Fic: The Queen and Us: AAR: Nick/Tyson
Title: The Queen and Us
Authors: xrysomou and xaritomene
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Word Count: 4320
Pairing: Pairing is not the focus, but Nick/Tyson
Disclaimer: We are not affiliated with any of these people, and everything herein is a filthy, disgusting lie. Also, Mike isn't really a mad defender of the proletariat. And Chris is almost certainly not a closted royalist who's bought a commemorative 'Will&Kate' mug.
We hope.
Summary: AAR watch the Royal Wedding. No, we don't know either.
AN 1: So, apparently some girl got married to some guy today, and it was kind of a big deal. Driven mad by union jack bunting with people's faces on it, we wrote this.
AN 2: We're really very, very sorry.
**
"Okay, have we got everything?" Tyson and Nick stood back to back in their front room. "Beer?"
"Yup."
"Snacks?"
"Yup."
"Blankets in case of extreme cold?"
"I don't think it's gonna take that long. Is it?" Nick scratched his head, looking worried. "'Cause I'm not sitting here longer than two hours."
"Yeah, you'll get cramp again."
"Shut up."
Tyson propped his chin on Nick's shoulder. "It'll be awesome, Nicky. We're watching history being made."
Nick snorted. "No. We're watching because Chris' TV is broken and he threatened us with dismemberment if we didn't let him watch here."
"I wouldn't have put Chris down for a closet royalist," Tyson said thoughtfully, wrapping his arms round Nick's waist and squeezing briefly before pulling away.
"it's Gaylor, you never can tell."
"True, that," Tyson agreed. "When're they getting here?"
"Oh, man, like - six in the morning?" Nick shrugged. "Apparently coverage starts at eight, London time, but I told Chris there was no way in hell I was letting him invade us at three in the morning. Six was the compromise."
Tyson sighed. "At least insomnia is good for something, I guess."
"For you, yeah. Me, I like my sleep. Speaking of," Nick linked his fingers with Tyson's and tugged him in the direction of the bedroom. "let's get some. We've got five hours til they get here, and I want to be unconscious for most of them."
**
In fact, Chris and Mike arrived at quarter to six, bringing with them donuts and three different types of coffee, because, "You philistines never have anything worth drinking."
"My coffee is fine!" Nick protested.
"Your coffee tastes like cat piss,” Chris returned amiably.
Tyson was in the kitchen, yawning over his cereal and trying to keep from dropping off. "This was your idea," he greeted Chris before standing up to envelope him in a hug. "Mikey!"
Mike was scowling at his shoes, not entirely awake. Tyson herded him into the front room, where he collapsed on the sofa, grabbing one of the conveniently-placed blankets and hauling it over his head. "Why are we watching this, anyway?"
Tyson patted him. "History in the making, dude."
"Still don't see why I had to get up at ass o’clock in the morning and fly a thousand miles to see it."
"Stop whinging, Kennerty," Chris dropped down onto the floor in front of the couch. "We wouldn’t have had to fly anywhere if you’d let me watch it on your TV.”
“I wouldn’t sully mine like that,” Mike said, with dignity.
“But now we’re all together for it!” Tyson chirped happily, and refused to meet Mike’s betrayed eyes.
“Anyway,” Chris said staunchly, “ot's gonna be great."
"It's gonna be a bunch of screaming people - which we can see every time Ty does another strip tease on stage-"
"Hey! I don't strip!"
"Ty, love, you kind of do," Nick said comfortably, settling himself back into the sofa.
Mike ignored them. "-a girl in a white dress-"
"And a tiara!" Tyson injected.
"And some idiot dressed in a military uniform which makes him look like a- an idiot."
"You said 'idiot' twice," Chris said, unperturbed.
Once more, Mike ignored him. "Honestly, how can one guy wear that much gold brocade and not be classed as a Mardi Gras float?"
"You're just bitter," Chris informed him, bumping Mike's knee with his shoulder. Mike glowered at him from under his blanket. "Most important thing is - is it too early to start drinking?"
"No," Mike said immediately, giving Nick pleading eyes.
"S'have some coffee first, huh?" Nick said diplomatically. "And someone pass Tyson the donuts, I'm still trying to feed him up."
"Not worried about his modelling career taking a downturn and you two defaulting on your mortgage payments, then?" Chris asked over Tyson's sounds of protest.
"Nope- oh, hey, look, the Queen's arriving!"
"Her Majesty's a very nice girl, but she doesn't have a lot to say," sang Tyson quietly as they stared at the screen. "Yellow? Brave move. Isn't she afraid of upstaging the bride?"
"She's the Queen," Chris said, with a degree of reverence. "She can wear whatever the fuck she wants. And anyway, no. Have you seen Kate Middleton?" he let out an appreciative whistle.
"Mmm," Nick considered it. "Hot, yeah. But not my type," Tyson, perched on the arm of the couch, leaned over to drop a kiss on the top of his head. "Hey, who's that?"
"Prince Charles and the Duchess of Cornwall," Chris said with unnerving speed. The others stared at him and he turned a little pink. "What? I like this kind of thing, okay? If you guys can obsess over the Simpsons and the Food Network, I can take an interest in European genealogy."
Mike grinned. "The magazine you had on the plane didn't look like European genealogy. 'To Marry Her Prince: the Kate Middleton Story', wasn't it?"
"Kennerty, one more word and I will end you."
"Whatever, man," Mike took another sip of coffee, staring disbelievingly at the TV. "The monarchy, man. It's ridiculous. The Brits should just get rid of it."
"Probably," Tyson agreed, "but fuck it, they haven't yet and I really want to see what dress she's gonna be wearing."
"Well, any minute now, apparently, they're going to be cutting to her as she comes down from wherever she's been staying," Chris said, helping himself to another donut.
"Where has she been staying? I mean, I’m guessing she couldn't spend the night with whatsisface," Nick said, licking the donut-sugar off his lips. "That sounds like the sort of avant-garde shit the Brits would piss themselves over."
