s t a r g a z i n g
Idealism is what precedes experience,
cynicism is what follows.
- David Wolf
x.
{ g o s a n g o k u }
x.
rating – m
pairing – us/uk
genres – romance, hurt/comfort, angst
warnings – personified countries, sexual content, hints at self harm
x.
America was still his colony when they had first watched the stars together. The first time, he was enveloped in England's protective, possessive arms and clutched close to his bandaged chest. Being very young at the time, the colony had scarcely even wondered if any blood would soak through from the fresh wounds to stain his clothes, and for that England was glad; the British Empire was not to show weakness, even to the colony he knew he shouldn't be so attached to.
Stargazing had always brought out the idealist in his dearest little America. England thought it both endearing and treacherous to depend upon optimistic ideas and often advised the boy against planning to live off of the stars that lingered in his mind after staring at the sky for hours on end. But the child with blue eyes that reflected the morning sky thrived off the night as well, enamoured with stargazing and hoping, wishing that they will ensure his dreams to be fulfilled.
England thought him a fool, thought him to be what he once was – a clueless, oblivious little fool, with bright eyes and a beautiful smile.
His own smile was ugly with rue and his eyes dull with resignition. He didn't want to live to see America become his reflection. So he wished on a star that his precious colony may be unlike him – forever innocent, not tainted by time, not abused by those he loved; a successful lad with big dreams that will grow every day.
He wished for America for he was still a hopeless fool.
x.Stargazing was now an activity that America oft performed alone. He had made it to the stars as he had once vowed and had built upon it since, for a dreamer's dreams are never fulfilled wholly.
But sometimes, on rare occasions nowadays, the blue eyed wonder materialised around him, the arms that had long since outgrown his former caretaker's encasing him completely, although he never stayed for long. The stars were always in the sky and they were either outside in warm summer nights, surrounded by fireflies and saturated purple dusk with glimmering stars lingering behind polluted clouds, or they were inside during cold winters, disguised beneath the blankets but with open curtains to allow the moon and the stars to witness them making love beneath the sky.
England felt as if he was being watched by the entire world when he stared into America's eyes, allowing shallow gasps and reluctantly wanton moans to escape from his parted lips that, like stars, disappeared into the sky. The blazing azure was forever intense, somehow appearing to hold a larger expanse than the firmament itself, plagued by both angelic beings and darker ghosts that haunted him after his long, long history that England occasionally forgot he possessed.
They never spoke. He wished he could claim it was because they didn't need to – because they were already assured of one another's feelings, because they whispered silent sweet nothings through desparate kisses and breathy sighs. But he would be lying. He had no idea what America felt and the young fool was probably in the same position, no pun intended. Perhaps it was better, not knowing. For England had no idea how he would cope were America to confess that he imagined making love to someone else, someone who wasn't England, someone he loved...
"Kiss me," he gasped suddenly, voice hoarse and strained and he was glad that he could blame how pained he sounded on the larger man being embedded within him. His eyes stung and his throat constricted as he repressed the feelings that he saved for when he was alone, when the old worn library books would accept his tears on aged print that never faded away, words that would remain infamous throughout history, unlike the thoughts of dear America that he never allowed escape.
When America left the cage, soaring like the eagle he was, the memories and thoughts remained, and England worsened it by collecting the younger nation's bloodied feathers to keep as his treasures. He was a sick old man. A sick, old, loveless man.
America appeared astonished, but the look dissolved swiftly; the spark in the electrifying blue eyes dissipating as he gave way and lowered his lips onto England's. He couldn't define their kisses. They feigned nonchalance, and both were darn good actors. But he couldn't deny that every time their lips touched or their eyes met, he felt like breaking down, drowning himself in alcohol and pain killers and kitchen knives and oh, that was the cat–
They were soft. Hesitant, anxious, questioning. Perhaps America was disgusted. Following his Civil War, homophobia had been strong inside a part of him, no matter how openminded he was. Land of the free, indeed. America thought himself to be free after... after he had left England crying and trembling under the cascading rain. But no. No, none of them would ever be free. No matter how many wars, battles, or revolutions, they would remain tied down to their duties, their statuses as immortal excuses for humans...
America tasted bitter, a far cry from his faux jubilant demeanour that England denied himself believing in; he couldn't face the pretend smile, the facade of happiness and stupidity, when the same man the others pegged as an idiot deflowered him and took him, and he did the same, when he had manipulated England and when England has done the same years ago. But if he ever told the younger nation how comparable they were, America might just grow to loathe him more.
He didn't want to be hated by the one he secretly loved.
"Alfred," he breathed, small, a sigh, as he reached his climax, oddly despondent for the finale of what people referred to as love making. He wanted to label it as such, but he wondered what it truly was; the kisses were filled with emotions, but hidden ones, and there were no pleas for more or gentle soothing condolences, no I love yous...
And so, whenever they released together, he looked straight into America's beautiful blue eyes and thought, Alfred, I love you...
They held each other afterwards, clinging to each other, a tight formation of entangled limbs, intertwined fingers fearing letting go, and they breathed. They never spoke, just breathed, just thought, questioned, wondered.
And England... England stargazed.
He gazed into America's eyes, the ones that probably looked at him and imagined someone else, and saw the stars in them. But instead of wishing to be loved by him, he still wished for America's happiness.
Then he buried his face into the other man's torso, eyes fluttering shut to restrain the tears, and scolded himself for falling so deeply for one he couldn't have.
x.Axis Powers Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya. Next time I vow to write a story from America's perspective... I suppose I just prefer England hurting rather than America. I'm so mean... but I really don't like America being in any kind of pain. * America is an idealist. England is a cynicist. Opposites may attract, but also might misinterpret one another... excessively. I'm going to be honest here and say I don't know what I'm saying; I can write pages for essays in which emotions aren't involved, but I'm so out of tune with them that I just... come up with something like this. I'm hopeless with feelings. I feel hopeless a lot. I guess I'm pretty cynical too. Sorry if this sounds depressing at all. ;; I have a storm cloud stalking me at present and I don't use an umbrella, so I'm just letting it rain on me and inspire me to write. Also, the wishes England makes... Well, you could argue that he would be selfish and wish for his Empire days back or wish for America's love, but if I'm honest I based him a bit off of me in this. I shouldn't, but... I perceive these wishes as selfish. I wish for other peoples' happiness, but it's really because it hurts me to see others unhappy. I'm really a very selfish person. ...And angsty. Excuse me now. I'm going to make some tea.