A/N: Since it's the last day of my Thanksgiving Break, I decided to post a little pick-me-up for the tragedy that is an ending holiday break. A moment of silence, please…
So I had originally started this on Election Day, which was forever ago, and rediscovered it on my flash drive. Since I didn't want to put France's hilarious teasing that in this story to waste, I decided to finish it. My inspiration was some Riverdance music on YouTube. The title is "Reel Around The Sun" by Bill Whelan, but the video title was "Riverdance Music", and listening to is as you read will give you MAXIMUM EFFECT, but it's not necessary :3. Also, I don't know if England has maids at his mansion, though I assume he does. And while we're assuming, let's also assume that he knows how to Riverdance, that he has a dance hall in his mansion, and that he can speak Irish, too! Yay for assumptions!
I'm done with disclaimers. No, seriously. I mean come on; it's obvious I don't own this stuff. If I did, everyone would have the biggest mind-fucks ever recorded. And on a daily basis, too. Enjoy ;D
… I really need to pay more attention to what conditions I'm living in.
The British afternoon was a strange one. Not only was it unusually sunny out, saturating the vibrant hues of the fall leaves and the bright green grass, but our favorite English gentleman had woken up in a surprisingly good mood. Earlier today, he had allowed himself to sleep in, a reward for being cooped up in his office all day yesterday to get paperwork done. This made him cheery and energetic, and he was made even happier when the breakfast he made himself that morning turned out to be more than halfway decent. Of course, that energy had to be put to good use, and what better way to do that than to clean?
His manor was usually spick and span, thanks to his lovely maids who were more than happy to do the work for him. After all, he paid them well, provided them their own private housing on his estate, and even gave them weekends off. So this weekend, he decided to venture into the less visited areas of the house to clean. His maids never stepped foot into one certain room in the entire manor, the junk room. Wondering why that was, he asked around a few days before to glean some information. His most trusted maid, Verity, said that the room was so full of random objects haphazardly thrown in there, that they were afraid one might get lost or acquire an injury of some sort, should they trip or bump into something. Curious, the Brit decided he would investigate.
When England first stepped foot into the room, he thought he had found The Room of Requirement. It might as well have been, because there were towers upon towers of boxes and containers and furniture crammed into the room. He gawped at the sight, and thought of turning away right then and there to go tackle something a little more within the range of "humanely possible", despite the fact he wasn't exactly human, but he might as well have been. But just when he was about to slam the door shut, he noticed that lining one of the walls was a mirror that looked like it extended to the other end of the wall. Attached to the mirror wall was a wooden bar that protruded slightly. A dancing hall? I don't remember that being built… he thought.
That got his gears turning. He wanted to see the whole room, and he wanted to see it today. Abandoning all other plans he might have had, he dived into the junk, quite literally, and began to clean like there was no tomorrow. After about 5 minutes, he realized that most of the stuff was extremely out-dated and had been replaced by something more practical years ago. Everything else was either broken or too dangerous to keep. After deciding that nothing in there was worth going through, he pulled out his book of spells and gave everything in that room an unceremonious burial into oblivion. Why make his carbon footprint larger by taking up landfill space when one can just mutter a few incoherent words and POOF!, no more junk! Genius!
Now the only thing standing in the room, England studied his new-found discovery. The floors were polished and pristine, preserved from time by the copious amounts of junk that had been there only moments before. The mirrors (for he had noticed that two of the walls were concealed by the reflective glass) had absolutely no scratches or smudges on them, as if they had been installed only a few minutes ago. At the far side of the room, opposite of the door, there was a large, arched window with royal blue velvet curtains tied and fastened by hooks at either side of the window. Two thinner windows stood on either side of the center one, with the same curtains ties in a similar fashion. The walls were a pale cream color, almost a washed-out yellow. But what really took his breath away was the mural on the ceiling. It was as though he was staring up at the Sistine Chapel. Upon closer inspection, the paintings were of Celtic people going about their daily lives and religious ceremonies. Different sections of the ceiling had their own painting, each one leaving him thinking about what happened before, and what will happen afterward. One in particular, in the very center, showed them circled around a bonfire, hands joined, chanting and dancing.
They seem so carefree… England mused.
He was torn away from his thoughts by, surprise surprise, a certain Frenchman and an overenthusiastic yell of "SALUT, CHÉRI!". England screeched, slipping on the polished floors and crashing down on his butt with an almost sickening thump!
"OW! Oh, bloody hell…"
"Angleterre! Are you alright?!" France began to panic. Sure, it was for England's safety, but also for his own. He wasn't planning on going home with a bloody nose when he first decided to come pay his petit Briton a visit, and the thought wasn't very appealing.
"YOU BLOODY WANKER, YOU BLOODY MADE ME BLOODY BREAK MY BLOODY ARSE! BLOODY HELL!" The power of his yell was magnified by the echo that the room created.
"…You say 'bloody' a lot when you're mad, did you know?"
"FUCK YOU!"
"I think that would make the pain worse, don't you?"
"ARRRGH!"
"Oh, so you're a pirate, now? I thought you were a reformed gentleman, Angleterre." France was quite enjoying himself.
"…Shut. Up." Damn, of looks could kill…
"Oh, chéri, it can't be that bad, really," France said as he helped England to his feet, "I've fallen on floors like this many times. The pain goes away as you move around." England's painful wince said that the Brit felt otherwise, so France worked to come up with something that would get England moving a lot so that the pain would be gone as soon as possible.
It was then that he noticed that they were in what seemed like a dance hall. Ah, c'est parfait! Let's see, what dance would Angleterre know...?
"Say, Angleterre, you know how to Riverdance, non?"
