http://meridianvase.livejournal.com/ (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
meridianvase.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
hetalia2011-01-05 08:25 pm
meridianvase.livejournal.com) wrote in hetalia2011-01-05 08:25 pm
Entry tags:
[Fanfic] England Drunk-Crashes a Revolutionary War Reenactment (De-anon)
Title: The Boston Massacre is an Overstatement
Author: meridianvase
Character(s)/pairing(s): England, America
Rating: PG-13 for drunk!England's mouth
Warnings: 90% silliness, 10% post-Revolutionary War angst (but mostly just shenanigans)
Summary: The prompt was "England drunk-crashes a Revolutionary War reenactment". America flies in to save the day and whatever is left of England's dignity. Yes, I wrote this.
It was all America’s fault, really. It was usually America’s fault—no, England decided, it was always America’s fault, ever since he went and did that with the… the ungrateful little… all that tea, right in the harbor, like it was nothing! And then... always… never… even now, not even a thank you, England, or, or a, a fucking, something-ruther, er… where was he? Oh, shit.
He looked despairingly at the cold beer now sloshing down his formerly crisp white shirt, unable in his drunken stupor to connect the spill to the can he held loosely in his right hand. When he raised the can to his lips, he was mortified and confused to find that it was empty… oh, right, it was all over his shirt. Damn, he was so stupid when he was drunk. Not as stupid as America though.
“All his fault, officer, I am not to blame,” he mumbled to no one in particular. “I am a perfect gentleman, good sir. This is all sh-shtupid America’s f-fault…”
It was America who’d brought up the supremacy of Budweiser over all English beers and well, England had shown him what was what and the… ooh, the ground was all squishy. He patted the soft grass where he now sat cross-legged and leaned forward on his elbows as he fought to keep his bobbing head from drooping. He felt dizzy, sea sick, like he was on a boat, a big Navy boat, ha, he used to be the best sailor, the best goddamned Navy in the whole wide world and he… this was such a lovely place for sitting, right here, wherever here was. Why hadn’t he thought of sitting here before? The green blades tickled his palm.
“S-stop that,” he giggled with a hiccup.
England couldn’t remember, or at least, couldn’t summon the intellect to even begin to recall where he was or what time it was, but if he could have at that moment he would have realized from looking at his watch that it was seven o’clock in the morning, approximately six hours after America had challenged the quality of England’s alcoholic beverages and thereby set off a chain of events that ended them up in America’s penthouse surrounded by cases of Budweiser and Guinness and Stella Artois and several other brands, not very many English, but by that point neither possessed the discretion to tell apart one beer from another. They fell asleep at some point in the early morning, but a need to vomit had torn England from his lifeless slumber and, in a half-drunk daze, led him to believe that the best thing to do after his moment of purging was drink more beer, as throwing up was simply his body’s way of telling him that he was ready for round two. He must have made a stir because America had sleepily muttered at him to keep quiet and, incredibly offended by his former colony’s complete lack of manners, he had taken his beer and gone outside, thank you very much. And now he was here, in the middle of a field.
“Need more beer,” he slurred as he pulled himself up. “Where’s it all gone? I put, put it right here.”
Suddenly, two things dawned on England: he was in a city park, not far from America’s penthouse, and he was not alone. A decent sized crowd of bright-eyed, camera wielding Americans had gathered not ten yards from where he shakily stood. Children sitting on their parent’s shoulders pointed toward whatever event was presented before them while adults took pictures and videos with their shiny digital cameras.
“What’s all the fuss ‘bout?” England squinted and tried very hard to focus on the brief glimpses he got between the shoulders of the Americans.
“Mommy, look!” A little girl pointed and shouted at a very sloppy looking England as he attempted to push his way through the crowd. “That man looks funny. He’s dirty, mommy! Lookit!”
“Shh, honey, that’s not very nice,” the mother scolded while fearfully eyeing the scruffy man who positively reeked of alcohol. “Stay close to mommy now, all right?”
