I really like this drabble, to tell the truth. I was brainstorming, and this just...somehow came out of it. I don't know where the inspiration for this came from...it just did.
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America loved how England saw the subtle beauty in things. He'd comment on the grace of silk, cascading like a waterfall down the marble steps of the house. He would notice the way that rabbits' ears twitched just slightly when they sensed danger, reveling in the magnificence of nature and sunlight that England always seemed to love. He could write a book on the smell of lavender and rain, mixing in the spring air, using all of his eloquent, beautiful vocabulary, and describing perfectly that one aroma that America always felt belonged to England, and England alone. He would make a passing remark, perhaps, on the particular way a dead leaf, blown by the wind, tumbled over the trail on which they hiked. England would laugh at a joke that only he would get, something about the symbolism of it all, and how ironic it was. America didn't listen too closely though. Not because he didn't pay attention, no, America paid attention to England all the time, just not on the things he should. He blocked out the words and chatter, leaving only that one, perfect, tone that America loved. It was that slight curve in the word, that slight accent that left England sounding so proud, and perhaps even a bit arrogant. England was, of course, and always had been a proud nation. No matter what, he had always held his head high, the monarchy looking so majestic in the angle of the light that particular day. Of course, "that particular day" was every day. America never got tired of England, because he loved him. And even America, the childish, boisterous nation that he was, could see the subtle, multifaceted, elegant beauty of that one simple, dangerous statement.
I love you.
