Ahh, my apologies for the hiatus. I had a very busy May indeed! I know I really need to finish The Waning, ahaha, but I didn't want to neglect this weird little fic too much considering it was supposed to be an England's birthday/Shakespeare's anniversary thing in April... T.T
(I know, I know. Nobody is surprised.)
And England Keep My Bones
II
America sleeps late the next morning, halfway-hungover, completely humiliated. Last night had not been a success, with England's mood taking a sudden black turn in the aftermath of America's ill-received story. Even Wilde had grown wary of him, leaving him to stew, and America's further attempts to engage him in conversation had proved fruitless. He had stayed barely half an hour more before rather abruptly excusing himself, leaving a gaping hole in his absence that the remaining party sought to fill with drink. America might have gone after him – had he not been so unsteady on his feet by then. Overall, not exactly the desired effect.
It's nearing eleven o' clock by the time he finally exhumes himself, only bothering to half-dress. He can't stand cravats and topcoats and seizes every opportunity he can to forgo them. He doesn't have much to do today – just a meeting with the American ambassador in the afternoon – and he doesn't feel much like eating so he takes a cup of coffee into the study. It's a beautiful morning, golden sunlight streaming in through the windows – much too bright for his pounding head. He feels like he's getting old as he rather grouchily draws the curtains. He remembers England used to do this back in Boston, particularly on Sunday mornings, and how he used to lie on the chaise lounge with his arm over his face, moaning that he would never drink again. Not a bad idea, honestly.
He rather feels like reading Frankenstein, perhaps just to spite Wilde, so he takes the handsome leather-bound copy from the shelf and retreats with it and his coffee to the far corner of the American Embassy's spacious study, settling down to enjoy it. He's read it quite a few times already – it's one of his favourites, the idea of a corpse being given life anew by harnessing science endlessly intriguing to him. A pity he was not in a position to take Canada's advice and create his own version of England all for himself. At this point, he does rather feel like it would be less effort.
An hour or so later, the dregs of his coffee gone cold, there is a knock at the door and one of the aides leans in.
"Excuse me, Mr Jones." The aide bobs into a small bow. "You have a visitor to see you, sir."
"Oh?" America lazily lowers his book. "I was not expecting anyone."
"He confessed himself that it was sudden, sir, and apologised for the intrusion."
It's probably just Canada. America waves his hand dismissively. "Fine. Show him in."
"Of course, sir."
Ugh. He still feels awful and doesn't particularly want to see anybody – even Canada, who has probably come to be a know-it-all about the whole thing once more–
"I hope you won't mind my coming unannounced," England says briskly, sweeping into the room. "I am on rather a tight schedule and I hadn't the time to send my card ahead."
"A-Arthur!" America flings the book aside, scrambling to his feet. "I-I didn't think... Well, that it is you, I was not–"
"I can surmise that." England eyes his uncombed hair, his untucked shirt, his bare feet. "I see you are as slovenly as ever."
"I did not know you would be coming," America snaps. "Do you think I sit around all day primped and preened in case the occasion presents itself?"
"Clearly not." England, of course, is as finely turned out as ever in smart smoky grey, his waistcoat and pin a matching shade of sapphire. He glances about. "Why is it so dark in here?"
"I pulled the curtains." America is blunt. "I'm hungover as hell."
England smiles sarcastically. "Why, Alfred, I was not aware that you drank."
"There wasn't much else to do after you ran out last night. Somebody had to carry Mr Wilde to his cab."
"Indeed." England presses his hands together. "That is, in fact, why I am here."
"What? Wilde?"
"No – the reason for my abrupt departure."
America shrugs uneasily. Half of last night is kind of a haze, really. "Something I said to do with the skull story, I suppose?"
"Yes. The unusual burial depth of just three feet, the absence of a coffin or a vault... These are all details that are true, Alfred. I was at William's funeral, I can attest to their accuracy."
America tilts his head. "Are you saying that you think... it is true?"
"I could not say for certain without having read the story that purports to detail the theft myself – hence my coming here." England raises his eyebrows. "You ought to know that The Argosy is hardly a well-respected magazine, particularly in my country. I could not, of course, comment on the taste in New York."
America smiles sourly. "Naturally."
"My point is that I have found it impossible to lay my hands on a copy of the magazine in question. I have been all over London by cab this morning in pursuit of the wretched thing and I have come up empty-handed. Thus, I have come to you. I suppose it is unlikely that you would have the magazine here with you but I–"
"I do have it," America says brightly. "It is upstairs in my room. I brought the last few editions over with me for light reading on the ship."
