England says it's the accent.
"They eat it up over here," he sighs airily, motioning vaguely out the window, where New York City sparkles beneath them. "England is exotic here."
America scowls at him, put off for a moment by the fact that England was speaking in the third person. But then he realizes he was talking about the land England, not himself, so he snorts, "England is not exotic. It's wet. And has moors. Moors are the opposite of exotic."
They sit in America's spacious Manhattan apartment (England has expressed disgust that he's using his government "allowance" to pay for this, but he's British, he's opposed to comfort anyway), and maybe they've been hitting that rum England brought over a bit too hard, but they've started to talk about… women.
"I mean, France had Joan," England had rambled, "but she was what, sixteen? The times were different and all, but… but." They had stopped bothering with drinking glasses by then and just passed the rum back and forth like some twisted game of hot potato, taking messy swigs straight from the bottle. "Bess was a better lay, anyway. She wore ruffs. You know what? I miss ruffs."
America almost dropped the bottle when it was handed over to him. Usually, he would make a crack about how goddamn old England is, lusting after ruffs, but there are more important comments to be addressed.
"Okay, shut up and let me get this straight. You fucked Elizabeth I?"
"Yeah." England should not look that proud of himself.
"Holy shit, man. Virginia is named after her. Like. Virginia."
"Oh, come off it. She was already doing it with Francis—"
"—Drake. Francis Drake."
"Holy shit, man," America repeats, "because I thought you talking about—"
"I damn well know who you thought I was talking about."
And so they continue on until the inevitable topic of accents comes up.
"I am an Englishman in New York," England affirms, singing that last part in an impression of Sting that is too good to be unpracticed. "See, if we were back at my place, you would have the away team advantage. An American in London, if you will."
"Dude. You realize that I am America. If I can't get girls in New York City, then I am pretty much screwed for everywhere else."
"Or not screwed."
"You are only 'screwed' if you lose to an Englishman."
America likes where England's going with this. He really likes where England's going with this. "It's a competition now, is it?"
"Aw, ya mean it?" America drawls. "Them's fightin' words, darlin'."
England scoffs. "Oh, come on. You haven't spoken like that for a century. Now let's change into something presentable, shall we? And we'll see if my theory is credible, after all."
"If you say so." America stands and walks to the bedroom, with England close behind; there are enough of England's outfits in America's closet by now for him to find a good change of clothes, and vice versa. The only difference being that England's closet is always impeccably organized, and that America thinks that the respective practices of folding and using hangers are overrated.
While they change, they try to refuse to look at each other.
They fail completely.
Because, really, England is a bit flushed from the rum, and the color looks so nice over those high, pale cheekbones— and he's not as lithe like when America was a kid, because he's harder muscle now, still lean but more defined, even under generations of scars and wounds and.
They manage their way into their suits with relative ease, for being two Nations who are very slightly tipsy. England's is green, of course, that forest green that should be an old man color but just makes him look dignified; slim and double-breasted and partially-buttoned so it clings rather nicely and stop that, America, goddammit you are supposed to be better than him right now.
Thankfully he isn't the only… distracted one, because the look England is giving America in turn is rather gratifying.
Their shoes (dress shoes for England, sneakers for America) are on, hair combed, all traces of rum brushed out of their teeth, cell phones in their pockets.
"I know the perfect place for you to lose," America says, grinning like an idiot.
"Good, then let's go. I just hope they've got a nice corner for you to sit down and cry in when I completely and totally emasculate you." England throws him an insincere smile and saunters out, hands pressed into his pockets.
Emasculate yourself, America thinks venomously.
(He's not quite sure of what "emasculate" means, but coming from England, and under such circumstances, it really can't be good.)
The club itself is quite nice, England must admit. It seems cozy, with its dusky lighting and stylish circular tables and big square cushions rather than chairs. All of it rather reminds him of Japan.
It is also filled with women, which is very convenient, indeed.
The second they enter, England adopts his best I don't fucking care stance, looking around bemusedly, making eye contact with all who care to. Which is an encouraging amount. (Maybe those wrinkles he's been catching in the mirror lately aren't as pronounced as he had believed?)
Seeing America put on that suit (badly; it always takes him at least three tries on the buttons, that daft beautiful idiot) had almost made England want to stay home just to take it off him. But really. His pride is on the line, here, and he's not going to lose to America of all people. That's almost as bad as losing to France.
(It occurs to him, unpleasantly, that he's lost several times to both.)
Before they begin, they head to the bar, order a drink, and lay out the terms.
"One: pick up as many girls as you can."
England smirks, holding his glass lightly by the rim, glancing at his watch. The bar is a tiny bit too low, and he's leaning awkwardly on it in a way that his back is going to bemoan in the morning. "Time limit?"
"None." America's eyes are wide and bright, and goddamn he's got that look he gets when he's hell bent on getting what he wants. The problem with that look is that he usually does get what he wants. (Well, usually with the aid of his ridiculously large military. But England doubts America can call in Seal Team 6 for this one.)
"So this will go all night if it has to." America's glasses are crooked and he wants to reach out and straighten them, but he restrains himself.
"Yep." America downs the rest of his beer and orders another with a flick of his wrist. Then, in one smooth movement, he draws his dog tags out from underneath his shirt.
"You bastard," England hisses. "That is not fair." When had he even put those on? He hadn't been wearing them before, when they had— well. They hadn't been wearing a lot of things, then.
