Fanfiction: Bonfire (Moments 6/100) (Hetalia)
“Not going to Battersea this year?” France asks as he takes England’s glass from his unresisting hand and takes a swig. He winces as the beer hits the back of his throat and quickly hands it back - England’s beer isn’t the best way to start the evening.
“Well, if you really want to see a poncy show on the theme of ‘love’ we can relocate.” England replies, before downing what’s left of the glass and straightening up.
France eyes England. “Love? What does that have to do with someone attempting to blow up your houses of parliament?”
England shrugs. “You tell me. Anyway, I’m showing support for the local community, aren’t I?”
Looking at England, France realises that he is already well on the way to being drunk. He wonders if it’s the memories from all those years ago, celebrating the explosion that never was, or if it’s in advance of next weeks Remembrance Day events. The beginning of November has never been England’s best period, especially with the rise of Halloween in America. France knows that America was here a few days ago, and perhaps that is part of the reason that England is currently leading him back to the clubhouse, making a beeline for the bar. “You don’t even play rugby these days.” France says.
“If I had more time I might. And then I might play here! ‘S only a mile or so from my house, after all."
France briefly looks down at his watch. It isn’t even seven yet, he realises after a moment to work out that he hasn’t put it back yet. If he’d known England was going to start this early he would have had a second (and possibly third or fourth) glass of wine on the train over. As it is, he feels that he has a way to catch up, and so pushes in front of him at the bar, leaning on one elbow and grinning at the woman behind it in a way to grab her attention almost instantly. She finishes pouring a pint, hands it over, and then steps over to them. “What can I get you?”
France almost asks for wine list, and then remembers that this is an English pub (or to be precise, even worse: a sports club bar), and that he needs to be well on his way to drunk if he wants to actually be able to drink the wine from here. He casts an expert eye over the bottles at the back of the bar, thinking quickly. “A double shot of Glenfiddich, s’il vous plait.”
One of her eyebrows shoots up at the French, and she gives a girly giggle as she turns to get his drink. France smirks to himself as he retrieves his wallet, and England just rolls his eyes as he squeezes his way to a gap beside the taller Nation. “Here you go. Anything else?”
France glances at England, who takes his cue. “Another pint of Fuller’s, please.”
“Righto.”
As soon as she moves off, France downs his drink, and when England looks at him, he shrugs. “Mon cher, you’re, what, five units ahead of me? Give me a chance to catch up.”
“That’ll be six quid fifty.” The woman is back before England can reply, and France promptly pulls a ten pound note out of his wallet.
As she gets his change and England’s drink, England replies. “Four.”
“Here you are, gents. Enjoy the show!”
France leans forward and slides the fist full of change into England’s pocket. With one hand full, the other Nation can only nudge him with his elbow and frown. “What was that for?”
“I hardly want your coins getting muddled up in my wallet.”
“Oh, not this again.” England takes a sip of his drink. “We’ll switch to Euros over my cold, dead body.”
France laughs and pets his shoulder. “Of course, mon cher.”
There’s no hope of them getting back to the front of the crowd, so France and England hold back against the club house building where quite a few of the men seem to have gathered, drinks in one hand, cigarette in the other. France can smell the smoke, and for a moment he wishes he hadn’t given up, but he reminds himself that he must move with the times, and a glance at England tells him that the other Nation is probably thinking something along the same lines.
England checks his watch. “Should start soon.”
“I thought these things were always late?”
“Yes. They are.”
France checks his own watch and sees that England is right: it’s coming up to ten minutes past.
A hush starts from the front of the crowd and works its way backwards. The children pressed up against the barrier have obviously seen movement out at the back of the field, and know that things are starting. England gathers his jacket tighter around him, and closes his eyes, only opening them when he hears the first hiss of fireworks. Following the trail of sparks up into the sky, when it explodes with an ear aching crack France catches a glimpse of England’s face in the light.
The other Nation looks old, tired, and reminiscent, and France suddenly remembers. Hong Kong. He puts a hand on England’s shoulder, and the other Nation glances back at him, and offers a slight smile, which is caught up in the light of a second firework.
Another explosion covers something that England says, and as France tries to read what England says from his lips, he finds that all he is left with is a smile, and then a verse.
