The powerful voices of Bostridge and Drake, singing their cover of Franz Schubert's Die Forelle, echoed about the kitchen as the strawberry tarts were pulled from the oven. He inhaled the sweet-scented smoke and sighed pleasurably. But for the sounds of frustrated exertion that could be heard above the tenors of Bostridge and Drake, it was all near perfect. He frowned and quickly went on with finishing up the tarts.
Soon, he had the sugary little pastries displayed on a fine china plate, which he carried into the dining room. All the while, his feet danced in time with Schubert's lied - around the overturned table, over the shattered vase, between the splintered halves of the broken chair. He came to a stop at the dining table and set the tarts in front of his dining companion, just as the song ended.
There was no other sound now, besides the light static of the record player, though that too was gone once he removed the needle from the record. He smiled down at his companion. Then, he noticed the blood making slick the cords around his companion's wrists.
"Well, goodness," he exclaimed. "What did you do to yourself?"
His companion was silent, knuckles white about the arms of his chair, posture stiff, countenance stony, overall just looking plain inhospitable.
He sighed, tutting disappointedly. "You can't go hurting yourself like that, all right?"
He pinched his companion's stiff cheek, drawing a wince, and went to sit across from him. "After all, I don't want all my hard work to go to waste. It's been a fair while since I cooked a full on dinner for someone."
His companion simply glared, teeth bared in a distasteful snarl, which he easily countered with a benign grin. This persisted for several seconds.
"...Not very talkative, are y–?"
"Damn it, what the bloody hell do you want!?"
"And no wonder!" he gasped. "Did you kiss mum with that mouth?"
His companion strained to release himself from the chair, only inflicting more damage to his wrists. "You broke into my house, ransacked my drawing room, and–!"
"Broke into your house?" he exclaimed, offended. "My dear Iggy– Ah, do you mind if I call you Iggy? It's something that the boys sometimes call me. I know it's meant to be demeaning, but I can't help but find it adorable. Do your boys give you any affectionate nicknames?"
Bad-tempered silence was the only reply.
He nodded understandingly. "Ah, I see. Touchy subject."
"Oh, shut up," the other muttered. He tilted his head back, sighing. "Why are you here?"
"Well, I heard about you - don't ask me how - and I thought, well, why not go visit?" He clasped his hands. "I wanted to see how alike we are. And judging by the state of your kitchen, I imagine we are not quite so alike as I'd hoped. A tart?"
His companion curled his lip. "Untie my hands first."
"Oh, no, no, no, if I do that you'll jump at me! Here..." He plucked a beautifully crafted tart from the plate. "Open wide!"
The seated individual cringed, leaning back as far as his bonds would allow. "Like hell I'm eating from your hands!"
"Now, that's rude. I do wash them before and after I cook; what uncivilized brute doesn't? Really though, I insist." He poked the tart at the seam of his companion's tightly sealed lips. "Come on, open up! You know, my little boys loved it when I played the 'eat your food' game, especially when they were being disagreeable."
"And how does that go?" the other growled, only speaking when the tart was lifted away.
He lifted a finger, smiling brightly. "Oh! How about a demonstration."
Holding up the tart again, he leaned in close to his companion. "So I'd do this, and I'd say something to the effect of, 'Sweetheart, you need to eat your food.' And if they still said no..."
He gave his companion an expectant look, prodding him with the tart. A shake of the head was all he received, and he smiled.
"Well, if they still said no, then I'd do this."
Quick as lightning, he lashed out with his free hand, gripping his companion's jaw in a vice. A tight squeeze forced his companion's lips open, and he popped the tart between them with a happy giggle and manually aided his reluctant guest into chewing the treat.
As soon as said treat was gone, his companion jerked out of his grip, cursing furiously. "You bloody git! You son of a hell damned wanker!"
He gasped, affronted. "Goodness me, you really do need to work on that language of yours!"
His companion glared at him dangerously, slowly rotating his jaw.
"Oh, don't give me that look. Such language was hardly called for, and I know for a fact that my food can't be that bad. Scone?"
"You're mad." His companion released an odd sound that was something akin to a laugh. "Yes, that's it. You're stark raving mad."
He returned the laugh, choosing a scone from one of the plates. "Mad, yes. An absolute freak. One might even say a punk. I acknowledge this with full acceptance."
He picked up a knife and pressed it against his chest, as though making a vow. "As our dear gentleman, Mr. Carroll, once so aptly wrote, 'We're all mad here.'"
Laughing again, he cut the scone in half and lathered one half with jam. "Or at least, that's the case where I come from. Everyone there is depressed, sociopathic, and just plain mad. You ought to visit sometime."
"I ought not."
"Ought too! But let's not argue. Here, try the scone."
