historize: (america--rockin like a rock star)
[personal profile] historize
Title: Everyone Hail to the Pumpkin Song
Author/Artist: [livejournal.com profile] historyblitz, kept track of at [livejournal.com profile] historize
Character(s) or Pairing(s): America, England, Spain, France, Australia and New Zealand, Mexico, Ireland, Denmark
Rating: R
Warnings: Sexual implications and drugs
Summary: Two Halloween parties, so little time.





America only invited England to one of his Halloween parties.

America's Halloween parties were legendary. What could he say, Americans fucking loved Halloween. There were parties and costume balls and trick-or-treating and haunted houses and pumpkin carving--everywhere. In every state. In every town.

They took a holiday based in Celtic religion and they partied like it was New Years.

Some theorized that Americans party so hard because they worked so hard. There's truth in that. Americans, in regards to the industrialized world, worked the longest weeks and hours. They were followed closely by the Japanese.

So America didn't feel that bad when he took a few days off to organize two Halloween parties.

And again, he only invited England to one of them.

That's because the other was very different. He was well aware of England's seemingly low opinion of him. It was always, "you're so dumb, America", "Why can't you be more like Canada?" or "You're so lazy! And stupid! And fat!"

America was thick-skinned and he knew, deep down, that England loved him...but, he got tired of pretending nothing bothered him. Sometimes it was just...too hard.

The party England was invited to was the more friendly bash. Everyone was invited to that one. Alcohol, music, food--and it only got crazy if Prussia, Spain and France decide it's a good time for it. Which was often.

The other was very different.

A freak party.

A party where America can put on whatever he wanted. Tonight, it's a Carnival half-mask--black and gold, with bells and wild feathers. He's got a wig made of gray raffia, rabbit feet and more bells. He wore no shirt and he had on a skirt made of leather throngs. There was body glitter on him--France smeared it on his face. America laughed, liked it, goes with it. He was bare foot.

This party was on the 31st. His other party was always two nights before Halloween because, he tells everyone, he trick-or-treats at the White House.

That wasn't a lie, he actually does--which is why his other party does not start until about midnight.

But that's fine. Certain nations were invited to this party. Nations who he can have fun with.

Unfortunately, that was why he can't invite England. Because England would sit in the corner and bitch the whole time. And tell America he looked ridiculous and then he'd pick a fight with someone.

America loved England dearly--but in American society--in general--the passive-aggressive way that England dealt him was not looked well upon. In general, America's society was direct, forward, to the point. Sink or swim. Shit, or get of the fucking pot. Quit bullshitting around. America fucks rough, fuck or get out.

Which is also why America can't invite Canada. He loved his brother and he knows, deep down, somewhere...Canada loved him--but Canada was either always running away from him or calling him names and he just couldn't have a front up all the time.

Australia and New Zealand, however, were invited. So was France and so were Prussia and Spain and Belgium. Denmark, of course, was invited. So were Ireland, Poland, Hungary, the Netherlands and Mexico. Seychelles was invited, along with Brazil, Romania, South Korea, Vietnam, Philippines and Portugal.

There were others too--so he had a full house that night as he blared his music--his classic rock, his horror movie soundtracks, his annoying--yet catchy--pop music.

It was loud and it vibrated his body, his senses. Glitter shone. The music thundered. Screams, laughs, crashes, drinks spilled. No one cared.

France (a highwayman) caught Spain (a fortune teller)as he passed, sipped the Spaniard's drink--Spain shoved him, they tumbled to the floor. Hungary (a sexy Devil) laughed and took out her cell phone.

Ireland (a 1920s flapper) never liked to admit she liked anything. She was rough and mean sometimes but straight to the point and you get some of her own whiskey in her and she lightened up considerably. It doesn't stop her from punching Denmark (a Viking, not very imaginative) in the face when he grabbed her around her hips--but he seemed to like it and so does she (she always liked it rough, America remembered fondly). Her wild red hair stuck to the sweat on his arms.

America's vision blurred on Australia, who had New Zealand up against the wall, hands on him, mouth on him. His Safari shirt was coming off and he stubbed his toe--Australia doesn't give a shit. New Zealand writhed--he's some kind of 80s rocker or something--he moaned.

America couldn't hear it--he could just see the movements, saw New Zealand's mouth open as he gasped for air, as Australia's hips rolled into his. He could hear the sound in his head.

India was there too--she's beautiful, luscious in some costume--America doesn't even fucking know what it is--she was just suddenly there in front of him and he reached for her. She laughed in his ear, they kissed. She breathed something about his muscles, laughed again. He grinned and winked and nosed her jawline. Kissed her throat. His hands found beads and draped throngs and oh God--

Mexico was suddenly there too, touched his back. She pinched his cock and he jumped and laughed and grabbed at her. She laughed at him--fuck, she was beautiful--a flamenco dancer, red dress and sequin heels. "Did you plan to go to Carnival in that costume, America~"

America laughed, took a drink and shook the leather throng skirt sitting on his hips. "I'm fucking hot."

