[fic fill] claridge's
TITLE: claridge's
AUTHOR/ARTIST: sonofon
RECIPIENT: takiphevoli
CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: America/England
RATING: PG
NOTES (optional): written in rather blatant fragments, the prompt appears in bits and pieces throughout, complete with bad and obscure references, even worse puns, oh ford this turned out more character- than plot-based; hope you enjoy nevertheless ;;
SUMMARY: America takes England out for tea. Questionable stories are told, political intrigue is rehashed on both ends, and England really does think a bit too much, thank you.
--
There’s one thing most people will notice about America at first glance: he has a pleasant smile. When America smiles, children will turn and finally smile for their parents, who in turn will smile for their children, thus creating a never-ending cycle of wide-eyed grins and shy upturns in mouths; thus flowers bloom and livelihood flourishes. When America frowns, his GDP goes down. Anyway that is another story.
But when America has his eyebrows all scrunched together and he’s studying over something and biting down on his lower lip with his eyes honed in . . . England isn’t sure what it means and he’s not quite sure what it translates to. Nor is he certain of how to go about it.
If there is one thing England has come to realize about himself, it is this: that he overanalyzes simple matters and takes for granted what is not. It has taken him many, many years to figure this out; so he now knows and proceeds, naturally, as would be fit of a gentleman. And he is very much the English Gentleman. He knows how to sip tea correctly, how to dress in any given situation, what excuses to offer, when it is time to leave the party. This is all required of the English Gentleman without being required at all; and England ought to know, since he partially created the image himself.
Then there are other things that he does not know and, hence, does not like to admit that he does not know. He sometimes doesn’t know how to say yes, for one thing; and conversely, no. As much as he prides himself for his impeccable manners, a part of him cannot stand to say sorry, and when he finally gets around to it, it’s usually too late. Even now his palate cannot stand the taste of certain French foods; bad sauerkraut gives him indigestion.
Sometimes (always), he has never been able to handle America. This is perhaps inevitable.
i.
“So this place,” America says, his voice already too loud for Claridge’s, or anywhere respectable for that matter, “I meant to say-this is the place where they serve High Tea, right? Don’t laugh, England, but, you know, I always thought that implied there was a Low Tea to go with it. Because that would make sense, right? A High and a Low; it’s logical, dontcha think so?”
“I suppose, in a distinctly American way, it does make sense. But it isn’t necessary. High Tea is the embodiment of a perfect meal; neither too heavy nor too light. I can already smell the tea leaves brewing. Can’t you?”
America is five steps ahead of him. It’s always like this, nowadays at least. America storms ahead because that is his nature and England reluctantly follows because he no longer commands the same authority he once did. America points his nose up at the ceiling and stretches his arms out before bending them in with his hands hooked behind his head. “Nope. All I know is that it’s expensive, which means you’ll probably like it. High Tea’s basically the fancy name for afternoon tea, isn’t it?”
“Pardon?”
“You know, afternoon tea. You know what that is, right?”
“Oh, my God, no, what lies have you been told? There’s a world of difference between afternoon tea and High Tea. The former is drunk between three and five in the afternoon, and the latter is between five and six. What you serve and how you serve it-America, you can’t take a fellow out to tea and not know what it’s about, that-that’s-”
“Blasphemy?” America tries.
“Madness, all right,” England sighs. “It’s been said before and it will always be said: good tea was never more wasted than on an American.”
America pouts. “I’m going to assume you’re being sarcastic.”
ii.
England is sarcastic a lot of times. Now he recognizes it as some kind of sick cynicism which he blames on his age. He hears a deal too good to be true, and knows it probably is. America has invited him out for tea. This is one matter. The other is that he is well-dressed for Claridge’s, perfectly dressed, to be exact. Alone, they are isolated cases with a slim chance of happening. Together, it makes for a one-in-a-million occurrence, something England might fall in love with America precisely for because he may never see it again. (This is when England begins to think it is too good to be true, and given America’s capricious tendencies, it probably is.)
But he can appreciate a good tailor. A tailor can be depended on. “A London suit,” England notes with approval. “Saville Row.”
“I picked the place, if you want to know. I haven’t been fitted in ages-I guess that’s what mass production does to you-and it was pretty, uh, interesting. Wanna to hear a story? Gentlemen can tell each other stories, right?”
