I wrote this a few years ago for the usxuk livejournal community's sweethearts week, but never posted it here because I wanted to post it around Valentine's Day, because it's a valentine's story, but kept forgetting every Valentine's Day. orz So now it's Valentine's in July I've just decided just now. Happy Summer Valentine's Day!
Enjoy.
England double checked the ingredient in his hand with the spell book opened in front of him on his work table. With a nod he carefully started to pour it into the concoction. The potion he was making was very delicate; if he was even the slightest bit off with how much he put in the results would be catastrophic to say the least. He only needed a dash and then –
"Hey England!" America shouted as he slammed the door to his basement open, "What's up?"
England jumped, accidently dropping the whole bottle into the potion.
"Shit," was all he had time to say before they were breathing in the red mist that filled the room.
England blinked and looked around. He was in a nightclub that looked somewhat familiar, but he couldn't quite place where he'd seen it before. He was seated next to a piano and was embarrassed to notice that, for some reason, he was wearing a dress.
"It's been a long time," England said to the piano player before he could stop himself. He blinked again; he did look a bit familiar, but he couldn't for the life of him remember his name or place where he'd seen him before. If it weren't for the words that poured out of his mouth, England would have considered them strangers.
"Yes Ma'am, a lot of water under the bridge," the man responded. He noticed that, for whatever reason, the man refused to look at him.
"Play some of the old songs, Sam," England said, however he wasn't sure how he suddenly knew the man's name or which songs he was referring too. The most he could try to do was get his bearings while he followed whatever instinct was making him say these things to their inevitable conclusion.
"Yes Ma'am," Sam started playing. England recognized the song, but couldn't name it.
"Where is Al?" he looked around the room hoping for either a familiar face or some other clue as to where he.
"I don't know," the piano player refused to be of any help whatsoever, "I ain't seen him all night."
"When will he be back?"
"Not tonight no more. He ain't coming. Uh, he went home."
England had no idea who Al was, but that didn't sit right with him, "Does he always leave so early?"
"Uh, no he never, well…" he noticed Sam was getting nervous, "He's got a girl up at the Blue Parrot. He goes up there all the time."
He felt jealousy flare up for no fathomable reason, but was strangely calm when he answered, "You used to be a much better liar, Sam."
"Leave him alone, Miss Arthur," England balked at the title but couldn't find it in himself to protest, "You're bad luck to him."
Sam didn't want to look at him, focused more on the piano, and England realized this wasn't the song he wanted to hear.
"Play it once, Sam, for old time's sake," although he still had no idea what song he wanted played or what old times he was referring to.
"I don't know what you mean Miss Arthur."
"Play it Sam. Play 'As Time Goes By.'"
"Oh, I can't remember it, Miss Arthur. I'm a little rusty on it."
It was obvious that he was lying, and now that England had mentioned it out loud, he found that he really did want to hear the song, whatever it was.
"I'll hum it for you," and he did. The song sounded familiar, as if he had heard it once a long time ago, but he still couldn't place it. A movie perhaps?
Sam sighed but started playing it on the piano.
Yes, the melody was familiar, but England was having trouble remembering the words. "Sing it, Sam."
"You must remember this
A kiss is just a kiss
A sigh is just a sigh
The fundamental things apply
As time goes by."
A door slammed open somewhere in the background, but England was too enthralled with the song to care. This song… wasn't it from…
"And when two lovers woo
They still say I love you
On that you can rely
No matter what the future brings
As time goes by."
"Sam!" America shouted, "I thought I told you never to play… England! There you are!"
"America!" England stood up, glad to see a familiar face, "What do you mean by that? Where are we?"
"Huh?" America blinked. England followed his gaze and flushed after remembering he was still wearing the dress, "Oh, we're in Casablanca."
"How the hell did we end up in Casablanca?" England sauntered over to the door, "I haven't been to Casablanca since WWII," he opened it and stepped outside, "It hasn't changed at all. America, why hasn't Casablanca changed in over sixty years?"
"Because it's a timeless classic," England glared at him. America looked confused before he realized what he actually meant, "Oh, you mean the city. We're not in the city; well I guess technically we are in the city, or are we technically on a set?"
"Stop talking nonsense and tell me what's going on!"
"I don't know either!" America leaned against the doorframe, "One second I was in your basement and the next I'm Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca."
Now England remembered where he had heard the song before, "Wait, if you're Humphrey Bogart that would make me…" well that would explain why he was wearing a dress.
