I'm so sorry this update is so late! Especially when 2000 of the 2500-ish words have been written since September orz. RL troubles I won't go into. Thanks so much everyone who reviewed or faved though! You guys really inspire a poor fanficcer to keep on truckin'. I hope this chapter is... not horrible orz. If you catch England using any blatant Americanisms that just seem wrong, please point them out! (of course, he might have secretly been studying up on them... :D)
Inside the barn was dark. There were a few windows, but they were quite small and cast their light in isolated patches on the floor. England had yet to decide how to fix the lighting problem. He counted himself lucky the barn even had electricity when it was so far from the house. Artificial lighting meant he could see more than well enough for his sewing, but it was so nice to have a large window nearby to peer idly out as one embroidered or knitted. He sighed and turned on the overhead lights. If only they would leave him alone, he could have his bay window to sew by...
America (who had no sense of proper decorum, none at all) was already poking around at things.
It was both irritating (it set England's teeth on edge) and also somehow endearing. It reminded him of how inquisitive little America would explore anything and everything. Every new carriage little America came across he would sneak into and pour over every inch of it, just looking at things. This had included the funeral coach. How the women had screamed as the coffin rolled out of the coach and back onto the drive, flying open and dropping it's contents onto the ground. All due to an innocent shove by America, who was still unused to his unnatural strength.
There was also the time he had decided to practice using his newly gained reading skills by going inside the mail coach and opening all the mail. Thank God all those disgusting letters Francis had been sending him had been in French... Unfortunately, the outgoing response letters from Arthur were not, and while they weren't filled with paragraphs of carnal metaphor, there had been plenty of less-than-choice slurs and invective phrases that England was less than pleased at hearing from little America's sweet mouth.
England watched him with a sappy, nostalgic smile as America examined everything in the barn. That is, until America picked up the container full of England's knitting needles and took two out, rapping them against the wall like drum sticks, the noise jarring him out of his pleasant reminisces. He gritted his teeth and resisted the urge to yell. Shouting wasn't something you did at people you were asking favors of. Even if it wasn't a favor at all because really, America had wronged him so many times and had never paid England back for civilizing him and giving him the (good) parts of American culture.
If anything, America owed him a favor, several really. But he certainly wasn't bringing up that old chestnut again. Logic was wasted on an idiot baby nation like America who thought one hundred years was a long time. He would just roll his eyes and think England was pathetic. England was certainly not pathetic, he just needed, what was that word the fairies had used? Closure. Really.
The sooner England got his loom moved and America on a plane back to his own crass, poorly-decorated house the better.
He cleared his throat. "
The loom is over here" Idiot.
England led him to the alcove.
America peered at the loom. "This little thing?" What a piece of shit.
"Don't worry Iggy! The hero is always ready to help little old ladies and weak British sissies move their little looms." He laughed.
England silently fumed as America cracked his knuckles. Have him move the loom, then kick his ass.
America, smiling cockily and with a show of casualty, reached one hand out and seized the outer wood frame of the loom, lightly tugging his hand upwards.
Nothing happened. America frowned. He gripped with both hands, and really pulled this time. The loom slid forward half an inch.
England couldn't help but smirk.
"What was that about British sissies?"
America didn't even seem to notice the remark. "Wha—but...how?"
He looked genuinely freaked. England just watched as he continued to struggle to make it budge. He pulled on various parts of the loom, managed only to break one of the warp beams (England was enjoying the sight of his failure too much to care), and then resorted to bracing against the alcove wall and really shoving. Nothing.
Finally, he gave up, red-faced and panting.
"It's cursed." he said crossly. "You had Harry Potter do his magic mumbo-jumbo on it and make it unmovable."
"You idiot, Harry Potter isn't real."
"And fairies are?"