"A happy coincidence indeed. You will, of course, not object to my borrowing it?"
"Of course not." America bounds past him. "Come up with me and I'll get it for you."
"I hardly think I am going to come up with you to your bedchamber," England says witheringly. "I shall stay here and you can fetch it."
"Well, you might be sitting there a while," America replies, opening the study door, "because I have no idea where it is." He gestures to the hallway. "Your choice."
England flounders for a moment, looking half-scandalised and half-exasperated, before finally letting out a breath. With a terse nod, he follows America from the study and upstairs.
America's room at the American Embassy is cool and spacious and looks like it's been hit by a bomb. He hopes that England recalls well enough that he's always been messy and won't judge him too unkindly; still, he curses inwardly that he didn't make his bed. The rumpled sheets, the bare mattress, it seems so embarrassingly intimate given that England pointedly ignores his letters suggesting that they, ah, share, so to speak. America glances guiltily at him, finding his face completely blank.
"I am rather busy, you know," England says, observing his pause, "so if you would kindly find the magazine, I'll be on my way."
"O-of course." America goes to the armchair by the window, removes a pile of books and a crumpled cravat from the seat and gestures to it. "Please, sit down." He cringes inwardly at his formal tone, laid on thick like butter.
"Thank you." England sits, taking off his gloves. Climbing into his lap for a story before bed suddenly seems like it happened only in a universe parallel to this; England is immovable, cold, carved of marble.
"Should... should I send down for some tea?" America asks this rather lamely, moving half-heartedly towards the door.
"No, don't trouble yourself. I have no intention of imposing upon you for much longer."
"I see." America stops again. "I'll, uh... just find the magazine, then."
"If you'd be so kind."
This should be a victory: this is what he has suggested non-too-subtly in his letters, lurid in their luring England to his bedroom. Now that it has become real, however, his nerve fails him; and England, he thinks, must know this, sitting silent at the window with one leg crossed over the other. Sometimes he forgets how old he is, just how much he's seen.
He certainly sees right through America.
He begins to go through one of his half-unpacked trunks, looking for the magazine. He hears the grizzle of a match behind him, smells the sudden bitter punch of smoke. England smokes far more than he ever used to; and eats more and drinks more and dresses in finer clothes, the makings of a grand early death in a human. In a nation, an empire, however, they are nothing more than baubles, by-products, empty engagements with the huge and sudden weight of wealth. America sees right through him, too. He is stained-glass: gorgeous, transparent, only for show.
He wonders what he was like when he knew Shakespeare.
"Arthur," he says.
"Yes, Alfred?" England doesn't even look up.
"I was wondering..." America takes a breath. "...Why is it that you never answer my letters? Is it... that you find them inappropriate?"
He bites his lip, not turning around, bracing himself for the answer; that England finds him disgusting, immoral, laughable–
"Oh, do you write me letters? I was not even aware."
America falters. He turns to England, who is looking at the ceiling.
"I... I have written you a great many letters for several years–"
"Yes, well, I am very busy these days, I'm sure you can understand that, so I have Matthew sort through my mail. He passes on to me only correspondence of the utmost importance – trade proposals and the like – so if your letters are nothing more than idle pleasantries, you'll forgive him for not bothering me with them."
A pause. "I-I see." Given that England used to send lengthy replies to his childish misspelt scrawlings from Boston, this is hurtful. He resents Canada for not admitting that this is the case. "Well, I suppose... you are busy–"
"Oh, frightfully so."
"Yet it seems," America goes on carefully, "that you've time enough cultivate friendships with the likes of Mr Wilde."
"I've got to get a bit of intelligent conversation somewhere," England replies boredly. "Besides, one might argue that I'm simply attempting to recreate the Romantic era. Those evenings spent with Byron and the Shelleys were hugely enjoyable to me."
"If you are attempting to relive your youth," America says coolly, "then perhaps you might turn your attention to me instead of Mr Wilde."
"Hmm." England examines his cigarette. "You say that as though you are unchanged from back then."
"Well–"
"But we both know just how different things are now. Neither of us are who we were back then, America. I think it would serve you well to remember that."
"I do remember that, thank you all the same," America says, growing annoyed, banging noisily around in the trunk. "I am, after all, the United goddamn States of America."