First, he thinks it’s his hearing: ah, you really are getting old. Then, “Gentlemen?”
America expectantly looks at him. “Yeah?”
Oh. Oh. He waves a hand of consent, half-resigned, half-amused.
“Okay okay. So this story I haven’t told it to anyone yet,” and he sits up with his back straight, bobbing his head side-to-side as some kind of stretch. He rubs his hands together even though it is twenty-nine degrees Celsius outside. “Here it goes. So. I’m being fitted, right? We go in wearing a shirt and no pants so the tailor can measure us. So he’s measuring my arms, my legs, and he’s saying all sorts of numbers, you know, thirty-one one centimeters here, eighteen there, for-”
“I don’t need to know your measurements, America,” he cuts in with a cough.
“Oh,” says America, a little surprised at being interrupted already. “Well. All right. So I’m being measured and everything and then I leave. The suit’s finished four days later and I go to pick it up for a final fitting, and while the tailor-his name’s Taylors, haha get it, he’s a real chill and awesome bro-while the tailor is looking over me, he tells me something that happened right after I left his store a few days ago.”
“Which is?”
“I’m getting there. So apparently, Taylors was commissioned to make a lady’s suit for some celebrity, Montana-Wildsomething-or-another. I never heard of her. Anyway, girls have to go in wearing a shirt and no pants also, to be measured. So Taylors’s measuring her and he’s also saying some numbers-which I won’t tell-anyway, just before she’s about to leave, he says to her: ‘A young American was here just before you and, might I add, he had a nicer ass than you.’ Imagine what that would have been like! I so would have paid money to see that my God wouldn’t you?”
If he could have, England’s eyes would have dropped to the ground. “A-America, I don’t th-”
“Wait wait, I haven’t gotten to the best part yet! So Ms. Montana here stares him down. Like, really stares him down. Then she says very calmly, ‘Well, I’m willing to bet he hasn’t got tits like these.’ And she full-on flashes him just like that,” America finds all of this to be genuinely funny, “’cause, you know, she’s actually a porn star. A D-list porn star in London. Can you believe that?”
England is trying to not make noises that sound like a man’s efforts to drown while on solid ground. Though valiant, these attempts are failing miserably short.
And America is not noticing because he is wearing his favorite ohemgeelookatmee! grin. “Well?”
One second passes. In between, twelve hours elapse.
“That’s a great story,” England finally manages.
“Isn’t it? I’m going to tell it to France next chance I get-see what he thinks of it!”
iii.
“But on a more serious note: how on earth do you tell the difference between tailors and where they are made?” America says. “A suit’s a suit. Even though, sure, some brands are better than others.”
“Mm-hmm,” England says, closely scrutinizing the stitches on America’s jacket, “you begin to remember after a while. Each tailor has his own style, much like an author or an artist. You learn to recognize. It’s all in the same train of thought.”
“Well,” says America, his hand intending to straighten his lapels but only further causing them to appear more crooked. England reaches over to fix them and grumbles something about lack of good upbringing and messiness and it’s an argument so old America doesn’t even bother to comment. He continues: “Well I don’t think I could last in a suit all day, every day. It’s just so damn overbearing. Ugh. I mean, sure, it’s okay occasionally, and it certainly looks nice, but not always.”
“You mean, it’s back to jeans and sweaters for you when you leave.”
“When you put it like that. . .”
Suddenly, America pounds his fist against his open palm. “A-ha! I know! This is probably why you’re so uptight all the time, England. You only wear suits-aside from your uniform-which is like basically another kind of suit-so you’re obviously restricted all day. You’ve got nowhere to move, to stretch out to. I know,” America leans in closer, “next time you come to my house, I’m not letting you wear any suit within my sight. Capiche?” He says it in three syllables: ca-pi-che.
“Oh,” England pointedly says, and accordingly leans away. “Is that so.”
“Oh, yes,” says America, “you dumb Tory. You guys think you’re high-class wherever you go. You guys forget that this is the twenty-first century.” And when he smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkle, and two dimples appear on his cheeks. And he proffers out his hands with his palms facing up. “Well?”
He gives a snort. “Humph. Damn Yank can-oh, look, our table’s ready.”
iv.
“Hey, England. England. England England England-”
“I heard you the first time.”
