France yawned, and closed his eyes to the rush of sound and color.
-And they were a bit confused when they woke up (on a bench, feeling half-dead, under a burn of sun and concrete and getting the oddest looks), but after considerable reminiscing, they were right back on track. England sprung up from his place but immediately regretted it, as the rush of movement- of blood- tightened the pressure in the black back of his brain. He winced, but managed; brushed his clothes off, wondering when he got this stylish black suit. “Ugh,” he spat, “I can’t believe I was next to a disgusting Frenchman the entire night...”
“Well, don’t think I’m particularly thrilled,” France said, voice notably groggy. He dragged himself up from the bench, like a drugged caterpillar- France had never been a morning person. He tossed some hair from his face, managing to make it look easy even though he felt like it would be better to die right now. “I feel almost soiled- I could have spent the night with someone much more appetizing, but instead I was with a pitiful raincloud. Qu’elle horreur!”
England was about to say something; but then he paused, paled. “Oh God,” he cried, “You didn’t do anything to me, did you!?”
“Mais non,” France scoffed, fixing his shirt.
“You better not have! I’ll have you fucking arrested!”
“Oh, give it a rest,” France answered sharply, shrugging into his suit jacket. He ran his hand through his hair again...looked toward the street. Then he and England exchanged a silent glance; a long pause...
Then France shouted, “Andouillette!,” stepped forward and judo-chopped England in the stomach, but England blocked and parried.
They decided that the morning would be a devastating Hell if there was no breakfast. England resisted the crazy urge to yell “Where’s breakfast!?” at every passer-by, because, as he reminded himself (straightening his tie), craziness and bad citizenship was reserved for a drunken hour. Yes, now he was a law-abiding, well-to-do member of society, and had to behave as one. He took off his sunglasses and slipped them into his breast pocket, noting with a sardonic scoff that France kept his on- because he was fucking French like that...
France offered to make breakfast provided that England would let him into his apartment; England consented, but when France mentioned making crepes, England said he didn’t have any of that “frilly French affair” (read: ingredients) lying around his house. France retorted that, yes, he only had frilly English affair, and began to rattle off about embroidered tea cozies, etc., of times past. England laughed nervously and waved it off, said that they’d just go to a grocery store to buy whatever France needed.
England led the way; there was a corner grocer’s not too far away, small place, not too shabby, with a drugstore right across from it. France noted that they should have the proper materials for surviving a hungover morning, so it was decided that England would go to the drugstore to buy said materials and France would go to the grocer’s to buy whatever he needed.
They separated at the crosswalk. England ducked past some people- between a slim margin- and wondered whether he wasn’t getting strange looks. He paused, almost embarrassed- he must’ve look a right mess...but then again, what the Hell did he care how he looked? He rolled his eyes, pushing away the urge to slip his sunglasses back on.
The place was crowded- sort of sterile- a mass and clutter of advertisements products. The push to buy buy buy, but it fell short against such a quiet morning. A pop station was echoing off the plastic surfaces...He ambled along a white-painted metal rack, wondering to himself what to buy.
So yes, materials; aspirin (there was no way to hold his head that didn’t hurt; his neck was aching; he felt like his balance was completely off), cigarettes, gum, oh fuck it, a case of beer...and magazines, of course.
He watched a businesswoman with pretty blonde hair pluck a tabloid magazine off the shelf. He, of course, immediately went for Time Europe- even with a poison headache and the fierce taste of mint ringing in his brain, he refused to dumb himself down by reading trite nonsense. He was about to walk away, but then he remembered- what about France?
He continued looking over the selection with a measured expression. What would France want to read?...Could France even read? Well,...he paused. It was strange- he’d known France for quite a long time, and France unfortunately was probably the person who knew him the best- but he didn’t really actually know anything about France’s tastes. That was...a little unsettling. A bit sad, actually. He folded his arms, thinking on that.
But then he remembered, what the fuck did he care what France liked? On that note he picked up a copy of GQ because it was the next logical step down from Playboy, and went over to the register to pay, berating himself for ever having shown an inch of concern for that black-and-white-striped-mime-loving-cheese-eating-poetry-reading-accordion-playing-beret-wearing-baguette-baking-Eiffel-towering-French-wine-bastard. They’d known each other for too fucking long and too fucking well to have to deal with being nice.
He finished paying; stuck some bills back in his wallet, in his back pocket, and stepped over to the door. There were people like cardboard cutouts, people like zombies, just waking up to the call of the honey sun; the buzz of an electric sensor; they were playing Les playboys over the speakers and the song hit like all the wind, all the sun just beyond the glass door.
And the sun was brightening, beating down on his head- darkening his headache- he looked across the street as he lit a cigarette. No sign of the French bastard...Les playboys still rang through his mind...
