A/N: Explanations later. You guys have waited too long for this chapter, so just enjoy.
Disclaimer: China is more likely to lop off his ponytail and donate it to Locks of Love than I am to own Hetalia.
14 Ways to Say
Chapter 10: Under the Same Moon
England was depressed. Strike that, he was devastated. He was traumatized. He was lost in a whirling sea of misery and a defeat, too wild and deep for even the mind numbing effects of alcohol to tame. No, England needed something warmer than the burn of Scotch and more filling than a mug of ale. There was only one thing that could fill the gaping void in the center of his chest.
Ice cream and chick flicks.
England was currently about halfway through a gigantic tub of cookies n' cream and Disney's Cinderella. He'd already polished off the mint chocolate chip while watching 27 Dresses and strawberry swirl during Titanic. (And he didn't give a flying fuck if he looked like a loon, wrapped up in a dressing gown like some mental patient, occasionally sobbing and shoveling ice cream into his mouth. He was upset, god damn it! The rest of the world could just take their snide judgments and shove them up their arses for all he cared.)
Forcing another spoonful of icy comfort food past his lips, England watched the little animated figure of Cinderella as she sung to herself and scrubbed the floors. He imagined his life to be the multitudes of bubbles floating around her, empty and fragile and bursting at the slightest provocation.
His life was meaningless.
He had tried. He had tried so bloody hard, and yet, nothing seemed to work out in his favor. All his hopes and aspirations disintegrated beneath his touch. And the worst part was, it was all his own doing. (Except for that incident with China. Ruddy bastard.)
For once, England couldn't place the blame for his failures on anyone but himself. His own short comings had led to this. His own inadequacies. America remained beyond his reach not because the boy ran faster, but because England was too pathetically slow to catch up. And that thought stung.
England watched Cinderella sewing with some mice while absentmindedly scraping at the tub of ice cream in his lap. He listened to the dull scratching of metal against plastic for a good minute before giving it up as a bad job and hurling the bucket across the room. (How dare it be out of delicious empty calories when he needed it most!)
With a huff, he reached an arm over to the massive pile of discarded ice cream cartons beside him and rummaged around for a fresh batch, never taking his eyes off the screen. He groped uselessly for a few moments (coating his fingers in sticky-melted-sugariness) before managing to topple the entire tacky tower off the side of the mattress. (Jesus bleeding Christ, he couldn't do anything right.) With several loud swears which would have made even a wasted Prussia blush, England threw the bedcovers off and stocked over to gather the cartons. Life was a whore. She was a bleeding filthy whore who could just go take a long walk off a short cliff into a vat of toxic waste infested with sharks while screwing herself to high heaven for all England car-
England froze, eyes glued to the television screen. There. There.
How perfect. How fantastically, magically, god damn beautifully perfect.
The ice cream cartons fell to the floor with a clatter as England shot to his feet, eyes bright and medieval grin plastered into place. Faster than the eye could blink, he had turned heel and dashed towards the telephone, leaving nothing but the sparkling image of Cinderella stepping into a gleaming carriage on the television screen behind.
T
The night was dark, the stars winking down upon the figure of a lone man striding up a paved path. The crescent moon bathed him in a soft light, accenting his dashing physique. A pair of polished shoes glimmering like black lacquer. A crisp, dark suit cut sharply to a slim build. Mysterious emerald eyes luminous in the darkness. Straight flaxen locks slicked back from a smooth forehead which housed the most fantastic eyebrows the history of the known world.
England was in no way checking himself out. He was merely enjoying a true work of art. (And he didn't mind saying it looked bloody brilliant.)
After all, he had to look damn fine tonight. He could leave no room for America to mistake his intentions. Not now.
With a deep breath, England traversed the last couple of steps up America's front porch. He stood before the oak front, fingering the end of his tie a bit nervously. He had called the boy earlier in the day, requesting his presence at a set time. America had agreed, but, of course, the boy had been distracted playing video games and had shouted something that sounded suspiciously like "damn motion sensor" a second later. (England had given up all hope of America remembering his statement about formal dress.)
Still, England wasn't going to feel guilty for rousing America if the boy happened to be sleeping or interrupting his latest round of Halo. He had laid the foundation. Time to set the plan into motion.
Mustering up as much will as he could manage, England knocked resolutely upon America's door. He waited as the seconds trickled past, listening for the telltale signs of America approaching (ie, thundering footsteps, several heavy crashes and a few cries of "When the hell did that plant get there?").
