So, um, I've had this neat quasi-metafictional idea for a while now and I figured that today (23rd April), being St George's Day in the UK (St George is the patron saint of England), was a very good day to post it. (Um, we're greedy in the UK – we have four patron saints, one each for the four countries that make up the United Kingdom, and so four "feast" days: St David's Day (Wales) is on 1st March, St Patrick's Day (Ireland) is on 17th March, St George's Day (England) is on 23rd April and St Andrew's Day (Scotland) is on 30th November.)

I also have ANOTHER good reason for choosing today to post this. You will notice that this fic is a crossover between Hetalia: Axis Powers and William Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet. Shakespeare died on 23rd April, 1616.

SO, yeah, anyway, this crossover fic, as exemplified by the summary, features the pairing EnglandxMercutio (to be specific, Tudor-period-teenaged!EnglandxMercutio). Anyone who has skulked around my fics prior to this (not necessarily in the Hetalia section) may have observed by this point that I FREAKING LOVE MERCUTIO. I crowbar him, or at least references to him, into fics about as often as I do Edgar Allan Poe and Samuel Taylor Coleridge... which is a lot. Personally I think getting Coleridge into a Teen Titans fic and Mercutio into a Code Geass fic is some sort of achievement...

However, not so with Hetalia. This pairing practically wrote itself. Mercutio is a bit mental, gets involved in other people's arguments and rants about fairies.

Sound familiar? XD

(Uh, no warnings except for... beware of Shakespeare-style dialogue? Or, at least, don't expect England to say "bloody hell", "git" or "America no baka" anytime soon. Oh, and England is the equivalent of probably about eighteen or nineteen in this – an age likely to more or less match Mercutio's.)

Of Good Carriage

So it would not be considered his best; no, that honour would go instead to his works about mad Danish princes and mad English kings. His tale that told of star-crossed lovers that was comic in the first half and tragic in the second would maybe later fall under fire, mauled by the ire of critics and of realists and of cynics, and boys who played girls and girls who played boys would swap costumes and curiosities behind the curtain over decades in old theatres and in new.

Not his best, not his most brilliant; but his lovers, his teenaged lovers, his Anglo-Italian borrowed lovers who spoke of the heat of Verona's afternoon in Middle English, they in their foolishness would thus earn their fame.

In the years and decades and centuries after the Bard had put down his pen for good and lain his dreams instead within a tomb (and not a tome), against the words of the theorists and the scholars, the garish gloating remakes filmed on beaches with too many guns, the creator and keeper of Romeo and Juliet's words, their actual words [wherefore art thou thus with a kiss I die in fair Verona where we lay our scene for never was there a story of more woe], used their words for their quiet defence.

(And if not for Romeo then for Romeo's friend.

The instigator.)

—

"Dost thou think it bold of me?" England whispered.

His hand ran down Mercutio's spine and the boy twisted on the silk – he wasn't much more than a boy, about the same physical age as England, perhaps a little younger.

"To declare you his best?" England went on. "His most brilliant?"

Mercutio grinned, taking his wrist and kissing his palm.

"I shall forgive thy boldness in return for thy everlasting favour," he replied wryly. "For is that not it? I am but thy flavour this wanton moon. I daresay I am replaceable as a maid grown round-bellied."

"O true, for as long as he has his pen—"

"And thy language."

"Out with thy impudence, boy, and pray let me finish. Truly he hast given thou too many of my words."

But he smiled at him fondly. Italian, so the play's words said; and certainly, yes, his name was such. But he was English, of England, and there was no mistaking it in him. England knew Italies, knew Italians, and Mercutio was neither. There was nothing Italian about the pale skin or the black hair in the typical short pageboy cut of students and apprentices, the blunt ends tracing his jawline, or the cool, glittering violet eyes. Ah, and his words – the words that he used so well, fiery and intelligent and fond of clever games played with diction and pronunciation. His wild imagination and silvery laugh that bubbled up from the depths of his chest when something wicked amused him, his songs and symbolics and stories—

(Ah, and his mouth—)

Not Italian. Not Italian. English. English.

England held him tight about his slender shoulders as he kissed him. Mercutio's skin was soft and smooth like paper and he had words upon him like tattoos but they weren't, for they were not beneath his skin but on it as though written there in ink; easy to see and easy to read because Mercutio wore nothing, doublet and tunic and breeches of reds and blacks all cast aside so that England could have him open and readable as though he was the original manuscript.

Mercutio did not mind. They were about the same height, the same build, but he curled up small against the dark velvet of England's doublet, thin fingers entwining about the leather laces at his high embroidered collar, once England was done trying to take some of those words back from him.

"Art thou not bolder still?" Mercutio asked in that musical voice of his, and he laughed and tilted his head up and pressed kisses along England's jaw and down his throat. "Nay, I am not so foolish, sir. Truly thou art not so adept at holding thy tongue that I should know nothing of thy design."

"Is that so, sir?"

"Indeed, sir. Forgive my impudence, then, and I shall forgive thy boldness. If thou hast not the boldness to be bolder still, that is."

