In the Arms of the Storm
Thunderstorms had never particularly bothered England. Being as he was the personification of an island nation and isolated for the first thousand or so years of his existence, natural phenomenon had never caused him any undue concern. Thunder ripping through the charged air as rain pounded on the drenched ground was, if anything, a soothing experience. Before he had a true home he would bathe in the downpour, watching with lighting strike the earth with wide absinthe eyes, and once he did have a home he would sit by the window doing exactly the same, craving the freedom he had lost through various invasions and political changes; missing the unrestrained recklessness of past years. Hell, when he was a pirate (heh, technically a 'privateer' but he'd never had any truck with that; he was a pirate through and through and he certainly wasn't going to deny it) such brutal, tempestuous storms were commonplace. The ocean was a violent and temperamental mistress, and raging storms would frequently sneak up on an unwary ship and its crew. They were a terrifyingly beautiful constant partner of sea-faring folk, and the entire endeavour wouldn't be the same without them.
This stance had never really changed, not even when he had finally hung up his Captain's coat and left the freedom of the seas behind him. He had never wanted it to change. England was synonymous with rain and it was the only time when he was truly restful and peace. Even if the other nations thought it to be odd, the primal storms were like a lost friend soothing him. The crashes were like heaven, reminiscent of his untamed youth, bare feet pounding across the wild land and forests as the sky caved in above them.
Then he had claimed America as his colony and little brother.
It was the dependence that had shocked him. Never before had he been in the situation where another person had relied upon him so wholly, and never did this stand out more than on the blustering, stormy nights during his visits to America. Such nights would inevitably result in a terrified Alfred shrieking at the first rolling wave and pounding down the hallway (either to his study or his room, depending on the time of day), to the safety of his big brother's warm embrace. England had always chuckled lightly, picked up the trembling child and held him tightly until the storm subsided, chiding him gently for his silliness but never letting go. It had been nice, this neediness that had never been directed at him before. It had been nice that, despite his often barbaric acts as an Empire and the terror he inspired the whole world across, he could always guarantee that his little America was always waiting, and never afraid of him (just afraid of his old friend, instead).
Then, of course, everything had changed. The little brother upon which he had doted abandoned him, wrapped up in ideas of freedom and other such beliefs that no longer required a domineering (he didn't agree with this description; he was just being protective. He was just being everything his own brothers hadn't been to him) big brother in the picture. And the thunder was the same, a cacophony of chaos that alleviated the pain of abandonment as he once again retreated into himself, back to the splendid isolation of his youth.
~linebreak~
He sat on the chaise lounge, Sherlock Holmes in one hand (Hounds of the Baskervilles, classic Sir Arthur Conan Doyle) and slightly over-sweetened tea in the other. After another exhausting and pointless meeting of nations in his beloved capital was called off as a consequence of what they all referred to as 'dire weather' (but which he privately considered heavenly, as the discordious melody resonated through his ancient bones), he had called off all other meetings of the day and retired to his house, bathing in the dissonance outside. In his mind there was no state more peaceful than the one in which he was currently.
A peaceful state which was summarily shattered as a loud pounding started on his front door. With irritation that he reserved for all forms of human contact, he delicately placed a bookmark between his pages, lay it on the table with his cup of tea and then stormed towards the front door, and whichever idiot had decided to disturb his tranquillity. Irritation permeating his being, he unbolted the door and threw it open.
He should have guessed.
"Hey Artie!" The classic grin invited his next comment.
"Sod off." He attempted to close the door, but a certain someone's foot was inconveniently in the way. It was almost as if he knew it was going to happen (it was justifiable, damnit. This was America).
"Aww, is that any way to treat your bestest friend?"
"Not a word, America. What do you want, exactly?" He resigned himself to the inevitable conversation and allowed a sullen and slightly petulant expression take place on his face.
