The Key Of F
The Key Of F - France/England. Implied (or at least, gleefully speculated-upon) Russia/America.
England is funny when he's drunk, and France is funny when he's baiting him. That was all the excuse I needed to write a fic about them bitching all night together in a Suffolk pub. Together they tackle the question "Who fucks better: capitalists or communists?" while France tries to keep England from throwing up on his shoes.
Genre: Comedy/Slice Of Life.
1970s. PG-13.
Followers of the Russia/America comm might recognize the first 300 words of this. Especially the bit about the, you know. Giant exploding cocks. I found it again the other day and decided to turn it into a fic!
---
"I wish they would just fuck already," France sighed.
England scowled at him from behind his pint of lager. "Don't be crude."
"This has been going on for twenty years, and I am tired of it. I know you and I kept our rivalry up for a millennia," France added. "But we did it with more style."
"Ah. You don't so much mind that they're causing a bloody racket, or that they might just kill us all in a fit of pique," England hazarded. He took a swallow.
"No. I mind that they are poseurs."
"I see."
"I don't think anyone can deny that we did all this first. And better."
England nodded, saying, "Not that our rivalry was a result of sexual tension."
"Oh, of course not." France flicked his hair back.
"Of course not."
A pause.
"It's not even as if they're being subtle about it." France braced his elbows back against the bar and lolled his head up to inspect the ceiling lights. "All those missiles."
"…What about the missiles."
"The shape! Just look at them!"
"They're aerodynamic," England replied thinly.
"They are giant exploding cocks, and America and Russia are threatening each other with thousands of them."
"How did you even find me? I came here to drink alone--"
"They don't even have any demands." France sounded affronted by the very idea. "Back in the old days, one at least had demands, to go along with one's outrageous threats. Tribute, better trade agreements, a province or two to make the lines on the map neater…'Surrender, and give us your women,' if one could think of nothing else."
England sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "They say it's ideological, or some rot."
France took another shot of bourbon. "'I want you to fuck me rotten' is not an ideological position."
England paused with his pint halfway to his lips. A smirk turned up the corner of his mouth. "This from you."
France angled a lazy smile down at him. He twirled a lock of hair around his finger. "Well, if you insist--would you call a dirty fuck more of a bastion of communism, or of democracy?"
England's lips moved for a few seconds, and his elbows inched further apart on the bar. He turned his glass between his hands. "Surely not communist," he said at last. "What's the…sod it…how did that Marx bastard put it…'from each according to his…'" He trailed off.
"'From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs?" France inquired. He crossed his ankles.
England waved his pint; the beer sloshed over the side and splashed across his fingers. He sucked a few drops from between his knuckles. "That's the one."
"You're disgusting," France informed him. "What about it?"
"If my manners offend you, you are more than welcome to piss off--it seems obvious to me? That if one makes a point of asking only for what is within the limits of one's ability, then one can't hope to ask America for an earnest filthy fuck--"
France crowed. He waved his empty shot glass towards the bartender. "Only four drinks in, and the claws come out, mon cher!"
"Four drinks? I was drinking for three bloody hours before you turned up, I'll have you know--do you think I'd be seen with you, out, in public, if I could get off this stool without throwing up on your poncy fucking shirt?"
France held up a hand. "You are very kind to my laundress; please stay in your seat."
England hmphed and settled back with his beer.
"But then, you suppose that the depraved fuck is a tenant of democracy." France accepted a refill. He tilted his head up and orated to the ceiling, his shot glass held delicately in three fingers. "But if that's the case, I can't imagine why our side hasn't won already."
"Ah, but you see, it's America's fault, again." England took a gulp. "All that liberty bollocks he's always on about might add up to a decent rogering if he weren't so damned repressed."
"Not that you're at all resentful," France marveled.
"I am the sodding picture of sodding forgiveness and spiritual fucking purity."
"I like you much better when you're drunk," France leaned back against the bar and hooked his boot heel into England's chair leg. "Have I ever mentioned that to you?"
"And I like you much better when you're absent; have I ever mentioned that?"
"But, England--to hear you accuse anyone of being repressed is--well--"
"Yes, yes," England sneered, and bit down on the edge of his glass. Another fast swallow. "This is well-trod ground, you greasy bastard. I'm so repressed I can't get off unless I'm in the process of being half-choked with a garter, with a pail over my head, while my partner wears long johns and sings God Save The Queen."
"Your self-awareness does you credit," France approved.
"In the key of F," England reflected. "Nothing else will do."
"Perhaps it's capitalism." France boosted himself back up into the stool next to England's. "And not democracy, that forms the ideological basis for a really good fuck. Your thoughts?"