Then the door swung open, and there was France, looking cheeky, looking like he’d gotten over his hangover already. He’d tied his hair back, was swinging the plastic bag back and forth. He crossed from the shadow of the awning into the concrete bright. He looked around; England was about to signal to him or call him over, already impatient, but France saw him before he could do so.
England nodded, started across the sidewalk, taking a drag. France flashed him a bright smile instead of waving and walked forward to meet him in the middle.
NOTES;;
1. Anyone catch the myriad references? Eddie Izzard, Pineapple Express, etc.? You're epic if you did :D
2. The Napoleon debacle on the bus was...Napoleon had learned that his wife Josephine was having an affair, and he was awright with that, I guess, because he cheated on her quite a bit as well. Anyway, while in Egypt, he wrote his brother Joseph a letter about it, detailing it and everything, but the letter was intercepted by the English. The English then published it in one of their newspapers, because they're hilarious and petty and English like that.
3. Sunglasses at Night by Corey Hart, which I highly recommend everyone in the world watch for the SHEER AMOUNT OF EPIC LOLZ
Les playboys by Jacques Dutronc who is so cute jkfhauefhlaashahjajdh
For You Blue by the Beatles, and why yes I do like George the best, thxmuch. Some YouTube users seem to agree with me too.
Qu'est-ce qu'on attend pour etre heureux by Sacha Distel- that's the version I have anyway- but the song goes back, to my recollection, as far as 1937 with Ray Ventura's version- but the Sacha Distel version is...really fuckin' French XD and way awesome.
5. Oyster cards, servicing the greater London area, and England's Big Ben as well! Ho-ho, I'll bet you didn't see a pun coming. Right. Well anyway, I don't know how to explain this so I'll use Wikipedia's terminology and call it "a form of electronic ticketing" used on public transportation. Uhm. I live in NY and we have the MetroCard, I guess it's kind of like that. Anyway, have no idea whether or not Londoners use "Oyster" for short, or any other sort of realistic derivative that I could have used in England's speech. In NY we just call a MetroCard a MetroCard, but English people always seem to come up with cute names for things, so I don't know. /tangent
Anyway first thought that ran through my head upon learning about Oyster cards was "u would;" it's like how England had that one fighter plane during WWII called the "Fairey Swordfish." Yes. Yes England, Fairey Swordfish indeed.
so that was the most epic thing I've written in quite a while XD please feel free to correct my grammar or spelling as you see fit.
and thanks for reading! :D
Doctor: inuyashacooks
Characters: France, England, Germany; mentions of America, Sealand, Japan; slight France/England
Rating: PG-16
Warnings: language, drunkenness, fucking epic storytelling that deserves a Nobel fizzacking Prize
Summary: France and England ditch a world meeting to get drunk and do epic stuff. Written by request for tupelo_thief, who makes me write the stupidest stuff XD Original prompt was "because of hetalia epiosde 41- France and England, drunkenness and city buses."
KABLAM
☆L'INCENDIE à LONDRES
What were these fucking meetings for, anyway? Why did England even agree to host them? All they did was put him in a mood, get anger coursing through his blood- some kind of bad music, energy like a curse. Fucking stupid Germany- that was probably the reason...
It had been...as bad as it usually was. France was alternately insulting and hitting on him the entire time, Germany was his usual Super S&M King self. America had been particularly annoying. Aside from his usual cheer and obnoxious ideas, he had done something irritating with his vocabulary. He’d kept saying the adjective “hella” (as in “that was hella stupid,” or “that was hella cool”) because he had previously been banned from using the adjective “mad” (as in, “that was mad fucking wicked awesome boss and cool”). England had tried to berate him, but had only gotten a condescending hamburger eagle laugh in return.
Then there had been an argument about bananas, and it had erupted into violence before Germany told everyone to shut up (probably because Italy had started crying- playing favorites yet again). Then an intermission had been called and England, not wanting to deal with seeing any of the nations for the blissful half an hour he was allotted, went down to the hotel bar, hopefully to get a buzz going that would help him deal with the rest of this bullshit meeting.
He was in the middle of a second whiskey when somebody slid into the seat next to him; he suddenly felt a bad aura, a presentiment of danger- he turned to his right to see none other than fucking France, the last person he wanted to see when he was in a bad mood.
“Oh, fucking Hell,” England said, moving to call for his bill.
France put a hand on England’s shoulder, as if to quiet him. “A moment, England- are you really that irritated by my mere presence?”
“Should I even answer that?” England asked.
France shrugged. “Well, fair enough- I was going to offer to buy you another drink, but if I’m that much of a bother I suppose I could just go off and offer my money to somebody more worthy.”
And although England would have liked to think he had more dignity than to accept money from this French idiot just to spend on vice, he really didn’t, and so he grudgingly acquiesced to France’s company.
