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Author's Note: This was my submission to day 28, of the usxuk livejournal community 2011 summer camp (what a mouthful!) and the prompt was love. However, since I didn't get a chance to participate in all the other days, I decided to write a big group of ficlets (all vaguely linked to the idea of love) using all the prompts of the previous days.
The prompts were, in order; hero, first aid, science, happy birthday, military, fast food, aviation, music, gardening, period piece, games, literature, sewing, theater, hiking/camping, nighttime, animals, sightseeing, sports, supernatural, roadtrip, communication, rain, smile, tea/coffee, nekotalia, and tropical vacation!
My links to both prompts and gestures of love and so on, were all a bit fuzzy and tenuous at times, but hey, this was fun! Side note, I'm thinking of extending some of these pieces, so if there's any you want particularly to be extended into something of more length, just review and comment so.
Hope you enjoy and hope I didn't murder the characters too badly!
((By the by, I got twelve badges for it, which I so wasn't expecting -blushblushblushsqueal-))
Gesture.
John Lennon said all you need is love, and William Shakespeare said that the nature of love was not to run smooth; as both Shakespeare and Lennon were Englishmen, their romantic streak could be forgiven. Like singing under a person's window, black lacy bras, proposing on one knee and kissing in the rain. The little things that France would appreciate are classic, like black and white films.
America admits that love is made of little things, like Japan's trembling, clutching kiss that coiled between their lips in the hissing nihon rain. There is a reason, however, why Japan backed away, hands raised and left, and America didn't follow him, and America wouldn't have called Japan's gesture love so much as longing. The little things that piece together America's love are not classical in taste, or black and white in execution, which is why he and Japan are not lovers. For America, despite the boundary-riddled courtships his television describes, and his music thumps out, love is a shade of grey and when you deconstruct it, it is not made of prescription habits, but of fragile gestures.
No, that is not quite right, love? Love itself?
Love is a gesture.
A wave of the hand, a nod of the head, a brush of the fingers, and flash of the lashes; the little noises that have no names and yet all people recognize and understand intuitively.
It is not perhaps, the most romantic thing to think of when England considered America's hero antics and settled on the bravest, kindest, most heroic deed he can think of, but when little, innocent America left France for the gloomy island nation that was wallowing in a spooky cloud of his own failure to charm the new world, the gesture is pure and selfless enough to really count as a hero's deed. No, it is not really the most romantic thought, mostly because England preferred to avoid thinking of America as both the little kid he raised and the person who warms his bed nowadays.
With a practiced flush in an empty room, England made a harrumph sound, and stabbed his needle at the fabric. It jabbed his finger, and in the quiet room, England squawked, before licking at the tiny prick of blood, and glanced about just to be sure nobody heard.
"My people in Canary Wharf managed to pull most of the trade center data from the towers before they went down." England's eyes scanned America's and the video link still feels far too thin for his liking. America's blue-eyes are fuzzy and hazy, as though he's misplaced something important and Texas is skewed awkwardly on his face. England fights the twitch in his fingers that say he'd fix them if he wasn't in London and America was not in New York.
Of course, England isn't exactly sure he is in New York; he doesn't recognize the room behind America, and he's pretty sure America would stay by his people. There are bandages tied about America's head, but England can see the blood matted in his hair, and the dried sweat on America's face. England has a sudden premonition that they had to pin America down to put the bandages on him, all whilst America kicked and screamed, ferally strong, and frightened. The lad has always been far too paranoid, and this attack is violent: it makes England's knuckles whiten as he gripped his armrests.
Then suddenly the tension drained from England, his fingers loosened and the strain in his face smoothed away. America is too important to him. England doesn't even glance at his cabinet, or his boss, when he leans forward to stare at America (ignoring America's boss, ignoring everybody except that stupid, overgrown boy):
"Are you okay?" His voice trembled, and he can feel his expression falling wide open as every wall of propriety crumbled away. "America." The catch in his word is blatant. This is too important for England to pretend he's not breaking down, on the inside, on the outside, in every nerve and pore of his skin. "My darling, are you okay?" The pet name tumbled out, and England can actually feel his government members avert their eyes.
America blinked rapidly, but the gesture is lost on him, numbly he shook his head. England keeps his gaze locked onto America's, and refuses to avert it. The helpless pain in America's face makes England's throat swollen, and he swallowed thickly around it.
"I'm coming." England stood up, chair crashing back with the force. "Plane. Now." He snapped as he heads for the door.
"Did you watch it?" America is close to tears, or close to hysterical giggling. It's one of them.
"Yes." England rolls his eyes even though America cannot possibly see it from across the pond.
"We beat the commies to the moon! Totally kicked Ivan's hairy ass!" America is chattering, gleefully, happily. "One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind, whoo! We totally kicked Ivan's commie butt!"
America doesn't seem to remember that England didn't have enough money to even attempt to be part of the space race. Didn't even have the cash to put a man in overalls and send him up a ladder, let alone a spaceship. This was probably the first small step for the American Inter-Planetary Empire, England supposed jealously, but, he was pleased for America's success. God knows, better than Communist Russia, even if America was far too fidgety about Ivan.
"We did good, didn't we?" America can read the atmosphere well-enough, but ignores it. He lowers his voice, and reins in his excitement, and repeats it again. "Didn't we, England?" His emphasis is unmistakable.
England swallows, and his chest burrs with shame. So much for Great Britain. "America, I didn't do anything…" He whispers it, but the words still hurt him, sticky and sharp in his throat.
"You fought back against Germany." America murmured, needing England to be defiant, proud and glorious – because he is glorious. His words were hushed, intimate almost, only for England's ears. "You held out against the fall of Europe, when everybody else fell, you stood out; you're the strongest of everyone."
"No, no." England is not simply being demure. This is not done out of politeness, this is done out of sincerity. "You are, my dear boy. You are." He sighs, his self-hatred colouring the melancholy noise. "And I had naught to do with your splendid caper on the moon."
"You kept me going; I did it for us." England's silently took that in. "You had everything to do with it. I did it for you. We did it. We won." America shifted his grip on the phone, face burning. "I did it for you; we did it." He insisted, and swallowed around a taunt mouthful of words. The quiet sharing of victory was a startling gesture, more for what it revealed. "I did it all for you; you're every- everything… you're everything to me." His ear was hurting with how hard he pushed the phone to it. The silence was over-whelming. "England…" He swallowed. The silence stretched out between them like a common language, like an expanse of water, like a thin sheet of possibility. "England. Please say something."
"I-" His voice splintered, and holding back a choke, England hung up the phone with a terrified force, before pressing his hand to his mouth hard. Green eyes wide, and his hand muffling the traitorous little sobs and hiccoughs dragging themselves out of his throat and squeezed his eyes shut, biting on his hand helplessly.
Across a gap of language, an expanse of water, a thin sheet of possibility, America listened to the dial tone and shook from head to toe.
The first time America invited England to his birthday party, he was not shocked when England did not come. Hurt, yes, but America had been having birthday parties for awhile now, and England had not been invited to any of them before this one. America just didn't think he could handle his father-figure, his elder-brother, his ally being there, at least until now. He wasn't surprised that England still couldn't handle it. It hurt all the worse because he wasn't surprised by it, it was exactly what he thought would happen.
