[Fanfic] Those Bright Young Things.
Title: Those Bright Young Things
Author/Artist: Hellzabeth (i.e. me)
Character(s) or Pairing(s): England/America, France, some historical figures.
Rating: PG-15
Warnings: Drugs and alcohol abuse, cross dressing, use of human names.
Summary: England has his own way with dealing with the trauma of the war in the aftermath. America gets concerned, and finds more than he bargained for.
London, 1927
“Hey, France?” America asked, shuffling away his papers from the end of the meeting. The nation in question turned to regard the other with a raised eyebrow, leaning an elbow on the table.
“Oui?”
America shifted in his seat, staring out of the tall windows of the conference centre. “Do you think something’s up with England?” he tried to sound nonchalant about it, but he really was concerned.
“Something is always up with Angleterre.”
“No, I mean like really up with him.” America pressed. “He looks like he hasn’t slept in a week or something.” France, however, just scoffed at him.
“Mon chére, you are aware of the situation he’s in, non?” He said, watching the younger country over the rim of his wine glass. There was a pause, in which America blinked obliviously at him, and France was reduced to rolling his eyes. Typical. “Many of his people in the north are starving, revolting and protesting. Most are out of work… well, you know the story.” He waved a dismissive hand. It was a similar story everywhere, with the aftermath of the war taking it toll on every country that had participated, and many that hadn’t.
America still didn’t look like he fully understood though, so France tried a new tactic.
“America, have you ever heard of the “Bright Young Things”?”
“What’s that, a band?”
France barked out a laugh, making the other blonde jump. “Non, non, they are- well…” America didn’t like that smirk. No he did not. Especially when France getting up from the table, grabbing him by his tie and leading him out of the conference room accompanied it. “I’ll just have to show you.”
-----------
“I hate you, did I tell you that?” grumbled America.
“Only about three times since we got in the car.” Replied France, still with that stupid smirk.
“Well, now we’re out of the car, and hiding in some bushes outside a really big house, at night.” Bushes which were currently poking him uncomfortably in places he didn’t want them to. It wasn’t like he hadn’t done stake outs before, but it didn’t mean he enjoyed them.
“Just watch- ah, here we go, the first car.” Sure enough, up the drive rolled a sleek, new looking automobile. America couldn’t see inside the windows, but the porch light quickly revealed who got out of the car.
The dress was gorgeous, pale white and dotted with beads and pearls that even from this distance sparkled in the light. The buttress indicated it’s 16th century styling just as much as the fan in her hand, as she moved with the grace of an upper class lady towards the house, followed by other people in costume, ranging from tennis players to other beautifully dressed women, though none of them were quite as beautiful at the first.
“So typical of him to pick that dress.” Muttered France from next to him, and America turned so quick he might have given himself whiplash.
“Are you saying that’s a dude?!” He nearly shouted, were it not for France’s hand over his mouth.
“Shh!” he hissed, removing his hand before America could lick it or bite it or do something similarly childish. “What I’m saying is that is our dear Angleterre, and he is wearing one of his old Queen’s dresses.”
He allowed America a moment to re-attach his jaw, before continuing. “The younger members of the upper middle class have these parties quite often. I am not adverse to frivolity, as you know.” He winked, and America made a face. “But, I’m not going in there. Far too much by way of unsavory substances, and the man wouldn’t know a good alcoholic beverage if it was thrown in his face.”
“What?! But we have to save England!” America insisted. France quirked an eyebrow at him.
“From who?”
“Himself, obviously! He’ll get completely drunk and then who knows what’ll happen to him! I don’t like the looks of some of those guys.”
“Who may have been girls.” France pointed out, enjoying America’s disturbed look. “You can go play white knight in there if you like, but be prepared to leave reality behind once you step though those doors.” From anyone else it would have been a stern warning, but France sounded so amused that it came off more as a challenge. America strode out of the bushes with purpose, towards the house with a determined set to his shoulders. France sighed, pulling a leaf out of his hair.
“Everyone has their ways of coping, America.” And with a shrug, he went back to his car. He’d find out the details in the morning, no doubt. There were enough press here as it was.