"I'm-ah- the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, y-ou git, of course I know how to-ow- Riverdance!" the Brit exclaimed between the pulsing pain in his butt. Of course, he really didn't expect anyone to know that he could Riverdance, and quite well actually. It wasn't exactly something that came up in everyday conversation. He didn't know why, but he never liked the idea of people knowing that he could dance at all. But why is the frog asking now of all-OH GOD NO…
"No."
"What?"
"No."
France caught on. "But why not, chéri?"
"Stop calling me that. And you'll just make fun of me…"
"Ché-Angleterre, I would never make fun of you. If anything, I'm probably going to be the one laughed at. I'm not exactly, how do you say, 'the most seasoned' Riverdancer, tu sais?"
"I said no, frog, and that's final."
"But-"
"FINAL, DAMNIT!"
France sighed. It most certainly was not final. He pulled out his phone and scrolled through his playlist of dance music. He came across one called "Reel Around The Sun", and remembered that Ireland had downloaded the song to his phone in a drunken stupor, saying that France needed to "appreciate some hardy Irish music". Although he was drunk and his sentences were slurred, and he could have very well said "I think I'll get pregnant to some Irish party music", France was pretty sure that's what the Irish man said.
He found a set of speakers for his phone in one of the corners of the room and plugged it in. Pressing play, the room was soon filled with the ringing sounds of a single wind instrument. He waltzed back over to England, who was currently cradling his rump, and grabbed his left hand in his own right, and placed the other's right hand on his own shoulder. He then rested his own left hand onto the Brit's waist and slowly began to move England around the room as the instrument continued to play its ancient tune. As they glided across the polished floor at their leisure pace, England spoke up, irritated.
"This isn't Riverdancing, you twit. You're supposed to move your legs in a sort of jig, not sweep around in a ballroom charade like this. The music is even wrong!"
"Non, it's the right music. Your frère, in all his drunken Irish glory, downloaded it for me." At the mention of Ireland, England's face contorted into a scowl. That damn bastard, of course he would give France the material for this hair brained scheme of his.
"And the music gets faster," he continued, "But for now, we move slowly. We wouldn't want you to fall again just because you didn't warm up first, would we?"
"I hardly call this warming up for Riverdancing…"
Soon, the sounds of violins and drums were distinguished, and France released his hold on the Brit completely. He backed up, forming a space of about four feet between the two of them. Placing his hands on his hips, he began to tap his feet on the floor in time with the music. The tick tack clomp of his shoes rang clearly in the room. The song began to pick up pace, and soon France was moving his legs and feet in a rapid manor that could only be described as a Riverdance. England stared wide-eyed at the performance that was being showed before him. It was perfect! Never before had he seen someone who wasn't of Irish blood or upbringing dance it so well! He began to wonder if Ireland had taught him the dance along with providing the music.
After about a minute of witnessing the mesmerizing performance, the music shifted, signaling the transition between a single dancer to multiple ones. France quickly walked over to England, who was still trying to recover from France's surprising feat. He was brought out of his thoughts when France quickly took hold of his right hand with his own.
"Angleterre, though I am touched that you find my dancing so spectacular, we are doing this to get the blood flowing to your rump again, are we not?"
England smirked. "Well, if you're planning to be outdone, then I suppose I shall have to assist you with that."
"Oho, aren't we confident? Weren't you the one who was afraid of being mocked? You sure have changed your preferences quickly."
"But of course, mo daor."
Not a second off, England began to move his lower body at a speed that seemed to rival a hummingbird's wings. In a flurry of hops and toe taps, England began to move France in a circle, still holding onto his hand. France, getting back into the beat, began to mimic England's movements with startling accuracy.
Now, there's no doubt Ireland taught him. Conniving bastard, thought England.
They leapt and shuffled and hopped in a wide, winding path around the spacious room, all the while circling their joined hands, which acted as a sort of pivot. The music kept growing intense, the Irish fiddles playing their all too familiar notes as the sounds of tapping feet and drums grew louder and faster. The fiddles were now playing at a feverish rate, pausing only for half a second to gain their bearings before continuing. It was loud, too loud to focus on anything else, and England began to get dizzy, whether from the overpowering music or spinning around, he didn't know. France seemed to be the only thing in his field of vision that retained its shape, with everything else, even the ornate ceiling above blending in a mesh of hues and values and tones and ohhhh it's going too fast and he's going to pass out!
But just as he was about to fall to the hands of nausea and gravity, the music stopped abruptly, switching back to the ancient wind instrument from the beginning. Panting and gasping from the lack of oxygen, the two rode out their rise in adrenaline by swaying along to the music as they had before. France was the first to break the silence.
"Well?"
"Well what?"
"How is your butt?"
"…Never say that again."
"Come on! Humor me, at least. I didn't just perform a complicated, very fast-paced dance just to get my blood flowing." France jutted his lip out in a small pout.
"Actually… it's better." England allowed himself a small smile as he watched France's face light up with a sense of achievement.
"Well, let me test it, just to make sure~." And with that, he quickly slid his hands down to England's rump, giving it a nice, firm squeeze. England let out a (very manly, mind you!) squeak and began to blush from anger and embarrassment, his face contorting to a snarl.
"YOU BLOODY WANKER! I'M BLOODY GOING TO BLOODY GELD YOU!"
"… You really need to break that speech pattern, you know that?"
"FUCK YOU!"
"Again, Angleterre? We just went over this…"
"FRAAAAAAAAAAAANCE!"
Hehehe~! France is such a pervert :D
"Mo daor" is "My dear" in Irish, according to Google. Please let me know if it's incorrect and I'll be happy to change it :)
Reviews are beautiful, I like to gaze at them in the moonlight :3 Not really, but they make me happy! So please review!