"You're Trash"

Inspired by this prompt: "Imagine person A tells person B to take out the trash. Person B then picks up person A up and puts them in the trash bin." - http://www.otpprompts.tumblr.com

"Alfred, for the thousandth time, would you just take out the bloody trash already?" England complained, having to raise his voice to be heard over the running water from where he stood at the sink, washing dishes after dinner.

"I thought it was your night to do that!" came the American's reply from somewhere in the next room. At this England snapped the faucet handle downward, cutting off the hot water supply flowing over the cutlery in his rubber-gloved hands, marching into the living room with a stern expression.

"We agreed that it would be my turn to do the dishes and the wash and yours to take out the garbage and vacuum - both of which, I might add, you've managed to avoid doing for the third time this week." Hands planted firmly on his hips, his water-slicked gloves making the patches of his pine colored sweater damp, the Brit waited to hear what sort of excuse the blond loafing on the couch would come up with this time. Alas, he was to be disappointed.

Upon downing the rest of his hamburger in an altogether inhumanely large gulp America stood and disappeared into the kitchen, from which the rustling sound of plastic could be heard before the opening and slamming shut of the front door followed.

Oddly enough, he said nothing whilst completing his chore. This left the older of the two feeling uneasy, his anxiety only increasing when America returned - he seemed to be chuckling under his breath, which couldn't be much of a good omen.

America approached the shorter blond, not even hesitating before completely - literally - sweeping the shorter of the two off of his feet. The knot of dread that had firmly settled into the pit of England's stomach promptly exploded into a shower of indignation at America's actions.

"What the bloody hell d'you think you're doing?! Put me down this instant - Alfred! Alfred!! Are you even listening to me?!"

Unfazed by the shouts and protests (accompanied by the altogether bothersome pounding of fists upon his back) of the blond over his shoulder, America's chuckling broke out into full-on laughter as he raced out of the house, past the front steps, and over the front lawn without stopping for breath until he reached the curb where the big plastic garbage bins sat. Within seconds England found himself seated on top of the past few days' worth of waste, his shins dangling over the edge of the bin because they wouldn't fit.

As he pinched the bridge of his nose - as a result of both his irritation and desire to avoid the smell emanating from the waste beneath him - he could see America on his knees in the street, laughing so hard that tears of mirth had begun to leak from his eyes.

"And just what is this all about, then?!" he demanded, struggling to get free of his putrid, plastic prison and failing miserably.

"I had the funniest idea ever, dude!" America gasped out at last. "You told me to take out the trash and so I did! It's like saying that you're trash! Get it??" With that, he burst into another fit of laughter at seeing the Brit make another attempt at wrenching himself free of the garbage bin's evil clutches and falling back onto a bag full of burnt scones. England, though pink-cheeked and plotting revenge under his breath (for the sake of his pride and his cooking), rolled his eyes and waited for America's hilarity to dwindle once again.

"Ha ha - very funny," he said sarcastically, waving in indication for assistance. "Now get me out of here."

"Hold on, dude! I've totally gotta Snapchat this!"

It was then that, much to England's dismay, America whipped out his IPhone and moved in, throwing one arm around him and holding the camera out for a selfie, a wide grin plastered to his expression in contrast to England's humiliated scowl.

"You're bloody awful, taking pictures of everything," England grumbled as he was lifted out of the dreadful bin and set onto his own two feet. A prompt, backhanded smack was delivered to America's forearm before England got down to business with brushing himself off. "Aw....I think these pants might be ruined!"

"Dude, just use a huge ton of super-powered detergent - it works for me every time!"

"Whatever....as long as you never do that again, you wanker!"

It wasn't until about an hour later that England's head suddenly jerked up from the book he was reading and he stood, rigid with disbelief.

"Wait, was that bag entirely filled with my scones?!"

"Oh, crap...."

"I'm