“I’m sure you did. I just like saying your name-I’ve never actually said that before to anyone, haha-oh. Um.”
“Uh, o-”
“Oh, I was going to say: there’s a fly in my tea.” America quickly recovers and is beaming. “No, I’m not kidding there is a fly in my tea and I can’t believe there is actually a fly in my tea. Look at the fly, England. It’s flailing.”
“This is a special brew of chrysanthemum tea, you nit. China gave it to me in April when I went to visit his house regarding the Expo business. I don’t see how the fly got there, but if it’s a bother, I can always ask for another-”
“No no no no, it’s totally good. I mean, I’ve got a fly in my tea. That’s really cool. I kinda want a picture of this but I forgot my camera.”
“I don’t really see what-”
“’Course, I wasn’t exactly aware that China liked his tea with flies in it, but hey, to each his own. Or maybe it’s like a bonus. The fly, I mean. Collect all five kinds of flies in your tea and get a super special bonus prize! A-ha. Well. I just thought it was cool. You know, the whole fly in the soup ordeal. Only, you know, this is tea.”
England sort of stares. “Right.”
“You don’t find that like, pretty hilarious?” America sort of looks disappointed.
“Well-”
“Lame-o, England. But all right.” America reaches into his cup to pick out the fly with his thumb and index finger; he holds it up to his face before it back into his cup, completely missing England’s perturbed look. “Actually, you know, maybe there’s some kind of meaning behind this fly. Like, some kind of political subterfuge embedded within the context of this, er, fly, this organism.”
“What.” England says it so quickly that he doesn’t even bother to ask it as a question. “What.”
“This fly,” America is completely serious, “represents some intrigue and consequent trap that China is trying to lure you into, England. Like a spider waiting to catch its prey. Only this is a fly. Be still, my green grasshopper! Do not falter!”
Slowly, England’s hand meets his forehead. The meeting is so effective that it arranges for five more such meetings all in rapid succession.
“Not to mention the implications!” America has always possessed a vivid imagination; this much can be evidenced by talking to him, the rest being Hollywood. “Call up your best foreign policy analysts, your ambassadors, this sounds like a case-”
“Directly written from a day-time scripted drama show of yours,” England dryly finishes.
“You spoil all the fun, I hope you know that.”
With a sweep of his hand, England’s hand picks up America’s fly-aboding tea cup. He takes a sip. Other than the fact the tea is slightly lukewarm, it tastes perfectly fine, fly and everything. He knows how it is. “It’s all good,” he says, almost (mostly) to himself.
v.
This is Claridge’s. This is England and this is America. This is table no. 37 and this is five thirty-four in the late afternoon with the sun still out.
“This is a-what’sitcalled-a thing,” America finishes. “A thing.” He points at it for greater emphasis. Uses his fork to poke it.
“A thing,” repeats England. “America, as someone who is about to tell you what exactly it is, I can assure you that it is not called a thing. It’s fish paste.”
“It looks like shit,” he blurts out.
England is positively scandalized.
“I mean, uh, ew, much?” America arches an eyebrow. (He has beautiful eyebrows.)
England frowns. “Why don’t you try it yourself instead of looking at it like it’s a dead squirrel that’s just been run over by one of your environment-devastating eighteen-wheelers?”
“That’s disgusting, England. And it isn’t very fair to the squirrel.”
“Oh bung-o! Eat up, America.”
vi.
But if there are moments when America expresses hesitance, he more than makes up with his voracious eating. A little known fact: England likes to watch America eat. When America eats, he makes whatever he is eating look quite edible, almost delicious. He’s just so enthused and immersed in the pork chop or chow mein in front of him that England can’t help but be drawn in as well. To be sure, he sometimes forgets to chew and yes, sometimes he doesn’t close his mouth when chewing but this is America, and like many other aspects about him, England has learned that he must accept, or there is none. Nothing. (Nothing is not a pretty word; neither, for that matter, is always.)
“It’s good,” he says in between wolf-sized bites of cucumber sandwich and pound cake, “it’s really good. I don’t really care what anyone else says about your food, England. If it counts for anything, I like it.” He looks up. He looks sincere enough. And he smiles.
