By half past ten, Britain had realised something was wrong.
In the quiet of his room, shrouded in shadow and with an empty mug of chamomile tea on the nightstand, there was no good reason he should still be awake. He shut his exhausted eyes to the bedside clock, forced his head down into the pillow, and told himself to stop worrying.
He got up, had a drink of water, and put his head back down to the pillow.
Eleven came - then half past. Sleep did not.
He flipped the pillow, cast the covers off, retrieved them from the floor and hauled them up around his neck. Britain went to the bathroom, confirming that he hadn't needed to go at all, then swapped his tee for a lighter cotton shirt, in case it was the heat. He knew it wasn't. He shuffled to the other side of the bed. It didn't work. The clock ticked on.
As Britain opened his desperate eyes, and saw that it was three minutes to twelve.
Ten past twelve.
It would be one AM soon. Britain covered his face with his hands. Two hours, and not more than a minute of sleep.
One thing we haven't tried, he thought.
Two hours ago - more than that, in fact - he'd been put to bed with chamomile tea, a murmured reassurance, and a warning not to be up for long.
It was now the next calendar day. Dawn was edging its way closer, and he was no nearer to sleep than he'd been two hours ago.
He would have to risk it. He couldn't think what else to do.
He needed comfort; there was only one place he would find it.
Defeated, Britain pushed back the crumpled bed covers. He slid his feet out of bed. The floor beneath was hard stone and cold, no warmer for the worn layer of carpet. Britain sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his sore eyes with the heels of his hands, hoping he was doing the right thing. The clock ticked loudly in the silence.
He left the bedroom, swaying a little as he walked. His brain ached from lack of sleep, but he arrived to the living room. The man he needed was sitting on the couch cross-legged, watching television. Britain watched through the open door, nervous, as the colors flickered over his face.
America sighed, took a long drink of coffee, and continued to watch.
Britain steadied himself with a breath.
He pressed an anxious hand on the door. It creaked as it opened, far louder than he'd hoped. America turned from the television in surprise.
"Britain." He shot a concerned look at the clock on the wall. "It's past midnight. Why on earth are you still awake?"
"I - can't sleep..." Britain pushed his hands up through his hair, unsurprised to find it already a ruffled mess. "I'm sorry, I just - keep thinking... about why I can't sleep..."
America put aside the remote that had been resting on his leg.
"This won't do…"
"I know," Britain managed, his throat cracking. He covered his blurry eyes with his hands. "I know, I just - … I can't - ..."
"Alright… we need to fix this." America stood up from the couch, put an arm around him, and steered him from the living room.
Britain mumbled his apologies, weak; America guided him down the hall back to the bedroom.
"Look at me," came the quiet insistence as they sat on the bed.
Britain lifted his eyes, too tired to resist. The blue eyes softened as they considered him. America reached out to cup his jaw, stroking his cheek with a thumb. Britain's eyes fluttered shut.
"You need to stop thinking," America said. He ran his fingertips up Britain's neck, into his hair. The coolness of the touch took the breath from Britain's lungs. It felt like being blessed - that perfectly soothing, gentle touch, full of clarity and calm.
"No more thinking," America murmured. "No more caring. There's nothing to be done now but to sleep and wait for the morning."
Britain let out a long breath. "That's - easier said than done."
America was regarding him with quiet pity. "I know."
He paused, then leaned close. His lips gently brushed over Britain's. It was a question.
In reply, Britain caught America's mouth with his own. They kissed slowly, softly, in the dark. Britain shivered, starting to let go.
The first tender flash of tongue made his stomach twist. He pushed a little nearer to America, rewarded as cool hands came to stroke his sides, rumpling the cotton of his shirt. His breath hitched at the contact. The hands found their way beneath the fabric, stroking him with long, idle caresses, and his heart began to beat a little faster.
He didn't dare ask. Even as America pulled him closer, deepening the kiss, he was too nervous to say.
He didn't need to. His lover, petting his back, murmured against his mouth, "So, you want my help?"
Britain quivered, aroused at once. It was the voice.
"I - … that would - probably help."
He felt America's lips curve against his own. The hands, deft and gentle, found their way to his buttons and began to undo them.
Britain's stomach curled.
"Please," he managed, voice tight. America hushed him with a kiss. His lover's tongue eased between his lips, slow and firm, as tender fingers coaxed their way downwards from button to button.