“’Scuse me,” he apologized as he bumbled past the audience. “Pardon me… Ever so sorry…”
The familiar rat-a-tat-tat of a snare drum pulled some of his senses of out the deep sea of inebriation, but he was not quite close enough to the shore of sobriety to save him from future beer influenced decisions. He could almost see clearly now, at least. His head jerked in the direction of the tune he remembered from somewhere. It almost sounded like… No, definitely not. You’re drunk, you fool. He still reasoned he might as well have a look at where the sound was coming from. In fact, he was so mesmerized by the mysterious drum, he barely registered the lines of men on either side of the field dressed in colonial-era red and navy military costumes. They hardly acknowledged the drunken Brit wandering across the lawn either, so dedicated were they to their tasks of preparing recreated muskets and cannons for make-believe battle. The crowd was beginning to notice, though.
“What’s that idiot doing?” A man wearing a baseball cap asked. “Is he drunk?”
“He needs to get off the damn field or he’s gonna get his ass blasted off,” another man joked.
When England finally reached the source of the sound, he froze in shock—or at least, he froze as well as he could in his condition, which meant swaying slightly back and forth like a boat on turbulent waters.
“You…” He began before suddenly forgetting how sentences were formed. Was it object, subject, verb… no, subject, object and… that other one with the… Where was he again? He blinked and refocused his foggy gaze. Standing in front of him was a blonde haired teen dressed in the mismatched garb of the Continental Army, looking thoroughly bewildered by the tipsy man gawking at him. A traditional drum hung from his shoulders.
“You…” England started again, leaning forward to peer into the sky blue eyes of the boy, who shrunk from his tilting frame. He had begun to take on a permanent Leaning Tower of Pisa stance that threatened to land him on the ground again at any moment, and the innocent, golden-haired youth did not want to be trapped between the foul-smelling man and the muddy ground.
“Excuse me sir, but the reenactment is about to begin,” a man in a similar, if slightly more polished blue uniform announced, placing a hand on England’s shoulder. “You’re going to have to step off to the side with the rest of the crowd.”
“Oh, you want me off the field?” he asked with an attempt at a vicious glare that looked more like a squint.
“Yes, sir. I’m afraid we can’t have any disruptions,” the man responded wearily. This was not the first drunken man to stumble into one of his battle reenactments. Something about them made them a magnet for intoxicated fools. Maybe it was the Red Coats’ funny hats—they were always very enthusiastic about wanting to try one on. This guy seemed seriously upset about something, though, unlike the usual jolly drunks.
“All right then. I see that I am a disrurrup… disrup-shun, and I do not want to bother you any longer, sir. I wouldn’t want to, to get in your way now, no sir,” he shouted, throwing his hands in the air and turning toward the rest of the men dressed in 18th century costume. “D’you hear that, America?! I’m not in your way—hic—any longer! You bloody won, right?” He asked the now thoroughly annoyed man in the Officer’s coat. “Ish there somethin’ I’m missing here? You won, right? So you just felt like doin’ it again?” He pointed an accusatory finger at the wide-eyed drummer boy. “You would, you would want to do it again. All over again so you co-could laugh in my face. MY face… you, you and that dirty fucking France.” He grabbed the boy by his collar. “Were you fucking ‘im, eh? Giving ‘im… bet he just… you little shit!”
“Get off-a me!” he yelled back at the sputtering man with equal fervor, just like Revolutionary America would, that spoiled brat. He’d come from the past just to haunt him, just to laugh in his face, in ENGLAND’S face! Everyone needed to get away from his face!
The older man hoisted England off of the flabbergasted teen and began to drag him off the field, but the Englishman was surprisingly lithe and escaped from his grasp like a slippery fish. It was the same sneaky move he would pull during the 60’s and 70’s, whenever a wild mood caused him to spike his hair and break into a Sex Pistols concert.
“I’m not done with you!” He shouted at the boy, who looked at him in disgust. “All o’ you!”
The angry British man had begun to attract a larger crowd than the war reenactment itself. Amused Americans used cell phones and cameras to record him as he swung himself across the field, flailing his arms in a failed attempt to point at everyone at the same time. In less than two hours a video titled “Crazy British Guy” would gain 4,000 hits on youtube before it was deleted by an undisclosed source.
