Masquerade (3/?)
Title: Masquerade (3/?)
Author: weird_number
Genre: Adventure, Drama
Ratings/Warnings: PG13
Summary: The only survivors following a large-scale war, America and China accidentally travel to the past, but switch bodies in the process. How will America manage the Opium Wars and China handle America's Civil War?
Pairings: America/China
Also at ff.net [1], [2], [3]. Part 1, Part 2 on lj.
America really, really did not want to deliver the letter. After all, he'd quoted Alexander Pope in an attempt to grovel to England, and that was just horribly, disgustingly embarrassing. Still, it was either that or let England take Canton, and the consequences of the latter were far too daunting. He would just have to bite the bullet and do it, all the while containing his desire to stab his brush through England's eye.
(Actually, would England even mind that? The nation was already wearing an eye patch, and surely giving him an actual reason to wear the damn piece of cloth would be welcome?)
Then, to his utter frustration, America discovered that England's house was nowhere to be found. Where the hell had the bastard resided while visiting China? China was probably annoyed enough that he wouldn't have willingly provided housing, but surely England wasn't sleeping in a cardboard box. Did they even have inhabitable cardboard boxes back in the day? (Stupid question, he berated himself, of course they did, they just had varying definitions of "inhabitable".)
Then he saw someone-Engl-no, France. America felt a surge of excitement, because France was alive too, everyone was alive again, and this was his goddamn second chance, but-he squashed the feeling, because this wasn't the time and place to be feeling nostalgic. What the hell was France doing here?
The nation was probably in cahoots with England, although exactly what he wanted America wasn't sure. How often had China spoken to France anyway? Besides the one time America had invited them both over and they'd bonded over a mix of chinois and fǎshì cuisine (America had to admit it was the best dinner he'd had in his life and thanked his lucky stars that he'd gotten it for free), they'd mostly ignored each other, giving the occasional curt nod at meetings.
"Why, hello Chine," France greeted, "it is certainly a good day to be out, is it not?"
America gave France his best glare, and wondered if he should attempt to imitate China's accent. France wouldn't really know the difference, would he? After all, English wasn't his native language either. "What the hell do you want?"
"So rude," France murmured, shaking his head. "I don't want anything in particular. Just to talk, perhaps. Would you grant me that?"
America snorted. "Fine then, talk, Fr-fǎlánxī. I'm all ears." Well, he'd really mangled the Chinese there, but it wasn't like France would know the difference...
"Alright then," France mused, "I just have one question-what do you think about dinner?"
"Dinner?" America asked, suddenly worried. As much as he didn't want to admit it, he really, really could not cook proper Chinese cuisine, and France would see through it so damn quickly it'd be-"What about dinner? Listen France, I absolutely, unequivocally refuse to cook you anything, lest you-"
"Non," France grunted, wondering how China had jumped to a false conclusion so quickly. Could the nation give any of them a chance? And since when had China used his actual name-France-in place of that mangled falanshi or whatever it was? Moreover, when had he learned words like 'unequivocally'?-surely it could not have been from hanging out with Angleterre. "I was offering to cook you dinner. A bit of a cultural exchange, shall we say? It sounds like you would prefer not to join me in the kitchen, and that is fine."
Dinner-France was offering dinner-and he would be cooking! America suddenly realized that he couldn't turn this one down. It was instinctual, because in their age of food shortages and drought and famine, who could turn down free food?
"...Alright, alright, I could go for dinner."
France nodded, smiling. "Good, good. I'll meet you at my houseboat at around six o'clock then. My boat is the fifth one left of the largest willow tree."
-
France hated cooking with England.
"Angleterre, that is not going to work."
England had been about to dump a large batch of-France presumed-fresh opium poppies into his cheese fondue. France, being of quick reflexes, had managed to stop him just in time.
"I am most certainly not going to test taste a fondue that is laced with that goddamn plant! How do you expect me to cook decent fondue without trying it along the way? This must be the way you English cook-you simply never bother to check whether or not your soup has been burnt to a crisp-"
"You've been tasting the damn thing for the past hour. If it's not perfect by now, I don't see how it'll ever be perfect."
"Who knows how the poppy will alter things? I'm not willing to take risks on something as crucial as fondue! Besides, opium by itself tastes bitter and I am not taking the chance with a-"
England gave France a look. "And how the hell would you know what opium tastes like?"
