This idea popped up in my head when I was trying to lull myself to sleep with a terrible hang over.
XXX
The walls were blurring again.
America blinked a few times and gathered his surroundings. He was in his den and unusually warm. His mind, still a tad drunk tried its best to recollect what happened when. However this was the equivalent to attempting to piece together a puzzle without any picture to reference. He remembered drinking the vodka, eating ice cream, Spongebob, and The Great Gatsby. Beyond that were brief images that didn't quite connect with one and another
Before America could delve any deeper into his subconscious, his stomach gurgled loudly snapping the young nation out of thought. Why did he have to eat ice cream? The man groaned and slowly nestled out the warmness he didn't bother to question and crawled to the bathroom. His legs wobbled weakly as he flicked on the light.
He cringed at the sudden brightness and flipped open the toilet seat. Gradually he kneeled down hovering over the rim of the bowl. His stomach gurgled again as the room started to spin slowly. He jammed his finger down his throat and expelled the poisons along with strawberry ice cream.
"Oh goddamn," He moaned. He threw up a few more times before he felt satisfied. He stared at his pink puke for a moment or so before flushing it. "Why did I drink?" He whined aloud as he stood in front of the mirror. He wiped the vomit off of his quivering lip and reached for his tooth brush.
After America thoroughly rinsed out his mouth he found himself stumbling into his living room. He noted the sticky mess of strawberry ice cream melted on the end table and decided to clean it later. He went into the kitchen to see there were at least five messages on his voicemail.
"Check it later," He muttered. The green numbers flashed 5:00 on his microwave and he shook his head. When did he start drinking? It had to been late afternoon early evening right?
America sighed. He was better than this, he couldn't let himself relapse. He ignored the anxious thoughts bubbling in his head and went into his bedroom. There on his bed he found his cell phone charging. America used to have his Black Berry attached to his hip, but as of late he ignored it like an unloved step child. The only calls he received were the ones from his boss, and a few one worded texts from England. America grabbed his phone and unlocked it. His eyes squinted to see he had one new message. Probably England giving him a lame excuse to bail out on Rocky Horror.
From: Ireland 9:00 PM
Did you get that vodka I sent you? I know I normally make beer but I wanted to know what you thought.
America, shocked, re-read the message three times. Ireland really texted him? That asshole really has the nerve?
Then again, America did drink the vodka. Although he remembered hating it's taste. But Ireland wasn't one of consideration. No, Ireland was a different walk in the park entirely. America leaned his head against his headboard and grimaced at the memory that was suddenly beginning to surface.
…
It was when Irish immigrants were flooding his country the plucky loudmouth nation showed up at his doorstep. He carried two beaten up suit cases under his arms and wore a flat cap on his unruly red hair. He smiled coyly at the confused American and barged in.
"Hope you don't mind me moving in. We're having some trouble at home." And just like that, in the late 1800's, Ireland boarded with the American. His reasoning was that he wanted to be sure he was leaving his people in good hands, and wanted space from England and Scotland who crowded him at times. The man was loud, rancorous, and arrogant. England blamed Ireland for corrupting America, but Ireland just told him to fuck off and mind his business.
America loved and hated this man. Ireland was admittedly fun to be around. Although he was drunk for a majority of it. But most wouldn't be able to tell, Ireland never did act like a fool when under the influence. Unless he was mad or you brought up England. Other than that though, America found himself able to tolerate the brash nation.
Things went decently as the two found they didn't hate each other as much they had thought. Ireland enjoyed telling America stories that typically had some twisted moral in the end and America showed Ireland the ways of the city. The other countries laughed at America for having to deal with what they referred to as: "an emotional mess" but really America didn't mind. He did live with England for a majority of his life and saw Ireland as an angrier if not raunchier version of him.
England didn't like it one bit though. He sent America a letter informing the young nation just how dangerous Ireland was. He acted like the angel on America's shoulder who continually goaded him to send Ireland back. America fired a letter in return telling England that he wasn't his boss and that he was fine. Sure, Ireland did introduce him to a lot of things he was never too keen on prior to their crack friendship.