France’s plan, originally, was to pour England so full of whiskey that he would make himself a perfect idiot back in the meeting room. And he stuck with it for all of two drinks; but England was, when he was buzzed, rather entertaining, so he began to think- why not drink as well? There was no harm in that. So, on that note, he ordered himself a glass of wine to go with England’s next drink.
-And things escalated from there. They started, at first, to reminisce laughingly about the 100 Years War, earning reproachful looks from other patrons (as if that was something to reminisce over!)- lots of “Remember when I pulled a whole patch of your beard out? Haha!” “Ah oui, and in retaliation I shaved one of your mammoth eyebrows off! They were huge even then!” “Right! And then I pushed you into a moat! Such fun!” “Huzzah!”- and then they started making jokes about the patrons, at which point some people got up.
Then England started to be his usual drunken self- talking endlessly, slurring, about the broken heart he’d been nursing for 200 years, and didn’t that idiot know, and fucking Sealand always giving him problems- knighthood, now! And goddammit he could never tell what Japan was thinking! And these meetings sucked!
“Well, I won’t argue on that point,” France slurred, smiling and dragging his hand across the surface of the bar, “Hardly meetings- they’re more- boxing matches! Or community wrestling!”
“Right! Goddammit, I can’t go back in there,” England said, wiping his face of fresh tears.
France paused; he took another sip of his wine, and smiled. “Well, it’s not as though- they’re terribly important. Or that we need to be there.” He paused, then wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. “Catch my drift?”
“Not exactly, but if you’re asking to fuck me you can toss off.”
“Ah, well, that’s not something I’d want- diseases, you know, and not- not on my part. Non,” France said, shaking his head and setting his glass down. “I dread the Englishman. Although, I’m sure you’d be a pleasure,- submissive- it’s an English thing. Pas du tout- I would actually love to-”
“Oi, you’re not making any fucking sense.”
“Ah, excuse me. What I was saying was- why not stay here?” France said, running his hand through his hair. “It’s too nice a day to waste away in a stuffy meeting room.”
England paused, seeming to consider it heavily. But then, he made a forward movement, as though to punctuate a point he’d not yet made. “ALTHOUGH-”
“Shh, lower your voice.”
“Right- although, I was just thinking- fuck this altogether!” England continued, waving his arms wildly, gesturing to the room. “Let’s fucking- let’s fucking blow this joint!”
“A splendid idea! But first, let’s get drunker!”
“Indeed!”
They tumbled, laughing, onto the bus, and everyone already sitting or standing was immediately befallen with cold dread. England’s tie was askew, and he was loudly singing “Ave Maria” in butchered German to the unwilling crowd; France, behind him, was doing something that seemed like a cross between dancing and showy advertising. The bus driver gaped at them, but could only manage, in a heavy Cockney accent:
“Sorry, got ta pay t’ git on my bus!”
“AH- RIGHT- I SHOULD KNOW,” England chuckled condescendingly, and whipped out his Oyster card.
“What is this?” France slurred heavily, snatching the card from England with a quick hand. England jumped up in a futile attempt to get it back, but France maneuvered swiftly out of his way.
“Give me my fucking Oyster card! They’ll kick us off the bus!”
“Oyster card?” France questioned, eyes nearly popping out of his head. He turned to England with a showy, glittery laugh. “I alway- always knew you preferred les hommes, Angleterre cher, but you didn’t have to come out to me this way-”
“What the fucking Hell! There is nothing gay about Oyster cards! Don’t you dare- insult- my- hic,” England finished, bursting into a fountain of tears.
“Oh, now he’s crying,” France said, laughing and turning toward his fellow passengers, as if it was all an inside joke even though they were all strangers. “You pathetic little raincloud- I am the King of Europe!”
“Shut the fuck up! I like being alone!” England said, jumping up to get back his Oyster card. He had sense enough to slip it twice into the slot; then, jolted by the momentum of movement underneath their feet, the two of them stumbled over to the seats.
“So there I was,” England started, pushing France into a seat, “It was- hot- Egypt’s place, don’t you know- and there Napoleon was, and then I got the letter and- haha- I kicked your ass!”
“No, no, get back to the part where you published the letter!”
“OH RIGHT,” England said, “That was- hahahahahahah- oh God, I feel like I’m covered in bees!”
“Certainment! We are covered in bees!”
“BEE’S KNEES!”
“Oi!” cried a young man sitting nearby, breaking through their "conversation". “I don’t suppose you’d mind belting the fuck up!”
England snapped his eyes over to the man, an indignation like electricity crossing into them. “And who are you?!” he cried; he went white in the eyes, beat his chest with an open palm. “I am the British fucking Empire, I can party!”
“I- I believe we have a mis-un-der-standing,” France said, index finger raised, and then he laughed.