“Oh,” starts England, “that’s-”
America’s hand is on his, his sticky fingers latching onto his, his body’s natural warmth seeping into him. It occurs to England that America has awfully warm hands. When he touches him, it’s like an instant heater, all gentle and comforting warmth.
They are exactly forty-eight metres from the doors of the Claridge’s and their server is staring without their knowing. This server will alert his colleagues and by the time the evening meal has been prepared, the entire kitchen staff will know. This is Unwritten Rule No. 472 of the English Gentleman, what America’s gone ahead and broken and-
“Oh,” he says again. And blinks, for good measure.
America appears tired, maybe still a bit worn out from the trans-Atlantic flight and bad airline food but he doesn’t seem like he’s messing around. England and America, they mess around a lot (and for a long time, that’s all they did), but usually England knows when America’s serious. He knows when America means something, and when America means it, he really means it.
It is a quality, it is a talent. It’s what America is known for, this sincerity.
He feels like he’s known America forever, longer than when they started sleeping together and much longer than when he first saw a small blonde boy running amidst barbarous and unknown lands. He feels like he knows America better than everyone else for no particular reason at all. This uncertainty annoys him because he does not like the uncertainly. It is hardly reassuring.
Because even now, he doesn’t always get America’s sense of humor, doesn’t always understand where America gets his eccentricities from, doesn’t always like the way America goes about his politics. And yet he doesn’t want that to bother him. Not anymore. Maybe he once did, but he’s here, now, with America, with America’s sticky palm transferring warmth to his this is now this is the present this is for the future.
Things are more than at-times awkward for the both of them, and where international relations are involved, everything becomes many times more dirty. It makes him hate the late-night calls and the negotiations and the fifteen-minute increments on deserted street corners. And yet, somehow, he is willing to accept all of it. If he can accept America, then, in a way, he can accept everything else; it makes no sense and still he’s okay. This is something he has only discovered recently, and having been enlightened, he disparages himself for not knowing earlier. There was nothing he could do; he can’t do much about a lot of things.
But he can smile. He probably doesn’t realize because he can’t see for himself, but when he really smiles, it’s very nice to look it. America knows. Not today, not tomorrow perhaps, but one day, England will also know.
“Thanks,” he says for now, and means it.
AUTHOR/ARTIST: sonofon
RECIPIENT: takiphevoli
CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: America/England
RATING: PG
NOTES (optional): written in rather blatant fragments, the prompt appears in bits and pieces throughout, complete with bad and obscure references, even worse puns, oh ford this turned out more character- than plot-based; hope you enjoy nevertheless ;;
SUMMARY: America takes England out for tea. Questionable stories are told, political intrigue is rehashed on both ends, and England really does think a bit too much, thank you.
--
There’s one thing most people will notice about America at first glance: he has a pleasant smile. When America smiles, children will turn and finally smile for their parents, who in turn will smile for their children, thus creating a never-ending cycle of wide-eyed grins and shy upturns in mouths; thus flowers bloom and livelihood flourishes. When America frowns, his GDP goes down. Anyway that is another story.
But when America has his eyebrows all scrunched together and he’s studying over something and biting down on his lower lip with his eyes honed in . . . England isn’t sure what it means and he’s not quite sure what it translates to. Nor is he certain of how to go about it.
If there is one thing England has come to realize about himself, it is this: that he overanalyzes simple matters and takes for granted what is not. It has taken him many, many years to figure this out; so he now knows and proceeds, naturally, as would be fit of a gentleman. And he is very much the English Gentleman. He knows how to sip tea correctly, how to dress in any given situation, what excuses to offer, when it is time to leave the party. This is all required of the English Gentleman without being required at all; and England ought to know, since he partially created the image himself.
Then there are other things that he does not know and, hence, does not like to admit that he does not know. He sometimes doesn’t know how to say yes, for one thing; and conversely, no. As much as he prides himself for his impeccable manners, a part of him cannot stand to say sorry, and when he finally gets around to it, it’s usually too late. Even now his palate cannot stand the taste of certain French foods; bad sauerkraut gives him indigestion.
Sometimes (always), he has never been able to handle America. This is perhaps inevitable.
i.
“So this place,” America says, his voice already too loud for Claridge’s, or anywhere respectable for that matter, “I meant to say-this is the place where they serve High Tea, right? Don’t laugh, England, but, you know, I always thought that implied there was a Low Tea to go with it. Because that would make sense, right? A High and a Low; it’s logical, dontcha think so?”