There was a silence of ten or fifteen seconds in which they both stared into space.
England heaved a sigh and rested his chin on the bar. "I can't think of a decent joke for capitalism," he admitted.
"Me neither." France stared down into his shot.
"A bit of a dead end, that."
"So sorry; I thought you might come up with something I could run with."
"No. No; I'm afraid the well is dry. …Well, I suppose it happens to everyone, let's not let it slow us down…"
Another silence. They filled it with drinking. England scowled. France's brow was creased in thought.
After a while, England sighed, "I feel a bit let down with myself, honestly."
France set down his shot glass with a crisp clank. He straightened. "Come now, there must be something. Our good names are on the line. Capitalism…capitalism…" He drummed his fingers. "Market conditions? Laissez-faire? Supply and demand…?"
England stared at the percolating inch of amber beer that was left in his glass. Slowly, he shook his head.
"You have nothing?" France sighed.
England's forehead thunked onto the bar. "I have a headache."
France pried the handle of England's glass out of his fingers, and moved it away. England growled. "Is it time for me to take you home, duckling?"
"Ha! …Ha! As if I'd allow you to…you'd like it if I'd…the very last thing I'd…I'd allow…" England half-sat up. He'd left a cheek smudge on the polished bar top. He stared at it for a few seconds, then sniffed and wiped up a trace of spittle with his wilted cuff.
"Yes, I think you're likely done." France slid to the floor and shrugged England's arm over his shoulders.
"Bloody…bastard…" England groaned as France swiveled his stool around and lifted him to his feet. His head pitched forward so hard his chin struck his collarbone. He didn't put up much of a fight as France dragged him towards the door.
Outside, the Suffolk street were cool and wet. France found his car, muscled England around it, and dumped him into the back seat. England smacked his forehead on the armrest and started cursing.
"Oh, keep it down." France slid into the front seat and rolled down the windows; the air inside the car replaced the rank stench of beer and sweat and bourbon with the fresher smell of autumn leaves and rained-out factory smoke. "Someone will think I'm kidnapping you."
An incoherent grumble from England, which was soon followed by "Now hang on a minute, I am being bloody abducted. Where are you taking me, frog? Eh? You and your…peculiar personal odors…"
France reflected on that as they pulled away from an intersection. The rain began to patter down again; he flipped on the windshield wipers, which lured a groan out of England.
"Accursed squeaking…'s like week-old brie, it is…"
"The squeaking?" France settled back in his seat and stretched his legs.
"No, your sodding…never mind…"
"I am taking you to your apartment. Alternately, you could vomit in my foot well; then I suppose I will take you so far as the closest mealy gutter and roll you into it."
England chuckled; France glanced into the rear view mirror to see him bent up on his back, his hands laced across his stomach, his eyes fixed on France in the reflection. "You'd spend the time to find a mealy one, eh?"
A smile tugged at the corner of France's mouth. "Nothing but the very best for you, duckling."
"And why not," England reflected. "Driving around in hopes of locating a gutter fit for a sodding empire: you, me, and the ripening stench of proper, respectable British vomit. That has the sound of a right adventure, it does."
"You are very drunk," France said fondly.
When they reached England's apartment, France had to fish around in England's pocket for the keys. England declared that he would "Remember this transgression" and "Do something about it at the earliest opportunity" when he could "land a decent left hook, or, at least, walk unassisted and it's in the front pocket, not the back pocket, curse your impertinent--"
France assured him that he would remind England that he was owed a punch in the jaw the next time they saw one another. They made it up the stairs, France's shoulder braced against the wall, and to England's bedroom, where France got him out of his jacket and shoes ("Further transgressions!") and heaved him otherwise clothed into bed.
England was asleep, faceplanted in the pillow, as soon as the lights went out. He snuggled his fingers into the hem of the pillowcase and gave a soft wheeze.
France smiled at him.
---
When England woke up almost definitely at some point before noon the next day, he found a note on his bedside table.
Your car is still at the pub.
I made you breakfast--
Please don't try to eat
your own cooking in your
delicate condition. You will
find it in the refrigerator.
Look in the mirror
before you leave the house.
--F
England stared at it groggily for a few seconds, then reached up to touch his face.
Eyebrows, dammit. Always the eyebrows.
+++
A prize goes to whoever comes up with the best joke about capitalism that France and England couldn't.
Also, from comments:
starstray: *suggests that France dyed England's eyebrows pink*
Me: oh God I just visualized that and it would be terrifying. Like a small, contorting vaudeville feather boa.
Starstray: illustrates and thereby creates the canonical ending to this story. I fucking love it. ♥
+++
You can look at a directory of all of my Hetalia fics here!