"They're not actually stuck in the 1920s as a nation, y'know," Tyson grinned at him.
"Except for their throw-back of a monarchy," Mike muttered, and they all ignored him in favour of dosing themselves up with caffeine and hunkering down for the wait ahead.
"You know the media in Britain kept calling her 'waity-Katie'? How harsh is that?" Chris said absently, as a slew of reporters (each smiling more fixedly than the last, it was amazing) tried to eke out opinions on the wedding from a crowd far more interested in the camera than the questions.
Tyson gave him a disbelieving glance. "Seriously? The girl's, like, stick thin!"
"Not 'weighty' as in heavy, 'waity' as in patient," Chris said, a good deal of patience in his own voice. "Still, harsh."
"Also, that 'girl' is older than you, Ty," Nick said, poking him.
"Same age as you, though," Tyson grinned beatifically down at him from his perch on the arm of the sofa. "Does that make you feel old, or do you just feel like you've missed out on the chance to be a pretty pretty princess?"
"I am a pretty, pretty princess," Nick said staunchly. "I wrote the goddamn book."
"If you're a pretty princess, what does that make Ty?" Mike asked, and Tyson stuck his tongue out at him.
"Your jester-in-chief, now can we please shut up? They're nearly at the Abbey."
The others obligingly fell silent and watched as the line of sombre black cars made their way to Westminster Abbey, surrounded on all sides by people waving little Union Jacks.
"Who's the dude in the hat?" Nick mumbled to Tyson, who frowned.
"Dunno. Bishop? Archbishop? I never went to church, dude."
"He's the Dean of Westminster, and sshhhhh!" Chris was sounding a little high-strung.
They watched as members of the Royal Family emerged from cars, to be herded like cattle by security into the Abbey.
"Wow," muttered Tyson softly as the cameras panned around the building, taking in the vaulted ceilings and the bright lights. "Nick, Nicky, I want a house like this."
"Have they put trees in there," Mike asked, squinting at the screen and shaking his head. "They're all crazy. All of them."
The last black car drew up at the West doors of the Abbey, and Chris flailed, managing to wallop Tyson's leg and almost upset Mike's coffee. "She's here!"
"You really are excited about this, aren't you?" Mike said, eyeing him dubiously.
"Yes, I am," Chris kept his eyes firmly on the screen and ignored the very obvious looks his band were sharing behind his back.
Nick glanced back at the screen just in time to catch the all-important moment. "I knew it!" he said, loudly and excitedly, as Kate-Catherine emerged from the car. "I knew it'd be a McQueen!"
Tyson stared at him. "Does it bother you, sometimes, just how gay you are?"
Nick grinned back at him, utterly unashamed. “Wouldn’t you be in trouble if I weren’t?” Tyson returned his grin, and leant down to kiss him. Before they could get carried away, however, Chris’ voice, icily polite, interrupted them.
“Are you two quite done canoodling?”
“But of course.” Tyson waved an appropriately regal hand, and they all turned back to the screen.
"Who's the girl in the column dress?" Tyson asked after a couple of moments of silence, as they watched Kate Middleton clamber out of the Rolls Royce (Mike had made some disparaging noises about the car, and had been ignored) and head up towards the Abbey doors, veil in place, her train being held by the girl in the column dress.
"Bridesmaid, I guess?" Nick said. "The commentary'll probably tell us..." They listened in silence to the British voice intoning that Kate Middleton was being "helped by her sister, Philippa, in her role as maid of honour", and Nick nodded. "Told you so. Also - those little bridesmaid kids are tiny."
They listened in silence as the bridesmaids were named one-by-one, though without so much as a flicker of recognition from any of them, and watched as the bride started her slow procession up the aisle to the altar, surrounded by a sea of hats.
"Her train's not straight, look," Tyson noted absently. "Someone needs to tweak it or something..."
"That's going to annoy you, isn't it?" Nick prodded him, grinning.
"Don't worry. I'll hide my eyes."
"Ssshhhhhh," Chris pleaded, eyes riveted to the screen. Mike decided that 7am was plenty late enough to start drinking, especially when there was at least another hour of monarchist propaganda to sit through. He tiptoed into the kitchen and grabbed the case from the fridge, automatically handing out three more beers as he sat back down. By then, Kate Middleton had reached the altar, and she and the prince were standing in front of the guy who reminded Mike of nothing so much as the mad scientist off that cartoon he used to watch.
"Have I missed anything important?" he asked laconically, but no-one answered him.
"They need lip-readers in on this shit, now," Tyson said, after a few more moments of silence, watching as the ginger one whispered something to the one in red before stepping back.
"I don't think the Brits go in for that whole invasion of privacy shiznit," Nick said, glancing up at him.
"Maybe not the British public," Tyson said, though he sounded doubtful, "but reporters are reporters wherever they are."
A few more minutes of silence followed, Chris riveted to the screen and looking distinctly, worryingly misty-eyed. Tyson was trying valiantly not to laugh at him, and Mike was quite clearly doing his level best to get as drunk as possible as quickly as possible.
Nick couldn't resist a chuckle when all of William's names were read out - "Louis, seriously? Louis?!" - but stopped when Chris threw him a truly vicious glare. There was silence for the rest of the vows until Tyson leant down to Nick and stage whispered into his ear, "this is beautiful, Nicky, we should have one of our very own. Marry me?"
"Sure thing, hon," Nick said absently, without looking up from the screen. Tyson pouted for a good five minutes, until the ring William was trying to put on Kate Middleton's finger clearly stuck.
There was a moment of silence and then Mike stood up and stretched. "Well, that was beautiful. Really beautiful. And now I think we should get something to eat and-"
From his vantage point on the floor, Chris wrapped an arm around Mike's leg and dragged him back down onto the sofa. "You can't leave yet! There's, like the entire service to go, yet."
"Noooo," Mike groaned, grabbing a cushion and burying his face in it. Nick patted his shoulder comfortingly.