America just throws him the biggest, most revolting shit-eating grin he's ever seen and declares, "Ladies love a soldier."
And I thought he couldn't use military tactics.
America waves him away. America waves him away, like an annoying child interrupting something; and what's really infuriating is that it makes England want to punch him and kiss him at the same time.
Mostly the slug part. (What a terrible mark it would leave on a lovely face, though.)
England is hitting on an Indian woman. Old habits die hard, America supposes.
But he's too angry to laugh; England's already halfway around the room, and there are wry glances shared, phone numbers shyly scribbled on napkins. And there's America, doing his best to look alluring, making sure his dog tags are visible (because who can't resist a man in uniform?). There should be a harem around him by now, preferably waving their numbers at him like crazed betters at a horse race.
But they're not.
The Indian woman kisses England's cheek, right in that lovely space next to his mouth, almost at his jaw. The one he always misses when he shaves, and the woman must have commented on it, because they laugh.
It's the type of conquest that America isn't used to seeing him make.
England had been wrong to feel so smug so soon.
A venerable crowd is swarming America now, demanding to hear tales of his escapades overseas; he managed to get almost everybody to see the dog tags, goddammit, and he's just so big and warm and friendly and good-looking in that purposefully disheveled suit. So of course everyone flocks to him.
Even the beautiful woman from India has abandoned him, run off to America (like so many people do, these days, whether or not it's in England's context).
God, he misses India.
He wishes he still owned it.
He also wishes that that wan little brunette girl would stop trying to pet America like that. He doesn't like it, anyway. Makes him feel like a dog.
America sort of wishes this chick would stop trying to put her hand on his inner thigh, because as nice as it may feel, the way she's leaning is really blocking his view of England and the strange little throng he seems to have amassed. He reclines on one of the sofas, only so relaxed and splayed because he's drunk, women crowding him and laughing at every stupid drunk thing he blurts.
Stupid. Stupid is, is a really funny word. Like, hilarious. Stupidstupidstupidstupid.
England's face is awful close to that blonde woman's. With a little flash of anger, he considers taking her place.
America is drunk, too, but the alcohol isn't where the jealousy is coming from. He lets the girl fondle his leg some more, because he's the United States, he's got everything and nothing to be jealous of.
There are many questions that England feels need to be answered. One: how the hell he got so drunk. Two: Why the bar is almost empty— not that much time had passed, right? Three: Why there is one half of a pair of twins hanging off of him, while the other is clutching at America.
All four of them sit on the sofa. The girls gently rub and stroke their chests, giggling past the alcohol, whispering in and biting at their ears.
England and America glare at each other.
I'm not jealous, they both lie silently.
It's a new challenge now. It's to see who can last longer before either of them shoots up in a possessive fit of rage, throws off the clingy twins (whose names both of them have completely forgotten, if they had ever even asked for them at all), and drags the other back to America's flat for an angry shag.
This is one competition that England is happy to lose.
The twins are, frankly, rather upset.
"Oh my gosh," Kara sighs, knocking her ankles together. She and her sister Sara sit at the bar, watching the men they had just almost gone home with making out like there's no tomorrow on that sofa. "Could they, like, get a room?"
The very traditional, put-upon bartender cannot help but agree.
Sara groans and snaps her gum. "Like, seriously. Weren't they hitting on anything with a vagina an hour ago? Jesus."
A horrible realization strikes Kara, and she gasps.
Both the bartender and Sara say "What?"
"What if we turned them gay?"
Sara screeches, "Can that even happen?"
"Sara, we made them go gay for each other."
The very traditional, put-upon bartender kicks the two men out when Glasses starts ripping Eyebrows' shirt open. The bartender doesn't know where that kind of strength comes from, but he's sure that he doesn't like it being used like that, not in his bar. And he's going to have to sweep up those buttons later.
They stumble out, laughing and refusing to not touch each other, because if they did, it would be so cruel and unusual that they'd get sent to The Hague. (And Netherlands wouldn't be happy, not if that happened.)
They fall gracelessly into the backseat of a cab, where they continue to even-more-gracelessly kiss, while the Iranian driver watches uncomfortably.
It's New York, Fardin, the poor driver reassures himself. They accept everyone here. Even men who insist on making out in the back of my taxi.
When they get out, they forget to pay their driver. Fardin does not care. After those obscene sounds they had begun to make near the end of the trip, he is just glad to be rid of them.
Upon entering the apartment, America is rather happily fucked into the wall.
Mine, mine, mine.
Upon entering the apartment, England rather happily fucks America into the wall.
Mine, mine, mine.
"The girls weren't even pretty, anyway," they agree later.
The girls had had been, of course, extremelypretty. But what does that matter, really, when England is combing my hair with his fingers like that, and when America's glasses had fallen off and he looks so young without them?
They sleep like rocks and wake up with splitting hangovers; they also promise to never speak of this for the rest of their immortal lives.
(Especially not to France.)
A/N: This is bad and I should feel bad.
Oops. I don't. It was way too much fun.
Based on this image (htt p:/ 27. media. tumblr. Com / tumblr _lz76c qSTd D1roqp r4o1_50 g) and a prompt on ukusyepyep on Tumblr: "Imagine a fic where they try picking up girls but in the end they have hot angry jealous sex."
With my inability to write smut, I tried to make it funny instead. If you think I succeeded, leave a review. If you don't, leave a review. I'll run through the hills, singing with unadulterated joy if you do.