[i]"You used to be...[/i]
Used to be many things.
Dry.
Dry witted.
He has still retained his bitter sense of ironic humor, but in England's house, what is dry when there is damp? He cannot remember a decade where he was truly without moisture lurking in at least one, vaguely saturated, discolored patch of his home. Drafts whip his draperies and molds cultivate on the inner supports of aged walls so that once in a great while, sections go down as others must rise. From time to time, he rebuilds. From rebuild to rebuild, he sometimes feels he only wastes time.
In the dining hall, just recently, a table, elegantly carved, crafted, and oh so beautifully old, must be replaced by another not quite as worn and to England, lacking just that last few centuries of experience to truly be considered 'vintage'.
Here, the sun may occasionally shine, but its light does not pervade every corner and England still murmurs about the leaks in his ceiling.
His bed linens are miraculously untouched until the night comes. Then, he doffs his shoes, a hat if he was so inclined to wear one, and takes up the mantle of sleep where the moisture has been kept out. Here, it is dry again. Between his sheets, he can rest without drowning in torrential rains of idiocy, the corrupt, the peculiarities and arguments swirling in that whorehouse of foreign affairs.
Unfair, perhaps, to consider it as such, but he has two bottles of something at his bedside table tonight he vaguely recalls are from France. Possibly confiscated, or a gift grudgingly accepted if only to keep the peace and nurture the distance. Beneficially, coveting another darling of a glass would muddle the thought further, any thoughts really; France's irritating face would ripple away- for the next eight or so odd hours of the night.
Unfair to himself to sport the results the morning after however, and honestly, he preferred his dignity in tact.
God help him- it was difficult.
He bore no considerable ill will toward any of the powers. And was the meetinghouse so much of a red light district or was it merely a parlor painted rosy hues simply for the fact that some few members –namely France- regularly made it a habit to disrupt and disturb?
England watches the night go down. He stares out at the expansive view beyond his window and watches, peeks through his lashes from beneath his lids and watches it still as it deepens. Above him, he can just barely catch the hazy twinkling of what might be fairy dust or sleeping sand spread about the room.
England sleeps in a damp house, swims in a Thames of Tradition and Propriety but as he drifts, his esophagus closes. It scratches, it squeezes.
It is so very dry.
---
[i]"I always thought you were..."[/i]
Right. If it is on certain matters - for example, the supernatural, England would argue- his country simply knows. Or they have the capacity to know. Like any rational human being, his brain contains innumerable creases and in these crevices, he holds and hides and covets so much. Thoughts have a taste to them. And taste, to Homo sapien, was so easy to recall.
History, to be honest, is the leaves flavoring his tea, because when he sips, he revels and he pontificates on the blend of time and memories. Some are old, some soothing, and some disgustingly bitter like America's coffee.
Coffee has a deceptive aroma, promising and enticing but it is the taste- disgusting stuff- that burns and perturbs.
England has tasted much of the world.
His tea swirls in the cup that clinks lightly, china on china saucer, when he puts it down.
"-So then I picked it up and I was reading this newspaper of yours, you know? And I was sitting down just like I am now, right? Looking through the sports section. I took a huge gulp of my drink, you know? And I totally forgot that you guys don't do the whole ice thing and I seriously ended up-"
England responds with something appropriate that sends America, predictably, into a hot blooded tirade of how - if ice was really necessary, and of course it was- the obvious action to remedy such a deficiency would be to borrow some from Russia.
"Or Alaska," Was America's enthused suggestion after the second clink of cup on saucer became the first clunk of cup on table. "Or somewhere else. The [i]point[/i] is-"
England's throat is hot, stuffy and aggravated. He looks at the newspaper smashed beneath America's palm and laments its unfortunate mishandling. Briefly. An article has snagged his focus for a good long while so that as his half-grudgingly chosen drinking companion rants with vigorous, jovial thumps on the table, England can sail blessedly undisturbed through it all.
Inflation plummeting. Recession. Rising and falling. It feels like his adam's apple moves with the tide of the printed word. [i]That's good.[/i] [i]That's bad[/i].
That's America exuberantly indicating one of his making it into the Observer- for some purpose or another, England does not want to know. Or, rather, he already knows and he just does not want to [i]know[/i].
His teacup clatters something fierce against the table again and America miraculously ceases talking long enough to lift an inquiring brow and cock his thin-lipped mouth into some strange expression resembling concern.
How odd.
"You're not looking too well, England- you need to lie down or someth-?"
"No. No I do not."
America looks unconvinced. "Yeah. Okay. Suuure."
Gritting teeth against the overwhelming urge to hack, England merely picks up his drink again and finds it empty. The tea has not soothed his throat and the beer that America consumes [i]almost[/i] looks inviting. Fraternizing with America, for now, must prove distraction enough. "Honestly- do mind your own business. Now, what on earth were you trying to get at with this 'natural' energy nonsense? I believe we have already discussed this many times over."
"Ehh, that doesn't really matter. And anyway, I've already read this." America smacks the paper again, plants a hand on England's shoulder and says quite proudly. "Did you know that we totally kicked Germany's ass? Top generator of natural wind power in the [i]world[/i]. I'm telling you, Artie, we're not that far behind in solar either. Hell, if we can just manage to find a way to keep the sun up longer or- or build some sort of giant wind tunnel-!...Who knows? Nothing's impossible when it's for the sake of justice, right?"
"I have yet to see how this correlates with your previous topic of iceburgs."
America's blue eyes get hooded behind his spectacles. His brows crease with the weight of realization. "You haven't been listening to anything I've been saying, have you?"
"How can I? You change topics like you change your [i]clothing[/i]."
England politely picks up his empty cup and presses it against his lips, mildly hoping he might detect a lingering droplet on its rim. Conversely, the lager is persistently golden, foamed, and flowing down America's impressive gullet. He does, in fact, take a swig right in front of his matron- [i]patron[/i], that individual England had been in the long since past- then slams it down.
"Now look, I didn't come here to argue with you. I came because- well... you know, I do like to argue with you, but I don't like to [i]argue[/i]. We're just here for some time out, right? So why don't we toast to something and you can tell me all about...huh, that problem you've been having."
"Which [i]one?[/i]?" Is hissed, but America raises his mug regardless, raising his eyebrows too and just about everything else on his person. He's standing with one leg on the arm of the chair as though he has set claim to its borders. Strands of wild hair are straying from his head, swaying with his flight jacket in a breeze that does not, so far as England can feel, exist.
Theatrical twat.
"I, America, am pledging that in the name of truth and justice, I will attempt not to harass one Mr. Arthur Kirkland for as long as I have beer in my glass."
"How generous of you."
With a charming opalescent set of teeth, the fool sets to grinning and swipes the tart that has distinctly been set for the individual who is not [i]him[/i]. "I know." Drips berries and cream, but England disregards the impulse to wipe it away and sighs. He casts a dismissive glance at his empty cup and thinks about how similar it is to so many aspects of life.
It is not full, half full or half empty.
And really- America- that metaphor is ridiculous anyway.
*x posted to the LJ comm. But posted here to expand upon Hetalia's fic count. Spread the love everyone~.