"- and sermons and then there's prayers and then the signing of the register -" Chris continued, oblivious. "And after the service there's the procession to Buckingham Palace, then the bit on the balcony, and - what?" he said, when he noticed Tyson staring at him.
Tyson blinked. "What? Oh, I was just wondering what to get you for your birthday. I was gonna go with Gears of War, but now I'm thinking more Barbie Island Princess."
Chris gave him a withering look, and turned back to the TV.
The service dragged on interminably, until finally the royal couple stood in front of the altar once more. In the background, the same restrained British voice informed them that they would be going to sign the register in the Shrine of St. Edward, and that cameras would not be allowed.
"And to give you an idea of the sacredness of the place," the man droned on, "here it is-"
"What the hell!?" Tyson burst out. "Seriously, that's like - ‘this place is real sacred, so we've put a camera in there!’ What the fuck, man?"
"Shhh!" Chris snapped. "Seriously, guys!"
"S'just music now, anyway," Tyson muttered rebelliously as they watched the two make their way into the much vaunted shrine. "We should have been doing the goddamn music, s'all I'm saying."
"Yeah, Gives You Hell would be a real hit, don't you think?" Mike said, pseudo-brightly.
Chris heaved a sigh, and actually turned away from the TV to fix them all with a glare that could have frozen water at thirty paces. "I am trying," he said, very slowly and very patiently, "to watch this wedding going on, which will only happen once, and you are all ruining it. So do you think you could kindly shut the fuck up?"
For a few long moments, there was silence as they listened in silence to the choir singing, with all of the angelic, photogenic little choristers ("betcha they only selected the ones who were pretty enough to be on TV," Tyson had murmured to Nick, but Chris' sideways glare stopped any further commentary).
Then the royal couple reappeared, and the strains of 'God Save Our Gracious Queen' rang through the Abbey, and Tyson could be restrained no longer. "What does the Queen do when they're singing that anyway? Does she sing too?" He asked. "Like, isn't it kind of really fucking awkward to sing it when she's in the room?"
"Weirder not to, I would have thought," Mike said absently, then had to defend himself from Tyson's incredulous look. "What, it'd be like singing Happy Birthday when the person isn't there!"
"Nah, that's different, when it's a national anthem," Nick weighed in with his opinion. "But it would be weird if she sang it, you know? That'd be like singing Happy Birthday to yourself."
"I've done that!" Tyson said, cheering up.
"That doesn't surprise me," Nick said dryly, but softened the blow by hugging Tyson's knees awkwardly.
"Hey, look, she doesn't sing. She just has to - um, stand there, I guess. Gotta be pretty awkward for her," Mike said, staring as if against his own will. "Though it's a small price to pay for the subjugation of your own nation."
"Mi-ike..." Tyson sighed, nudging at his leg with his foot. "Don't be such a grinch. Does Britain feel horribly oppressed when we go there?"
"No, but-"
"I just think there are more important places to worry about, like Libya and Syria and Egypt, for a start, and we can probably let the British monarchy have their special day, you know?" Tyson continued, half-philosophical, half-distracted. "Hey, look, they're out already! And they're actually going in a carriage?"
"I'm gonna get the doritos, if anyone wants breakfast," Nick said after watching various security personnel stuff Kate Middleton, husband and dress into a carriage. The others grunted assent and Nick disappeared into the kitchen as the royal party was wheeled off, followed by at least a dozen black cars.
"Please tell me that's it," moaned Mike, who was, by now, sprawled over Tyson's lap, one arm flung over his head in a melodramatic gesture of defeat. Tyson patted his stomach.
"Don't think so, little dude. Wait," he frowned, "Did they just call her common?"
Chris turned and blinked at him owlishly. "What?"
"No, seriously, the reporter just said 'blah blah blah this is a great day for the Middletons, Kate-Catherine-whosit can now have a royal salute, blah blah'. That's like saying 'now you're a someone, ain't it great for all you little people now'."
Mike lifted his arm in a lazy salute. "And there you have the oppression of the many by the few, my friend. Monarchism only encourages class inequality.” On screen, the couple were being handed out of the ‘1902 landaulet!’ and were heading in to Buckingham Palace, and Mike finally cheered up.
"Oh, it's finished, what a shame, let's watch something good," he said, reaching desperately for the remote. Chris held it firmly out of reach.
"No! They've got to stand on the balcony so everyone can see them now."
"But we've been seeing them for, like, an hour," Mike said plaintively. "C'mon, dude, there're Seinfeld repeats on TBC -"
Tyson detached himself long enough from Nick to look questioningly at Chris. Chris rolled his eyes. "Y'all suck. It's, like, a tradition. Charles did it -"
"Who?"
"Ears."
"- Andrew did it, dunno about the Queen, but they've GOT TO."
"Or it doesn't count?" Mike asked ironically, but no-one was listening.
"They have to?" Tyson questioned, but no one listened.
"The Queen did do it," Nick said, eyes glued to the screen. "The dude with unfortunate jowls just said, and we've got- look, there she is on her wedding day! Kissing the dude who's racist every time he opens his mouth!"
"Philip."
"Whatever."
They watched in contemplative silence for a couple of seconds. "Well, damn, old Liz Two was pretty hot back in the day," Tyson said, and Chris whacked him with a pillow.
"Dude," he said, sounding scandalised. "That's the Queen."
"... money-grabbing parasite, living off the state..." mumbled Mike into his beer.
"She's a legend."
"And she rocks a hat," Tyson agreed, slinging his legs over Nick's lap and resting his feet on Mike's knees. "Awww, lookit the little kid in the suit."
Nick absent-mindedly patted his knee and left his hand there, whilst Mike shifted over so Tyson's feet fell onto the sofa. "And, y'know, I watched that film, whatsit - The King's Speech. Can't have been all that great having your dad turn, stuttering, into the King."
"Guys," Chris said very firmly. "I am trying to watch."