Still inviting England must have been a step in the right direction, so America focused on the white-red-blue flash of his fireworks, and France's enthusiastic, but tipsy, cheering.
The following evening, just as America had curled up on his couch, pillow snuggled contently, to watch a movie, England turned up on his doorstep, a bottle of rum clutched in his hand. "England? What are you doing in Washington at this time of night?"
England glowered at him, and in the dim-light of America's door, the bright, and humiliated flush on his face tempered the snarl of England's eyes.
The older nation didn't reply, only shuffled from foot to foot awkwardly, before eventually shouldered past America forcefully into his house, shoving the bottle into America's hands. "For you." England growled, and America examined the clumsy red ribbon tied round the neck of the bottle. However, it was already opened and America suspected a few gulps had been washed down England's throat.
"I can't drink in my house." America laughed thoughtlessly after a moment and followed England into his own home.
"I'll drink it then." England offered with a gruff cheeriness. "Sorry m'boy."
"Well, it's the thought that counts," America watched England hop onto his sofa, and tuck his legs up, eying the television with interest. America smiled uncertainly at the brit for a few moments, before joining him and snuggling his pillow. "Isn't it? It's a lovely gesture."
"It's not a birthday present." England added. "Oi, shove up a bit." America shifted over, his smile spreading stupidly over his face.
"It's still nice of you." England twisted round to look at him, and offered a tentative smile back.
"You're welcome, lad." England's soft expression quickly faded, and with feigned irritation, he yanked the bottle from America and slugged down a few gulps. "So what's on the set, you blasted yank?"
America was puffed up like a little poppin jay, and grinning at the allies eagerly. "The hero has arrived!"
England panted, the heel of his hands pressed against his knees as he tried to catch his breath. One glance at the messy explosion that had accompanied this not-so-little-one, and another glance at the grinning youth, aviation goggles dangling and bunching his hair up into scruffy little gold piles. The boy even wore glasses. "What?" England managed, between mangled breaths.
"Woah! Old man, looks like I came in just a nick of time!"
"What the fuck are you doing here?" England glared, and with a determined effort righted himself, back arching into a straight proud posture.
"Germany sank some of my ships. Can't stand for that!" America snickered, an excitable violence in the noise. "Besides somebody has to save your bony ass."
England hacked up an angry coughing-spluttering fit, and his eyes flickered to the various nations with him. Aside from India's smirk, and a cruel guffaw from both North Ireland and Scotland, most of his companions looked a bit uncomfortable – Australia looked downright mortified by his half-brother's disrespect towards The British Empire.
"An unnecessary gesture; your fuckfriend France needs more help than I do; his frontline is toasted." A wriggle of gas clambered up England's throat, and he resumed painfully coughing. "Urgh-" Cough. "Feckin' gas-"
"Why don't you give all your citizens gasmasks next time?" America offered enthusiastically, and patted England on the back with a couple of thumps that knocked all the air out of England's lungs.
"That's stupid you gormle-" England coughed again, and when he tried again he voice was wheezy, dusty almost. "Gormless buffoon, you can't spell, you-" He was still fighting back coughs, and his eyes ran slightly from that personal battle.
America rubbed away at England's angry watering eyes with the hem of his jacket. "Woah, I know you're pleased to see me you old fart, but I didn't think you'd actually start bawling."
"I'm not crying; it's the bloody gas!" England's eyes streamed as he tried to defend his pride, and America waved away the others.
"Nothing to see here, scrooge's just got some nostalgia in his eye." America watched them with a bright grin but hard eagle-eyes until they found better things to do, before gently brushing at England's grime and tears-sticky face, cleaning away the worst of the soot, or was that dust and gunpowder? "I know how much you hate being messy." America smiled. "Can you breathe alright now?"
England hiccoughed, and rubbed his own sleeve at his eyes.
"Better, yeah?" America asked, smiling at the older nation. England mumbled something, and America quirked an eyebrow. "What was that?" Another bubble of muttering. "Still can't hear ya' England."
"I said; you're late you bastard!" England finally managed to snap.
"I'm doing this out of the goodness of my heart! You're unbelievable!" America puffed himself up again, and then suddenly was laughing happily, and hooked his arm about England. "It's okay, you're definitely welcome."
He stirred the oatmeal carefully, looking for something that might leap out of it. "Fast food?" America questioned, and picked out a raisin from the bowl.
"Porridge is fast." England defended, crossing his arms over his apron. "You said you were hungry, so I made the quickest thing I could." A sigh. "Don't tell me you aren't going to eat it after all that whining? What's wrong with it?"
"I think it's lethal." America sniffed at the bowl, and then recoiled, nose wrinkling like a rabbit. "Holy shit what are these?" America plucked out another raisin and tossed it to the side.
"Currants; they sweeten it." His eyebrow raised threateningly at America.
"Don't point those things at me!" America pouted. "Now those are definitely lethal!"
England's eyebrow lowered and his lips twitched in confusion. "What?"
"That's better." America nodded, stirring at the porridge some more.
"What?"
"Your eyebrows. Don't aim them at me." America scooped up a spoonful of porridge, and nibbled at it warily. "Currants, you say, huh?"
"You're an absolute prick."
"I know it baby." America shoved the porridge into his mouth, and then haplessly whirred, spitting it out into the bowl with a cry of pain. "A-haaaa… porridge shouldn't be spicy! Are you trying to fucking kill me? Fuu-uck." He cupped his mouth as though England has physically injured him. "I appreciate the gesture but are you trying to murder me?"
"If I wasn't before I am now!" England retorted, jumping up whilst yanking the apron off so he could shove it into America's ungrateful, obnoxious face.
England tapped his foot with a tired expression. "America, I don't think you need to x-ray my luggage for bombs."
Whilst England had tightened his own security after the terrorist threat had come to the front row, (and then there was the subway matter,) he hadn't even considered subjecting America to the humiliating customs process. Yet, here this suspicious child was, forcing England to go through a version of airport security. The attendants were both humourless, and mildly awed by both England's presence and America's, as they took his luggage away. America might not be thinking straight, but at least he had the decency to make it a private inspection of England's possessions, with members of the nation personification office, or whatever the boy was calling it these days, handling the matter.
"America, need I remind you-" He was cut over by an assertive, but soft-spoken young woman who tapped him on the arm. "Yes, miss?" His voice was tight with forced politeness, and the girl had the grace to flinch at the withering glare of a former-empire.
"Is the nature of this visit pleasure or work?"
"Masochism." England replied with a curtness that was half-born of sarcasm. No, entirely born of sarcasm.
"I-I see… are you bringing any contraband items into-"
"No."
"Passport, please, sir?"
England's mouth twitched, but with patent aggression, he very thinly replied: "I don't use a passport," Paused. "Miss."
"I can't really let you into the coun-"
"If you'll consult the guidelines, you would notice that nations," He said the word crisply, almost rudely. "Are not required to carry passports." He turned to America, and glowered, already ignoring the silly American citizen who was probably just following orders.
She, was, however persistent. "I still need to confirm your identity."
England whipped around, his mounting frustration exploding out of him with a quick flash of anger. "I am fucking England! I am the living personification of an entire bloody nation! I represent the damned United Kingdom of England, Wales, Scotland, and Northern Ireland!" He sucked in a breath, and then another, before adding with a hiss, "I am motherfucking immortal, so if you really doubt my identity, you can put a blasted bullet in my head and I will walk away unsinged as Great- Swiving Great Britain." He glared. "Have you got that?"
