Downtime
"Wassup?"
India didn't know why that was the first word he said when England opened the door. It just slipped out. Wassup. Was that even a word, or just some trashy American slang he'd picked up from the internet? Either way, it certainly threw England - the blonde, bushy-browed idiot just blinked at him, blank-faced and speechless. Part of it probably had to do with the fact that it was a little past 10.30 pm, Britain-time, and India was standing there with two coats and a shawl wrapped around his shoulders, all while wearing open-toed sandals because this entire stupid idea had been a whim, and he'd boarded his personal jet without really thinking about it much. England will be cold, he'd said to himself, I'll carry warm clothes. He was flying over the sea when he realised he didn't have the right shoes, and by then he couldn't very well make a quick stop over at the nearest mall.
So here he was. An unannounced guest at the home of his former imperialist, dressed in jackets and a shawl but with toes that were numb with the early signs of frostbite, and his first word when England opened the door? Wassup.
"What…" England began slowly, and in the pause for thought that followed, India heard a laughter track from the TV in the living room. What did England like to call it? The telly. "What are you doing here?" England still had his hand at the knob, green eyes brimming with confusion, his stance ready to slam the door shut at the slightest provocation.
"Freezing to death," India replied promptly, and then added, just to be more specific - "Freezing to death, would be the answer to your question. Can I come inside?"
England blinked again, but didn't move. "Why?" he asked in the same befuddled tone. He stretched it out: whhyy…?
India curled his toes forcefully for perhaps the fiftieth time. It snowed quite an awful lot in India. Up north, in Kashmir and the other Himalayan states. He knew perfectly well it was important to keep his blood circulating to prevent an emergency amputation. He knew cold weather. He just - well, he was largely a hot country. Sure, he had six different climatic zones and he could adapt to anything, okay, fine, but when it got hot in India, it got hot. He could deal with forty degrees Celsius. It wasn't easy, but he could deal with it.
But he really couldn't deal with standing here in 7 degrees C with unprotected toes, responding to imbecilic questions with a strangely well-timed laughter track going off in the background.
"I'm not here to invade you," India reassured, only partially-joking. "Can't say that for other people, though…" he looked pointedly at England, because haha, he had been the jewel of the British empire, how romantic, why don't you put a ring on it, a giant ring with a massive diamond - oh wait, Britain had stolen that Kohinoor diamond, right?
Ahem. What was this about again?
Cold toes.
Yes.
India's jab at the empire days didn't do any favours for the situation, because England just raised his very large eyebrows. Not in annoyance or anything. It was just a gesture. Raised eyebrows. But India could read that expression. Really? Britain seemed to say, really? You're not over that yet?
To which, yeah, India was totally over the 200 year colonisation thing, after all, Indo-UK relationships were fine now. It was just. Well. It was easy to complain about. And right now, India really wanted to bitch. But he also didn't. He didn't know. Ugh. Whatever.
"Can I come inside? I'm really freaking cold."
"Why aren't you wearing socks?"
"Because I am a wardrobe puritan and I have sworn off wearing socks until the summer solstice, or when the planet Jupiter aligns with Venus - you know, whichever comes first."
England pursed his lips in distaste, but finally stepped aside to let India through. Inside, it was warm and carpeted, which was immediate relief to India's freezing feet, and he darted to the living room, where on the coffee table sat a nearly empty cup of Earl Grey and a thick blanket pooled on the floor. The TV glowed softly in the ill-lit home. India only glanced at it. One white male character muttered something witty to another white male character and the laughter track went off again.
"Do you mind?" India asked, just to be polite, before pitching forward onto the couch, and lying flat even as he pulled the blanket up to his neck.
England's lips became a straight line. "Please," he drawled, "be my guest. My uninvited guest, sure, but go ahead."
"Thanks," India retorted with a saccharine grin. "And hey! Now you know what it feels like to have a foreign power get a little too cozy in your home."
"Oh, bugger off," England muttered, retreating to the kitchen to make, no doubt, one more pot of that disgusting Earl Grey stuff. India knew food, knew that the word grey must never be associated with something edible. Earl Grey did not remind India of tea; it reminded him of a stiff cold corpse of a pompous English lord. Not exactly appetising.
