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hetalia2009-09-11 06:59 pm
inuyashacooks.livejournal.com) wrote in hetalia2009-09-11 06:59 pm
Entry tags:
[fanfic] You, Me, and Midnight
Title: You, Me, and Midnight
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
inuyashacooks
Character(s)/Pairing(s): US x UK, France
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: language, England being offensively drunk, America defending The Brady Bunch, THE SEVENTIES, MAN, weird switching between crack and non-crack, gratuitous references to subculture
Summary: Sometime in the 70s, America meets up with England in a London club, and has a lolfest over England being all punk'd out. Club fights, drunkenness, trickery, France, and general stupidity ensues.
YOU, ME, AND MIDNIGHT
London, 1970s
The lights drifted by in a technicolor dream in this club- America honestly didn’t know what he was doing in London- England prolly wouldn’t want to see him- but it was okay. He felt sorely out of place in the dank room full of weirdos in makeup...but as though directed by a trick of light he recognized the back of England’s head, reading some poster on the wall. "Oh, hey," America greeyed, voice a low light against the timid static between sets- the stage in shambles- reached out to tap on England’s shoulder. England turned around-
And America had a hard time digesting what he saw. England with black lining his eyes heavily, like smoke- losing his balance, America could see England was already sorta buzzed- lips black, some other weird makeup smudged along his jaw, and what looked like somebody else’s lipstick making a warrior’s streak on his cheek. He was stuck in his own personal tsunami, had black leather pants and a tight t-shirt on and a leather collar round his neck...England looked up at America curiously, took a small sip of his drink.
America paused; light welled up in him. England quirked an eyebrow- America then let out a struggling sound that evaporated into laughter, tumbled up and up like ringing bells. England’s face turned a furious red- "What the Hell’s funny, fucking git? Eh?"
"O-oh my God," America stammered, clutching his stomach, laughter shortening his breath; he paused, took a good measure of England with electric blue in his eyes- then descended right back into his own private joke. "Oh my God- oh my God- that is too much- that is just- wow, England, awesome-"
"Sh-shut up, idiot!" England protested, shoving America roughly, tossing his glass aside.
"Wow, you actually had to put that stuff on? Did you- like- get the color scheme from Tiger Beat? Did you like ask your girlfriends what looked better?" He paused- then, "Black Widow or Blood Red- AHAH, that’s fucking rich! And then did you like- blow up mailboxes and write poetry and cry?"
"Shut the fuck up!" England responded, punching America in the shoulder.
"Hey, no reason to hit me!" America yelled; people looked at them strangely. America shuffled uncomfortably. "...It’s not my fault you look like a dweeb."
"I look like a dweeb? Alright, Mr. Brady," England responded, tongue like acid, rolling his eyes.
"Mr. Brady!? What does that mean! The Brady Bunch is awesome!" America cried, now irritatingly conscious of his bell-bottoms, polo shirt, suede vest, and Keds...oh, well. They stood silently for a moment, between sound- waiting for something to come up.
"So- eh- you’re here for the band, I presume?" England said uncomfortably, crossing his arms.
"Uhm, not really- I was just looking for you," America answered, too quick. Another pause settled on the air. "Uh- nice weather tonight, huh?"
"Hm? Yes, quite," England nodded.
The silence, this time, was too much, and-
America’s laugh broke out again. "Oh God- to think you like- get up every morning and brush your teeth and read the newspaper and eat prunes like an old dude and feed pigeons in the park-"
"I do not do any of that!"
"-and like embroider tea cozies and then you put on your makeup and rebel- like get wild and shit-"
"Listen asshole, don’t you have an economy to attend to?"
"-Have you checked the stocks today, Sid Vicious?" America sputtered, laughter drowning out England’s vague insults; America turned to the crowd at large, and shouted over the murmur of conversation, the static of the instruments, "Everyone, this is the man who taught me to wear a suit!"
And with no further warning, England reeled back and punched America, aiming for the jaw but mysteriously landing at the throat- America let out a choke, a surprised cough, and looked at England heatedly, as if to say "What was that for!", and England, as though to answer that question, lunged at America, toppling him, sending a flurry of punches at his chest.