France paused, realizing his slip. He knew what opium tasted like because of his numerous visits to Vietnam, but no, he was not about to let England in on his addiction problems. In fact, scratch that, he wasn't addicted-he wasn't addicted at all, he was just experimenting, and who could fault him for that? He was sure the bastard British Empire would laugh at him, mock him for having stooped to such a level, even though it was obvious England took his fair share of the plant as well, just in a different form. Really, who was stupider-a nation who gave his children opium or he who indulged every once in a blue moon?
"Never mind how I know, England. I just don't want my reputation to be ruined over your stupid plan-"
"For godsake, France, stop being so damn fixated on the quality of your cooking! Once the plant takes effect in China's body, I very much doubt he would care about the taste of your smelly stew. If you're going to be so damn crazy about it, why don't you just cut it into tiny pieces so that it's less noticeable and-"
"Angleterre! Will you kindly leave the cooking to me? Cutting it into tiny pieces will not necessarily get rid of the taste-why else do you think spices are also cut into tiny pieces? It is clear you know nothing about cooking, so will you please just take your plant elsewhere? Go make some tea with it or something!"
England made a frustrated noise, but to France's relief, left the kitchen. Presumably this was because 'opium tea' was actually a viable plan...
-
"Is everything ready? The tea, the food, the-"
"Yes, England, everything is perfect. This is the fourth time you've asked that-will you please calm down? I told you I invited him to dinner at six, and he is probably just fashionably late."
France sighed, wondering why England was so insanely impatient. In fact, England's impatience had been the only reason why he'd gone out to find China instead of waiting for the nation to come to them. Apparently England thought China needed help finding their houseboat, which France was unable to comprehend. How would China not know who had docked in his ports? Unless, of course, he really was as high as England had implied, but if that were the case, how could they expect the nation to explain America's machine with any coherence?
"Are you stupid or what?" England snapped back, "Only you think it's fashionable to be late, certainly I've never heard of such a ludicrous statement. I'm sure China would not subscribe to your stupid-"
England was cut off by loud rapping at the door. He couldn't remember the last time China had knocked like that, but he supposed that constant opium highs could change anything.
France rushed to the door. "Ah, Chine, it is great to see you have finally made it." He opened the door to allow 'China' to step in, and smiled (just a little) at the way the nation stiffened upon seeing England.
"What the hell is he doing here?" America snapped, jabbing a finger towards England. Then he cringed, because wasn't he supposed to be apologizing? Certainly by now he'd ruined his chances of getting a decent apology in (he was no good at this diplomacy shit, no good, no good at all!), but goddamn it, would England actually be pissed enough from this one slip to invade Canton? America tried to remember the last time he'd been attacked by England-it felt so foreign, so faraway, a hazy memory he could barely recall, but now, now this bastard was in front of him, threatening stance and all.
"What do you mean what I'm doing here?" England grumbled. "I live here, China. This is my boat you're stepping on, so it's best if you do not act quite so rude. France is merely borrowing my residence because he is...too cheap to obtain one of his own." Which, of course, was a great lie, as France had plenty of boats to spare, but nothing he said to China now would matter in a few hours, when the nation would be busy fending off the effects of the opium poppy...
America gave England a suspicious look. "Wait a minute...did the two of you cook dinner together? Because-" he turned to France, "I mean, seriously France, you let him cook? I have no idea what came over you, but surely you of all people know exactly how he cooks?"
"What the hell are you talking about?" England protested, indignant, especially when France suddenly broke out laughing, arrogant bastard that he was. Wasn't France supposed to be on his side? Why the hell did everyone have to take a jab at his cooking abilities?
"Oh, do not worry so much, Chine. I kicked Angleterre out of the kitchen as fast as I could. Everything on the table is my doing, save the tea."
America nodded, relieved. Because no, he was not a fan of half-cooked, half-burnt riff-raff. And as for tea, England couldn't possibly mangle tea, could he? That was practically his national drink, not that America was at all a fan of drinking it...
-
England noticed with rising frustration that China had barely touched his tea. Instead, he was ripping his bread with great fervor, drowning it in that disgusting cheese stew of France's-since when had China taken a liking to cheese? Was there something off about the smell of his tea? He doubted it, because he'd mixed it with hefty amounts of oolong cha to cover up the smell of the poppy. Besides, if opium was rather bitter anyway (assuming France could be trusted), and China liked his tea bitter, what could possibly be wrong?
"China," he began, "you haven't touched your tea."