"... Besides, my magical skills are sufficient enough to curse something without seeking help from Harry Potter. Who I'll sic on you if you don't shut up. "
America snorted. England crossed his arms and stared at the loom. 'There goes my fabric corner. ' He thought, depressed. Maybe it really was a cursed loom. There was a precedent for that sort of thing, or did that only apply to spinning wheels? Really, the amount of haunted furniture in his house was getting ridiculous. Busby's Chair, that damned glory box in the attic that occasionally leaked blood for no apparent reason, and now a creepy unmovable loom. Oh well, nothing to be done about it, at least for now. Shaking his head, he turned to America.
America looked depressed as well. Well, depressed was putting it nicely. Pathetic, was probably the more apt word. His eyes were tearful and he chewing on one of the cold burgers from earlier. Where he'd stored it all this time England did not even want to speculate on.
"You know, I think that loom probably was the cursed one I had laying around." He said, trying to be cheering.
"Yeah but..." mumbling and munching... "a little curse shouldn't stop a hero." America replied.
"Well, you can help me clear out some of the rest of this place to make up for it." England told him.
Surprisingly, America didn't object and allowed himself to be led over to a section to clear out. Clearly he was in one of his rare woe-is-me, docile moods. Oh, if only America was depressed, full of self-doubt, and creeped out all the time. England smirked, before it occurred to him that this was a rather Russia-like desire, which quickly wiped the mirth off his face.
"If it looks like it might be valuable put if over there." England said, pointing. "Otherwise, junk it."
"Must you cry over every old trinket and piece of junk, you sentimental girl?" England snapped, yanking the picture out of America's hands to keep it from falling when America began sniffling and wiping at his eyes.
England looked at it.
"You don't understand England. It was... horrible." America said, covering his face dramatically with his hands.
England looked skeptical. "If you won't even tell me what it was and keep acting like an over dramatic ninny, then I'm going to assume you're just acting like the big baby nation you are." he said,
He looked down at the painting in his hands. It was an old portrait of France and Canada. England couldn't tell precisely when it had been commissioned. Some time before the eighties, as Francis wouldn't have been caught dead wearing boots indoors after then. It was one of Canada's that he'd brought with him after he'd been ceded to England. And people thought he didn't take care of his old objects... England felt a small gloating thrill at the fact that Matthew apparently didn't give a crap about the painting. He kindly decided that he would refrain from telling Francis about this further proof of his inferior child-raising skills. For a while. Until France teased him about America again anyway. He smugly tossed the painting into the junk pile.
America was still staring off into space looking like a kicked puppy, and looking ugly and sickly while doing it. Something must have been really wrong for him to have completely failed to respond to an insult from England.
England realized why he didn't want America demoralized and downtrodden constantly. He was extremely irritating and yet alternatively capable of evoking sympathy. It produced an endless, warring cycle in England, the urge to slap him and the urge to comfort him. Right now the slapping urge was prevailing. And the little twit had even had the nerve to completely ignore England. What a waste of a good insult. Nothing was more infuriating then someone who completely failed to take any notice of a person's snide remarks. England turned to America, sticking his face right up in front of his. Damned if he was going to be ignored by a pathetically junior nation like America.
"You moron, what do you have be so pathetic about? You're not even helping!" he snapped, poking America in the chest with his forefinger.
"Hey, don't poke me. And don't yell in my face either!" America replied, finally beginning to show some emotion other than pitifulness.
"I'm doing you a favor after all, I don't have to be here working like a slave on your stupid little-kid clubhouse. You're the one who tricked me into visiting. Kind of pathetic when you think about it. " America crossed his arms, smiling an angelically superior smile.
England was literally unable to respond due to the sheer amount of rage flooding through every fiber of his being. This was good because, while it meant he had to stare at America like an idiot for several seconds, it allowed him enough time for the little metaphorical lightbulb to go off in his brain, safely guiding him past the notion of responding with a potentially explosive but deliciously self-righteous condemnation of America referring to himself as "working like a slave", as well as avoiding the logical but definitely falling on deaf ears revelation of America's disgusting hypocrisy in referring to anyone else's dwellings as juvenile. No, the little lightbulb told England that while he may have been the tiniest bit deceitful in getting America to come to his house, America had been at least equally deceptive in his motives for coming. No way had he actually came all that way simply to watch England eat one of his disgusting cheeseburgers, when he could have simply brought one to the next meeting they attended together.