“I don’t like you, for some reason,” the young man answered, narrowing his eyes at France.
“Of course you don’t! Look at him!” England cried wildly, with a violent conviction that seemed almost religious- he waved his hands over France. “Couldn’t be anymore- fucking French! All he needs is a black-and-white striped bathing suit and an easel and a fucking bicycle and a baguette! Then the goddamn picture’d be complete! It’d be a masterpiece- hang it in the fucking Louvre- Tour de France my ass- avast!” England interrupted himself, lunging toward France, not entirely threateningly.
“Ah, don’t talk to him!” France advised England, “After all, he’s English!”
“-Eh!? What the Hell’s that mean!?” England asked, poking France in the chest.
And no sooner had France gotten up than a full-blow fist-fight had started. France landed a punch in the chest, but England went straight for the hair- reeling- both tipped over on a drunken balance- stumbling into some old woman’s shopping bags-
And neither knew what exactly had happened, except that they knew it had something to do with a rush of violence, a crowd of passengers, Cockney accents yelling curses...and that it ended with both of them stumbling onto the sidewalk outside, almost falling, heads spinning.
France made a vulgar gesture to the driver once on the sidewalk, but the driver did nothing but stick his tongue out at France. On that note, France turned around to England, wondering what was next.
“Well,” he slurred, “is it far- are we far from wherever you’d intended to go?”
England looked at him as though he was the stupidest person on the face of the earth. “Excuse me? I wasn’t intending on going anywhere, you stupid git.”
France stared at him blankly for a moment; England responded by forming his right hand into a gun and shooting at the retreating bus, and a lightbulb flashed in the dim attic of France’s drunken mind.
“Mon ange,” he said, with a carefree laugh, “You’ve given me an idea.”
So here they were, suddenly in black suits and black sunglasses. To tell the truth neither of them really knew where they’d gotten them, but all that mattered was that this was the way they were currently dressed and it was mucho fab and chic and cool and all that jazz.
-Jazz, that was what they were heading toward now. They stumbled down the darkened streets, arm-in-arm, laughing...but laughing in that way that’s suddenly self-conscious. Both of them were aware that the mad mental rush, the buzz, was wearing off, and needless to say they were not too keen on that happening. So they were heading to some club that England said was “filled with a bunch of pretentious shitheads,” and France fast agreed, because that was exactly what one needed when one was drunk.
They neared the place (all lights and stale horns, blasting drums) and were about to make their way inside, but England suddenly kneeled down- overcome with a moon sickness crowding his throat, trickling salt at the back of his tongue. “Oh God,” he groaned, “I think I’m going to throw up.”
“Quoi!? You musn’t! You must be strong! British Empire! British Empire! The French are coming!” France cheered, holding England up.
England paused; teetered a bit; then held up his index finger. “Right, then. I’m okay. Let’s be off!”
They hurried inside, as France chimed “Thug life!” for no reason.
“Hey, wait!” the doorman said, beginning after them.
“Shh,” France hissed, bringing a finger to his lips, “We’re the police.”
“Quite,” England added (as in, “quite the police,” or...?). The doorman looked after them, seeming confused, but didn’t press the matter further.
The main room was bustling, but not in any way that was alive. The band wasn’t that great, was playing standards, and every note seemed recycled or rephrased. Second-hand stuff, but everybody seemed to be laughing, enjoying it...
And this was where France and England came in. They slipped in between the people, wearing serious, stern expressions, adjusting their sunglasses just so. Then, in time with the muic, they started to bop their heads. And snap their fingers. All cool and beat and oddly really loud.
Some people next to them looked their way, baffled- but nobody bothered to say anything for the first five or so minutes, considering that, you know, maybe they were just doing that or maybe that was normal or...but they kept on snapping and bopping. A man in a brown cordury suit jacket turned to them furiously.
“Excuse me,” he grunted, “But is there a reason you’re doing that?”
They turned to the man, and said simultaneously- not breaking the rhythm- “Jazzzzzzz.” Although it sounded sort of funny on France’s part given the French accent and all.
The man paused. “Yes? What about it?”
“The heart,” England said, not even laughing.
“Oh God- what are you two morons, drunk?” the man asked in dread, righteously indignant at the fact that two retards were ruining his only night off to enjoy sweet, sweet jazz. He lifted his head, scanning around the room, and it registered with France that he was looking for security.
France put a hand on his shoulder and fixed him with a reproachful look. “I think you’d better not do that, mon ami,” he warned.
“Oh?” the man asked.
“Oui.” He paused, leaned in- in a way that would usually be considered predatory given that it was France, but it was actually rather platonic, if only because the man resembled a business-walrus. “We are the police.”
The man’s face reddened, his expression twisted. “Excuse me! What sort of tripe is that!” he exclaimed. “Show me your badges, then!”