America rolled his eyes. He didn't want to touch his tea, because he was sure England had neglected to put sugar in it (as the tea was for China), and the damn thing was hot, and he really didn't want unsweetened uniced tea. Despite the years he'd spent with China, he'd never taken to tea of any sort, instead preferring to explore China's collection of alcoholic beverages. (And China really did have a lot, mostly courtesy of his northern peoples and a very special northern neighbor...)
"Yeah, well, I'm not that thirsty yet. Maybe later?" He tried to smile at England, which ended up strained, as he was too tired and too bitter to pull off a real smile.
Eventually though, America discovered that the fondue had left his throat particularly parched and dry. (The cheese, oh, it had been so many long years since he'd tasted something like that. Not only had he not had the resources to make decent cheese, but there simply had been no time to enjoy anything. Real food and drink? That was for the dead.) He glanced at the tea again, wondering if he should brave it. Yes, it was bitter, but hopefully he could ignore that in favor of fixing his thirst...
Two sets of eyes watched America with wary excitement as he drank the tea, chugging it down as quickly as he could in order to avoid having to really taste it. In a record five seconds, his teacup was empty, leaving a gaping England and France.
"Do you want more?" England asked, attempting to be polite. (He had a whole teapot of opium-laced tea, and the more the merrier, right? He wasn't sure what happened when nations overdosed, but he was pretty sure they didn't die.)
"I...uh, I'm quite fine," America mumbled. That tea England had made was really far too strong for his tastes. There was something oddly resin-like about the taste of it, not that he was really sure what tea tasted like, as he'd always added copious amounts of sugar. (Both England and China had once complained that what he drank amounted to no more than sugar water...)
-
They ate more, made small talk about matters America didn't care a whit about (something about a civil war America had only heard of in passing from China, and usually only when the nation was particularly bitter), and then-
-he felt warm. Warm, cozy, like someone had wrapped a blanket around his shoulders to ward off the October cold. And he could appreciate the kindness, couldn't he? He could appreciate anything nowadays, because that's what war had reduced him to. It was the simple things, like this feathery coat of warm air he was snuggling against, the melody and rhythm of the earth as it sped through darkness...Everything, everything was so beautiful, as if all of life had been built for his enjoyment.
Then there were the two nations sitting by him-they were-they were smiling at him, actually smiling. For once they were happy with him, they weren't yelling at him, they weren't cursing him out of the room, telling him he'd screwed things up again, that he was causing their infighting, their deaths, that his nosiness had ruined them, and how could he, how could he?
But they were smiling now, they looked so serene, so at peace, so kind and warm and...
"England," he whispered, trying to lift his heavy eyelids so he could meet the other nation's eyes, "I...I'm so glad you're alive. I thought you really were dead, like everyone else, like...oh gods, everyone, they're all still dead, aren't they? I had to bury them, and it was my fault, all my fault that they died. I encouraged them, I...we thought we could play them against each other, we thought we were doing so well, so..."
France and England exchanged a look. What in seven hells was China talking about?
"Yes, China, we are alive. I don't think we've ever been dead," England replied. "But out of curiosity, what made you think we'd died?"
"No, it's not possible," America whispered, bordering on hysterics. "I felt that bomb being dropped, I was in the shelter with you, I was...I told you to come with me 'cause I'd found someplace safe, 'cause I'd built this underground defense vault and then you...you..." America choked on his words, remembering. Because even if China had told him again and again that it wasn't his fault England had died, he couldn't really forgive himself. It was his defense vault that had collapsed, so no matter what, he was still responsible, wasn't he?
(Why was he thinking of this now? He had a vague inkling that something was off, that he shouldn't have been entertaining flights of nostalgia. But those smiles were genuine, weren't they? England and France weren't blaming him, and he had a chance to make things right.)
"I...I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, England. After all that shit I created, the lies I told, you must hate me, huh? I really...I don't deserve this. This..."
England raised an eyebrow. Was China apologizing? This really was not his goal-he hadn't drugged China for the nation to apologize to him-he frankly couldn't give a shit if China apologized or not. He'd already half set his mind on attacking Canton, because China's transgressions had gone farther than a simple apology could fix. And underground vaults? What exactly was China referring to?
But even through the hazy smell of opium rotting the air, England could tell-he could just tell-
The apology was sincere. It was so sincere and so wrong, because who in their right mind would say what was really on their heart? That wasn't how things worked-everyone was supposed to be behind a facade, a veneer of deadly calm, with their true emotions wrapped under layers and layers of politics, manipulation, and deceit. And China was old, so old that he should've perfected this game into an art form by now.