“Ooh, look at you, in your little coat with all the, the shiny buttons, ooh I bet you think you’re, think you’re a real, a real… You know. Got all your buttons on your coat and you think, you just th-think tha’ you can rebel? Against me? Yeah, yeah, tha’s what you thought, eh, that’s what that old frog told you, told you ‘oui America, you are so shpecial, you can do wizzout old England’,” he gave a terrible impression of a French accent, “like I never l-loved you enough, just ‘cause I told you to pay some bleedin’ taxes. Huh? Then you started gettin’ cheeky. ‘Oooh, these are Intolerable Acts!’ Ha! You were, you were spoiled from th’ start. That’s the problem, I tell you. It was my, my fault for bein’ so… that one word, can’t think of it. Gracious! That’s the one. Oops, ‘scuse me,” he apologized to his audience before ducking away from the grasp of the now quite perturbed man in the Officer’s coat.
What followed was a hopeless game of run and catch that lasted a good five minutes, with the Englishman displaying a surprising amount of agility and speed in his compromised state as he narrowly avoided capture by several members of the Continental army. The crowd cheered them on as they leapt over cannons and darted past the rest of the confused soldiers, who stopped to watch the bizarre spectacle. England might have made it all the way back to America’s home if he hadn’t suddenly run smack into what appeared to him to be a massive wall of red cloth, which reached out and grabbed him with what he hoped were arms.
“I’ve got him!” the red wall shouted. “Does this belong to anyone?” he joked.
England peered back and tried to get a good look at his red-coated captor. He recognized that coat, that style… this was one of his own men! Obviously a traitor, a-a reverse Benedict Arnold!
“Leggo o’ me you, you traitor to the crown! D’you know who I am? Do you know??” he cried as he attempted to twist out of his iron grip. “I’ll be tellin’ Cornwallis—no, I’ll be tellin’ old King George himself about this. Goin’ behind my back, why’s everybody always goin’ behind my back…” Exhaustion hit him like a lead pipe, and he mumbled out the rest of his sentence incoherently. He’d displayed quite a lot of energy for someone on two hours of sleep and God knows how much alcohol.
“I bet you’re tired,” the traitor chuckled, pulling the limp Englishman along as he approached the crowd. “Seriously though, does anyone know where this came from? I don’t want to have to get him arrested, he just needs to go home.”
A few people jokingly pointed fingers at their friends, but it appeared that the odd British man had appeared out of nowhere.
“Are you sure we shouldn’t press charges?” the blue-coated officer asked, still red-faced from his game of Catch-the-Lunatic.
“I’m sure the regret he’ll be feeling once he sobers up will be worse than any jail cell. Besides, look at the crowd he got us,” the red coat laughed. “Has he got a cell phone on him? We can call someone to come pick him up.”
“Mmhgfm,” England mumbled as the blue coat searched him for a phone, which he found buried deep in the left pocket of his grass-stained pants.
“Who can we call to pick you up, son?”
England sleepily blinked his eyes and yawned. “D’you know,” he said, resting his bobbing head against the broad man’s chest, “The Boston Massacre wasn’t a big deal… I mean, five bloody people, I could kill five people righ’ now an’ it wouldn’t even get on th’ telly… But I still feel bad for it, I guess.” He stared sincerely into the eyes of the American officer. “I’m sorry, ‘bout all of it, really.”
Neither man knew how to respond. “Um, that’s very nice. Do you have someone we can call to get you?”
“Alfred,” he said, reaching for the phone. “I wan’ Alfred, need to tell him somefing.”
“Should we let him call?” the red coat asked too late, as England had already maneuvered out of his grip and snatched the phone out of the blue coat’s hands.
It took several rings, but a very groggy America finally answered the phone.
“What?” he croaked after a moment of stale silence.
“Ame-Alf-rica!” England said, stumbling to decide which name to call him by. “I’ve got, got something to tell you, alright, so just, just listen and then you can talk, okay? Just listen!”
“England? Why are you calling me, you’re right he—England, where are you?”
“Listen, listen. I’m really sorry. I’m sorry about, ‘bout the taxes, an’ all the stuff in Boston an’ the quartering an’ the no represent-represt-prentation—that thing you kept goin’ on about. I’m sorry for i-it all. D’you still hate me?” he sniffed.
“England, I never hated you, I just… are you in the park?” The sound of a cannon going off in the background reminded him: the war reenactment. That was today? He’d wanted to take England to see it, before they’d lost their heads last night.
“’Cause I never, never hated you, y’know, even when you were, were shootin’ at me an’ goin’ off wif France…”
“Just stay there, okay? I’m coming to get you. Just stay there!”