"Indeed you are," England says pleasantly. And not good enough for me, his voice sings. He doesn't need to answer those letters. Matthew's silence on his behalf is more than loud enough.
"You are, at least, still fond of Shakespeare," he says. It's almost a challenge. "Enough to care about the whereabouts of his skull, at any rate."
"Oh, yes, he was always my favourite. Even Byron, even Wilde... He was truly of another realm."
"Why, then, do you settle for an echo of the Romantic? Why not chase after Shakespeare instead?"
"That world cannot be recaptured. Besides, I have far more than I did back then. Pretending to be in some filthy pub in Tudor London... why on this earth would I want to do that?"
You foolish boy.
America shrugs, says nothing. He comes up empty-handed in the first trunk and moves on to another. He sees through him, yes – right through, with nothing underneath, stripped of all substance. It's like he leaves his heart at home; or has shed it, lost it, buried it deep, filled up the cavity with jewels and silks and words with no echo. Is this how he talks with Wilde? Is this the depth of his evenings with Byron, with Shakespeare – is this posturing the intelligent conversation-?
Or is England being this vague on purpose – so as to not encourage him, give him nothing to cling to? With an unpleasant start, he realises that this is more likely the case. He is no Dickens, no Conan Doyle, no Wilde – and certainly no William Shakespeare. England thinks there's nothing in his head worth bothering about. America, to his detriment, has underestimated his unkindness.
He unearths the copy of The Argosy at long last – but now he doesn't want to hand it over, at least not without a fight.
"You know, Arthur," he begins (because he's stubborn if nothing else), "I don't simply read The Argosy. I'm quite the fan of Mark Twain – and I found Darwin's The Origin of the Species to be deeply fascinating–"
"I daresay." England is looking at his pocket watch. "Have you found that magazine yet? I've another engagement at two o' clock."
America exhales through his nose and stands up. "Yes, I have it."
"Good." England rises, brushing himself down. He stubs out his cigarette in the full tray on America's desk. "Then I shan't trouble you a moment longer."
He puts out his hand for the magazine and America brings it to him; he can't help but notice that he takes it rather gingerly, at once squirreling it away inside his jacket. He wouldn't be seen dead with it, clearly.
He should have held it to ransom; not handed it over until England agreed to sleep with him, have dinner with him, treat him like a grown adult with half a brain. (Except maybe he does only have half a brain – because if he was smarter, he'd want nothing to do with someone like England, who is cruel simply for the sport of it.)
"Well, I thank you," England says vaguely, starting towards the door. "You have saved me a lot of trouble."
America nods. "Let me know, won't you?" He leans against the desk casually, just-so. "If it turns out to be the truth."
"Naturally." England nods. "My line of inquiry will have to be postponed for a little while, for I am to be frightfully busy in the coming weeks with a new trade agreement, but after that, I shall give it my full attention." He pulls on his gloves. "If Shakespeare's skull is to be in anyone's possession but that of his grave, it shall be mine." He nods once to America. "Good day, Alfred."
His back to the desk, America nods in reply. "Good day to you, Arthur."
But England is gone, barely waiting for his response. America stares at the empty doorway for a moment, his mouth dry, feeling deflated. For all his bravado, his fantasies, his bold unread letters, he realises he has no idea what England would be like beneath him. He has no concept of how he would look, how he would sound, how he would feel. All he knows of him are old goodnight stories and new curt goodbyes.
Still. Shakespeare's skull.
He pushes off the desk and leaves the room, heading downstairs. Lucky indeed that he's at the Embassy. He has a telegram to send.
There is a reply waiting for him on his desk when he gets out of his meeting with the American ambassador (an enjoyable two hours of bitching about British trade deals). This was far quicker than he'd been expecting but, all things taken into account, not a moment too soon. He opens it up, sinking against the desk to read the scant few lines.
Dear Mr Jones,
With regards to your request for details of the author of our 'Shakespeare's Skull' story, Dr Chambers is currently a fellow of The University of Winchester, England, and, as such, may be reached at his residence there.
Yours faithfully,
Frank Munsey
Editor-in-chief, The Argosy Magazine
The address is listed underneath. America looks at it, then at the clock. It isn't all that far – a few hours, perhaps, with a fast cab. If he leaves now, he could be there just after nightfall. He makes the arrangements with an aide and begins to toss a few articles into the first suitcase he finds, not bothering to fold them properly. He could, of course, set off early tomorrow morning – the aide's suggestion, the more sensible option – but to him this seems like precious moments wasted. The quicker he can get this attended to, the better. He has the advantage of a few days over England and he intends to use them to his gain.
