Prompt: Middles
Characters: England, America, brief mention of France
Edit: Guys, I just noticed this had a bunch of typos. I blame the US-Portugal game for distracting me (quite severely).
America beamed as he effortlessly lifted the desk—on one finger, no less. Of all the feats of strength he had displayed recently, this one was sure to impress England the most. Well, America thought, if he wants to see it at all.
The small nation strained to lift the desk, complete with several heavy books and overflowing drawers, even higher, until it was over his head. He frowned at the tiny doorway and twisted his mouth into a pout as he struggled to figure out a way to get the enormous piece of furniture through such an inconvenient opening. Then, with a grin, he hoisted the desk as high above his head as his little arms could manage and carried it right through the doorway and into the hall.
Even though the resulting crash wasn't loud and America found himself covered in only a tiny dusting of rubble, he still expected England to come running and demand to know just how America had managed to destroy the house this time. To his surprise, however, he saw no sign of his older brother as he shook was used to be the doorframe out of his hair and walked down the hall to England's office. If he didn't want to see America's special talent, he might at least want some of the books on the desk. Maybe his caretaker would even thank him for helping.
America smiled even bigger at the thought of England selecting just the book he wanted and then, thanks to America, finishing his work earlier than usual. Then, they could play together that evening by the hearth or go sledding the next morning in the fresh snow. America knew how much his fellow nation loved winter; playing in the snow would surely make him happier. He'd been so stressed lately, always writing long letters and frowning over documents. Once, when America had skipped over to England's desk chair, pushed the thick stacks of papers away, and asked what his brother was scowling at, England had waved him away and said he would understand one day when he was much bigger. America thought he wouldn't get bigger or grow up for a long, long while—almost as long as it takes England to pour me molasses—so, based on that amount of time, he would never understand England's work. He just knew he had to rescue him from the evil paperwork before they could have fun together again.
Nudging open the office door (which England had forgotten to close), America tiptoed in as he struggled to keep the desk still to prevent the books from sliding around and making too much noise. Fortunately, this room had a larger doorway. At his own desk, England sat hunched over, his free hand pressed to his temple, his eyes squinting at a lengthy document in front of him. A pen clenched in his other hand, he sighed and let his head droop momentarily while he traced some letters on the paper. He was even ignoring the steaming mug of tea at his elbow.
America knew he had to take action.
"Hey, England!" he said, his huge grin still on his face. "Look what I can do!"
England hesitated. Every time America asked him to behold some new spectacle, some trouble was always involved—and he could not afford any more trouble today. With his workload, he could hardly manage to care for his little colony, shenanigans aside.
Still, worried as he was for his own sanity, he cared more for America's safety.
"That's very n—what are you doing? Put that down this instant! How did you even get that in here?"
In spite of his growing suspicion as to the condition of the rest of the house—what had America broken this time?—England slumped in his chair with relief upon seeing America safe. At least he could return to his work now.
America, however, demanded to be noticed.
"But England!" he said as the older nation turned back to his work. He had to get his attention somehow! "Don't you need any of these books?"
"No books today, America."
"But—"
"America, I'm in the middle of something! Can't you just go play by yourself today?"
England said no more but returned to his work with more fervor than before. Couldn't America just behave like a normal child?
The door squeaked shut behind him. Closing his eyes once more, England picked up his pen and began writing myriad responses to myriad documents, a fortnight's worth of work to finish in a day.
After setting down the desk and trying to clean up some of the rubble (by pushing the dust and bits of doorframe and ceiling into corners and under a rug), America grabbed his snow boots and trudged out the front door. Cramming his feet into the too-small boots, he hung his head and stared at the snow-dusted field stretched out before him like a blank piece of paper. A blank canvas waiting impatiently for two nations to sketch memories with their snow boots and create a beautiful scene with the sound of their laughter.
Unfortunately, the canvas would have to wait a while longer, as would America.
I wish he could at least give me some of his work to do, America thought. Then we could play.
He shivered and wondered if he should go inside. With England perpetually frustrated, however, America felt as if their house had become a prison both for the nation trapped in his work and for the innocent bystander. Putting one in chains enslaved the other, as well.
Outside it was, then.