“Here- you poor sod!” England said with a condescending smirk, whipping out his Oyster card and shoving it in the man’s face.
The man stared.
“It’s a collective badge,” France explained, and then fell into careless laughter.
“Jealous?” England asked with a British smirk.
The man proceeded to loudly call for security, startling his fellow audience members.
-But before the burly man standing by the stage could reach them, they dissolved into fluttering laughter and began to go on their merry way. “Well! Our work here is done, oui?” France asked.
“Indeed it is!” England answered gallantly.
And so they left, but not without picking up some cocktails that were lying on empty tables and downing them uninhibitedly.
They pretty much ran out, with England cursing France under his breath the whole way. “Great going, you stupid French bastard!” he snapped, sharp, kicking France in the shin.
“What!? You had a hand in it, too!” France answered, tugging on England’s hair.
“Yes, but- you know!” England answered.
“Know what?”
“You’re- a fucking moron!” England answered, and collapsed backwards- but luckily France caught him in time.
“England- I’m very sorry to say, but this is not an appropriate time to hit on me,” France slurred, managing to sound grave, as he lifted England up.
“I’m not fucking hitting on you!” England cried, punching France in the shoulder.
“You’ve always been the king of Denial! But- tu sait- eh- who wouldn’t want to embrace the très bien moi!?” France answered, with a laugh that was full of roses and other French finery.
“Oh be quiet.”
Silence enveloped- the sun was past down and there was no sound that was immediate, no sound too close, but France singing a couple of lines of “Qu’est-ce qu’on attend pour être heureux;” England looked up to France with a scowl, a little lightning in his eyes.
“Don’t sing in that fucking language...eh...I’m- proving-...What now?” England asked.
“Oh, anything should do,” France said, with a shaded smile.
England paused, looking at France thoughtfully. “Shit,” he spat, “I think I’ve lost my Oyster card. When did that happen?”
It was odd- the way the alcohol rushed so fast to their heads- the way vision and judgment was clouded so quick...the way there was nothing closer than this new idea, new need. They decided to go back to the hotel, and were impatient in the taxi the whole way back.
And true, they may run into their fellow nations, but it was a concern far from their minds. Because the meeting was over, the hour was late, and nobody’d be there to see them as they were now- drunk, under the spell of frenzied feeling, the line between enemies blurred and deconstructed, to make them something much closer- but how close was it? Going up the elevator, England flustered, France taking off his tie hurriedly...
The plush sound of the elevator doors sliding open. An empty hall.
And then a vaguely British voice humming the theme of Mission Impossible.
“DUN-A-NAA-DUN-A-NAAA-DUN-A-NAAAAA-DUN-NA!”
A blur of black and crisp white as England tucked and rolled into the hall, and then faced the emptiness with a completely srs-faec expression and his hands clasped together like a gun. There was a tinny gold elevator ding and a loud crashing sound as France followed behind him.
“Je suis très desolee Monsieur-le-potted-plant!” France said grandly, brushing some soil and a bit of green off his suit.
“Shut up! They might hear us!”
“Oh, of course-” then he clasped his hands into a gun, similar to England, and sidled up along the wall, very shady, very shifty- “How is it looking?”
“We’re clear, I believe- BLAST, AN ALIEN!”
And they proceeded to make loud shooting noises.
“Eh, look, you got shot,” France slurred, kicking England in the shoulder.
“Fucking frog! I’m the Invincible British Empire, that doesn’t happen to me.”
“Oh, invincible? Yes, particularly against small amateur militias, hm?”
“You fucking- I’m going to go to headquarters and have your ass fired!”
“Well they like me better so-”
But France’s childishness was interrupted by the sound of a door squeaking on its hinges- and then the thud and slam. They looked at each other, expressions suddenly swept down in complete seriousness, and readied for the bomb, or the double agent, or whatever obstacle they thought they’d be facing in the next five minutes.
A couple of moments passed, and then Germany appeared at the other end of the hall, with a neatly collected stack of papers in hand and a wearied expression on his face. France and England didn’t even need to say anything- immediately they popped out from their semi-hiding places and confronted him, makeshift guns held threateningly in his direction.
Germany jumped a bit, appearing startled at the way they jumped out at him. Then he paused. They stared at him, “guns” held out.
A million and a half questions rang through his mind- questions as to their attire, the grave expressions on their faces, why they were wearing sunglasses at night and indoors, why they were holding out makeshift guns in his direction, whether this didn’t have something to do with WWII (because with these two, it always did)- but the only word he could come up with (with flatlined, deadpan expression) was:
“-What?”
And then they started to make gun noises and laugh wildly and wave their hands at him.
