Forgive, But Do Not Forget
Rating: M
Summary: It felt like it could only be worse, as the life and relationship of two males is twisted sharply from whence it started. Both are met with each other's initial coldness, and while one simply waits out the other to thaw, the second male finds that he has a new way to be kept warm. USUK. For ilovezim123.
BrooklynBabbii
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Recommended Listening: "Familiar Taste of Poison" by Halestorm; "Untraveled Roads" by Linkin Park
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It was a bad argument. It had all begun as an argument. It was an argument that led to silent meals, where the only sound present was the sound of casual breathing and the clink of silverware on porcelain plates. They were some skipped meals, and the suspicious glances out in the halls, but those were particularly bad arguments. Those shall not be looked into for the sanctity of what peace has been restored since its silence. There is no need to raise them again.
But as it would seem for Arthur, that last argument, which he hadn't known but it was and still could be the very catalyst of their fragile relationship's downfall. It was so revealing on both ends, so heated that both sides had tears in their eyes and their voices were said to have been reaching the higher pitches by the very middle of it. That argument.
That was the argument before the initial battle. The argument where the emotionally and physically exhausted colony declared something that Arthur had hoped he would never say. The declaration had shaken them both, put the both of them on the spot and held them there with tremendous force, and then, finally torn their relationship into far more than just shreds. The declaration and the war and battles that followed did more than tear the bond between them into sheer nothingness; it did worse.
It threaded sorrow into every happy moment, sewn bitterness in every jolly day, blew the displeasure and negligence in all of their greyer days out of proportion. It took everything that they had had once shared and twisted it beyond recognition. Everything was nothing, and nothing was everything. Love and familiarity turned to borderline depressive anger and slight revulsion; it turned joy at seeing each other into fear of another war, anxiety of yet another oncoming argument from each other's conflicting views.
If Arthur and Alfred's relationship could be summed up, after the Revolution that had torn them apart, it would be this:
Should the grass have been greener on the other side, they were in a desert.
Arthur awoke to a reluctant consciousness, his limbs sore and feeling the pang and sore of exhaustion and bruises. He almost half-wondered why he was so tired and in so much pain, before he remembered. Alfred. He and…America, as he so strictly wanted Arthur to recognize him by, he and the 'American' had gotten into another dispute. But it should have been of no concern to the American really, it was because of Mathew, the colony that England held still had reign of, that sat above America.
Even if the young country and the northern colony identified each other as brothers, it was no reason for him to throw a fit if the colony got sick. It wasn't even a terrible sickness, not even a sore throat, just a small cold. The colony had been having some problems within himself, with France having pulled back some of his resources to the colony as his country's rulers decided to focus elsewhere.
But no, America had seen the Canada accepting a small aide from England to help ease his sniffles, and then being sent off for the rest of the day to get some sleep. The American had called himself defending the other nation against England's influence and thought trying to seize the other from the British Empire would do either of them well.
It hadn't. England could look at any of his bruises, feel his aches and pains, and then know for certain that if he was feeling this under the weather now, while still in power, then his American counterpart was feigning worse off than him.
Sighing to himself, the English nation forced himself into a sitting position, waiting out the faint tingling of protesting aches that he lie back down, before he moved to stand. By the time that he was standing, the nation thought he could better handle the pain with a swig of the opium that he kept in his bedside drawers. With the medicine acting quickly to soothe his physical discomforts, the nation tried to set about readying himself for the day, as quickly as he was able.
Adjusting the cravat about his neck, and making sure that it hid the slight yellowish discoloration below his collar, Arthur Kirkland left his hotel room. Pocketing the key, as he checked his pocket watch and making his way down the lavishly done hallways, he bid a polite adieu to the lovely lady at the front desk, before he made his way for the meeting to be set in one of the governing buildings in Paris.
As much as the English nation detested the French nation, and though they fought and bickered often, despite the unforgotten scar that England had cast upon France during the French-Indian War, the two nations got along fairly well. If one were to see their bickering in a different light, it would be seen that the two are not more so imposing or bragging their cultures, but defending their country's honor by telling both of their faults as well as their successes.
It can even be said that England might even enjoy the meeting set in France. He liked the various smells that he didn't recognize from his own home and culture, see things that he hadn't made or had influence over. Enjoy being a part of things that normally he wouldn't be able to have access to.
England spotted the French nation by a small bakery, speaking the little baker man there with flour all over his rosy cheeks and his old apron. Calling out to him by his human name, the other nation looked over and greeted with his usual grace, waving the English nation over and offering the other something to eat. After a moment of inner debating on whether he put his aches and pains over his hunger, the English nation decided to choose the safer route and ask for a croissant. After paying for the small eating, the two nations chatted a bit on the way to the meeting, trying to ignore the subtle hints in England's pupils from the opium and how Francis was carrying a small chink in his side from dealing with another country.
Walking into the building of the meeting came as a chill for Arthur, and he shuddered. Francis looked aside to his friend, and then back forward, but he saw no America. Arthur checked too, but upon finding his anxiety to be placed by his medicine, he calmed down and went to seek out other nations to talk to as he waited for the meeting to start.
Prussia was already there, grinning, his feet propped on the table. Russia sat to his left, almost in being friendly, but the way that he was eying the German nation was anything but friendly. Austria was telling Hungary something in a corner, and the woman was frowning severely, wringing her hands and her face was hidden in shadow. Austria said something, and she brought her head up immediately to almost glare at him, but something in pompous German's face made her look back down.
Spain was strolling in, keeping his occupation of Southern Italy known by having said nation sit beside him. The Italian said nothing, but steadily looked for his brother. However the usually happier nation was nowhere to be seen, which was not unusual, unfortunately. Prussia made a look to the Italian, and the poor boy looked almost frightened by the dark look that Spain sent him.
England didn't know the Southern Italian nation well, but he knew fear when he saw it. When the Italian feigned to duck closer to Spain, the English nation saw fear. Manipulation was a very useful tool, he knew, when the manipulated variable was easy to instill fear into.
Prussia removed himself from his chair, and the nation's removal from beside the Russian made everyone took a safe distance away, whether the motion was obvious or not, depended solely on the nation.
"And how is the British Empire addressing this fine morning in the lovely Paris?" Prussia said, trying to sidle closer to England, but the English nation was not fooled and did not let the German stand too close to the knife that he carried on his belt. The German was looking to either pick a fight or to try and seduce another nation or person into his bed, as if either hadn't happened enough for his almost insatiable appetite.
