Chapter rating: M for a steamy shower scene and language (mostly several f-words).
London Olympics 1948 – Victory Celebration
America ducked and weaved and finally caught his teammate's eye through the rapidly moving press of bodies. Although he was slightly shorter than the other basketball players, he made up for the disadvantage in height with his ability to get in the right place for the perfect shot. The teammate quickly passed him the basketball and America took the shot. The ball whooshed through the net, earning their team two more points. With barely any time left on the clock, the gold medal was as good as theirs.
Wiping the sweat from his brow, America glanced into the crowd, trying to spot England among the thousands of other faces in Harringay Arena. Given the size of those bushy eyebrows, finding his lover should have been a piece of cake. America thought he had spotted the British nation earlier, but he couldn't find him now. He hastily returned his attention to the game and grinned as one of his teammates score another goal. At this rate, they would have three times as many points as the French team by the end of the game. Of course, it was inevitable that the American team would win. America was too awesome to lose at a sport he invented.
The game ended with a 65-21 victory for the United States and the crowd cheered wildly. The fact that it was a mostly British audience watching a French defeat may have played some role in their enthusiasm, although most Brits were now on friendlier terms with their French counterparts given the shared horrors of World War II. America joined his teammates as they shook hands with the other team before returning to their locker room. He grinned happily. America was really looking forward to a nice shower and then a victory celebration with England. Nobody relished French defeats quite like England.
The locker stalls were now almost completely empty since all the other basketball teams had left after their elimination from the competition. As he passed by one of the empty aisles, a hand suddenly reached out to grab America and pulled him sideways into the aisle with a surprising level of strength. America was about to push back when he recognized the smirking face of his assailant. He would recognize those eyebrows from a mile away.
"England! How'd you get into the locker room?" America grinned and would have pulled England into a fierce kiss but he remembered how the older nation felt about kissing in public areas. So he was more than a bit shocked—but in a really good way—when England leaned forward and kissed him. It wasn't their normal greeting kiss, there was a hunger and urgency in the kiss that left America feeling a little weak in the knees, not that he would ever admit that a mere kiss could turn a hero like him into jelly.
"Follow me," England whispered, grabbing America's hand and tugging him along. It was a good thing England had a tight grip on America's hand, because America's thought process completely derailed when he noticed what England was wearing. A thin white cotton tank top covered England's lean body and tiny white shorts revealed his slender legs. It was just the standard basketball player uniform, but there was a huge difference between seeing the outfit on an average basketball player, and seeing England wear it. On the average player, the high-cut shorts enabled freedom of movement, while the light cotton material reduced discomfort from sweating. On England, the shorts showcased a fine pair of legs, while the light-weight tank top displayed a hint of the lean, toned body that gave England his wiry strength.
During the War, America's soldiers had covered the army barracks with pin-ups of dames with mile long gams. England's perfect legs put them all to shame. America wasn't normally one given to writing poetry, but he wanted to compose a sonnet about 'Legs so fine, I want to make them mine.' Or better yet, a song! He wanted to take a thousand photographs so he would never forget the image of those sexy legs striding right in front of him. America couldn't tear his gaze away from England's legs, other then to briefly move his gaze upwards to admire the snug fit of the shorts as they covered England's firm rear. America—caught up in thoughts about stealing all of England's trousers so the island nation would be forced to wear shorts for the rest of his life—barely noticed as they entered a different locker room.
America wasn't clueless, but he was easily distracted and England's legs were proving to be an amazing distraction. England, on the other hand, excelled at focused thinking and strategy, a skill that proved just as useful in the bedroom as in war. Still holding America's hand, he led them both to the shower stalls, picked a corner stall, and closed the curtain. When America was finally able to pry his thoughts and eyes away from England's legs, he grinned, finally realizing that he was getting his victory celebration a little earlier than he had expected. That or England was taking his obsession with cleanliness to new levels.
"I double-checked the schedule and the wrestling team won't be arriving for another two hours," England explained. Yep, it was definitely going to be a victory celebration.