"Oh, c’mon,” Tyson protested. “The most interesting thing that's happened is someone who might or might not be the ginger one tweaking the curtain. And I bet it wasn't Ginger. I bet there's a really bored three year old girl going round yanking on the curtains. The Queen is going to have to threaten her with the Tower any minute now." Tyson took a long, somewhat smug pull of his beer.
Chris stared at him for a long moment, then narrowed his eyes. "Tyson?"
"Yes?"
"Shut up."
"Look, right now, they're just trying to spy on the poor bastards through their net curtains!" Tyson protested. "I bet all that poor girl is thinking right now is not 'yay, I'm married' but 'oh Christ please someone get me a sandwich'."
"Oh, I bet she's got sandwiches," Mike glared at the TV. "I bet she's got hundreds of them. 'Cause everyone has to do what she says."
Chris twisted around to stare at him from his position on the floor. "Why is it that you're perfectly sane on all matters apart from this one?"
"I just think it's awful to keep an outdated institution like the monarchy in place in the twenty-first century,” Mike said earnestly. “It, like, encourages inequality - that dude wears a funny hat, so he's better than me? Man, it's stupid. And what do they even do, apart from open parties and drive round in fancy cars? They should be helping people, or at least earning a living so that the proletariat don't -"
"What is she wearing?" Nick shrieked, oblivious to Mike’s political ramblings, tumbling forwards out of his seat. It was only Tyson's arm around his shoulders that kept him from falling face-down onto the carpet. "What the fuck is that?"
"Jesus, Wheeler, you have to be so shrill?" Tyson rubbed his ear. "What IS she wearing. Looks like she got lost in an antique shop."
"S'Beatrice. Or Eugenie. I can't tell them apart," Chris was absorbed.
"Whatever. That dress is atrocious."
"They both look like a bag of potatoes dressed up in designer-mangled fabrics," Mike said uncharitably, then amended his statement. "Very shocked bags of potatoes."
"Be reasonable," Tyson said absently, still absorbed by the dead reindeer masquerading as Princess Beatrice's hat. "They must have dressed themselves, and not many bags of potatoes could do that. If they were bags of potatoes, someone would have chosen better clothes for them."
"It's all the inbreeding," Mike muttered. "None of these overpayed clowns should be allowed to dress themselves."
"Mike, your cynicism is ruining my day," Chris said, without taking his eyes from the screen. "And somewhere, that Middleton chick is upset and she doesn't even know why. You're ruining an entire nations big day."
"Yeah, you should be ashamed, Mike," Nick said, grinning unrepentantly, while Tyson echoed "Shame..."
Mike looked a little abashed. "I didn’t mean to ruin anyone's day -"
"Fuck, yeah, you do," Chris prodded him. "You're a day-ruiner. You want to be marching up and down outside the palace with a placard saying 'Kill Them All!'"
"No I wouldn't," Mike muttered, adding into his beer," There's no room to march..."
"Cynicism looks weird on you, Mikey," announced Tyson, curling himself into Nick's lap and ignoring the ensuing wince as he accidentally jabbed Nick in the ribs. "You haven't smiled in about five minutes. It's scary. C'mon. Where's the little pixie with the laughing face?"
"Oh my God, shut up! I am not that small, I am not that small -" Mike protested as Nick hid his giggles in Tyson's shoulder.
"All of you shut up," Chris said mildly. "It's the round-up now, and I want to see what I've missed. "So you can complain about it for the next year?"
"Don't worry, Chris," Tyson said with a grin, "I'm pretty sure there'll be a DVD of the whole thing soon. It'll probably come with a commemorative tea towel."
"I'll give you a commemorative tea towel," Chris said, but it was a little difficult to take hims seriously, sat, as he was, with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped, eyes glued to the screen. Hey, look, they're kissing again!"
"That William," Nick said, a dry note to his voice as he reached round Tyson for another beer, "is a real daredevil, I can see."
"Mmhmm," Chris said, without paying the least attention to him.
"So when's our royal wedding going to be, then, Nicky?" Tyson asked, twisting so he was facing Nick and blocking his view of the screen entirely. "I think I'd look fabulous in McQueen. And also lace. Don't you?"
"Mm-hmm," Nick grinned and pecked Tyson on the lips. "Lots of lace. In fact, nothing but lace."
Tyson twined his arms around Nick's neck. "I like that idea. Wanna get some lace next time we're out?"
Nick chuckled and kissed him again. They both squawked as a cushion hit Tyson solidly on the side of the head.
Mike scowled. "If y'all are going to make out, do it elsewhere? I've eaten."
Tyson slid off Nick's lap with a haughty look. "You're thirteen."
"You suck."
"You bet I do."
"You all suck," Chris said heavily. "And not in any way that's good."
Tyson gave them both his most disdainful look - which wasn't especially convincing. "C'mon, Nicky, if we're not wanted here, let me show you how much better I suck than the future Queen of England."
"How would I even know to compare you?" Nick asked, but allowed himself to be towed off towards the bedrooms all the same.
"And as for you," Chris said, pointing at Mike with a warning finger, "not a peep more, or I will personally gag you with Union Jack bunting with pictures of the Prince and Princess on it, OK?"
"Kinky!" Tyson's voice floated out from the bedroom, and Chris buried his head in his hands.
"Just a quiet wedding," he muttered to himself. "That was all I wanted. A nice, quiet time with me, some Pimms and the wedding on TV."
Mike patted Chris' shoulder. "Watch it later. You've probably got it Tivo'd. Come play Halo with me now and then you can watch it in the evening with all that wedding tat you bought."
Chris looked shifty. "I didn't buy anything. And no Halo. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity, Mike."
"Hey, I saw you looking at catalogues. I know you've got something hidden away. Like, a shrine to Prince William or something. But it's almost over and it'll be so much more fun for you to watch when you don't have the Make-Out Twins or me ruining it all for you." Chris looked suspicious. "I'll even throw in the Pimms."
Chris sighed and reached for the controller to turn the TV off. "Pimms and a case of beer. And it was only a mug."
**
FIN!
