[Sweethearts Week Fanfic] Bespoke (America × England, PG-13)
Oh My GOD. I am insane. I need to stop writing and posting fics while at work. D:
Title: Bespoke
Disclaimer: Hetalia is not my creation.
Genre: Romance...er, Sewing crack?
Pairing: America × England
Word count: 1115
Rating: PG-13: SO MUCH FLUFF.
Summary: Thanks to the recession, America does not have a decent suit. No worries, England makes him one.
It shouldn’t have really surprised America that England makes his own suits. Or most of his clothing, for that matter. The guy was pretty handy with the needle, America had noted more than once. Indeed, one of his earliest memories as a child was watching England, face aglow in the dancing candlelight, as he repaired their clothes with needle and thread in quick, deft moments of slender, calloused fingers, his low humming sometimes lulling him to sleep.
(England never frowns when he sews, America has noted. He is always smiling that rare fond smile of his, a barely noticeable quirk of his lips. Whenever he watches him sewing, America wonders from whom he learned and why, and for whom had he sewn before.)
So really, America should have expected that, when he mentioned casually that he didn’t have much formal suits to wear because he couldn’t buy a decent one thanks to the recession, England tells him he’ll make him one.
(Of course, England tells him the reason why he volunteered was because he “can’t have you looking indecent during meetings, boy. You'd be an absolute disgrace.” Heh. More than two hundred years, still the same reason.)
So he finds himself one morning in England’s study, trying hard not to hard to fidget when England takes his measurements. England is quick and efficient and surprisingly does not fuss as he measures with tape and mutters strange formulae as he jots down his measurements in an old, somewhat familiar battered book.
(It’s hard not to fidget, because England keeps touching him, fingers coincidentally brushing against sensitive spots, and England had this look of absolute concentration-furrowed caterpillar brows, mouth slightly parted and tongue-tip peeking out every now and then-that America found absolutely attractive and gets him so hot and bothered that as soon as England is finished with his measures he grabs England by the hem of his sweater vest, pulls him close, and kisses him senseless. In the back of his mind, he thinks of another time he had felt this way, in the same circumstances, and is so very glad that this time, he is able to act on his impulses and not fear being rejected.)
The fabrics he and England pick for his suiting are a “dark blue pinhead cashmere,” and a modernized “glen check worsted flannel,” whatever that meant. But America likes them well enough, and even a philistine like him knows by the weight and feel of the cloth that this is the very best of quality. The fabric for his shirt is sea island cotton, which amuses him for some strange reason.
(“Only the best for my boys,” England always tells them, when America and Canada delighted in the sometimes extravagant and fantastic gifts he gave them. Much later they would find out that most of the gifts they received back then England made by his own hands, with his own strength and talents. America wonders if it was England who made all of their clothes back then; he has no memory of England buying clothes, only of him sewing by the fireplace, him and Canada watching him work. It’s a tradition he continues even to this day: all his gifts are handmade, from the homebaked nuclear scones to the gay sweaters, he made them all by himself.)
America gives a huff of annoyance when he noticed how much extra cloth was being allowed for his suit. England had explained he had to make these allowances so he could alter the suit in case there were fluctuations with America’s weight, which was very likely, given how he consumed so much greasy, unhealthy food every day, why, he’d probably need to make adjustments days after the suit was finished.
(There is one time America saw England frown when he was sewing. It was back when he was still a colony, and just had this massive growth spurt that required England to alter his old clothes-well, those that could still somehow fit him. He took America’s measurements then, frowning all the while, and when he was doing his adjustments, he reached up and ruffled America’s hair, “Growing up so fast,” he murmured, looking at him with wistful eyes that somehow made America upset to see-wasn’t he happy he’d grown?-before he abruptly turned his back on America and headed for his rooms.)
“’ere we go,” England murmurs quietly as he helps America put on the suit for the final fitting. It took about three earlier fittings for them to get here, which is nothing sort of a miracle, with America making suggestions and asking for things like “can we loosen across the shoulders a bit? Its a little tight,” and England constantly fussing about each fitting, altering it to fit his posture, even one time taking the suit apart and recut to accommodate the adjustments (which freaked America out for a few minutes, as he thought England was having a mad artist moment), then checking over for “break over shoe, seat of trouser, and drape,” or whatever the hell England calls it, until it was perfect in both of their eyes.
And looking at his reflection on the full length mirror, fuck modesty but damn, he looks good. The suit fits him like a glove no-as if it was something molded into him, almost a natural extension of himself.
England steps in front of him for a moment adjusts and smooths his lapels and collar and tie and sleeves. He takes a step back to look at him, and there is a strange little quirk at the corner of his lips and-oh.
(America thinks that’s probably why he agreed to all of this fuss, not for a new suit, but to see that little fond smile again. Sometimes he had the strangest of reasons, but then again, he was raised by an equally strange man.)
“So, do you like it?”
I like it? I love it. I love you, America thinks, but he says, “Uh, yeah. It looks great. You must have had fun making, this, huh?”
England smiles, but this time not the fond smile he had a while back, but that sexy, sharp smile-smirk that made America shiver. “Not as much fun as I would have taking it off you.”
The End
Mwahahaha.
Bespoke is “a British English term employed in a variety of applications to mean an item custom-made to the buyer’s specification.” Bespoke tailoring is very much customized, with the customer being very involved with how the suit turns out. It is very expensive, with suits ranging from 3,000 to 10,000 pounds per suit.
I dunno why I wrote this for them. Maybe I just kinda like England making personalized suits for America. XD