England is funny when he's drunk, and France is funny when he's baiting him. That was all the excuse I needed to write a fic about them bitching all night together in a Suffolk pub. Together they tackle the question "Who fucks better: capitalists or communists?" while France tries to keep England from throwing up on his shoes.
Genre: Comedy/Slice Of Life.
1970s. PG-13.
Followers of the Russia/America comm might recognize the first 300 words of this. Especially the bit about the, you know. Giant exploding cocks. I found it again the other day and decided to turn it into a fic!
---
"I wish they would just fuck already," France sighed.
England scowled at him from behind his pint of lager. "Don't be crude."
"This has been going on for twenty years, and I am tired of it. I know you and I kept our rivalry up for a millennia," France added. "But we did it with more style."
"Ah. You don't so much mind that they're causing a bloody racket, or that they might just kill us all in a fit of pique," England hazarded. He took a swallow.
"No. I mind that they are poseurs."
"I see."
"I don't think anyone can deny that we did all this first. And better."
England nodded, saying, "Not that our rivalry was a result of sexual tension."
"Oh, of course not." France flicked his hair back.
"Of course not."
A pause.
"It's not even as if they're being subtle about it." France braced his elbows back against the bar and lolled his head up to inspect the ceiling lights. "All those missiles."
"…What about the missiles."
"The shape! Just look at them!"
"They're aerodynamic," England replied thinly.
"They are giant exploding cocks, and America and Russia are threatening each other with thousands of them."
"How did you even find me? I came here to drink alone--"
"They don't even have any demands." France sounded affronted by the very idea. "Back in the old days, one at least had demands, to go along with one's outrageous threats. Tribute, better trade agreements, a province or two to make the lines on the map neater…'Surrender, and give us your women,' if one could think of nothing else."
England sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "They say it's ideological, or some rot."
France took another shot of bourbon. "'I want you to fuck me rotten' is not an ideological position."
England paused with his pint halfway to his lips. A smirk turned up the corner of his mouth. "This from you."
France angled a lazy smile down at him. He twirled a lock of hair around his finger. "Well, if you insist--would you call a dirty fuck more of a bastion of communism, or of democracy?"
England's lips moved for a few seconds, and his elbows inched further apart on the bar. He turned his glass between his hands. "Surely not communist," he said at last. "What's the…sod it…how did that Marx bastard put it…'from each according to his…'" He trailed off.
"'From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs?" France inquired. He crossed his ankles.
England waved his pint; the beer sloshed over the side and splashed across his fingers. He sucked a few drops from between his knuckles. "That's the one."
"You're disgusting," France informed him. "What about it?"
"If my manners offend you, you are more than welcome to piss off--it seems obvious to me? That if one makes a point of asking only for what is within the limits of one's ability, then one can't hope to ask America for an earnest filthy fuck--"
France crowed. He waved his empty shot glass towards the bartender. "Only four drinks in, and the claws come out, mon cher!"
"Four drinks? I was drinking for three bloody hours before you turned up, I'll have you know--do you think I'd be seen with you, out, in public, if I could get off this stool without throwing up on your poncy fucking shirt?"
France held up a hand. "You are very kind to my laundress; please stay in your seat."
England hmphed and settled back with his beer.
"But then, you suppose that the depraved fuck is a tenant of democracy." France accepted a refill. He tilted his head up and orated to the ceiling, his shot glass held delicately in three fingers. "But if that's the case, I can't imagine why our side hasn't won already."
"Ah, but you see, it's America's fault, again." England took a gulp. "All that liberty bollocks he's always on about might add up to a decent rogering if he weren't so damned repressed."
"Not that you're at all resentful," France marveled.
"I am the sodding picture of sodding forgiveness and spiritual fucking purity."
"I like you much better when you're drunk," France leaned back against the bar and hooked his boot heel into England's chair leg. "Have I ever mentioned that to you?"
"And I like you much better when you're absent; have I ever mentioned that?"
"But, England--to hear you accuse anyone of being repressed is--well--"
"Yes, yes," England sneered, and bit down on the edge of his glass. Another fast swallow. "This is well-trod ground, you greasy bastard. I'm so repressed I can't get off unless I'm in the process of being half-choked with a garter, with a pail over my head, while my partner wears long johns and sings God Save The Queen."
"Your self-awareness does you credit," France approved.
"In the key of F," England reflected. "Nothing else will do."
"Perhaps it's capitalism." France boosted himself back up into the stool next to England's. "And not democracy, that forms the ideological basis for a really good fuck. Your thoughts?"
There was a silence of ten or fifteen seconds in which they both stared into space.