The music shook them, the laughter felt louder. Glitter was fucking everywhere.

Spain appeared, dancing up to Mexico and pleading with her--she finally relented. She'd normally slap him--but tonight, she'll dance the tango with him to rhythmic, grating pop music and techno.

Netherlands was passing out something. America didn't know what the fuck it was--but he took one anyway--his brain said Smarty! but it didn't taste like one.

Whatever. The music and sounds and fog machine and flashing lights and the darkness was blurring and coming together and holy shit--

The glitter was shining and blinding--



And it was in this debauched state--that England arrived.

It was understood that no one who goes to America's hard core party talked about it to ones who weren't invited. So no one really knew much about it except those who went. England caught wind of it via a text France meant for Ireland, (What are going to the 31st party as? We could match~, America set no theme this year.)

That was weird because the party had already happened on the 29th and the theme had been Gilligan's Island. Well, Englishmen could be eccentric and curious and most of all, meddling. He called Australia to invite him over--but he could not and would not explicitly state the reason.

England was still in New York state. So he just decided to go to America's house. He found a wild, debauched party going on. It was hard to see through the dim light and fog machines and blaring music.

He was not in costume--just his long coat. He ducked inside, grabbed a mask from the floor and put it on, wrinkled his nose at the slickness on it.

He stared. God and the Queen. What on earth...


There was Ireland, arching her back, Denmark had his hands on her--and he recognized America instantly. Some kind of voodoo medicine man or something--America had a tattoo of a compass rose on his shoulder. England saw it--watched America appear, grab Denmark and kissed him--Ireland inbetween them. Denmark grabbed America's nipple and twisted--America punched him and then burst out laughing and grabbed him when the Dane flew back. "You okay!?" England saw America mouth, laughed. Denmark laughed. Ireland laughed.

God, would Scotland pay a pretty penny for her like that. (He also might punch Denmark in the teeth.)

Suddenly reminded England of when Ireland had been his--she still had the scars up her back to prove it--

He shoved that thought away.

Watched America, God America...

He was dancing like a fool, singing along with whatever this song was. The leather throngs were whipping around and his weird, long gray raffia wig and feathers and bells and the black and gold. Glimmering glitter and sweat was on him--

And...he looked like he was having a blast. He looked happier than England had seen him in a long time. He knew, to some extent, that America's good moods were elaborate put-ons. But he had never realized until right now...just how much America had fooled him.

England had thought America had had a good time at the party on the 29th.

Not even close compared to how he was cut loose right now.

Drink flowed and the air was hot and there was Australia, holding New Zealand against the wall and sucking him off and Hungary was kissing Prussia and bodies were tight and meshed together--

The music roared--fists went up, pumping the air--God, even Ireland--abrasive, mean, surly Ireland, pumping the air and dancing with Denmark.

India, beautiful, subtle India--there with Kenya.

England's eyes filled up with smoke--the fog machine belched--France had lost his shirt, Belgium scratched his chest, Spain grabbed him by the hair and Mexico was laughing, spilled her drink.

And America, fucking America, with that ridiculous voodoo man raffia wig and shirtless--there was whiskey on him, sticky on his upper arm, muscled and tan--

and God, not fat at all--he really worked out a lot--stupid, ridiculously strong bastard--

No, not stupid--

England approached, caught up in the atmosphere and the smoke and someone grabbed him, his mask went up--he grabbed for it--there were lips crashing into his--someone laughing, drunk.

He pulled away--Christ, he was too short and slight for this--

America was gone--he'd vanished in the crowd.

England fixed the mask.

Song shifted--rhythmic, heavy thumps and guitar oh God and the Queen--there was America, up on the platform and singing--

Someone said, "Shame England has such awesome music--and yet, he can't come--"

"America loves his music," someone answered.

"America loves everyone's music. But you know how England would be--we need him as his pirate self--he knew how to party back then--!"

Yells, laughter, calls for more whiskey, beer, tequila, vodka--

Against the wall, New Zealand came, grabbing onto Australia's thick, wild hair and sliding down the wall. Australia supported him, got between his legs and after he's finished milking him dry, kissed him.

Someone's got a goddamn snake. It licked England's ear, tasted--made him yelp. Someone roared with laughter--Holland was there--no, no, Netherlands was there--grabbed him--forced something into his mouth. England tried to spit it out--no success--Netherlands eyes were bloodshot.

Hours passed like a whirlwind after that. When he came to again, Australia's hands were sliding over America's arms and they attacked each other, kissing and scratching. America's mask almost flipped off, he yanked Australia up against him. New Zealand's got the snake wrapped around his shoulders and he's showing off to Belgium--

France and Spain are gone--upstairs, probably.

Prussia was still here, he and Hungary were still glued together.

Things seemed to be winding down though--half the crowd is gone, more are tottering off to bedrooms that America offered.

Well, of course, England noticed--it was after dawn. The sun was up. Netherlands was still smoking on America's couch. He was high as a kite--several others have joined in.