America was between them, instinctively putting himself between his citizen and the enraged country. "It's okay doll, I'll take over from here." The girl fled quite eagerly, and America pushed England back slightly. "No need to go apeshit at her England." He reprimanded.
"Do you really think I'd try and bomb you, so damn full of yourself."
"You almost attacked her, dude. I think you might just go on a killing rampage." America smiled cheekily. "I owe it to my people to make sure you don't have any weapons worse than your language."
"It's your lang-" England was cut off when America placed both hands on his sides. "What are you doing?"
"Checking for guns and shit."
"I don't have an- America!" The call of America's name was not impassioned, nay, it was affronted, but America still smiled like a little kid, and continued to run his hands along England's sleeves and patted down at his back.
"Calling my name, are we baby?" America's voice was tickling at England's ear. "And earlier, you said you were fucking England didn't you? Well, I beg to differ." The voice took on a husky edge, not quite matching the blunt pick-up line style, and England pushed at him lightly, growling at the taller nation. "I believe I'm the person who is fucking England. Oh!" America paused in his inspection.
"What is it?"
"I found a gun!" He could hear America grinning in his ear, even as the man very blatantly tried to grope him, the gesture crude. "It's loaded too and will probably go off-"
"You're awful!" England snapped, shoving America away, and flushing bright red.
For once, America felt extremely old, as he stuck his fingers in his ears. "England that racket is getting a bit-"
England continued, oblivious to America's objections, fingers a blur, as he happily played the electric guitar America had allowed him to play. America had not anticipated the stuffy Englishman to be a delinquent, punk-rocker. Not that America objected to loud noises, but this was a bit too much.
"OI ENGLAND!" He tried again. Nothing. "ENGLAND!" He could feel his throat going dry with the effort just to be heard.
There was a snarl of a guitar as England yanked the cord out. "What was that, dear?"
"Can you keep that awful din down, please?" America all but begged.
"Awful din?" The quote was dripping with disdain. "I'll have you know this is the height of classic rock."
"Classic?" America raised an eyebrow.
"As perfected by the nation of Great-"
"Old Blighty. Yes." America stuck his tongue out. "Only you could make rock, what did you call it? Classic." America encased the dreaded word 'classic' in airquotes.
England cheerfully gestured with one hand, giving America the victory bird only it seemed to be flying the wrong way. "Jog on, yank." The island nation plugged the cord back in and returned to his music-making.
"I don't think you can reasonably take credit for making it rain." England found himself informing America yet again, as the nation traipsed neatly and yet dangerously about his living room, a far too elegant kick close to one of England's vases filled with roses.
American grinned, and span on the spot, with a wild and primal dance; some things never change, and England could remember many long days chasing the little colony around the living room. "My awesome raindance totally watered your garden." He twisted back to look at England, and all but jumped onto one of England's couches. "You rain so much, what's a few weeks without it amounting to a drought for?"
"No infrastr- get your feet down!"
"No infrastructure to keep the water in, yeah." America wriggled his toes, and let his legs hang over the side of the chair. "It's a good thing I was here to bail you out like a hero."
England quirked his mouth lightly into a smile, gentle affection for the ally who had bounded up over and all around his house, even if the risk to the furniture gave him conniptions. England slid over to America and carded his hands through America's sweaty hair, brushing it away from his face. America's skin was bright with the effort of the dance, even if England was highly doubtful it had actually led to the torrent outside, the gesture was unmistakably touching.
"Come along then," England snapped at the colony at his heels. "We don't have time for your antics." England pushed his feathered hat more securely on his head, and held his pistol cocked languidly, but carefully against his hip as he strolled down the deck towards his favourite little bitch.
"But England!" America tailed England, just shy of the older nation's height, and running after him, dressed in oversized, but neat privateer gear. Considerably neater than England's own attire, but then England had already been at sea for a bit, namely to capture somebody for America's first proper try. "England!"
England glanced back at America. "Do try to keep up America, now," England pointed his pistol down at Spain, oh that wonderful little Iberian bitch-nation. England grinned at Spain. "This is the Demon-Spain, and he's all yours." England stepped forward and tipped Spain's chin up with the barrel of his pistol. Spain glared at England, furiously, but his eyes darted furtively to America. Worried.
England pulled the gun away, and stepped to the side, gesturing with his head for America to walk over to Spain.
"Me?"
"Yes, you."
"Wait, but what do I do?"
"Destroy him, of course." England shrugged. "Enough idle chat though, America. Come along now."
Spain's wary, furious and frightened expression was replaced by a desperate enraged and defensive hiss at America as the young boy walked close to and stared down at Spain. The lost expression on his boyish face must have showed, because Spain's fearful but angry expression turned into curiousity, and finally humour.
"Um, England?" America's startled blue eyes locked onto England's, trying to convey something that England really hoped wasn't there. England nodded at Spain again insistently. "England, just a second!"
"America." The youth took that as an invitation to pour his trouble onto his caretaker.
"How do I do that, exactly?"
"England," Spain interrupted, a smirk thick on his face. "It seems you raised this little one quite poorly; he looks like a scared rabbit."
"Shut up!" England snarled, and nodded at Spain. "America, simply destroy him."
"But how!"
"A little blue-eyed bunny rabbit!" Spain crowed. "Look at his little twitching nose, and fluffy tail!"
"I said shut the hell up!"
"Isn't your ickle pet up to scratch, mighty England?" Spain snickered, and England shoved the hilt of his gun at America.
"Put a bullet in his head America!"
"What?" America tried to push the pistol back at England. "I- I! I can't do that! He's done nothing to me! Why, why!" England jammed the gun between America's fingers.
"Look how squeamish he is!" Spain was laughing loudly, and the heat of shame crawled up England's face. England nodded at Spain again.
"America, shoot him," England's wide green eyes met America's blue ones, and America could see England was begging him. But America was absolutely frozen; he'd never shot at anyone before. Hell, he'd cried for days after shooting his first pigeon. He wanted so desperately not to shame England, but this? England nodded his head at Spain again, gesturing, asking, pleading America to stop embarrassing the two of them in front of their prisoner.
"Stop waggling your head like that England!" America was becoming frantic, his pulse hammering like a rabbit heart. The boy should have had a lion heart. The boy did have a lion heart! England stared at America, trying to will him into the action.
"The powerful England's little child is nothing but an overgrown, frightened rabbit!" Spain's laughter was screaming around England's ears. "He has raised himself a bunny! See how it begs for England to spare the rod!"
"I don't want to shoot anyone!" America finally burst out, defending himself, but also trying to beg England into backing down regarding this. There was no force on this planet that could make America shoot Spain. Their eyes were still locked. Swearing, England wrenched the gun back from America, spun, and buried his anger, disappointment, and embarrassment into Spain's head with a bullet.
"Truth or dare?"
"Truth or dare." America confirmed, nose brushing England's enthusiastically. The gesture would have been thoroughly more enjoyable (perhaps even suggestive) had they not both been cramped, and crammed into a trench. America's face was all but caked with dust, and England had no doubt his face was very similar. No, perhaps the close quarters lent the air to suggestiveness. England brushed the thought aside, as though clearing away old cobwebs.