"I am doing well, thank you," Arthur thought to tell the other to leave him alone in German, possibly with a few insults to the Prussian's ships and colonies being set too close to the British Empire's borders to be comfortable; but he said nothing. At least, for the moment, he said nothing. He may have been a gentleman, but he did not hold his tongue for long. Particularly if he didn't see any reason to, he thought to himself, as the Prussian began making circles around the English nation.
Right as Prussia made to make a third circle, America came in. He looked a bit ruffled, but the other had not been sleeping well as of late, Arthur knew. The American saw Prussia, the German looking to be flirting with England with how his face looked and how he was trying to reach for the nation's hand, and the American scoffed. He threw a small look of suspicion over his shoulder, however, not knowing whether or not to watch out for Prussia's advances on England. He knew the both of them were strong, and he didn't need another war. He had taken more than enough damage in the one he had just signed off with, over his interfering with England's colonies.
England frowned at America's retreating back, feeling his chest constrict and ache, in more than just bruising. He excused himself away from Prussia, making the German start in his advances before his face darkened briefly. The English nation walked away from the corners of the room, barely making out Austria's words to Hungary and how the woman was barely holding back an angry choking sob as he gave her an order. The woman kept her head down, as she had been told and forced to do in his presence, and left the room. She did not come back.
England knew that she wouldn't.
The English felt eyes on him, as he saw one of his colonies sitting at their space, the younger male had his hair tied back but a bang was done over the bruising on his eye. He stood as England approached, nodding in respect, and gesturing to the still steaming tea cup beside his satchel and document papers. The colony saw his place as a manservant, more than the young brother that England had tried to make America to be.
"Thank you, Mathew, this will be all for now," England said, taking a seat. Mathew, the colony, sat down beside him quietly, smiling despite the still scratches over his mouth making it seem as if it pained him to do so. England tried to ignore the feeling of eyes burning into his head and imagining the worst possible things to happen to them, as he sipped his tea. The earlier taste of flaky croissant and the tasteless opium was washed away by the sweet tea that Mathew had prepared, even the English nation could still taste the anguish left behind on his mental palate when said boy made himself to look away from his brother's gaze.
There was silence between the English nation and his colony, but in the air around them, there was still chatter and talk. Russia was speaking to China, but the Asian nation was paying him little mind. However, upon Prussia's arrival back to his seat, the German went to charming the Russian. This received an interesting result: Russia looked insulted with each and every other word, going so far as to clench his hands under the table.
A small clink touched upon the floor, and when England put down his tea cup, Mathew was already under the table behind England. The sound of a chair crashing down onto the floor came, along with the sound of a well-made sword coming across a metal pipe. Russia's eyes were furious from what England could only hope to never know, and Prussia was enjoying the fight all too much. The German said something in broken Slavic, and then made to shove forward. Russia did not move back, and growled.
It took several nations to break the two apart before it could get worse, and Prussia was asked to either restrain himself from fights or be kicked out once more. The German promised to civil, by his own definitions, which could only mean that he wasn't going to be even close to any sort of gentleman.
After the brief scuffle, only barely saved from being a crisis, England put away the blade that he always carried, his calm exterior melting back over his stern façade of a promising battle. He went to retrieve Mathew but found him missing; or moreover, the colony was hiding in the arms of his brother. The American was somewhat stiff to hold someone who he so claimed to care about, but Mathew was not.
England called, "Mathew." And the colony turned around with wistful violet eyes, before he reluctantly pulled away. He thanked his brother, and then slowly walked back around the table. He caught the eye of Prussia, and inwardly flinched and ushered more quickly back to his seat. To everyone's near grief, the German sat beside England. Russia sat closer to Austria, closer to America. England said nothing of the arrangement, though he nicked Prussia more than a few times with his blade when his hand tried to reach over his lap.
When it came time for presentations of solutions, America was among the first to raise his hand. His plan was simple, but it sounded effective. He answered questions easily enough, until one was asked about his country's welfare since its wars and confrontations with the 'British Empire'.
All eyes looked to England, but America's and the Mathew. England said nothing, but quietly shuffled his papers and Prussia snickered under his breath. Russia looked on curiously, and one of the Nordics in the back, the only one present, wrote done something. America dismissed the question, saying that his country was doing fine and that a peace treaty had been made to ensure peace.
Someone asked about the bruise on his face. America lied. Mathew looked sick, his hands clenched so tight that his knuckles were white. England said nothing, until his presentation. His was more paid attention to, there were far more questions for him, and the English nation nearly tired himself with answering them all.
When the lunch break finally arrived, Prussia was standing beside England, asking about his sea fare over the past few months. England reminded the German that it was none of his business, and walked away. He looked for his colony, but then recalled that America was present and how the two had been earlier. He deduced that they must have gone to lunch together. He hoped that Mathew would eat this time.
Feeling some shade of forlorn himself, England goes to eat lunch with France. The French nation takes delight in having him as his companion and introduces him to a number of popular eateries. The English nation is almost uncomfortable in his own skin, when he has to order, but he plays it off well and no one seems to notice. However, while the English nation eats and talks to France over several meaningless things and mindless politics, he can't help but to feel eyes on him.
When the meeting resumes, Prussia is absent. So is Russia. Everyone is tense, until there are heavy footsteps outside the door. The once-missing Russian nation says an excuse of having gotten lost, because of his lack of familiarity with the French language. No one commented. Prussia comes back later into the meeting, but he is grinning maliciously. England tries not to think about it, but he worries. When the meeting is over, England is among the first to leave. He gathers Mathew and escorts him to his room, and tells him to lock his door and window, not to let anyone in but him and America, and then leaves the colony alone to make the rest of his time.
England goes to his own room, intending to read over several files as to inspect their contents to see if there is anything worth showing in the next two days to the other countries. But when he comes across his door, he heard shifting. It is nearly unnoticeable, but he heard it, and that is all that mattered.
He checks his lock, and finds it had been cleverly picked. The lock is not even damaged in the slightest, and when he cracked the door, he finds America. The young nation was looking through a folder, scanning the contents and then putting it where it belonged to find another one that he found worth his interest.
"Thief," the English nation called out, and he swept into the room, slamming the door shut. He is immediately at the American's back, who had turned around and was glaring at Arthur as if he had been the one caught wrong-doing. "Get out of my belongings, you have no business there!"
"Says the likes of you," America spat back. "I just know that you and your greedy monarchs are out to start another tryst against me! Admit it!" England is furious. He had not heard of nor done such thing, since he had responded to America trying to seize British territory.
"You sound the like," England began, as he stormed forward, "of the traitorous serpent of Eden! Remove your hands from my satchel, before I remove them myself." There was a sword in England's hands, a very expensive looking one that he was close to baring at America's neck. The Englishman did not like being thieved, nor did he particularly like sharing any space with thieves.
