I suppose you could call this the companion and counterpart of The Rain, Again, though this isn't a songfic (unless you want it to be, of course). While this is hopefully less purple-prosed, it definitely has plenty of Soggy Fluff™, because that's the best kind of fluff around.
America blinked lazily at the sun setting slowly over Lake Erie, feeling the itchy warmth of water evaporating off his sand-dusted skin, the whisper of dying winds threading through his hair, and the soft susurrus of the evening waves rolling up the shore.
Somewhere behind him sat a mildly sunburned England in an ancient black inner-tube America had found earlier, a rain-umbrella near to hand because he seemed to have no comprehension of a day at the beach without an unexpected shower. Without looking, America knew he'd be leaning on one hand and reading some decrepit old book or another in clear violation of what was proper beach-reading material (a Greek letter in the title was mandatory, for one, with a word like "protocol" or "initiative").
It was, frankly, an endless moment of endless peace.
America sighed, and wondered where it had all gone wrong.
~o~
They'd arrived at America's personal beach in mid-morning, as the water began to warm and the heat and humidity was just beginning to make themselves felt.
Getting England to relax had been a bit of a trial, since the guy seemed to have a spine left over from the 1880s and enough work-created tension to suspend a bridge, but it hadn't been all that difficult in the end. America had the distinct feeling England wouldn't have allowed his kidnapping if at some level he didn't want to play hooky from his duties and be thoroughly cheered up.
England had attempted to make out the blurry line on the horizon that America swore was Canada, all the while with that peculiarly English expression that said quite clearly that the owner thought his chain was being thoroughly yanked (or in Englandese, having the piss taken out of him) but was too polite to call him out on it. America just grinned and told him with deadly seriousness about the vast plagues of mayflies that swarmed every spring and died, leaving ankle-deep drifts of carcasses to crunch and stink underfoot.
He kind of wished he could have taken a picture of the face he'd gotten then, the slow shift from dubiousness into complete, horrified incredulity.
He'd gone on to collect interestingly-shaped rocks and spotted sea-glass gleaming bright against the dark sand, all of which was swiftly plundered by a foul pirate with a rakish smile, a gull feather in his hair, and an equally bright gleam in his eye.
"Old habits die hard," the pirate said apologetically, not looking very apologetic at all as he dodged the wet sand America in turn 'accidentally' kicked his way.
To guard the treasure they constructed a vast sand fortress, their respective flags waving proudly at its towers—before England elbowed him aside, grumbling about making the battlements more historically accurate and militarily advantageous. America just laughed and went to go make miniature buckets of hot oil to pour on attackers.
After the sandcastle finally surrendered to entropy and dissolved back into the waves, they'd taken the jet-ski out for a spin, and while America insisted he hadn't meant it quite so literally, that wasn't very convincing when he'd taken a turn too fast and flipped them both into the water.
They'd gone swimming a few times, England with that slightly surprised expression he always got when he hit the water and discovered that yes, something that large was fresh water (for a given value of fresh, anyway). America had valiantly protected him from the vicious zebra mussels or poisonous water snakes or krakens or whatever the heck it was that just slid over his foot, England had rolled his eyes, America had flicked water at him for his ungratefulness, and the splash fight that ensued could have capsized one of the coal barges they saw on the horizon. America had reach and strength, but England had the flexibility and speed of a freakin' dolphin—or, knowing him, a shark—and in the end they had to call a truce and flop, panting, on the shore.
That moment lingered in his mind for reasons he wasn't entirely certain of, but already he was sure it was one of those instants that remained in memory for years if not centuries. Even hours later it was as clear as if it happened mere seconds ago: the world washed warm and soft and bright by afternoon sun, the sounds of his own helpless guffaws echoing back at him as England turned to look at him, wet sand and muck smeared up one side of his face, lake-weed caught in his eyebrows, hair gone dark and flat and soaked but eyes brighter for it. He'd laughed too, then, not loud and carelessly like America did or in the biting tones of his got-you-at-sword-point chuckle, but in the soft, silent puffs of air from an open-mouthed smile that was his true laugh, eyes crinkling and face relaxing in a way that made you realize only then how tense he'd been before.
It had been…nice. Yeah. Nice.
~o~
Now America lounged on his beach towel as sunlight soaked into his bones, the only sounds in his ears the gentle crash of waves and the slight rustle of pages turning, and he was almost, well, content.
And that meant everything was wrong.
Because, you see, America was not bored.
America was utterly, unnervingly, inexplicably not bored.
And that was seriously uncool.
~o~
It was weird—wait, no. America himself was all kinds of weird, and that was totally fine. These days certain types of weird were even cool.
No, this was freaky, like in those Japanese horror films he couldn't help but watch where there was just one little thing off, one camera angle or clue or whatever niggling at the back of your mind, and you looked around desperately because you just knew something horrible was about to happen. Since this usually ended up with a wet girl in pajamas trying to claw his face off, America thought it completely understandable that he found this sensation unbalancing.