"Is now the best time for this, really?"
"When is the best time?" America shrugged. "So, I'll go first because I'm the hero!"
Hero? England can feel his rising annoyance. There are no heroes in this outmoded style of fighting that seems only to be killing troops on both sides. He can feel the toll of the war in his skin, and blood. The burn of brutal murder being put into a necessary category. Harder, and more vicious than any war he really remembers – the nations had not expected the Great War. Hero? Heroes are altogether thin on the ground.
"Truth or Dare, England!"
"…truth?" England felt hollow acceptance, he could barely keep his body still for the thud of adrenaline that ran through him like pounding feet. Let alone argue with America, the 'hero'.
"Do you hate me?"
"What…" England stared at America, eyes focusing completely on the younger nation. "What sort of…"
"Do you hate me?" America repeated.
"What sort of question is that?" England found his voice.
"Well, do you?"
"This game is just an excuse for you to ask me that, isn't it?"
"Do you hate me, England?"
"It is, isn't it. What sort of stupid question is that, anyways." England sighed, and brushed his nose against America's, a soft, blindly groping gesture in a muddy trench, amongst the scent of guns, sweat and rot. "Of course I hate you." The words are pulled from him, only in the perverse desire to speak the truth.
He opened his mouth, looking for an explanation to tack on, but America's expression was closed off from him. He didn't know how to tell America that hatred and love weren't so different, and he could only hate somebody he completely loved. That America should never be unhappy that England could hate him.
He didn't have those words, and he knew America was regretting asking him that question. The boy, for all his bravado, was insecure, and England had not reassured him.
Oh dear one.
He didn't have the words he so desperately wanted to give, and America so desperately needed.
Oh dear one, I love you.
England bit his lip, as he pulled back, and then kissed America chastely on the forehead. He remained there, pressed close.
"This game isn't fun." America mumbled in the smallest voice possible, a single admission.
"I know, I know, child."
America is not especially well-versed in English Literature, but he has to admit he plays his favourites. It is not Shakespeare (America isn't always sure he knows what Shakespeare is talking about) and it is not Eliot (how bloody miserable) and it is not Shelley (though the guy had a point; the atlantic oceans mingled forever, so why not involve the nations?). Actually, it is John Donne.
But the man's poetry was so passionate. Some of it quite sexy, really.
Sweetest love, I do not go from weariness of thee,
America brushed England's hair away from his forehead with a smile that punctured the gesture with affection, and twisted his head to press his lips against England's wrists.
"You're so greedy; devouring me like this." England remarked, ironic as always.
America's light kisses were scattered over England's wrists, his tongue briefly tasting the hot, tight purr of his pulse. England's fingers snared in his hair and pulled him away, only to have America laugh wryly and curl his weight up on England. In answer, England shoved at America, and even tugged at his hair. "Slow up, okay, lad?" England asked.
"Kay." America hummed agreeably, and propped his chin on the curve of England's stomach.
"You shouldn't be so greedy," England reprimanded, breath panting. "Or it'll be over too quick."
"Whoever rigged fair ships to lie in harbours, and not to seek lands," America's eyes raked up England's chest and met his eyes. "Or not to deal with all. Or he who built fair houses, set trees, and arbours-"
"Do you even know what that word means?"
"Hush, I'm serenading you, silly." America kissed England's diaphragm and giggled when England's jumping hitch in breath caused the muscles to ripple. "And arbours – tree keeping places – only to lock up, or else to let them fall. Good is not good unless a thousand-" America laid his cheek against the smooth plane of England's stomach and lazily traced circles in his skin. "it possess, but wastes with greediness."
England lay quietly, his breath speaking for him as it slowed and steadied in the air. Finally, he spoke up, his fingers locked, snared, and trapped in America's hair. "You mangle my poetry, don't you?"
"I beg your pardon," America twisted to look England in the eye, pushing his glasses up his nose. "But I think you mean Donne's poetry." He reaches for England, and flicks his hair again, and they suddenly are overtaken by amusement, long, shivery laughs giggling out of them. They continue curling the other's hair, the gesture bit all through with affection.
England stared at the sock, brow furrowed, in deep scrutiny for the longest time, his sewing kit abandoned in his lap. Unused.
The sock in question had been one that had holed recently, much to England's complaint. However, now it was… well fixed was the wrong word. Not hole-y though.
Sewn to the heel of the sock was possibly the most hideous, clumsy example of darning he'd seen in many many years. If there was any room for doubt who had patched this sock, the material used on the heel made it painfully obvious, as the sock now sported the stars and stripes.
The ultimate plan of "Take England out for an AWESOME date" had dissolved into "Lie on the couch and die" as soon as America had actually managed to get into London. First, there was the trains, and then the weather (fuck it was cold), not to mention the six hour flight, the pushy attendants, and the constant string of phone calls from his boss. What bright person had decided that the nation personifications had to do a lick of work? I mean, America was practically the King of his country, right? I mean, he was the motherfucking United States of America (yeah!) and therefore everybody else should do the work for him. Right? Kinda' wrong. But what sort of person would put important jobs into America's hands when all he wanted to do was get around to his weekend, which involved two six hour flights, and even then nobody had the grace to leave him alone. It wasn't like bureaucracy stopped functioning the minute he left the room, was it? Self-sustainable, totally independent government. That was kinda' the point of it, wasn't it? Six-hour flights were way too long, man, way too long.
He gave a muffled groan from his hiding place amongst England's cushions, and listened to the sound of England taking a shower (at this time?) before rolling over onto his back and smothering his face in one of the cushions. Okay, he and England were still going to have an awesome date. What had France even meant when he'd said the spark looked like it'd gone out? There was lots of spark here! Total fireworks! England and he were lit up like the fourth of July, France's aspersions aside. And! As proof of that, he was going to take England out to a fancy restaurant, escort him to an awesome play, and then drag his British ass back here for some absolutely explosively sparky sex. Plan Take England Out For an AWESOME Date (and maybe some passionate love-ma- -nah, totally sexy sex, love-making was so not going to cover just how lusty it was going to be, he was totally going to tear England's clothes off, hell-)
Except, America was tired. Too tired, in fact, to look forward to the idea of tearing England's clothes off, which was amazingly tired. Maybe England would tear his own clothes off and America could watch? Devouring England in a passionate frenzy sounded like such hard work. Good work, sure? Sexy work is always good work. But god; He was too tired to really want to, which was ridiculous, because he totally did want to, okay? Yeah, totally. Always wanted England. So much spark. He'd show France.
England padded into the room, toweling his hair, and America peeked over the top of the pillow at England's half-changed appearance. Pants on, shirt loose and sticking to his damp skin, hair all over the place in sticky strands. Absolutely, totally, sparky, fireworks (and the works) desirable. America gave another groan, and pulled the pillow back over his face. Completely desirable… and no, America really didn't feel like doing anything. He didn't even want England to do all the freakin' work either. You'd think he'd have the energy to get blowed, or fucked, or whatever, but no. He just plain old did not want England.
So much for spark.
"Which play was it, honey?" England inquired, beginning to do up his shirt.
"Nh?" America thought for a few seconds, then scrabbled in his pocket, inspecting the tickets. "Blood Wedding. That Lorca play?"