At first he was shocked, and then he was disappointed, and then a confusion as violent as anger overtook him, and he shouted- “What the Hell are you two doing!?” He was panicking, actually- England was not usually like this and he thought he finally had France on his side, goddammit- but apparently they thought otherwise-
“The name’s Bond; James Bond,” England said with a superior tone of voice.
“Agent Potato is not going down!”
Germany, through his myriad thoughts, managed to backtrack mentally, to think of things logically: France was normally this weird, and England...well, England was sometimes like this and it was usually only when he was drunk-
Wait.
It was usually only when he was drunk.
Germany grit his teeth and tried hard- very hard- to control his temper. “Are you two drunk!?” he asked, stepping forward.
“Potato advancement!” France cried shrilly in surprise.
“We’re not drunk! You’re drunk!” England contested, stepping forward similarly, poking his makeshift gun at Germany’s forehead.
“Are you high!?”
“Man we’re high on LIFE!” England snapped, and struck a pose with France, both of them back-to-back, arms folded.
“You’re drunk, aren’t you! This is why you skipped out on the meeting!” Germany yelled, rolling his eyes- letting off a noise that was between a sigh and a tired grunt; he turned his attention back to them. “Explain yourselves!” he commanded.
“Monsieur Sauerkraut, there is nothing to explain!” France said, with a showy laugh, “We are arresting you!”
“No, we’re supposed to kill him!”
“You are insane! You brute, how can this world exist if you don’t have- civil order- trials- not everyone’s a sexual deviant- I am not a NUMBER, I am a MAN!”
“What the Hell are you on about!?”
“You!”
“No you!”
“Both of you shut up!” Germany bit out, shoving both of them back. “And don’t tell me you’re not drunk! Otherwise you wouldn’t be- talking nonsense- acting like spies- wearing sunglasses at night!”
“I wear my sunnn-glasses at night, so I can, so I can-” England started to sing, and France hummed along because he didn’t know the words.
And that was the last straw- Germany wrested for control, managed to grasp both of them by the collars of their shirts, and hoist them over toward the elevator-
“Don’t switch the blade on the guy in the shades, oh no!” England sang, trying to kick his way out of Germany’s hold, “Don’t masquerade with the guy in the shades, oh no!”
“Arrêteeee, arrête!” France pleaded, voice thinning because Germany was unintentionally choking him.
“Shut up,” Germany bit out, and pressed the down button on the elevator.
There was a moment of silence; only the ping of the elevator, ascending the floors, and the slight silent sterile hum of a hall in a London hotel. France and England pretty much stopped resisting and started pouting.
France crossed his arms. “As I would expect from a German,” he said, giving Germany a dirty look. Germany rolled his eyes and ignored France. Another pause.
“You bastard kraut,” England sniffed.
“...Are you crying?” France asked.
“Not really,” England answered, pushing up his sunglasses (at night).
Another ding; the elevator doors opened, slick and easy, like caramel or glass. Nobody was inside, thank God. Germany threw the both of them in the elevator and ducked halfway inside, pressing the ground-floor button and the close-doors button- they shouted a wild protest but he managed to slip back from between the doors just in time. The sound of their fists pounding against the door was the only shell their presence left, and Germany turned on his heel, trying not to think about whether he’d just done a completely irresponsible thing by throwing them back into free society.
Meanwhile, inside the elevator, England and France were between continuing their masquerade and realizing the gray shift of reality. “A German trapped us in this elevator! We require aid!” France said to the ceiling.
“Oh, belt up,” England said, standing up, “We can get out of here ourselves. We’re not stupid. Well, perhaps you are. But I’m not. No, I’m extremely intelligent, and- aside from that-”
“Ah well, at least I’m not ugly.”
“I AM NOT UGLY! For the last fucking time. I’ll have you know, I have beautiful hands and feet. Yes,” England continued, that whitish look taking over his eyes behind the shades, as he held his hands out before him, “I should be a fucking hand and foot model.”
“Well. Be that as it may.”
A pause. “Were you going to continue that sentence?”
“Not particularly. Merde, I’ve got a headache,” France hummed, almost to himself.
They lapsed into quiet; only the vague sounds of elevator music- or was it elevator music? They were both at the point between imagination and perception, when you’re not really sure what you’re seeing, feeling, is real. A self-conscious sort of down-hill feeling.
“The Queen says no to pot-smoking FBI members,” England pointed out, not realizing that France probably didn’t know the song he was quoting.
-Then, quite suddenly, the elevator doors hissed open- and in stepped an older woman in formal attire and red heels. Some sort of maman. Neither of them seemed to actually see her- they just saw the opened doors, and ran out like madmen, with a white-eyed England yelling “FREEDOM AT LAST!” The woman peered around the elevator curiously, but it closed before she could make a second guess.
-And then they ran down the hall; almost crashed into some late-night hall haunter- reached the door to the stairs, and busted right through. They started to go down the stairs- England singing “For You Blue,” in breathless intervals, France a little ahead, tossing his tie down to the flights below.