So here he was, continuing to mentally glance up in expectation of the other shoe to drop and hit him on the head cleat-first. In the peculiar, amiably irritated musical chord of his and England's peculiar, amiably irritated relationship, the not-being-bored was the equivalent of the one dissonant note turning a major chord into a minor, normalness to weirdness.
He sighed, only a trifle melodramatically. He just wished it was a minor annoyance too.
Because America knew how he worked, okay? He strolled through life, tasting a little here and dabbling a little there, never stopping because frankly nothing interested him for long. His hunger was infinite, and he constantly nibbled, finding what he liked, gorging himself and tiring of the flavor almost as soon as he found a new favorite. He fidgeted as a matter of course.
He'd get the newest video game or disgustingly delicious food or a scandal would hit the news, and he'd be entertained, yes, focused with a single-minded intensity on that and nothing else—but before long he'd lose interest, and whatever it was would slip out of his hands and carelessly fall to the ground, perhaps to be picked up again, perhaps not. His attention would wander elsewhere, and in his grasp would appear something else for his perusal almost without conscious effort, like the absent-minded pick-pocketing of a criminal on vacation.
He'd travel to foreign places and exotic locales, but as a tourist, nothing more. If he wasn't tied to his land and his people, he had the distinctive feeling he'd be a lifelong hitchhiker.
Hell, he'd invented the mosey himself.
~o~
America was the kind of person who'd take apart the universe just to see how it worked, then—curiosity satisfied—leave it in pieces and bounce off to take apart something else.
It was his greatest asset and his worst flaw, he knew. It had been within him from the first time he opened his eyes to the soft-rough rustle of tall grass, looked out across the endless golden of the plains under the bleached blue of the sky, and thought I want it all.
And from that day on, so it went. Forging his own path until his destiny gave up and manifested to his will, territories bought and territories conquered as he stretched and strained and sprawled until not even the pedestrian earth was enough anymore and he turned his eyes to the skies, then the stars. Eventually even that became unfulfilling, and more and more often these days he fled into his own imagination, crafting superheroes and aliens and giant robots as the real world and real technology plodded on, bland and tedious.
It was inborn, ingrained, inseparable; testing the limits to the point of collapse, balancing delicately on the tipping point, tossing aside the shards of what had been the breaking point, never stopping until not enough became too much, and sometimes not even then.
It was the bright gleam in every child's eyes when they insisted they would be an astronaut-princess-surgeon-firefighter, the incandescent, manic flame in the eyes of every inspired inventor, the mindset never articulated because it was so obvious as to need neither mention nor consideration.
Take refuge in audacity, it said, then have the audacity to break out again. Cross the line twice, then come back and do backflips down its length.
An unfulfilling burger? Wrap it in bacon, deep-fry that McDonalds-lovin' son of a heart attack and add sprinkles.
An unfulfilling life? Jump out a plane, climb a mountain, join a rock band, die young and beautiful and loved by all.
Go, go, go, said the burn in his thrumming heartbeat, a restless curiosity, a yearning for nothing in particular, yet everything. And whatever you do, never ever stop. Because the black depths waited to drag you down and drown you.
And so America danced through life, always forward—always forward—but with an aimlessness and restlessness like an itch under his skin.
He smiled, a bit crookedly, and found his fingers flicking automatically through the guitar solo of Freebird. And to think his people wondered why the concept of the road trip was so pervasive in their culture.
But the way it was with England, it felt like he danced, all right—yet without realizing it always circled him.
~o~
It was bad enough when other people did things that made no sense. It was far worse when you did them too.
Today's adventure had begun on the other side of the Atlantic, when America crashed through England's plate glass window, tripped over a stack of paperwork, landed face-first on his desk, and told him in all seriousness that he would not leave until England agreed to go do something fun with him, because he was completely, totally, seriously bored.
And while the first part of his declaration was undoubtedly true—he only had to look at the dark circles under England's eyes to dig in his metaphorical and literal heels—but the second part was a lie of such magnitude America was surprised his pants didn't catch fire right there and then.
An hour later (after England went through his usual not-entirely-convincing sequence of apoplexy, attempted murder, outright refusal, and cuss-fest) he sat next to America on the plane, looking as though he didn't quite know how he'd gotten there. For his part, America stretched out in the cramped legroom given him and tried not to grin too widely, since it tended to creep out the stewardesses as much as it charmed them.
He was particularly pleased with himself when he tipped the wink to his TSA officials at Cleveland Hopkins International and got the paperwork England insisted on bringing with him confiscated.
"I'm sorry sir," one agent said, straight-faced. "These will be returned to you when you board your return flight."
As England fumed fruitlessly against American paranoia and bureaucracy, America gave the agent a double thumbs up and mouthed his thanks. The only reaction on her stony face was a slight crinkling at the corners of her eyes.
~o~
He had claimed boredom, there on England's desk as the tinkle of broken glass subsided and the expression of inchoate rage on England's face gradually overcame the shock. It was a believable enough lie; everyone knew America had the attention span of a toddler with a lollipop dusted with prime crack cocaine. And indeed, he'd been kicking his heels around Europe for a quite a while at that point, twiddling his thumbs across a continent in classic American style.
