France rolled a 6. Eyes shooting up meet England staring back in cold defiance.
England huffed; "Calm yourself boys, it's only the shoes." England unlaced his boots and placed his socks inside, standing them next to his armchair to the wolf whistles of his companions. His toes stretched and curled against the warm wood heated by the fire behind him. He swallowed the final contents of the bottle pondering a question for France.
"Ok, France what is my famous dish."
"Ahh well it is obvious! The fish 'NNNN' chips."
"Afraid not mate. Stereotypes and truth often come hand in hand to some extent but not this time, the national dish is a good old roast. Meat, potatoes, veg and yorkshires. Top it off with gravy and you've got a perfect Sunday."
"How do you make food sound bland? Truly some sort of…!"
England threw the empty bottle catching France in the stomach winding him.
"Watch your next sentence. Don't forget who's deciding your forfeits… actually… That is perfect. You know how fond you are of your mimes." Sneered England.
"I wouldn't say fond of, they're just sort of always there. Eh harmless."
"Great, so you know exactly what I expect until your next roll."
France opened his mouth to protest.
"Uh! Nope. Mimes don't speak do they Frog?"
France flipped him off. England smiled smugly.
"So he cant talk for two rolls?" America interjected.
"Correct."
"So we can say whatever we like and he can't say anything?"
"Indeed. Not only that. Mimes can't touch people either. So yes, for the next two turns we are literally untouchable."
America's confusion slowly transformed in to an open mouthed grin. "Soooo… We can talk about his girly hair?"
"Oh absolutely!" England snickered picking up the dice and rolling a 4. His eyes made contact with France with a cruel smile and turned away from his duties. "Maybe it's one of his social laws. He could use his hair as a makeshift white flag if the wind was right."
America burst in to laughter. But France's flailing limbs stopped him. France was pointing at the board.
England's eyes narrowed at the attempt. "Hey America." He drew his attention back. "That's it, ask your question. Go ahead."
America turned to glance at the red face French man waving his arms behind his head. "But I think he's trying to tell us something."
"Don't pay attention to him, that's how they steal your money."
"What really?!" He turned back to the mime in shock. Who was over dramatically gesturing at the dice, then mimed removing his shirt, then stabbing an accusing finger towards the Englishman.
….
France repeated the action slower.
"OH ENGLAND! Don't forget to strip!" America blurted.
France collapsed on to the sofa exhausted.
England muttered under his breath, foiled. He was already regretting taking his jacket off earlier due to the heat and the wine and as punishment now had to remove his shirt, folding it on top of his boots. Cursing a smug France opposite pretending to fan him self.
"Question timeee! Hmmm OH! I know, what colour is Tony? Because I know you can see him damn it! You're not going to take a loss over this!"
"What colour is your imaginary alien buddy? How am I supposed to know?!"
"HE'S NOT IMAGINARY! Not like your stupid unicorns."
England growled his guess: "Green?"
"Damn it, no! They're only green in the movies." America huffed but not looking too much in to it continued. "Right forfeit? Hmm you got anything France."
France nodded and mimed rolling up his sleeves. He pointed to America's trousers.
"Me? America? Man? Legs? Amazing?"
France shook his palms stopping the endless stream of meaningless nonsense. He pointed to America's crotch, then placed his hand over his chest and tried to look majestic and patriotic as possible.
America raised his eyebrow. "….Hard hearted?"
He slapped his forehead. He tried again. He pointed to America's trousers. And waited for the guessing again.
"Trousers? Clothes? Shorts? Err blue? Underwear? YES? UNDERWEAR!"
France was nodding enthusiastically. He crossed his arms one pointing at England the other at America. "Swap?"
France fist pumped the air, got it on the first try.
"Swap underwear with England. Hahahaha! He has to wear my flag! That's hilarious good one France."
"That is disgusting. What is wrong with you France?"
France shrugged happily and mocked zipping his lips.
"Well I'm not doing it." He crossed his arms. America was already semi naked. Bomber jacket strewn across the sofa and was kicking off his jeans.
England stood, maybe too quickly as he suddenly felt the affects of the alcohol he had been consuming. It washed over him, warming his body in friendly confidence and instability. He grunted at the suspenseful eyes encouraging him. Resentfully he puffed his chest out trying to look as nonchalant as possible…under the circumstances. He staggered slightly as he walked around the armchair, giving him some privacy to undress.
America booed. France mimed covering his nipples to display his disapproval too. But England still had slightly drunk delusions of dignity and stayed covered, lying his trousers over the backrest.
France was waving manically at America who was transfixed by the undressing. Finally getting his attention France motioned for America to snatch up England's clothes. Surprisingly he understood, more surprisingly he understood silently. So England who just placed his Union Jack boxers on the pile ready for the transfer, had no idea.
America darted forward in just his pants, ripped the clothes from the chair and grabbed the boots and jacket too, he hurdled past a nude England and headed for the door. England realised what was happening and screamed bloody murder. Body flushing red he tried to cover himself before realising he would have to give chase. He risked a glance back at France who was wetting himself, trying to laugh silently; the man was going to blow a blood vessel.
England sprang after America, hand covering what he could of his indecency. He heard giggles down the corridor and followed them, skin slapping against the cold flooring.
America swung the front door open, revealing a black night with a torrent of rain whipping past. He turned back to see England slowly approaching."
"Don't. You. Dare." Each word he took a step forward as if not to scare away a frightened animal, it might have worked if his voice wasn't so gravely terrifying. He reached out one hand towards the pile the other still cradling his manhood.
"America. I'm serious." He was almost touching them but the drink had made his co-ordination slow. And just like that America shot them in to the raging outside.
England gasped before forcing himself out in to the raining war after them. America held the only remaining piece and swapped himself an American flag for a British. 'Oh tight.' They hugged his larger frame not leaving much to the imagination.
England stormed back in. The weather following behind, he barged past the American stoking his own full buttocks. He marched straight back in to the living room a river trailing behind him and hung his uniform in front of the fire, his naked embarrassment washed away by rain and fury.
He faced a silent France and an apprehensive America had re-entered, he stared at them both hard, water fighting it's way from his hair down his face, giant droplets collecting in this eyelashes.
"Give me the underwear."
America threw his boxers to the sopping wet man. He stepped into them, too loose but acceptable. The pattern however was not. Which reminded him to look at America. America was unsubtly trying to claw his way out of a wedgie.
England tried to force it down and hold on to the anger. But America's pained expression, the absolutely ridiculous fit of the boxers plus the wine induced a choking laughing fit.
