Haha, you asked for it, and I delivered. More introspective drabbling for all!
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America had no idea where he and England were going, but they were going somewhere. And as long as America was with England he didn't care if they were flying straight up, through the clouds to some semblance of a heaven, or plunging straight down through the ground to some kind of eternal torture, because as long as he had England with him, every step of the way, he was happy. He could be bathing in blood and burning to ashes, and as long as England was there with him, he would take the pain with a smile on his face. Even if he was in heaven, if England wasn't there, as cliché as it sounded, he wouldn't hesitate as he ripped off his wings and condemned himself to burn, because their love was worth it. It was worth every single tear that fell from their eyes, it was worth the pain and suffering they went through, and it was most definitely worth the disgust of the others. Ah yes, other people always judged them. But England, for all America cared, could be his blood brother – and he would still love him. How could other people have the right to judge them, after all, if they had never experienced this high, this ecstasy that battered America every time he was with him? For all America knew, after all, heaven could be under the ground, a place where the fire brought a familiar warmth, and hell could be in the sky, as souls were burned by the relentless sun and pursued by the terrifying moon. Who knew? America certainly didn't. And even though he didn't know where they were headed, anywhere on Earth – or perhaps somewhere beyond – as long as it was with England, it was, as far as America was concerned, paradise.