-----------
It took America the better part of two hours to find an entrance that wasn’t blocked by some very big bouncers (not that he couldn’t take them, but heroes don’t cause civilian casualties). That entrance happened to be a second story window, but you take what you can, he supposed. The noise from downstairs was just a notch below deafening, a hired jazz band playing at full tilt, screaming and laughter, all around a good time. But there was a smell in the air, smoke and alcohol and something else that made him uneasy.
And someone next door was having sex, as much as he could tell from one room over. Thank you god that I picked this window. He thought, peeking out through the door and into the hallway.
America wasn’t the best at stealth, but he managed to sneak into the party rooms without much trouble, most likely due to everyone being raging drunk at this point in the evening. He dodged through whirling dancers, their outfits quite at odds with each other. He saw that tennis player from earlier (who on closer inspection was a girl) dancing with a beggar, albeit a very clean one. England was easily spotted, however, over in the corner with three others, discussing animatedly with a drink one hand and a fan in the other. America skirted the edge of the dance floor, trying not to be knocked over by some enthusiastic dancers, but before he could quite reach England, the other Nation spotted him.
"Alfred, my dear boy!" Oh god, he was wearing make up as well, face painted white and lips painted red, eye shadow making the green of his eyes stand out even in the dimmed lighting. The three other guests turned to look as England beckoned the young nation closer. “I never expected to see you here! Elizabeth, Stephen, Evelyn, this is my good friend Alfred Jones.” He snapped his fan closed, pointing to each of the other guests he was talking to in turn, who looked at Alfred in the same sort of way a lion stares at a deer; hungry and aloof at the same time.
Time to leave.
"Uh, pleasure.” Awkward. “Arthur, I think you've had enough-" He started, but England interrupted him with a laugh.
"Nonsense, utter nonsense darling-!" he said, but then tripped slightly, knocked unsteady by a passing dancer and wearing heels far too high to stay upright in, grasping on to the taller nation for balance. "I say, angel, do watch out!" He called over his shoulder with a giggle, as America grew steadily more uncomfortable. He grabbed the nation by the arm and tried to lead him along.
"England, let's go..." He said, voice low so that only the other Nation would hear. Green eyes, unfocused and vague, turned to him, staring without blinking and really not helping with the hot feeling settling in America's stomach. England was in a dress, for god's sake, he shouldn't be this attractive! Then he was quite suddenly introduced to England’s lips in a very intimate manner.
Which is to say, the shorter nation, who was currently wearing drag, was snogging the life out of him.
There was a short pause, mostly due to America’s brain shutting down until only the feel and taste of England was left, before somebody quickly kicked it back into gear by wolf-whistling at them, followed by a few cheers. England tasted like alcohol, smoke and something slightly bitter. Seizing him by the shoulders, America pushed the other off him, panting for breath. Blood was rushing all sorts of places he didn’t want it, England’s eyes still weren’t focusing and America was quickly realizing that it wasn’t just because he was drunk, but he was high. Higher than the moon, he could even taste it.
“What the hell, Arthur! Is this your solution?” He blurted, and a few people around them went silent, watching. England only blinked at him. “Just drink enough and it’ll go away?” Still no response, and America didn’t wait for one either. He grabbed England’s wrist and pulled him out of the party, down the steps and into the night air. Half way down the path, England pulled free, and the two stood staring at each other, both panting slightly.
“What.” America said, waiting for England to collect his drug-addled thoughts together.
“Why did you stop kissing me?” The question was asked in such an innocent tone that America almost choked on air. “I know you liked it, it’s all over your face.”
“Because you’re high and drunk and heroes don’t take advantage of people.” He answered firmly. England looked pensive.
“So, if I tried to kiss you sober, you’d let me?”
And incredulous pause.
“Uh, sure? But you never would, it’s just not… you.” This conversation was not going like he’d expected. And shouldn’t the ‘don’t do drugs’ talk be going the other way around?
“Hm, yes, quite right.” Another blank look and a long silence, before he snapped his fan open and turned on his heel. “That was really rather rude, my dear, pulling a lady along like that! I must go attend to my guests. Farewell, until next time!”