"Dear Mercutio, you choose only wicked words. Why is that, I implore?"

"Are my words wicked?"

"Very much so," England told him gravely. With one smooth motion he flipped their positions, pinning Mercutio to the bed, fingertips tracing over the words stretched across his collar bone. "What's he, that villain, that gaveth thou those words?"

"Those words or... those words?" Mercutio smirked as England's nails ran over the lines of text etched onto his skin, his grip tightening.

"All of thy words."

"Why, those are the words that I was given. If I am naught but words on a page, then I am naught but those words and those words are naught but me."

"Thou consider thyself blameless in thy ropery."

"Indeed!" Mercutio agreed heartily. "Therefore thou must forgive also my bandying, hie! my very conduct, if thou wouldst be so kind." He hummed contentedly to himself, the sound almost taking on a lilting little tune, as England began to kiss the words all over his skin. "Forgive me, forgive me as I forgive thy boldness, and I shall also forgive thy vanity."

"Out upon you, you rogue!" But England laughed against his ribs. "Vain, am I? O Mercutio, good Mercutio, how is that?"

"Ah, for am I not thy choosing now? Best, you call me; brilliant, those are thy words. Those are thy words, England. As are mine, wicked though they may be, and as am I. Blame the villain who wrote me or blame the villain who borrowed me – both could not have done either without thy words. I am no less their creation than I am yours."

"How true." England bit at Mercutio's pale throat. "Then I am vain, and thy wisdom is also but my words. Thy body is my words, thy blood is my words, thy words are my words."

"As is my skin," Mercutio sighed, his pale fingers threading into England's gold hair as it brushed over his shoulder. "And all yours until everything of me rots to nothing as books uncared for are wont to do. You and I shall outlive the villain who used your words to give me this form which thou loveth most, and I daresay thou shalt outlive me. Until then I shall carry thy words as they carry me."

"Thou shalt tarry upon my words," England replied approvingly. "Ah, Mercutio, thou art truly his best. I should never get such wisdom from Romeo—nay, nor from Hamlet or Macbeth. They are not a perfection of words as are you."

"Nor a flattering devil as are you."

"Go to! Mercutio, thou art a saucy merchant to throw back my flattery." England's hands went firmly over Mercutio's belly, following the spikes and twirls of the text there.

"I care not – thou only flatterest thyself. All my perfection is but yours." Mercutio threw one of his legs over England's back, hooking his heel into his hip, and shot him a sickly smile.

"True again and true." England paused to read the words he fondled so fondly. "And here is perfection. Ah, when first I heard these words—that was when I loved you. Be they my words or his words, I shall endeavour to give credit to no man but you. Mercutio, Mercutio..." He leaned down again, smiling, to kiss Mercutio, carding his hands through the silky black hair flared like ink over the whiteness of the sheets. "Gentle Mercutio, my love, speak them for me. Tell me about her in the words I gave you."

"O, but are they not your weakness," Mercutio breathed. It was not a question. "Thou art a cad. Wouldst thou not instead take her to thy bed?"

"Perhaps, but I see her not upon my bed at this moment." England kissed Mercutio's slender neck again. "Come, boy, for did he not givest thou my words for you to lend them your imagination? Speak, Mercutio, pray speak."

"Speak and indulge thy dreams?"

"Do."

"How curious that England should dream of naught greater than a fairy."

"Perhaps someday I shall dream of something greater."

"And a sad day it shall be."

(Thy wisdom is but my words)

—

Mercutio whispered his story between pants and thrusts; not frenzied, increasing in madness and mirth, as he had been when he had first spoken to his friend, his lovely lovesick Romeo, but instead breathless and rehearsed. It did not have the same emotion or the same meaning but she—

Queen Mab. The fairies' midwife. She who visited dreamers in her hazelnut chariot by night. She who made lovers and maids and soldiers wicked in their sleep with whispers of cutting throats. She who changed size and shape and taught unhappy girls to lie on their backs and learn first to bear, making them women—

"—Of good carriage!" Mercutio gasped it, the breath being torn from his chest as he climaxed, grabbing hard around England's neck and suddenly sobbing.

"Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace," England replied, taking Romeo's words for his own (or taking the words that Romeo had taken from him); still going, still moving deep within Mercutio, of course he was within Mercutio, all of him was always within Mercutio, Mercutio wasn't Italian, he was English, literally English...

Mercutio let go of him and flopped back against the whiteness of the bed, the tears stopping as suddenly as they had started. He looked up at England and grinned again, raking back his ebony hair. He was as much a part of England as England was a part (all) of him.

"Am I of good carriage?" he asked, his voice soft, softer than it had ever been. "Though I am the instigator of the tragedy and the first to die and the one who condemns a plague upon both houses?"

England smiled. He had green eyes like an agate stone on the forefinger of an alderman – eyes that would read him again and again.

"Of good carriage, yes," he agreed. "Carry my words and I shall carry you."

