Acknowledgements: thank you to the following for reviews/favourites/alerts/ PMs: icycle, Chrysanthemum19, FiannaRain, Taleof2hippies, everythingisdragons, Arrowfeet, Sailormoon1999, Horonigai, Sweetiepie13, RebelKinslayer, gingakita, luzhu, Phoenixlegend, Star2301, Eaglesfeather17, ihateslash604, , nenepasta, Spaceland, kamilix, Fryingpangirl, Tonhalszendvics, Dalek-caan19, Bluesky1201, Stormshadow3, XxCrispixX, CheesecakeKitty15, SassyPantsJaxon, EllaAwkward, RosesforEveryone, SansSoucis, Kattie (Guest), Ivyflight, Taranodongirl1, Liquers, Pheonixlegend, ES1776, tsundere-cat-type, Kenzeira, Hinabi, Probablysomebody, Junior Chief, TelosKoritsi13, RebelsAdvocate,, Monskuuti, Zeawesomepasta, Woody569Gamecraft, datteroflucifer, rowerlovesastronomy, browsofglory, imiregretsnothing, icococandy, GalaxyGirlEm, gnomiegnome, itsalwaysbeme, Sarite, weirdonamedbrie, the Oracle of Akemi, CriticalThinking, RebelsAdvocate, eleanoralovesananias, TheMoonRaven, RoseRune, aphDadmark, Still a Lover of Franchises, Deciduous Forest 208, Yu-Gi-Oh Trekkie 99, RaptureChamber, StealthSage, yukia9tendo, Mondmaedchen, Bayboo20, England 2410, mossflower1234, ChildoftheMoon86, Gwen-Van-Well, The Silent Lilac, Supergrassaysyaaasss, Azmine Junet, febrezedtrash, magondala, BrownieTheFangirl, ppurpple, mssunnymuffins, espeon64, oh-cripe-my-fish, Renchikara, LucediDio,mirrorkirby64, quity190, Kathryn Daughter of Hestia, Elizaveta Hedervary - Hungary, spooky ghost flower, nightowlof2, Mondmaedchen, Siemsen, gintama200, phyllite, ravengal, not-philosophical, magicflyingmintbunnies, AllHellBrokeLoose666, GoneInASecond, Shikyoblossom20, theworldofhetalia, Acvodadkawall, skywolf2001
Driving Lessons Chapter 63 - Panic on the Dancefloor
"Why do I have to do everything around here?" Belarus asked him. "And why do you smell like something's died?"
"Were you even invited to this wedding?" England asked her as they walked into Frogmore House ('crazy name, crazy place' America had yelled) and some uniformed guard saluted Belarus but wrinkled his nose at him.
Belarus looked at him as if he were something she'd found stuck to the bottom of her shoes. "Of course I was!" She said indignantly. She was wearing what she called a 'designer' dress. But it looked like the usual blue/white outfit that she normally wore in England's eyes. The designer aspect was obviously something to do with all the pockets for knives.
Somehow, Belarus had used some kind of black magic or just plain old scariness on the police and magically England had been released 'without charge' and his cuffs taken off. (Belarus had then pocketed these.)
"Where is my brother?" She asked him as they picked up a glass of champagne at the entrance and scanned the ballroom.
"I have no idea, not seen him, nowhere, nada. Nothing to do with me. Oh look isn't that that chappie who won the third season of One Man and His Dog?"
"Where?" Belarus asked, suddenly distracted and then she turned to England, "Don't change the subject. I can smell his scent on you."
"Really? Does he wear Old Spice as well?"
Belarus took the champagne glass from him, handed it to a passing ex footballer and then pinned England against a wall. "I have little patience with you. Tell me where he is."
"China."
"The Nation or the country?" She asked, her eyes narrowing.
"I don't know. Possibly both or maybe neither." He answered.
"Woah there! Put him down, you don't know where he's been!" America yelled, sauntering up to them. "Seriously though, Belarus, you don't know where he's been. I doubt he knows where he's been."