America smiled. Only England would put so much thought into a spontaneous tryst. "You're amazing," he said, shaking his head affectionately.
"You're sweaty," England retorted with a chuckle. "Let's see what we can do about that, hmm?" he added, and with a playful smirk, England turned the shower knob, drenching them both in a warm spray of water. America gasped in surprise, shocked that England had turned on the water while he was still dressed.
"We're still wearing clothes!" America protested.
"Oh, you're right. That will be a problem," England replied casually, as if taking showers while clothed was something he did every day. "You will help me take care of that problem, won't you love?" England asked seductively. America could do nothing but gape. England should have looked like a drowned rat, with his hair plastered to his forehead and his wet clothes clinging to his wiry frame, but instead England looked incredibly sexy. The white cotton molded itself to the contours of his body, leaving very little to the imagination. The wet cotton revealed the firm muscles of England's abs and the growing bulge between his legs. America's eyes devoured every part of England's body: from the line of water highlighting his calves to the water droplets clinging to his eyelashes. Of course, he had seen England naked before, but somehow it was sexier to see him almost naked.
America had apparently spent too much time gawking and not enough time undressing, because England ran his hands underneath his own top and slipped it off, tossing the sodden ball of cloth into the shower corner. Then he stepped forward, bringing his body flush against America's, pressing America against the far wall of the shower. He slid his hands along America's abs, gently caressing the firm muscles beneath his fingers. With a quick motion, he lifted up the thin tank top and tossed it into the corner as well.
The cotton barrier between them now removed, England leaned forward to move his tongue in small circles around America's nipples, drawing eager moans from the larger nation. England grasped a nipple with his lips, twisting it firmly as America shivered with pleasure. America responded by rubbing his hands along England's buttocks, twisting and bunching the wet fabric. They pulled together in a kiss and America thought that kissing in the spray of the shower felt just like kissing in the rain. Except that this water was warm and they were both nearly naked. So really, it was better than kissing in the rain.
When they pulled back for air, England grabbed the waistband of his own shorts and prepared to shimmy off the thin cotton fabric, but America firmly grasped his hands and pulled the shorts back up.
"Not the shorts," America murmured in a low and husky voice.
England raised an eyebrow. "The shorts will only get in the way," he protested as he tried to pull down the shorts once more. America stopped him again.
"You think I can't handle a bit of cotton?" America asked with a grin, eager to face any challenge. He slid one hand across England's stomach and cupped the bulge between England's legs, rubbing and squeezing with his broad hand. With his other hand, he used one finger to trace the cleft between England's buttocks, circling his finger to find the most sensitive spot. The wet shorts limited his finger's inward movement, but didn't prevent America from applying firm pressure once he found the right spot. He could feel England's shivers of pleasure as England arched in response to his touch. England lifted his hands from the elastic waistband of his shorts and wrapped them around America's neck, pulling the taller nation even closer.
Moaning breathlessly, America bent his head forward to suck on the tender spot on England's neck. He could feel England's hot breath close to his ear, reminding him that his own erection wanted attention. It took all of his self-discipline to maintain his rubbing motion with one hand and the pressure from his finger with the other. He loved the feeling of holding England between his two hands, pleasuring the island nation from both sides. England moaned America's name and ground his hips forward. The continuous spray of water muted their cries and coated their bodies in a constantly moving layer of water.
America could tell from England's half-lidded eyes and urgent moans that the other nation was close to climax. Time to bring out the big guns. He whispered huskily into England's ear, "My bounty is as boundless as the sea. My love as deep, the more I give to thee."
"Are you… hnn… quoting Shakespeare?" England managed to gasp out, his voice caught between shock and arousal. England freed one arm and slid his hand into America's shorts, quickly grabbing America's bulge and rubbing furiously.