"Spanish, nice choice." England shirt now done up, pulled his tie round his neck, and looked down at America. "Bit of a depressing play, though. You'll probably get overly frustrated by the characters." He began doing the tie up, but then stopped. "You alright, darling?"
"Course." America stretched, sitting up, his taunt muscles groaning almost as much as he did as the knots twanged all through his back. "Long flight s'all." England sat down by America's feet on the sofa, and fished America's phone from the seats where it had been falling.
"Your phone is off?"
"Night out." America reminded him.
England rolled his eyes, and carefully placed the phone on the armrest, and America began stretching his arms. Might as well try and get those kinks out now. Spark or not, he was determined to carry through with his plan. He twisted round to grab his glasses from the bookcase next to the couch. This was interrupted by England grabbing him by his ankles, yanking him down onto his stomach, and promptly lying across him. Oh god, not sex. Although, England being dominating was kind of hot, but please, oh please, America begged, too tired, give me some coffee first and I'll hop to it, you sexy, sexy but oh so important-to-please man.
"You," England murmured in the shell of America's ear. "Are shattered." He nuzzled close, with uncharacteristic understanding. "Don't worry, we can give the theater a skip today."
America was quite certain he'd fallen in love again (and perhaps a few more times) in the space of a heartbeat just from that one generous, selfless gesture alone. He smiled to himself, as he pressed his face into the cushion against his front. "God, I love you."
"Oh shut up." England muttered, kissing his neck and settling like a cat along his back.
"You shall not pass!" America proclaimed, thumping the hiking stick on the floor of the entrance hall to a teashop, standing between England and the exit, grinning like a fool. England looked away, regretting bringing his walking stick along and perhaps that bratty American as well. It was a good stick, carefully and meticulously carved hickory wood, supple, strong and something England had cherished for far too many years (centuries, in fact). To have America mocking his pilgrim's stick, Tolkien, and even his beloved Exmoor was a bit much. America wrinkled his nose, and leaned on the stick, considering the situation.
"It's so wet here."
"We're in a teashop." England pointed out. "It's actually quite dry."
"I meant this silly park."
"Moor."
"Whatever. I thought you said it was an ex-moor." England didn't know how to reply to that without several words best not uttered in a teashop, and instead let his frustration be known by shoving past America into the shop. "Hey England, wait up!" America chased after England, as England set off down the hill back towards the car.
Unfortunately, the American could be indelicately clumsy sometimes, and the slippery road, mucky bracken at the sides of it, and slope all contributed to America falling flat on his face with what sounded like a horrible snap. Alarmed, England ran back to America, all but crashing next to him, as he helped America to his knees. "Good god, oh god, America?" England rattled off, his rainy mood forgotten as he quickly brushed dead leaves away from America's cheeks, and checked all over for blood, gesturing wildly in concern and worry.
America winced, and inspected his hand – and the broken hickory stick. "I'm…" He didn't quite want to say he was fine; if he was grievously injured, maybe England wouldn't stab him with the splintered remains of his walking stick?
"You're fine." England murmured, taking the ruined stick in his hands as one might take a stillborn child; as though something unspeakably tragic and grievous had befallen something precious and innocent. America raised an eyebrow, and didn't read the thin ice of the atmosphere;
"You're looking at it as if I killed it." America had a lop-sided attempt at a smile, but cowered when England glared at him.
"You have! You clumsy git!" England gently held the ruined stick in his arms, cradling it. "Fine. We're having a funeral."
"Funeral?" America's other brow shot up.
"Funeral." England repeated, retreating to the side of the road and pointed at the ground. "Dig."
"Dig…?" America queried slowly, not quite believing England was serious. One look at the miserable, but furious face confirmed this was anything but a joke. America practically jumped at the ground, and dislodged as much dirt as quickly as he could. Thankfully, the same strength that had snapped the stick was useful in clearing the ground, although America (and England who had stood at his side, getting hit with flecks of mud and clumps of leaves) were covered in muck within the short time it took for a decent hole to be made.
"It's not long enough." England examined the hole, pointing out the very obvious fact.
"It's a stick for crying out loud!" America seized the walking stick, snapped it into quarters and made to toss it into the hole (grave, really) but England squealed, a terribly girlish noise, and snatched the stick back.
"It's not just a stick!" With infinite care, he crouched down and laid the wood into the shallow grave and then neatly began to scoop the dirt back in. "It's… not… just... a… stick." He murmured, smoothing the top of the fresh grave, and wiping his hand across his forehead, leaving a track of dirt. America hummed to himself, mollified, and walked away, leaving England by the dirt grave of (what was essentially) a walking stick. England drooped, miserable and alone, even when it was America's blinking fault – how long had he had that stick? It was older than America. It was a gift from Ireland. England just did not get that many gifts from Ireland. Ever.
With a crunch of leaves, America had returned and he knelt down beside England, passing him a bedraggled bunch of freshly-picked flowers. "I picked some of you." America apologized. "But graves should have flowers."
"Yeah." England agreed, and against his will felt better. America had not left; he'd gone to get offering flowers.
"What was the stick's name?"
"Huh?"
"Okay then, I'll name it something," America shrugged. "O Samantha," England goggled at America in confusion. "Cruelly taken from us before her time."
"Don't make fun of me." England hissed, and twisted away from America, who promptly grabbed him by the shoulder and swiveled him back.
"I'm not, you silly old man. I'm trying to apologize. Now, where was I?" America hummed lightly, and England noticed the mud splatters across Texas. "Samantha, cruelly taken from us before her time, was a good stick. She understood the fine arts, and was always a totally awesome lady, but was no stranger to the more visceral," America popped the word as though it was a special occasion to use it. "Side of life. Often ambling over woodlands, parks and the place formally known as a moor." England raised both eyebrows, despite himself. "She had a sense of humour, and enjoyed re-enacting scenes from seriously amazing movies like Lord of the Rings. However," Here America shook his head. "A complete idiotic and non-heroic person was enough of a dumbass to break her neck, and for that, the stupid idiot non-hero person is eternally sorry. Rest in peace, Samantha, you will be missed, most especially by the most wonderful, grouchy, beautiful person I've ever had the honour to fuc-"
"That's enough, America."
"Remember, remember, the 5th of November, gunpowder treason and plot," England stated, his voice sing-song in rhythm, but the tone was melancholy, thoughtful. Almost sad. "I can think of no reason, why the gunpowder treason shall ever be forgot."
"Ah, so that's why you celebrate this day with fireworks, and marshmallows, and shit." America commented round a mouthful of sticky marshmallow, which was rapidly decreasing his chance for a kiss. "You practically treat the guy like a hero."
"I burn effigies of him on bonfires," England offered, voice still not losing the melancholic tone. "And I believe it's meant to be ironic."
"Contradictory, you mean."
"Ironic, like I said."
America leaned back and watched the sky crash and tumble above them with a puncturing smash of light and fizzling noise. The stark colours trembled in the night, and the squeal of a Catherine wheel lit up an orange swirl across the barely visible stars. "Maybe. I think it was just an attempt at revolution that failed, so you called it treason, but you kinda' wanted Downing Street to go up in flames. You were hoping he'd do it."
"Don't project onto me; not all of us enjoy revolutions and civil wars."
"So why can't you forget it?" America smiled. "Why can't your people forget it?"
"I don't know." England answered after a moment, and leant against America. The night sky lit up again, cracked open, and rained brightly above them. "I can think of no reason, why the gunpowder treason should even be recalled."