“Remember, remember the fifth of November.
Gunpowder treason and plot.
I know of no reason why gunpowder and treason
Should ever be forgot.”
“Well, if you really want to see a poncy show on the theme of ‘love’ we can relocate.” England replies, before downing what’s left of the glass and straightening up.
France eyes England. “Love? What does that have to do with someone attempting to blow up your houses of parliament?”
England shrugs. “You tell me. Anyway, I’m showing support for the local community, aren’t I?”
Looking at England, France realises that he is already well on the way to being drunk. He wonders if it’s the memories from all those years ago, celebrating the explosion that never was, or if it’s in advance of next weeks Remembrance Day events. The beginning of November has never been England’s best period, especially with the rise of Halloween in America. France knows that America was here a few days ago, and perhaps that is part of the reason that England is currently leading him back to the clubhouse, making a beeline for the bar. “You don’t even play rugby these days.” France says.
“If I had more time I might. And then I might play here! ‘S only a mile or so from my house, after all."
France briefly looks down at his watch. It isn’t even seven yet, he realises after a moment to work out that he hasn’t put it back yet. If he’d known England was going to start this early he would have had a second (and possibly third or fourth) glass of wine on the train over. As it is, he feels that he has a way to catch up, and so pushes in front of him at the bar, leaning on one elbow and grinning at the woman behind it in a way to grab her attention almost instantly. She finishes pouring a pint, hands it over, and then steps over to them. “What can I get you?”
France almost asks for wine list, and then remembers that this is an English pub (or to be precise, even worse: a sports club bar), and that he needs to be well on his way to drunk if he wants to actually be able to drink the wine from here. He casts an expert eye over the bottles at the back of the bar, thinking quickly. “A double shot of Glenfiddich, s’il vous plait.”
One of her eyebrows shoots up at the French, and she gives a girly giggle as she turns to get his drink. France smirks to himself as he retrieves his wallet, and England just rolls his eyes as he squeezes his way to a gap beside the taller Nation. “Here you go. Anything else?”
France glances at England, who takes his cue. “Another pint of Fuller’s, please.”
“Righto.”
As soon as she moves off, France downs his drink, and when England looks at him, he shrugs. “Mon cher, you’re, what, five units ahead of me? Give me a chance to catch up.”
“That’ll be six quid fifty.” The woman is back before England can reply, and France promptly pulls a ten pound note out of his wallet.
As she gets his change and England’s drink, England replies. “Four.”
“Here you are, gents. Enjoy the show!”
France leans forward and slides the fist full of change into England’s pocket. With one hand full, the other Nation can only nudge him with his elbow and frown. “What was that for?”
“I hardly want your coins getting muddled up in my wallet.”
“Oh, not this again.” England takes a sip of his drink. “We’ll switch to Euros over my cold, dead body.”
France laughs and pets his shoulder. “Of course, mon cher.”
There’s no hope of them getting back to the front of the crowd, so France and England hold back against the club house building where quite a few of the men seem to have gathered, drinks in one hand, cigarette in the other. France can smell the smoke, and for a moment he wishes he hadn’t given up, but he reminds himself that he must move with the times, and a glance at England tells him that the other Nation is probably thinking something along the same lines.
England checks his watch. “Should start soon.”
“I thought these things were always late?”
“Yes. They are.”
France checks his own watch and sees that England is right: it’s coming up to ten minutes past.
A hush starts from the front of the crowd and works its way backwards. The children pressed up against the barrier have obviously seen movement out at the back of the field, and know that things are starting. England gathers his jacket tighter around him, and closes his eyes, only opening them when he hears the first hiss of fireworks. Following the trail of sparks up into the sky, when it explodes with an ear aching crack France catches a glimpse of England’s face in the light.
The other Nation looks old, tired, and reminiscent, and France suddenly remembers. Hong Kong. He puts a hand on England’s shoulder, and the other Nation glances back at him, and offers a slight smile, which is caught up in the light of a second firework.
Another explosion covers something that England says, and as France tries to read what England says from his lips, he finds that all he is left with is a smile, and then a verse.
“Remember, remember the fifth of November.
Gunpowder treason and plot.
I know of no reason why gunpowder and treason
Should ever be forgot.”