"Move your knee, lad."
"I can't…it's too cramped."
"Well it's in my way. If you – ouch! That hurt! – don't move your knee, then I can't help you."
"Arthur, that's not f-fair…nggh, Just – just work around it, okay?"
"It's impossible."
"Ah…! God, Arthur…Don't be like that."
"Did that hurt?"
"N-no. It's just – it's sensitive, you know? Do it again."
"…I'm sorry, but this isn't going to work out, Alfred. Your bloody knee is digging into my ribs." England scowled deeply and moved to pull away before desperate hands shot out to try and cling onto him.
"No! Don't go! I'll move it already, alright? Jeez." America huffed an annoyed sigh through his nose before trying to spread his legs. It was hard and it was painful, what with the close quarters of the underground rooms of the trenches, and the overall cuts, bruises, and fractured bones of both their bodies. His muscles were sore and he felt dirty and sweaty and bloody and grimy.
He hated the trenches and he hated this war. But if he was forced to be somewhere bad to help out the struggling countries of Europe against the forces of evil, then he might as well try and enjoy it to the best of his abilities.
With the knee no longer in the way, England begrudgingly slipped back in between the American's legs and settled there. America leaned his back against the dirty wall and raised an impatient eyebrow.
"How's that, your majesty?"
England scoffed at the sarcasm in the boy's voice. "Wonderful, thank you." He slipped his hand behind America's head in one swift motion before leaning in and kissing the bruise on his forehead. America shuddered. "Should you really be talking to me like that when I'm trying to do something nice for you?" He peppered another kiss along his forehead and nuzzled his face into America's bangs.
America rested his hands on England's sides, minding any unseen injury, before letting out an airy chuckle. "Should you really be acting as rude as you are to your rescuer?" he countered.
"You have an odd definition for rude," the Briton murmured and skirted down to capture cold, chapped lips. It was like a refreshing drink of water after an eternity in a dessert. England was dying and there was not enough America in the world to quench his thirst. He had waited so long, and despite his pride and the past that they shared, he couldn't help but be grateful for seeing this nation again, ready to step in and be the hero he always claimed to be.
It wasn't enough. He couldn't get enough of America.
He pulled away with a heaving chest, ignoring the aches from his abdomen all the while, eyes searching out the blue ones bellow him. America panted and licked at the corner of his mouth where there was still a lingering taste of England.
"I don't remember saying my lips hurt," he said with a smug little smile. England shook his head in mild amusement before planting another peck to America's lips.
He breathed his words over his skin, "My apologies. I got carried away with myself for a moment."
"I'm sure." America shifted back in their awkward position and tried to get as comfortable as possible. It seemed near impractical. He stretched his neck out and gave England an expectant look. "My neck hurts, though."
Green orbs watched the bruised skin before him before dipping down and running his soft tongue along America's pulse, relishing at how it jumped under his touch. He licked and kissed and gently ran his fingers over the skin under America's uniform until he had the young nation squirming and hissing beneath him.
"This is…this is just like when I was – mmm…oh, there, Arthur, there," America breathed, thighs pressing up against the body leaning over him. "Like when I was little," he finished.
England pulled his head up suddenly with scrutinous eyes. "Do not joke about that."
"I'm not," America said and snatched England's hand back to press it to his abdomen under the hem of his jacket again in encouragement.
"I would never think to do this when you were not even knee high," England informed before stroking the happy trail below America's bellybutton. He received a weak hip twitch upwards into his own sensitive groin.
"I didn't mean like this exactly. I meant–" America gasped a large intake of air suddenly before pressing his face generously into the crook of England's neck, planting a kiss or two against the dirt-coated skin. "You used to kiss my cuts to make me feel better."
England paused when America made his way up to his jaw before leaning forward to get another taste of England's lips. The Englishman pulled back, noticing the look of disappointment on America's face at the sudden lack of contact.
"My lips hurt now," America coaxed and tightened his legs at England's sides to press him closer.
"Let me kiss it better then," England said, amused this time, and engulfed America's lips in his own. He wasn't aggressive like America probably wanted right now, the boy's head swimming with foreign pleasure that he probably hadn't felt since the Spanish-American war, but was slow and gentle. He filled his kiss with every ounce of kindness and tenderness that he possessed, secretly glad to have America curling up to him wanting his (and only his) attention.
Being lonely and in constant discord since the Revolution took a toll on him.
At least now he had a place to vent it.
"My chest," America managed to say after nipping at England's lip. "My chest hurts."
England shook his head and pulled back a moment to get his words out before America's hands grabbed the back of his head harshly, fingers digging into locks of tussled sandy-blonde hair, and dragged him back in. "No time."
"Yes. Yes there is…Fuck, Arthur!" America arched, hips rocking up, trying to cajole England to move with him. He wasn't moving fast enough, stupid old man.
"I'm afraid not," England muttered, removing America's reluctant hands from him, freeing himself from that almost painful grip, before kissing the blonde's nose. "I can only soothe the basics at the moment."
America stared at him with frustrated eyes for a long while before taking one of England's hands and pressing it against the main source of all his problems. The jolt of excitement was inevitable when England allowed his hand to press forward into America's crotch.
"It hurts here."
There was no doubt in England's mind that it probably did.
Shutting his eyes obligingly, England sat back against his calves and prepared himself to move out from between America's legs. "I will kiss the pain away for you."