Whatcha think? Did you like it? Do tell!
Authors: xrysomou and xaritomene
Rating: G
Warnings: None
Word Count: 4320
Pairing: Pairing is not the focus, but Nick/Tyson
Disclaimer: We are not affiliated with any of these people, and everything herein is a filthy, disgusting lie. Also, Mike isn't really a mad defender of the proletariat. And Chris is almost certainly not a closted royalist who's bought a commemorative 'Will&Kate' mug.
We hope.
Summary: AAR watch the Royal Wedding. No, we don't know either.
AN 1: So, apparently some girl got married to some guy today, and it was kind of a big deal. Driven mad by union jack bunting with people's faces on it, we wrote this.
AN 2: We're really very, very sorry.
**
"Okay, have we got everything?" Tyson and Nick stood back to back in their front room. "Beer?"
"Yup."
"Snacks?"
"Yup."
"Blankets in case of extreme cold?"
"I don't think it's gonna take that long. Is it?" Nick scratched his head, looking worried. "'Cause I'm not sitting here longer than two hours."
"Yeah, you'll get cramp again."
"Shut up."
Tyson propped his chin on Nick's shoulder. "It'll be awesome, Nicky. We're watching history being made."
Nick snorted. "No. We're watching because Chris' TV is broken and he threatened us with dismemberment if we didn't let him watch here."
"I wouldn't have put Chris down for a closet royalist," Tyson said thoughtfully, wrapping his arms round Nick's waist and squeezing briefly before pulling away.
"it's Gaylor, you never can tell."
"True, that," Tyson agreed. "When're they getting here?"
"Oh, man, like - six in the morning?" Nick shrugged. "Apparently coverage starts at eight, London time, but I told Chris there was no way in hell I was letting him invade us at three in the morning. Six was the compromise."
Tyson sighed. "At least insomnia is good for something, I guess."
"For you, yeah. Me, I like my sleep. Speaking of," Nick linked his fingers with Tyson's and tugged him in the direction of the bedroom. "let's get some. We've got five hours til they get here, and I want to be unconscious for most of them."
**
In fact, Chris and Mike arrived at quarter to six, bringing with them donuts and three different types of coffee, because, "You philistines never have anything worth drinking."
"My coffee is fine!" Nick protested.
"Your coffee tastes like cat piss,” Chris returned amiably.
Tyson was in the kitchen, yawning over his cereal and trying to keep from dropping off. "This was your idea," he greeted Chris before standing up to envelope him in a hug. "Mikey!"
Mike was scowling at his shoes, not entirely awake. Tyson herded him into the front room, where he collapsed on the sofa, grabbing one of the conveniently-placed blankets and hauling it over his head. "Why are we watching this, anyway?"
Tyson patted him. "History in the making, dude."
"Still don't see why I had to get up at ass o’clock in the morning and fly a thousand miles to see it."
"Stop whinging, Kennerty," Chris dropped down onto the floor in front of the couch. "We wouldn’t have had to fly anywhere if you’d let me watch it on your TV.”
“I wouldn’t sully mine like that,” Mike said, with dignity.
“But now we’re all together for it!” Tyson chirped happily, and refused to meet Mike’s betrayed eyes.
“Anyway,” Chris said staunchly, “ot's gonna be great."
"It's gonna be a bunch of screaming people - which we can see every time Ty does another strip tease on stage-"
"Hey! I don't strip!"
"Ty, love, you kind of do," Nick said comfortably, settling himself back into the sofa.
Mike ignored them. "-a girl in a white dress-"
"And a tiara!" Tyson injected.
"And some idiot dressed in a military uniform which makes him look like a- an idiot."
"You said 'idiot' twice," Chris said, unperturbed.
Once more, Mike ignored him. "Honestly, how can one guy wear that much gold brocade and not be classed as a Mardi Gras float?"
"You're just bitter," Chris informed him, bumping Mike's knee with his shoulder. Mike glowered at him from under his blanket. "Most important thing is - is it too early to start drinking?"
"No," Mike said immediately, giving Nick pleading eyes.
"S'have some coffee first, huh?" Nick said diplomatically. "And someone pass Tyson the donuts, I'm still trying to feed him up."
"Not worried about his modelling career taking a downturn and you two defaulting on your mortgage payments, then?" Chris asked over Tyson's sounds of protest.
"Nope- oh, hey, look, the Queen's arriving!"
"Her Majesty's a very nice girl, but she doesn't have a lot to say," sang Tyson quietly as they stared at the screen. "Yellow? Brave move. Isn't she afraid of upstaging the bride?"
"She's the Queen," Chris said, with a degree of reverence. "She can wear whatever the fuck she wants. And anyway, no. Have you seen Kate Middleton?" he let out an appreciative whistle.
"Mmm," Nick considered it. "Hot, yeah. But not my type," Tyson, perched on the arm of the couch, leaned over to drop a kiss on the top of his head. "Hey, who's that?"
"Prince Charles and the Duchess of Cornwall," Chris said with unnerving speed. The others stared at him and he turned a little pink. "What? I like this kind of thing, okay? If you guys can obsess over the Simpsons and the Food Network, I can take an interest in European genealogy."
Mike grinned. "The magazine you had on the plane didn't look like European genealogy. 'To Marry Her Prince: the Kate Middleton Story', wasn't it?"
"Kennerty, one more word and I will end you."
"Whatever, man," Mike took another sip of coffee, staring disbelievingly at the TV. "The monarchy, man. It's ridiculous. The Brits should just get rid of it."
"Probably," Tyson agreed, "but fuck it, they haven't yet and I really want to see what dress she's gonna be wearing."
"Well, any minute now, apparently, they're going to be cutting to her as she comes down from wherever she's been staying," Chris said, helping himself to another donut.
"Where has she been staying? I mean, I’m guessing she couldn't spend the night with whatsisface," Nick said, licking the donut-sugar off his lips. "That sounds like the sort of avant-garde shit the Brits would piss themselves over."