“Can you come see me? I want, want to see you.” He plopped down on the ground and rested his head on his folded knees. He suddenly felt very sick.
“Don’t move. I’m coming right there!” He hung up.
“Are you comin’ to see me?” England dropped the phone and groaned. He was getting that terrible about-to-puke feeling, but nothing was coming up.
“Is someone coming to get you?” the red coat asked. He couldn’t in good conscience leave the man stranded—he’d been young once and had some recollection of instances of public drunkenness in his twenties.
“Alfred is a good lad, really. Said he’d come to see me so I could tell ‘im something…”
No sooner had he said that than America appeared, pale-faced and out of breath and looking almost as terrible as England, with his shirt half buttoned and his shoe laces untied and gray bags under his bloodshot eyes, over which he had thrown on his glasses crookedly.
“Arthur…” he groaned, clasping his aching head. “What the hell, man? Why?”
“He put up a good fight,” the red coat grinned and pat America consolingly on the shoulder. “It was a very entertaining show. But you’re lucky I didn’t call the police, or your friend would be a jail right now.”
“I’m so sorry. I can’t thank you enough, really. My friend gets a little out of control when he drinks,” he said, glaring down at his former mentor. “I promise it won’t happen again.”
“Alfred!” England tried to shoot up but ended up toppling over on the ground instead, too drunk to stand. “You’re here! I’ve got somefing, somefing to tell you…”
“Whoa there!” America took him by his arms and helped him up so he could lean against his side as they walked, one arm around England’s shoulders. “We’re gonna go home now, okay?”
“’m sorry,” he said in his shoulder.
“I know. No more drunk crashing battle reenactments, okay?” America joked as they stumbled back to his home. “Here.” He took England’s arms and placed them around his waist for support.
“You are a gentleman and a scholar, my boy,” England said in a clearer, happier voice than before. “I don’t know why I ever doubted you.”
“You too, buddy,” America smirked, mentally cataloguing it all for future story telling. Or maybe blackmailing.
“All right, I’ve got something to tell you. And this is really important so listen closely.” He leaned in closer as if to stress the importance. “I want you to have my best unicorn. Well, my second best. Her name is Wisteria, and she only eats rose petals and tealeaves. If you love her and brush her twice every day she’ll let you ride her. And when I die, you can have Larkspur too. I know you’ll take good care of them both. I trust you.” He nestled himself against America’s side and let his eyes close and his legs go limp. “Just don’t let France near them, I’ll haunt you for that.”
“Okay, England. England? Come on, we’re almost there!” He sighed. England began to snore.
America knocked open the door to his apartment with his hip when they finally made it back, England fast asleep in his arms with his head slung over his left shoulder. He lay him down gently on the unmade bed, took off his shoes, walked into the kitchen and grabbed a glass of water and a trashcan and placed them both next to the sleeping drunk man, then promptly passed out next to him, too tired to finish even taking off his glasses. He was woken up an hour later by the sound of England retching into the bin.
“Hey there sleeping beauty,” he teased when England finally finished and collapsed back against his pillow.
“Sod off. What the hell did I do last night?”
“You mean this morning.”
“Oh, Christ…”
“Don’t worry, I’ll tell you the whole story later,” he said, closing his eyes again. “And I’ll take good care of Wisteria, I promise.”
“What? No, you may not—“
“You promised!”
“You can’t even see unicorns,” England muttered into his pillow before falling back asleep.
______________
Only I would write a bros being bros fic in a porn meme... /facepalm
Author: meridianvase
Character(s)/pairing(s): England, America
Rating: PG-13 for drunk!England's mouth
Warnings: 90% silliness, 10% post-Revolutionary War angst (but mostly just shenanigans)
Summary: The prompt was "England drunk-crashes a Revolutionary War reenactment". America flies in to save the day and whatever is left of England's dignity. Yes, I wrote this.
It was all America’s fault, really. It was usually America’s fault—no, England decided, it was always America’s fault, ever since he went and did that with the… the ungrateful little… all that tea, right in the harbor, like it was nothing! And then... always… never… even now, not even a thank you, England, or, or a, a fucking, something-ruther, er… where was he? Oh, shit.