“I suppose, in a distinctly American way, it does make sense. But it isn’t necessary. High Tea is the embodiment of a perfect meal; neither too heavy nor too light. I can already smell the tea leaves brewing. Can’t you?”
America is five steps ahead of him. It’s always like this, nowadays at least. America storms ahead because that is his nature and England reluctantly follows because he no longer commands the same authority he once did. America points his nose up at the ceiling and stretches his arms out before bending them in with his hands hooked behind his head. “Nope. All I know is that it’s expensive, which means you’ll probably like it. High Tea’s basically the fancy name for afternoon tea, isn’t it?”
“Pardon?”
“You know, afternoon tea. You know what that is, right?”
“Oh, my God, no, what lies have you been told? There’s a world of difference between afternoon tea and High Tea. The former is drunk between three and five in the afternoon, and the latter is between five and six. What you serve and how you serve it-America, you can’t take a fellow out to tea and not know what it’s about, that-that’s-”
“Blasphemy?” America tries.
“Madness, all right,” England sighs. “It’s been said before and it will always be said: good tea was never more wasted than on an American.”
America pouts. “I’m going to assume you’re being sarcastic.”
ii.
England is sarcastic a lot of times. Now he recognizes it as some kind of sick cynicism which he blames on his age. He hears a deal too good to be true, and knows it probably is. America has invited him out for tea. This is one matter. The other is that he is well-dressed for Claridge’s, perfectly dressed, to be exact. Alone, they are isolated cases with a slim chance of happening. Together, it makes for a one-in-a-million occurrence, something England might fall in love with America precisely for because he may never see it again. (This is when England begins to think it is too good to be true, and given America’s capricious tendencies, it probably is.)
But he can appreciate a good tailor. A tailor can be depended on. “A London suit,” England notes with approval. “Saville Row.”
“I picked the place, if you want to know. I haven’t been fitted in ages-I guess that’s what mass production does to you-and it was pretty, uh, interesting. Wanna to hear a story? Gentlemen can tell each other stories, right?”
First, he thinks it’s his hearing: ah, you really are getting old. Then, “Gentlemen?”
America expectantly looks at him. “Yeah?”
Oh. Oh. He waves a hand of consent, half-resigned, half-amused.
“Okay okay. So this story I haven’t told it to anyone yet,” and he sits up with his back straight, bobbing his head side-to-side as some kind of stretch. He rubs his hands together even though it is twenty-nine degrees Celsius outside. “Here it goes. So. I’m being fitted, right? We go in wearing a shirt and no pants so the tailor can measure us. So he’s measuring my arms, my legs, and he’s saying all sorts of numbers, you know, thirty-one one centimeters here, eighteen there, for-”
“I don’t need to know your measurements, America,” he cuts in with a cough.
“Oh,” says America, a little surprised at being interrupted already. “Well. All right. So I’m being measured and everything and then I leave. The suit’s finished four days later and I go to pick it up for a final fitting, and while the tailor-his name’s Taylors, haha get it, he’s a real chill and awesome bro-while the tailor is looking over me, he tells me something that happened right after I left his store a few days ago.”
“Which is?”
“I’m getting there. So apparently, Taylors was commissioned to make a lady’s suit for some celebrity, Montana-Wildsomething-or-another. I never heard of her. Anyway, girls have to go in wearing a shirt and no pants also, to be measured. So Taylors’s measuring her and he’s also saying some numbers-which I won’t tell-anyway, just before she’s about to leave, he says to her: ‘A young American was here just before you and, might I add, he had a nicer ass than you.’ Imagine what that would have been like! I so would have paid money to see that my God wouldn’t you?”
If he could have, England’s eyes would have dropped to the ground. “A-America, I don’t th-”
“Wait wait, I haven’t gotten to the best part yet! So Ms. Montana here stares him down. Like, really stares him down. Then she says very calmly, ‘Well, I’m willing to bet he hasn’t got tits like these.’ And she full-on flashes him just like that,” America finds all of this to be genuinely funny, “’cause, you know, she’s actually a porn star. A D-list porn star in London. Can you believe that?”
