Cuddly England
England was cold. Not the damp island of tea lovers itself as a whole of course, but its actual personification, Arthur Kirkland. It was a rainy day in London, the chill of the gray weather seeping into the nation's ancient flat. He could simply get up to turn the heat up and make himself a nice cuppa, but he had just gotten comfortable on the couch with his embroidery. Arthur sighed lightly in irritation, needlessly cross with himself over such trivial matters. He had been hanging out with Alfred for far too long if he was now too lazy to do something so simple. The American's laidback attitude was starting to rub off on him. Next he would be wanting a remote control for the heater complete with useless lasers attached to it.
The nation of Arthur's personal reflection was in fact bundled up at the other end of his couch, wrapped up like a human burrito in a ridiculously large(it could hide an elephant at a moment's notice easily-Arthur had no idea where he had found it) down comforter with Superman's symbol printed all over it. Alfred was currently very involved with his book so that Arthur was enjoying a rare moment of quiet while in the other's nation close proximity.
Alfred had started to bring the comforter over whenever he visited, claiming England was far too cold(the land, not the prickly person) for him. Arthur had made fun of him for it of course. It looked ridiculous of course, but now Arthur found himself eyeing the very comfortable American with jealousy. The blanket was big enough to share and he knew Alfred would not mind. All he had to do was move over a bit….and suddenly those inches between them seemed like miles to him.
The two had been dating tentatively…mostly screwing like rabbits…..for over sixty years, ever since the end of the world wars. Arthur tried not to let it go to his head(or heart for that matter). Nations were fickle creatures as well as flippant bedmates. Yesterday's lover could easily be tomorrow's enemy due to any number of things.
Alfred was different though…..he always had been. Underneath all of the overbearing bravado, empty smiles, and feigned stupidity, there was a kind and faithful nation who treated Arthur like he was something truly precious. It was little off putting to Arthur who had grown used to always seeing some sort of contempt, dislike, or disdain in his companion's eyes. Old habits, soul survival if you will, kept walls up between them. Despite his rough demeanor, Arthur's heart was very brittle like spun glass. He embarrassed easily and was hurt even more so by it. Even now his cheeks were burning with the very thought of just going over to Alfred and cuddling with him. He knew it would be soft and warm, and even better smell like Alfred, all apple blossoms, cedar and sunshine…and yet….
…he might be rejected….Alfred might laugh at him…for being weak…
…..Expect Alfred had held him when he was screaming from German air raids, sewn him back up afterward, had carried him home drunk and belligerent on numerous occasions, had even eaten his cooking with little complaint(well at least compared to the Italians). Really, the American had the patience of a saint when it came down to it. Arthur felt like that was sorely overlooked far too often, overshadowed by his loud exterior.
"Aw bugger it. If he laughs, he laughs.", Arthur thought, shivering again from a sudden chill. The English nation crept over softly, lifting the edge of the comforter to slide underneath it fully. Alfred was so involved with his book he didn't even notice until a slim form fully fitted itself up against his own muscular body. Alfred glanced down to see the crown of a pale golden head barely peeking out from under the covers, the Brit happily submerged in the depths of lovely body heat and blanket. The American moved his arm to help accommodate the other, wrapping its tanned length around a narrow waist comfortably. Alfred stared down in amusement at the Englishman, who was notoriously unaffectionate.
Dog earring a corner to mark his spot with an air of amusement, Alfred set aside his thick volume to peek under the covers curiously. He was met with an intense emerald gaze that never failed to take his breathe away and some nervous fidgeting on the invading Brit's part.
Despite Alfred's reputation for not being able to read the atmosphere, he could read his boyfriend's face perfectly well, its porcelain features graced with an odd mixture of vulnerability, fear, and general irritation with a very faint hinting of hope.
Alfred would move mountains or blow them up for the sake of that hope, the barest glimmers of it. Sometimes being a hero meant doing small things. It wasn't all big impressive jobs. Sometimes it meant just being there was enough.
So Alfred let the cover fall back into place gently. He pressed a tender kiss to choppy locks of permanently messy hair, and went back to reading his book without a word.
Neither of them ever spoke of the instance afterward, but Arthur started to bring over his own comforter(handmade by him of course) whenever he visited and Alfred took to reading books more often.
And all, while not totally perfect, was well and fine as two nations could be.