"Tricked you into visiting, huh?" England asked, looking much too pleased as he said it.
America was wary. England had gone from looking like an enraged beet to being calm, smiling, in just a few seconds.
"Why would you want to fly 3000 miles to watch me eat your filth?" He asked. Then, drawing inspiration from a documentary he'd watched the night before, he added "Unless you're some kind of disgusting feeder or something."
America was caught completely and totally flatfooted. How could he even respond to an accusation like that? Certainly not with the first thoughts that spilled into his mind, which were along the lines of "Stuffing England full of junk food would be weirdly cute."
But for America, thinking about the things he said beforehand was not his style. When it came to England, his mind had long ago developed an extremely competent autopilot mode for churning out insults. He could probably be in a coma and still spit out some mindlessly hurtful barb.
"As if. You're the one who's always lurking around when I'm eating. Siiiick."
"That's because you're always eating!"
England took a deep breath and pictured that stunning old WWII poster that had become so bizarrely popular recently. Keep calm and carry on indeed. The fairies were always telling him he lost track of his priorities around America. Knowing that you were failing to meet your goals because you kept getting dragged into pointless, circuitous, childish arguments with the other person was not actually all that helpful if you still couldn't resist getting dragged into them. England certainly did not crave arguments with America, that would be sick. Because England was too often the one left feeling humiliated and irritable, whereas nothing seemed to effect that cheerful psychotic's mood. Priorities.
"So why did you come here then, if you're not trying to get your jollies off by making me eat sick crap?" England asked, smirking. All that practicing arguing with the fairies was really paying off.
America instantly looked so stricken that it eliminated all of England's smug satisfaction. Why did that always happen whenever he had the upper-hand with America?
"It's... it's too horrible. I can't say it." he whispered.
England frowned, but was hardly surprised. The few times America was ever bothered by anything, he'd just wander around looking miserable or unsure until one of his humans came up with some asinine plan to deal with it. Francis though it was because America so rarely had unsolvable problems that he didn't already have some idiotic plan for fixing. Creative problem-solving was not his thing. And he never wanted to 'fess up about them or ask for other nation's help.
"Could you whisper it?" England asked, then blushed as he realized how it sounded.
It wasn't that he wanted to feel America's soft plump lips trailing across his ear or anything. Especially when said nation's breath probably reeked of hamburgers and Colgate. Not that England ever sniffed his breath when they were sitting next to each other at meetings or anything. That would be beyond weird. Except that breath was a good indicator of health and dental welfare and if America ever had cavities God help him, England would rub his nose in it until it fell off. The fact that he was still being teased with that frankly tiresome stereotype when he had had perfectly fine white teeth for decades now... oh, no puppy dog look in the world, or sad, depressed state would keep him from running America or that bastard Frenchman into the ground with their hypocrisy if their teeth so much as lost their sparkle.
"Uhhh, ok." America said.
"Okay what?" England asked, startled out of his dentally-driven revenge fantasies.
"I could probably... maybe... whisper it to you." America said, tentatively.
"Oh... erm, alright." England said.
He tucked several loose strands of tawny blonde hair back behind his ear and leaned forward at the same time America leaned down towards his ear. The feel of America's lips and soft cheek rubbing against his for a few split-seconds sent England's heart racing. Which was absolutely a rational response to have when a past enemy was so physically close. Caution-based adrenaline was obviously why his heart thudded so quickly. And then America's lips were on his ear, moving, and he stopped thinking.
Birds exploded into flight off the grass outside the barn. A perfectly excusable action when one pissed-off, not-short-except-in-comparison-to-a-certain-/American, swearing Englishman threw open the door and stormed out. He appeared to be a on a hell-driven journey back up the path to the house, when he abruptly stopped both walking and ranting. Turning around back towards the barn's open doorway, he called out reassuringly:
"Don't worry, I'll put a stop it it." and resisted an oddly strong desire to add "I'm the hero!"