"OW OW OW! What are you doing, you crazy old man!?" America balked, pushing England off him- but England just lunged forward again...this time though, he overshot it, and ended up headbutting America by accident, right under his eye- he felt a sudden salt rise in his head, felt the bones ring, and America reeled back, cupping his face.
"You’re crazy! Ow!" America protested, punching England in the jaw- and then, the band was tuning- notes going up and down, and somebody yelled with excitement-
"FIGHT!"
America and England looked around at the suddenly hungry band of vicious chain-wielding makeup-wearing punks- flashing knives, one seriously turned to the other with a huge grin and punched him in the face. America and England looked at each other and panicked, instincts teaming them up. "Uh, ah, no, that’s not-" England started to say, but the fracas had already begun: it moved its way from the middle, fanning outwards like a virus. Violence all around, and the lights seemed to dim-
England and America exchanged worried glances. They needed to get out of here, and quick, because in addition to the general uncomfortable disorder of club fights, there was one six-foot Irishman looking straight at them with the starving eyes of some wild beast on speed, and neither of them were quite prepared for that. Suddenly movements from the war days came to the forefront- England saw a way out and America secured their position- they dodged past a few girls who were tearing each other’s hair out, removed somebody from their path, then on the way out kicked over a potted plant for to create a short obstacle to any pursuers, and also just because America wanted to kick over a potted plant because it really should be done more often---
And then the cool breeze of baby autumn swept over the concrete, and they ran off to the right, directionless, toward a nameless light- some kind of weird escape. They brushed past a man coming off the late train with a briefcase and a heavy coat who shot them a strange look- "Egh! Bloody punks, ruining our England."
"Oi, I am England, you wanker!" he called back, but the man didn’t seem to hear them, and they stopped in front of an alley.
The lamplight was tacky and wolf-slim, but it seemed to clarify things a bit. A heavy pause fell like perfume over the air between. America cleared his throat. "I, uh, I’m sorry- for making fun of your- uhm outfit," he said, and England turned a suspicious glance back toward him. America kicked at the ground, nervous-like. England rose an eyebrow expectantly. "It’s- just. I mean, I kind of like it. Out here that is. ’Cuz back there it just kind of looked the same as everyone else. But it looks different here. Uh. Yeah."
England paused; his eyes measured America’s words carefully, and though he tried to keep a cool mind he could feel the blush rising onto his cheeks. "Oh- eh- well, thank you," he answered, coughing slightly. He leaned back onto the dark plush air; America smiled absently- a cheaply decorated grin, full of white soda stars.
A car whirled by, blasting some song- "See me in my heels and ting/ Dem check sey we hip and ting..." Lonely midnight sounds.
"So," America said, folding his arms over his chest, "What do you want to do now?"
England eyed him curiously; then let off a heavy sigh, and brushed his hand through his hair. "Well, I can was this shit off and we can go see Dillinger at Speakeasy."
"Awesome," America grinned, beginning to walk off into the dark ahead.
England’s eyes sparked in irritation. "You idiot, do you even know where Speakeasy is?"
"Sure, I always know where I’m going," America said distractedly.
England rolled his eyes. "No, you don’t," he answered, tugging America in the opposite direction. America just shrugged, and England got out a cigarette- appraised America’s outfit with slim eyes. "Although, you probably don’t know who the fuck Dillinger is, Mr. Brady."
"I do so know who Dillinger is," America answered vehemently; then began, "A knife, a fork, a bottle and a cork/ That’s the way we spell New York- right?"
"Hmm, right," England nodded- took a drag, looked America over like water brushing off grass- if he took off that cheesy vest, he’d actually be quite alright- oh, better than alright, but did he have to know that? England yawned and America stole his cigarette. "You know, I might be wrong but I believe Jacques Dutronc’s in London tonight- we could run into that bastard France." He took his cigarette back with a swift, seamless motion. "I haven’t kicked that frog’s ass in a long time."
"He’s creepy though," America pouted, "And hairy. And he’s always hitting on me..."