He'd always justified things to himself because China had been unreasonable, unfair, because China had played games with all of them, trying to turn them against each other (not that he'd succeeded), and didn't that deserve retribution?
"It's fine," England said stiffly, because how else do you respond to a genuine apology?
Then he watched as China drifted off, lulled into a half-aware trance courtesy of the plant, and sighed. They'd missed the window of opportunity to ask China questions about that thing he'd received from America, and now...
(Maybe the decades and centuries of lies had made him disgusted and cynical in the face of honesty. Or maybe he'd just never been right in the head at all...)
France rose from his chair, looking pointedly at China. "We...we should probably move Chine to a more comfortable sleeping position."
England snorted. "He'll manage. Do you-do you think he meant what he said?
France furrowed his eyebrows. "He was high, England, and he was rambling like a madman. Even if he meant what he said, he would never say it while sober. I think we should just carry him over to his house and be done with it."
They lifted China into the air together and managed to maneuver the nation to the door. They found a jiàozi, gave the bearers directions to China's house, and joined the still entranced nation in the sedan.
-
"France," England muttered, frowning. The two of them had dumped China unceremoniously onto his bed and were currently hovering listlessly in the living room.
"What?"
"I just realized-we should empty China's pockets. I remember he pulled that thing from his left jacket pocket-we should see if it's still there. Since we seemed to have overdone the opium, we might as well-"
"We?" France grumbled, "I had no part in the drugging, Angleterre. You can only blame yourself for being too heavy-handed in your dosage." He rummaged through China's pocket and fished out a carefully labeled envelope. "Is this it? It looks like a letter, not some fabled portable speech device-and it's addressed to you."
A letter-and it was addressed to England? England opened it slowly, because he was awash with confusion-
Centuries ago, in a small kingdom by the sea, a great poet named Alexander Pope penned...
My transgressions the other day were only human, and I deliver my sincerest apologies for them...
Had China come trying to deliver this? England closed his eyes, trying to weigh the possibilities. How had China known who Alexander Pope was? They'd rarely spoke to each other about writers or figures of great cultural significance, and China had always insisted on remaining isolated, so how was it that China could quote Pope? This-this had to be related to that 'portable telegraph machine' the nation had mentioned.
England looked around the room, hoping for further explanation. He saw a crumpled paper on China's desk, which he picked up, unfurled, and read. It was the same letter, except that it had been addressed to "the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland". What the hell was China attempting to imply with a header like that? Was he involved in some fishy business with Ireland-China, who had refused contact with every single European nation he came across, was striking deals with Ireland? That and the penmanship-it was a lot less rigid, a lot more free-form, like the childish scribblings of a younger America.
"You...you're fucking hilarious man, did...you know?"
He froze-China was moaning something in his half-awake state-and he was laughing, even if his laughter was broken down by coughs and sputtering. Why he was moaning in English no one knew...
"...tea, opium, it's all...it's all the same shit, right? They all belong in the ocean, they all belong in the fucking ocean...leave it to the sharks to get high, man."
"Angleterre," France muttered, grinning, "you'd best check the harbor."
England cursed. What was it with nations and dumping his plants into the sea?
-
notes:
- In the first Opium War, Lin Zexu did indeed dispose of opium by dumping it into the sea. And I think most people know that the Boston Tea Party involved the colonists dumping tea into Boston harbor.
- French sailors were very into opium, having picked up the habit in French Indochina.
- There's a restaurant in Southern California called Chinois that specializes in French/Chinese fusion cuisine. Supposedly it's rather famous (and of course, California cuisine is pretty much fusion fusion everywhere)...
- jiàozi - 轿子 - a type of sedan where the carried sit in a carriage that's carried by people
- fǎlánxī - 法兰西 - France's full name, the other was an abbreviation
- Opium tea is very much possible and has relatively strong effects. So does eating opium, although it does take a while (as the opium needs to digest first) for the morphine (the active ingredient in the poppy) to take action. Opium also tastes bitter, apparently.
- Also, I think I've done way too much research on opium and its effects. So much that when my mom called the other day to ask about niangao for Chinese New Year, I replied, "Ah yes, please bring me the opiu-uhhh." Luckily, she didn't really hear me. :P
- More on the happenings of the 1856 election/what China's doing next chapter.