"They're not actually stuck in the 1920s as a nation, y'know," Tyson grinned at him.
"Except for their throw-back of a monarchy," Mike muttered, and they all ignored him in favour of dosing themselves up with caffeine and hunkering down for the wait ahead.
"You know the media in Britain kept calling her 'waity-Katie'? How harsh is that?" Chris said absently, as a slew of reporters (each smiling more fixedly than the last, it was amazing) tried to eke out opinions on the wedding from a crowd far more interested in the camera than the questions.
Tyson gave him a disbelieving glance. "Seriously? The girl's, like, stick thin!"
"Not 'weighty' as in heavy, 'waity' as in patient," Chris said, a good deal of patience in his own voice. "Still, harsh."
"Also, that 'girl' is older than you, Ty," Nick said, poking him.
"Same age as you, though," Tyson grinned beatifically down at him from his perch on the arm of the sofa. "Does that make you feel old, or do you just feel like you've missed out on the chance to be a pretty pretty princess?"
"I am a pretty, pretty princess," Nick said staunchly. "I wrote the goddamn book."
"If you're a pretty princess, what does that make Ty?" Mike asked, and Tyson stuck his tongue out at him.
"Your jester-in-chief, now can we please shut up? They're nearly at the Abbey."
The others obligingly fell silent and watched as the line of sombre black cars made their way to Westminster Abbey, surrounded on all sides by people waving little Union Jacks.
"Who's the dude in the hat?" Nick mumbled to Tyson, who frowned.
"Dunno. Bishop? Archbishop? I never went to church, dude."
"He's the Dean of Westminster, and sshhhhh!" Chris was sounding a little high-strung.
They watched as members of the Royal Family emerged from cars, to be herded like cattle by security into the Abbey.
"Wow," muttered Tyson softly as the cameras panned around the building, taking in the vaulted ceilings and the bright lights. "Nick, Nicky, I want a house like this."
"Have they put trees in there," Mike asked, squinting at the screen and shaking his head. "They're all crazy. All of them."
The last black car drew up at the West doors of the Abbey, and Chris flailed, managing to wallop Tyson's leg and almost upset Mike's coffee. "She's here!"
"You really are excited about this, aren't you?" Mike said, eyeing him dubiously.
"Yes, I am," Chris kept his eyes firmly on the screen and ignored the very obvious looks his band were sharing behind his back.
Nick glanced back at the screen just in time to catch the all-important moment. "I knew it!" he said, loudly and excitedly, as Kate-Catherine emerged from the car. "I knew it'd be a McQueen!"
Tyson stared at him. "Does it bother you, sometimes, just how gay you are?"
Nick grinned back at him, utterly unashamed. “Wouldn’t you be in trouble if I weren’t?” Tyson returned his grin, and leant down to kiss him. Before they could get carried away, however, Chris’ voice, icily polite, interrupted them.
“Are you two quite done canoodling?”
“But of course.” Tyson waved an appropriately regal hand, and they all turned back to the screen.
"Who's the girl in the column dress?" Tyson asked after a couple of moments of silence, as they watched Kate Middleton clamber out of the Rolls Royce (Mike had made some disparaging noises about the car, and had been ignored) and head up towards the Abbey doors, veil in place, her train being held by the girl in the column dress.
"Bridesmaid, I guess?" Nick said. "The commentary'll probably tell us..." They listened in silence to the British voice intoning that Kate Middleton was being "helped by her sister, Philippa, in her role as maid of honour", and Nick nodded. "Told you so. Also - those little bridesmaid kids are tiny."
They listened in silence as the bridesmaids were named one-by-one, though without so much as a flicker of recognition from any of them, and watched as the bride started her slow procession up the aisle to the altar, surrounded by a sea of hats.
"Her train's not straight, look," Tyson noted absently. "Someone needs to tweak it or something..."
"That's going to annoy you, isn't it?" Nick prodded him, grinning.
"Don't worry. I'll hide my eyes."
"Ssshhhhhh," Chris pleaded, eyes riveted to the screen. Mike decided that 7am was plenty late enough to start drinking, especially when there was at least another hour of monarchist propaganda to sit through. He tiptoed into the kitchen and grabbed the case from the fridge, automatically handing out three more beers as he sat back down. By then, Kate Middleton had reached the altar, and she and the prince were standing in front of the guy who reminded Mike of nothing so much as the mad scientist off that cartoon he used to watch.
"Have I missed anything important?" he asked laconically, but no-one answered him.
"They need lip-readers in on this shit, now," Tyson said, after a few more moments of silence, watching as the ginger one whispered something to the one in red before stepping back.
"I don't think the Brits go in for that whole invasion of privacy shiznit," Nick said, glancing up at him.
"Maybe not the British public," Tyson said, though he sounded doubtful, "but reporters are reporters wherever they are."
A few more minutes of silence followed, Chris riveted to the screen and looking distinctly, worryingly misty-eyed. Tyson was trying valiantly not to laugh at him, and Mike was quite clearly doing his level best to get as drunk as possible as quickly as possible.
Nick couldn't resist a chuckle when all of William's names were read out - "Louis, seriously? Louis?!" - but stopped when Chris threw him a truly vicious glare. There was silence for the rest of the vows until Tyson leant down to Nick and stage whispered into his ear, "this is beautiful, Nicky, we should have one of our very own. Marry me?"
"Sure thing, hon," Nick said absently, without looking up from the screen. Tyson pouted for a good five minutes, until the ring William was trying to put on Kate Middleton's finger clearly stuck.
There was a moment of silence and then Mike stood up and stretched. "Well, that was beautiful. Really beautiful. And now I think we should get something to eat and-"
From his vantage point on the floor, Chris wrapped an arm around Mike's leg and dragged him back down onto the sofa. "You can't leave yet! There's, like the entire service to go, yet."
"Noooo," Mike groaned, grabbing a cushion and burying his face in it. Nick patted his shoulder comfortingly.