America stopped him by tightening his grip with his legs. England looked up curiously at the flushed man littered with cuts and bruises and sludge. "No kissing," he said stubbornly. England raised a prominent eyebrow. "We don't have time," America continued, using England's words against him.
"Then what do you propose I do?" England asked patiently. Even though they had to make this quick before going back out there and facing those terrible Germans again, England felt like he really did have all the time in the world. America just had that affect on him.
The blonde latched onto England's buckle, nimble fingers working quickly as if he had sat and practiced many nights in preparation for a situation like this, before England frowned deeply and slapped his hands away. "What part of no time do you not understand?"
America glared back for a moment, annoyed with England's refusal. "Just do something then! You're taking forever to do something."
England pursed his lips but didn't say anything. America turned his head with a pout and looked away, the previous fervor seemingly to die a little bit with each passing moment of stillness. With a quick flick of his wrist, England had the rest of his belt undone, the sound drawing America's attention back to him. He moved and began mirroring the same movements with the younger nation's pants.
"Hush, I do not want to hear any lip from you," England said when America opened his mouth to say something. He silenced the boy with a rough tug from his pants, sliding the front down just enough to pull America free. America shivered slightly at the cool contact from the air, face heating up as he preferred to watch England do the same to himself rather than look between his own legs.
"I-I thought you said we didn't have time for–" America was cut off as England pressed his finger to his lips to silence him.
"We have enough time for this."
A harsh tidal wave of tingles rocketed up straight from his cock to behind his eyes, making his body shake almost violently, when England pressed themselves together with the firm grip of his hand and rocked. He did the same thing again. And again. And once more until his grip was confident and there was a steady pace of skin sliding against oh so sensitive skin.
A pleased moan was torn from America's lips as his spine bent at an awkward angle, the pain from their positions being outweighed by the overall euphoria consuming his body. He tried hard to keep his eyes from rolling back into his head at the feeling of England moving against him, body close and pressing down above him.
It was wonderfully warm. He hadn't felt this warm in a long time. Isolation was nice and all, but this was something he missed out on and it was good to do again.
It was good to do with England for the first time.
"Better?" England managed to keep his voice free from the bliss he was feeling, only a small tremor shaking his vocals. He watched as America writhed under him, feeling the pressure of hips speeding up below him. Who knew America was soft everywhere. It felt absolutely delightful to feel the plains of skin against his own length, the warmth bubbling out from America's cock in beads that helped this action become that much easier with a form of liquid.
His response was strong arms twining around his back and pulling him down on top of America. England hissed when his bruised ribs were strained, but kept up his ministrations much to America's pleasure.
"Ah, ahh, Arthur…nnhh, Arthur…h-hurts…" America choked, jutting with twice as much vigor against England. He knew he was in France right now but it felt like he was back in the States from all the stars he was seeing.
"Where does it hurt, love?" England asked and pressed a light kiss to America's sweaty temple.
America cried out, hands framing England's face. "Everywhere."
England wanted to smile but instead kissed the palm of America's hand, pressing it to his heart.
He really couldn't get enough of America.
The land was absolutely hideous. It was barren and cold, looking like no signs of human life had been there since the beginning of time. The buildings looked broken beyond all repair and the sky took on an appropriate shade of gray to mask the painful victory with a sense of gloom.
It had taken many years, many horrible years filled with bombs and bullets and a sense of fear and panic at the sound of an airplane.
England sat on a pile of rubble and stared blankly at the outskirts of his city that had taken many horrible hits from the Blitz. No more war, huh? That was a laugh. He was addicted, he knew, and this surely wouldn't be the end of it. There was always war and he was always going to be there to start it or back it up.
He remembered when Germany had looked particularly mortified, the look of horror etched onto his face when finding out that he had lost the first World War. The man knew there would be repercussions. England had silently wondered to himself if the German would have the balls to do something like this again after they'd signed the Treaty of Versailles. He had no idea that it would only harbor a silent rage in the stoic blonde, never knowing his true intentions until a second World War had erupted.
He sighed and ran a bandaged hand through his hair.
He ached all over, feeling bloodied and bruised from these damn bombs. England was strong, though. His people were full of optimism and resolve. They could handle this. And yet, still…
He was so lost in his thoughts that he hadn't heard the footsteps behind him shuffling about in the debris until a shadow engulfed him. He looked up with large green eyes as America kneeled down to eyelevel with him. He wore his oh so familiar bomber jacket that he'd grown accustomed to.
What was he doing here? Wasn't he in isolation again? Wasn't he through with England and everyone else? Wasn't he ignoring his calls for assistance and help?
America watched him with a bizarre sense of something that England could not recognize. He flinched when America reached out slowly and took his hand in his own, staring at the bloodied palms of his previous caretaker with fascination.
"Man, you're a wreck," he finally said.
England paused before frowned, trying his damndest to ignore the feeling of his chest expanding painfully when seeing the bright blonde hair and impossibly blue eyes before him. He wanted to curl in on himself in high hopes that he wasn't imagining this.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded weakly.
America ignored him and ran his thumb over a long gash against England's palm. He looked up at him with a twinkle in his eyes, his captivating grin spreading across his face. America pressed a kiss to England's palm and pulled it to rest above his heart softly.
"I'm here to kiss everything better."
England buckled into that touch with a hoarse laugh and sobbed.
It didn't hurt so much anymore.