Two of those things that had caused America a lot of problems later on were drinking and his sexual preference. Truthfully, America previous to allowing Ireland to board with him never analyzed his inability to maintain a real romantic relationship. America at this point was no virgin but was indifferent towards the act altogether. The American had written it off as just not finding the right person yet. Although on an occasion, the possibility of him being gay would creep up in his mind. He would push the thought out as soon as it surfaced however. Maybe Ireland was a mind reader, for a time he made a lot of implications towards the subject. This would get under America's skin as he found the Irishmen to not be one for subtly.
This became crystal clear as Ireland made comments that were half joking and half serious. They were forced, completely random, and not tactful in the least. Initially America assumed it was just a foreign sense of humor he didn't quite grasp, but as Ireland continued to do it, he realized the man was legitimately putting his sexual orientation into question. America learned to just brush off the subject, or even jokingly attack Ireland for things he lacked in. But that didn't stop the republic from uncovering the truth he so rudely stuck his nose in.
The drinking fueled this uncrossed territory as Ireland dubbed America his new drinking buddy. The nation mixed drinks America had never even heard of, and got the young nation so drunk that America managed to puke in every corner of his house. Each morning America swore he would never drink again, however each night he found himself consuming whatever mixture Ireland invented. The Irishmen would grin devilishly as he watched the American stagger and curse.
There was a rare few times though when America had to help Ireland into bed. Ireland would claw at him drunkenly and yell many obscenities that would soon be followed by several sloppy apologies. He would then call America: "Me favorite" and pat the young nation on the head.
Ireland would be smoking his pipe as they sat around drinking. He would play cards with America and win every game. One time though, Ireland was silent after he won which was unusual. America stared at him confused.
"Do'ya think you're a homosexual?" He blurted out. America's face turned red.
"W-what?"
"I never see'ya with any women. And you're all too willing to suck England's teat." He took a drag off his pipe. His green eyes never once taking his eyes off of America. America scowled.
"Fuck you, I'm not gay!" The blond retorted. Ireland laughed.
"Look, don't be offended. I just call it as I see it."
"Well obviously you need glasses." America stormed out of the room. Ireland trailed behind the flustered nation.
"Come on, Alfie don't be like that!" Ireland cooed. America jumped into his bed and threw his covers over his head. He was too buzzed to deal with the Irishmen right now.
"Do not call me that." He sneered beneath his blanket. Ireland was a terrible listener though and crawled into America's bed.
"All formalities aside, can't we just be real with each other for once? America, look at me." The man tugged at the cover to reveal a pissed off American. Even though Ireland was fairly intoxicated, he realized he had struck a chord with the man. He took off America's glasses and smoothed over his hair. His smile was mischievous yet aloof. Always drawing pretty young women in with it. America glared at him despite the cool feeling washing over him. Ireland leaned in slowly, and pecked the young nation on the lips. America was baffled.
"Why?" America questioned.
"Because," He began licking his lips. "That's what faggots do." And before America could respond, Ireland slid off his bed and lumbered off into his room.
And that's when America's secret obsession began.
He hoarded these strange feelings for Ireland, who may or not have remembered kissing America.
Kissing America. It sounded so odd in his head. Ireland always caught him staring, and would smile like the cocky bastard he could be. On rare occasions, Ireland catered to America's affections. He would abruptly pin the naïve nation against the wall and shove his tongue into his mouth. His freckles sprinkled across milk bottle skin and stared dauntingly at the younger nation. Depending on the night he tasted like whiskey and tobacco, a taste the young America learned to love.
America shivered with each touch as they found themselves melding together. Dancing drunkenly into the night to the sound of Ireland's out of tune guitar. Passive aggressively flirting with dangerous gazes daring the other to make a move. It was the first time in a long time, America genuinely felt wanted. Irish immigrants came to him, because they needed him, because he was the land of opportunity. Of dreams coming true.
But Ireland wasn't an opportunist like the others right? He understood America in a way most wouldn't be able to. And maybe his people didn't care for the Irish so much, but time could only tell. Bosstweed was alright with them, why couldn't other politicians learn to be?
