A note from ME! Well I wrote this for November the fifth... ^^"
In case anyone doesn't know, 5th November, also called Guy Fawkes day and Bonfire night, is a pretty big deal for us in England; it's like the smaller version of the fourth of July for America. On the fifth of November we celebrate the foiling of the plan to blow up Parliment. On Guy Fawkes day, we launch fireworks, burn effigy's of the "Guy" on bonfires, eat hotdogs and get pissed. ^^
PS, a virtual cookie to anyone who can name every reference I make in the Fanfic
Remember, remember
Remember, remember the fifth of November,
Gunpowder, treason and plot.
I see no reason why gunpowder, treason
Should ever be forgot.
It was going to be a quiet Bonfire night, England decided to himself. Admittedly his knee still ached from the pile up on the M5 down in the Southwest caused partly by the smoke of an early bonfire, but for himself, it was going to be quiet. He curled up on in his armchair with a mug of tea, and contented himself with watching the fireworks outside with a small smile. Somewhere in a nearby field, children would be hauling the 'guy', made of old clothes and stuffed with newspaper, onto a bonfire while the sky was lit up with fiery flowers, and their fellows snacked on hot-dogs and hot chocolate. The fifth of November was an entirely English holiday, and he was going to celebrate it as such; by himself.
Or he would, if France would stop banging on his door.
England managed to sit through ten minutes of France knocking and calling him before he lost his last strand of patience and stormed to the front door, tea still clenched in his fist.
"What?" He snapped as he wrenched the door open. France grinned at him.
"Happy November 5th!" The elder nation greeted, holding up a box filled with bottles of wine and whiskey as a peace offering. England stared at him, before eventually growling out;
"Why are you here?"
France put on a hurt face, pouting. "It's November 5th. We always celebrate together on November 5th." He shoved the box of alcohol into England's face pointedly, as if it was solid proof. England sighed, pushing the box away from him a little regretfully; from the looks of it, it was very good quality whiskey.
"Not this year." He told France. "Every year you get me so drunk I can't remember what happened, and I always wake up in some strange place naked. Normally with an exotic animal of some sort. Occasionally with a celebrity. Last year it was Hugh Jackson. The year before was Elton John; that was terrifying."
"He did seem very pleased. That has to count for something." Francis volunteered. "Besides, you do the getting drunk part quite well by yourself."
England looked own at his mug of tea. It was still warm, and it seemed like a great waste of tea. Then again, it was a good cause, and it's sacrifice would be honoured. Preferably with another cup of tea.
England, making his decision, silently threw the contents of the mug into France's face and shut the door.
However, he resigned himself to the fact that France was going to find a way into his house no matter what happened, and so he kept the window open; he'd rather France came in through the window instead of knocking down the door or climbing down the chimney.
It took France five minutes to find the open window and get into the house, enough time for England to make himself a pot of tea, place a wine glass on the coffee table and move the sofa to face the arm-chair; France would have moved it anyway to face England, so he might as well get it over with.
"You know, it wasn't all bad." France pointed out as he dropped the box onto the coffee table between the two countries and flopped onto the sofa, spreading out across the plush red sofa luxuriously. England poured the tea into his mug and stirred in milk and sugar.
"Wasn't it now." He said dryly, tapping the side of the cup with his teaspoon, before raising it to his lips and blowing. France watched this with fascination. There was a great, unspoken ceremony surrounding tea for England. The water had to be the perfect temperature, the tea-bags had to be the perfect type according to the occasion. The milk and sugar had to be added in the perfect quantity, and even then, you couldn't just drink it. England would often curl around a cup of tea for up to five minutes before finally taking a sip.
"There was the time we woke up with all four of the Beetles." France pointed out. "You didn't seem to be too upset with that.
"Yes." England granted. "But we were also in the middle of Africa surrounded by six very angry lionesses. I didn't have the time to be upset, I was too bust saving one of the greatest bands I've ever known."
Francis hummed as he remembered, and settled back into the sofa, grabbing a bottle of wine and sloshing a measure into the prepared glass.
"What about that time with the spice girls?" He asked. England shook his head.
"No, that was a dream. You spent most of the night calling me Victoria." France nodded, smiling, and sipped his wine.
"Then there was that time with the talking lion and that tall woman dressed as a witch… and we ended up in a blue wardrobe with a man in a pin-striped suit and a pair of converses..."
"No." England contradicted France. He took a long sip of his tea before placing it down. "That was a dream too. Mine in fact. I remember because when I woke up, we were in India and you were playing a mix of polo and croquet on the back of an elephant with a flamingo. I'm not sure where you got the flamingo from in India."