"Hey, you're a poet!" America smiled. "And you didn't even know it!" England twisted around to grab America's arm and yank it behind the prat's back in as painful a manner as he could. The gesture was violent, aggressive, but somehow sweet – like banter.
"Don't be a prat." Even so, the melancholy was gone, and he was smirking very slightly, quietly laughing.
The fragile bird nuzzled the pad of his thumb, its little black head pushing into his hand, and its doubloon-gold coin of an eye winked in the clear light. Gently he brushed his thumb into the bird's skull, a careful and affectionate pressure, and the glossy feathers ruffled smugly. The tiny whirr in its throat hummed in his fingernails, and slicked on the air; ravens apparently purred. Shifting slightly, England tried to ignore the sensation of pins and needles crawling up his legs, and the raven croaked in protest as it was disbalanced and sent akilter. The bird shuffled to regain its place, but its feet tangled in England's sleeve, and with a startled and smoky chirrup, the bird toppled and tumbled forward, wings splayed out to catch its balance.
England laughed, gently, the whirr humming in his throat this time, as he caught the bird on his fingers, and with a stuffy chirrup it settled. Carefully, he raised it up into the air so he could look it in the eye quite seriously; its round gold eye lit up as the sunlight snatched at the pupil. Almost as though the little raven were winking at him.
England swallowed a chuckle, before giving the bird a disapproving glower. "Blagdd." England chided, and the bird replied with enthusiasm;
"Blagdd!" It shuffled its wings, giving a playful flap.
"Blagdd." England repeated, shaking his head in disbelief at the raven's mischief.
Lately his ravens had fallen sick from some plague, and their feathers had littered their hiding holes, grime and muck clinging to the long strands. When he'd gone to stroke their heads, they had croaked miserably at him, and not even mewled for crumbs. Once Victoria had made a point of telling him he spoilt those birds, more than once to that matter (he'd dismissed that matter). Still, it seemed the tower ravens had been recovering well from the sickness, judging by the eager and healthy specimen that had hopped over to him this morning and promptly perched on his foot.
Tolerantly he'd sat down and let the raven clamber all over him in graceful little hop-skips of black wings flurrowing at the air.
The raven croaked at him again, "Blagg-gd!" before waving its handsome feathers in his face, and England squawked in displeasure before upending his hand, bird and all. Clinging to him with tight claws, the bird fluttered and flailed, mewling piteously before losing its grip and tumbling into his lap.
The bird would be insulted if he helped it up, so instead he waited for the raven to get back to his feet. Embarassed, it preened its chest with the glint of its beak and didn't meet his eye. England tipped his head, mouth a tiny line of amusement, one of his green eyes gazing frankly and teasingly at the bird until it tipped its head back to meet his gaze. He reached out, and once more with his thumb, rubbed the raven's head.
"I wonder where your friends are, hm; still sick?"
He'd hate to admit he'd been worried about the birds, arguably, they did keep invasion at bay but England knew his reasons weren't quite that superstitious. Instinctively, the docile avians had always flocked to him, happy to delight him, quick to jab at his fingertips and quicker still to nestle on his shoulders. The Tower Ravens were, and always had been, his friends. It was a relief to know they seemed to be recovering. Certainly so, given the sleepy but determined flock that was delighted to gradually learn the green-eyed one was visiting. The message chattered through the group, passing from one bird to the other, partially by little noises and glints of light on the beaks (sun-caught eyes, and shuffling feathers; the language of the ravens) but mostly by the unseen network inside a group of creatures that recognizes such things and almost telepathically communicates them.
"Blaggd!" The raven answered cheekily, and a small chorus of caws replied to it, as one by one, slowly, over the course of an hour, the other ravens set upon England. Which wasn't to say they never bombarded him at once (he seemed to remember fleeing the flock one midsummer), but, that today, they sluggishly joined him on the green, traipsing across his legs, climbing claw over beak up his back, and preening delicately whilst balanced on his head. Recovered or not, the ravens were feeling content to savour his company.
"Hey England!" The voice sent the birds up in a flurry, scattering left and right either side of England, and tumbling off his shoulders with startled squawks as America jogged over to him; that boy, always in a rush of some kind, things never change. England breathed out through his nose, and waited for the ravens to collect themselves and cautiously hop back to him. "Hey England, how you doing?" A raven (wings whirring like a windmill) jumped onto England's shoulder, and tipped its head to inspect the intruder, golden eye winking. "Hey England! England! England." A sunny pause.
"Yes, America." England finally answered, several ravens happily returned to perches on his body. "What can I do for you?"
"Blaggd!" The ravens jeered as America crouched down to England's level.
"You're covered in birds!"
"I wasn't aware." Absolutely dead-pan, England shut his eyes, mouth still in a tolerant line of amusement, and struggled not to giggle as the raven on his shoulder shoved its cold beak into his ear. "Blaggd." He waved the bird away when the jut of its beak began prodding at him.
"Blaggd." The raven hissed, flapping, and swung its tail into England's neck, swaggering along his thin shoulders; two march that way, two march back, the bird sulked.
"Blaggd." America imitated the bird, and the ravens all tipped their heads to stare at the visitor who seemed to think he could speak ravenish, or some approximation of their raucous trills. "Are they your birds?"
"Mhm. Somewhat." England opened his eyes and returned America's grinning smile with a demure one of his own. "They're the Tower Ravens. As long as there are at least seven ravens at the Tower of London, England shall never be invaded." He supplied the latter part with an almost helpful air of explanation. Apparently it was not quite the best move given the amused smile that spread across America's face.
With an overly-loud thumph, America sat down on the springy grass, and the ravens sprang back again, but quickly returned, curious coin eyes watching the taller nation. Unlike England, they had no natural attachment to this person, but proximity to both normal humans and abnormal not-humans had made them tame, as well as sensitive to particulars. And then, England didn't mind America and that was a seal of approval for any of them.
"Oh, really? Where were they in, y'know, that Norman guy. When he invaded."
"1066, and the Battle of Hastings?" England suggested, eyes rolled to the sky as he searched his memory. "Didn't have the birds then, nor the tower come to that." He paused, and glanced at America. "Kept the German bastards out well-enough, though."
"Nah," America smiled. "That was totally all me."
"Arrogant upstart." England offered with a slight smirk, and the raven that had been purposefully ignoring him forgot that it was angry and was now happily headbutting England until he stroked its head.
"Whereas you're a boy scout, huh? Your problem was, you never had any revolutions of your own." America poked his tongue out and crossed his arms defiantly across his chest, feet kicking at the grass as he got comfortable. "A bit of upstartedness from you would have made you right as rain."
"Upstartedness is not a word, America." England corrected, patting the raven gently on the head, and hoping to discourage it from its fierce nibbling of his fingertips.
"Upstartedness is not a- -hmph." America sighed. "You're depressing me, dude." Pulling at his scarf, America eyed England. "You're quiet today. You 'kay?"
"I've had a few revolutions in my time."
"Huh?" America blinked, confused.
"I've had a few revolutions." England rolled his eyes as he repeated his remark, this time insulting and not simply lost in thought. "In my time."
"Get out of town." America laughed at England. "I said: You're so quiet today. Are you okay?"
"Huh?" This was England's turn to blink. "Why, yes, I'm okay. Thank you."
