A/N: Written for the US/UK lj comm's Sweethearts' Week!

Day 02 Prompt: Pop Culture Shock

(It's really f*cking hard to write swingdancing. :| Just saying. Keep the song Sing, Sing, Sing by Benny Goodman in mind while reading. :] )

Warning: Brief mention of illegal drug-use.

America was giving him that grin.

"No."

...Yep, he was still grinning. His eyes shone in earnest.

"I know for a fact that you know the definition of, 'No,' America."

"But you also know that half of the time, I just don't care," he said, still grinning. What England would give to wipe it off of his face.

"I refuse. Look at them-they'll break their necks!" America groaned and England took a swig of his beer. "We're supposed to be relaxing. Not gallivanting about-"

"And having fun! Come on! Tomorrow's a big day-live a little!"

"I've lived a rather long life, actually." England sniffed, pulling out his cigarette case and a lighter from the left breast pocket of his formal uniform. "Much longer than you, that's for sure," he prodded.

America huffed at the comment and England struck at his lighter several times to get it to light. As the tip of the cigarette met the flame, he pulled until he felt the nicotine enter him. The next day was indeed a big one, one that required the calming of nerves. It was all America's marvelous idea. 'Let's surprise 'em and drop ourselves onto the field!' Oh, yes. Jumping out of a perfectly good aeroplane. Brilliant idea. Spectacular fun. Why hadn't he thought of that? Well, he had an answer. He had a bleeding good answer: He wasn't an idiot. First America decides that he wants to sky-dive into Nazi-occupied France and then he wants to dance like a right fool to some kind of ... odd jazz. "Besides," England continued. "Think of appearances—we'd be frowned upon, dancing like that together." As much as he'd desired to just dance with America, he wasn't sure if the Lindy Hop was necessarily appropriate, especially for how new their maybe-new relationship, if it was even that. All England knew was that Churchill had made some comments, Roosevelt made some comments, America was being a little more considerate and, dare he say it, sweet…. Whatever it was that they currently had was fragile and swing dancing was not for fragile things.

"Pshaww, no one cares! Besides, most of the people here are drunk anyway. Come on!"

"I already said no, America."

America looked like a kicked puppy and no, that wasn't regret filling up inside of England. England took a drag of the cigarette, sighing, and tried giving a valid, logical reason why he'd say, 'No,' besides admitting that maybe he did want their relationship to strengthen. "I don't know how, America." It was part true. He knew the dance. He just wasn't entirely sure he could dance the part America would insist he dance. He avoided making eye contact but it didn't matter: He already knew the exact expression flooding America's face. Bright, blue eyes and a smile as wide as the Maginot Line was long. Charming-oh, dammit.

"That's okay! You don't have to do the intricate moves, just let me direct you and throw yourself where the inertia's taking you!"

England gulped. "I'm not sure that's very wise."

"No, it's totally cool! We won't be too close to anyone and it's a lot of fun! Come onnn, England! A bunch of your guys are learning it, too! Come on, Englannnd, come onnn, pleaaase?" America begged. "Please, please, please, please, please, please—"

"Bloody—fine, America! Christ, shut up!"

"Yes!" America's pleading eyes had begun dancing.

England, meanwhile, took a drag long enough to finish off his cigarette.

"I don't think those are so good for you."

"Neither is Opium."

England followed America (read: was dragged along) to the floor where the band had paused for a moment, until the drums started up. England knew it. America knew it. America knew England knew it.

Splendid.

The people around them started their own dances but England had to admit—America trying to get England to 'relax' was rather endearing.

"Just get a hold of the beat!" America shouted over the drums. He was clapping out the beat, which actually … rather annoyed England. Did America think he couldn't keep the beat? Maybe he wouldn't play along in America's little game, after all. He joined in the clapping, bending just slightly at the waist and as the other instruments came in he started marching his leg in time. America's face was a little puzzled but soon enough England followed America's lead as the taller lead them into what started traditionally, only to change right away.

England allowed himself to be flung out with the start of the melody and he immediately began moving his feet accordingly.

America's face—when England could possibly catch it—was absolutely priceless. England allowed himself a cocky grin. When they were shoulder-to-shoulder, kicking out, America shouted, "I thought you didn't know how to swing!"