America said nothing, pausing, and then he said, "Do you swear that you do not plot against me? I can kill you just as fast as you can, England." Said nation nodded, and said, "I plot nothing. I have done nothing. Get out of my room."
Without a moment coming too late or too soon, America nodded and then said, "Fine. I apologize for my rash actions. Excuse me, and I bid you a good night." But his facial expression and his eyes told an unsaid message: I am watching you. Do not cross me. I am more of a threat than I seem.
The American rose as gracefully as he could with his own aches and pains, and then walked out. He shut the door, not slammed it, as quietly as he could muster. England did not put his blade away until he heard the footsteps retreating some time later. He kept his sword up, even as he locked the door. His hands were shaking, as he shut the blades. The room went dark in the afternoon, and the English nation could hear the rapid beat of his heart in the silence that had befallen the room. He was alone, but…it didn't feel like it. Someone was watching. There was always someone. He remained vigilant over the room, barely even reading over the papers he had told himself to go over, but he dismissed them, as he simply sat on the bed to watch both the door and the windows. When the nation finally does put his sword down, it clatters to the floor. The nation went with it, but he was not crying, despite the light groan that had escaped his mouth. He was crashing. His opium had caught up with him once again.
The embodiment of the British Empire, the United Kingdom, and as England, met with his Royal Monarch as often as every few days or at least twice a month. He was usually proud of his Royals, he enjoyed most of their rulings save for the few that he would hardly speak of; but on this visit, he wasn't as happy as he would normally be. His Royals saw this within their nation almost immediately, and the Queen was the first to supply a solution.
"Dearest," she addressed him, and Arthur looked up. He had almost forgotten that he was in the room; he had just been standing guard by their sides, speaking in flat tones over what had transpired over the meetings. He had left out the part about America, but had said that the nation was a bit distressed. Although the King had been slow to feel any sort of sympathy for the American nation, the Queen had always liked Alfred, and had shared a few tears of her own when she had found out of Arthur's attached to the boy. Well, their ex-attachment, any and all said bonds between the two of them were all but nulled by then, if not charged to the highest power of the opposite effect. Instead of love and affection, there was loathing and disappointment.
"I do believe that if we can schedule a meeting between America's…President," her blue eyes crackled at that word, and her lips almost twitched. The King was silent, "And ourselves, perhaps we can come to an agreement of sorts to better sort the two of your relationships' for the better, hm? How does that sound?" Arthur thought over it silently, not wanting to say anything too soon and offend his Royals, and then said, "That would be lovely, thank you, Your Majesty."
He nodded to the Queen, almost able to feel some sort of hope start to rise within him. The female Royal smiled at him, her eyes back to being bright at seeing him closer to being back to his old self. "Now, about that trade meeting with Russia…" She began.
A letter was sent out to America, intended for his President to read it over and sign it for confirmation for a trade meeting between America and France. However as time passes, there is no news from America. It was growing later and later, the Queen was growing impatient, and Arthur was beginning to get anxious to hear any news. He almost thought something had happened, when on a sudden date, a letter arrived.
The United States of America, and its representative, had refused on the grounds of 'unfair treatment' while 'under an unknown sky and alien soil'. It took several attempts of reading and then several moments in between those attempts, for Arthur to comprehend the news. However, it took much more effort to not rip up the paper and then howl in frustration.
The words of being threatened on 'alien soil' had left more than a sting in Arthur's heart. Even if he told himself that it was dead in all appearances towards Alfred. He couldn't help it. It had just simply…hurt.
The Queen, however, was more than livid. She sent back a letter addressing Alfred this time, whatever she had said must have been awful, because the American had never written back. The Royal woman had been all too smug whenever she heard there had been no word of a letter from Alfred responding to hers. Arthur sometimes wondered what she had written, but then thought better of it, and told himself he would much rather not know.
Months and years passed, several meetings came as they went, and England attended them all. He saw in one of them how Southern Italy was now seeming to look to more people, avoiding France's eyes on more than one occasion, and then turning his back to Spain. Arthur noticed how livid Spain became when he did not acknowledge him. He noticed familiar faces darken and countries fall and rise. He stayed above them all, watching the ex-colony he had once raised. Mathew was much better now, but now he dared not look England in the eyes, for sometimes when he did, America would tap his fingers atop the table. Almost, it would seem, in warning.
The meeting about to begin was in England, and the Royals had more than prepared for it, despite the few financial crunches in the beginning. Alfred had gotten taller again, and this meant that his country was expanding. He was nearly taller than Arthur, and while this seemed to make the American smug; the English nation had reminded him on more than one occasion that being short than your enemy held advantage. One of those advantages were of the times being when the enemy would have had to expend more effort to dodge being dealt a blow.
England shuffled papers at his seat, ready to begin, and glanced at Mathew drawing on separate pieces of paper alongside his notes. While the English nation had no problem with the younger drawing, he would have to hope that Mathew was smart enough to start efficient notes instead of worrying on how to properly draw someone's eyes on paper. When the countries began to take their seats, England was nearly taken for a shock when America sat beside him to his left. England almost thought it was meant to be endearing, but then the English nation saw his sword was on his right side. America had a gun on his side facing England, and a sword to each hip. When the American dared to meet his eyes, England nodded.
America nodded back, and the tension could have been peeled back to reveal the pained relationship beneath it.
Countries stood to present, and America chose to be among the first ones once more. His plans were still simple, but now, they focused more on gaining territory and throwing out enemies and simplifying consequences. Prussia found a lot of interest in the presentation, as did several other power-hungry nations. America kept his smiling exterior, answering questions as they came, and they were many. By the end of his time, even Russia looked pleased with his page of notes. Time passed through the meeting, and when England stood, he noticed how Mathew looked up sharply; the English nation saw desperation in his violet hues and dark bags under them.
During his presentation, he kept his eyes off America at nearly all intervals. But then the American raised his hand for a question. England answered it, simply enough, and then moved on. Mathew was practically shaking in his chair, and when America moved to soothe the colony, England spoke from the front, "Don't touch him. Remove your hands or I will do so myself."
America did not retreat this time, instead, he seemed to instigate more of a reaction by saying, "And who are you to decide how touches him and who doesn't?" England was all but glaring at the American nation. The air was tense. No one moved. Not even the mighty Prussia dared to speak up or move between them.
"I will warn you again: Remove yourself," England threatened, as he made slow and calculated steps to that section of the table. Russia was chuckling in the promise of violence, enjoying the display of aggression in the usually calm nation. England continued, when America did not move and Mathew seemed to be either too torn or too afraid to do anything himself, "Or I will do well to ensure that you can't touch him again."