"You make a good Ingrid Bergman, for what it's worth," America smiled.
England punched him in the arm. It wasn't very effective, but it demonstrated his point, "How are we in Casablanca? What did you do? How do we get out?"
"Hey, I should be the one asking those questions!" he crossed his arms over his chest, "We were in your basement before all of this, so it was your freaky fog that must have done something!"
"That's right," England started to remember, "I was working on a very delicate love potion before you burst in and ruined it. I guess that explains why we ended up in a love story, but…what's so funny?"
America was doubled over trying to hold in his chuckles, "Y-you were trying to make a love potion? That's hilarious! Why would you want a love potion?"
"Sh-shut up!" England turned away and tried to hide his growing blush, "It wasn't for you!"
"I never asked if it was."
"Well good, because it wasn't. It was for… someone else."
"Someone else?"
"Yes. I get requests for this kind of thing all the time, especially around Valentine's Day. I can't tell you who it is because that's a breach in potion making contract."
"So there are nutcases out there who actually contract you to make them love potions?" America started laughing again, "That's so like you England!"
"Be quiet! I don't have to deal with you or this nonsense! I'm going home!" he marched out of the nightclub until he hit an invisible barrier.
"Yeah I already tried that at the beginning," England turned to face America who was scratching the back of his neck, "I think that because the current scene is here, we can't leave until it's done."
"So what, we just play out the rest of the movie?" he walked back to America, "What happens when we reach the end?"
"Dunno," he shrugged, "It's your freaky potion thing that put us here. It's worth a shot; we might go home."
England thought back to what he remembered about the movie. He recalled that Rick and Ilsa kissed at some point, and he didn't fancy kissing America, not when he knew his feelings weren't returned, "And what if I refuse?"
"Look here," America took his arm and led him back inside, "Because we're not following the script, everything's stopped."
England looked around and saw that he was right; Sam's piano had gone silent and the background characters had all frozen in place.
"We can't leave the nightclub because this is where the scene is," America continued, "And the scene freezes if we deviate from the script."
"So if we want to figure out what all this is about, we need to go through the rest of the movie," England sighed.
"It's not so bad," America put a hand on his shoulder, "I get some really cool lines and you get to hold me at gunpoint later."
"Something to look forward to I suppose," England brushed off America's hand, "How do we start this again?"
"Oh, well, I stopped it just before Louis and Laszlo enter," he led them back to the piano, "So I guess we just stand here and wait for them?"
"Except I was sitting," as soon as England sat down, Sam stood up and prepared to move the piano away. Suddenly two men approached from the bar, and England was disappointed to note one was French.
"Well, you were asking about Al and here he is," the Frenchman said to England. "Mademoiselle, may I present-"
"Hello, Arthur," America interrupted, eyes never leaving England's.
He felt he should reply, "Hello Al."
"Oh, you've already met Al, Mademoiselle?" England didn't know this movie as well as America, so he decided to just follow whatever instinct had guided him this far and said nothing.
It was going to be a long night.
America fidgeted when the car pulled into the final scene. The flashback scenes in Paris had been awkward enough, but after the scene where Ilsa tells Rick she still loves him, well, England is a very good actor, and America probably won't be able to look him in the eye anytime soon. But this was almost over, and if America didn't focus the scene might freeze and he'd have to talk to England as America and not as Rick.
"If you don't mind, you fill in the names," America told Louis, "That will make it more official."
"You think of everything don't you?" Louis walked away to do just that.
"And the names are Mr. and Mrs. Victor Laszlo."
Louis and England stopped what they were doing and stared at him, "But, why my name Alfred?"
He grabbed England's arm and stepped forward, "Because you're getting on that plane."
"I don't understand. What about you?" damn England was a good actor. It took all of America's awesome hero instincts to not change Rick's mind and just tell him no, they could be together. As it was though, the show had to go on.
"I'm staying here with him 'til the plane gets safely away."
"No Alfred, no what happened to you? Last night we said-"
"Last night we said a great many things," America cleared his mind of all England related thoughts as he focused on Rick's monologue, "You said I was to do the thinking for both of us. Well, I've done a lot of it since then and it all adds up to one thing. You're getting on that plane with Victor where you belong."
"But Alfred, no, I-"
"You've got to listen to me. Do you have any idea what you'd have to look forward to if you stayed here? Nine chances out of ten we'd both wind up in a concentration camp. Isn't that true Louis?"