"- and sermons and then there's prayers and then the signing of the register -" Chris continued, oblivious. "And after the service there's the procession to Buckingham Palace, then the bit on the balcony, and - what?" he said, when he noticed Tyson staring at him.
Tyson blinked. "What? Oh, I was just wondering what to get you for your birthday. I was gonna go with Gears of War, but now I'm thinking more Barbie Island Princess."
Chris gave him a withering look, and turned back to the TV.
The service dragged on interminably, until finally the royal couple stood in front of the altar once more. In the background, the same restrained British voice informed them that they would be going to sign the register in the Shrine of St. Edward, and that cameras would not be allowed.
"And to give you an idea of the sacredness of the place," the man droned on, "here it is-"
"What the hell!?" Tyson burst out. "Seriously, that's like - ‘this place is real sacred, so we've put a camera in there!’ What the fuck, man?"
"Shhh!" Chris snapped. "Seriously, guys!"
"S'just music now, anyway," Tyson muttered rebelliously as they watched the two make their way into the much vaunted shrine. "We should have been doing the goddamn music, s'all I'm saying."
"Yeah, Gives You Hell would be a real hit, don't you think?" Mike said, pseudo-brightly.
Chris heaved a sigh, and actually turned away from the TV to fix them all with a glare that could have frozen water at thirty paces. "I am trying," he said, very slowly and very patiently, "to watch this wedding going on, which will only happen once, and you are all ruining it. So do you think you could kindly shut the fuck up?"
For a few long moments, there was silence as they listened in silence to the choir singing, with all of the angelic, photogenic little choristers ("betcha they only selected the ones who were pretty enough to be on TV," Tyson had murmured to Nick, but Chris' sideways glare stopped any further commentary).
Then the royal couple reappeared, and the strains of 'God Save Our Gracious Queen' rang through the Abbey, and Tyson could be restrained no longer. "What does the Queen do when they're singing that anyway? Does she sing too?" He asked. "Like, isn't it kind of really fucking awkward to sing it when she's in the room?"
"Weirder not to, I would have thought," Mike said absently, then had to defend himself from Tyson's incredulous look. "What, it'd be like singing Happy Birthday when the person isn't there!"
"Nah, that's different, when it's a national anthem," Nick weighed in with his opinion. "But it would be weird if she sang it, you know? That'd be like singing Happy Birthday to yourself."
"I've done that!" Tyson said, cheering up.
"That doesn't surprise me," Nick said dryly, but softened the blow by hugging Tyson's knees awkwardly.
"Hey, look, she doesn't sing. She just has to - um, stand there, I guess. Gotta be pretty awkward for her," Mike said, staring as if against his own will. "Though it's a small price to pay for the subjugation of your own nation."
"Mi-ike..." Tyson sighed, nudging at his leg with his foot. "Don't be such a grinch. Does Britain feel horribly oppressed when we go there?"
"No, but-"
"I just think there are more important places to worry about, like Libya and Syria and Egypt, for a start, and we can probably let the British monarchy have their special day, you know?" Tyson continued, half-philosophical, half-distracted. "Hey, look, they're out already! And they're actually going in a carriage?"
"I'm gonna get the doritos, if anyone wants breakfast," Nick said after watching various security personnel stuff Kate Middleton, husband and dress into a carriage. The others grunted assent and Nick disappeared into the kitchen as the royal party was wheeled off, followed by at least a dozen black cars.
"Please tell me that's it," moaned Mike, who was, by now, sprawled over Tyson's lap, one arm flung over his head in a melodramatic gesture of defeat. Tyson patted his stomach.
"Don't think so, little dude. Wait," he frowned, "Did they just call her common?"
Chris turned and blinked at him owlishly. "What?"
"No, seriously, the reporter just said 'blah blah blah this is a great day for the Middletons, Kate-Catherine-whosit can now have a royal salute, blah blah'. That's like saying 'now you're a someone, ain't it great for all you little people now'."
Mike lifted his arm in a lazy salute. "And there you have the oppression of the many by the few, my friend. Monarchism only encourages class inequality.” On screen, the couple were being handed out of the ‘1902 landaulet!’ and were heading in to Buckingham Palace, and Mike finally cheered up.
"Oh, it's finished, what a shame, let's watch something good," he said, reaching desperately for the remote. Chris held it firmly out of reach.
"No! They've got to stand on the balcony so everyone can see them now."
"But we've been seeing them for, like, an hour," Mike said plaintively. "C'mon, dude, there're Seinfeld repeats on TBC -"
Tyson detached himself long enough from Nick to look questioningly at Chris. Chris rolled his eyes. "Y'all suck. It's, like, a tradition. Charles did it -"
"Who?"
"Ears."
"- Andrew did it, dunno about the Queen, but they've GOT TO."
"Or it doesn't count?" Mike asked ironically, but no-one was listening.
"They have to?" Tyson questioned, but no one listened.
"The Queen did do it," Nick said, eyes glued to the screen. "The dude with unfortunate jowls just said, and we've got- look, there she is on her wedding day! Kissing the dude who's racist every time he opens his mouth!"
"Philip."
"Whatever."
They watched in contemplative silence for a couple of seconds. "Well, damn, old Liz Two was pretty hot back in the day," Tyson said, and Chris whacked him with a pillow.
"Dude," he said, sounding scandalised. "That's the Queen."
"... money-grabbing parasite, living off the state..." mumbled Mike into his beer.
"She's a legend."
"And she rocks a hat," Tyson agreed, slinging his legs over Nick's lap and resting his feet on Mike's knees. "Awww, lookit the little kid in the suit."
Nick absent-mindedly patted his knee and left his hand there, whilst Mike shifted over so Tyson's feet fell onto the sofa. "And, y'know, I watched that film, whatsit - The King's Speech. Can't have been all that great having your dad turn, stuttering, into the King."
"Guys," Chris said very firmly. "I am trying to watch."