England felt a flash of jealousy, but he let it slide off his heart like oil. "Chin up, my boy, don’t cry about it- he does that to everyone," he bit, determined to run into France tonight because he felt like a giving out a good ass-kicking.
And that night they did run into France- after England washed off his heavy makeup in the bathroom of the Speakeasy, and after they stayed a while for the Dillinger show, they made their way over to some weird cavern club where Jacques Dutronc was blasting away onstage- to see none other than France, sitting back, being very French with his cigarette and his scarf tossed about his neck just so and his bottle of wine (God knows where he was hiding the baguette, the beret, and the mime makeup, that was all he needed to complete the picture)- and England, somewhat drunk, grabbed the opportunity by the horns and smacked him right on the back of the head. He and France got into a fight, which France immediately gained the upper hand in by taking England by his leather collar.
"Who’s got the front seat now!?" France barked, shaking England.
"Fuck you, Marceau!"
"You-! I can’t believe- Marceau is a Saint!"
And America, always responding appropriately, jeered at England for losing the fight so quick- "England, pull your skirt down, I can see your vagina from here," at which England dissolved into drunken tears, and the club patrons looked nervously at this group of degenerates. France settled the situation quickly, and the rest went smoothly (America and France talked while England had endless drinks and, in his words, "didn’t afraid of anything") until France grabbed himself a handful of American ass. Which was stepping too far, so America gave France a jab in the stomach and dragged England out of the club-
And they went windy down along the lanes of midnight, feeling fine and falling into the dark. Looking over its pluses and minuses, America considered it a night well-spent, even with England’s weird trends and alcoholism, and France’s grabby hands...
"’Ey, you!" England slurred, leaning against America, "Be a good chap an’ get me a cuppa tea?"
"Okay!" America chirped with cheerful alacrity, and went over to a small stand to get a cup of coffee instead; handed it to England after paying.
"Ugh, savior," England muttered, apparently by way of thanks, taking a hearty chug.
"I know, right? I am a hero," America replied, with a flashing smile.
"Not you, gitface, the tea," England snapped, taking another slug of it. He looked at it curiously. "Da-damn good tea, eh? Strong, though- got it from- ahaha- I can’t feel my feet!" He paused; looked at America, seemed to be concentrating- then, eyes taking on that whitish, weird look they had when he had evil on his mind, he shouted to the street- "I CAN’T FEEL MY FEET-"
"Jeez, you’re weird!" America laughed, and then picked England up with a fluid movement, slung him over his shoulder. England kicked and yelled- "Put me fucking down right fucking now"- but America was a hero, and well, heroes did these things for drunken weirdos.
England threw his cup of "tea" down on the sidewalk and seemed to relax against America. "Take a right here, dumbass," he slurred- then twisted a little bit, to say in hushed tones, "It’s nice of you to- carry me, you bastard. Not that I’m thanking you. I’m just saying."
"Sure thing," America answered, and took a turned at the corner- smoke blowing down the street, streaming from a bus...
"You’re an ingrate," England said pitifully, attempting to smack America in the face, but his arm fell like a wet noodle, and he ended up just touching America’s jawline- "Stupid brat-"
"You too," America answered, kissing England’s wrist lightly, and continued on the road home listening to England’s wild protests, and the note of laughter ringing therein.
NOTES;;
1] Tiger Beat is a teen magazine that was popular in the 60s and 70s and to my amazement is still in publication.
2] "Listen, asshole, don't you have an economy to attend to?" - refers to America's really weird economic situation in the 70s.
3] The Speakeasy; Dillinger. I have no fucking idea whether or not Dillinger played at the Speakeasy in the 70s XD
4] Jacques Dutronc, awesome French musician.
5] Marcel Marceau, French mime who died two years ago I think.
6] songs mentioned are Cocaine In My Brain by Dillinger and Uptown Top Rankin' by Althea and Donna, two songs I recommend cause they're good medicine.
...so that was one of the weirdest things I've written XD and that's saying something, 'cause I wrote a fic called Funeral Party. Sorry if I just wasted like 10 minutes of your life with my sleep-deprived silliness.