“Oh, let’s not run,” England whined, “I feel like I’ve been beaten with a meat tenderizer.”
France paused; turned around on the flight ahead. “Well, you don’t have to run,” he said, “As long as you don’t mind being losing a race to a Frenchman.”
So England gritted his teeth and collected his willpower and ran down the stairs behind France.
“Shiiiiiit,” he groaned- feeling like he’d been beaten from metal wall to metal wall- feeling the weight of blood press hollow down to his feet every time he took a step. “This is so fucking stupid.”
France shrugged, picking up his tie which he had just found lying across some steps. “You’d think you’d be used to it, Eyebrows,” he said, looping it over his neck, “After all, you’re constantly drowning your sorrows in liquor, aren’t you?”
“Oh, shut up,” England answered, “I’m too tired to argue with your brie-eating Revolution-botching ass.”
“Fair enough,” France shrugged, opening the door for England- England stumbled out with a curt “thank you,” and France grabbed his ass, because England wouldn’t notice in the state he was in and England really did have a nice ass.
Ho-ho. Indeed. Anyway, they came out into the lobby, not noticing the kinds of looks they were getting from the hotel employees, the clientele. England saluted some old people and stumbled through the revolving doors; France followed but had to go around twice to orient himself.
-The night cold rushed onto their skin- the blithe lights, ice-colored- and the small clusters of people going to and fro, even at this hour. Dark vultures, nocturnal pariahs, the most sympathetic crowd you could run into. They walked along for a couple of blocks until they found a bench to sit on.
“You goddamn frog,” England sighed pleasantly, sinking down into his place.
“Aha, I have no energy to retort,” France mused, looking up to the telephone wires, the tops of buildings, the grime and beyond that, a handful of stars.
There was a pause. A car or two sped by; France watched girls in heels walk past them and smiled to himself. “Lately I’ve been thinking about the economy,” England said...voice grayed, slightly worried, and he leaned forward, halfway off the bench.
France shrugged, taking England by the shoulder and putting him back in place. “Ah, well, you’ll fall from star to star,” he shrugged, “It happens.”
“Very true,” England nodded, holding up his index finger in a certain scholastic manner that was particular to him. He paused, and then his head dropped on France’s shoulder. “Well, g’night.”
“Oui,” France yawned, and closed his eyes to the rush of sound and color.
-And they were a bit confused when they woke up (on a bench, feeling half-dead, under a burn of sun and concrete and getting the oddest looks), but after considerable reminiscing, they were right back on track. England sprung up from his place but immediately regretted it, as the rush of movement- of blood- tightened the pressure in the black back of his brain. He winced, but managed; brushed his clothes off, wondering when he got this stylish black suit. “Ugh,” he spat, “I can’t believe I was next to a disgusting Frenchman the entire night...”
“Well, don’t think I’m particularly thrilled,” France said, voice notably groggy. He dragged himself up from the bench, like a drugged caterpillar- France had never been a morning person. He tossed some hair from his face, managing to make it look easy even though he felt like it would be better to die right now. “I feel almost soiled- I could have spent the night with someone much more appetizing, but instead I was with a pitiful raincloud. Qu’elle horreur!”
England was about to say something; but then he paused, paled. “Oh God,” he cried, “You didn’t do anything to me, did you!?”
“Mais non,” France scoffed, fixing his shirt.
“You better not have! I’ll have you fucking arrested!”
“Oh, give it a rest,” France answered sharply, shrugging into his suit jacket. He ran his hand through his hair again...looked toward the street. Then he and England exchanged a silent glance; a long pause...
Then France shouted, “Andouillette!,” stepped forward and judo-chopped England in the stomach, but England blocked and parried.
They decided that the morning would be a devastating Hell if there was no breakfast. England resisted the crazy urge to yell “Where’s breakfast!?” at every passer-by, because, as he reminded himself (straightening his tie), craziness and bad citizenship was reserved for a drunken hour. Yes, now he was a law-abiding, well-to-do member of society, and had to behave as one. He took off his sunglasses and slipped them into his breast pocket, noting with a sardonic scoff that France kept his on- because he was fucking French like that...
France offered to make breakfast provided that England would let him into his apartment; England consented, but when France mentioned making crepes, England said he didn’t have any of that “frilly French affair” (read: ingredients) lying around his house. France retorted that, yes, he only had frilly English affair, and began to rattle off about embroidered tea cozies, etc., of times past. England laughed nervously and waved it off, said that they’d just go to a grocery store to buy whatever France needed.
England led the way; there was a corner grocer’s not too far away, small place, not too shabby, with a drugstore right across from it. France noted that they should have the proper materials for surviving a hungover morning, so it was decided that England would go to the drugstore to buy said materials and France would go to the grocer’s to buy whatever he needed.