Author: weird_number
Genre: Adventure, Drama
Ratings/Warnings: PG13
Summary: The only survivors following a large-scale war, America and China accidentally travel to the past, but switch bodies in the process. How will America manage the Opium Wars and China handle America's Civil War?
Pairings: America/China
Also at ff.net [1], [2], [3]. Part 1, Part 2 on lj.
America really, really did not want to deliver the letter. After all, he'd quoted Alexander Pope in an attempt to grovel to England, and that was just horribly, disgustingly embarrassing. Still, it was either that or let England take Canton, and the consequences of the latter were far too daunting. He would just have to bite the bullet and do it, all the while containing his desire to stab his brush through England's eye.
(Actually, would England even mind that? The nation was already wearing an eye patch, and surely giving him an actual reason to wear the damn piece of cloth would be welcome?)
Then, to his utter frustration, America discovered that England's house was nowhere to be found. Where the hell had the bastard resided while visiting China? China was probably annoyed enough that he wouldn't have willingly provided housing, but surely England wasn't sleeping in a cardboard box. Did they even have inhabitable cardboard boxes back in the day? (Stupid question, he berated himself, of course they did, they just had varying definitions of "inhabitable".)
Then he saw someone-Engl-no, France. America felt a surge of excitement, because France was alive too, everyone was alive again, and this was his goddamn second chance, but-he squashed the feeling, because this wasn't the time and place to be feeling nostalgic. What the hell was France doing here?
The nation was probably in cahoots with England, although exactly what he wanted America wasn't sure. How often had China spoken to France anyway? Besides the one time America had invited them both over and they'd bonded over a mix of chinois and fǎshì cuisine (America had to admit it was the best dinner he'd had in his life and thanked his lucky stars that he'd gotten it for free), they'd mostly ignored each other, giving the occasional curt nod at meetings.
"Why, hello Chine," France greeted, "it is certainly a good day to be out, is it not?"
America gave France his best glare, and wondered if he should attempt to imitate China's accent. France wouldn't really know the difference, would he? After all, English wasn't his native language either. "What the hell do you want?"
"So rude," France murmured, shaking his head. "I don't want anything in particular. Just to talk, perhaps. Would you grant me that?"
America snorted. "Fine then, talk, Fr-fǎlánxī. I'm all ears." Well, he'd really mangled the Chinese there, but it wasn't like France would know the difference...
"Alright then," France mused, "I just have one question-what do you think about dinner?"
"Dinner?" America asked, suddenly worried. As much as he didn't want to admit it, he really, really could not cook proper Chinese cuisine, and France would see through it so damn quickly it'd be-"What about dinner? Listen France, I absolutely, unequivocally refuse to cook you anything, lest you-"
"Non," France grunted, wondering how China had jumped to a false conclusion so quickly. Could the nation give any of them a chance? And since when had China used his actual name-France-in place of that mangled falanshi or whatever it was? Moreover, when had he learned words like 'unequivocally'?-surely it could not have been from hanging out with Angleterre. "I was offering to cook you dinner. A bit of a cultural exchange, shall we say? It sounds like you would prefer not to join me in the kitchen, and that is fine."
Dinner-France was offering dinner-and he would be cooking! America suddenly realized that he couldn't turn this one down. It was instinctual, because in their age of food shortages and drought and famine, who could turn down free food?
"...Alright, alright, I could go for dinner."
France nodded, smiling. "Good, good. I'll meet you at my houseboat at around six o'clock then. My boat is the fifth one left of the largest willow tree."
-
France hated cooking with England.
"Angleterre, that is not going to work."
England had been about to dump a large batch of-France presumed-fresh opium poppies into his cheese fondue. France, being of quick reflexes, had managed to stop him just in time.
"I am most certainly not going to test taste a fondue that is laced with that goddamn plant! How do you expect me to cook decent fondue without trying it along the way? This must be the way you English cook-you simply never bother to check whether or not your soup has been burnt to a crisp-"
"You've been tasting the damn thing for the past hour. If it's not perfect by now, I don't see how it'll ever be perfect."
"Who knows how the poppy will alter things? I'm not willing to take risks on something as crucial as fondue! Besides, opium by itself tastes bitter and I am not taking the chance with a-"
England gave France a look. "And how the hell would you know what opium tastes like?"