Regardless, thanks for reading! :D
Author:
inuyashacooksCharacter(s)/Pairing(s): US x UK, France
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: language, England being offensively drunk, America defending The Brady Bunch, THE SEVENTIES, MAN, weird switching between crack and non-crack, gratuitous references to subculture
Summary: Sometime in the 70s, America meets up with England in a London club, and has a lolfest over England being all punk'd out. Club fights, drunkenness, trickery, France, and general stupidity ensues.
YOU, ME, AND MIDNIGHT
London, 1970s
The lights drifted by in a technicolor dream in this club- America honestly didn’t know what he was doing in London- England prolly wouldn’t want to see him- but it was okay. He felt sorely out of place in the dank room full of weirdos in makeup...but as though directed by a trick of light he recognized the back of England’s head, reading some poster on the wall. "Oh, hey," America greeyed, voice a low light against the timid static between sets- the stage in shambles- reached out to tap on England’s shoulder. England turned around-
And America had a hard time digesting what he saw. England with black lining his eyes heavily, like smoke- losing his balance, America could see England was already sorta buzzed- lips black, some other weird makeup smudged along his jaw, and what looked like somebody else’s lipstick making a warrior’s streak on his cheek. He was stuck in his own personal tsunami, had black leather pants and a tight t-shirt on and a leather collar round his neck...England looked up at America curiously, took a small sip of his drink.
America paused; light welled up in him. England quirked an eyebrow- America then let out a struggling sound that evaporated into laughter, tumbled up and up like ringing bells. England’s face turned a furious red- "What the Hell’s funny, fucking git? Eh?"
"O-oh my God," America stammered, clutching his stomach, laughter shortening his breath; he paused, took a good measure of England with electric blue in his eyes- then descended right back into his own private joke. "Oh my God- oh my God- that is too much- that is just- wow, England, awesome-"
"Sh-shut up, idiot!" England protested, shoving America roughly, tossing his glass aside.
"Wow, you actually had to put that stuff on? Did you- like- get the color scheme from Tiger Beat? Did you like ask your girlfriends what looked better?" He paused- then, "Black Widow or Blood Red- AHAH, that’s fucking rich! And then did you like- blow up mailboxes and write poetry and cry?"
"Shut the fuck up!" England responded, punching America in the shoulder.
"Hey, no reason to hit me!" America yelled; people looked at them strangely. America shuffled uncomfortably. "...It’s not my fault you look like a dweeb."
"I look like a dweeb? Alright, Mr. Brady," England responded, tongue like acid, rolling his eyes.
"Mr. Brady!? What does that mean! The Brady Bunch is awesome!" America cried, now irritatingly conscious of his bell-bottoms, polo shirt, suede vest, and Keds...oh, well. They stood silently for a moment, between sound- waiting for something to come up.
"So- eh- you’re here for the band, I presume?" England said uncomfortably, crossing his arms.
"Uhm, not really- I was just looking for you," America answered, too quick. Another pause settled on the air. "Uh- nice weather tonight, huh?"
"Hm? Yes, quite," England nodded.
The silence, this time, was too much, and-
America’s laugh broke out again. "Oh God- to think you like- get up every morning and brush your teeth and read the newspaper and eat prunes like an old dude and feed pigeons in the park-"
"I do not do any of that!"
"-and like embroider tea cozies and then you put on your makeup and rebel- like get wild and shit-"
"Listen asshole, don’t you have an economy to attend to?"
"-Have you checked the stocks today, Sid Vicious?" America sputtered, laughter drowning out England’s vague insults; America turned to the crowd at large, and shouted over the murmur of conversation, the static of the instruments, "Everyone, this is the man who taught me to wear a suit!"
And with no further warning, England reeled back and punched America, aiming for the jaw but mysteriously landing at the throat- America let out a choke, a surprised cough, and looked at England heatedly, as if to say "What was that for!", and England, as though to answer that question, lunged at America, toppling him, sending a flurry of punches at his chest.
