Rating: T(+)
Genre: Romance/Angst
Language: English
Couple: America/Alfred F. Jones x England/Britain/Arthur Kirkland
Song: The Only Exception by Paramore
Warnings: Sexual undertones, hinted sex, explicitness, and slightly foul language.
Author's Comments: I've been beating myself up over writers block, not updating my chapter stories, and kicking myself repeatedly because I decided to use my precious updating time to write a barely-even-there song fic to get over the huge creativity boulder in my head. Perhaps it's because I just can't stand not uploading anything and pissing off my readers because it isn't what they hoped for. And yeah, Iceclaw, you will want to murder me for writing this. Murder me with a rusty, dirty, rotting spoon you dredged from the bottom of a scrap heap. Human names used, implied sex, and the insanity and whatnot my shit!fics usually contain...I also noticed that I'm a complete whore for angst. Shoot me now, I've become one of them.
When I was younger, I saw my daddy cry
And curse at the wind
He broke his own heart and I watched
As he tried to reassemble it
Every time England came to visit him, the tiny colony of blond hair and the brightest of blue eyes, America's heart would swell with an excitement that left him confused and breathless by the time the British man left. And the visits, oh those visits, they lasted so long but too short, and he was clinging to the green eyed man by the time he had to part. Soon, England visited less and less, and he mentioned that there was trouble with France back home. Finally one morning, when he thought he could feel those long, calloused fingers running through his golden hair, all he heard was the putter patter of rain on the roof and clomps of hooves pounding against cobblestone. It remained like that, and the following years that crept by passed like forever without those fresh green eyes, with painful tears shed that England would never be able to wipe away and kiss better.
The pain was like no other, the loneliness like a hunger that was never sated, and the sleepless nights would trickle like thick grains of sand in an hourglass without a bedtime story to soothe him into sleep. And damn, it hurt. He no longer had the heart to play with the weak toy soldiers now brittle with age, his lip shaking at the crackling paint on their bright red coats and solemn faces, and he long sense stopped trying to fill the empty hole that without England, his England, would never be filled. He felt the dull throb throughout childhood, and finally, his tears stopped. Little America was now bigger and stronger, and didn't need any assistance in non-too-gently throwing every symbol of England into a little wooden box, stashing it in a closet filled with dusty air. He ended up walking out of his small house much more than a boy, but a young man with lanky arms and legs that were too long to walk on with without stumbling and tripping over his own feet.
He helped around the little farms around him, taught little boys on the edge of the creek how to make a stone skip on its sparkling surface, assisted and laughed with women bent over stew pots, kissed pretty blonde girls with sun kissed faces in haylofts, and ran from their daddies when he was caught. And when he was finally caught, he was fine to be put back to work, because he would only do it again. Slowly, he came out of his shell and became the rascally wise guy that brought smiles to his peoples faces when he ran soaring by, laughing wildly at the red faced men usually in pursuit.
One day, he heard grave voices whispering the words of freedom that tasted sweet on his tongue. The sad, crying little boy that yearned for England seemed to have hidden away in that dusty little closet with his old toys, and soon, he was waving a new flag. Slowly, America became stronger...and when England came back, his face surprised at the drastic changes from a little boy to a young man looming over him, upturned and shocked. Those years of struggling hurt the both of them until England was crumpled and crying before the taller blond before him, America wanting nothing more than to kneel down and let things be okay again. But now, America was a nation.
England...you used to be so big.
And my momma swore that
She would never let herself forget
And that was the day that I promised
I'd never sing of love if it does not exist
Years passed, all the while never speaking to England, and the broken little boy he hid away would need to be held close to keep from breaking him completely when he found himself devastated by that broken, green eyed gaze. Slowly but surely, anger was brewing in Europe, and finally war broke out again. He heard from men on the outskirts of battle and that maybe Europe should get busy repairing before they tried to kill each other again. But one day, a missile struck the sparkling shores of Pearl Harbor, and everything fell off its hinges, leaving him trembling and winded once again.
This pain, more physical than the longing he once held all of those years ago, attacked and thudded in his veins like a viscous drug that left him crying silent tears with a ripping agony all over his body. He heard the panicked swing of his bedroom door and heavy breathing as a certain Englishman attempted to compose himself, finally muttering that Japan shouldn't have gotten America involved and stomped back out as soon as he came. But every day, with cold green eyes and griping about how he wished he wasn't there, he felt England's thin arms and the smell of tea envelope him when his eyes slip closed, little sniffles and tears on his neck that got cold and dry when the Englishman slowly broke away and left him on his lonesome.
The awkwardly pleasant days spent with England didn't last forever, sadly. He recovered, and soon was leading meetings, playing hero, and slowly realizing that the other nations around him...he wanted to keep them safe, he wanted them to back him up as much as he wanted to be their hero, too. And it made his heart swell and beat just that much harder whenever he saw a flicker of amusement and adoration in England's—no, Arthur's—eyes whenever he threw his arm around his slim shoulders, and it almost made him want to kiss him breathless and hold him until they never wanted to let go.
One day, it was just the two of them, and he heard the soft utterance of his human name when their lips suddenly pressed desperately together, slowly releasing each other with foggy eyes before they tested these unknown waters, over and over, until they heard the first traces of footsteps in the hallways.