America pushed himself off the front step and galloped to the edge of the hill on which their house stood. Maybe he could find something to do down there. He looked around for his sled for a few moments; not finding it, he decided to slide down the hill by himself. Spreading out on his stomach, America shoved himself along with his feet until he began to slide down the hill at a satisfyingly quick pace. Then, America tumbled over himself and, in a tangled mess of snow-covered limbs, collided with a tree at the bottom of the slope.
"Ow…" he said as he sat up, struggled to catch his breath, and rubbed his head. The tree hadn't been large enough to cause him significant harm, but he knew his head would likely be hurting for some time.
All the same, he stood up and dusted himself off. For the moment, he could ignore the increasing pain in his forehead—he had too many adventures awaiting him! He could have fun, with or without England.
Although he had certainly thought he could have fun without the older nation, America quickly realized his swing was not as exciting without England pushing him higher and higher and the accompanying exhilaration. The absence of his brother's laughter made America pull the swing to a halt and look about nervously. He heard nothing but the breeze and the strange emptiness of a lonely winter afternoon. Chills crept up his spine. Perhaps he was colder than he had originally thought. But he couldn't turn back without playing on the frozen lake first. Sliding around, trying to run, falling off the ice into a large snowdrift—the temptation attracted America too much.
Jumping down from the swing, America ran to the lake, his heart racing at the thought of gliding across the ice three times faster than he could run.
He didn't expect the ice to crack beneath his weight the moment he set foot on it.
Into the frigid water he fell, as if being swallowed by some monster lurking beneath the ice. America flailed like a scared infant as his head broke the surface. He gasped, both for air and from the cold. His nostrils clogged with water and his forehead stinging even more, he groped for something to pull himself to safety. His fingers met only a patch of black ice, sending him back under the water. With a violent shiver, he rose to the surface again. Panic as much as cold clouded his thinking. How had England taught him to swim? Could he keep the water out of his mouth, his nose, his eyes? Where was England, again?
He could hardly think of anything sensible to do. So he did something that made no sense at all in the face of his hopeless situation.
He began to scream for help.
England was beginning to worry. Not because France was once again being an insufferable, pretentious jackass, not even because he had developed hand cramps and eye strain from all his damned paperwork, but because he hadn't heard the slightest sound from America all afternoon. No laughter, no excited shouts, no doors crashing down. It seemed as if America had become a ghost.
Pursing his lips, England kept glancing over his shoulder so often that he finally set his pen down, pushed his chair back, and stood up (wincing when he realized his legs had lost circulation from sitting so long).
"America?" England opened the door to his office a bit more urgently than he'd care to admit. No sign of the boy in the hallway. He speed-walked to America's room next, then to his own—both empty. Even the kitchen was deserted.
"This is really not funny, you know," he said, as if America had just gotten carried away playing hide-and-seek.
Maybe I hurt his feelings worse than I thought. England paused, guilt gnawing at his heart, devouring his conscience. I've been too short with him lately.
"Okay, I give up! You can come out now!"
No response.
England abandoned all traces of dignity as he began to run throughout the house, flinging open every door and frantically searching under every blanket, in every corner, behind every chair. His throat closed when he peered inside the closet near the front door and found America's snow boots missing and his coat still hanging in the corner.
Outside, alone, in this weather?
Thousands of possibilities ran through England's mind at once, as though he had sunk into feverish delirium. America could take care of himself, but…
He couldn't think anymore, just act. England yanked on his own boots, tore both his and America's coats from their hangers, and bolted for the door.
"America!"
England yelled and searched frantically for five heart-stopping seconds before noticing a faint trail of small footprints. He caught his breath when he saw the outline of a small body just at the edge of the steep hill and nearly fell over with relief when he saw the trail continued down the slope.
It doesn't look like he fell. He must have slid down the hill like this on purpose.
Sliding after the trail as fast as he could without slipping, England continued his pursuit. For a moment, he stared at the small tree where the prints had guided him, but when he saw another set of tracks leading away from what he gathered was a collision, he figured America must have survived that danger.
What he didn't count on was the sound of his name. Faint, weak, terrified, a voice called out to him.
"America!"
England felt as though his legs would give up from the combination of anxiety and exhaustion, but a new worry spurred him on. He heard the voice again, screaming, crying, pleading; then, he saw his beloved younger brother.
Drowning.
England tripped and fell over the heavy snow as he ran even faster than before toward the lake. He pushed himself up and leaped to his feet, panic both speeding his steps and making his stride even clumsier.