America rose slowly and calmly, as England approached, with his hands still on Mathew's shoulders. The poor colony was all but trembling with his whimpering, eyes fervent and he looked desperate to escape. England looked about ready to draw his blade, and America had a hand on his own sword and one hand positioned to grab his gun that England recognized a pistol.
The air is thick and tense. No one moved. No one seemed to breathe. All is silent, and finally, finally, something occurs to make both countries take a step back. Mathew is rising, his eyes nearly livid, and he is shaking. "I-I refuse to be any sort of damned prize between the two of you," he snarled. His voice is cracking and shaking, and very close to wheezy, as if Mathew is having a hard time collecting air. "Whatever may incite the two of you to go back to war with each other is by your own sores and with your own blood spilled. But," here Mathew looked to each of the nations standing aside of him. "Leave me and my own people out of your slaughter. We have no wish to fight a battle neither on our own soil nor for our principles."
With that said, Mathew turned around and shoved America as politely as he dared, while still being forceful, and left the room. He slammed the door.
When England retired to his room that night, he was informed that he had a guest. The young man in the front said that they had not given a name, but had claimed to have his papers to prove that they knew each other. Which meant that Arthur's guest was either another country or the likes of power-hungry or curious noble asking on something or another; either way, Arthur did not want to deal with them. He had just settled an hour of arguing with Mathew, and the younger colony was refusing to be calmed down. While he wasn't livid, he was not his usual passive self and for that, Arthur solely blamed America's influence. The younger was going to revolt, he just knew it. It was only a matter of time. And if America's influence had persisted deeply enough, then it was going to be a bloody war that left Arthur in more than just emotional shambles.
Pausing in front of his door, and about to sigh as he thought he was going to be greeted with someone that he didn't want to deal with – Arthur stopped, just as he was about to grab the knob. There was the soft muffled sound of something almost familiar to Arthur. It took him a moment but he recognized it as the sound of someone trying as they could not to sob aloud. Someone was crying in his room.
The English nation debated whether or not it was safe enough, or even polite, to come in. although it was his room, he didn't want to intrude on something that he wouldn't want someone to intrude on him doing. However, curiosity got the better of even, and he gently turned the lock and eased the door open. Luckily for him, the person in the room had their back turned towards the door, and was still too deeply involved in their sorrow to hear him. But the fact their back was turned didn't hinder Arthur in recognizing them. It was Alfred; the English nation would know that cowlick anywhere.
"I'm so foolish," the American was barely making coherent words on England's side of the room, but all that mattered to Alfred was nothing. He just wanted to go home. He had made a fool of himself, trying to appear with arms in front of Arthur for respect, but only seemingly earning more distrust. He had tried to calm down his brother, but because of the weapons on his person, Arthur had seen Alfred as a threat. They had almost fought in the meeting. Alfred had almost challenged Arthur, until Mathew ran out of there, saying he didn't want anything to do with their problems with each other. The American didn't blame the colony, because that was exactly how Alfred had felt towards French and Arthur, during the French-Indian War. He hadn't wanted to be caught in the middle of it, but he had been.
"I did all of this," Alfred went on to say. "I hurt Arthur and I'm hurting Mathew. I can't do anything but hurt them, and I...I just keep hurting them."
And he had been doing the same thing to Mathew. Forcing him to relive the memories of when Francis was told to leave Arthur's sight, when the English and French nation fought and argued over any and everything, on every off-chance and occasion that they saw each other. Until it had melted down to a declaration of war, and how Alfred had stolen Mathew away to hide in his denser woods, while Arthur's country fought to have control of the colonies. How France had lost, the lives of the nice Natives who gave Alfred and Mathew berries and places to sleep when they got lost in their own land. How Arthur had found them both, yelled at the Natives to move away or be forced out, and then taken the young boys to live with him in a big house they had never known. How they had been left alone more often than spent time with, and how they found themselves growing older and wanting more than just being stuck inside of that big house. They wanted more than to just be on one part of a select piece of land.
"How am I supposed to fix this…?" Alfred asked the room, but no replies came, and the American moves to gather himself to stand. He would have thought England would have returned by now, it was getting dark and the sky was looking to be preparing for a bad storm. He was just turning to leave, when he heard the faintest whisper of air as something moved behind him. He spun on his heel quickly, but he saw nothing. The door was shut. He was still the only one in the room. After a momentary pause, he slumped his shoulders, and went back to his own bed, intending to go to bed early. He had really wanted to talk to England.
He doesn't think to check the door again, to open it and see that said nation was holding both his breath and any tears that should befall him. After a long pause, England comes to whatever sense that he had left and went to seek refuge elsewhere, but first things first; he went to Mathew. When the young colony opened the door, looking still the slightest bit angry, England took the boy in his arms and held him there until he felt the small emptiness in his middle start to be soothed away into nothing but a tingle. He pulled away, almost reluctantly, and then kissed the boy on his forehead, before whispering for him to have a good night, and repeating his warning on locking his door and window. Then he used nearly every drop of his will power to leave the young colony looking shocked in the doorway after him, as he walked away.
The English nation walked around outside a bit, if only to clear his head. The smell of oncoming rain was familiar to him, so usual in his home that it was almost comforting. However, as it looked to be brewing for a worse storm than he had thought, he returned to the hotel. However, he did not go to his room, instead, he passed it to venture to one that he knew France was in. He knocked, and upon a minute's wait, the French nation opened the door. Despite being slightly surprised at the sudden visit, the French nation welcomes England in.
Despite the storm howling outside and its attempts to shake the strong window in vain, England enjoyed the tea and treats that France gave them both to enjoy, while they talked about nothing. France was beginning to grow suspicious of England's almost distant and saddened look on his face, and was about to ask, when the English nation finally gave up. He thanked the French nation for the tea and conversation, and then he excused himself to leave. He had left more than one person confused that evening.
England looked out a window in the hallway, almost enjoying the dark of night with the ever occurring shocking burst of light as lightning struck across the sky. He liked the sight of it. Lightning. He remembered as a child, that he had been afraid of it, had always cowered and hid in some burrow or crawled under his sheets at night in terror. But now, he did not fear it. He was almost enlightened by it. Though its appearances were short, they were magnificent and powerful. England thought to himself that night that he would be just like lightning. He would be bright and powerful, even if he did not last long, he would leave more than one lasting impression on this world.
