A quick drabble I did when I was in a creative mood.
Sometimes, England and America just lie there, next to each other, and just are. They forget all the political nonsense, all the responsibility, and for a fleeting, precious moment, they are just two people, one of whom happens to be a terrible cook, and the other a boy with a hero complex. They escape from the noise and pollution and smog and cities – and just for a second, the two nations are in the meadows and wide plains of their youth, frolicking and playing together for eternity, basking in their innocence. And even now, whenever America or England or Alfred or Arthur – because they are all one and the same – whenever they feel troubled, they lie there, and fly away to a place, a place of their own, where all of America's naïve ideas or England's food or America's hero complex or England's insecurity
just
disappears.
And when they snap back to reality, they look at each other and smile, because they know. And suddenly, the blood that runs in their veins or the gender of them both or their status as fellow nations – none of that matters. Because, for a moment, America can just love England and England can just love America and they can just love each other. They have an escape in each other, and whenever they face the dirty looks, the disgusted grimaces – they just smile and hold the other just that bit tighter. And as long as they have each other – the world could burn up in flames, and they would die happy. Because as long as England or America or Alfred or Arthur love each other,
the world ceases to exist.