Despite his offer, those lips were once again sealed.
"Come now dearest, you don't want to play the 'eat your food' game again, do you?"
His companion scowled, but opened his mouth, and he happily pushed the scone between his companion's lips lips. Looking him straight in the eye, his companion bit down on the scone and shut his mouth. He waited expectantly, but his companion's jaw remained otherwise unmoving.
He frowned. "Go on! Chew it! ...If you don't chew it I'll have to make you."
He waved the jam knife in front of his companion's face, only to pull back when his companion lunged at him like a mad-eyed Jack-in-the-Box. The yelp that had escaped him quickly turned into laughter as his companion was halted by his bonds.
Clapping his hands, he exclaimed, "Oh, that was naughty of you. Very sly! Ah, but really, I would finish that scone if I were you."
His companion groaned frustratedly.
Two quick chews and a swallow later, he nodded approvingly. "Good lad. You really ought to eat a little more slowly though. Eating fast is so American, and it does terrible things to the digestive system."
"Tell me," his companion growled, continuing to work at his bonds. "When your store of cyanide and strawberry preserves runs dry, do you feed off of the humiliation you inflict on others?"
He smiled, buttering up the second half of the scone. "It's funny, my loving big brother asked me the exact same thing..."
"And what did you say?"
"'Brother dear, I never humiliate others,'" he quoted sincerely. "'They're humiliated, but only because they perceived it that way.'"
He took a bite out of the buttered scone and shrugged. "If you find it humiliating, that's your problem. Tea? Or perhaps you want to finish your scone..."
The other laughed humorlessly. "Oh, a lovely principle you've got there."
"Tea it is, then."
"I'm sure that your friends agree wholeheartedly with that little philosophy. That is if you even have any friends."
He sent his companion a reproving look as he prepared a cuppa. "No need to be sarcastic, Iggy dear. I do have friends, thank you very much, though at this point I am unsure whether or not I can say the same for you."
"I do have... some friends." His companion squirmed, something besides frustration and anger crossing his facial features.
He smiled sympathetically, returning to the preparation of the tea. "Ah, I've been there, mate. There was a time when not a person in the world wanted to be my friend. Then they discovered my wicked cooking skills, and the fact that I am a stubborn little man who won't take no for an answer."
He turned back to his guest, teacup and saucer in hand.
Instantly, his companion's face darkened, as did his voice. "You force-fed me scones and tarts, but I swear that if you try to force-feed me tea I will give you the soundest thrashing you'll have ever received in your life."
"Tough words coming from a man with jam on his mouth."
His companion started, evidently having been unaware of the strawberry jam staining his upper lip, and he laughed.
"Oh, you are adorable," he sighed, managing to wipe away the offending gob of preserve in spite of his companion's evasive flinch. "If you're really so adverse to our veritable lifeblood, I'll set it aside for later. Remember though, it's best served hot."
He set the cup and saucer aside, within reaching distance of his companion, who hissed, "Well, maybe if you bloody untied me, I could enjoy it to my leisure."
"Well, maybe if you weren't such a foul-mouthed little troublemaker, I would consider doing so," he retorted cheerfully. "Oh come now, dearest, enough with the glaring. You have such a handsome face if I do say so myself, and you shouldn't mar it with that drab expression."
He pinched his companion's cheek. "You ought to smile more!"
His companion pulled away with a snarl. "Stop telling me what I ought and ought not to do! I don't care to have anyone telling me how to live my life, least of all you!"
"I'm sorry, I hope you'll forgive my playing shrink, but maybe that's why you're so lonely. You rely solely on self-deprecation and slow-learned lessons, as opposed to outside criticism and well-meant advice."
"You don't know a damn thing about me."
"Don't I, now?" He raised an eyebrow. "I am you, after all. We've both gone through the same history, made same choices, suffered the same consequences..."
"I am nothing like you," the other hissed, glaring.
He succeeded in startling his companion by clasping his face and examining it closely. "Hm, unkempt hair, handsome facial structure, eyes not too far from the blue spectrum, subjectively svelte, impeccable fashion sense - though I can see that you prefer stark green over something a little softer - and of course those uncontrollable brows... I'm sorry, but what was your point?"
"Let go of me," his companion snapped, tearing his face away. "The resemblance is superficial at best."
"On the contrary, I daresay that if we had a test, we'd find that we share the same DNA!"
"Our DNA is that of the people, you idiot; of course it'd be the same."
"That's just my point!" he exclaimed, spreading his hands. "We are not just ourselves, you know. We're our people as well. I may be some other aspect of the people, but I am the people all the same."
"Oh, is there some aspect of the English people often associated with pastry-obsessed psychopaths who insist on overbearing hospitality that I am unaware of?"
