historize: (england--gangster)
[personal profile] historize
Title: Wasting Away Again
Author/Artist: [livejournal.com profile] historyblitz, kept track of at [livejournal.com profile] historize
Character(s) or Pairing(s): America, England, Canada, France
Rating: PG
Warnings: dorkiness, Parrot-headed-ness
Summary: Totally dorky. Done entirely because I love it. Lyrics to Jimmy Buffett's Margaritaville. Because I'm sure America loves it. And maybe Canada too.




The first time England comes in to the guitar, it’s at one of the World Meetings. It’s held in Mexico City and he’s about to die. England is dying. The air conditioner is broken and he can’t take this kind of heat. His island is milder. His weather is better.

So he’s late, right. He’s late and not even hurrying because his goddamn jacket is soaked through with starch and sweat and his button-up is going to be stained and that is disgusting. How are they going to work in this?

Apparently, someone else had the same thought. He can hear the guitar before he reaches the conference room. England checks the room number again. B-47, yes, this should be it.

He opens the door.


America is sitting golden and smiling on the conference table. His jacket is lying on the floor by his expensive leather shoes and dress socks and gold paisley tie that Michelle Obama got for him for Christmas. His button-up is only half-buttoned. He’s sitting on the table with one bare boot braced on another chair and he’s singing:



Nibbling on sponge cake
Watching the sun bake
All of those tourists covered with oil
Strumming my six-string
On my front porch swing
Smell those shrimp they're beginning to boil




But maybe—no, definitely—the best part is Canada as the song goes on about whose fault this business is and the lost salt shaker of importance. He's sitting next to America on the table with another guitar. And he's playing too—their combined notes stroking together—brotherly, like they so often do. He's singing too and his voice blends with America’s. Neither too deep or too high. They both have pleasant tenors. America can make his twang when he wants to. Canada can make his haunting and deep when he needs it. But for this song, it's mellow and sitting-by-the-seaside sort of breezy.



I don't know the reason
I stayed here all season
Nothin to show but this brand new tattoo
-- Canada flexes his arm, as if showing off a tattoo. South Korea laughs and Cuba grins.
But it's a real beauty -- Canada winks at Ukraine.
A Mexican cutie -- America points and nods at Mexico and she laughs and sweeps her hair back, getting up to go and sit by them.
How it got here I haven't a clue! -- America mimes surprise when Mexico sits between him and Canada.



England has a look around the room. Spain is opening a window and setting up a fan. Italy seems to be enjoying himself, drumming on the table along with America and Canada. Germany looks stern and disapproving.

France, though seems to be enjoying the display, drinking from a glass. He raises his eyebrows at England. England, well, he’s surprised at that and he slips down to join him. “How did this start?”

France shrugs. “Does it matter?”

America and Canada admit that it could be their own faults. Although, America pointed at Canada and said ‘Matt’s’ fault instead of the real lyrics.

“Yes, quite frankly,” England is muttering and God and the Queen, he is quite thrown off. Strange things happen, yes—but impromptu music and what on earth were they singing about anyway?



I blew out my flip-flop
Stepped on a pop-top
Cut my heel had to cruise on back home
But there's booze in the blender
And soon it will render
That frozen concoction that helps me hang on




France just laughs at him, the fucking frog bastard. “What do you understand of it? You possessed several tropical paradises, didn’t you? Did you not ever go and relax? Of course not.”

England crosses his arms—and then he huffs and finally flings his jacket off. Mexico is up and reaching around Canada’s chest and unbuttoning his shirt for him at the collar as he and America consider that it definitely is someone’s fault—though America says ‘my’ and Canada says, ‘Alfred’. And they laugh.

They laugh and it’s easy and happy and mellow and laid-back and quite possibly—considering how much everyone says these two can’t be next to each other—they seem to fit so well together.

Something about it strikes England as…well.

Warm. Like days in the back garden with his cat and a cup of tea. Only it’s rowdy America and reserved Canada singing about margaritas and lost salt and taking responsibility for something rather than blaming a woman (could it be the lost salt shaker?) and remarking on tattoos.

His strange, distant, fond look catches America’s eye—and the bastard gestures with a nod and Canada looks. They grin at each other. Twin golden, easy smiles. It's vibrant.



Waste away.
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