Britain began to shiver, colour flaring across his face. He fumbled to push his hands beneath the grey shirt, desperate to feel skin - chest - America's warmth. As he found it, his lover let out a breathy groan and pulled him nearer, stirring into the exploratory caresses. Britain's pulse-rate spiked. He raked his hands over America's chest, weak, marvelling all over again over the feel of the man he loved. Their kiss broke; America dipped his head to Britain's throat.
At the first hot-breathed kiss, the first lick, Britain knew he'd die if this stopped. He'd never needed anything so much in his life. America's hands were stroking up his sides now, over his chest, up onto his shoulders, relieving him of the pajama shirt. He wriggled out of it, shivering. As the cotton came free from his arms, he wrapped them around America, gripping his shoulders hard. His lover's breath hitched. The kisses sharpened, gentle bites that fogged Britain's vision into blurs. A hand caressed its way down over his stomach.
"Please," he begged. As America cupped him, massaging his swelling cock with a slow and practiced ease. Britain's eyes rolled back into his head. "Oh - fuck..."
"You like it?" America's voice came soft in his ear, dark as velvet and unendingly tender.
Britain's heart pounded at the choice. His body didn't want to wait when his brain had only one desperate need. It had needed it for hours.
"What can I do to relax you?"
Britain bit down at his lip.
"Tell me," his lover hushed as he nuzzled the tip of his nose over Britain's earlobe. "Whatever you wish… whatever you need."
"God, America." Britain swallowed, shivering, and tangled his fingers in his lover's hair. "I want - … take me. Please."
He smirked. "Take you?"
"Please - ..." He wanted to be fucked; he couldn't say it. He wanted America to coax him onto his back, lie between his thighs - gentle fingers, warm oil - wanted that impossible pressure, the white-hot stretch, his lover's weight protective and gentle on top of him - the tight spiral as America's prick nuzzled its way inside, turning his vision to stars, filling him, making him forget sleep even existed.
He wanted to grind his head back into the pillow and pant and plead. He wanted to feel his own cock trapped between them, hard, beating out the rhythm of his heart as his lover completed him.
He didn't have to say it.
America knew. The look in his eyes said it all.
He laid Britain down within the tousled mess of their sheets, lowering him as gently as if he were an injured animal. As they kissed, his fingers carded through Britain's hair. Britain moaned as the hands he loved so much slid down his sides to his hips, caught the waistband of his shorts and eased the fabric down. He wriggled to free them.
America let go of his mouth, following the line of Britain's body with kisses down the bed and helped to discard the shorts, relegating them to a corner somewhere. He kissed his way back up slowly, lingering on the inside of Britain's knee, his inner thighs, his navel, then lathing each nipple softly with his tongue.
He was still fully dressed as he reached Britain's mouth. Shaking, Britain set about correcting that.
The grey shirt was far easy to remove - the buttons came apart freely, smoothly, and the belt of the trousers yielded to his much-practiced touch with ease. America's restless breathing dissolved to groans as he pushed his hands through the open fly, encircling his lover's swollen cock with both hands. He gripped firmly, sliding the black cotton of America's boxers rhythmically up and down his prick, earning himself a shudder. The groans tightened; America threw back his head.
"Britain - " He swallowed. The muscles in his throat visibly worked. "Steady..."
Britain's heart wrenched at the sight - his lover's face, tight with pleasure, with need. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, divesting America quickly of the rest of his clothes. They fell together in the bed sheets and kissed, rolling, shifting, panting as the full length of their bodies came together. Nothing in the world felt like this. Britain groaned, his eyes sliding shut as they ground slowly against each other, sharing breath now, two hearts hammering as they tried to reach each other.
For some time they kissed, moving together as the pleasure grew. At last, with a sharp-drawn breath and a deft show of strength, America knocked him gently onto his back.
As his lover finally parted his thighs, Britain fought not to come on the spot. He reached up to grip the headboard, hard, and forced himself not to think - not to feel the first careful caresses of those fingers, wet with oil - slowly parting him.
A tender kiss brushed his stomach. He looked down, panting. America was watching him along the length of his torso, the blue eyes satisfied.
"Better?"
"A-Ah, yes - " Britain's knuckles went white at the first firm push of fingers. "Fuck - …"
"Britain - "
"N-no - don't stop. Please don't stop."
America laid another kiss upon his taut stomach muscles. "Relax."