"Again with the sarcasm. My dear Iggy," he said, regarding his companion with pity, as one would regard a man who was too slow to fully participate in the world around him. "You would be surprised at what aspects are so prominent within our lovely culture, and yet so unclear to ourselves.
"Now..." He clasped his hands. "How about a teacake?"
"What do you mean by that?" the other demanded.
He grinned obligingly. Picking up a small teacake, he held it out in front of his companion.
"You see this? Foreigners associate this notoriously delicious baked good with our country. It is what the tourists come here for. It is the epitome of traditional English baking. And I baked it," he declared proudly, placing a hand on his chest. "Now, based on your own argument of us having nothing in common, and judging by the frankly miserable remains found in your kitchen, what do you think that means for you?"
His companion maintained a sullen silence, and he continued. "You are simply another aspect of our people that I had never quite considered having existed until now. An unfortunate aspect, but an aspect nonetheless. ...And on that note, open wide!"
His companion deliberately turned his face away.
He sighed. "Really dearest, we aren't honestly going to do this again, are we? Come on, open up."
His companion leaned away still further.
"You're not sulking now, are you? That's very childish of you, darling. ...Don't look at me like that, you know it's true." He sighed again. "I'm giving you one more chance to accept this graciously, Iggy, else I'll have to let our little game commence. Open wide now."
His companion glared defiantly.
The following struggle was an interesting one, and he found himself being quite impressed with his companion; for someone tied hand a foot to a chair, he was a jolly good fighter.
"Good gracious, you are a troublemaker," he exclaimed, finally succeeding in getting a firm grip on his companion's face. "It's only a teacake, no need to make a kerfuffle over it."
The other continued to struggle, and he was starting to feel rather exasperated. "Oh, honestly, my boys never put up this much of a fuss. Not even America was this troublesome!"
"Really?" his companion hissed between clenched teeth. "Was he always defiant of you?"
"Has been since his discovery and continues to be so. Now open..."
"Funny, because my boys always loved my cooking. They enjoyed my company."
It was as though an electric charge had gone through him. He stood paralyzed, teacake held limply in his hand and his grip slackening.
His companion took the chance to pull away from the loosening grip, a triumphant glint appearing in his green eyes as he said, "So what exactly does that say about you, Iggy?"
His own eyes narrowed, and he managed to regain a sharp grip on the other's face, pulling him close. The teacake lay forgotten on the carpeted floor as he spoke, voice quiet but filled with malice.
"Oh, that is clever of you. Flaunting your past as though it's something special, something better, that's just jolly. And yet the joke is still on you, dearest," he sang, smile returning. "We still end up in the same boat. And we both know that our boys left it a long time ago."
Smack.
His vision went white and he staggered back. A painful throbbing emitted from his forehead and went on to take over the rest of his head. His companion lay on the floor, the chair having become unbalanced and tipping over backwards. The two groaned in tandem with each other.
As he pressed a hand to his forehead, trying to stem the pain, something began to build up in his throat, slow but powerful. Before he could identify what it was, it burst forth from his mouth in the form of hysterical laughter. He laughed for what seemed like hours, when in reality it may have only been seconds. By the time he was finished, the pain had died down and his whole body felt exhausted.
He wiped a tear away from his eye, giggling tiredly. "I feel like I may have overstayed my welcome."
His companion still lay on the floor, staring up at him with a strange look on his face. "You're one mad bastard."
"Yes, yes I know." He sighed, straightening his bowtie and cuffs. "Takes one to know one, doesn't it?"
With a wink and a bright smile, he turned away.
"Hey, you can't just leave me here!"
"Can't I, now?"
"I'm a seasoned British soldier! I've escaped from concentration camps! It's only a matter of time before I get out of this!"
"That's what I'm counting on," he said cheerfully. "Sorry I won't be able to see your great escape, but I do have to run. Don't worry though, I'll leave Schubert to keep you company."
Already humming a few bars of Die Forelle, he put the needle on the record. The powerful voices of Bostridge and Drake soon rang throughout the house once again. But for the broken furniture and shattered objects strewn about, and the sounds of frustrated exertion and furious cursing rising above the powerful tenors, everything seemed exceptionally ordinary.
Smiling benignly, steps dancing in time with the lied, he left the room and closed the door behind him.
A/N HardyGal: If you think you've seen this before, it's probably because you have - I decided to repost this oneshot after having edited it a bit.
I don't know if there are any official 2P characters, so this was just my headcanon concerning 2P England. I personally don't view 2P England as explicitly violent, per say. He just doesn't take rejection well. After all, what would be the counterpart of a tsundere but a yandere?
I... maaaayyy write a version of this with America, but I dunno. Until then, I hope you guys enjoyed this :)