He hears the door creak behind him and straightens.
"Is the cab here already?"
"Cab?"
Canada's voice. America whirls towards him quickly, defensively.
"How did you get in here?"
"One of your aides let me. For goodness' sake, this is an Embassy, not Fort Knox."
"I'm surprised you know what Fort Knox is."
Canada leans against the door. "Arthur did warn me that you were grumpy."
America scowls. "Sounds like he can't stop talking about me. Did he send you over here?"
"No. He simply mentioned that he had been by earlier."
I'll bet he didn't say why, America grumbles inwardly.
"Anyway," Canada goes on, "I came to ask if you'd like to join me for dinner. I know you're Isolationist, as you like to call it, but it isn't good for you to be holed up by yourself all the time."
America pauses. "Will Arthur be joining us?"
"No, he is busy. So, you will be glad to know, is Mr Wilde."
America goes back to his frenzied packing. "I'm afraid that I too am busy."
"Doing what, fleeing the country?" Canada nods towards the case. "Did Arthur give you your marching orders?"
"Of course not." America snorts. "Besides, since when do I do what Arthur tells me?"
"That might be the problem." Canada doesn't seem too bothered about the rebuke – relieved, even. "I think he rather feels that anything he says to you goes in one ear and out the other."
"Sometimes," America agrees, "but not today. I know he wants that skull, Matthew. He told me himself."
Canada frowns. "Skull?"
"Shakespeare's skull, remember? From the story I was telling last night? Was nobody but Arthur listening to me?"
"I vaguely recollect." Canada waves his hand. "Besides, Arthur was the only one you were trying to impress."
"Well, it turns out that it is true – or so Arthur says. He said that the details of the grave are true and so unusual that they could not be guessed at correctly. He came here himself this morning to ask for the magazine in which I had read the story."
"I see." Canada raises his eyebrows at the suitcase. "And you are...?"
"I am going to call on the residence of the story's author, one Dr Frank Chambers."
"At Arthur's request?"
"...Not exactly."
"I see."
"Do not tell him, Matthew." America glares at him. "I am hopeful that I can recover the skull and–"
"And then what?" Canada interrupts witheringly. "You'll surprise him with it?" He rolls his eyes. "A three-hundred year old skull – how romantic."
America puffs out his cheeks in annoyance. "It's a damn sight better than any of your ideas."
"I would remind you that I'm not the one slavering to get between his bedsheets."
"Well, I suppose you wouldn't need to, would you? You're already snug between Francis'."
Canada groans. "I am not getting embroiled in this conversation with you again."
"Good – because it's none of your damn business." America slams his suitcase shut. "And if you breathe a word to Arthur about what I'm doing then I'll... I'll invade you."
"Right, since that went so well for you in 1812. Still, if it means that much to you, I suppose I can keep quiet. I don't suppose much will come of it anyway."
"Thank you so much for the vote of confidence, Matthew." America throws on his coat and picks up the case. "And for dropping by. It has been, as always, a pleasure."
"Alfred, I am only short with you because you are so very maddening. It seems that you become more eccentric by the day."
America stops again, looking at him. "And what, precisely, is that supposed to mean?"
"It means that you must realise that England is not remotely interested in you in any way and that your strange fixation with him is becoming unsettling. He is civil to you, of course, but he will never forgive you for the Revolution."
America falters. Before he can speak, Canada goes on:
"Besides, aren't you of the same mind? You didn't want anything to do with him until recently. It was barely a century ago, after all." Canada folds his arms. "...What do you really want, Alfred?"
America blinks. "You sound like you hardly trust me, Matthew."
"You're my brother. I know you better than anyone." Matthew's eyes narrow. "Of course I don't trust you."
"Heh." America grins, clapping his twin on the shoulder as he passes him. "Sometimes I forget that you can be fun. Let's have dinner when I get back – even if it is only so you can, ah, keep an eye on me."
"I'm perfectly serious, Alfred."
"Oh," America agrees, waving over his shoulder at him, "so am I."
Frank Munsey founded The Argosy in 1882. While the magazine was an American publication, all evidence points to Dr Frank Chambers, author of the skull story, having been British.
Oh, Alfred, what are you up to...?