It had been a lie as soon as it left his mouth, though. He could have sat there and watched England do paperwork or embroider or shuffle around the house in his threadbare slippers or anything, really, and he would've been completely fine.
It happened every time, it had always happened, and it only happened with England, contrary to everything he knew about himself and how he worked. Because whatever this was, it was not right and not normal and not him at all.
Heck, his nomadic nature even extended to his romantic entanglements. They were just that: entanglements. He wasn't a love 'em and leave 'em kind of guy, no—but after the first flush was gone the boredom would set in, and fast. It was no insult to his partners; it was simply the way he was, and it was far better to end things before they became too involved to end things without pain. So before long he'd amble away again, leaving them with a smile and generous trade agreements and amiable sociopolitical relations.
It was the same everywhere: he was friendly with just about everybody, but that did not make him friends with everybody. At his massive parties—such a self-important attention-seeker, they'd whisper to each other, shaking their heads—he'd waft from one group to the next, drifting here, dawdling there, dilly-dallying everywhere.
He was just being a good host, he told himself with a wink, and ignored how quickly he got bored with his guests, and how he invited so many people in part so he wouldn't offend them too much by straying away so quickly.
Such parties invariably ended up with him standing next to England, his excuse being outwardly to keep him away from the alcohol, seeming in actuality just to annoy him, truly because at least there he wasn't bored out of his mind.
~o~
Boredom really wasn't the right word sometimes, he decided. Boredom was too…trivial. Tired was better. He was tired of a lot of things.
Like how they all wanted so much, the hunger naked on their faces whenever they looked at him, clear in every tilt of the head and lingering gaze. They didn't do it intentionally, he knew, didn't even know they were doing it, couldn't help but do it—but that didn't help.
Not when they stood far too close and he had to fight the tension in his shoulders and the urge to step back, because that would look like a retreat and America never retreated. Not when it was so eye-rollingly obvious they wanted from him not himself but what they could gain from him. Not when the itch under the skin yelled that he just needed to throw everything aside and flee, get out and do something, anything else, because whatever was happening here couldn't possibly end well.
The next Roman Empire, they called him sometimes, and he had smiled at first, thinking of gilded olive branches and crowds roaring their approval and the beautiful momentum of wealth, land, and power.
It was only much later that he thought of the paranoia, the desperate, clawing struggles to cling to power as corruption and stumbling ambition ripped it all to pieces, the whipcord-lean, yellow-eyed wolves turning against their master with laughing jaws until all that was left were the roads, trodden on by the ignorant and uncaring of the glory that was before.
In his early years of power, he had welcomed his fellow countries' hungry eyes, mistaken it for adoration or at least subservience. It was what he always wanted, wasn't it? Growth unfettered, unhindered, impossible, unstoppable. It was the dream of every nation from Sealand to Russia, after all; everybody wanted to rule the world. In an earlier era, one of wars before diplomacy, taking instead of giving, where as far as nations were concerned 'guilt' and 'conscience' were just weirdly spelled words in the dictionary, he might have kept enjoying it.
But these were very different times, and these days it only hurt. Even in these days of rising China and India and Brazil and the entrenched powers of Europe, they still turned to him. Just fix it already, they'd say even as they whispered though you'll just mess it up anyway like you always do. And even when he gave into their want, it wasn't enough, it was never enough, because they needed more or something else or he wasn't doing it right, can't you see you fool, can't you do anything without blundering around and messing up?
The worst was the poorest, the war-torn, the dollar-a-day, those of oppressive regimes or slash-and-burn. Unlike the wealthier nations who at least had the grace to conceal it under condescension, they didn't keep the thoughts from their faces at all, the what gave you the right to be on top, the you could save me with a snap of fingers, you could make everything better, what kind of cruel person wouldn't help—and worst of all the no hero you are, but a villain, because it was true. Because America hungered too, and his want never ended.
There was a damn good reason he chose not to read the atmosphere. After all, people usually didn't appreciate it when he went crazy and nuked everything.
~o~
England wanted too, just as much if not more than the others. Yet, somehow, when their eyes met…
When their eyes met, America felt like he could actually give him all he wanted, and be happy doing it.
And so ends part one of two. The next will by up in the next few days~
The choice of setting in a hot summer beach was intended to contrast with the grey rain of England's fic, and because the Great Lakes don't get nearly enough love.
Lake Erie is the fourth largest of the Great Lakes, and forms the border separating Canada and the state of Ohio (of which Cleveland is a city). For a size comparison for Europeans and other silly people, it's about 2,000 square miles (5,000 square kilometers) larger than Wales. Everything is bigger in America, even the glorified puddles!
All descriptions of Lake Erie are accurate as I can make them (as they say, write what you know…). The cover photo is also true to setting, and my own. Oh, and America is a dirty liar: you can't see Canada on the other side. However, he is not being a dirty liar about the mayflies, which crunch underfoot with the sound of breaking finger-bones and smell like rotten fish when they get wet.
"vicious zebra mussels or poisonous water snakes or krakens": At least two of these things are real.