At least his feet were warming up under the blanket. In fact, India even felt brave enough to sit up and take off his coats and shawl. He folded them as neatly as he could, considering the fact he didn't actually care about being a nice house guest right now, and tossed them lightly onto the Ottoman nearby. Then he curled into a little ball under the covers and watched the white people on TV banter with each other in their upper class English accents.
England returned with a cup of tea for India and a fresh one for himself. He placed them on the coffee table, switched off the TV with the remote and seated himself on the same Ottoman that had India's coats, effectively crumpling them. India didn't have the strength to complain.
"Eleven hour flight. Or was it twelve? I don't know, but it was long."
England sipped his tea. "Why are you here?"
"Hush, I'm getting to it." India sat up and crossed his legs on the sofa with the blanket dropping down to his torso. He reached out for his teacup and took a long gulp that very nearly burnt his vocal cords right off. "And then the turbulence at one point was so bad, I thought we were gonna crash. Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating. I'm just in that state of mind. I probably should have called or something so you could have - I don't know, squared up your living room a bit and readied the spare bedroom for me, but that's my fault. I kind of left my phone in Delhi. On purpose. Don't want to be interrupted. Which is not usual for me, for any nation, I guess, because what if some crazy shit goes down at home - heaven forbid - and the PM needs to contact you ASAP? But ugh, England, I just can't."
"You can't what?" England responded, surprisingly patient.
"I can't nation today." This sentence would bug Britain; he was using the word 'nation' like a verb.
"Don't bastardise my language."
"Don't Anglicise my tea."
"Fuck you, you didn't even drink tea much before you met me."
"Fuck you, always stealing words like 'mantra' and 'guru' and telling me not to bastardise your language."
England just groaned. "Why are you here, India? You're making me miss my programme."
India waved him off. "It was just two white people chit-chatting. I'm sure you already get that a lot in real life."
"Oh my god, I was watching Yes, Prime Minister! They're showing reruns and I love that show!"
"You should just live stream it. Or download it illegally. That's what I'd do."
"Yes, but you also put chilies in your tea, we can't all just do what you do."
"I have never put chilies in tea, that's revolting. I put cardamom. Which, by the way, this Earl Grey could use a bit of."
"Disgusting."
"Says the nation that invented scones."
"Hey, you like my scones! You ate them with jam! You ate four."
India grimaced and glanced away. "That was during a meeting with our Prime Ministers and I didn't want to start an international incident."
"Is there a reason you're here?" England demanded for the final time, and India relented at last, lowering his teacup to the coffee table. "Coming to my country unannounced, drinking my tea and insulting my food as you do it. Rude, India, just bloody rude."
India sighed, pressing his temples. Yes, yes, he wasn't being very nice right now. He just. He didn't. Feel very nice. He wanted to bitch and whine. But he also didn't want to think. "I just need a break. My goodness, England, I thought I was going mad."
"A break from what?" England's tone hadn't softened much.
"The news."
"Ah."
Every democracy these days got sick of the news now and then. It was loud and aggressive, hungry for ratings and viewership and money. And it was uncontrollable once it found a story to exploit. India was sick of having to stay on top of it, sick of having anything to do with it. Sure, it was important, and a vital part of modern nationhood. But sometimes, it really fucking sucked.
"Have you been watching BBC World?" India ventured, his voice suddenly soft as he looked away and pulled his knees to his chin.
"I always watch BBC World." England was watching him closely over his teacup. "I'm…aware of certain things happening in your part of the planet."
"Shit happens. It's no big deal." India meant it, too. "I'm just kind of weary right now. Information overload. Bad news overload. I wanted to rest, so naturally I did the most obvious thing: I got on an eleven hour flight without proper footwear."
"Naturally."
India suddenly snickered. England stared at him expressionlessly, but India just kept laughing, shaking his head as he did.
"Why didn't you go to a neighbour? It would have been closer for you."
India shrugged. "Most of my neighbours can't stand me."
"Bhutan likes you."