"Then," America tossed his scarf to the side, sending a bird hobbling backwards. "Tell me a story about you being a rebel, yeah?"
"A story?" England raised his eyebrows questioningly.
"Yeah. Of rebellion and daring and heroics." America gave a sloppy grin. The kind England would have hurried to wipe off his face like a messy piece of food caught on his lips. "You were at least a bit heroic, right?"
England's hands caught and slid through the glossy feathers, humming lightly to himself. "Actually, there was a fair deal of rape and pillage. Not that heroic, I suppose?"
"Rape and pillage? You?" America was clearly feigning surprise, sarcasm playful and loud in his voice. "Surely not! The British Empire? Never!"
Glowering, England brushed a bit hard at the raven on his shoulder and it jabbed his fingers, before flitting to America's shoulder instead. "Don't be a brat, you insufferable monkey." America pulled a monkey face, and England narrowed his gaze, lips thinning as he easily restrained a chuckle.
"So, anyway." America glanced at the raven on his shoulder. "One, are these birdies friendly, and two, who had the pleasure of you being a brat?"
"The birds are harmless enough." America was jabbed with a sharp beak. "Pointy on one end, though." Arthur hummed, shuffling slightly, the birds squalling as they readjusted themselves all over him. Two jumped over to the frozen America who was sucking on his finger like a petulant child, one settled in his lap and the other began the arduous climb to America's head.
"Rome, actually."
"Italy's grandpa?"
The raven had reached America's head and was now grooming his hair carefully, and England bit back a smirk. "Oh yes, the one and only."
"How'd that go?"
"Bloody awful." England shrugged. "Well, it was alright. We didn't win though."
"That sucks."
"Thank you for your eloquent words." England remarked snidely, and the raven ran its beak along America's hair that caused America to jump, blushing and squeaking as the raven nuzzled Nantucket.
America looked through the piles of photographs he had managed to take of their trip to Disneyland, except most of the pictures were naturally of England. The fun part of taking England somewhere he didn't really take natural pleasure in was the small gestures contained frustration. Such as his pained expression whilst hugging Minnie Mouse, or the roll of the eyes America had caught on camera when England had looked at the castle, or the deeply uninterested boredom he exhibited on rides (America had purchased every single one, smiling and pleased by the extremely bored expression England wore on every ride). Yet, despite a few remarks, England had not complained, and even tolerated America's ADHD snap-shotting of every move he made.
Put simply, these photographs were proof of England's undying tolerance and love.
"I did say football." England pointed out fairly to America.
"Yeah, and this isn't football." America replied snottily, puffing his cheeks up in a light pout.
"I agree," Interrupted Australia. "This is soccer."
"Exactly!" America grinned at the southern nation. "It's the wrong ball for a start. Real football needs an oval ball."
"Gentleman's sport is football," Australia added, and England rolled his eyes at the pair he'd obviously failed to raise as actual gentlemen. "Aussie rules o' course."
"Hang on," America wheeled round. "I believe America rules at football."
"No, Aussie rules." Australia added once more.
"No way, America is the best!"
"Mate, whether or not that's true-"
"Is so true!"
"As I was saying! Whether or not it's true is… aussie rules. It's a way-"
"America rules!"
"Fine! America rules! But Aussie rules is a-" Australia's grouchy reply was drowned out by Italy rushing past all three of them with a speedy 'veveveve'.
"I think Italy rules." England remarked snarkily from the side.
"America totally rules." America cut over whatever witty (but cruel) statement England had been about to add.
"Yes, like with baseball. You won the world series again, didn't you?" England lathered his voice with sarcasm. "Fancy that. Maybe one day a nation other than America will win the Baseball World Series, but I doubt it."
"Maybe one day England will win at cricket." Australia leapt to his brother's aid.
"I did!" England retorted. "Did you fail to see the last years ashes? Or the ashes before that?"
"Sure you did." America eagerly pitched in with Australia, leaning over to him and stage-whispering with mock sorrow in his voice. "The old man is really losing his mind these days."
"Right-o mate, right-o." Australia grinned, but hid it behind a tragic expression. "Might have to put the codger in a retirement home, yeah?"
America nodded sadly, and hooked his arm about Australia, shaking his head in abject, hang-dog misery. He wiped an invisible tear from his eye. "He used to be so young."
Aliens, of course, did not exist. Every sensible person knew that of course. However, England stared at the supposed spot on the couch where allegedly Tony (England had once had a boss named Tony, maybe that was where America had plucked the name from) sat.
"Fucking limey, fucking limey, fucking limey." Tony chanted at England, his strange face twisted in dislike.
"It's very nice to see you again, Tony."
"Fuck off you bastard."
However, for America, England would feign the stupidest of things were true. Even if he felt a right fool doing so. Later, England commented on the matter to flying mint bunny, who nibbled his ear peaceably, sympathetic.
"England cares for America," Mint Bunny remarked. "And even though Tony does not like England, he still tries to be nice. Because Briton cares for America."
Now Mint Bunny was spouting nonsense too, and England sighed, petting Mint Bunny lightly on the ears.
"What's this big blue snake going round London, England?" America asked, twisting the map upside down. America didn't really see why England insisted on the out-dated tree-version of maps, when he could have a nice, modern googlemaps application on an iPhone, but, when in Britain, do as Britain demands you do for fear of a glare that could melt steel.
"What?"
"Is it the Thames?" America tipped the map the other way.
"What?" England repeated, eyes flicking at America, even as he tried to keep his eyes on the road – or more accurately the bumper of the car in front of them. Talk about congestion.
"This big blue line around London, what is it?"
"Let me have a look," England gestured for America to show him, even as he kept a furtive lookout for even a few inches of space in front of him. The traffic twitched, and England mechanically moved the car to fill the extra centimeter or so. He paused, studying the spot America was tapping. "America," His voice was slow, and America worried he'd done something wrong. "That's the M25." England wasn't angry in the slightest; he was trying not to laugh.
America loved many things about England, that was a given, but one thing in particular was exactly how much effort England no doubt put into his texts. Full punctuation, proper spelling, actual grammar, and long sentences to convey what a simple smilie face or less than three would manage.
It was a gesture, a quirk even, that struck America as impossibly British, and yet impossibly dedicated.
He thumbed at his phone, tapping in a quick 'ily babe xx' and knew somewhere, somewhen, England was doing an angry doubletake, softened by a romantic streak that enjoyed the text, and yet also a pickiness that deplored the chat speak.
He returned his attention to the important meeting, and tucked his phone back into his pocket under the table, and winked cheerily at England from across it. Somewhere, somewhen, indeed.
England shoved America against the door, shutting it with the same movement, and grinned, before pushing their bodies together close enough to feel America's glasses against his face. Rain had confusing effects on England, and America tried to unwind away from England long enough to discern how damp his clothing was. "England, you're s-" His sentence was interrupted by a nip to his lower-lip that dissolved into a messy kiss that left saliva on the sides of their mouths. "Soaked." America finally got out, as England licked along his jaw. "You'll catch a cold." England grabbed America by the shirt and pulled at it as though he had a personal vendetta against it.
"Maybe you should get me out of my wet clothes then." England purred.
Like he said, confusing effect on England.