It wasn't a surprising dirty little secret that he got more than a little bit hot and bothered whenever he thought of that pretty flushed face.
But darling, you are the only exception
You are the only exception
You are the only exception
You are the only exception
The sound of gunshots were still ringing painfully in his ears, his head starting to ache like nothing he's ever felt. He heard his American soldiers laughing over pints of beer, celebrating a win, some quietly mourning those they lost. Alfred never knew that German's could be so...brutal. He was absolutely beat, and was half asleep by the time he got to his tent, contentedly snuggling under the covers.
He slowly started to think about green eyes, sandy blond hair, and the distinct smell of tea that the Englishman loved so much...and he felt so much more at ease when he knew that the smaller nation was safe and hopefully comfortable in his own tent a little ways down.
It didn't take much, but he knew he was content...and nothing could freeze the warm feeling he now had in his chest.
Maybe I know, somewhere deep in my soul
That love never lasts
And we've got to find other ways to make it alone
Or keep a straight face
Although it took much effort and many cups of tea, Arthur's finally slipped close, resting to a beautiful dream of cornflower blue eyes and light blond hair that would shine gold every time he stood under the beating sun. And those beautiful eyes would gaze so lovingly at him, those soft lips would fall on his, and he felt that rare bliss he felt back when he shared that...whatever that was back in the meeting room with Alfred.
He lied on his side in the grass, and as he started to doze, he faintly felt Alfred's hands run up and down his back. It was pathetic that he couldn't tell the difference from those very, very real arms around his back from the dancing fingers tracing tickling patterns on his spine. He wanted, he ached, he yearned for the touch and affection he felt so robbed of.
And when he finally fell asleep in his dreamland, he woke to an empty cot, cold feet, and a pillow wet with tears. And I've always lived like this
Keeping a comfortable distance
And up until now I had sworn to myself that I'm content with loneliness
Because none of it was ever worth the risk
Dreams could never be enough, and he felt the unwanted angst approaching like a roaring tide. He hated drama and yearning for things he could never have, despised it to a point that he swore never to feel affection for anything after he failed at raising a colony. After that dream, that beautiful dream, he woke up with tears on his cheeks and that gnawing loneliness that often accompanied him.
He felt fine being alone because it's all he'd ever had left after so much rejection. Arthur was resigned to that feeling...it was something he didn't dare try to change for fear of being uncomfortable without it. He was a body that rejected any changes, keeping a comfortable distance between any and all relationships and himself, and he was okay with that.
There were moments where he wished he wasn't like that, yes; he'd brushed hands with that idiotic American one time too many not to hope that Alfred would grasp it in return. He wanted to feel, and this self inflected love only proved that he made himself a fool, hoping he'd finally get something he would never have.
Arthur was content with his self destructive hopes. He was content with breaking his own heart, without even trying to fix it, because dreams were the only thing keeping him in reality.
But you are the only exception
You are the only exception
You are the only exception
You are the only exception
Gasping, moaning, and he was pinching himself again and again. No, not a dream. He was completely conscious...God save the queen, this was definitely happening.
It was stiflingly hot, and he felt like he was going to melt with every nip, stroke, and embrace. The pain that came with their coupling hurt like hell, but he was so coaxing, so gentle with him...
It was good, too good to be true, but he wanted the moment to last...and he knew that he just might wake to a cold bed, but he wanted to risk it...he wanted this to be his time to fill the loneliness he thought he could never shake.
I've got a tight grip on reality
But I can't let go of what's in front of me here
I know you're leaving in the morning when you wake up
Leave me with some kind of proof, it's not a dream, oh
He didn't want to open his eyes. He refused to feel the heartbreak of an empty bed again. Taking a few deep breaths, bracing himself for the pain, his eyes slid open...
Dear god, his heart almost stopped beating. Lying with that peaceful, sleeping face was Alfred in all of his overly patriotic glory. He stayed, he wasn't off trying to be the hero while Arthur stitched himself back up, he...he felt so happy it hurt to breathe. He never noticed the larger man was awake until his mouth was covered by honeyed lips, and he found his arms wrapping around that sturdy frame.
"Watching me sleep, you old perv?" Alfred chuckled, kissing the tip of his nose. "I was not, you oaf..." Arthur mumbled into his chest, being cradled and cuddled into the larger nations space.
"Were to." You are the only exception
You are the only exception
You are the only exception
You are the only exception
The American was infuriating.
"Was not," he humphed, gripping the American. "Alfred..?" he murmured softly.
You are the only exception
You are the only exception
You are the only exception
You are the only exception
"Yeah?" he heard him hum above him.
And I'm on my way to believing
Oh, and I'm on my way to believing
"...don't let go." he whispered, feeling the American hold him tighter.
"Never thought about it, Artie. Never thought about it."
SOOOooooOOO. Fail ending is fail, because I've been rushing on this piece of shit for about...three to four months? But, I heard this song, and was like...bawwww, I need to write this. Also, on a side note, I need to swim through the kink meme and make a valid story that isn't a filler. That would be glorious. Oh, and a new idea or something. Anywho, R&R because you Love/Hate me, I love you goofy bastards. :)