And thus, America was left to stand in the deserted driveway, with nothing left to say.
-----------
“Hey England, want to kiss me?”
“W-why the bloody hell would I want to do that?! You imbecile!”
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Notes
-The Bright Young Things, so named by the Daily Mail in 1924, were a group of upper class teenagers with far too much money and time. They typically attended Eton or Oxford, and had a lot of parties. I do mean a lot. There were a lot of drugs used, drinks and loud music were common, and journalists with cameras would wait outside the doors for a glimpse at them. They were essentially the celebrities of the day.
- The ones talking to England in this are two very famous BYTs, Elizabeth Ponsonby and Stephen Tennant (not related to David Tennant, the actor from DrWho) and also Evelyn Waugh, author of Brideshead Revisited and a fringe member of the BYT who based his stories on the grand exploits of the upper class.
- Part of the reason why the BYT were so rebellious is because the first world war had changed so much about how people viewed life. Suddenly, it was clear how fragile existence was, and living for the moment became the new thing. Too young to have fought and bitter with how nobody would stop talking about the war, they rebelled against their upper class, squandered their wealth and basically went nuts.
- There were a lot of drugs at these parties, usually weed, but sometimes heroin and cocain. Cocain has a slightly bitter taste, which is what Alfred notices. Yes, I got my own country high. Shoot me.
- This particular party is the infamous Impersonation Party of 1927 (which, no matter how hard I search, I cannot find an exact date for. Help?) The costumes were amazingly extravagant, you simply had to impersonate a famous person from history.
- England is dressed as Queen Elizabeth. This is the dress he was wearing. Fabulous, darling.
- By the way, cross dressing, homosexuality and androgynous looks were particularly prized by the BYTs. It's no secret that there were many affairs which the courts could do nothing about, despite homosexuality being illegal in England until 1967.
- England completely forgot about the events of that night, beyond the point he started drinking. Meaning he doesn't remember kissing America. Bwaahaha.
Lastly, I blame my English Lit class for this.
Author/Artist: Hellzabeth (i.e. me)
Character(s) or Pairing(s): England/America, France, some historical figures.
Rating: PG-15
Warnings: Drugs and alcohol abuse, cross dressing, use of human names.
Summary: England has his own way with dealing with the trauma of the war in the aftermath. America gets concerned, and finds more than he bargained for.
London, 1927
“Hey, France?” America asked, shuffling away his papers from the end of the meeting. The nation in question turned to regard the other with a raised eyebrow, leaning an elbow on the table.
“Oui?”
America shifted in his seat, staring out of the tall windows of the conference centre. “Do you think something’s up with England?” he tried to sound nonchalant about it, but he really was concerned.
“Something is always up with Angleterre.”
“No, I mean like really up with him.” America pressed. “He looks like he hasn’t slept in a week or something.” France, however, just scoffed at him.
“Mon chére, you are aware of the situation he’s in, non?” He said, watching the younger country over the rim of his wine glass. There was a pause, in which America blinked obliviously at him, and France was reduced to rolling his eyes. Typical. “Many of his people in the north are starving, revolting and protesting. Most are out of work… well, you know the story.” He waved a dismissive hand. It was a similar story everywhere, with the aftermath of the war taking it toll on every country that had participated, and many that hadn’t.
America still didn’t look like he fully understood though, so France tried a new tactic.
“America, have you ever heard of the “Bright Young Things”?”
“What’s that, a band?”
France barked out a laugh, making the other blonde jump. “Non, non, they are- well…” America didn’t like that smirk. No he did not. Especially when France getting up from the table, grabbing him by his tie and leading him out of the conference room accompanied it. “I’ll just have to show you.”
-----------
“I hate you, did I tell you that?” grumbled America.
“Only about three times since we got in the car.” Replied France, still with that stupid smirk.
“Well, now we’re out of the car, and hiding in some bushes outside a really big house, at night.” Bushes which were currently poking him uncomfortably in places he didn’t want them to. It wasn’t like he hadn’t done stake outs before, but it didn’t mean he enjoyed them.