This particular one was probably related to soil and fertility and plant-growth or something like that. England finally managed to pull America's shirt over his head, and raked his palms, blunt nails and fingers down America's front. "Come on, America~a." England purred, voice slurring into a curl of desire. "Respond – I feel like I'm molesting you."
Despite that, England still shoved his cold fingers down the front of America's jeans. All sharp, violent movements, and not once inch of romance or gentleness in those bright green eyes. America sighed, lightly catching England by the small of the back, but rolled his eyes with a smile. "Horny, aren't you?"
"Come on," England licked a stripe up America's neck and pushed against him, fingers catching at his lower stomach, grazing above h-
America bit England's neck, and with a hiss, England's hands were up in America's hair, tugging sharply until he managed to pull America away and kiss him aggressively on the mouth, and America distracted himself by popping the buttons of England's shirt clean off with arguably practiced movements, the gesture familiar and readily coming to his fingers; it rained a lot in England.
Unlike England, America didn't appreciate staying in any city whilst it rained, especially not his own. It was dank, unpleasant, made his clothes smell like wet dog, and made his head all foggy and full of fluff. Yet, he'd agreed to meet England, and yes, it was raining, but he didn't want to cancel on England at all. They were finally civil with each other. Granted, it had a little to do with having to work together during the war, but America liked to hope their relationship was…
Well, not returning to normal. America didn't want that anyways. He wanted something new – an entirely new, super special relationship. Their relationship wasn't returning to normal; it was an entirely new relationship, full of entirely new dynamics, and possibilities too!
But running through the rain, trying not to be late, and angry that it had been so hard to find his umbrella (actually, he hadn't found it in the end) so he was probably going to be late (and wet) anyways didn't please America. With a thump he shoved the café door open, and the obnoxious bell above the door jingled.
And there. England turned to look at the door with anticipation, and upon seeing the drenched, but most definite, America his face lit up with an unexpectedly sunny smile. That single gesture, that one thing was more than enough to… to… brighten America's entire day, and he grinned stupidly back.
"You made it!" England breathed as America slid in the booth opposite him.
"Of course I did! Heroes always keep promises!" America grinned, unable to suppress the bubbling good mood that threatened to outshine everything else on his mind. England had smiled when America saw him. England had been waiting for him. England was ecstatic to see him. And god. America was ecstatic to see him back.
America had placed the plastic bag on his table as he walked past, but had continued over to the guest room to deposit his briefcase, and change out of his work clothes, and so far the curiousity was killing England. He returned his attention to his book, endeavouring to ignore it, but it truly wasn't working.
His gaze kept sliding over to eye the Sainsbury's bag, as though magnetized.
Not that he was interested in such a silly thing.
He forcibly read his book; and then Catherine reached out to touch Adrian as she had always desired, the curve of his-
That bag was really distracting, but no, England had an iron-clad will and was not to be defeated by weakness of the spirit. He read – then Catherine reached out to touch Adrian as she had always – that stupid bag, anyways, where was he? Sighing like a breath of soft air at his words, and then Catherine reached out to touch Adrian as she had always desire- What was in the bag anyway? And then Catherine reached out to touch…
Okay. One look couldn't hurt. England had read the same line too many times, so really, he should just get this over and done with, like ripping a plaster off.
England very sneakily (MI6, don't you know?) padded over to the bag, and with only the slightest rustling noise, reached out and touched the contents of the bag. A single item; a box of chamomile tea. The kind England had wanted. The kind England had written up on his to-do list just that morning, but had not found time to go fetch. The kind England had really, really wanted and spent the morning rummaging his cupboards to America's growing amusement, and his own growing dismay as he realized he was out.
And then England wanted to reach out and touch America (fingers a gesture, a brief flutter on-). England wanted to reach out and touch America. And then England wanted to reach out and touch America.
And it scared him.
Scared him shitless.
Hand shaking he dropped the box of tea back into the bag, and retreated to his chair, curling up into the smallest space, and forcing himself to pretend to read his book, all whilst he flushed bright red, and thought very hard about nothing at all in no language at all.
England was a cat-person when it came down to it, and when it came down to cats (England's own, a rather elegantly named Maxwell Edison, often shortened simply to Max) you never did own them. You weren't owners; you were often staff, and at best, you were companionable equals. Cats were far too free-spirited to be contained, and England couldn't imagine keeping a purely house-only cat; both he and the feline would go stark-raving mad if that happened, because they both so desperately needed space. Cats were independent, quirky, brilliant creatures, that gravitated towards warmth and gravity-defying games. Sharp-clawed, they occasionally forgot their ability to hurt others, and were more than a little spoilt.
Almost childish, as they tore down a perfectly fine set of curtains, or cracked a perfectly fine china teacup.
England chuckled, fingers stroking Max's fur, and briefly rubbing the Scottish fold's odd ears, which gestured back at the touch, and Max turned to look with wide green eyes at him, either affronted or surprised. England however, was staring across at America who was rather obliviously tapping at his iPhone, whilst the local stray feline that seemed to have adopted England's house (and Max too) batted at the window pane.
Who did that remind him of?
England smirked lightly, and returned to more serious business, precisely, the naming of cats. He had a feeling Alfred Jones might be apt for the four-legged hobo he was bound to sooner or later, officially take in.
America had been pleasantly surprised to discover Australia actually had tropical rainforests, and aside from the slightest scare regarding Dropbears, which England suspected were possibly real since he was pretty sure he'd seen something in the trees, he'd been enjoying the visit, eagerly bounding around a mountain town named Kakadu which Australia had demanded they see. England could see why, and had very happily explored the butterfly sanctuary. It came as a matter of course that America had been downright entranced by the venom zoo. Trust the lad to be interested in that sort of thing; it was exactly the sort of thing the young nation adored.
Now, however, they were on the old-style train back down the mountain, and whilst not as flashy as the skylift up, America had very happily curled up on England's lap, eyes shut but England believed he was awake, and listened to the train rattle.
"It reminds you of colonization." Australia murmured, resting against England's other side, his head all but melting onto England's shoulder. "Doesn't it, mate?"
"Mhm." America hummed quietly, and barely, and jerkily nodded.
So that was why they were both snuggling up to him.
England stared across Australia's messy hair, and out the window at the stark drop and waterfall, the sheer beauty of Australia's land, and the vast expanse of rainforest. He curled his fingers in America's hair, stroking it, and allowed America his childish gesture as the man – grown now, and so strong, so, so large, so much bigger than he had been once – sucked on his thumb, eyes hushed shut and face gentle in the almost sleep of memories.
Australia snuggled into England's shoulder, his breath cool on England's neck, and for the briefest moment, everything was just as before. Just like before. Just as before, back then, as before.
And then abruptly, the train juddered, shaking America into alertness, and Australia sleepily gazed out of the window, moving away from England much slower than America, obviously used to the train.
America smiled up at England, and righted himself, pressing a kiss to England's cheek.
Different, but not bad. No, not bad.
Love is a gesture. One of; selflessness, comfort, togetherness, humility, concern, providing, humour, dedication, unreasonable demands, wordlessness, wordiness, thoughtfulness, sacrifice, understanding, misunderstanding, the past, tolerance, playfulness, acceptance, sensitivity, details, familiarity, joy, awareness, notice, the past, the future.
Constructed of fragile, frail, precious things, and built on sandy shores, the kingdoms and castles of love grow tall.