"Ah Alfred, glad you're here," England said, attempting to straighten his collar and tie. He took another glass of champagne from a passing 'waiter' who was actually an actor in the latest action movie, or so Belarus told him.
"That suit's horrible, dude. You always tell me to smarten up." America told him.
"Could he be going to Beijing?" Belarus asked England, ignoring America.
"Probably. Yes. I'm sure he is," England replied. Anything to get rid of her.
"Yay! Conga!" America yelled. "Hold my drink," he said and handed England some virulently coloured cocktail that England suspected was anti-freeze and ran off.
"Well at least he's having a good time," England said.
"Book me a flight to Beijing," Belarus was saying to some poor unfortunate mortal on her phone.
"Make it today. After all you don't want to miss your brother, do you?" England said helpfully. He scanned the ballroom and accidentally took a sip of America's drink. It tasted like cat's piss. Not that England knew what the urine of a feline tasted like.
Belarus glared at him, whether because he'd drank some of America's drink or most likely due to his comment.
England was appalled to see several members of the royal family in a conga line with America.
This would not have happened in Queen Victoria's day. He said this to Belarus.
She ignored this and said, "Next flight to Beijing is tomorrow. Are you sure he said 'China'?"
"As sure as I'm standing right here," England replied but was whisked off his feet by some imbecilic minor royal to 'conga'.
"Nobody congas with me," Belarus said defiantly.
"Nobody would want to, sweetie," Poland said as he conga'd past.
"I hate my life," Lithuania said, following after.
"Let's all do the conga! Let's all do the conga!" America yelled.
"Really… let's not," England gasped as he danced round. This was most unbecoming for a thousand year old Nation.
Thankfully though he was saved by an announcement that the bride and groom were gracing them with their 'presence'.
"Yay! I'll have a present!" America yelled, still conga-ing with some poor late night comedian in front of him and a blogger (whatever that was) behind him.
"Not a bloody present, their presence," England hissed at him, trying to catch him up. Really it was ridiculous. And where the bloody hell was France?
He gave up and almost collapsed next to Belarus. "Where's France?" England he whispered to her.
"Shut up with your obsession with France, it's tiresome," Belarus whispered back. "Hey, I don't like her dress," she added and nodded at the bride and began to head towards a long snaking queue of celebrities and Nations waiting to meet the bride and groom.
England hurried after her, "Bela dear, please don't…" he said lamely. (Calling Belarus 'Bela dear' showed just how tipsy England was getting.)
"What do you mean, queue? Do I look English?" Poland asked a courtier, who nodded.
Poland looked very put out and stomped to the back of the queue with Lithuania hurrying after him carrying his (Poland's) pashmina.
"Phew… you won't want to queue to meet the bride will you, Belarus?" England asked Belarus as she stood behind Poland in the afore-mentioned queue to meet the happy couple.
"I like brides," Belarus growled at him in the manner of someone who really didn't.
England took another sip of America's horrid vivid blue cocktail and then a sip of the champagne in his other hand. He was only slightly amazed (and regretful) he'd not spilled more of the stuff when he was conga-ing. However, he didn't have a head for champagne (or any alcohol really) and was soon feeling squiffy.
"I say, have you sheen seen Franshis?" He asked Poland, prodding him in the back.
"Mind the material on this dress. It's worth more than your whole wardrobe!" Poland said, looking him up and down. "What in the name of Judy Garland are you wearing? You look like a down and out."
"I got thish from Oxfam."
"We can tell," Poland replied, straightening his wig.
"Yes but have you sheen Franshish?" England insisted. His head felt a bit dizzy.
"God, you're drunk aren't you?" Poland asked.
"No," England said. "Just a bit happy."
They were moving up the queue now and England had to think quickly about what kind of congratulations he could offer the bride and groom. "Good luck? I hope you get some nice wedding presents? Do you think you'll be the one who has to put the bins out?" He thought all these through in his head. Belarus was glaring at him.