"My dearest lad, there are—" He was swung out and spun back and forth several times. "—A great many things you don't know about me!" England's hair ruffled as he was continuously flung out of America's arms, jumping when the beat required it, even if—even if it was a bit more than risqué. Finally, though, he was swung around America's shoulders landing while already mirroring America's movements before him. His gaze was narrowed and the grin that grew on America's face was a challenge. He was turned and felt America come up close behind him, his hands locked in his and England didn't miss their secure placement on his hips as their legs kicked simultaneously until England jumped up and allowed America execute quite possibly the most dangerous move: Kicking between England's legs. Thanks were sent to God it went well.

Soon after came another move that only England could think of dreading. Bending over right in front of America. His face reddened but he did it, allowing America to hop over him.

Some more mirroring, even more jumping, and flinging—England felt his legs start calling his attention. He'd not been prepared to actually partake of the dancing, just expecting to sit and watch America make a fool of himself. That plan had changed dramatically. America was dancing exceptionally well. It made England have to grin.

"You dance the girl's part pretty good!" America yelled over the music as a slight break came, allowing the dance to simplify for just a few phrases.

"You mean, 'Well!' I dance it well!" Part of England was insulted, of course, but he had to prove that he was more than capable of dancing a part he just did not fit. They resumed the dance with a few kicks, again shoulder-to-shoulder. England crouched to his knees as America spun several times, his leg flying out above him.

And then….

England swallowed the lump in his throat. They danced their steps away from each other and America bent his knees and bent over so his back was parallel with the floor. England did his part—a bit of a hop, skip, and a jump over America's back and … through America's opened legs, head-first and finding himself face-to—well, face, with (a thankfully clothed) Florida. It didn't last long, though, as he was pulled up and thrown back into the swing of things, no pun intended.

A brief bridge came and England fell back into how they'd begun—clapping and keeping the beat. Just for a few phrases as they caught their breath.

"You're blushing, England."

"I'm not!" Lie. "I'm out of breath!" But that was also the truth. "You're red-faced as well."

"Dancing's a workout, you know!"

"Of course."

"Let's go!"

America pulled England closer for a few more kicks until it was back to mirroring each other with punches and kicks going left and right as the song swelled. England was ready for it to end, jumping for the last few seconds of the music.

His dancing partner, good old America, took the reins and took the liberty of wrapping his arms around England's legs, his hands firmly grasping—more or less groping—where they really should not have been groping. (England's excuse for not immediately knocking America one over his head was that he was a little busy trying not to fall and actually break his neck. It was a legitimate reason and partly true but mostly … maybe he didn't mind it too much. Not that he would ever admit it aloud.)

A split second later, England found himself swung over America's head and pulled around just a few times. The drums were pounding in his head and as he hurried into position, his chest heaving against America's, they stopped.

Sweat beaded on both of their foreheads; the cheers from people were dimmed in their ears, the loudest sound their heartbeats.

America smiled immediately, his face pink, and England followed with a light laugh as the next song started up.

Before he could stop himself he carefully left a quick kiss on America's cheek. He blamed the lack of oxygen to his brain and not being able to think straight he congratulated, "Good show."

America just grinned. "You too."

-END-

A few notes:

The picture that inspired this was hakuku's picture of them swingdancing (found here: http: /hakuku .deviantart. com/#/d38ws32 ), though the scene/setting itself is vastly different. (Remove the spaces from the broken URL.)

1.) Swing music began popping up in the US in the early 1930's as an offshoot of jazz and blues. It wasn't well received by the white community for several years and swingdancing took longer to accept. Its spread to the UK was a slow one but it picked up as the US infantrymen stationed there taught it to the locals and British soldiers.

2.) "Tomorrow's a big day!" – This is reference to D-Day (June 06, 1944), the US/UK/CAN invasion of Normandy. The actual invasion was postponed once or twice due to weather or particularly high Nazi activity on the beaches.

3.) The song they're dancing to is Sing, Sing, Sing. It was written by Louis Prima in 1935 and then made popular by Benny Goodman (http: /www .youtube. com/watch?v=r2S1I_ien6A ) a few years later. The moves they're using are taken from this video, but not it's not necessarily 100%: http: /www .youtube. com/watch?v=tFILWPDDENg