Shudder
London is burning.
England tears through the building he is in - the machinery around him and the faraway screams of women informing the back of his mind that it is a dressmaker's workshop, but most of him doesn't care. The stairs are on the opposite side of the building, all he cares about is getting across the collapsing wooden floor before the collapsing wooden ceiling falls on him and the collapsing wooden stairs burn down and he is there and he is collapsing but there isn't another story below him but fire, fire, fire -
Breath quick, his eyes pop open and he is face down in his camp pillow, heart hammering his scratchy nylon cot and single blanket sweat sticky. He shudders and rolls over, throwing off the too hot cover and sitting up, trying to clear his head of sleep and impressions of flames.
That dream doesn't come often, but war always makes it worse. England isn't even sure why he is terrified of fire - not the sleepy campfire or the peaceful hearthside, mind you, but the fire that comes from the idle wayward spark that travels like wildfire through old wood and tar, up the stairs and out the windows in uncontrollable sheets, like the plague -
He shudders again and pulls his knees to his chest, trying to get the image out of his head. This is ridiculous. He is the once-great British Empire, conqueror, pirate, soldier, sometimes peacemaker, engineer, industrialist -
That must be it, then. Industry. He never had the dream before the Revolution, as they called it (does that make him a revolutionary, too?), with its enormous progress and technological innovations and unconcern for people's safety and explosive accidents and child labor and hush hush and all. Who would've thought something he began would change the world so much and still give him nightmares?
The plastic window in his tent shines starlight as he climbs off his cot, not even really thinking as his feet lead him away from his dream London towards... somewhere. He doesn't care where, just away from his bed, from the recesses of his mind. He trusts his feet to take him where he needs to go. They have never led him wrong before.
He carefully avoids any known campfire, not wanting to stir up anything this late, as he pads behind the sleeping but allied forces, staying in the starshade of the French countryside. It is unusually warm for a September night, which isn't helping England's body temperature as he he sneaks along - why he is sneaking he still doesn't know, but he doesn't care any more than his feet want to tell him where they are taking him.
He is barely mildly surprised to find his feet stopping at America's sleeping form. The idiot hero had wanted to sleep under the stars that night, so England is standing with his back to the Black Forest on the outskirts of the camp, staring down at a sprawling snoring drooling sleeping dreamless America. He isn't sure how another body will make his fever better, but it's worth a shot.
He crouches down and stares at the open-mouthed teenager for a moment. Sleep makes him look peaceful, as the cliche dictates. Boisterous naivete falls away to clear calm, and it is tan and lovely. He doesn't belong here.
A soft stroke to the cheek is enough to begin to set America's senses awake. He blinks a few times and rubs his eyes with fists. "Englan'?" His voice is sleep scratchy. England smiles, and America tries to sit himself up, not noticing the knot the blanket has made with his legs. "Whatcha doin' here?"
"I couldn't sleep." Tiny bits of hard dirt dig into the balls of his feet as he shifts in his crouch, biting his lip nervously before he remembers this is America, his old younger brother and his only real friend despite everything. "I had a nightmare."
Nothing else is needed. Before he has even finished speaking America is sliding over in his one-person cot, giving England precious inches as he lifts his arm and the blanket to let England in. He doesn't bother with gratitude, but slides in carefully under the arm and lets America hold him, wrapping his own arms around America's abdomen. He is warm, too warm, again, but he tells himself it is in a god way, it is, because it's America and he doesn't hurt him, not anymore-
He is gasping like a fish when a startled, still sleepy America pulls away a little and looks down at his new bedmate in surprise. "That must've been some dream," he jokes with a bleary grin as he reaches up to smooth England's sweat damp hair from his forehead. He frowns. "You're burning up."
England flinches at the statement, although America's hand on his forehead is utter cool bliss. He closes his eyes and leans into the hand, which has shifted to the side of his face. "Please don't say burning," he says hoarsely, raspily, his throat and mouth dry as a desert.
Another cool hand worms its way out from under England's body where it has been holding him to rest on his other cheek. England sighs, his mouth turning up into a small smile.
"Arthur." The concern in America's voice, combined with his human name, makes England start and open his eyes. America's eyes are wide awake and worried, his eyebrows drawn together in a slight frown. "Something's wrong."