Britain swallowed hard. "P-Please. Feels good."
His lover nuzzled his way up Britain's torso, brushing his mouth across the shining expanse of his skin, as America's gentle fingers continued to ease their way in and out. As he reached Britain's mouth, America soothed his ragged whimpers with his tongue for a moment - then whispered against his lips, soft as a summer storm, "I love you, god I love you."
Britain screwed his eyes shut, feeling his heart boom in response. He could barely form words. He tightened his grip on the headboard. Three fingers now - deep and relentless.
"America - ..." he managed. "Oh, fuck - "
"Soon. Relax for me... breathe."
Britain swallowed hard, fighting to focus. With purpose, and with no small effort, he eased his white-knuckled grip on the headboard. His breath began to steady.
"Let me," America hushed against his jaw. He leaned down, flashing his tongue along Britain's neck and the curve of his shoulder. "You're safe."
The fingers inside began to thrust a little faster, a little firmer - a rhythm Britain knew well. A spike of pleasure seared its way up through his body. He felt it sizzle up his spine, across the nape of his neck, out through his shoulders to his fingertips, which trembled as they curled at the headboard.
"Now - ..." Britain swallowed, arching his hips off the bed. "Please - "
America's teeth gently grazed his earlobe. "Now?"
"Now!" he gasped. America shifted, reaching for a pillow with his free hand. Britain whimpered, tightening his hold on the headboard, and pleaded as the pillow was negotiated beneath his hips. America's hands ghosted along his thighs, sure and strong, guiding them up to wrap around his waist. Britain panted, desperate. He felt empty; he felt open.
The first few seconds - blinding white, pleasure and pain in perfect balance - America's hissed exultation against his throat, and his own gasps, sharp and fast - through it all, the gentle grip of hands upon his thighs. The pain began to ebb, easing its hold with each hammer-blow of his heart. Britain opened his eyes, unsure when he'd closed them. He found America gazing fiercely into his face.
He swallowed, full of fire; the blue irises blazed back at him.
"Are you alright?" America managed. A tremor as fine as a silk thread was thrumming just under his skin, through the chest muscles that pinned Britain in place.
"Yes - I-I'm fine…" He tightened his thighs about his lover's waist, weak. "I - I need - "
"I know." America shuddered, stroking a kiss across his open lips. "I need, too..."
He began to move. Britain's eyes rolled back into his head, overcome, and holy fuck, how could this feel so good? Why did they not spend every second from dusk until dawn every night doing this? His head dropped back into the pillow with a flump. A groan wrenched itself from his throat.
"Oh..." His eyes faded out of focus. "Fuck, America…"
His lover gave a soft intake of breath. "God, if that doesn't make me feel alive… my name, like that in your mouth..."
Britain jerked with a cry, as a thrust slid sharp and deep. He gripped America harder with his thighs. "Oh - ..."
"Britain," America breathed. His teeth scraped Britain's lower lip, caught it and tugged.
"God…" Britain's head fell back once more. The muscles in his throat seized as he swallowed. America followed them with his mouth, brushing, stroking. "Don't tease me," Britain begged. "Just - please... fuck me."
"I will finish you," America breathed in his ear. A thrill went skittering down Britain's spine, shivering out across into the tight white coils of pleasure now rising higher with every stroke. "Now close your eyes - let me care for you."
Britain's eyes flickered shut. He stretched back his head, surrendering the final scraps of thought to his lover's control, and lost himself in the feel of America's weight between his thighs, the pressure inside, the tender mouth doting to every sensitive spot on his neck.
They fucked slow and steady. Time unwound around them. He stopped caring if he slept. It didn't matter, so long as there was this - always this.
Sleep was not as important and could compare to the feel of lacing his fingers into America's damp hair, listening to his lover breathe in the rush of his afterglow. Nothing was like forgetting his own name, feeling those fingers digging carefully into his hips, or America whispering into his ear about how he was beautiful and loved.
For a long time afterwards, they lay together in the quiet. Somewhere outside of Britain's fuzzy, sex-soaked consciousness, a clock was slowly ticking. He stirred in America's arms, responding with a sigh to the lips that leaned for his own. They kissed - slow and steady, full of love. Britain's mind began to fog.
At last he slept, no longer alone, but in the hold of his warm and naked lover.
Don't forget to review and fav the story if you liked it! I worked so hard and this is my first serious fanfic :3