They separated at the crosswalk. England ducked past some people- between a slim margin- and wondered whether he wasn’t getting strange looks. He paused, almost embarrassed- he must’ve look a right mess...but then again, what the Hell did he care how he looked? He rolled his eyes, pushing away the urge to slip his sunglasses back on.
The place was crowded- sort of sterile- a mass and clutter of advertisements products. The push to buy buy buy, but it fell short against such a quiet morning. A pop station was echoing off the plastic surfaces...He ambled along a white-painted metal rack, wondering to himself what to buy.
So yes, materials; aspirin (there was no way to hold his head that didn’t hurt; his neck was aching; he felt like his balance was completely off), cigarettes, gum, oh fuck it, a case of beer...and magazines, of course.
He watched a businesswoman with pretty blonde hair pluck a tabloid magazine off the shelf. He, of course, immediately went for Time Europe- even with a poison headache and the fierce taste of mint ringing in his brain, he refused to dumb himself down by reading trite nonsense. He was about to walk away, but then he remembered- what about France?
He continued looking over the selection with a measured expression. What would France want to read?...Could France even read? Well,...he paused. It was strange- he’d known France for quite a long time, and France unfortunately was probably the person who knew him the best- but he didn’t really actually know anything about France’s tastes. That was...a little unsettling. A bit sad, actually. He folded his arms, thinking on that.
But then he remembered, what the fuck did he care what France liked? On that note he picked up a copy of GQ because it was the next logical step down from Playboy, and went over to the register to pay, berating himself for ever having shown an inch of concern for that black-and-white-striped-mime-loving-cheese-eating-poetry-reading-accordion-playing-beret-wearing-baguette-baking-Eiffel-towering-French-wine-bastard. They’d known each other for too fucking long and too fucking well to have to deal with being nice.
He finished paying; stuck some bills back in his wallet, in his back pocket, and stepped over to the door. There were people like cardboard cutouts, people like zombies, just waking up to the call of the honey sun; the buzz of an electric sensor; they were playing Les playboys over the speakers and the song hit like all the wind, all the sun just beyond the glass door.
And the sun was brightening, beating down on his head- darkening his headache- he looked across the street as he lit a cigarette. No sign of the French bastard...Les playboys still rang through his mind...
Then the door swung open, and there was France, looking cheeky, looking like he’d gotten over his hangover already. He’d tied his hair back, was swinging the plastic bag back and forth. He crossed from the shadow of the awning into the concrete bright. He looked around; England was about to signal to him or call him over, already impatient, but France saw him before he could do so.
England nodded, started across the sidewalk, taking a drag. France flashed him a bright smile instead of waving and walked forward to meet him in the middle.
NOTES;;
1. Anyone catch the myriad references? Eddie Izzard, Pineapple Express, etc.? You're epic if you did :D
2. The Napoleon debacle on the bus was...Napoleon had learned that his wife Josephine was having an affair, and he was awright with that, I guess, because he cheated on her quite a bit as well. Anyway, while in Egypt, he wrote his brother Joseph a letter about it, detailing it and everything, but the letter was intercepted by the English. The English then published it in one of their newspapers, because they're hilarious and petty and English like that.
3. Sunglasses at Night by Corey Hart, which I highly recommend everyone in the world watch for the SHEER AMOUNT OF EPIC LOLZ
Les playboys by Jacques Dutronc who is so cute jkfhauefhlaashahjajdh
For You Blue by the Beatles, and why yes I do like George the best, thxmuch. Some YouTube users seem to agree with me too.
Qu'est-ce qu'on attend pour etre heureux by Sacha Distel- that's the version I have anyway- but the song goes back, to my recollection, as far as 1937 with Ray Ventura's version- but the Sacha Distel version is...really fuckin' French XD and way awesome.
5. Oyster cards, servicing the greater London area, and England's Big Ben as well! Ho-ho, I'll bet you didn't see a pun coming. Right. Well anyway, I don't know how to explain this so I'll use Wikipedia's terminology and call it "a form of electronic ticketing" used on public transportation. Uhm. I live in NY and we have the MetroCard, I guess it's kind of like that. Anyway, have no idea whether or not Londoners use "Oyster" for short, or any other sort of realistic derivative that I could have used in England's speech. In NY we just call a MetroCard a MetroCard, but English people always seem to come up with cute names for things, so I don't know. /tangent
Anyway first thought that ran through my head upon learning about Oyster cards was "u would;" it's like how England had that one fighter plane during WWII called the "Fairey Swordfish." Yes. Yes England, Fairey Swordfish indeed.
so that was the most epic thing I've written in quite a while XD please feel free to correct my grammar or spelling as you see fit.
and thanks for reading! :D