France paused, realizing his slip. He knew what opium tasted like because of his numerous visits to Vietnam, but no, he was not about to let England in on his addiction problems. In fact, scratch that, he wasn't addicted-he wasn't addicted at all, he was just experimenting, and who could fault him for that? He was sure the bastard British Empire would laugh at him, mock him for having stooped to such a level, even though it was obvious England took his fair share of the plant as well, just in a different form. Really, who was stupider-a nation who gave his children opium or he who indulged every once in a blue moon?
"Never mind how I know, England. I just don't want my reputation to be ruined over your stupid plan-"
"For godsake, France, stop being so damn fixated on the quality of your cooking! Once the plant takes effect in China's body, I very much doubt he would care about the taste of your smelly stew. If you're going to be so damn crazy about it, why don't you just cut it into tiny pieces so that it's less noticeable and-"
"Angleterre! Will you kindly leave the cooking to me? Cutting it into tiny pieces will not necessarily get rid of the taste-why else do you think spices are also cut into tiny pieces? It is clear you know nothing about cooking, so will you please just take your plant elsewhere? Go make some tea with it or something!"
England made a frustrated noise, but to France's relief, left the kitchen. Presumably this was because 'opium tea' was actually a viable plan...
-
"Is everything ready? The tea, the food, the-"
"Yes, England, everything is perfect. This is the fourth time you've asked that-will you please calm down? I told you I invited him to dinner at six, and he is probably just fashionably late."
France sighed, wondering why England was so insanely impatient. In fact, England's impatience had been the only reason why he'd gone out to find China instead of waiting for the nation to come to them. Apparently England thought China needed help finding their houseboat, which France was unable to comprehend. How would China not know who had docked in his ports? Unless, of course, he really was as high as England had implied, but if that were the case, how could they expect the nation to explain America's machine with any coherence?
"Are you stupid or what?" England snapped back, "Only you think it's fashionable to be late, certainly I've never heard of such a ludicrous statement. I'm sure China would not subscribe to your stupid-"
England was cut off by loud rapping at the door. He couldn't remember the last time China had knocked like that, but he supposed that constant opium highs could change anything.
France rushed to the door. "Ah, Chine, it is great to see you have finally made it." He opened the door to allow 'China' to step in, and smiled (just a little) at the way the nation stiffened upon seeing England.
"What the hell is he doing here?" America snapped, jabbing a finger towards England. Then he cringed, because wasn't he supposed to be apologizing? Certainly by now he'd ruined his chances of getting a decent apology in (he was no good at this diplomacy shit, no good, no good at all!), but goddamn it, would England actually be pissed enough from this one slip to invade Canton? America tried to remember the last time he'd been attacked by England-it felt so foreign, so faraway, a hazy memory he could barely recall, but now, now this bastard was in front of him, threatening stance and all.
"What do you mean what I'm doing here?" England grumbled. "I live here, China. This is my boat you're stepping on, so it's best if you do not act quite so rude. France is merely borrowing my residence because he is...too cheap to obtain one of his own." Which, of course, was a great lie, as France had plenty of boats to spare, but nothing he said to China now would matter in a few hours, when the nation would be busy fending off the effects of the opium poppy...
America gave England a suspicious look. "Wait a minute...did the two of you cook dinner together? Because-" he turned to France, "I mean, seriously France, you let him cook? I have no idea what came over you, but surely you of all people know exactly how he cooks?"
"What the hell are you talking about?" England protested, indignant, especially when France suddenly broke out laughing, arrogant bastard that he was. Wasn't France supposed to be on his side? Why the hell did everyone have to take a jab at his cooking abilities?
"Oh, do not worry so much, Chine. I kicked Angleterre out of the kitchen as fast as I could. Everything on the table is my doing, save the tea."
America nodded, relieved. Because no, he was not a fan of half-cooked, half-burnt riff-raff. And as for tea, England couldn't possibly mangle tea, could he? That was practically his national drink, not that America was at all a fan of drinking it...
-
England noticed with rising frustration that China had barely touched his tea. Instead, he was ripping his bread with great fervor, drowning it in that disgusting cheese stew of France's-since when had China taken a liking to cheese? Was there something off about the smell of his tea? He doubted it, because he'd mixed it with hefty amounts of oolong cha to cover up the smell of the poppy. Besides, if opium was rather bitter anyway (assuming France could be trusted), and China liked his tea bitter, what could possibly be wrong?
"China," he began, "you haven't touched your tea."