"OW OW OW! What are you doing, you crazy old man!?" America balked, pushing England off him- but England just lunged forward again...this time though, he overshot it, and ended up headbutting America by accident, right under his eye- he felt a sudden salt rise in his head, felt the bones ring, and America reeled back, cupping his face.
"You’re crazy! Ow!" America protested, punching England in the jaw- and then, the band was tuning- notes going up and down, and somebody yelled with excitement-
"FIGHT!"
America and England looked around at the suddenly hungry band of vicious chain-wielding makeup-wearing punks- flashing knives, one seriously turned to the other with a huge grin and punched him in the face. America and England looked at each other and panicked, instincts teaming them up. "Uh, ah, no, that’s not-" England started to say, but the fracas had already begun: it moved its way from the middle, fanning outwards like a virus. Violence all around, and the lights seemed to dim-
England and America exchanged worried glances. They needed to get out of here, and quick, because in addition to the general uncomfortable disorder of club fights, there was one six-foot Irishman looking straight at them with the starving eyes of some wild beast on speed, and neither of them were quite prepared for that. Suddenly movements from the war days came to the forefront- England saw a way out and America secured their position- they dodged past a few girls who were tearing each other’s hair out, removed somebody from their path, then on the way out kicked over a potted plant for to create a short obstacle to any pursuers, and also just because America wanted to kick over a potted plant because it really should be done more often---
And then the cool breeze of baby autumn swept over the concrete, and they ran off to the right, directionless, toward a nameless light- some kind of weird escape. They brushed past a man coming off the late train with a briefcase and a heavy coat who shot them a strange look- "Egh! Bloody punks, ruining our England."
"Oi, I am England, you wanker!" he called back, but the man didn’t seem to hear them, and they stopped in front of an alley.
The lamplight was tacky and wolf-slim, but it seemed to clarify things a bit. A heavy pause fell like perfume over the air between. America cleared his throat. "I, uh, I’m sorry- for making fun of your- uhm outfit," he said, and England turned a suspicious glance back toward him. America kicked at the ground, nervous-like. England rose an eyebrow expectantly. "It’s- just. I mean, I kind of like it. Out here that is. ’Cuz back there it just kind of looked the same as everyone else. But it looks different here. Uh. Yeah."
England paused; his eyes measured America’s words carefully, and though he tried to keep a cool mind he could feel the blush rising onto his cheeks. "Oh- eh- well, thank you," he answered, coughing slightly. He leaned back onto the dark plush air; America smiled absently- a cheaply decorated grin, full of white soda stars.
A car whirled by, blasting some song- "See me in my heels and ting/ Dem check sey we hip and ting..." Lonely midnight sounds.
"So," America said, folding his arms over his chest, "What do you want to do now?"
England eyed him curiously; then let off a heavy sigh, and brushed his hand through his hair. "Well, I can was this shit off and we can go see Dillinger at Speakeasy."
"Awesome," America grinned, beginning to walk off into the dark ahead.
England’s eyes sparked in irritation. "You idiot, do you even know where Speakeasy is?"
"Sure, I always know where I’m going," America said distractedly.
England rolled his eyes. "No, you don’t," he answered, tugging America in the opposite direction. America just shrugged, and England got out a cigarette- appraised America’s outfit with slim eyes. "Although, you probably don’t know who the fuck Dillinger is, Mr. Brady."
"I do so know who Dillinger is," America answered vehemently; then began, "A knife, a fork, a bottle and a cork/ That’s the way we spell New York- right?"
"Hmm, right," England nodded- took a drag, looked America over like water brushing off grass- if he took off that cheesy vest, he’d actually be quite alright- oh, better than alright, but did he have to know that? England yawned and America stole his cigarette. "You know, I might be wrong but I believe Jacques Dutronc’s in London tonight- we could run into that bastard France." He took his cigarette back with a swift, seamless motion. "I haven’t kicked that frog’s ass in a long time."
"He’s creepy though," America pouted, "And hairy. And he’s always hitting on me..."