He looked despairingly at the cold beer now sloshing down his formerly crisp white shirt, unable in his drunken stupor to connect the spill to the can he held loosely in his right hand. When he raised the can to his lips, he was mortified and confused to find that it was empty… oh, right, it was all over his shirt. Damn, he was so stupid when he was drunk. Not as stupid as America though.
“All his fault, officer, I am not to blame,” he mumbled to no one in particular. “I am a perfect gentleman, good sir. This is all sh-shtupid America’s f-fault…”
It was America who’d brought up the supremacy of Budweiser over all English beers and well, England had shown him what was what and the… ooh, the ground was all squishy. He patted the soft grass where he now sat cross-legged and leaned forward on his elbows as he fought to keep his bobbing head from drooping. He felt dizzy, sea sick, like he was on a boat, a big Navy boat, ha, he used to be the best sailor, the best goddamned Navy in the whole wide world and he… this was such a lovely place for sitting, right here, wherever here was. Why hadn’t he thought of sitting here before? The green blades tickled his palm.
“S-stop that,” he giggled with a hiccup.
England couldn’t remember, or at least, couldn’t summon the intellect to even begin to recall where he was or what time it was, but if he could have at that moment he would have realized from looking at his watch that it was seven o’clock in the morning, approximately six hours after America had challenged the quality of England’s alcoholic beverages and thereby set off a chain of events that ended them up in America’s penthouse surrounded by cases of Budweiser and Guinness and Stella Artois and several other brands, not very many English, but by that point neither possessed the discretion to tell apart one beer from another. They fell asleep at some point in the early morning, but a need to vomit had torn England from his lifeless slumber and, in a half-drunk daze, led him to believe that the best thing to do after his moment of purging was drink more beer, as throwing up was simply his body’s way of telling him that he was ready for round two. He must have made a stir because America had sleepily muttered at him to keep quiet and, incredibly offended by his former colony’s complete lack of manners, he had taken his beer and gone outside, thank you very much. And now he was here, in the middle of a field.
“Need more beer,” he slurred as he pulled himself up. “Where’s it all gone? I put, put it right here.”
Suddenly, two things dawned on England: he was in a city park, not far from America’s penthouse, and he was not alone. A decent sized crowd of bright-eyed, camera wielding Americans had gathered not ten yards from where he shakily stood. Children sitting on their parent’s shoulders pointed toward whatever event was presented before them while adults took pictures and videos with their shiny digital cameras.
“What’s all the fuss ‘bout?” England squinted and tried very hard to focus on the brief glimpses he got between the shoulders of the Americans.
“Mommy, look!” A little girl pointed and shouted at a very sloppy looking England as he attempted to push his way through the crowd. “That man looks funny. He’s dirty, mommy! Lookit!”
“Shh, honey, that’s not very nice,” the mother scolded while fearfully eyeing the scruffy man who positively reeked of alcohol. “Stay close to mommy now, all right?”
“’Scuse me,” he apologized as he bumbled past the audience. “Pardon me… Ever so sorry…”
The familiar rat-a-tat-tat of a snare drum pulled some of his senses of out the deep sea of inebriation, but he was not quite close enough to the shore of sobriety to save him from future beer influenced decisions. He could almost see clearly now, at least. His head jerked in the direction of the tune he remembered from somewhere. It almost sounded like… No, definitely not. You’re drunk, you fool. He still reasoned he might as well have a look at where the sound was coming from. In fact, he was so mesmerized by the mysterious drum, he barely registered the lines of men on either side of the field dressed in colonial-era red and navy military costumes. They hardly acknowledged the drunken Brit wandering across the lawn either, so dedicated were they to their tasks of preparing recreated muskets and cannons for make-believe battle. The crowd was beginning to notice, though.
“What’s that idiot doing?” A man wearing a baseball cap asked. “Is he drunk?”
“He needs to get off the damn field or he’s gonna get his ass blasted off,” another man joked.
When England finally reached the source of the sound, he froze in shock—or at least, he froze as well as he could in his condition, which meant swaying slightly back and forth like a boat on turbulent waters.
“You…” He began before suddenly forgetting how sentences were formed. Was it object, subject, verb… no, subject, object and… that other one with the… Where was he again? He blinked and refocused his foggy gaze. Standing in front of him was a blonde haired teen dressed in the mismatched garb of the Continental Army, looking thoroughly bewildered by the tipsy man gawking at him. A traditional drum hung from his shoulders.