England heaved a sigh and rested his chin on the bar. "I can't think of a decent joke for capitalism," he admitted.
"Me neither." France stared down into his shot.
"A bit of a dead end, that."
"So sorry; I thought you might come up with something I could run with."
"No. No; I'm afraid the well is dry. …Well, I suppose it happens to everyone, let's not let it slow us down…"
Another silence. They filled it with drinking. England scowled. France's brow was creased in thought.
After a while, England sighed, "I feel a bit let down with myself, honestly."
France set down his shot glass with a crisp clank. He straightened. "Come now, there must be something. Our good names are on the line. Capitalism…capitalism…" He drummed his fingers. "Market conditions? Laissez-faire? Supply and demand…?"
England stared at the percolating inch of amber beer that was left in his glass. Slowly, he shook his head.
"You have nothing?" France sighed.
England's forehead thunked onto the bar. "I have a headache."
France pried the handle of England's glass out of his fingers, and moved it away. England growled. "Is it time for me to take you home, duckling?"
"Ha! …Ha! As if I'd allow you to…you'd like it if I'd…the very last thing I'd…I'd allow…" England half-sat up. He'd left a cheek smudge on the polished bar top. He stared at it for a few seconds, then sniffed and wiped up a trace of spittle with his wilted cuff.
"Yes, I think you're likely done." France slid to the floor and shrugged England's arm over his shoulders.
"Bloody…bastard…" England groaned as France swiveled his stool around and lifted him to his feet. His head pitched forward so hard his chin struck his collarbone. He didn't put up much of a fight as France dragged him towards the door.
Outside, the Suffolk street were cool and wet. France found his car, muscled England around it, and dumped him into the back seat. England smacked his forehead on the armrest and started cursing.
"Oh, keep it down." France slid into the front seat and rolled down the windows; the air inside the car replaced the rank stench of beer and sweat and bourbon with the fresher smell of autumn leaves and rained-out factory smoke. "Someone will think I'm kidnapping you."
An incoherent grumble from England, which was soon followed by "Now hang on a minute, I am being bloody abducted. Where are you taking me, frog? Eh? You and your…peculiar personal odors…"
France reflected on that as they pulled away from an intersection. The rain began to patter down again; he flipped on the windshield wipers, which lured a groan out of England.
"Accursed squeaking…'s like week-old brie, it is…"
"The squeaking?" France settled back in his seat and stretched his legs.
"No, your sodding…never mind…"
"I am taking you to your apartment. Alternately, you could vomit in my foot well; then I suppose I will take you so far as the closest mealy gutter and roll you into it."
England chuckled; France glanced into the rear view mirror to see him bent up on his back, his hands laced across his stomach, his eyes fixed on France in the reflection. "You'd spend the time to find a mealy one, eh?"
A smile tugged at the corner of France's mouth. "Nothing but the very best for you, duckling."
"And why not," England reflected. "Driving around in hopes of locating a gutter fit for a sodding empire: you, me, and the ripening stench of proper, respectable British vomit. That has the sound of a right adventure, it does."
"You are very drunk," France said fondly.
When they reached England's apartment, France had to fish around in England's pocket for the keys. England declared that he would "Remember this transgression" and "Do something about it at the earliest opportunity" when he could "land a decent left hook, or, at least, walk unassisted and it's in the front pocket, not the back pocket, curse your impertinent--"
France assured him that he would remind England that he was owed a punch in the jaw the next time they saw one another. They made it up the stairs, France's shoulder braced against the wall, and to England's bedroom, where France got him out of his jacket and shoes ("Further transgressions!") and heaved him otherwise clothed into bed.
England was asleep, faceplanted in the pillow, as soon as the lights went out. He snuggled his fingers into the hem of the pillowcase and gave a soft wheeze.
France smiled at him.
---
When England woke up almost definitely at some point before noon the next day, he found a note on his bedside table.
Your car is still at the pub.
I made you breakfast--
Please don't try to eat
your own cooking in your
delicate condition. You will
find it in the refrigerator.
Look in the mirror
before you leave the house.
--F
England stared at it groggily for a few seconds, then reached up to touch his face.
Eyebrows, dammit. Always the eyebrows.
+++
A prize goes to whoever comes up with the best joke about capitalism that France and England couldn't.
Also, from comments:
starstray: *suggests that France dyed England's eyebrows pink*
Me: oh God I just visualized that and it would be terrifying. Like a small, contorting vaudeville feather boa.
Starstray: illustrates and thereby creates the canonical ending to this story. I fucking love it. ♥
+++
You can look at a directory of all of my Hetalia fics here!