"I'm afraid Major Strasser would insist."
"You're saying this only to make me go," and America wanted to hold him close and tell him no, why would I want you to go, stay with me. But he had to remember, this was Rick and Ilsa's story, not his and England's, and it wasn't his place to change it.
"I'm saying it because it's true. Inside of us we both know you belong with Victor. You're a part of his work, the thing that keeps him going. If that plane leaves the ground and you're not with him you'll regret it. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon, and for the rest of your life."
England looked like he was about to cry at the drop of a pin. Damn he was a good actor, "But what about us?"
"We'll always have Paris," he had always wanted to say that to someone. What were the odds it turned out to be England, "We didn't have, we, we've lost it until you came to Casablanca. We got it back last night."
England hesitated, and America worried for a second that he didn't know the line, "And I said I would never leave you."
"But… you always did," England went wide-eyed as America went red, "Oh shit, I mean," he tightened his grip on England's arm and tried again.
"And you never will. But I've got a job to do too. Where I'm going you can't follow. What I've got to do you can't be any part of. Arthur I'm no good at being noble, but it doesn't take much to realize the problems of three little people don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world. Someday you'll understand that."
England broke eye contact and looked down, but America put his hand under his chin and raised his face to meet his own, "Now now.
"Here's looking at you, kid."
Now maybe Hollywood would stop making him say everything he's always wanted to say to England and let them both go home.
America blinked and looked out over the stone balcony. Last thing he remembered was saying goodbye to Louis in Casablanca and now he was in Verona, if he knew his Shakespeare as well as he pretended not to.
"Ay me," he sighed and looked down. That's when he realized he was wearing a dress. America took a step back away from the balcony as he analyzed the situation. He was trapped in Romeo and Juliet with England… and he was playing Juliet.
"O Arthur, Arthur," he called out over the balcony, "Wherefore art thou Arthur?" He was greeted by silence, so he tried again, "Wherefore art thou Arthur?"
Still nothing. This was getting ridiculous, "Yo England! I know you're hiding in the bushes! Wherefore art thou?"
"First of all, 'wherefore' doesn't mean 'where,' it means 'why,'" England critiqued as he popped out of Romeo's hiding place, "Juliet's asking why Romeo has to be a Montague, not where he is, and second, oh would you stop laughing!"
America had doubled over in laughter, clutching the balcony for support. "H-how can I? Have you seen what you're wearing?"
England looked down at his clothes, "Oh come off it. They're just tights."
"But you look so," he paused to catch his breath, "So… stupid!" and his laughter started anew.
"Yes, wearing tights is much more ridiculous than wearing a dress," England smirked as that shut America up.
"What the hell happened," he changed the topic, "I thought we were supposed to go home after that!"
"Yes, well," England scratched his head, "Since I'm not exactly sure how we're ending up in these places, I'm not exactly sure how to get us back."
"Way to go," America rested his head in his hand and leaned on the balcony, "Now we're stuck in one of your boring plays and I'm wearing a dress."
"Oh belt up and just get on with it."
"Okay, but wait… don't they, um…" America leaned back and looked away from England, "don't Romeo and Juliet die at the end?"
"Oh, well, yes, they do," England looked away too, "But, I'm sure… we'll be fine."
"You're sure?" England looked back up at him, "Because… it's not like I'm scared, but I kinda don't want to die wearing a dress…"
"Well, think about it. At the end of Casablanca Ilsa and Rick parted, never to see each other again, and here we are now, talking to each other. What happens to the characters isn't necessarily what's going to happen to us."
America felt relief flood through him. "Oh. Good. So let's get this over with. Where were we?"
"You're next line is-"
"Yeah, I'm going to start at the rose thing."
England glared at him, "Git, you need to say your lines in order!"
"We're the only two people in this scene, and it's not like there's an audience to care. Go hide in the bushes again."
England grumbled but did as instructed.
"What's in a name?" America started again, "That which we call a rose by any other name would smell just as sweet. So Arthur would, were he not Arthur called… England I'm speaking gibberish!"
"Just get on with it!" came the sharp response.
"So pushy…" he sighed and continued, "Retain that dear perfection which he owes without that title. Arthur, doff thy name, and for that name which is not part of thee take all myself."
"I take thee at thy word!" England shouted as he appeared from the bushes again, "Call me but love, and I'll be newly baptized. Henceforth I will never be Arthur."