“You…” England started again, leaning forward to peer into the sky blue eyes of the boy, who shrunk from his tilting frame. He had begun to take on a permanent Leaning Tower of Pisa stance that threatened to land him on the ground again at any moment, and the innocent, golden-haired youth did not want to be trapped between the foul-smelling man and the muddy ground.
“Excuse me sir, but the reenactment is about to begin,” a man in a similar, if slightly more polished blue uniform announced, placing a hand on England’s shoulder. “You’re going to have to step off to the side with the rest of the crowd.”
“Oh, you want me off the field?” he asked with an attempt at a vicious glare that looked more like a squint.
“Yes, sir. I’m afraid we can’t have any disruptions,” the man responded wearily. This was not the first drunken man to stumble into one of his battle reenactments. Something about them made them a magnet for intoxicated fools. Maybe it was the Red Coats’ funny hats—they were always very enthusiastic about wanting to try one on. This guy seemed seriously upset about something, though, unlike the usual jolly drunks.
“All right then. I see that I am a disrurrup… disrup-shun, and I do not want to bother you any longer, sir. I wouldn’t want to, to get in your way now, no sir,” he shouted, throwing his hands in the air and turning toward the rest of the men dressed in 18th century costume. “D’you hear that, America?! I’m not in your way—hic—any longer! You bloody won, right?” He asked the now thoroughly annoyed man in the Officer’s coat. “Ish there somethin’ I’m missing here? You won, right? So you just felt like doin’ it again?” He pointed an accusatory finger at the wide-eyed drummer boy. “You would, you would want to do it again. All over again so you co-could laugh in my face. MY face… you, you and that dirty fucking France.” He grabbed the boy by his collar. “Were you fucking ‘im, eh? Giving ‘im… bet he just… you little shit!”
“Get off-a me!” he yelled back at the sputtering man with equal fervor, just like Revolutionary America would, that spoiled brat. He’d come from the past just to haunt him, just to laugh in his face, in ENGLAND’S face! Everyone needed to get away from his face!
The older man hoisted England off of the flabbergasted teen and began to drag him off the field, but the Englishman was surprisingly lithe and escaped from his grasp like a slippery fish. It was the same sneaky move he would pull during the 60’s and 70’s, whenever a wild mood caused him to spike his hair and break into a Sex Pistols concert.
“I’m not done with you!” He shouted at the boy, who looked at him in disgust. “All o’ you!”
The angry British man had begun to attract a larger crowd than the war reenactment itself. Amused Americans used cell phones and cameras to record him as he swung himself across the field, flailing his arms in a failed attempt to point at everyone at the same time. In less than two hours a video titled “Crazy British Guy” would gain 4,000 hits on youtube before it was deleted by an undisclosed source.
“Ooh, look at you, in your little coat with all the, the shiny buttons, ooh I bet you think you’re, think you’re a real, a real… You know. Got all your buttons on your coat and you think, you just th-think tha’ you can rebel? Against me? Yeah, yeah, tha’s what you thought, eh, that’s what that old frog told you, told you ‘oui America, you are so shpecial, you can do wizzout old England’,” he gave a terrible impression of a French accent, “like I never l-loved you enough, just ‘cause I told you to pay some bleedin’ taxes. Huh? Then you started gettin’ cheeky. ‘Oooh, these are Intolerable Acts!’ Ha! You were, you were spoiled from th’ start. That’s the problem, I tell you. It was my, my fault for bein’ so… that one word, can’t think of it. Gracious! That’s the one. Oops, ‘scuse me,” he apologized to his audience before ducking away from the grasp of the now quite perturbed man in the Officer’s coat.
What followed was a hopeless game of run and catch that lasted a good five minutes, with the Englishman displaying a surprising amount of agility and speed in his compromised state as he narrowly avoided capture by several members of the Continental army. The crowd cheered them on as they leapt over cannons and darted past the rest of the confused soldiers, who stopped to watch the bizarre spectacle. England might have made it all the way back to America’s home if he hadn’t suddenly run smack into what appeared to him to be a massive wall of red cloth, which reached out and grabbed him with what he hoped were arms.
“I’ve got him!” the red wall shouted. “Does this belong to anyone?” he joked.
