It was a rare day that the sun had the confidence to break through the clouds in England. The gentlemanly nation was thus, understandably, quite surprised when he returned to consciousness with its rays shining into his face, like he'd spent the night in the American South, or somewhere in the Caribbean.
Additionally, the world apparently was vying for that surprise in quite a few ways on this particular day, because the head of silken dark hair that occupied one of his pillows competed for his attention with that bright sunshine. His bleary mind had to put a number of things in order before a lazy smirk pulled at a corner of his mouth. Of course, he remembered now.
There was a significant lack of hammering going on in his head and he didn't feel like he'd taken a ride on the world's loopiest rollercoaster, so he knew he hadn't been intoxicated. He felt way too good to have been drinking.
A hand absently came up to toy with the hair freed from its usual ribbons, untangling the knots that had appeared in the wake of being dragged across the pillow - his pillow. Maybe this was why the sun was shining.
He didn't know how long she'd been awake when he noticed the subtle change in the pattern of the sheets rising. The more tightly-wound side of himself (his "prudish" side, he supposed was how some of the others would word it) summoned a flush to his cheeks, however his modesty lagged in the wake of the previous night's events. Had his mind not still been in a haze of half-sleep and afterglow, he would have just pulled back his hand and hoped she hadn't noticed, but the saucy side of him instead gave a smirk and a slow, "Good morning."
England saw her shoulders hitch and relished that he had turned the tables on his embarrassment. She moved to sit up, displacing the sheets around her waist and spilling that silk chocolate over her shoulders. He admired the brief view of her back before she tensed and no doubt blushed darkly, returning to her position laying on her side. Maybe she wanted him to dress first?
Well, she might be waiting a while; he didn't have any business appointments until the evening. His hand went to her hair again, traversing up to brush her neck, the shell of her ear. After a few gentle strokes, the younger island's hand met his in the brush of her fingertips against his knuckles.
Though he was considerably more awake, the atmosphere let his deviance flourish. "Have fun?" he questioned.
Seychelles turned her head like she was trying to glare at England over her shoulder, but couldn't quite do so without exposing herself, so she relented to keeping her back turned to him to stew in silence.
He chuckled lowly, sure she could feel the forest-green eyes taking in what he was being allowed. Her hair, loose and smooth from oils and sweat; her shoulders, melting smoothly down into the muscle of her arms; her back, vast and full of the curves that made a girl a woman.
Eyes at half-mast and hands wandering, eventually a blemish caught his attention when his finger ran over the ridge of it. The Empire's eyebrows knitted together as he scrutinized the mark. It was off-color and slightly raised, as well as small. It almost resembled the silhouette of an extremely distant plane - the kind wondered at by a child as it passed through the clouds. A scar?
As his lips parted to question its origins, he noticed there were a few, placed sparsely along the expanse of her back. His fingers traveled to each one in turn, giving them all the same delicate attention even though they all seemed to be the same. If she knew what he was looking at, she didn't show it.
"What are these?" England eventually queried, his hands stilling at her shoulder blade.
"Huh?" Maybe she hadn't known. He lightly raked his nail over one.
"These. There are quite a few." Mentally, he wracked through his memories. He couldn't recall hearing anything about her being in any wars, or being attacked.
She was silent for a few moments. "…oh!" eventually emerged. "Yeah, there's, um…there's a few on my chest, too. Close to my heart, I mean."
"Charming," he returned, though it was just a tease. "You didn't answer my question."
He could picture her little smirk-smile. "Scars, stupid. Did you break your eyes?"
England rolled aforementioned eyes. "You don't 'break' an eye," he protested, "and that is hardly what I meant." He brushed over one of the mars with his knuckle. "Where did they come from?"
The Seychellois girl tugged the sheets farther up her front and fidgeted, reluctant to answer. He allowed her the time, absently stroking the scar as she searched for her words. "…well, um." What she did find wasn't very impressive, though, he noticed with amusement. "They're…" The islander fell silent again.
He let the moment pass before interjecting, "You don't have to tell me."
"No!" she objected - of course she would be contrary. "It's…it's okay! They…" She huffed a little; he filled in the blank of the blush himself. "…your battle."