England felt a flash of jealousy, but he let it slide off his heart like oil. "Chin up, my boy, don’t cry about it- he does that to everyone," he bit, determined to run into France tonight because he felt like a giving out a good ass-kicking.
And that night they did run into France- after England washed off his heavy makeup in the bathroom of the Speakeasy, and after they stayed a while for the Dillinger show, they made their way over to some weird cavern club where Jacques Dutronc was blasting away onstage- to see none other than France, sitting back, being very French with his cigarette and his scarf tossed about his neck just so and his bottle of wine (God knows where he was hiding the baguette, the beret, and the mime makeup, that was all he needed to complete the picture)- and England, somewhat drunk, grabbed the opportunity by the horns and smacked him right on the back of the head. He and France got into a fight, which France immediately gained the upper hand in by taking England by his leather collar.
"Who’s got the front seat now!?" France barked, shaking England.
"Fuck you, Marceau!"
"You-! I can’t believe- Marceau is a Saint!"
And America, always responding appropriately, jeered at England for losing the fight so quick- "England, pull your skirt down, I can see your vagina from here," at which England dissolved into drunken tears, and the club patrons looked nervously at this group of degenerates. France settled the situation quickly, and the rest went smoothly (America and France talked while England had endless drinks and, in his words, "didn’t afraid of anything") until France grabbed himself a handful of American ass. Which was stepping too far, so America gave France a jab in the stomach and dragged England out of the club-
And they went windy down along the lanes of midnight, feeling fine and falling into the dark. Looking over its pluses and minuses, America considered it a night well-spent, even with England’s weird trends and alcoholism, and France’s grabby hands...
"’Ey, you!" England slurred, leaning against America, "Be a good chap an’ get me a cuppa tea?"
"Okay!" America chirped with cheerful alacrity, and went over to a small stand to get a cup of coffee instead; handed it to England after paying.
"Ugh, savior," England muttered, apparently by way of thanks, taking a hearty chug.
"I know, right? I am a hero," America replied, with a flashing smile.
"Not you, gitface, the tea," England snapped, taking another slug of it. He looked at it curiously. "Da-damn good tea, eh? Strong, though- got it from- ahaha- I can’t feel my feet!" He paused; looked at America, seemed to be concentrating- then, eyes taking on that whitish, weird look they had when he had evil on his mind, he shouted to the street- "I CAN’T FEEL MY FEET-"
"Jeez, you’re weird!" America laughed, and then picked England up with a fluid movement, slung him over his shoulder. England kicked and yelled- "Put me fucking down right fucking now"- but America was a hero, and well, heroes did these things for drunken weirdos.
England threw his cup of "tea" down on the sidewalk and seemed to relax against America. "Take a right here, dumbass," he slurred- then twisted a little bit, to say in hushed tones, "It’s nice of you to- carry me, you bastard. Not that I’m thanking you. I’m just saying."
"Sure thing," America answered, and took a turned at the corner- smoke blowing down the street, streaming from a bus...
"You’re an ingrate," England said pitifully, attempting to smack America in the face, but his arm fell like a wet noodle, and he ended up just touching America’s jawline- "Stupid brat-"
"You too," America answered, kissing England’s wrist lightly, and continued on the road home listening to England’s wild protests, and the note of laughter ringing therein.
NOTES;;
1] Tiger Beat is a teen magazine that was popular in the 60s and 70s and to my amazement is still in publication.
2] "Listen, asshole, don't you have an economy to attend to?" - refers to America's really weird economic situation in the 70s.
3] The Speakeasy; Dillinger. I have no fucking idea whether or not Dillinger played at the Speakeasy in the 70s XD
4] Jacques Dutronc, awesome French musician.
5] Marcel Marceau, French mime who died two years ago I think.
6] songs mentioned are Cocaine In My Brain by Dillinger and Uptown Top Rankin' by Althea and Donna, two songs I recommend cause they're good medicine.
...so that was one of the weirdest things I've written XD and that's saying something, 'cause I wrote a fic called Funeral Party. Sorry if I just wasted like 10 minutes of your life with my sleep-deprived silliness.
Regardless, thanks for reading! :D