England peered back and tried to get a good look at his red-coated captor. He recognized that coat, that style… this was one of his own men! Obviously a traitor, a-a reverse Benedict Arnold!
“Leggo o’ me you, you traitor to the crown! D’you know who I am? Do you know??” he cried as he attempted to twist out of his iron grip. “I’ll be tellin’ Cornwallis—no, I’ll be tellin’ old King George himself about this. Goin’ behind my back, why’s everybody always goin’ behind my back…” Exhaustion hit him like a lead pipe, and he mumbled out the rest of his sentence incoherently. He’d displayed quite a lot of energy for someone on two hours of sleep and God knows how much alcohol.
“I bet you’re tired,” the traitor chuckled, pulling the limp Englishman along as he approached the crowd. “Seriously though, does anyone know where this came from? I don’t want to have to get him arrested, he just needs to go home.”
A few people jokingly pointed fingers at their friends, but it appeared that the odd British man had appeared out of nowhere.
“Are you sure we shouldn’t press charges?” the blue-coated officer asked, still red-faced from his game of Catch-the-Lunatic.
“I’m sure the regret he’ll be feeling once he sobers up will be worse than any jail cell. Besides, look at the crowd he got us,” the red coat laughed. “Has he got a cell phone on him? We can call someone to come pick him up.”
“Mmhgfm,” England mumbled as the blue coat searched him for a phone, which he found buried deep in the left pocket of his grass-stained pants.
“Who can we call to pick you up, son?”
England sleepily blinked his eyes and yawned. “D’you know,” he said, resting his bobbing head against the broad man’s chest, “The Boston Massacre wasn’t a big deal… I mean, five bloody people, I could kill five people righ’ now an’ it wouldn’t even get on th’ telly… But I still feel bad for it, I guess.” He stared sincerely into the eyes of the American officer. “I’m sorry, ‘bout all of it, really.”
Neither man knew how to respond. “Um, that’s very nice. Do you have someone we can call to get you?”
“Alfred,” he said, reaching for the phone. “I wan’ Alfred, need to tell him somefing.”
“Should we let him call?” the red coat asked too late, as England had already maneuvered out of his grip and snatched the phone out of the blue coat’s hands.
It took several rings, but a very groggy America finally answered the phone.
“What?” he croaked after a moment of stale silence.
“Ame-Alf-rica!” England said, stumbling to decide which name to call him by. “I’ve got, got something to tell you, alright, so just, just listen and then you can talk, okay? Just listen!”
“England? Why are you calling me, you’re right he—England, where are you?”
“Listen, listen. I’m really sorry. I’m sorry about, ‘bout the taxes, an’ all the stuff in Boston an’ the quartering an’ the no represent-represt-prentation—that thing you kept goin’ on about. I’m sorry for i-it all. D’you still hate me?” he sniffed.
“England, I never hated you, I just… are you in the park?” The sound of a cannon going off in the background reminded him: the war reenactment. That was today? He’d wanted to take England to see it, before they’d lost their heads last night.
“’Cause I never, never hated you, y’know, even when you were, were shootin’ at me an’ goin’ off wif France…”
“Just stay there, okay? I’m coming to get you. Just stay there!”
“Can you come see me? I want, want to see you.” He plopped down on the ground and rested his head on his folded knees. He suddenly felt very sick.
“Don’t move. I’m coming right there!” He hung up.
“Are you comin’ to see me?” England dropped the phone and groaned. He was getting that terrible about-to-puke feeling, but nothing was coming up.
“Is someone coming to get you?” the red coat asked. He couldn’t in good conscience leave the man stranded—he’d been young once and had some recollection of instances of public drunkenness in his twenties.
“Alfred is a good lad, really. Said he’d come to see me so I could tell ‘im something…”
No sooner had he said that than America appeared, pale-faced and out of breath and looking almost as terrible as England, with his shirt half buttoned and his shoe laces untied and gray bags under his bloodshot eyes, over which he had thrown on his glasses crookedly.
“Arthur…” he groaned, clasping his aching head. “What the hell, man? Why?”
“He put up a good fight,” the red coat grinned and pat America consolingly on the shoulder. “It was a very entertaining show. But you’re lucky I didn’t call the police, or your friend would be a jail right now.”
“I’m so sorry. I can’t thank you enough, really. My friend gets a little out of control when he drinks,” he said, glaring down at his former mentor. “I promise it won’t happen again.”