"Oh, yes," the Kingdom answered. "That's quite specific. William would be jealous of your mastery of language."
Seychelles bristled. "Shut up!" Quiet reigned again before she abruptly rolled, almost squashing the digits ghosting along her back. Soon she was on her side facing England (with the sheets still pulled over her torso, he was entertained to note), and for the first time that morning, she met his eyes. "The Battle of Britain."
Oh. That was what she meant by his battle. His considerable eyebrows knitted again and he started, "You weren't-" But he caught himself, recalling that day she barged into his office all made up like a real soldier.
She really had been with him. Or she wouldn't bear the marks.
His face softened and he saw a blush pool under her eyes. Wordlessly, he reached for the sheet covering her and tugged it downwards, to the start of a yelp of protest from the female nation. But he only pulled it far enough to see the other scars she had mentioned - the ones by her heart.
Her blush intensified as he went to touch those too. There weren't many, and they really were small; but that wasn't her homeland, wasn't even her battle. Just a handful of her people and her intentions.
"I was going to fly too," said the brunette. "But, I'm better at swimming. And, I had to be ready at home, in case…I-I mean, you know."
He shifted forward and their foreheads bumped; she took the initiative when she saw him hesitate and pressed her lips to his.
Brief and chaste, unlike any of the kisses from the previous night, but his gentleman had taken over in the serious light of the conversation. "…I do appreciate it," he murmured once they parted. "What you did." Perhaps, he thought, those were her first scars.
Just when he thought her cheeks couldn't get any redder, she averted her eyes. "Y-you better!" In typical moment-ruining fashion. He seemed to attract people with the ability to do that.
He caught her hand and kissed the bend at her knuckles. "If you don't believe me, then what would you like me to do to prove myself?"
She blanched and pouted. "I-I didn't say I didn't believe you," answered the islander with a note of apology; for a female, she was almost as bad with her emotions as he was. England supposed she took after him, in that regard.
His grip on her hand slackened as he edged forward to press a kiss to her forehead. "Of course not. My mistake." Though the Briton spoke quietly, he still held an undertone of jest in his words. She continued to pout at him, no doubt unsure of how to react to his easily relenting; she was used to him being argumentative, after all. He, conversely, relished the silence, his thumb absentmindedly rubbing the soft, loose skin at the joints of her fingers.
Leave it to her to disturb it, though. "…would you tell me about yours sometime?" Seychelles asked, her voice quiet and slightly wary.
He blinked at her a few times. "My scars?" he ventured.
She gave a nod, running her fingertips over his torso with the lightness of goose down. "You…you have a lot." An awkward pause interrupted before she stuttered, "I-I mean- they're not ugly, or gross, or anything, you still look fine, I just noticed-"
The island set his finger against her lips to quiet her bumbling. "It's alright." He took a breath in hesitation. They could be rather personal matters sometimes, he knew, but… "I'll tell you about them some other time." A small frown. "As you said, there are rather many of them…it will take a while."
"That's okay," the young woman answered hurriedly. "I'm just. Uh. …glad you'd tell me. That's all." She made a face, her nose scrunching with the odd twisting of her muscles, before she darted up to kiss him again, apparently deciding words weren't doing her many favors in this conversation.
England carded a hand through the hair along the back of her head as he languidly returned the gesture. When Seychelles pulled away, she was struggling to control her breaths, to not let his effect on her show.
"Some other time," he promised again through his own deep breaths.
"Some other time," she agreed with a gentle smile.
A/N: and the "William" that England references is, of course, William Shakespeare. this is that follow-up thinger for Take to the Sky that i mentioned, and god i wrestled with the ending for a while before i finally beat it into submission with a folding chair. i still have not been able to fathom why England has managed to sneak his way into every single Hetalia thing i've written save two to tango, because he is SO DAMN HARD TO WRITE, UGH.
regardless, i hope you all enjoyed! a Cee loves reviews, remember this; like when you reach into your pocket and find a dollar, it is a small thing and doesn't happen often, but you still feel ridiculously lucky nonetheless. Cee out~