England is trying to not make noises that sound like a man’s efforts to drown while on solid ground. Though valiant, these attempts are failing miserably short.
And America is not noticing because he is wearing his favorite ohemgeelookatmee! grin. “Well?”
One second passes. In between, twelve hours elapse.
“That’s a great story,” England finally manages.
“Isn’t it? I’m going to tell it to France next chance I get-see what he thinks of it!”
iii.
“But on a more serious note: how on earth do you tell the difference between tailors and where they are made?” America says. “A suit’s a suit. Even though, sure, some brands are better than others.”
“Mm-hmm,” England says, closely scrutinizing the stitches on America’s jacket, “you begin to remember after a while. Each tailor has his own style, much like an author or an artist. You learn to recognize. It’s all in the same train of thought.”
“Well,” says America, his hand intending to straighten his lapels but only further causing them to appear more crooked. England reaches over to fix them and grumbles something about lack of good upbringing and messiness and it’s an argument so old America doesn’t even bother to comment. He continues: “Well I don’t think I could last in a suit all day, every day. It’s just so damn overbearing. Ugh. I mean, sure, it’s okay occasionally, and it certainly looks nice, but not always.”
“You mean, it’s back to jeans and sweaters for you when you leave.”
“When you put it like that. . .”
Suddenly, America pounds his fist against his open palm. “A-ha! I know! This is probably why you’re so uptight all the time, England. You only wear suits-aside from your uniform-which is like basically another kind of suit-so you’re obviously restricted all day. You’ve got nowhere to move, to stretch out to. I know,” America leans in closer, “next time you come to my house, I’m not letting you wear any suit within my sight. Capiche?” He says it in three syllables: ca-pi-che.
“Oh,” England pointedly says, and accordingly leans away. “Is that so.”
“Oh, yes,” says America, “you dumb Tory. You guys think you’re high-class wherever you go. You guys forget that this is the twenty-first century.” And when he smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkle, and two dimples appear on his cheeks. And he proffers out his hands with his palms facing up. “Well?”
He gives a snort. “Humph. Damn Yank can-oh, look, our table’s ready.”
iv.
“Hey, England. England. England England England-”
“I heard you the first time.”
“I’m sure you did. I just like saying your name-I’ve never actually said that before to anyone, haha-oh. Um.”
“Uh, o-”
“Oh, I was going to say: there’s a fly in my tea.” America quickly recovers and is beaming. “No, I’m not kidding there is a fly in my tea and I can’t believe there is actually a fly in my tea. Look at the fly, England. It’s flailing.”
“This is a special brew of chrysanthemum tea, you nit. China gave it to me in April when I went to visit his house regarding the Expo business. I don’t see how the fly got there, but if it’s a bother, I can always ask for another-”
“No no no no, it’s totally good. I mean, I’ve got a fly in my tea. That’s really cool. I kinda want a picture of this but I forgot my camera.”
“I don’t really see what-”
“’Course, I wasn’t exactly aware that China liked his tea with flies in it, but hey, to each his own. Or maybe it’s like a bonus. The fly, I mean. Collect all five kinds of flies in your tea and get a super special bonus prize! A-ha. Well. I just thought it was cool. You know, the whole fly in the soup ordeal. Only, you know, this is tea.”
England sort of stares. “Right.”
“You don’t find that like, pretty hilarious?” America sort of looks disappointed.
“Well-”
“Lame-o, England. But all right.” America reaches into his cup to pick out the fly with his thumb and index finger; he holds it up to his face before it back into his cup, completely missing England’s perturbed look. “Actually, you know, maybe there’s some kind of meaning behind this fly. Like, some kind of political subterfuge embedded within the context of this, er, fly, this organism.”
“What.” England says it so quickly that he doesn’t even bother to ask it as a question. “What.”
“This fly,” America is completely serious, “represents some intrigue and consequent trap that China is trying to lure you into, England. Like a spider waiting to catch its prey. Only this is a fly. Be still, my green grasshopper! Do not falter!”
Slowly, England’s hand meets his forehead. The meeting is so effective that it arranges for five more such meetings all in rapid succession.
“Not to mention the implications!” America has always possessed a vivid imagination; this much can be evidenced by talking to him, the rest being Hollywood. “Call up your best foreign policy analysts, your ambassadors, this sounds like a case-”
“Directly written from a day-time scripted drama show of yours,” England dryly finishes.