"What?" He said, far too loudly as he'd now drunk all of America's horrid drink and his own champagne.
"Did you really destroy Germany's car?" She asked him.
"Well it wasn't really all my fault. That was France…"
"France France France! You're obsessed with him!" Poland exclaimed.
"Italy told Hungary who told Miss Ukraine who told Pol that you'd set his car on fire," Lithuania said.
Belarus looked at England with what was almost new found respect.
"Discarded cigarette," England tried to explain.
But before he could say anything else, Belarus did something horrifying, she kissed him.
"Oh bloody hell!" He gasped, in equal measures terrified, confused and rather pleased.
Lithuania turned and glared at England in what could only be described as extreme dislike.
Pol shook his head, "Oh honey get a roooom!" He said. "Anyway here's the bride and oh there's France!"
England thankfully didn't get to hear Poland giving the bride sartorial advice as he hurried off to try to unhand France from a certain minor British royal.
The varmint was standing with his back to him. The horrid purple velvet pantaloons and the stance at which he stood was unmistakable…
"Leave that poor girl alone, you bloody pervert!" England exclaimed, flinging France around. "Oh sorry your Highness," he gasped when he realised it wasn't France. "Why in the name of cricket are you wearing France's trousers?" He had to ask. Who would willingly wear France's pants?
"I think you have an obsession with France, Uncle Arthur," the royal said.
England was about to say bugger off but turned instead to the princess stood beside the said royal. "I'm glad you're okay, your Highness but why is this young man, and a grandson of the Queen, wearing France's pants?"
"It's so funny isn't it? We were all in the Crimson Drawing Room…" she began to say.
"Actually, no don't tell me. I don't want to know… That was the room poor dear Queen Charlotte taught me embroidery," England said. He was feeling most unwell.
"Uncle Arthur!" Shouted one of the more boorish and yobbish young royals. England winced. He didn't particularly mind them calling him that, it's just that they often did it in the manner of someone who thought he was a mad drunken uncle.
"Come and meet my bride!" The bridegroom said, slapping England on the shoulder. "My God, you do smell!" The Prince added as if this fact was just confirmed.
"It's this shoot, I mean suit…" England said lamely and much to everyone's disgust who were still in the queue, he hurried forward to meet the new member of the royal family.
"Hello, congratulations. Good luck and all that," England found he was slurring so covered it up by just chattering on and on, "I hope you like our wonderful country," he continued and then when he remembered she was American, he said, "It's a damned shite, I mean sight, better than bloody America with all your bloody burgersh and mashive roads. Don't worry you'll get used to the rain and the fog, I find it invigorating personally." He finished this little speech by sticking his hands in his pockets. The room appeared to be swaying somewhat.
The bride looked a little confused but proffered her hand. England of course removed his hand from his pocket and grasped hers.
There was a scream and people got agitated.
"How was I to know there was a dead mouse in my pocket?" England asked lamely. At least that explained the smell. Mostly.
The palace guards had picked him up by his armpits and most unceremoniously had deposited outside on what could be described as some kind of balcony.
"Beats me, dude," America said. He appeared to be filming the whole thing on his iPhone.
"You're a disgrace. Get yourself sobered up," the Queen's Private Secretary said and then added, "And please get your dead kings out of here." He then swept out.
England peered through into the ballroom and saw the second in line to the throne having a what seemed like earnest conversation with King Charles I. The prince did not appear to notice that the King did not have a head.
Henry VI was giving advice to the Prince of Wales who looked as if he was taking it all on board.
He spotted what looked like Germany, sat in a corner writing in a notebook. England shook his head. He must be really drunk, he decided. Who would invite Germany to the bloody wedding?
(Actually, England was right, Germany was indeed sat in a corner writing everything down in a book with the title 'Why I'm better than England' - his latest entry - 'I have never handed a dead mouse to a new bride'. England would be incandescent with rage over this.)
England stepped back and almost fell over the low wall to a ten foot drop below.