“Just watch- ah, here we go, the first car.” Sure enough, up the drive rolled a sleek, new looking automobile. America couldn’t see inside the windows, but the porch light quickly revealed who got out of the car.
The dress was gorgeous, pale white and dotted with beads and pearls that even from this distance sparkled in the light. The buttress indicated it’s 16th century styling just as much as the fan in her hand, as she moved with the grace of an upper class lady towards the house, followed by other people in costume, ranging from tennis players to other beautifully dressed women, though none of them were quite as beautiful at the first.
“So typical of him to pick that dress.” Muttered France from next to him, and America turned so quick he might have given himself whiplash.
“Are you saying that’s a dude?!” He nearly shouted, were it not for France’s hand over his mouth.
“Shh!” he hissed, removing his hand before America could lick it or bite it or do something similarly childish. “What I’m saying is that is our dear Angleterre, and he is wearing one of his old Queen’s dresses.”
He allowed America a moment to re-attach his jaw, before continuing. “The younger members of the upper middle class have these parties quite often. I am not adverse to frivolity, as you know.” He winked, and America made a face. “But, I’m not going in there. Far too much by way of unsavory substances, and the man wouldn’t know a good alcoholic beverage if it was thrown in his face.”
“What?! But we have to save England!” America insisted. France quirked an eyebrow at him.
“From who?”
“Himself, obviously! He’ll get completely drunk and then who knows what’ll happen to him! I don’t like the looks of some of those guys.”
“Who may have been girls.” France pointed out, enjoying America’s disturbed look. “You can go play white knight in there if you like, but be prepared to leave reality behind once you step though those doors.” From anyone else it would have been a stern warning, but France sounded so amused that it came off more as a challenge. America strode out of the bushes with purpose, towards the house with a determined set to his shoulders. France sighed, pulling a leaf out of his hair.
“Everyone has their ways of coping, America.” And with a shrug, he went back to his car. He’d find out the details in the morning, no doubt. There were enough press here as it was.
-----------
It took America the better part of two hours to find an entrance that wasn’t blocked by some very big bouncers (not that he couldn’t take them, but heroes don’t cause civilian casualties). That entrance happened to be a second story window, but you take what you can, he supposed. The noise from downstairs was just a notch below deafening, a hired jazz band playing at full tilt, screaming and laughter, all around a good time. But there was a smell in the air, smoke and alcohol and something else that made him uneasy.
And someone next door was having sex, as much as he could tell from one room over. Thank you god that I picked this window. He thought, peeking out through the door and into the hallway.
America wasn’t the best at stealth, but he managed to sneak into the party rooms without much trouble, most likely due to everyone being raging drunk at this point in the evening. He dodged through whirling dancers, their outfits quite at odds with each other. He saw that tennis player from earlier (who on closer inspection was a girl) dancing with a beggar, albeit a very clean one. England was easily spotted, however, over in the corner with three others, discussing animatedly with a drink one hand and a fan in the other. America skirted the edge of the dance floor, trying not to be knocked over by some enthusiastic dancers, but before he could quite reach England, the other Nation spotted him.
"Alfred, my dear boy!" Oh god, he was wearing make up as well, face painted white and lips painted red, eye shadow making the green of his eyes stand out even in the dimmed lighting. The three other guests turned to look as England beckoned the young nation closer. “I never expected to see you here! Elizabeth, Stephen, Evelyn, this is my good friend Alfred Jones.” He snapped his fan closed, pointing to each of the other guests he was talking to in turn, who looked at Alfred in the same sort of way a lion stares at a deer; hungry and aloof at the same time.
Time to leave.
"Uh, pleasure.” Awkward. “Arthur, I think you've had enough-" He started, but England interrupted him with a laugh.
"Nonsense, utter nonsense darling-!" he said, but then tripped slightly, knocked unsteady by a passing dancer and wearing heels far too high to stay upright in, grasping on to the taller nation for balance. "I say, angel, do watch out!" He called over his shoulder with a giggle, as America grew steadily more uncomfortable. He grabbed the nation by the arm and tried to lead him along.