"Can't I pay my big brother a visit when I'm in his country? In fact, it would be wrong if me if I didn't, so you should be thankful that I'm here!" The absolutely self-assured smile lit up cerulean eyes and almost managed to negate the slightly worried look creasing the corner of his eyes.
"Nothing to do with the weather?" It was a stupid question and they both knew it.
"No! Although now ya mention it, mind letting me in?" The tall American was drenched head to toe, having clearly forgone an umbrella despite knowing full-well what English weather was like.
"In fact, I do." He really didn't need the headache an extended (read: more than 2 minutes) visit from America would result in. Once again he attempted vainly to shove the door shut, but alas it would not budge. "Admit it and I'll rethink. You're here because of the storm, aren't you? Couldn't you just go and harass Japan instead? I know he's in the same hotel as you." He gave the younger man a piercing glare. "If you need my help, just say." Making the arrogant twerp admit it to him would give him enough satisfaction to make any subsequent problems worth it.
"Of course I don't need your help... don't be silly! I'm the hero, I never need help! Especially not over something as silly as a bit of thunder!" The point of his statement was promptly negated by a particularly loud crash of thunder and the subsequent girly shriek. A pitiful whimper managed to escape the drenched America, although he attempted to cover it up with a slight cough. "Uh... any chance of you letting me in? Pretty, pretty please? It's a little bit... damp out here." As usual, his statement was accompanied by wild hand gestures, this time at the heavy, grey sky above them. England let out a sigh but ultimately acquiesced. It wasn't outright admitting he was terrified, but he couldn't be bothered to deal with a sick America for the next week worth of meetings. Right now he was nothing more than a sodden mass of deflated all-American ego.
"Do what you will. Be sure to take your shoes and jacket off, though. I'll be damned if you're dragging rainwater all through my house again." He promptly turned on his heel and made his way back into the living room, reclaiming his seat and starting off where he'd left in his book. The half a cup of tea remaining had long since gone tepid. He could hear heavy footfalls behind him as Alfred threw off his shoes and jacket, leaving them (naturally) in a soggy pile in the hallway. Arthur would never understand how that damned bomber jacket of his had lasted so long when he treated it so poorly.
America followed him into the room and plonked himself down on the other end of the chaise-lounge, dripping water everywhere despite having shed his outer layers. Everything was quietly civil (if a bit awkward) as England silently flicked through the pages, until another rumble of thunder elicited a frightened squeak from the self-proclaimed hero. England sighed in exasperation.
"Come here, you idiot." Before he'd even got the full sentence out he was drowning in a sea of damp American. It was a stark and disconcerting moment as England realised just how big his little brother had got; dwarfing him instead of tucking safely on his lap as he had back in the colonial years. The scent of hamburgers and cologne clung to him, almost overwhelming England's senses as he held his little brother tighter, swamped in nostalgia. "You're an idiot," he didn't try to hide the fondness in his voice as he was so often wont to do. All he got in response was a pitiful mumbling as the violent winds continued lashing his town house, rain spattering against the window pane like bullets. Sporadically, thunder would rip through the sky, eliciting violent shudders. He let loose another sigh, knowing there would be no getting rid of him now. Even if he could somehow detach Alfred (terrified as he was) his own conscience wouldn't let him send him back to his hotel in the knowledge that he'd just spend the entire night cowering under his covers.
And so England sat there with a cold cup of tea, and half-finished book and a (now dozing) American still wrapped slightly too tightly around his neck, drifting off to the bewitching maelstrom pummelling the earth outside.
AN- I haven't written anything much, least of all plain old fiction, in years. This is my first time writing anything Hetalia-related (the fandom sucked me in some weeks ago) but I absolutely love the relationship between England and America.
I'm an English lass a love storms. Besides the risk of power cuts, the sound of rain and thunder makes me sleepy more than anything. I find nothing more relaxing than a good storm, and I reckon England would feel the same. If you like it or have any constructive criticism, please review!