America was still filming him. "This'll be great for youtube!" The imbecilic boy said.
"You need to sober up," another voice said.
England recognised it. "Walesh… don't you have shomewhere to be with your fantashtic uniform?" He said bitterly.
"I've already been in the procession," Wales said. "And if you weren't such a drunken dickhead, you'd have been in it."
England almost fell over the balcony in shock. "Drunken dickhead? How dare you? And besides I wouldn't want to be in the bloody procession! I haven't brought my horse!"
"This is great! You could be on the Jeremy Kyle show!" America said.
"Shut up, Alfred. You do nothing but enable him and that awful French pervert boyfriend of his!"
"Don't you tell him to shut up!" England said and put up his fists. "I'll give you what for! I'm your older brother and you don't talk to me like that!"
"I'll talk to you how I like!" Wales replied. "I'm not some weak daffodil-loving ponce like you used to call me!" He said and put up his own fists.
They proceeded to circle each other.
"I will show you who's bloody bosh, er boss…" England said. "I used to box for Cambridge!"
"I used to fight for Owain Glyndŵr," Wales replied.
"Wow, crazy name, crazy dude. Am I right or am I right?" America yelled, still filming. He had never learned in all his years to keep well out of family arguments between England and his brothers.
"Will you shut up you complete buffoon!" Wales said and then added a lot more in Welsh.
"You take that back!" England said and promptly bopped him on the nose with his fist.
Wales put a hand to his nose, saw the blood and then launched forward, hitting his older brother several times around the head, "I'll knock some sense in you! This is for burning down my cottage and knocking over my caravan! And letting France loose in my country!" He said.
"You guys fight like girls," America said with what seemed like boredom.
England fought back as best he could, "I never liked daffodils or leeks anyway!" He said and jumped on his brother.
They rolled around on the polished floor. "You take that back!" Wales said. His uniform was now filthy. It was to be hoped that he wasn't going to be in any more processions.
"Well you take that back about Alfred!" England replied. He was actually coming off quite badly from this. His hair was a mess (or at least it had not improved), his jacket was torn and one of his shoes had come off, revealing Pokeman socks (they were America's) with a hole in one of the heels.
"Won't!" Wales said and batted his brother around the head several times. He had managed to get England on his back and was sat on his chest. "You always bullied me when I was a kid! And you were always killing my chieftains!" He added.
"Well bloody hell! Anybody who has chieftains instead of proper kings deserves to have them knocked off!" England replied. "They were all bloody called Owain or Llewellyn or something ridiculous as well!"
"Actually Uncle Bryn, Dad's right," Alfred said in an attempt at being wise, although he had no idea what they were talking about.
"I'm not your bloody dad!" England yelled.
"Can you keep it down in here? We're trying to party!" A rather rude chat show host with falling viewing figures said.
"Sorry," England muttered from beneath his brother.
"You're the most baseless and rude Englishman I ever met!" Wales said.
"I cannae agree with that," came a familiar voice in a Scottish accent.
"Scotland! My dear Hamish!" England said with some hope.
"Uncle Hamish! This just gets better!" America said.
"Aye! I once met an Englishman called Bob who lived in Harrogate who called me a drunken sod and threw me out of his house!" Scotland said. "He was worse than Arthur!"
"That was Yorkshire, my son!" England said, appalled.
"Aye, bloody odd feller in his flat cap and his little rat on a string," Scotland continued. He looked very drunk and was swaying rather a lot.
"That was his dog, Heathcliff," England said. "I say, could you poshibly help me up, Hamish?"
"Been a good wedding though eh?" Scotland continued, ignoring his brother.
"Bugger off Hamish if you're just going to stand there and talk rubbish," Wales said, pausing in his attacking of the Englishman underneath him.
"Yeah, bugger off," England agreed. "And you can get off me as well," England said to Wales.
"Yeah, gay…" America said.
"Tell your bloody stupid adopted son I'm not gay," Wales said.
"Gay," America replied.
"Alfred, do behave."