"England, let's go..." He said, voice low so that only the other Nation would hear. Green eyes, unfocused and vague, turned to him, staring without blinking and really not helping with the hot feeling settling in America's stomach. England was in a dress, for god's sake, he shouldn't be this attractive! Then he was quite suddenly introduced to England’s lips in a very intimate manner.
Which is to say, the shorter nation, who was currently wearing drag, was snogging the life out of him.
There was a short pause, mostly due to America’s brain shutting down until only the feel and taste of England was left, before somebody quickly kicked it back into gear by wolf-whistling at them, followed by a few cheers. England tasted like alcohol, smoke and something slightly bitter. Seizing him by the shoulders, America pushed the other off him, panting for breath. Blood was rushing all sorts of places he didn’t want it, England’s eyes still weren’t focusing and America was quickly realizing that it wasn’t just because he was drunk, but he was high. Higher than the moon, he could even taste it.
“What the hell, Arthur! Is this your solution?” He blurted, and a few people around them went silent, watching. England only blinked at him. “Just drink enough and it’ll go away?” Still no response, and America didn’t wait for one either. He grabbed England’s wrist and pulled him out of the party, down the steps and into the night air. Half way down the path, England pulled free, and the two stood staring at each other, both panting slightly.
“What.” America said, waiting for England to collect his drug-addled thoughts together.
“Why did you stop kissing me?” The question was asked in such an innocent tone that America almost choked on air. “I know you liked it, it’s all over your face.”
“Because you’re high and drunk and heroes don’t take advantage of people.” He answered firmly. England looked pensive.
“So, if I tried to kiss you sober, you’d let me?”
And incredulous pause.
“Uh, sure? But you never would, it’s just not… you.” This conversation was not going like he’d expected. And shouldn’t the ‘don’t do drugs’ talk be going the other way around?
“Hm, yes, quite right.” Another blank look and a long silence, before he snapped his fan open and turned on his heel. “That was really rather rude, my dear, pulling a lady along like that! I must go attend to my guests. Farewell, until next time!”
And thus, America was left to stand in the deserted driveway, with nothing left to say.
-----------
“Hey England, want to kiss me?”
“W-why the bloody hell would I want to do that?! You imbecile!”
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
Notes
-The Bright Young Things, so named by the Daily Mail in 1924, were a group of upper class teenagers with far too much money and time. They typically attended Eton or Oxford, and had a lot of parties. I do mean a lot. There were a lot of drugs used, drinks and loud music were common, and journalists with cameras would wait outside the doors for a glimpse at them. They were essentially the celebrities of the day.
- The ones talking to England in this are two very famous BYTs, Elizabeth Ponsonby and Stephen Tennant (not related to David Tennant, the actor from DrWho) and also Evelyn Waugh, author of Brideshead Revisited and a fringe member of the BYT who based his stories on the grand exploits of the upper class.
- Part of the reason why the BYT were so rebellious is because the first world war had changed so much about how people viewed life. Suddenly, it was clear how fragile existence was, and living for the moment became the new thing. Too young to have fought and bitter with how nobody would stop talking about the war, they rebelled against their upper class, squandered their wealth and basically went nuts.
- There were a lot of drugs at these parties, usually weed, but sometimes heroin and cocain. Cocain has a slightly bitter taste, which is what Alfred notices. Yes, I got my own country high. Shoot me.
- This particular party is the infamous Impersonation Party of 1927 (which, no matter how hard I search, I cannot find an exact date for. Help?) The costumes were amazingly extravagant, you simply had to impersonate a famous person from history.
- England is dressed as Queen Elizabeth. This is the dress he was wearing. Fabulous, darling.
- By the way, cross dressing, homosexuality and androgynous looks were particularly prized by the BYTs. It's no secret that there were many affairs which the courts could do nothing about, despite homosexuality being illegal in England until 1967.
- England completely forgot about the events of that night, beyond the point he started drinking. Meaning he doesn't remember kissing America. Bwaahaha.
Lastly, I blame my English Lit class for this.