However to first become like his magnificent lightning, he had to get some sleep. But the loud and booming thunder outside his window of his room and America's restless turning was not helping. The English nation hated thunder. There was nothing inspirational, in his opinion, about thunder. It was just loud. And terribly grating on Arthur's already frayed nerves. Added on, the thunder was making America toss and turn like he was the same frightened little boy who would run to England's bed every night of a storm. But, there would be no more of that, now would there?
So, England thought.
A large crack of lightning lit up the room, and it was so bright that its light was still seen behind closed lids, as it illuminated the whole room. America yelped, right as England gasped, as both were startled awake. The American was more than just terrified, as the sound of the thunder outside seemed to have tripled. The very floor seemed to shaking with its claps, and the lightning would flash and light up the dark night nearly other breath the countries made. England was starting to feel scared himself; this was not normal weather for his country. He couldn't even sense his fairy friends; in fact, he hadn't seen any sign of them since the clouds had stirred.
This was going to be a dreadful night, if not a horrifying one.
With every heartbeat, the thunder sent chills up the occupants' spines and made the younger of the two all the more inclined to flee back to his sunny home where the storms were only quiet sprinkles. English weather was not to his liking. Another crack of thunder, combined with a flash of lightning that sent a group of white dots on his eyes, and that was final. America was rushing to be free of the sheets tangled in his legs, as he nearly fell several times, before he was dashing across the floor and into England's bed.
Said country, whose bed had been suddenly invaded, said the first thing to come to mind when he felt the presence of someone else against him, pulling him close and then trying to wrap their own bodies around his. "Cold feet! Cold feet! Good bloody Lord, you have cold feet, put those away!" While it wasn't the most dignified, or it was more comical than anything else, it was what England said until he could see who was in his bed.
"I'm sorry," the American repeats, his voice nearly cracking, but his words are barely heard at all over the thunder. The lightning sporadically going against his silhouette is more than confusing England, as the American continues to try and hold him despite his struggles. England is now more than irritated; he begins to fight back against whoever is in his bed, not knowing their true identity. He just knew that he wanted them off of him and out of his bed. However, it was proving somewhat difficult, whoever his assailant was, and they were taller than him and slightly bigger. They were also stronger than him, even as an Empire and England had the slightest suspicion that he was dealing with a country.
If this was France, England was going to use the pistol under the pillow, and paint the town more than just red.
"Damn it, Arthur, it's me!" A voice snaps, but the thunder sounds over them and in a trick tactic, immediately England puts down his efforts to be free, but then he resumes them when his enemy lowers their guard. A sound punch to the jaw knocks their head back, and they are sputtering obscenities, and right as England is about to say some right back, his lips are made not to utter another word. Something soft is placed against them, and England is rendered speechless when he recognizes them for what they were. Someone's lips.
When the other pulls away, and for the briefest moment that there is no thunder to overshadow their words; lightning shines bright and Alfred's face is revealed. England, no Arthur, is taken aback. His face flushed, and he is trying to get away from the other, to which the younger male tries to keep him pinned. Arthur is doing more than he had been fighting, as the storm picks back up outside. Alfred's arms are around his waist, and he keeps saying something, but Arthur cannot make them out. The thunder is becoming more than just a slight hindrance to sleep; it is physically trying to mute Alfred whenever he tries to speak.
Just as England is being pulled back into the American's embrace, he is kissed again. And again, and he doesn't want them. Not because he does not care for the American, as Alfred thinks, but because the English nation does not wish to hurt the other in more ways than he already has. He doesn't need another regret brought on by the American; he doesn't need the pain and suspicion, when he is needed to focus on other things. He doesn't want to always have the American on his mind.
But that very same person is doing all in their power to make it so that England can't get away.
Alfred, once more, pins Arthur to the bed. But despite how the English nation is trying to get away, he does accept the kisses. If only to try and get his message across to the American; the cliché message of 'It's not you, it's me' fits the situation and Arthur's feelings to the very fiber of his being. Arthur wants to get away, but at the same time, he knows he is holding back in his efforts to run away. He doesn't want to get away, he wants to be there and he thinks that he wants what the American offers; but at the same time, he doesn't want the commitment to go with it. The commitment of solely belonging to the American and, in a sense, not solely to himself as he had always been. He didn't want to hurt the American, just because he wanted to try and rekindle what relationship had once been. He doesn't to confuse the other with his words and actions, because he can't get his message across as he wants.
He wants the American, but the troubles to go with it, the pain and suspicion that he will surely get with it, he doesn't want.
Arthur is trying to sneak away, trying to pull away from the American as soon as he can, but just as he can pull away and try to open his mouth to say something, Alfred is claiming it again. The kisses are no longer innocent and chaste, there is a desire building up in the American and he is making efforts to let it show. Arthur is trying to separate himself from the situation, so that he can better control his actions, but…he doesn't want to let the moment to slip past his fingers completely so soon.
Before he can pull away again, despite how the English nation should have anticipated it, he feels a warm hand on his chest. He can warmth through his shirt, and although he knows what it means, knows what the other tis trying to do, he didn't fight him. Why he didn't fight the American more than before, he might not ever know, all he knows is that at that precise moment when he should have fought the hardest – he didn't. Instead, he kissed the American back as hard as he dared, even going so far as to press his tongue across the other's lips. It was merely an offering, an invitation to an invitation, and the American more than took it. Alfred tried to dominate it.
Feeling the warm hand start to unbutton the shirt, and slip against smoothed and scarred skin; Arthur almost hesitated. He almost pulled away. He almost stopped altogether, and restarted his efforts to be free. He almost stopped himself from hurting Alfred again. But then, for a brief moment, he forgot why he had fought against it all in the first place, when he thought that this was what he wanted; and he lost the perfect opportunity to leave. There would be no turning back from this moment, he realized. He couldn't believe he was going through it. But he knew. He knew why he was going through with it. He wanted a chance to be forgiven. Even if the chance was damned from the start, he wanted a moment or two to believe he could have right in choosing this.
When the American moved his hand across his chest, Arthur let him. When the other tried to open his mouth, Arthur took the invitation and it was more than he expected. Even though the kisses were those of a virgin, sloppy and either pressing too hard or too softly, they still held the weight of being genuine; they were a genuine effort made by Alfred. Although Arthur shouldn't have been surprised, Alfred was but a boy, he couldn't help the slight shift he gave underneath the American, as he tried to show him what it was to really kiss someone. This time, when their lips met, with Arthur in charge, the kiss went far more beyond what Alfred had initiated. This time, when they kissed, there was friction. Delicious friction that ran electricity through both of their veins, Alfred caught onto Arthur's lip movements and was indeed a fast learner. He had Arthur moaning into his mouth in less time than it took for Alfred to moan in his.
