There were a great many things America had done over the years that had surprised, irritated, infuriated, and straight up baffled England.
That included training a bald eagle to deliver his mail, selling their sex tape to Hungary in exchange for her support on a UN resolution, riding a grizzly bear into a NATO meeting, hacking into Russia's computer to change all his backgrounds and profile and identification photos to rather inappropriate photos of Belarus, and that one time he tried to scare Iran by programming a remote controlled helicopter to follow her everywhere.
By all means, England was well accustomed to the less-than-socially-acceptable choices America was oh so fond of. And after their seventieth anniversary, England was convinced America couldn't possibly surprise him any more.
And then a drunk America showed up on the doorstep of his London home at four in the morning in a white shirt and England was so close to murdering him. As if England needed any more turmoil in his life, what with his lack of friends and lack of a Prime Minister.
In the dim light, America's white shirt was translucent and England could see a dark stain underneath the thin fabric, marring most of America's chest.
"Bloody hell, it's four in the bloody morn-! What on earth are you doing here America? And," England paused, studying the dark stains under America's shirt, "that's not blood, is it? Oh bloody hell, you will be the end of me!"
America swayed ever so slightly, and leaned heavily on the door frame. England could smell the stench of alcohol in America's breath and clothing. "Mmmmm, bloody Mary? Is a ghost after me?" America slurred, stumbling past England. He made it halfway down the hall, a whole two metres, before he collapsed face down on England's floor. The entire way, America had been bumping into the wall and tripping over his own feet.
England winced as he watched America flatten himself against the floor.
Closing his front door, England moved to kneel beside a drunken America, who had conveniently begun snoring. Loudly.
England hoped he hadn't disturbed any of his neighbours.
Exasperated, England sighed and swung America's arm over his shoulder. Grunting, England hauled a heavy, inebriated America off the ground and dragged him, as best he could, into his living room before unceremoniously dumping America on his couch. America landed in a heap, a tangled mess of limbs and drunken snores.
Taking pity on America, England chose not to leave America, instead adjusting America's posture so he would not wake up the next morning with cricks everywhere, and sore. And hungover.
As he shifted America's position, America's shirt slid up a bit, revealing a taut stomach, a happy trail, and tiny black text to England.
Curiosity now piqued, England pushed the hem of America's shirt up higher, revealing more fancy cursive text neatly imprinted across America's entire torso. The font was a fancy, medieval-esque lettering and England was on the verge of bursting into laughter.
As it turned out, America, in his drunken stupor, had decided to get himself a tattoo. A tattoo of none other than his very own constitution.
Only America.
America awoke the next morning to the smell of slightly burnt toast and a headache.
"Good morning, love," England chirped, appearing in Alfred's line of sight with tylenol and coffee.
America could only stare back, blinking blankly as England carried on his early morning activities with a hot mug of tea in hand. "Uh," he said, voice only a little hoarse from whatever shenanigans he had gotten involved in whilst drunk, "Man, do I feel like crap. Why am I on your couch? Are you trying to hold me hostage? Are we at war?"
England laughed; he couldn't help himself. It was a fresh breather to not be the one hungover on another's couch, confused and making a right fool of himself.
"Don't worry, love, nothing terrible happened. You simply made a downright fool of yourself, turning up outside my door, pissed out of your mind before the sun was even up."
"Oh." America slowly pushed himself into a sitting position, trying to ignore the pounding in his head. "I guess I ended up on a flight across the pond at some point."
"Clearly," England was probably enjoying the situation more than he should, but this was a rare opportunity for him. "I don't suppose you decided to drink even more on the flight?"
America laughed nervously. "I might have. Election years are tough, you know. Give me some slack!"
With a raised eyebrow, England gave America an unimpressed look. "And you think leaving the European Union is just a walk in the park? Haven't you had, oh I don't know, the last two hundred and some years to accustom yourself to the elections you yourself created? Should I also remind you of my brothers raising a ruckus for independence, again?"
In response, America raised his hands, the universal symbol for surrender. America winced slightly, having the decency to look embarrassed. "Okay, okay, I shouldn't have done that. I didn't do anything too embarrassing, did I? No riots? No one got arrested for anything, right?"
There was a pause after America stopped talking.
England has raised his mug to his lips, slowly savouring the warmth of his tea. He was stalling, delaying a response as long as he could. It was, after all, far too much fun messing with America. And after all these years, America never failed to be as gullible as ever.
"England! This is like, a matter of life and death!" America was outright begging now, leaning forward on his arms, his hands set on the wooden table before him. "Please! You've gotta tell me what I did!"
Having simmered in this feeling of power for long enough, and also taking pity on his lover, England finally set the mug on the table. "Don't think too much now, love. From what I can gather, nothing major occurred. I have not received any urgent messages from your president, nor has any member of Parliament raised an eyebrow at me. I must say, for the most part, you were a rather dignified drunk."
England's careful wording didn't escape America. "For the most part?"
"Oh, yes. I nearly forgot, you seem to have decided last night was a fine time to get yourself a tattoo. A large one. Also quite meaningful. In fact, I am proud to inform you that you now have your entire constitution written, word for word, across your torso. Front and back. Congratulations, you have beaten my record for most embarrassing drunken incident." England spoke so calmly, as if tattooing one's constitution across one's body was a regular occurrence, his words went in one of America's ears, and out the other. America almost didn't react, until several seconds later.
By which time, England had taken refuge in his kitchen. He could hear his table being overturned, his mug shattered and papers scrunched and littering his living room floor.
America had ripped off his shirt, staring in horror at the blank ink permanently imprinted on his reddened skin. He was speechless, mouth moving, but only releasing incomprehensible sounds. "I...ergh...bwa?"
In the other room, England had to have one last laugh at America, though.
"By the way, darling, you will get no sex while the contents of that insulting slip of paper are imprinted on you! But don't worry, I'm sure your new ink will come in handy with your government. Particularly that Drumpf chap."
Birthday fic for gallifreyanlibertea on tumblr~~^^;
((Also, I would like to mention that I am in no way trying to make a political statement with this fic so please don't murder me ^^;))