"Leave the boy alonesh," Scotland said and winked at America. "He can't help being shubnormal," the Scotsman slurred.
"What?" England asked.
"He called me subnormal."
"Well you are," Wales said.
"Get off my dad!" America said and jumped on Wales' back.
"I love a good family fight," Scotland said and jumped on America.
"Ooooof!" England found himself squashed beneath a writhing mess of three fighting Nations.
Above him America was fighting Wales, who was fighting Scotland, who was fighting them both.
In actual fact all of them just appeared to be ineffectually batting each other around the head. Unfortunately for England, he was kind of hoping they'd knock each other out.
He managed to crawl out from under them and slowly got to his feet. He dusted himself down.
"Arthuuuuuuuur!" Belarus called.
He considered heading back underneath his brothers and Alfred and getting beaten up. It would surely be better than what awaited him out here.
"This is supposed to be date night," she told him with a growl.
"It is?" He squeaked.
Belarus was about to tell him something else but was rightfully distracted by Scotland's bare legs beneath his kilt. "What's going on there?" she nodded at the heap of Nations.
"They're fighting."
"Hmmm," she looked at them with some professional interest. "Tell America that double-arm lock is easy to get out of."
England didn't really want to discuss wrestling moves with his 'wife' and certainly not at a royal wedding reception. It wasn't really the 'done thing'.
"I think I'm going to go home now," he said and began sidling off.
Poland blocked his escape, "I don't think so," the Pole said. "Not until you've explained yourself."
"What?"
"Yes, the bride fainted after you shook her hand and everyone is saying that she has a crush on you," Belarus said with a growl.
"Me?" England squeaked.
"You made her scream," Lithuania pointed out.
"Is that a half nelson move? Nice one, Scotland. I'm rather impressed," Poland said, as equally distracted by the fighting as Belarus and then turned back to England, "Yes, you're her secret lover." He said with a barely disguised smirk.
"I gave her a dead mouse," England said.
"Bloody pervert. Is that, like, what young people call it these days, Liet?" Poland asked, turning to Lithuania and batting him playfully on his chest with a fan.
"No, it was a dead mouse, Pol," Lithuania explained.
"Oh," Poland looked disappointed.
"So you are not trying to seduce the bride?" Belarus asked England, looking him up and down.
England side-stepped the rolling mess of three Nations fighting. (America seemed to getting the best of it, but Scotland's kilt appeared to have slipped and this made everyone very wary.). "No."
"But she loves you?" Belarus asked, her eyes narrowing.
"I highly doubt it," England said.
Belarus stepped over the three Nations and headed back into the ballroom. "I'm going to sort this out."
"Who started this rumour? Please don't say Hungary told you who told Ukraine who told someone else…?" England asked.
"No, it was France," Poland said.
"I'm going to kill him," England said and followed Belarus.
America, who had finally extricated himself from the fight, was telling 'Uncle Hamish' to get some pants on.
Wales stood up and straightened his uniform. "Honestly, this is not good for a serving officer to be seen fighting," he said with all the pomposity of his older brother.
Scotland just burped at them.
"Belarus, dear…" England was saying.
Belarus was storming across the ballroom dance floor heading straight for the happy couple. The bride appeared to have recovered from her shock of meeting England and was now greeting the guests. Her groom looked as if he didn't really know what was happening.
This would increase exponentially as Belarus took hold of the top tier of the nearby wedding cake and flung it at the couple.
Her aim of course was unerring but England flung himself in front with a "Noooooo!" As if it were a bullet.
Poland laughed, "Oh Belarus! You can't even hit a bride with a cake!" He said as if this should be a pre-requisite for any decent Nation.
Belarus spun round, took hold of another piece and threw that at Poland.
"Cake? Someone said cake?" America asked and was hit full in the face with a piece. "Oh my God! What is this?"
"Lemon and elderflower," Lithuania replied, reading from the hand-typed description beneath the truly ginormous ten tier cake and taking a quick taste.