America rolled his eyes. He didn't want to touch his tea, because he was sure England had neglected to put sugar in it (as the tea was for China), and the damn thing was hot, and he really didn't want unsweetened uniced tea. Despite the years he'd spent with China, he'd never taken to tea of any sort, instead preferring to explore China's collection of alcoholic beverages. (And China really did have a lot, mostly courtesy of his northern peoples and a very special northern neighbor...)
"Yeah, well, I'm not that thirsty yet. Maybe later?" He tried to smile at England, which ended up strained, as he was too tired and too bitter to pull off a real smile.
Eventually though, America discovered that the fondue had left his throat particularly parched and dry. (The cheese, oh, it had been so many long years since he'd tasted something like that. Not only had he not had the resources to make decent cheese, but there simply had been no time to enjoy anything. Real food and drink? That was for the dead.) He glanced at the tea again, wondering if he should brave it. Yes, it was bitter, but hopefully he could ignore that in favor of fixing his thirst...
Two sets of eyes watched America with wary excitement as he drank the tea, chugging it down as quickly as he could in order to avoid having to really taste it. In a record five seconds, his teacup was empty, leaving a gaping England and France.
"Do you want more?" England asked, attempting to be polite. (He had a whole teapot of opium-laced tea, and the more the merrier, right? He wasn't sure what happened when nations overdosed, but he was pretty sure they didn't die.)
"I...uh, I'm quite fine," America mumbled. That tea England had made was really far too strong for his tastes. There was something oddly resin-like about the taste of it, not that he was really sure what tea tasted like, as he'd always added copious amounts of sugar. (Both England and China had once complained that what he drank amounted to no more than sugar water...)
-
They ate more, made small talk about matters America didn't care a whit about (something about a civil war America had only heard of in passing from China, and usually only when the nation was particularly bitter), and then-
-he felt warm. Warm, cozy, like someone had wrapped a blanket around his shoulders to ward off the October cold. And he could appreciate the kindness, couldn't he? He could appreciate anything nowadays, because that's what war had reduced him to. It was the simple things, like this feathery coat of warm air he was snuggling against, the melody and rhythm of the earth as it sped through darkness...Everything, everything was so beautiful, as if all of life had been built for his enjoyment.
Then there were the two nations sitting by him-they were-they were smiling at him, actually smiling. For once they were happy with him, they weren't yelling at him, they weren't cursing him out of the room, telling him he'd screwed things up again, that he was causing their infighting, their deaths, that his nosiness had ruined them, and how could he, how could he?
But they were smiling now, they looked so serene, so at peace, so kind and warm and...
"England," he whispered, trying to lift his heavy eyelids so he could meet the other nation's eyes, "I...I'm so glad you're alive. I thought you really were dead, like everyone else, like...oh gods, everyone, they're all still dead, aren't they? I had to bury them, and it was my fault, all my fault that they died. I encouraged them, I...we thought we could play them against each other, we thought we were doing so well, so..."
France and England exchanged a look. What in seven hells was China talking about?
"Yes, China, we are alive. I don't think we've ever been dead," England replied. "But out of curiosity, what made you think we'd died?"
"No, it's not possible," America whispered, bordering on hysterics. "I felt that bomb being dropped, I was in the shelter with you, I was...I told you to come with me 'cause I'd found someplace safe, 'cause I'd built this underground defense vault and then you...you..." America choked on his words, remembering. Because even if China had told him again and again that it wasn't his fault England had died, he couldn't really forgive himself. It was his defense vault that had collapsed, so no matter what, he was still responsible, wasn't he?
(Why was he thinking of this now? He had a vague inkling that something was off, that he shouldn't have been entertaining flights of nostalgia. But those smiles were genuine, weren't they? England and France weren't blaming him, and he had a chance to make things right.)
"I...I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, England. After all that shit I created, the lies I told, you must hate me, huh? I really...I don't deserve this. This..."
England raised an eyebrow. Was China apologizing? This really was not his goal-he hadn't drugged China for the nation to apologize to him-he frankly couldn't give a shit if China apologized or not. He'd already half set his mind on attacking Canton, because China's transgressions had gone farther than a simple apology could fix. And underground vaults? What exactly was China referring to?
But even through the hazy smell of opium rotting the air, England could tell-he could just tell-
The apology was sincere. It was so sincere and so wrong, because who in their right mind would say what was really on their heart? That wasn't how things worked-everyone was supposed to be behind a facade, a veneer of deadly calm, with their true emotions wrapped under layers and layers of politics, manipulation, and deceit. And China was old, so old that he should've perfected this game into an art form by now.