“Alfred!” England tried to shoot up but ended up toppling over on the ground instead, too drunk to stand. “You’re here! I’ve got somefing, somefing to tell you…”
“Whoa there!” America took him by his arms and helped him up so he could lean against his side as they walked, one arm around England’s shoulders. “We’re gonna go home now, okay?”
“’m sorry,” he said in his shoulder.
“I know. No more drunk crashing battle reenactments, okay?” America joked as they stumbled back to his home. “Here.” He took England’s arms and placed them around his waist for support.
“You are a gentleman and a scholar, my boy,” England said in a clearer, happier voice than before. “I don’t know why I ever doubted you.”
“You too, buddy,” America smirked, mentally cataloguing it all for future story telling. Or maybe blackmailing.
“All right, I’ve got something to tell you. And this is really important so listen closely.” He leaned in closer as if to stress the importance. “I want you to have my best unicorn. Well, my second best. Her name is Wisteria, and she only eats rose petals and tealeaves. If you love her and brush her twice every day she’ll let you ride her. And when I die, you can have Larkspur too. I know you’ll take good care of them both. I trust you.” He nestled himself against America’s side and let his eyes close and his legs go limp. “Just don’t let France near them, I’ll haunt you for that.”
“Okay, England. England? Come on, we’re almost there!” He sighed. England began to snore.
America knocked open the door to his apartment with his hip when they finally made it back, England fast asleep in his arms with his head slung over his left shoulder. He lay him down gently on the unmade bed, took off his shoes, walked into the kitchen and grabbed a glass of water and a trashcan and placed them both next to the sleeping drunk man, then promptly passed out next to him, too tired to finish even taking off his glasses. He was woken up an hour later by the sound of England retching into the bin.
“Hey there sleeping beauty,” he teased when England finally finished and collapsed back against his pillow.
“Sod off. What the hell did I do last night?”
“You mean this morning.”
“Oh, Christ…”
“Don’t worry, I’ll tell you the whole story later,” he said, closing his eyes again. “And I’ll take good care of Wisteria, I promise.”
“What? No, you may not—“
“You promised!”
“You can’t even see unicorns,” England muttered into his pillow before falling back asleep.
______________
Only I would write a bros being bros fic in a porn meme... /facepalm
no subject
The angry British man had begun to attract a larger crowd than the war reenactment itself. Amused Americans used cell phones and cameras to record him as he swung himself across the field, flailing his arms in a failed attempt to point at everyone at the same time. In less than two hours a video titled “Crazy British Guy” would gain 4,000 hits on youtube before it was deleted by an undisclosed source. <~ THis is still epic.
Thanks for the deanon! Now I can mem.
no subject
I will use tiny hearts to convey my happiness ~ ♥ ~
no subject
Oh England, never change XD
no subject
Yes, yes, totally awesome. xD
no subject
no subject
Crazy British Guy is amazing. (I actually have a little guy I doodle named Angry British Guy...)
Your H!AV Cross-The-Shit-Over-The-Delaware icon is amazing. That's really the main reason I popped in here. xD
no subject
no subject
-love it!-
no subject
I was supposed to try to fill it, but yours is WAY better than what I cooked up.I absolutely loved this. And your drunk!England. Also, LOL at the unicorn thing. XD
...I wish Arthur would give me one of his unicorns too. :(no subject
I want that damn flying mint bunny.no subject
no subject
Wisteria got me. :D
Great fill. Love it.
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
Thanks SO much for deanoning! I would have missed this, otherwise! ;O;
no subject
no subject
no subject
no subject
These were the moments when I laughed audibly:
all that tea, right in the harbor, like it was nothing!
he used to be the best sailor, the best goddamned Navy in the whole wide world and he…
Everyone needed to get away from his face!
ooh I bet you think you’re, think you’re a real, a real… You know. Got all your buttons on your coat and you think, you just th-think tha’ you can rebel? Against me?
he’d been young once and had some recollection of instances of public drunkenness in his twenties.
Her name is Wisteria, and she only eats rose petals and tealeaves.
no subject
no subject
But yeah, I hear you, I've fallen out of the habit too... I've been reading and stuff recently, and reworking/posting an old meme fill, but I haven't written anything new in ages and ages.
no subject