England knows better than to try and deny it, but he still isn't sure how to explain. "It's silly," he stalls, fighting against the urge to lose himself, both to sleep and America's eyes. He shifts a leg to the top of the blanket and feels immediately better. America doesn't notice, too focused on the heat of England's face that is rapidly turning his palms sweaty and lukewarm. He moves them down to England's jaw, the sides of his neck, and it is like ice and heaven rolled into one and it feels so amazing and oh don't stop-
"I'm sure it's not." England's eyelids have fallen to half-mast as he considers the best way to phrase his dreams, his nightmares, his relatively new-found horror.
"I keep having this dream," he starts slowly, staring at America's shirt. Blue and white stripes, but torn and dirty and wrinkled. Typical. "It's back in the eighteen hundreds - the Industrial Revolution, you know - and I'm caught in a burning factory in London and I can't get out, and when I finally reach the stairs or a window or something the floor crumbles and I'm falling, falling into fire... and then I wake up." He buries his face in the torn dirty wrinkled shirt and waits, comforting himself with America's slow and steady breathing and his smell of apples and gunpowder and cake, inhaling bits of cotton as he waits.
America doesn't say anything. His hands slide over England's shirt (pale green and bland and almost perfect. Also typical) to hug him close, chin on his head and legs softly wrapping around the one of England's still under the blanket. He just holds him for a minute, letting the quiet outdoors soothe both of them. America hums idly, tracing nonsense patterns on his back with several fingers. England's breathing calms down again.
"It's definitely not silly," he finally mutters into his hair. England grunts and pulls America closer, wanting to lose himself again and forget about everything. His fear-induced fever won't let him.
America seems to understand him just as perfectly as he always secretly does and lets him breathe, just breathe; his eyes closed as he enjoys the presence plastered to his front, albeit the presence is far too warm for his physical and emotional comfort.
Acting on an instinct, America throws off the blanket covering the two and lets it pile on itself in the half grass half dirt behind his back. England shivers and sighs, his death grip loosening somewhat as he relaxes into the embrace at last. He's almost asleep when America's voice from over his head mumbles, "War probably doesn't help." England jerks, and America jerks, too; he might not have known England was not yet asleep. He looks up at America again to see understanding and sympathy and care and carefully concealed love all in a glance. He knows his eyes speak of fear and shock and amazement and barely concealed love as well, and he wants to say so many things beginning with 'I' and ending in 'you' but he's not quite sure, he's never sure, and they're in a war and this couldn't happen and why is he looking at England that way, he has to know it has him fall apart inside-
"No, it doesn't," is all he can choke out. America, however, can read beyond between the lines and the corners of his eyes crinkle in an invisible smile. A grin isn't appropriate.
America shifts uncomfortably, taking a precious inch from England and winces as the metal bar on the frame of the army cot digs into his back. Suddenly England realizes he has been taking more than his share of the bed and slide back to the bar. America sighs as he settles into a slightly more comfortable position- as comfortable as you can be with two people on three feet of suspended nylon.
A glint and a smirk is the only warning England has before he is pulled forward onto America's chest and he slides to the middle and he is on top of America. He looks down at him in surprise. They're beyond being embarrassed by now. "That's better, isn't it?"
"I don't want to crush you," England retorts, trying to shift off, but America holds him close.
"You don't weight a thing, England, it's okay." It's a truth. England can feel that America's slow steady breathing has barely been touched by the addition of his weight. America frowns again; he runs fingers over ribs. "You should eat more."
"It's rather difficult when you're on ration," England somewhat sneers, shuddering under America's cool touch. He reaches back and directs the coldbringers under the cotton to his skin and breathes in deeply, loudly, all hidden images of fire gone as America rubs up and down in small circles, ghosting over muscles and an overexposed spine. He buries his face in America's neck, the air around his hitting his newly exposed skin like a fall in a snowbank as America's fingers circle higher to his shoulders and he doesn't want him to ever stop-
America stops and slides his hands back down slowly, dragging the shirt with him. "Go to sleep, England." England whines, trying to move America's icicle hands back but America ignores him, resting them on the small of his back instead and staying there, closing his eyes and nuzzling into England's temple, sighing with a smile. "G'night, love." He turns his head slightly and presses his lips to his forehead for a long moment.
England gives up his useless fight for more touching and does his best to settle into America. "Night." He yawns into his collarbone, making America chuckle slightly.
"Nothing's gonna happen to you, I promise," America's voice tells a half gone England. He smiles as he drifts off at last into a dreamless sleep full of apples.
In the back of his mind, it is raining in London.
Random ideas at 3 in the morning are awesome.