To call that a relationship would be a lie though. America knew damn well his people hated gays and he outwardly acted the same. He denounced all gay men and put on a homophobic front. The Irish being a split between Protestant and Catholic obviously shared the same feelings. Ireland however approached their taboo differently. During the day, their secret sinning didn't exist. It was like Ireland wiped his memory clean and acted as though there were no feelings whatsoever. Even if he woke up in America's bed, cradling the country, he never mentioned what they shared. America would always barter for the man's affections however. Although he was never sure if Ireland was toying with him or not. He didn't care. It was a new experience he couldn't help but feel giddy over. America much like a teenager was really infatuated with the republic.
Until one day, he was gone. Just like that Ireland had up and left while America was out at work with his boss. The young nation came home to find a sloppy note left on his pillow.
America,
We had good times. Take care of the people who left me, they're now a part of you.
Ireland
America hadn't felt so heartbroken since the revolutionary war. He crumpled up the note and told his boss he was headed on the next boat to Ireland. His boss didn't question his suddenly irate country and gave him the go ahead. The trip was long and treacherous as the month of March swirled dangerously with bipolar weather.
America remembered all too well how embarrassed he felt when Scotland answered the door. Apparently he was house-sitting for Ireland and hadn't left yet. His hair was a more orange opposed to Ireland's dark red. He was clean cut except for a stubbly beard that was beginning to grow. He held a tough demeanor that told America he was not one to fuck with. He grunted hello and stepped aside to allow him entry.
America waited impatiently in Ireland's living room for the man to come downstairs. Fifteen minutes of forced conversation with Scotland was all too unbearable. He perked up though to see the tall slender nation walk quietly down his spiral stair case. He had his hands in his pockest and pipe in mouth. He gave America a vacant gaze before smirking.
"Lad," He coughed. "What'ya doing here?" Scotland shot Ireland a disappointed look and spoke up.
"He's here to see you brother." Scotland answered sternly. Ireland frowned and motioned America to follow him.
"Let us talk privately." Ireland turned to walk up the stairs. America followed suit and silently thanked the rugged nation who still gave Ireland a weary gaze. When the two were out of ear shot he sighed.
"What did you do now?"
The two bumbled up the stairs and reached a room at the end of the hall. Ireland told America to take a seat and locked the door behind him. America sat down on a wooden chair across from a mahogany desk. Ireland sat down on the desk and dumped the contents of his pipe into the trash bin next to it. He coughed before speaking again. "Why are you here?" His wording was downright cold and made America's heart drop.
"Well," America began silently. "Why did you leave?" Ireland cackled.
"Lad, did you expect me to just mooch off of you forever?" The red head then slid off his desk and pulled out a drawer. He filled his pipe with more tobacco and lit it. America breathed slowly. He had known Ireland long enough to experience the frustration of him turning your words around. The nation spoke in riddles he would only know the answer too, and would cleverly spin a web of rhetorical questions that would avoid the answer to the original question. It was aggravating and confusing.
"You know what I mean Shamus." The hurt was evident in the young nation's eyes. Ireland guiltily broke eye contact and stared at the floor. Silence filled the room and America realized he had to be outright with Ireland. "I'm confused," He whispered. "You, you opened a whole new world up to me! I've never felt so comfortable in my own skin around you! I mean-"
"Enough of that." Ireland cruelly cut off America. His eyes that usually held this mischievous charm to them were cold and stern. He pulled out his chair from his desk and plopped into it. His head rested in his hands and he glared at his own reflection in his desk. "Goddammit," He silently muttered. It took America a minute to comprehend what Ireland's reaction meant.
"Are you ashamed?" America pressed. Ireland reluctantly gazed up at the American.
"I'm no faggot." He harshly murmured. America sat back for a moment. His face contorted in a scowl.
"Then why?"
"Why what?" Ireland twiddled his pipe in his fingers.