Oh, Mercutio. You've met your match. XD To be honest, I feel like I didn't really get to use Mercutio to his full potential here, at least not the way I did when I wrote this other random MercutioxRomeo fic a while back. While I REALLY wanted to write this fic/pairing, Mercutio unfortunately just doesn't bounce as well off England as he does his "natural" canon companions of Romeo and Benvolio (I think because England is smarter than both of them. The whole killing-himself-thing not even taken into account, Romeo is really kind of dumb. O.o).

Well, um, I hope people liked this! I know it's a little weird – god, but isn't metafiction a mind-fuck? Hello, Princess Tutu! – but beneath the whole outer Englandxfellow-fairy-obsessed-madman relationship (ha, I really need to pair him with Mr Crocker from Fairly Odd Parents) I wanted to have it sort of that Mercutio embodied English so it was like England was making love to his own language (via Mercutio's body. Well, either that, or it was all one seriously-vivid masturbation fantasy and really he was just humping his two quid copy of Romeo and Juliet with it open to the Queen Mab speech). Ah, because you know, I think we British are a little vain when it comes to our language and tradition of writers and literature – Shakespeare is our greatest claim to fame next to crumpets and The Beatles. XD And interestingly, despite its fame, Romeo and Juliet is not considered to be one of Shakespeare's best plays, losing out to the plays about "mad Danish princes" (Hamlet) and "mad English kings" (King Lear) mentioned at the beginning of the fic – however, Mercutio is still commonly regarded to be one of his best-written characters, even amongst Shakespeare critics.

Speaking of Mercutio... So, my description of him. Anyone who has read my MercutioxRomeo fic, A Thesis On Love By the Mad and Morose, probably noticed that Mercutio has exactly the same description in that too. You'll have to forgive me for imposing my head-canon on you guys, but to me... that's just what Mercutio looks like. Well, maybe not so much the violet eyes, but in my head he has black hair in one of those Tudor-style pageboy bobs and always wears red. It's because the first version of Romeo and Juliet I ever saw was a truly awesome version put on by the seniors in my high school when I was like 14 and Mercutio was played by a girl who had her hair like that and they had this thing where the Capulets wore blue and the Montagues wore red so, as Mercutio, she was in red. Call it my first impression of Mercutio, and you know what they say about first impressions. (She was really awesome at the part, FYI.)

On that note:

"...boys who played girls and girls who played boys..." – This refers to the fact that, in Tudor Britain, women were not allowed to act so Juliet during Shakespeare's day would have been played by a young boy of probably about 12 or 13. Conversely, during the 19th Century Shakespeare revival that swept Britain and America, a particularly-famous recurrent in the role of Romeo in stagings of the play in both the US and the UK was Charlotte Cushman – a woman (an American woman, at that).

And speaking of non-Shakespearian versions:

"Blame the villain who wrote me or blame the villain who borrowed me..." – The first half this sentence refers to Will Shakespeare himself. The second refers to the fact that Will swiped Romeo and Juliet from another source, an earlier poem from 1562 named The Tragicall Historye of Romeus and Juliet by Arthur Brooke (Mercutio is present in this poem as a suitor of Juliet – Shakespeare gave him an overhaul and made him much cooler, but regardless, he was not Shakespeare's original invention. Old Shakey would have done well on FFNet!). I mean, allegedly Brooke also stole it from elsewhere, but that's getting beyond the point...

"...the garish gloating remakes filmed on beaches with too many guns..." – Refers, of course, to Baz Luhrmann's 1996 MTVtastic version starring Leonardo DiCaprio and Claire Danes as the star-crossed lovers, complete with angel costumes and huge guns named after swords that look like they fell straight out of Trigun. I remain morbidly fascinated with that movie. I really don't like it – it's downright obnoxious, if nothing else – but somehow I still can't bring myself to hate it. And jeez, Britannia Angel, get out of there!

Anyone familiar with Romeo and Juliet – any version of it – may have noticed that there are various phrases/lines from the play scattered throughout this. Alas, as appropriate as it may have been, I couldn't find a good place to fit "I am too sore empierced with his shaft" in there. (Yes, it's a real line. Spoken by Romeo. Trufax.)

ANYWAY, there we have it. HetaliaxShakespeare. It was almost too easy, lololololol. Next on my list: FrancexThe Count of Monte Cristo, DenmarkxThe Little Mermaid and AmericaxThe Narrator of The Raven. :P I jest, I jest.

Thanks for reading! Just please, please no-one leave a review stating "Shakespeare originated in Korea, da-ze!".

RobinRocks

xXx

To Narroch: Only NOW are you in fact allowed to say "All of your Hetalia fics have England in them" because until I posted this one, yes, all my fics had England in them, but they also all had your dork of a country in them too. The only reason he didn't elbow his way in here was because he didn't even exist at the time this was going on (and also because that would have been awkward, amirite?). Oh, America, I miss you (but England doesn't).

To AutumnDynasty: YES I KNOW I STILL NEED TO WRITE STEAMPUNK HAMLET. XD