Finally the door swung open to reveal a rather red-face and panting America. "Sorry Iggy, Tony was being a douche." He turned around to glare at someone England couldn't see. "Did ya wait long?"
But England wasn't listening. He was too busy attempting to keep his jaw from hitting the ground as he stared at the boy before him. America was in no way dressed to the nines. His blue button-up was wrinkled and he was wearing the same trousers he always wore to conference meetings, but damn if he didn't clean up well. The boy seemed to have taken some measures towards taming his hair. It was neatly brushed back in a style reminiscent of a forties swing cut. The lenses of his glasses had been cleaned and his shoes shone in awkward patches where he had apparently tried to polish them. The overall affect was endearingly juvenile and made England go a little weak in the knees.
(Blimey, he was in deep.)
Blushing furiously, England coughed and directed his glaze towards the floorboards. "Not at all, lad. Shall we?" He turned to gesture out towards the vehicle he'd arranged for the two of them, only to have America dash past him in a frenzy of excitement.
"HORSIE!" The boy leapt down the porch steps and barreled towards the horse situated in his front drive.
England had hoped to play on America's romanticism. That was why he had specially ordered the gleaming horse and carriage currently sitting in America's front drive. A carriage ride between lovers in the dim glow of the moon—it was every little girl's fantasy (and since America and small children seemed to have the same mental capacity, it seemed fitting). But of course, England should have realized something would go wrong.
Letting America be in the presence of a horse was like leaving France alone in a hotel suite with a menu full of adult films.
Bedlam.
"Outta my way!" America vaulted up to where the chauffer was sitting at the reigns, shoving the poor, utterly bewildered man to the side before throwing himself into the saddle.
"Ride Sally! Ride!" He screamed, spurring his heels into the horse's haunches. The beast didn't even bat an eye. "Now what in tarnation?" (Oh, the Southern drawl was coming through. Lovely). America frowned down at the steed before leaning forward to caress its mane. "Now come on girl. Gidde up. Time's a waistin'!"
The horse snuffled petulantly.
"Come on now darlin'." America pondered for a moment before snapping at some epiphany. He ran his fingers through the horse's mane again before saying in an almost teasing tone "If ya light a fire in that there haunch a yours, there'll be some carrots in it for ya!"
Now that got the old girl moving. With a neigh of delight, the beast took off at a full gallop, America spurring her onwards. "Yee haw!" (When the hell did he get that bloody cowboy hat?)
It was only when the boy was a good two hundred meters down the path that England realised he was supposed to be in the carriage with him.
Ah details, details.
"YOU BLOODY MORON! WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING? GET YOUR ARSE BACK HERE BEFORE I HAVE MY UNICORN GORE THE HELL OUT OF YOUR-"
From his crouched position on the ground, the driver watched in mild horror as at the mad cackling cowboy raced past with his carriage, followed by what appeared to be a very irate British midget.
That was the last time he took requests from a European.
England finally managed to slow America's progress with a frog to the head.
His (damn) good aim knocked the boy's hat clean off, and America let out a cry, reigning in the horse and leaping off in a panic.
"Not cool!" He shouted at England, going off to retrieve the fallen article. "Everyone knows you don't mess with a guy's hat. It's just…wrong." He shuddered, leaning down to scoop the hat back into his arms.
England ignored the idiot's blubbering, hurrying over to the now batter and mud-streaked carriage. With great trepidation, England pulled open the carriage doors. His heart sank. The lovely velvet interior was now covered in the (ruddy expensive) wine he'd so painstakingly chosen just for this occasion. The beautiful bouquet of roses he'd bought was also dripping wet, the petals strewn about in every direction.
America came up behind him, smiling blithely "What's eatin' at cha?" He asked, peering down at England's petrified expression. (Of course, he'd put the bloody hat back on).
England grit his teeth and clenched his fists. Keep calm and carry on.
"Yo, Iggles!" A hand waved in front of his face.
Keep calm.
"England~!"
Keep calm.
"Hey! England! ENGLAND~!"
KEEP CALM DAMN IT!
"EYEBROWS!"
Fuck it.
"YOU GODDAMN BRAT! I'M GOING TO KILL YOU!"
America let out a cry, diving to the side as England lunged for his throat. The Brit's eyes were wild, feral (and he could swear that was foam seeping from the corners of his mouth.) In short, England was pissed.
And even America knew it was high time to get the hell away from him. Fast.
"GET BACK HERE YOU UNGRATEFUL GIT!" England crowed as America fled for the cover of the forest. "I'LL BEAT SOME PENANCE INTO THAT THICKNESS YOU CALL A BRAIN!"