"And I like her. A lot. But she has beautiful, unspoilt mountainous terrain that I would like to explore over the course of several weeks. Which isn't helpful, because I don't have time for a vacation. I just wanted to go to a random crappy country for a day or two. Obviously, you're the first nation that came to mind."
"I will throw my cup at your head," England snarled, only half-heartedly.
"Nah, you'd never waste good tea."
"So you admit it's good." This time, it was England who cracked a grin, shaking his head lightly as he drained the last of the Earl Grey. India rolled his eyes at the smugness on his face. "Wait, so you'd rather hang out with me than, I don't know, Prussia? Isn't he your actual friend? As opposed to me, who's just sort of…"
"Europe's friendly neighbourhood asshole?" India ventured with a shit-eating smirk.
"Fuck you."
"Oh, relax. I'm the friendly neighbourhood asshole in South Asia. I mean, it takes one to know one, after all." Finishing his tea in three short gulps, India added, "I called Prussia, actually. Before I thought of coming here. But he was out on some drinking binge with Spain and France, and when he answered, his first words were: yo India how's it going we're stealing a goat." India winced and met England's grimace with one of his own. "So, I really don't know."
"The last time they drunk-stole an animal, they spray-painted it hot pink."
"Oh my."
England pulled out his cell phone from his pocket, got up and plopped down next to India on the couch, curling his legs under the blanket as he did. "Let's text them."
"Can I type?"
"Sure. But don't make any typos."
"Yes, M'lord." India took the phone from him, opened Prussia's contact (saved as "More Obnoxious Germany" and typed, You free right now?) "I don't want them to know it's me," India explained as he typed. "This is a perfectly respectable conversation opener."
England made a sound of agreement, and then, "he replied!"
sssup francis kisseddff a goat lolololol
he lostd a bed
*bef
**vbef
***BET BET BET lololol
"How much beer do you think he's had?"
"Prussia?" England mused out loud. "At least twenty bottles. France? He could be one hundred percent sober for all I know. He'd kiss anything that looked at him flirtatiously."
India snorted. "Wait, I'm replying."
Tell France I love him.
"What!" England snatched the phone back. "You idiot, he'll think it's from me!"
"Ye-p," India said with a slow smirk, making the 'p' pop.
England rapidly typed something into his phone, with India peering over his shoulder.
TELL FRANCE HE'S A LOSER AND I DO NOT LOVE HIM.
England groaned. "The frog has replied."
Onhonhon mon ami I knew you had feelings for me
Hush arthur there is a thin line between love and hate
And lovers like us toe it every day
The passion
The rivalry
The very tall erect structures in our capitals
India howled with laughter, hitting England's arm. "Give me the phone. Give me the phone." And he grabbed it, ignoring the blonde's protests.
Yes, but I've heard the Eiffel Tower shrinks a bit every year ;D
"Okay." England snatched the phone back and turned it off. "Okay, just no. Get out of here. Go back to Delhi. Don't take my phone and text random people."
But India just smiled as he stood up to stretch. "Nah. I think I'll make some more tea - good tea - and then go have a nice hot shower." Before he entered the kitchen though, he turned back to England and tilted his head to the side, a softness to his lips that was seldom ever present around the former imperialist. "I'm having fun," India stated simply.
"And I'm missing my programme," England retorted, but not with any malice. His phone was switched back on in his hands. He glanced at it now and groaned. "Prussia just sent me a selfie of the three of them, and I think - wait, that's not a goat, that's a llama. And oh, great, Spain declared a thumb war against me."
India laughed, went over, took the phone back and started typing in another response, even as he retreated to the kitchen.
"There's some cardamom in one of the cabinets," England called out from the living room, just as India found the box of Earl Grey teabags. Britain's phone dinged away, and India's toes were toasty and warm.
A/N: It's called "Downtime" because in the fic, India wants some downtime to just relax, and meanwhile, I too need to chill for a bit. I can barely keep track of life anymore. Besides, I love writing friendship fics between these two. I see their relationship as being rather strange: full of banter and to some extent, bitterness, but they've been able to move past that and establish a genuine friendship.