"Hold on, America!"
The younger nation tried to extend his arms toward England as his older brother threw himself onto his stomach just in front of the ice, but he could hardly move his fingers. His teeth chattered as he sank further into the water, keeping him from calling out for help.
"You're fine, you're fine," England said to comfort them both as he struggled to unbutton his coat. Damn it damn it damn it stupid buttons.
Once he had removed his coat, England clutched one sleeve and threw the other to America.
"Grab on! Don't let go!"
"Ca-ca…"
America wanted to tell England he just couldn't do it, he couldn't free himself from the water, he couldn't grab the makeshift lifeline only a few inches away. He was just too tired. He closed his eyes and let himself sink nearly below the surface. He didn't even feel cold anymore. Maybe he could just take a nap like this…
England's eyes widened at the side of America growing limp. No. There had to be something he could do. If the ice had cracked beneath America's weight, it would certainly do the same under his. With America unable to grab anything, however, he had to think of another way to rescue him.
He would have to grab America and pull him out himself.
England squirmed closer to the ice. America was just out of reach; England would have to place at least his chest on the ice to have any chance of reaching him. At an agonizingly slow pace, he inched onto the ice—one elbow on the thin surface, then the other, and then finally his chest. The ice held.
England stretched out his arm and strained his fingers. America was only a foot away, only a few inches, only a hair's breadth too far...
He struggled closer, his stomach in knots. He could have thrown up then and there. He was so close! If America sank any deeper… There was no time left!
Got him.
England clutched America's tiny arm. It was so cold, so weak—he had to get him home. Fast.
He pulled the rest of the smaller nation's body out of the water with one quick movement. Then—oh, then!—he had him in his arms again. England pressed the boy close, clinging to him as if he had been the one in the water and America had just rescued him. England snatched both coats up from the ice and swaddled the semi-conscious young nation with them.
"We'll be home soon," he said. "I'll get you warm."
America rested his head against England's snow-crusted shirt in response.
Moments later, England hurried through the front door (barely remembering to shut it in his haste) and to his room. Gently, he placed America on the bed and removed the now-wet coats.
"Lift up your arms, America," England said as he searched for more blankets. He had a few nice quilts in the closet opposite the bed—would those be warm enough?
"Mmm…" America rubbed his eyes in response.
Still too cold and tired, England thought.
"That's okay." England removed America's wet shirt himself and lightly touched the skin on his chest, which seemed more clammy than cold now. England frowned and took off the rest of America's clothes, then wrapped him in a quilt while he ran to find something dry for his little brother to wear.
When he returned, he found America slightly more awake but still woozy. He dressed him quickly, nearly mummified him in blankets, and then lay down on the bed next to him.
As much as England wanted to ask what in the world America had been doing alone outside without a coat, for the moment, knowing that the boy was alive and safe was enough. He ruffled America's hair and kissed his bruised forehead.
"You're safe now," he said. "It'll be all right."
America nuzzled his head against England's arm; in response, England placed his own head beside the younger nation's and drew him closer.
Keeping him warm. That was the key.
England put his hand on America's forehead every so often to make sure he was recovering adequately. Within half an hour, America could speak again.
"England?"
"America?" He breathed a sigh of relief.
"I thought you were in the middle of something."
England bit the inside of his cheek. He didn't move for a moment. Then, he placed his chin on top of America's head.
"Is that why you ran away?"
"I didn't run away. I just wanted to play outside. I thought we could go together, but…"
England felt his guilt begin to overtake his relief. He tried to think of a reasonable excuse—I've had to deal with France's antics so much lately, Parliament is breathing down my neck, the others can't stop fighting all their damned wars—but none came. He had no excuse to let his work take priority over his little brother.
"I am in the middle of something, America, love. I'm in the middle of taking care of you."
With that, the boy snuggled closer, and England stroked his brow until they both fell asleep.
Originally, I had something different in mind for this fic. Then, I realized I couldn't write humor, so I started from scratch and came up with this.
Thanks to SiriusDancer who read Tea With Honey, one of my other fics, and requested an extension of the "Lake" sentence, which formed the basis of this story.
The next prompt is Ends... I can't decide which characters I want to include in that fic. Canada and America? France and England? Let me know what you think!