America didn't quite know what he was saying, but it sounded sweet. Like something England would say for his lover… not that America was his lover. He was just acting.
This was going to take a while
England panted as he dragged Paris into the tomb. Stupid idiot weighed too much, either that or England needed to work out more. It was probably the former.
When he finally arrived in Juliet's tomb he let Paris fall to the ground, "How oft when men are at the point of death have they been merry which their keepers call a lightening before death. O how may I call this a lightening?" He looked up to see America lying in the tomb as if dead.
"O my love! My wife!" he ran forward and kneeled down next to him, "Death, that hath suck'd the honey of thy breath, hath had no power yet on thy beauty." England winced and was glad that even if America could still somehow hear him he wouldn't have understood what he was saying, "Thou art not conquer'd; beauty's ensign yet is crimson and in thy cheeks – my god this boy can monologue forever."
England blushed and took a quick look around the room, finding only Paris's body and America's sleeping (not dead, he kept reminding himself. He knew this play, Juliet wasn't dead yet) form. "America," he gently touched his cheek, "Wake up, can you hear me?"
Nothing happened, not that England actually thought it would. America probably wasn't even in the room yet. Juliet wasn't supposed to wake up until Romeo died, which wasn't going to happen until England finished his lines.
"Right, well I'm just going to skip to the end," he looked around again, "Does anyone mind? No? Alright then:
"O here, will I set upon my everlasting rest, and shake the yoke of inauspicious stars from this world-wearied flesh," he reached into his pocket and pulled out the poison, "Eyes look your last! Arms, take your last embrace! And lips, o you the doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss a dateless bargain to engross death!"
England looked down at America again. They had had to kiss several times throughout the play, not to mention the marriage scene, which he absolutely refused to explain to America no matter how many times he went off script and begged, but this, the last kiss before Romeo dies (and the one after that, before Juliet does, not that England would be around to see that) is the one everyone remembers, the one that really does mean the most.
"Come, bitter conduct, come unsavory guide!" he kept his eyes on America's face, hand still touching his cheek, "Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on the dashing rocks they sea-sick weary bark! Here's to my love!"
England quickly downed the poison and tossed the bottle aside, "O true apothecary, thy drugs are quick. Thus, with a kiss," he hesitated. Romeo wasn't going to die until he said so after all.
Eventually he leaned in and brushed his lips against America's, "I die."
England blinked and looked around. He was standing a room that certainly wasn't part of his house and he was wearing a dress again. If he ever got out of this, he vowed to make sure all romantic female leads from now on wore pants.
"England!" England looked over to see America smiling at him, "There you are! It is you right? I've been here for half the movie and Scarlett wasn't you, she was just Scarlett so, well I wasn't worried about you per say, but I was wondering where you'd gone off to, and-"
"America," he cut him off, "Stop rambling. Where are we?"
"We're in Gone with the Wind, and you showed up just in time for the final scene."
"I see," he walked over to the door and peered out, seeing the stairs below that led to the front door.
"Yeah, I gotta storm out that door," England jumped. He didn't realize America was right behind him, "So you better get your best actor tears going."
"Tears? Why?"
"Well you need to cry. Or well, Scarlett needs to cry. Rhett's walking out on her so… England what's wrong?"
England had turned away and focused on the wooden doorway, "I'm tired of crying over you."
"Hm?" America blinked.
"Why do your best romances have sad endings?" he asked instead.
"What are you talking about?"
"In Casablanca Ilsa and Rick didn't get together in the end, and here you said Rhett's leaving Scarlett?"
"Well, yeah," America scratched his head, "Not all love stories have a happy ending. Romeo and Juliet wasn't much better with them both dying at the end."
"All I'm saying is that maybe you should give love a chance."
Shocked crossed America's face for a moment before he started chuckling, "What are you talking about England?"
"Nothing, never mind," he marched over the center of the room, "Where do I have to stand to start this thing?"
"Oh, uh," America grabbed his shoulders and guided him to the center of the room. "Here, I think."
"Alright," England closed his eyes and felt Scarlett's tears start to form. When he opened them he found America staring at him with a rare worried expression on his face.
"Oh Alfred," England stepped forward. America hesitated before grabbing his bag and storming to the door. England hurried to catch up, "Alfred, please don't say that," he grabbed onto his sleeve as America stopped in the doorway, "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry for everything."
