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Title : On That Steep Hillside, Covered in Grasses and Wild Flowers
Author : DnKS-giRLs
Rating : G
Character(s)/Pairing(s) : America and England
Disclaimers : The characters involved in this story do not belong to us, nor do they have any connection to real nation(s). No infringement intended.
Warning : None that we can think of but we do apologize in advance should you find any grammatical/logical error in this fic.
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It was on that steep hillside, covered in grasses and wild flowers, that America first experienced the sensation of flying. It was there he first experienced the feeling of wind against his face, blowing his hair and taking his voice as he laughed in joy, in amazement, in satisfaction. And he was soaring free, blue sky so very high atop his head and the vast expanse of green grass under his feet.
There was no plane supporting him, no hard concrete of steel under him, merely a pair of hands holding him close to a warm and sturdy chest. And he knew, should he gaze upward, he would see a pair of eyes as green as the grasses below his feet, as gentle and as calm. And there would be a smile, perhaps even a chuckle, or in several occasions a full out laughter when he spread his arms wide, grinning, telling that person whose arms were holding him.
"Look, England, I'm flying!"
Hundreds of years had passed from that time. And America could fly, really fly, then. He built his planes, he built his dream. And when he soared to the sky, his mind would remember that hillside over and over again. He would remember the way England carried him in his arms as he was running down the hill, making him feel as if he was flying, as if he was floating in the air.
The next time he and England were in the general vicinity of that particular hillside, he asked him to go there with him. He dragged him to that place. He would never accept any 'no' as he took the other's hand and pulled him along. And how England fought, how he refused, and how he yelled obscenities at him. But he kept his clasp around that wrist firm, he kept his grin intact, and whenever England demanded to know 'just what the hell do you think you are doing, idiot?' he would answer him.
"Taking you fly with me, that's what."
And they arrived at that hillside and England was silent for a moment as he finally realized just where they were currently standing on. Old memories definitely surfaced again in his mind, America was sure, for he too experienced the very same thing at that moment. That hillside was without doubt a memorable place for them both.
Then England had his eyes narrowed at him and he knew it was the beginning of an angry tirade, trademarked to the one and only person in front of him. But he would have none of that. He had a far more important thing to do; he still needed to take him fly. And no matter how England frowned at him, no matter how England scowled at him, no matter how England glared at him, he would still take him fly with him.
He was America, and he would always fulfill his words.
He took the still-frowning man into his arms, scooped him up until he had his arms under England's knees and shoulder. He held him close to his chest, minding not the sputtering words England was sprouting in his arms. He took his stance and with a loud shout he charged forwards.
He ran down that steep hill with England in his arms. Memories from years before assaulted him as the wind attacked his face and hair. Long ago, so very long ago it seemed, it was England who had hold him close to his chest as he carried him down the hill. Long ago, it was England who taught him the pleasure of flying. Long ago, it was England who made him realize that the only reason why he found the green grass under his feet as beautiful was only because the color reminded him of those eyes he loved so much.
And America found, when he looked downward, that the grass under their feet was still as green as what he remembered and England's eyes were still as beautiful as ever.
"Look, England," he called cheerfully, gazing right into those eyes. "You're flying!"
He felt like he heard something amidst the sound of wind whizzing past his ears—a snort, a chuckle, laughter? He felt like he saw something on England's expression—exasperation, amusement, gratitude? And he felt something, certainly there was something, bubbling in his heart—pride, happiness, satisfaction?
They reached the bottom of the hill, stumbled and fell in an unceremonious heap. But America was laughing. And England was laughing too. Sure, there were blades of grasses and dirt on their hair, on their shirts, on their faces. But he could never care less. Sure, his limbs were a bit sore after his falling on the bottom of the hill. But he could never care less.
He turned his face to the side, facing his companion, his England, and grinned.
"Told you I'd take you flying with me."
It was definitely a chuckle he heard, then, when England reached his hand forward. It was definitely amusement he saw on England's face when he felt him plucking some leaves stuck in his hair. And it was definitely happiness he felt in his heart when England told him.
"You git."
His laughter came unbidden and with putting no thought on how his shirt might be soiled by his act, America leaned back until his whole back was rested on the soft blanket of green grass. There was the blue sky above him, the green grass under him, and England beside him. Hundreds of years had come and gone but the sky was still as blue, the grass under their feet was still as green, and England, his England, was still there for him.
Hundreds of years before, on that steep hillside, England had taught him how to fly. And hundreds of years from then, America knew, he would still think of that hillside, of the blue sky and green grass, of England, whenever he took his flight.
End
(A/N: a short fic this time, but like always, some reviews would be very much appreciated. Thank you for reading, hope you had a nice read.)