France chuckled. "Oui… I remember now." Both men paused in contemplations. England finished off his tea, but before he could fill his cup again, France pushed the pot off the table. It smashed on the floor, spilling golden-brown tea which slowly soaked into the carpet, and England stared at the place it had sat on the table. He looked up at France when the elder blonde offered him a bottle of whiskey.
"I liked that pot." He told France, and took the whiskey.
Half an hour later, France had managed to persuade England to sit with him on the sofa, and continued to lie his head on the island nations lap. England absentmindedly stroked France's hair; France suspected he didn't realise he was doing it in the first place, and he wasn't about to stop him.
"Do you remember when we celebrated the fifth with America?" France asked, sitting up to pour himself his six glass of wine. As he progressed, his glasses got steadily bigger. England took a swig from his second bottle of whiskey and paused to consider. The effects of alcohol were starting to cloud his mind, and it took him a few moments to remember exactly which time France was talking about.
"We woke up with Elvis Presley." He eventually concluded before dropping his now empty bottle of whiskey and opening a new one. "You know, say what you like about the man, he can make a mean hot-dog."
"I thought I made a mean hot-dog?" France replied, slightly hurt. England ran an eye over France's lightly pouting face, his sparkling blue eyes, his strong build – not as muscled as Germany, but not as lean as England – and the top buttons of his shirt undone, showing the slightest bit of chest hair. France started to crawl towards him, a playful smirk replacing the pout. England leant back on the sofa as France crawled up him, watching his ascent with masked green eyes, and firmly placed one foot into France's face when he leant forward to brush their lips together.
"I'm not that drunk yet." He told France matter-of-factly, taking another swig of whiskey. France pouted again, rubbing his sore nose, and sat back.
"Do you remember when Denmark, Prussia and Spain joined us? We ended up on Easter island… there was a talking rabbit playing the drums..." France asked after downing his tenth glass, not even bothering with the civilised tasting he'd shown before. England glowered at him.
"I'm not drunk enough to hear that story again." He told him, taking another swig of whiskey. France leant forward, wagging his eyebrows. "And I'm definitely still not that drunk." England added.
"It seems… rather absurd…" France drawled slowly, lifting his head from England's chest. "To think that this whole…" He waved his hand vaguely, as if to indicate the celebrating Englishmen outside, and the rows of empty bottles stacked onto the coffee table. "Started with… with…"
England watched him curiously.
"With?" He prompted when it appeared that France wasn't going to continue his trail of thought. France frowned.
"I need another drink." He said. He started at the half-full green bottle sitting on the coffee table. It appeared to have moved further away from him. The cheek.
Deciding he couldn't find the energy to stretch across the great void that separated him from his wine, France snagged England's whiskey from out of his hand and took a swig. He spluttered and coughed when he felt it burn down his throat, not used to the strong alcohol. The burning drink seemed to jolt his memory however, and he clumsily leant forward onto England.
"Sermons!" He declared, thrusting the bottle back into England's grip. "It started with a… a sermon…"
England watched the older nation and reclaimed the whiskey bottle. He gulped down the rest of it, letting a few droplets escape and trail down his jaw and neck, disappearing under his un-buttoned shirt and leaving France transfixed. The bottle rolled away when it was dropped on the floor, and England grabbed France by his collar.
"I'm drunk enough now." He decided, and smashed their lips together.
England groaned as he slowly woke. His head felt as if Russia was repeatedly hitting it with his pipe.
"Bugger." He swore quietly. They'd gone and done it again, he just knew they had. He waited to get his bearings before he opened his eyes. He appeared to be in a bed, which was something at least. If he was going to encounter the horrors of the morning after a night with France, he might as well be comfortable while doing it. He could feel two… no, three pairs of legs. Something was resting on his chest… in fact, several something's were. His arms were held at an awkward angle, and seemed to be handcuffed.
England sighed. He supposed he couldn't put it off forever.
Slowly, he opened his eyes.
He was, as he expected, completely naked, save for a pair of padded handcuffs attaching him to the bedpost of an unfamiliar bed, and what appeared to be the Devon flag draped over him and his companions, presumably to keep them warm.
And oh, what companions.
France, sporting a white, floppy bunny ears headband, was curled into England's side, his arms loosely wrapped around his chest as he snored peacefully away. Portugal was lying almost completely on top of England, his kissable, floppy golden brown hair held away from his face with a hairband sporting a large pair of mouse ears. Japan was on England's other side, nuzzling into his neck, while the bright blue, floral top hat he wore tipped dangerously. Across the room, Russia slumbered away in a panda costume, the head of which was now being used by a sort of nest for a tiny, cheeky faced monkey. Above England's head, a tea-pot hung, tied to the ceiling fan with a skipping rope.
England sighed, and closed his eyes again, deciding that if he wanted to deal with this latest mess, he wanted to have a few more hours of sleep under his belt.
Next year, he was definitely spending November 5th on his own.