"Why kiss me? Hold me? Treat me like I was something more to you than an opportunity?" America held the tears that were inevitable to fall. Ireland shook his head.
"I was drunk," he scoffed. America sharply inhaled in a vain attempt to stop the sudden rush of hurt that was rising up in his body. He tightened his fist and banged it on Ireland's desk. Ireland jumped.
"That's bullshit!" America stood up and grabbed Ireland by the shirt. "Tell me the truth!"
Ireland's dark green eyes became piercing and he pushed America off. "I am not your's to control!" Ireland breathed heavy. "Leave America," He hissed. "Go back to your precious England." America jumped up and tackled Ireland across his desk. He socked Ireland right in the face and Ireland flipped him over. He then banged America's head on the desk. "Fuck you!"
"Fuck you too!" The two continued to beat each other up until suddenly Ireland found he had America pinned. The two were panting and bloody at this point. Ireland grinned.
"Now," He began in-between breaths. "Can we calm ourselves?" America stared up at the red headed nation sadly. Ireland bit his lip. "America," He mused. Slowly but surely the island leaned in for a kiss that was gladly returned. Both could taste the iron metallic taste of the other's blood and the salty tears on America's face. America didn't want that kiss to end but sure enough Ireland pulled away and got off of the young nation. He dragged his feet to the door and stood there. "I think it is best for you to go." The Irishmen appeared aloof if not a tad somber.
America sat up and shook his head. He didn't even make eye contact with the Irishmen as he brushed past him. The young nation avoided Scotland's curious eyes as they roamed over the two outside the door. He shook his head at Ireland but knew not to question him until America left.
America ended up stopping at England's after the whole ordeal. He wasn't originally planning too but the child in him needed to see the Brit's face. England opened the door to a sniffling and confused America. Without any question England grabbed him by the hand and gently sat him down on the chair. He then handed the American some tissues and offered him something to drink. America sluggishly shook his head.
He ended up telling his former care taker everything. He blubbered on and on about how he felt used and wasn't sure if he was gay or not. England didn't say a word while the man spilled out all of his recently collected secrets like a three year old. He bit his lip and clenched his fist at the thought of America being treated like an object of lust. The Englishmen however knew better than to get upset when America was already red eyed himself. He consoled his former colony and offered the sad truth he had to learn when he was America's age.
"America," He spoke delicately. America's ears perked up as he observed the placid expression England managed to tack on. "It doesn't matter if you are gay. It doesn't matter if you are lonely. The unfortunate truth is that we're meant to be alone. Always alone." England didn't mean for it to sound as harsh as it did, but he was not one for smoothing things over. He watched America's face drop and breath come to a slow.
America swallowed thickly. "Then why do we have emotions?"
"I don't have the slightest idea. I wish we didn't."
And just like that, America snapped out of his crying fit. He rubbed his eyes and blew his nose. Smoothed the wrinkles out of his shirt and stood up. "Thank you," He whispered. England patted him on the back and walked him to the door. He shut it behind him sullenly.
In a bittersweet rage, America turned a blind eye to all immigrants alike. He no longer cared about how cruel his people were or didn't acknowledge the new comers suffering. They were users, all of them, and he couldn't take the hurt anymore. From that moment, America swore himself to a life of loneliness. And out of that loneliness his drinking increased. It took years for both habits to wane away.
…
America shook his head from the flurry of memories he now only felt a mere numbness towards and picked up his phone. He huffed and lazily texted the Irishmen back, ultimately deciding he had no need to bring up the ugly past.
Yeah. It was yucky. And now I feel sick. THANKS.
America mindlessly tossed his phone on his bed. He grumbled to himself as he headed back to his den. His bed was far too empty for him to wallow in it all morning. He dragged his feet back to the den and felt the wall around him being far too lazy to switch any lights on. The American then slid back onto his leather couch and cuddled next to the really big warm pillow next to him. It was when America shut his eyes something occurred to him.
Wait…Where did this pillow come from? Curiously, he began to feel this pillow, noticing it had arms and a chest..and a scarf?
America couldn't contain his scream.
Author's note is a separate chapter.
