Chapter Text
England bent down and ripped off his left shoe.
“What in the world are you doing?” asked pleasantly amused France from behind him. England ignored him with a stubborn set to his jaw and hopped on his bare sole, dragging off the second shoe.
“England’s finally gone crazy.” America’s happy voice made the tic in England’s brow twitch hard. “That’s all there is to it.”
England threw down the second shoe and stalked up to the overgrown brat, who stared at him with wide eyes, to jab a finger at America’s chest. His pointy finger was dulled by America’s ridiculous star-spangled banner tie, but he couldn’t be arsed to care.
“Look here, you. When you were still in skirts, I was climbing up tow lines and into crow’s nests with nothing but the skin of my feet to keep me from falling over twenty feet straight down into unyielding oak. Oak dragged from my own shores, forced into ribs, masts, panels and god knows what all else. If you’re going to go on about how brave it is to jump off bridges with a bit of rubber-band attached, I’m going to show you exactly how stupid it actually is!”
“...England,” France said, sounding amused, “You did not make any sense.”
“IN SHORT,” England over-rode him, loudly, “Sit your arse down and I’ll show you what a real man can do with a ship!”
America stared at him blankly.
“England, you’ve gone—Really. Maybe you should sit down?” A look of vague alarm crossed America’s face, but England swung away before the boy could even think about putting hands on him. He stalked to the reproduction three-master’s tow line, wrestling off his suit jacket as he went.
France stared at him. “Oh no, no you don’t, England—“
“Hold this,” England snapped, shoving the jacket into France’s arms as he passed him and ignoring the way France’s face could not decide between high amusement in his brows and a concerned mou with his mouth.
“What is he doing?” England heard Canada ask, and then, “England!” in a high pitched screech he couldn’t identify.
He had no time to care. His foot had hit the edge of the dock and he was busy wrapping his hands around the large, heavy iron chains that locked the swaying ship to the bay’s sandy floor. With a sharp exhale and a soft, “hup,” hissed from between his teeth the United Kingdom of Britain and Northern Ireland swung his body underneath the chain, tightened his shoulders, clenched his stomach, and threw his knees over the huge pieces of iron.
Shouts of alarm and disbelief faded beyond the regular slap of water against the wide prow of the Victory’s Flight. Even if it were an American Atlantic that rocked the lovely schooner whose anchor chain he scaled, the smell of salt took hold of his memory while his hands fumbled, then remembered, the rhythm of climbing.
Wind dragged at his hair and pulled the sweat from his face as he reached the top after some minutes of hard work, where the shouts had fallen into a disbelieving silence. Here’s the tricky part, he thought, smirking as he swung himself up and over the side of the chain. Close to the ship, the chain was taught, and he could crouch low on the wide iron bands and skitter close enough to the side to jump, grab the edge, and haul his body up with his fingertips clinging to the decking before shimmying under the first rail.
His palms smarted as he gained his feet, bare soles slapping against the desk and finding a good fitting against the old girl’s oiled boards. He threw a look over the rail to the now quite small figures of America, Canada, and France standing at the edge of the dock. From here, he could only make out that France had his hands lifted, in some attempt to calm the boys, but he could tell from the straight way he was standing and how his fingers flexed that he wanted to strangle something.
England deeply hoped it was him.
Caught up with the smell of the sea, England turned away from them and walked around the coils of ropes, small bronze placards, and reproduction barrels to find the main mast. Swaying gently with the rocking of the ship, the mast gave the impression of extending up into a fragile, swaying reed. Her yards billowed gently under the mild breeze, and as he studied the loop and knotting of her ropes, he put a hand against the wood of the mast.
France, and everyone else, might call him ridiculous for claiming to see faeries in the corners of rooms or small gnomes hiding under the edges of hedges, but there was a soul to a ship. He could feel her there in the creak of her wood, in the song of her shifting ropes, and the smoothed surface under his hand.
He grinned madly, crouched, and leapt for a dangling line as a short cut to the rope ladder marked dangerous, do not climb.
By the time he’d gotten himself up to the main top, his shoulders had started to scream and his feet had begun to burn. He threw an arm over the side and dragged himself up, falling in his back in a tangle with his feet in the air, propped up on the side of the ‘crow’s nest’. He lay like that, panting, for a good few minutes staring at the clouds being chased across the blue sky (America’s eyes) and torn by the high winds in the atmosphere into bits of stray cotton.
For a little while, all was well, his body burning with a pleasant exhaustion that, for the moment, staved off all the complaining it would do for being so suddenly abused on an angry whim desperate to whip the self-satisfied smirk off America’s face. Bungee-jumping. Really. There was nothing to it, just throwing yourself off a cliff, which was easy enough for a drunk nit on his way home from a bender to do. It got you nowhere but dizzy.
This, though, this had a purpose in terms of ridiculous risks and heights.
“…rth…r…”
England shut his eyes, refusing to have noticed the faint drift of a voice on the air that was suspiciously American-sounding.
“Ar…thr…”
At least the idiots weren’t screaming England at him in a tourist spot, but only America had those sorts of lungs.
England grumbled, swung his feet off where he’d propped them on the edge of the main top, and attempted to stand. He was vaguely pleased that the sides were tall enough no one witness his utter inability to stand while his body screamed bloody murder and dumped him into a curled mess around where the mast stuck through the floor.
He popped up, eventually, over the side with a dry look prepared ahead of time for the eventuality they were looking up at that very moment, to look down.
Canada looked a little frantic, fingers tight in America’s sleeve, and pointing upwards at him. France had his hands in his pockets, the bastard, and easy as you please turned up his face to offer England a broad, amused grin.
America, who had been considering the rope ladder and likely had been mid-assurance that the sign only meant for certain people and England’s already done it, looked up, and England drew a breath.
Those blue eyes were wide and bright with excitement, and dare say, perhaps the breathless smile America sported seemed a touch impressed.
Success warmed his stomach, the day suddenly brilliant and wonderful. He hung over the edge what he knew to be dangerously far, his palms braced low on the outer side, and called sweetly, “Took you some time, didn’t it? Much faster this way, you see.”
France snorted but hell, he did not even care.