He'd always justified things to himself because China had been unreasonable, unfair, because China had played games with all of them, trying to turn them against each other (not that he'd succeeded), and didn't that deserve retribution?
"It's fine," England said stiffly, because how else do you respond to a genuine apology?
Then he watched as China drifted off, lulled into a half-aware trance courtesy of the plant, and sighed. They'd missed the window of opportunity to ask China questions about that thing he'd received from America, and now...
(Maybe the decades and centuries of lies had made him disgusted and cynical in the face of honesty. Or maybe he'd just never been right in the head at all...)
France rose from his chair, looking pointedly at China. "We...we should probably move Chine to a more comfortable sleeping position."
England snorted. "He'll manage. Do you-do you think he meant what he said?
France furrowed his eyebrows. "He was high, England, and he was rambling like a madman. Even if he meant what he said, he would never say it while sober. I think we should just carry him over to his house and be done with it."
They lifted China into the air together and managed to maneuver the nation to the door. They found a jiàozi, gave the bearers directions to China's house, and joined the still entranced nation in the sedan.
-
"France," England muttered, frowning. The two of them had dumped China unceremoniously onto his bed and were currently hovering listlessly in the living room.
"What?"
"I just realized-we should empty China's pockets. I remember he pulled that thing from his left jacket pocket-we should see if it's still there. Since we seemed to have overdone the opium, we might as well-"
"We?" France grumbled, "I had no part in the drugging, Angleterre. You can only blame yourself for being too heavy-handed in your dosage." He rummaged through China's pocket and fished out a carefully labeled envelope. "Is this it? It looks like a letter, not some fabled portable speech device-and it's addressed to you."
A letter-and it was addressed to England? England opened it slowly, because he was awash with confusion-
Centuries ago, in a small kingdom by the sea, a great poet named Alexander Pope penned...
My transgressions the other day were only human, and I deliver my sincerest apologies for them...
Had China come trying to deliver this? England closed his eyes, trying to weigh the possibilities. How had China known who Alexander Pope was? They'd rarely spoke to each other about writers or figures of great cultural significance, and China had always insisted on remaining isolated, so how was it that China could quote Pope? This-this had to be related to that 'portable telegraph machine' the nation had mentioned.
England looked around the room, hoping for further explanation. He saw a crumpled paper on China's desk, which he picked up, unfurled, and read. It was the same letter, except that it had been addressed to "the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland". What the hell was China attempting to imply with a header like that? Was he involved in some fishy business with Ireland-China, who had refused contact with every single European nation he came across, was striking deals with Ireland? That and the penmanship-it was a lot less rigid, a lot more free-form, like the childish scribblings of a younger America.
"You...you're fucking hilarious man, did...you know?"
He froze-China was moaning something in his half-awake state-and he was laughing, even if his laughter was broken down by coughs and sputtering. Why he was moaning in English no one knew...
"...tea, opium, it's all...it's all the same shit, right? They all belong in the ocean, they all belong in the fucking ocean...leave it to the sharks to get high, man."
"Angleterre," France muttered, grinning, "you'd best check the harbor."
England cursed. What was it with nations and dumping his plants into the sea?
-
notes:
- In the first Opium War, Lin Zexu did indeed dispose of opium by dumping it into the sea. And I think most people know that the Boston Tea Party involved the colonists dumping tea into Boston harbor.
- French sailors were very into opium, having picked up the habit in French Indochina.
- There's a restaurant in Southern California called Chinois that specializes in French/Chinese fusion cuisine. Supposedly it's rather famous (and of course, California cuisine is pretty much fusion fusion everywhere)...
- jiàozi - 轿子 - a type of sedan where the carried sit in a carriage that's carried by people
- fǎlánxī - 法兰西 - France's full name, the other was an abbreviation
- Opium tea is very much possible and has relatively strong effects. So does eating opium, although it does take a while (as the opium needs to digest first) for the morphine (the active ingredient in the poppy) to take action. Opium also tastes bitter, apparently.
- Also, I think I've done way too much research on opium and its effects. So much that when my mom called the other day to ask about niangao for Chinese New Year, I replied, "Ah yes, please bring me the opiu-uhhh." Luckily, she didn't really hear me. :P
- More on the happenings of the 1856 election/what China's doing next chapter.