In the background of their kissing, the storm outside was raging on, and it sounded like it was being fueled by their efforts. Whenever one made a particularly loud moan, held an audible gasp, the thunder would rush it out. When they could no longer find each other's lips in the dark, and were going for the nearest exposure of skin at each other's chest and collars, the lightning would illuminate the room and thus their faces would connect in the more lewd of ways.
However, it isn't long before a brave finger trails down the middle of his partner's chest to be met with opposition from a certain article of clothing. In all honesty of the moment, Arthur was more than just frustrated at the pants; he wanted to shred them, he wanted to rip them, he wanted to throw them out the window, anything to get rid of them. When Alfred leaned back to let the Brit all but tear the belt off, the younger was more than ready to return the favor by tearing the Englishman's shirt. It was only fair.
Growling a bit at the loss of a shirt but putting it aside, Arthur worked on bruising the American's lips with his own, trying to both enjoy and memorize the feel and taste of them. Alfred tasted of his last meal, something sweet; but farther underneath it, the boy symbolically tasted of freedom. He was wild, and Arthur wanted nothing more than to spend centuries, eternity if that was it, to tame him. Finger roaming all over the other's skin, and mouths tasting every inch of skin available to them, it was only a matter of time before neither could take the friction and borderline painful desire between them. However since Alfred seemed at a loss as to what to do, Arthur took the initiative. He took Alfred's free hand and begun sucking on three of the five digits present. Saliva might not have been the best lubricant, but the look on Alfred's face would more than make up for it. The American could only watch in lustful awe, feeling the other's soft tongue wrapping and swirling around his finger.
Guiding Alfred's hand to his hip, the American took the hint and pulled the other's undergarments down, and when that hand was settled firmly at his waist, Arthur guided the now prepared fingers to his entrance. He teased both Alfred and himself, as he pressed the American's finger across the pink rosebud, pressed but not entered. The pink bud twitched, and Arthur almost gave in and tried to hurry up to get to the main event, but the look on Alfred's face. It made his self-control stronger, as he took his time in pressing it in. it held a pleasant burn, and he wasn't the only one who felt himself getting impatient. Even with just one finger slowly delving inside of the Brit, Alfred looked so ready, so eager to claim Arthur as his.
Trying to make sure that his insides were covered, before he let Alfred took the reins, did Arthur then hurry; he managed to prepare himself and keep the American eager for more. Between heated kisses, the lightning and thunder that made everything that much more intense, and the fingers inside of him; Arthur almost didn't know what to expect more of the night. Well, that is, until he had to guide the American over to him for the main event, and Arthur had the briefest worry in wondering if maybe that three fingers weren't enough…
Nevertheless, he kept his mouth shut, trying to wait for the burn to subside, as he clenched his jaw. It had been a while for him, since he had last taken the position of bottom, and he was now remembering the consequences of going without for so long. He almost thought he was the only one in the slightest of pain, until his focus began to focus, and he saw Alfred whimper and shake atop of him. The boy had a fierce look in his eyes, his brow was beginning to sweat, and he was gritting his teeth. Blushing a bit, Arthur tried to loosen up a bit, forgetting that it might have been a bit painful for Alfred, and although the boy's face did not visibly change, his body language told Arthur was much more comfortable.
But maybe it hadn't just been the tightness that had Alfred so pained in the face, as he choked out, "D-damn it all, Arthur, please forgive me." The Brit was given only the briefest of moments to hear what was said without being given a chance for his mind to catch up, before the American suddenly dived deeper within his inner caverns. The Brit bit his bottom lip to hold back from screaming, although some noise escaped him and Alfred, but luckily the thunder came back to drown them both out. The only thing that saved Alfred from a sound throttling at moving too soon was the fact that where he was angled: Right at the sweet bundle of nerves that made the pain nearly erased from Arthur's mind.
It made the command of, "M-move," all the more easily to say. Arthur had seen stars. Past tense; and he wanted to see them again. And again. He wanted to see those stars until he couldn't remember his name or even his guilt, until the sun rose and reminded him that it was a new day. But for now, in the dark night, with the thunder and lightning raging outside, Arthur set to memorizing the night the best he could. Alfred was only barely an inch from breaking the poor headboard, and Arthur was only a mere breath away from reaching his sexual peak. If the Brit had to guess, he wouldn't have pegged Alfred as a natural, since he had been so clumsy and awkward in the beginning. But appearances were indeed deceiving, because he was seeing the stars he so craved, and the feeling the intense waves of pleasure rolling off of his nerves and giving him a near case of whiplash. Damn it all, if Alfred had been a virgin; because, for all Arthur could comprehend, Alfred was a natural.
The American was hitting the spot just right, not too hard to be painful, but hard enough to make Arthur feel it at the base of his spine to the tips of his toes. When the stars became incomprehensible commands of more, Alfred kissed the lips still and gave what Arthur demanded was delivered. The thunder engulfed their moans and calls; the lightning made every crevice and dip, every scar and mark all the more demanding to be touched, the need to touch and reach out to one another was irresistible.
When Alfred came first, with a shudder, inside of Arthur, and still kept up the same rough pace; the Brit was barely a second behind. His release came harder than he had experienced in a while, over his and Alfred's stomachs. He fell back on the pillows, his sweat-laced hair in his face in his face and covering the most of his emerald eyes until Alfred brushed them away. The American kissed him one last time, but instead of still full of heady desire, it was soft.
"I love you, Arthur," Alfred admitted. "I always have."
Arthur stiffened, despite how Alfred had gently pulled out of him, and was now cuddling into his side. The storm was forgotten from both their minds; Alfred, because he had quickly surrendered to sleep, and Arthur, because he was terrified to do the same. What would he say? What could he say? Did he say it back? Did he risk ripping the calm apart with his words? Did he break down what little progress had just been made? How many barriers had he just broken by surrendering himself to lust? How many more sleepless nights and guilt-filled days did he just give himself?
Where was the end that had been supposedly in sight?
Arthur awoke as England, the proud and mildly prickly country who held more than half the world in his grip as he known throughout to be heart of the British Empire. He did not wake up as Arthur, and for that, he was almost grateful. He could play off his emotions. He didn't have to recognize those he did not choose to. He could act as if nothing had happened. He could break Alfred's heart once more, and remind him of the cruelty of the world.
Why couldn't life be simpler, with more merciful swipes to Arthur's already guilt-burdened soul?