England, who could not see as sponge obscured his eyesight, stepped back straight into the table holding the rest of the cake which subsequently collapsed.
"Food fight!" America yelled, picked up a rather large chunk and was about to fling it at Belarus, who flashed a knife at him, he re-aimed at Scotland instead.
Instead, Wales and his once immaculate uniform got it straight in the chest. He yelled in frustration and leapt at America, who responded by shoving a huge slice in the Welshman's face and, with added cruelty, telling him it had been made by Arthur.
And that's when the panic started.
Cake was being flung around by America, Belarus, Poland and, weirdly, King Henry, whilst the guests were screaming - particularly the royal guests who knew the truth about England's baking.
"General hysteria," England muttered, slipping and sliding on lemon sponge. "If I'd baked this cake, I'd have made it a good old fashioned fruit cake," he said.
Unfortunately, he said this to a prince of the realm who completely panicked and ordered the guards in to arrest England
"Oh bloody hell," England said. He had elderflower and lemon sponge in his hair.
Fire sprinklers went off - probably ordered by some comedian who thought this would slow down one of Arthur's cakes.
England decided that it was time to make his exit. He shoved aside Scotland who bizarrely was doing the 'Birdie Dance' with a headless King Charles I, and headed for the door. It was blocked by royal guards who saw him and made a dash for him.
Cake was his saviour (and not for the first time) as the guards slipped and slid across the floor.
England slid quite elegantly towards the balcony and paused as he stood on the wall and looked down.
Ten feet below him was France in his whole sartorial elegance - in a Chanel purple suit and a matching fedora. He was sat in a bright red Porsche. "Ah mon cher! Do not jump! I am not worth it!" France shouted up.
Sat in the car was Princess Beatrice and she appeared to have had a lobotomy. That could be the only explanation for her gazing at France as if he were some kind of sex god.
England decided that she probably should be committed to a mental asylum.
"I did not mean what I said to ze others about your habits! If you want to read Gardeners World in ze bathroom zat is nothing to do with anyone else!" France yelled. "Don't jump, mon cher, nothng is worth it!"
"What in God's name are you blithering about, you fool? I need to jump before I'm arrested again!"
A frown crossed the Frenchman's face and then a lightbulb appeared to go off. "You need rope, mon cher!"
"Do I look like Edmund Hillary? Where am I going to get rope?" England yelled back. England thought about jumping anyway but landing on a royal Princess would not look good he decided.
He looked around wildly. In the ballroom it looked as if there'd been a sponge massacre. People were running around covered in wet soggy sponge.
But then he had an idea. He just needed a lot of material. Like tying sheets together…
"Excuse me…" he said to the bride, took the tiara off her head and pulled her very very long veil off. "I'm just borrowing this," he said. She stared at him as if he were a psychopath and he ran off.
Who needed a veil this long anyway, he thought. Besides it was already covered in sponge so no harm done. He tied one end to a pillar and flung the rest over the balcony and proceeded to climb down. It was only when he was half way down that he realised that he was still holding the tiara. "Bugger," he said to himself and fell the last six feet, landing on top of France.
He panicked and gave the tiara to France, who panicked and gave it back.
"Shit! They'll think I've stole it!" England said.
France nodded. But then said, "Look at ze car Beatrice has bought me!" As if England's tiara heist was of no consequence.
The registration plate said 'LA MOR'. England shuddered.
Princess Beatrice got out of the car and looked at Arthur, "What are you doing with great great grandmother's tiara?" The Princess asked.
"Gotta go!" England said, jumped in France's car and prepared to speed away.
He'd unfortunately got in the passenger side. Damn these foreign cars!
France, with great glee, got in the driver's side and started the engine. "We will run away together! South America here we come!" he shouted and they sped off down the driveway, England clutching the priceless tiara and thinking perhaps he should stop drinking.
Author's Notes:
Sorry for the long chapter, so many things occurred to me as I was writing and I had to have a fight between the brothers and a food fight.