The wonderful sensations coursing through his body made America buckle his hips forward, but he maintained just enough presence of mind to continue rubbing England at a frenzied pace. America focused on the lines he had carefully memorized and panted, "Make but my name thy love, and love fulfill. And then thou lov'st me… hnn… and my heart be still." He slipped his own hand inside England's underwear, rubbing furiously all the while, and captured England's lips with his own. In that moment, each sensation felt like it was magnified a hundred-fold. The firm press of England's lips, the warm water binding them together, and the pulsing beat of life against his hand. England cried out and collapsed bonelessly against him.
The sensation of England's cry next to his mouth and the firm press of England's body weight against him was enough to undo America. He shuddered and saw flashes of white. America held England close as he slid down to a seated position on the tile floor. He gently moved England's legs so that the island nation lay half-curled in his lap, his head resting against America's shoulder and his legs extending to nearly touch the wall. England always fell into a languid, euphoric haze for several minutes after climax, but America never teased him about it (even though he teased England over everything else). America liked the feeling of snuggling against England's body as he waited for the smaller nation to reorient himself. He felt incredibly protective with England wrapped in his arms. America had a pretty good idea that England let no one else see him quite so trusting and vulnerable.
England's hand still lay nestled between America's legs, pressing against the layers of wet cotton and the warmth of America's flesh. America gently removed the hand and allowed the spray of water to wash it clean. He grasped the hand with his own and let himself simply enjoy the feeling of England breathing gently against his chest. It felt good to know that England was safe and alive. During the height of the Blitz, America had truly worried that England would die before America entered the war. At the time, he hadn't understood the panic that gripped his heart, he just knew he had to do something to help. In a way, the declaration of war had almost come as a relief, but victory had been the sweetest taste of all.
For one beautiful spring day, England's people had abandoned their typical self-restraint, and their nation abandoned his inhibitions along with them as he celebrated Germany's unconditional surrender in the streets of London, surrounded by the cheering British populace. In the glow of victory, he had gripped America's labels and kissed the younger nation soundly.
At that moment, something in America's heart had clicked, as the final puzzle piece fell into place. His panic at the thought of losing England finally made sense, his constant desire to stay glued to England's side during the war finally made sense, and his new-found longing for the feel of England's lips against his own made the most sense of all. When he saw England pull away with a slight look of panic on his face, he realized that England was going to play it off as a harmless joke. He also realized that he didn't want England to treat it as a joke. So America grabbed England and kissed him back. The dam between them broke completely and in a haze of mutual lust they made their way back to England's London house, holding hands as they pushed their way through the crowded streets.
They didn't make it as far as the bedroom. They jerked each other off on the sofa and promptly fell asleep, comfortably wrapped in each other's arms. America woke to the feeling of fingers running through his hair, but the fingers were gone by the time he opened his eyes. He caught the expectant look in England's eyes and realized that what he said next was going to determine the future course of their relationship. So America, being America, blurted out the first thing that came into this head. "We should have done that years ago," he said. England chuckled and protested that he had dropped hints the size of tanks since the Great War, but he still gave America his softest, most genuine smile in response. When America left to continue fighting in the Pacific, he couldn't help but feel that everything was finally right with the world.
Now, with England once again wrapped in his arms and the scars of war beginning to fade, America fervently wished that the peace and prosperity could last forever. He wanted him and England to last forever. He caught England's eyes and grinned. "Did you like the Shakespeare? I always thought he was prim and proper, but it turns out he's a big pervert at heart, just like you babe."
"You misquoted the sonnet, but it was a lovely effort nonetheless. And… I dare say I liked it nearly as much as you liked the shorts," England admitted with a sly smirk.
America whistled in amazement. "Really? That much? Because you look fucking fantastic in those shorts. I would pay good money to see you spend the rest of the games walking around in basketball shorts."
England chuckled as he removed himself from America's lap and stood up. "Don't tempt me love. My government has taken every step to keep the games within budget. I'm afraid they might take you up on that offer."
