Prohibition
It is a rainy day in mid-June in nineteen twenty-two when France sits down on England's bed and watches with great amusement how the Englishman stomps about his room, picking up the shirts and ties and socks that he was throwing around mere minutes earlier. France very nearly winces when England kicks his now empty suitcase open and drops the collected items in it without bothering folding them first. How very typical of him; France is well aware that this is England's passive-aggressive way of showing that he doesn't give a damn about Alfred's celebration and accepts the invitation only because he absolutely has to in the name of international politics.
"England dear," says France, because in his opinion, it is time to add some oil in the flames. "Are you sure you want to be taking that hideous yellow shirt with you? Surely you want to be at your best in America's biggest party of the year."
The enraged glare that England rewards France with is absolutely delightful. "Shut the fuck up, you," he growls.
"Now, no need to be so rude," France says smugly. England rolls his eyes, proceeding to his favourite game – ignoring France – and turns his back on him. France continues smirking, because he knows that even without looking, England knows what he's doing and that it drives him inwardly up the wall. The smirk, however, slips off France's lips when he notices England taking something from the depths of his wardrobe and casually wrapping the something in another hideous shirt, this time brown. It is all so casual that France's interest is instantly awakened.
"Oh?" he says. "What was that?"
"Nothing," says England, the personification of casualty, and drops the bundle in his suitcase.
"Fine." France shrugs. "Keep your secrets."
Naturally, the very next convenient moment when England turns his back to France again, the Frenchman leaps from his spot on the bed and dives for the suitcase. It is clear from the speed of England's reaction that he was expecting an attack, but, this time, the power of determined curiosity is stronger, and France retreats victoriously back of the bed with a brown bundle in his arms. England is quick to jump after him, but it's too late; France unwraps the cloth and finds a…
"Don't. Fucking. Dare," England hisses at him when France bursts into laughter, clutching a full bottle of whiskey in his arms. "France. Shut up."
But France doesn't. He laughs until England punches him in the cheek, then laughs more even though it actually hurts. He finishes laughing only when England manages to wring the bottle out of his grasp and hit him with it, too.
"England," he manages to utter without collapsing in another fit of mirth. "Getting drunk for America's special day? Really?"
"How else am I to endure his follies and stupid independence celebration?" England snaps at him, wrapping the bottle with the brown shirt again (perhaps his poor choice of clothes is another show of passive-aggressive protest).
"Oh, but you must be aware of America's wildest invention so far?" France asks, referring to the prohibition law in the United States.
"Of course I am," England snorts.
"Don't you think it's a bit provocative to break his laws in his independence celebration?" France asks, lifting his eyebrow.
"Don't you think it was a bit provocative of him to toss my tea in the sea and start a revolt?"
France lets out a slow whistle. "My, you are an unforgiving one."
England glares at him, then coughs in his palm something that sounds suspiciously like 'Joan of Arc', and it is France's turn to glare.
"Besides," England continues, "he only invited us of necessity."
"You, perhaps."
"Oh, shut it, frog."
France does, mostly because he is in a good mood and too relaxed to banter further. England returns to the task of packing, and the Frenchman observes him, absently humming something under his breath. Then he stands up from the bed and says, "As a matter of fact, you might have a point, after all. Albeit a very small one," he quickly adds when England throws an astonished look at him. France flashes him a smile. "A celebration doesn't feel like celebration if it's not enjoyed with a glass of fine wine."
England arcs his brows. "Hypocrite."
France blows him a kiss which is dodged by an unimpressed stare. "We are same as ever, love."
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