'Every day the world goes faster,
turning faster than it seems.'
"So, why exactly did
you bring me up here?" America asked as he poked his head out
and looked around at the London rooftop.
"No real reason." England replied, reaching down a hand to help the younger nation on to the roof, "Y're a guest; I should show you 'round." Once America was on the roof, he dusted himself off, then looked around. A soft 'wow' escaped his lips as he surveyed the skyline. In the distance, America could see Big Ben, the London Eye, and just the tops of the Tower Bridge. For once, the sky was clear blue, and a soft breeze stirred his hair. "Whot's it?" England asked as he came to stand beside the younger nation. This wasn't a spectacle for Britain; he saw it everyday.
"I never knew it was so bloody beautiful here." America hushed, still staring, "I'll have to come over more often." The UK began to steadily grow scarlet.
"I-I never considered London beautiful," He replied, "Even the countryside is quaint at best." America gave him a funny look. "Well, 's true." England stuffed his hands into his pockets, "'S not like I've got mount'ns 'nd desr'ts and...and..."
"Amber waves of grain?" The younger nation offered, running a hand through his hair.
"Yeah." England muttered, "You've got all that 'nd more." He nodded toward the bustling city, "All I've got's this." The next statement was so soft the the Briton himself almost didn't hear it. "Wish my house was beautiful as yours." To his embarrassment, America did hear him.
"Are you mad?" The younger nation shouted, grabbing the elder by the shoulders and pulling him close before staring at the skyline again, "Who ever saw that and didn't think it was simply perfect beauty would have to be daft!" Then America pressed close against him and ran his gentle fingers down England's hot cheek. "You're so beautiful." America whispered in his ear before leaving a trail of light kisses on England's hot cheeks.
"A-America, I--" England never got to finish his sentence as the younger nation's lips smothered his. He made a little noise of surprise but couldn't say that he didn't enjoy it. The elder nation pressed back and could feel America's lips curl up in a little smile. England felt America's tongue press against his lips which he parted in a small moan as America's busy hands began unbuttoning his shirt, "England," The younger moaned, running his hands over England's chest, "England..."
---
"England!" America hissed, shaking the UK awake.
"Whazzit?" England slurred, struggling to untangle from his bedsheets. He glanced at his alarm clock; it was almost three in the morning, and the familiar sound of rain whispered in his ears. "Whadya want?" England eventually glared at the nation by his bedside in stars and stripes boxers with a blanket draped over his shoulders.
"The-The woman," America whispered, pointing to England's open bedroom door, obviously referring to something in his own room, "I saw I a woman in a raindrop." England instantly froze. "She had long white hair and-and see-through skin and the bluest eyes I've ever seen...I think your house is haunted." America whimpered, pulling the blanket around himself.
"You saw a faery?" England gasped; he was halfway out of bed before America shot him down.
"Don't be silly, England," He laughed, "It was a ghost, I should know." After glancing over his shoulders, America whined, "Can I sleep with you?"
England was immediately thankful for the darkness so America couldn't see the flush spreading over his face. "S-Sure." He replied gruffly, shuffling over in the bed. England promptly rolled onto his side to face the far wall rather than the blue-eyed blonde coming to lay beside him. England was immobile as a pair of arms wrapped around his midsection.
"Thanks, England." America murmured as he snuggled closer than the UK thought was physically possible and nuzzled into his shoulder. "You're wonderful." England could hear and feel the American's slow, deep breaths and knew he was asleep. The elder turned his head as much as he could and pressed a chaste kiss onto the small amount of the nation's forehead that he could reach and sighed softly. America: his land of opportunity, the country of his dreams.
'Let's not talk about tomorrow, leave me here on the street of dreams.'