They cleaned themselves up in the shower and changed into the spare set of clothing that England had placed in a nearby locker. England had forgotten to account for the shoes, so they walked home in wet sneakers, but neither cared. America stayed unusually silent on the walk home, still caught up in his thoughts about the war and the fragility of peace and the meaning of it all in terms of his relationship with England. He was never very good at introspection, but he felt the weight of unspoken words hanging between them. England said nothing, likely going over debts and rations and costs in his head. The games had earned the title of the Austerity Olympics for a reason.
After awhile, America finally broke the silence. "You know, I'm glad you kept the games. They belong here. After Germany hosted in 1936, you should be the one to pick up the torch. And I thought the doves at the opening ceremony were a nice touch."
England nodded. "Despite the cost, I think you're right. It would have been cheaper to let you host, but it's good to see my country with something to celebrate." He smiled with a hint of pride. His government had managed to run the games on a shoe-string budget and even if they didn't take home the most medals, they still had plenty of reasons to be proud.
America looked at England and felt a swell of emotion that he didn't know how to put into words. He thought his physical actions could say everything he wanted to say about their relationship without letting words get in the way, but he worried that England thought America only enjoyed his London visits for the (admittedly amazing) sex. England had been trying too hard during this visit, as if he had decided that the only way to keep America by his side was with sex. Even seeking him out in the locker room felt like something England would do because he worried that America would leave unless England could find new ways to keep him pleased.
When America couldn't find his own words, he borrowed someone else's. He had tried to use Shakespeare's, but he didn't think England realized what he was trying to say in the heat of the moment.
"I meant it, you know," America finally said, as a faint blush tinged his cheeks in anticipation of his next words. "My love for you is as deep as the sea."
England stopped dead in his tracks and an expression of disbelief crossed his features. "You're just saying that to get me back into those ridiculous shorts," he said with a forced laugh.
America grabbed England's hands with his own and met England's gaze square on. The flashes of worry and hope in those green eyes made his stomach twist uncomfortably. America shook his head gently and said, "No, I really do love you. Heck, I loved you for years and I didn't even notice. So I'm sorry to just spring this on you, but I want you to know that you could throw away the fucking shorts and I would still love you. You don't need shorts or anything else to keep me."
They stood together in silence as the sincerity in America's words tried to overcome England's doubts. He needed England to understand that they were more than fuck buddies or a temporary alliance. And their relationship was based on more than just sex, amazing legs, and mutual lust. He wanted England to understand that no matter what happened to the British Empire, he still loved England. Heck, America had never been fond of the British Empire, he was happy to see it go.
England finally nodded and broke away from America's gaze. As he resumed walking, he maintained his firm grip on America's hand, their clasped hands swinging back and forth between them as they walked. "You never did explain how you found your way onto the American Olympic basketball team," he casually remarked.
America laughed. "Are you kidding? I've been playing since they invented the sport. They had to beg me to join. Plus, I look damn fine in a basketball uniform," he added with a wink.
"I dread what all these gold medals will do to your already over-inflated ego," England retorted. His expression softened as he admitted, "But you did play a good game against France." After several moments of silence, he flushed as red as a cherry and softly admitted, "And you know, I love you too."
America's broad smile stayed on his face for the rest of the day. He really loved winning gold medals, but nothing during the entirety of the games made him feel quite as happy as hearing those three words from England.
Author's Notes
As soon as I saw that America beat France for the gold medal in basketball at the 1948 Olympics, I knew I had to include it. I know nothing about basketball, so apologies for any inaccuracies. The shower scene just sort of happened after that. In case it's not obvious, England is wearing the basketball uniform to sneak into the locker room like the awesome spy he is. Also, I'm not positive about the Olympic basketball uniforms, but regular basketball outfits in the 1940s did include the short-shorts I've described here. What can I say, I have a slight (read: major) obsession with England's legs :)
America's first Shakespeare quote is from Romeo and Juliet. His second quote is the final couplet from Sonnet 136, which I altered to fit the story better. The actual line is "Make but my name thy love, and love that still, And then thou lov'st me, for my name is Will." A great pick-up line for everyone named Will, less useful for the Alfreds of the world. Of course, England has all of Shakespeare's works memorized, so he recognizes the alteration immediately.