Sitting up was difficult, but not impossible for him, as he looked around. He didn't see Alfred, but when he looked at the clock, it was still breakfast time. The meeting wasn't for at the very most, three more hours. England had just enough time to rid himself of the stickiness between his legs and wash his mouth of the sweet words that were leaving a cavity in his teeth, whenever he thought about them and what he was going to Alfred, err, America. If England went through his plan, then there was possibly going to be never an utterance of the American country's human name ever escaping his lips. Not unless he wanted to crippled for it. The young country was more than capable of revenge, and he would have every right to be angry.
With himself all but submerged underwater, England looked outside the small but pretty window to see the less than pretty sight. The world was grey. It wasn't raining anymore, but the sun was nowhere in sight. What irony.
Getting ready for the meeting took more effort than Arthur thought. He wanted nothing more than to crawl back into bed, and wait for the presence of last night's familiar warmth to find him and keep him company. But alas, he would have to keep himself cold, as he tried to button up. He skipped breakfast, seeing the time, fearing being late. When he arrives there, he almost it, and although some look at him strangely because of it, he ignores them all.
America is sitting beside his chair, and little Mathew seems a bit puzzled by the look of anxiousness clearly written in the corners of his brother's blue eyes. When England takes his seat in the middle of the brothers, no one really pays much attention to how America is all the happier by it and how Mathew almost joins him. However, they do see the darkness littering in the English nation's eyes, and most do well not to say anything because of it.
Come his time for presentations, England does not visibly acknowledge anyone's presence, although he does meet their eyes. He dared them to say something, anything, just a single word so that he could vent his turmoil through his hands. But no one said anything, and instead it was kept of him. It boiled and bubbled but was, for now, safely bottled up. When he sat down, he met the eyes of Russia, who held his gaze for the longest of them all. The Russian looked puzzled, and then he looked to America, who was presenting. Upon seeing how dark England's eyes became at his action, Russia broke eye contact and feigned paying attention.
No one else dared to meet his eyes after that.
When the end of the meeting arrived, England remained behind a bit to give Mathew a few instructions on how to get home from France, what boat to get on and when said boat would leave. He told the boy to hurry along, and pack his things, that he would see him at his home soon and then saw him out of the door. He went back to seat to gather his belongings, and saw America there. The young country opened his mouth to say something, but England doesn't give him the chance. He grabs his things, his face nearly burning at the cold and his eyes pricking too. But England told himself it was from the cold outside.
Even the stabbing-like pain in his chest; they were all from the bitter cold.
While knowing that majority of the other nations were going back home, England hides in a warm bakery, trying to enjoy the little hums that the old woman behind the counter was making as she laid frosting on pastries. England tried to justify himself in sending America home, with not a word, but he was surely failing despite his efforts. He had tried to write, so that the other would know that he wasn't completely heartless, but whenever he tried to write, he kept going off the same line…
I fear that,…
Forgive me,…
I deeply apologize,…
I hope that you will understand,…
This was not what I intended,…
Each one was thrown far more quickly into the trash than the last. Especially the last one, he had asked to throw that one personally into the baker oven's flaming depths. He had watched it burn, and then tipped the woman extra, as he did a hasty departure. He wanted to be as far as he could possibly get. He made quick business with France and his Royals, trying to give the illusion of half-hearted chatter when all he wanted to do was go home.
He just wanted to go down to his home, and never come out again into the light. He didn't want to show his face. Not if what he first saw were the tears on America's face. He had tried to tell himself long ago that it had been the rain, when he had fallen to his knees, but he had known what the liquid on his face for what it truly was. He didn't want to see those on America's face. Never his perfect face.
As time passed, and England began to retreat far more into himself than normal, his Royals became concerned. He wouldn't answer them directly on what was doing, but he told him that it was battle that he was fighting alone. A battle he fought as a human, not a country, for once. Because a human, he had no Empire, he had no title or fancy royalty, he was only a simple man trying to sort his thoughts and emotions within himself. But it was a battle that he was quickly losing, as more time wore on and he received no word from Alfred at all.
There were many nights in which he barely got any sleep at all, the nagging doubts keeping him awake, when he wanted nothing more than to be free of them. He begins to grow snappier, sometimes irritable at the slightest mistake such as too much sugar or the wrong season of jam in his tea. He found himself loathing the rain more than he ever had, startling awake every time the thunder burst upon his ears and the lightning danced in his window. He felt they were mocking him of that night, that night he both treasured and wanted nothing more to forget if only to rid himself of the seemingly endless torment and nightmares in the day.
What was worse was that although England sometimes went without food, he gained weight. It wasn't anything drastic, such as a whole belly, but only a small bit over a long stretch of time. He would pick at his food, and if he was lucky, he might eat half of the plate given to him, and then he would excuse himself. A little while after that, he would get sick. Well not necessarily sick, but he would smell or taste certain things and vomit. He felt ill at the faintest remnant of the smell, and his Royals grew worried. He was paler than what his rainy climate inclined him to be.
It was when he was scheduled to have a brief meeting with Russia in his country on trade arrangements, before his routine check-up on Mathew; that he became the very worst shade of green he had ever been. His throat constricted, his face was devoid of color, as he dashed from the room. Russia called after him, asking what the matter was, but the English nation could not answer him. The meeting is called to an end early for the day, as England is sent to recover in bed; and while the English nation does get back on his feet, he is still not completely healthy. He is still pale, and can't even finish the half of the plate he had before.
England's Royals almost call off the meeting to see Mathew, but the nation persuades them otherwise. That very long voyage felt longer, and England feels almost better as he gets closer to the North American shores. In fact, he feels so much better, that he is hungry. He is walking from the ports, in search of a nice place to get a bite to eat after enduring what the ship called meals, when he catches sight of blue eyes and blonde hair. He turns his head quickly, his heart racing and thudding in his ears. Had it been? Could it have been? Was it?
But the face comes back and revealed itself to have been nothing more than Mathew. His eyes had seemed blue from a distance. He waves to England, almost happily, and the English nation puts aside the lump in his throat to gather himself and move along. He greets the boy after so long, and they talk a bit in the town. Mathew shows England to a nice eating establishment, out of manners, without the older nation having to say a word. He is grateful, and he is even happier when he can see the white bottom of his plate when he is finished.
He is shown to the familiar room in Mathew's house, where the younger treats him with tea and conversation. It was a lovely afternoon, settling into a comfortable night without any sign of the illness that had tormented the older nation for the past week. Not even a sniffle or cough. Well, that is, until around midnight of the next day. England found himself awakening to horrid pains in his middle; almost enough to make him wish that he could hurl the agony from his chest. But he couldn't. He didn't know which was worse: the vomiting sickness or the indescribable cramps.
