England stared at his computer. He drummed his slender fingers over his mahogany desk as he nursed a cup of strong black tea, willing some idea to form as he stared at the virtual blank page. Frustration edged at his concentration, along with a deep-seeded tendril of fear. Absolutely nothing was coming out. His mind was completely blocked.
He had no idea why.
He was doing everything right; getting enough sleep, taking care of himself, attempting to write in the morning - his usual time. He'd even put away the alcohol for two weeks to see if that would have some effect.
Nothing.
Well, it was not as if life or death depended on whether he could write or not. It was more hobby for him. Something that he enjoyed just for the sake of it, when he needed to take his mind out of his work, his life. He merely dabbled.
But normally he was a damned good dabbler.
Besides, should not one with his legacy, his history, be able to pull at least a few scant words out of his mind? He was the nation of Shakespeare, Dickens, Austen, Woolf and Tolkien, for God's sake - just to name a few. What could it possibly mean that he, England manifest, was having writer's block? Surely, surely, he was just having an off month. That this was not some sort of systemic-
His phone blared. England jumped in his seat, startled to the tune of Flathead. [-and she made me talk dirty in a pink-] He grabbed his phone, quick to try to stop the noise - despite the fact that no one else was in the house to care. It was pure reflex. "Hello?" he said.
*Iggy~! Sup!* came the voice of his very obnoxious, albeit endearing, cousin across the pond. (One could sleep with cousins, yes? Yes.) Before England had the chance to answer him, America went on, *I'm so booored~ Why don't you come hang out with me?*
Ugh, he was feeling thoroughly unproductive enough as it was.
"America, I'm busy writing," England snapped back irritably, now glaring at his blank page.
*Oh? Whatcha writing?* came the curious inquiry. It gave the older nation pause. He had fully expected America to dismiss or poke fun at his writing, much as he did with most of his other hobbies. In fact, some darker, irrational side of him wondered if America knew that he was making no headway on his writing whatsoever and was using it against him.
But no. The silence from the other side of the line was earnest and patient.
England shifted uncomfortably in his seat, feeling the awkwardness rising up his body like quicksand. "I don't know yet. I'm still working on it," he replied, trying to throw his full authorship authority into his voice. He internally winced when it came out as haughty and defensive instead.
A low, considering hum sounded over the line. England could almost hear the boy interpreting his tone. For all the world might think, America was entirely too clever for his own good. And America knew him entirely too well. *Well, I bet it's gonna be amazing,* the boy said, opting for the route of the oblivious, for which England was all too grateful. *I always like your writing, Iggy. It's so good. If it was food, it'd be even better than France's. But then people would get fat on it cuz it's so rich, so it's probably better it ain't.*
The awkward feeling rose some more, now coming up the back of his neck. The flattery, though heartwarming, was doing nothing to lift his spirits. In fact, he could only feel the pressure all the more keenly. "I... thank you. I suppose," England replied, trying to be gracious, but failing.
America seemed not to notice, or at least pretended to. *Yeah! And I like it best when you write stuff on me!* he chirped.
"What?" England asked, baffled. Then his mood turned. "America, not everything is about you."
*No, no, no. I meant literally on me. Don't you remember? 06?* the boy prompted.
It took England a moment to suss out what century America was even talking about. Then suddenly the memory came back to him as vividly as though it had just happened.
He lounged on a small wicker chair nearby the window. The morning sun cast his long shadow over the bedroom floor and to the young, naked body of his lover dozing on top of the sheets. The boy's expression was soft and docile in his sleep. Still so very young. All bluster and bravado. Yet to make a mark on the world.
England raised his fingers up in the light, moving his shadow-hand to gently stroke and admire each muscle, each curve over the boy's body without his knowing. He did not want to dare wake the boy, lest this fleeting moment vanish without trace. Like a delicate bubble that can pop with a single breath.
The idea troubled him more than he cared to admit. America always had such a hold on him, whether he aroused anger or grief or tenderness or now lust. A far more faceted and complicated relationship that the inadequate adage, 'flip side of the same coin.' The possibility that this tether of passion could be unrequited utterly rankled him.
So what could he do to make sure that the boy would not forget him again?
Musing on this, England watched him and played with shadows upon his skin. His fingers were like black keys over a porcelain canvas, the skin nearly flawless. Untouched.
A slow smile spread over England's lips. Nimbly rising to his feet, he found ink and quill on America's writing desk, bringing them over to bed. Slowly, carefully, he took the quill to the crook of the boy's neck and penned, ~here is where I will kiss you~ He blew gently on it to make the ink dry, watching the way that America's brow crinkled and then relaxed in his slumber. Then he moved on, down to the boy's inner thigh. ~here my hand will hold you~ Soft breath. On his hip. ~here I will leave a bruise~ Soft breath.
Gently, tenderly, he documented his fantasy over this perfect medium, until America's body was a work of poetry. When he was satisfied, he set the ink aside and kissed each piece of the puzzle as if to seal them in. The boy was still fast asleep when he took his things and departed.
"O-oh..." England said, his face flushed but pleased. "So you remember that?"
*Course I do,* America replied. *I was pissed off.* England's smile dropped. *I mean, you were an empire marking up whatever you could get your hands on. But it was so, so sexy, I couldn't help but forgive you,* he said indulgently, as though he were bestowing a great boon on the older nation.
"My thanks," England muttered dryly.
*You're welcome~* America replied sweetly. The little shit. Then the boy added airily, *You know, you always do your best stuff with quill. Plus it was so cute walking in on you while you're writing and you're curled up in a chair and you've got all these paper balls all over the floor. It's like paper dust bunnies just get real horny around you,* he said with a guffaw as England's face only flushed darker.
Though... the boy's words did sound a small chord in him. He looked back to his computer screen and to the blank white page. Not even a real page, but a complicated series of coded electrical pulses. On a screen that constantly popped up with notifications from social media or work emails. Not to mention a portal to the inescapable temptation that was the world wide web.
As England pondered, America took his complete lack of response in stride. *Well, I guess you're busy in your own head space there,* he said, accompanied by some shifting sounds in the background. *Imma go bug Canada. I'll TTYL,* he said, actually saying T-T-Y-L. *Love you~*
"Love you too," England replied distractedly, googling the nearest stationary store.
*Oh! And good luck with the writer's block!* America crowed, hanging up just as England let out a bark of indignation.