"Oh, c’mon,” Tyson protested. “The most interesting thing that's happened is someone who might or might not be the ginger one tweaking the curtain. And I bet it wasn't Ginger. I bet there's a really bored three year old girl going round yanking on the curtains. The Queen is going to have to threaten her with the Tower any minute now." Tyson took a long, somewhat smug pull of his beer.
Chris stared at him for a long moment, then narrowed his eyes. "Tyson?"
"Yes?"
"Shut up."
"Look, right now, they're just trying to spy on the poor bastards through their net curtains!" Tyson protested. "I bet all that poor girl is thinking right now is not 'yay, I'm married' but 'oh Christ please someone get me a sandwich'."
"Oh, I bet she's got sandwiches," Mike glared at the TV. "I bet she's got hundreds of them. 'Cause everyone has to do what she says."
Chris twisted around to stare at him from his position on the floor. "Why is it that you're perfectly sane on all matters apart from this one?"
"I just think it's awful to keep an outdated institution like the monarchy in place in the twenty-first century,” Mike said earnestly. “It, like, encourages inequality - that dude wears a funny hat, so he's better than me? Man, it's stupid. And what do they even do, apart from open parties and drive round in fancy cars? They should be helping people, or at least earning a living so that the proletariat don't -"
"What is she wearing?" Nick shrieked, oblivious to Mike’s political ramblings, tumbling forwards out of his seat. It was only Tyson's arm around his shoulders that kept him from falling face-down onto the carpet. "What the fuck is that?"
"Jesus, Wheeler, you have to be so shrill?" Tyson rubbed his ear. "What IS she wearing. Looks like she got lost in an antique shop."
"S'Beatrice. Or Eugenie. I can't tell them apart," Chris was absorbed.
"Whatever. That dress is atrocious."
"They both look like a bag of potatoes dressed up in designer-mangled fabrics," Mike said uncharitably, then amended his statement. "Very shocked bags of potatoes."
"Be reasonable," Tyson said absently, still absorbed by the dead reindeer masquerading as Princess Beatrice's hat. "They must have dressed themselves, and not many bags of potatoes could do that. If they were bags of potatoes, someone would have chosen better clothes for them."
"It's all the inbreeding," Mike muttered. "None of these overpayed clowns should be allowed to dress themselves."
"Mike, your cynicism is ruining my day," Chris said, without taking his eyes from the screen. "And somewhere, that Middleton chick is upset and she doesn't even know why. You're ruining an entire nations big day."
"Yeah, you should be ashamed, Mike," Nick said, grinning unrepentantly, while Tyson echoed "Shame..."
Mike looked a little abashed. "I didn’t mean to ruin anyone's day -"
"Fuck, yeah, you do," Chris prodded him. "You're a day-ruiner. You want to be marching up and down outside the palace with a placard saying 'Kill Them All!'"
"No I wouldn't," Mike muttered, adding into his beer," There's no room to march..."
"Cynicism looks weird on you, Mikey," announced Tyson, curling himself into Nick's lap and ignoring the ensuing wince as he accidentally jabbed Nick in the ribs. "You haven't smiled in about five minutes. It's scary. C'mon. Where's the little pixie with the laughing face?"
"Oh my God, shut up! I am not that small, I am not that small -" Mike protested as Nick hid his giggles in Tyson's shoulder.
"All of you shut up," Chris said mildly. "It's the round-up now, and I want to see what I've missed. "So you can complain about it for the next year?"
"Don't worry, Chris," Tyson said with a grin, "I'm pretty sure there'll be a DVD of the whole thing soon. It'll probably come with a commemorative tea towel."
"I'll give you a commemorative tea towel," Chris said, but it was a little difficult to take hims seriously, sat, as he was, with his elbows on his knees, hands clasped, eyes glued to the screen. Hey, look, they're kissing again!"
"That William," Nick said, a dry note to his voice as he reached round Tyson for another beer, "is a real daredevil, I can see."
"Mmhmm," Chris said, without paying the least attention to him.
"So when's our royal wedding going to be, then, Nicky?" Tyson asked, twisting so he was facing Nick and blocking his view of the screen entirely. "I think I'd look fabulous in McQueen. And also lace. Don't you?"
"Mm-hmm," Nick grinned and pecked Tyson on the lips. "Lots of lace. In fact, nothing but lace."
Tyson twined his arms around Nick's neck. "I like that idea. Wanna get some lace next time we're out?"
Nick chuckled and kissed him again. They both squawked as a cushion hit Tyson solidly on the side of the head.
Mike scowled. "If y'all are going to make out, do it elsewhere? I've eaten."
Tyson slid off Nick's lap with a haughty look. "You're thirteen."
"You suck."
"You bet I do."
"You all suck," Chris said heavily. "And not in any way that's good."
Tyson gave them both his most disdainful look - which wasn't especially convincing. "C'mon, Nicky, if we're not wanted here, let me show you how much better I suck than the future Queen of England."
"How would I even know to compare you?" Nick asked, but allowed himself to be towed off towards the bedrooms all the same.
"And as for you," Chris said, pointing at Mike with a warning finger, "not a peep more, or I will personally gag you with Union Jack bunting with pictures of the Prince and Princess on it, OK?"
"Kinky!" Tyson's voice floated out from the bedroom, and Chris buried his head in his hands.
"Just a quiet wedding," he muttered to himself. "That was all I wanted. A nice, quiet time with me, some Pimms and the wedding on TV."
Mike patted Chris' shoulder. "Watch it later. You've probably got it Tivo'd. Come play Halo with me now and then you can watch it in the evening with all that wedding tat you bought."
Chris looked shifty. "I didn't buy anything. And no Halo. This is a once in a lifetime opportunity, Mike."
"Hey, I saw you looking at catalogues. I know you've got something hidden away. Like, a shrine to Prince William or something. But it's almost over and it'll be so much more fun for you to watch when you don't have the Make-Out Twins or me ruining it all for you." Chris looked suspicious. "I'll even throw in the Pimms."
Chris sighed and reached for the controller to turn the TV off. "Pimms and a case of beer. And it was only a mug."
**
FIN!
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