"My darling you're such a child," America shook his head, "You think that by saying 'I'm sorry,' all the past can be corrected. Here," he reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, "Take my handkerchief," and England saw no reason not to, "Never in any crisis of your life have I known you to have a handkerchief."
America was off out the door, and suddenly England wasn't in some house during America's Civil War, he was on a muddy battlefield during his Revolution. Rather than just stand there, he gave chase and caught America at the top of the stairs, "Alfred, Alfred where are you going?"
"I'm going to Charleston, back where I belong."
"Please, please take me with you," England hated how desperate he was sounding, while America, sorry Rhett, was still so composed.
"No. I'm through with everything here, and I want peace. I want to see if somewhere there isn't something left in life of charm and grace. Do you know what I'm talking about?"
England shook his head, "No, I only know that I love you."
"That's your misfortune."
And he was off down the stairs, "No…Alfred," never one to just give up, England followed after him.
"Alfred," he caught him at the door, "Alfred, if you go, where shall I go, what shall I do?"
"Frankly my dear I don't give a damn."
And with that he was gone.
America blinked. He was standing in some kind of garden in the rain, and he was wearing a dress again.
"Damnit!" he cursed at no one in particular, "Why can't we just go home already?"
"I'm sorry America," he turned to see England standing nearby, completely overdressed considering they were standing in the rain, "This is my fault, and I'm not sure how we're going to get home."
"England," America smiled and looked around again, "Where are we?"
"Pride and Prejudice," England followed America's gaze, "At least this story has a happy ending."
"About time," he sighed and walked forward to stand next to England, "So, any idea when we're going to be done with this?"
"Not a clue. We may be doomed to act out every love story in existence."
"But, they're getting less," England turned to look at him, "Like, I was only in half of Gone with the Wind, and you didn't even show up until the end. Where are we in this one?"
"Around the middle, I believe. This is the scene where Mr. Darcy proposes to Elizabeth the first time, and she rejects him."
"Alright, so let's get this over with," America turned away but was stopped by England's hand.
"Wait, I think… I should explain."
"Explain what England?"
"This is my fault and you deserve to know."
"Know what England?"
England sighed and sat down on the wet grass, motioning for America to join him, "Sit here, it's not like the rain's moving." The rain, America noticed, was frozen in place as he sat down.
"That love potion I was making, the one you messed up that started all of this," America was about to protest but a look from England shut him up, "it was actually meant for you."
"But you said it wasn't…"
"The truth is," he went on, "I've been in love with you for quite some time now."
"O-oh," America felt his face heat up as he played with the hem of his dress, "R-really?"
"Yes."
"So, you were going to feed me a love potion? Isn't that like drugging me into loving you?"
"Love is too powerful and complicated an emotion to fully replicate. The most I could do was make you obsessed with me."
"So you were-"
"No. The potion was for me. Its purpose was to give me enough courage to finally tell you how I feel, but well, here we are," he motioned at the landscape around them, "That's what unrequited love gets you, I suppose."
Silence fell between the two of them. America cleared his throat to say something when England suddenly stood up.
"Just needed to get that off my chest. You can just stand over there and we'll get this show on the road."
"England wait," America stood up too, "You can be so selfish sometimes, telling me all that and then walking away before I can say it back."
England stopped in his tracks, "Say what back?"
"That I love you too."
"Don't," England turned to face him, "Don't just say it because we're stuck here."
"I'm not, really I'm not," he took a step forward and placed his hands on England's shoulders, "I really do love you too." To prove it, he leaned in and kissed him.
England pulled back and stared at him, "Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy don't kiss in this scene."
"Well forget about them. This is our story, and I'll kiss you as much as I want."
And so he did.
England woke up in his basement only to realize he was cuddling with a still sleeping America. He untangled himself and gently shook him awake.
"America, wake up!"
America blinked and opened his eyes, "Hey England…"
"Hey…"
The stared at each other and England realized the radio was on somewhere, filtering its way into the basement.
"It's still the same old story, a fight for love and glory, a case of do or die.
The world will always welcome lovers, as time goes by."
"So," he turned his focus back to America, "Did you also happen to have a trippy dream where the two of us had to act out the leads in a bunch of love stories?"
"Yes," England nodded, "I had that dream as well."
"And at the end we made out in the middle of Pride and Prejudice?"
"Yes, I recall that part."
"Oh," America sat up as England leaned back, "Just checking. You want to get a coffee or something?"
"I'd like that."