“You spoil all the fun, I hope you know that.”
With a sweep of his hand, England’s hand picks up America’s fly-aboding tea cup. He takes a sip. Other than the fact the tea is slightly lukewarm, it tastes perfectly fine, fly and everything. He knows how it is. “It’s all good,” he says, almost (mostly) to himself.
v.
This is Claridge’s. This is England and this is America. This is table no. 37 and this is five thirty-four in the late afternoon with the sun still out.
“This is a-what’sitcalled-a thing,” America finishes. “A thing.” He points at it for greater emphasis. Uses his fork to poke it.
“A thing,” repeats England. “America, as someone who is about to tell you what exactly it is, I can assure you that it is not called a thing. It’s fish paste.”
“It looks like shit,” he blurts out.
England is positively scandalized.
“I mean, uh, ew, much?” America arches an eyebrow. (He has beautiful eyebrows.)
England frowns. “Why don’t you try it yourself instead of looking at it like it’s a dead squirrel that’s just been run over by one of your environment-devastating eighteen-wheelers?”
“That’s disgusting, England. And it isn’t very fair to the squirrel.”
“Oh bung-o! Eat up, America.”
vi.
But if there are moments when America expresses hesitance, he more than makes up with his voracious eating. A little known fact: England likes to watch America eat. When America eats, he makes whatever he is eating look quite edible, almost delicious. He’s just so enthused and immersed in the pork chop or chow mein in front of him that England can’t help but be drawn in as well. To be sure, he sometimes forgets to chew and yes, sometimes he doesn’t close his mouth when chewing but this is America, and like many other aspects about him, England has learned that he must accept, or there is none. Nothing. (Nothing is not a pretty word; neither, for that matter, is always.)
“It’s good,” he says in between wolf-sized bites of cucumber sandwich and pound cake, “it’s really good. I don’t really care what anyone else says about your food, England. If it counts for anything, I like it.” He looks up. He looks sincere enough. And he smiles.
“Oh,” starts England, “that’s-”
America’s hand is on his, his sticky fingers latching onto his, his body’s natural warmth seeping into him. It occurs to England that America has awfully warm hands. When he touches him, it’s like an instant heater, all gentle and comforting warmth.
They are exactly forty-eight metres from the doors of the Claridge’s and their server is staring without their knowing. This server will alert his colleagues and by the time the evening meal has been prepared, the entire kitchen staff will know. This is Unwritten Rule No. 472 of the English Gentleman, what America’s gone ahead and broken and-
“Oh,” he says again. And blinks, for good measure.
America appears tired, maybe still a bit worn out from the trans-Atlantic flight and bad airline food but he doesn’t seem like he’s messing around. England and America, they mess around a lot (and for a long time, that’s all they did), but usually England knows when America’s serious. He knows when America means something, and when America means it, he really means it.
It is a quality, it is a talent. It’s what America is known for, this sincerity.
He feels like he’s known America forever, longer than when they started sleeping together and much longer than when he first saw a small blonde boy running amidst barbarous and unknown lands. He feels like he knows America better than everyone else for no particular reason at all. This uncertainty annoys him because he does not like the uncertainly. It is hardly reassuring.
Because even now, he doesn’t always get America’s sense of humor, doesn’t always understand where America gets his eccentricities from, doesn’t always like the way America goes about his politics. And yet he doesn’t want that to bother him. Not anymore. Maybe he once did, but he’s here, now, with America, with America’s sticky palm transferring warmth to his this is now this is the present this is for the future.
Things are more than at-times awkward for the both of them, and where international relations are involved, everything becomes many times more dirty. It makes him hate the late-night calls and the negotiations and the fifteen-minute increments on deserted street corners. And yet, somehow, he is willing to accept all of it. If he can accept America, then, in a way, he can accept everything else; it makes no sense and still he’s okay. This is something he has only discovered recently, and having been enlightened, he disparages himself for not knowing earlier. There was nothing he could do; he can’t do much about a lot of things.
But he can smile. He probably doesn’t realize because he can’t see for himself, but when he really smiles, it’s very nice to look it. America knows. Not today, not tomorrow perhaps, but one day, England will also know.
“Thanks,” he says for now, and means it.