America himself ducked into the room and tossed them a bag of grapes, vanished again.

England blinked, realized where he was. Strung out on a chair with his mask still on. He got up, steadying himself. He followed where America disappeared again.

God, his headache was monstrous.

America had gone back into the kitchen. He was still in costume but he's got the mask pulled up on his raffia wig and he was looking down into a pan of frying eggs. He seemed a little contemplative. America turned and jumped. "Christ on Mars! Pull your mask up, man. You hungry? I got eggs here?"

How like him--instantly offering anything he has, asking for cooperation in return. Was it silly to think of that like a reflection of his policy style. I'll give you something, you do what I want.

Yes, of course it was fucking silly. It was just good manners. England just never bothered really to consider that America actually had them--which the boy does.

America went to get cheese from the his large refrigerator.

England pulled his mask up.

America turned back and started. He stopped cold. "England..."

England nodded.

"...so who told you?" And just like that, the surprise was gone and something about America was more resigned. He tossed some shredded cheese into his pan of eggs and added cajun pepper.

"I got a text intended for Ireland, from France."

"So you just decided to show up?"

England shifted. "Well, I also thought to ask you for a book to borrow."

America cracked a smile. "That's bullshit. And you know it. You don't like any of my books. They have characters that aren't depressed. How long have you been around?"

"Since about one in the morning."

"Christ, and you say I have no manners."

The tone was biting and absolutely true. England knew how quick others were to judge America based on sensationalist news media and bad sitcoms. He was guilty of it himself. England almost retorted, No, you don't--but England could occasionally admit when he was wrong--and he was in the wrong this time.

America looked back at his eggs. He continued, "So, what do you want?"

The manner America brushed him off is callous--exactly, England reflected, how he often treated America. "I want to know why I wasn't invited."

America snorted and looked at him. "Really? Seriously? You need to ask? It's the same reason I don't invite Canada, Switzerland, Austria, Germany, Lichtenstein, Russia, Belarus, Ukraine, Italy, Romano, Norway, Iceland, Sweden, Finland, Japan, China--they wouldn't have a good time. This sort of thing is too much for them. Or, they'd be like you and just bitch the whole time. Tell me how stupid my costume is--"

"Well," England said, defensive, "it is ridiculous."

America shot him a dark look. "that's exactly what I mean. I want to have fun. You don't like to have fun anymore. You like presenting that shitty bitch image to the world too much. They all drink it up, think you're such a goddamn martyr for putting up with me. So why would I invite you?" He turned back and flipped his eggs, melted more cheese and dashed more cajun pepper.

England struggled against his own pride. He and America have always played this fucking game. They are both prideful, tough. England taught America to love himself because among their kind, no one was likely to ever actually love you. It was sad...but true. And he knew how much shit America took for loving himself. He'd gained a lot from it, but lost other things too.

"Last night, I thought," England began, carefully, "that perhaps I was wrong about my assumptions. You seemed to genuinely be enjoying yourself."

"I was."

"That's good. I'm glad of that. I just..." England grumbled and shrugged. "Well. I'll see you at the next meeting then?"

America straightened a little in front of the stove. He rolled his eyes. "Do whatever you want, England. You can run off now if it makes you feel better."

England felt something swell in him. "Don't you dare act like I'm the coward here!"

America put his eggs on a plate. "Yeah, yeah, emotionally bottlenecked, when you call me names it means you care--whatever. That's not how I love others. It never has been." Except maybe for Russia, that son of a bitch. "I'm not going to just bow and take it all the time."

"Oh, I could punch you! You infuriating, simpleton, curry-brained ingrate!"

America smashed his fist against the plate. Bits of egg went flying. He whirled around. "Then do it! You fucking coward! You smothering, needy, selfish, prideful prick!"

England's mask flew off. He flew at his former colony--he punched at his rock hard stomach--

America picked him up his his collar. "Whassamatter? Am I too fat or were you surprised by the muscle?" He threw him. England hit the island counter and slid. America followed.

England grabbed a crock full of wooden spoons and swung it--it smashed against America's bare chest--a fist was in his coat. America smashed England against the wall. "Understand. I could beat the shit out of you. Not a problem. I could send you limping back to London like a two-timing bitch on the Springer show. I could break your arms and legs like toothpicks. I could throw your rental car in the river. I could drag you out into the living room and show everyone that you snuck in last night because you were so lonely. I could humiliate you so much more than I already do. I could do so much worse." He smiled unpleasantly. It reminded England of Prussia, instantly. "But I don't. Because if anyone ever did those things to you, I'd kill them. Not that you give a fuck."

England looked up at him, sat up. "...America..."

America looked away and then looked back at him.

England hooked his legs over the counter, grabbed at that ridiculously hot raffia wig and pulled him in and kissed him. "Maybe I could come next year if I don't act like a prat."

"The year you don't act like a prat will be the year I don't act like an idiot."

England smiled.

America couldn't help it. He shook his head, smiled. "Jerk." He kissed him.
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