"Art-err-Mr. England? Are you alright?" Mathew was worriedly, wringing a cold cloth and putting it the other nation's fevered forehead. The older blonde grunted, and the colony bit his lip. "Do we need to get you to a hospital? Should I call for a doctor? Should I-?"
"Stop talking," England groaned. He had a bad headache now, as if a blacksmith had mistaken his head for a sword waiting to be flattened. The blacksmith was heavy-handed too, and held more power behind his hands than the English country should be appropriate in sword forging. The sword was supposed to be flat, not bent over the table from such force. Taking a deep breath, and then another, the older nation finally managed to declare that he wanted to just stay in bed for a while. England couldn't go home like this; he didn't even think he could stand up. Not to mention how he didn't know how he was going to explain his sudden symptoms to his Royals. They would not be pleased, anything but pleased, and would likely lock him up to monitor him like some kind of curious cattle. Yes; England would stay. There was no reason to travel back home just yet.
He was lying in bed for only a few hours, when the pain increased, as if in response to something. England held his breath, sweat breaking out, as he lay still. Just as suddenly as the pain had come, it left even sooner. Taking in gulps of air, and nearly rolling into a ball at the curious emptiness that was littered through his nerves where the pain had once been. But now, there was a fullness that had not been there. It was like being full from a good meal, and yet, England felt hungry. He hadn't been able to eat all day, and while earlier he wouldn't have done more than groan at the thought of trying to eat anything; he was suddenly starving for anything like a good piece of meat.
Oh, but wait, at the mere thought of drinking tea, he wanted to vomit. Something was terribly wrong. The smell of said drink was wafting throughout the room, from where Mathew had set down some for England, and the other nation wanted nothing more to throw it out the window for all it was doing for him. He hadn't even tasted it yet, and it was already making him sick. Thinking it could only be a trick of his subconscious, and that he was only feeling repulsed at a certain kind of tea, England took a tentative sip of the one Mathew had set beside him.
He was at the trash pail, in less time than it took for a painted whore to earn her living.
His stomach was empty however, besides the tea, and England could only barely manage the pain-filled dry heaves. He struggled to pull away, to drag himself back to bed and then lay there. Something was wrong with him. Something terribly wrong. He didn't know what it could be, there were so many possibilities, and yet, there was nothing that made sense. The entire situation made no sense. He should be healthy right now. There was no reason for him to be ill; he should be at the peak of his health.
Voices drifted in from the hallway, as England tried to doze off into a nervous fit of sleep. He could hear the soft and accented voice of his colony, Mathew. There was someone else, Mathew was talking to someone else, and they sounded familiar. Was it the Frog? No wait, England had banned him from coming onto the shores without his permission, and the Frog was in no position at the moment to go against him. Brow furrowed, even in sleep, as he tried to figure out who else it could be. Then the realization came, just as their voice came closer and Mathew's rose in a warning tone –
"I don't know what is wrong with him…" Mathew began, and there came the sound of the door opening. England started to wake up, eyes moving underneath his eyelids as he tried to shift a bit to get in a more comfortable position. There was a knot of tension starting to form in his lower back. But it was to no avail, the bed was propped against the wall and the head of the bed faced the door directly. Whoever saw him, there would be no mistaking his face. "Now, wait, no! You can't go in there!"
"Arthur?" There was that voice, his voice; England almost thought he was hearing things. It couldn't be. America was a country away and England was with his colony, Mathew…Where said colony was only a few hours of riding from America's home in the upper part of his states. It was him. It was America. Alfred.
Brow twitching in his restless sleep, as he tried to wake up, when the oddest thing happened. Cool fingertips touched his still fevered forehead, and for the first time since the week prior, England felt the overwhelming urge to vomit. The need was so powerful that the English nation barely made it to the pail, tripping over his own toes and the bed sheets, as he went. This time, however, he really did vomit. He didn't know where it came from, but it come from his mouth, and it hurt like Hell.
"What in the Hell…?" America started, and he was reaching out to grab England by his shoulder. But the older nation wrenched his shoulder away, grimacing, as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He didn't care if it wasn't very proper. He was slowly crawling back from the pail, his eyes wide and seemingly unseeing. His lips are pulled thin, and the Brit is shaking his head in an almost defying manner. Mathew is the first to say something, only beating his brother by a mere moment.
"Mr. England, is everything alright?" Mathew begins to ask, when America looks back from the pail to Arthur, blue eyes wide and his face pale. The American is quick to usher his brother out, with commands to get a specific kind of medicine, as the young country tries to put England's unresisting body back on the bed. While England tries to mentally recover, slowly but surely, America tries to rinse the evidence away.
The ground where he does so is red with blood.
Neither told Mathew anything, the English nation still in shock and mentally going over his colonies and territories. He couldn't be dying. He couldn't be fading away. There was no way. Meanwhile, America is trying to read a book. The words blur before his eyes, but it helps to make him appear calm and sure. The faux idea helped England to regain his calm, at least enough to say something. But he keeps repeating is, "It can't be now. Lord, don't let it be now. It's too soon. It can't be now." His voice is a whisper, but one thick with worry and regret. America tries to take the other's hand, but the English nation shows no sign of being comforted by its presence or warmth in his clammy hands.
As the light outside the window dimmed down to twilight, and England is finally put to sleep by the medicine that Mathew had fetched, America walked out of the room. He looked like he had forgone food and water for several days, had had no sleep for some time, and looked to be several decades older. He was shaking his head, and when he saw Mathew trying to approach him, he turned him away and went to the room that he used when he visited. He locked his door, and there for the first time since the Revolution when he had thought his life was leaving behind his epicenter in the stinging rain –
America, Alfred F. Jones, cried.
Anyways, hope everyone enjoyed! A big thanks to my beta, even if she did cuss me out several times for the length of this fict! I still love you, hun, even if you promise to throttle me for giving you something this big when you work over 30+ hours a week. (I still work more than you, babbu. You can't top me in this. WE IS ONE FAMILIA.)
Oh, and I don't think I've ever said this but…I am a firm believer that Canada/Mathew is a badass motherfucker. Just like Finland. I also believe that whenever England bottoms, he does it with manipulation. So that even if he is on bottom, he gets the most of it and he still tops in a psychological sense. Because that is how England rolls. He is the very anthem of a NO-SHET-HAVING-GENTLEMAN. *Hetalia gang-sign*
READ AND REVIEW!
I wonder if anyone saw the many history references littered throughout this entire fict. This is between everyone, not just through the USUK, but around everyone. Did anyone catch the most obvious ones or the most painful ones (FEELS-wise)? [Ah, Hetalia. Making World History all the more tear-inducing since its creation.]