After all, you know what they say. Spare the rod, spoil the child. (Now where did he keep that nine iron…)
After chasing America through the woods for a good ten minutes with a meat clever and a box of rabid mice, England finally relented and allowed the fool to sit and catch his breath.
"Dude." America rasped between pants, legs shaking and eyes watering. "You…are…insane." He coughed for good measure before collapsing against a tree trunk.
"And you're an imbecile. Glad we could cover the obvious." He dumped the mice onto the ground and smirked as America scrambled away shrieking like a little girl. "I thought cowboys were supposed to be fearless?" He waltzed casually over to the half-glaring, half-crying nation and plucked the notorious hat from America's head.
"Ig-GY!" the boy shouted, pouting petulantly and holding his hand out. "Give it back!"
(The look most certainly did not make England go weak in the knees)
"I don't think I will." England smirked in response. He plopped the (rather hideous) headwear atop his now-disheveled hair. "You'll get this back when you learn how to not completely destroy everything which comes within touching distance!"
England crossed his arms and huffed self-righteously. He stood haughtily waiting for America to say something indignant (or at least throw something marginally heavy in his direction.)When no insults or blunt objects were forthcoming, England frowned and chanced a glance in the boy's direction. America was giving him the strangest look, glazed eyes sliding lazily from the brim of his hat to his face and back again.
England rolled his eyes. "When you're done looking a fool- wait, let me rephrase. When you're finished being yourself, I brought food."
Nothing like the mention of stomach filling (typically artery-clogging) calories to bring America back to earth.
"Really?" His head popped up, his ears perked and England swore a tail magically began waging behind him. (And it was most certainly not the most adorable thing ever).
"Yes." England rummaged through the box he'd snagged from the carriage before chasing after America. He emerged after a moment holding a picnic basket. "I…um prepared this myself." He ducked his head, attempting to hide the rising color in his face and thankfully missing the horrified widening of America's eyes.
"Is that the real reason you brought me out here? Trying to drag me away from everyone I know and love so you can feed me poison and then burry my body in a shallow grave where no one will ever be able to find-"
"GIT, YOU DON'T HAVE TO EAT IT IF YOU DON'T WANT TO! Besides-" England's voice caught as his embarrassment came back full force. "I…bought you some burgers already anyway." He turned to face America, pulling a red and yellow bag out of the basket in his lap. The boy stared at him with wide eyes as England passed the parcel over. "I knew you wouldn't want to eat my cooking anyway, so I got this before coming to get you." (He didn't mention the small ache he felt at the idea of America voluntarily eating something he'd made.)
America took the bag, still starring at England with that strange, glazed expression. He didn't make any move to undo the wrapping.
"I feel like you and I haven't been spending enough time together." England muttered, fumbling with the bundle of handmade scones. He pulled the lumps of bread (concrete) apart and began shoveling bits into his mouth, refusing to meet America's eyes. "I mean really, we're an ocean apart and you really should make the time to come and visit rather than making me spend all my time with that bloody pervert and-
America sat silently watching England ramble and choke himself on lumpy bits of what appeared to be charcoal. "Iggy?"
The blonde snapped out of his rant which seemed be revolving around some kind of sprout to meet America's gaze.
"Shut up."
England spluttered indignantly, watching as America reached over to pluck a scone from his lap and pop it into his mouth. His heart stopped, green eyes following the up and down motion of America's jaw as he worked to "food" over in his mouth. (And dear god America was eating his food of his own free will). England's heart was hammering so desperately it was almost painful.
America continued to chew, eyes closed and brows slightly knitted in concentration. Finally, he finished, swallowing with what looked like an enormous effort of will. "Wow England, that was great!" He lied through his smile. (And England didn't even care because America had eaten his food. America had cared enough about his feelings to lie.)
Then suddenly America's entire face went a violent shade of purple, and he keeled over, not moving.
England blinked down at America's unconscious form for a moment before leaning over to check his vital signs.
Ah, he wasn't breathing.
How wonderful.
A/N: So I wanted to give England a little bit of fluff seeing as I've been torturing him so much lately. I hope you saw that.
So, about the, how long was it? Two week hiatus? Anyway, I wish I could say I had some grand and wonderful excuse like I was on scuba diving off the coast of Australia while on the run from Italian mobsters, but the truth is always way more boring than fiction. I've been pretty stressed out as well as kind of sick for the past couple of weeks. I don't know what it is, but the moment I get home from school, I pass out until my family wakes me up for dinner. It's really weird… And it can't be from lack of sleep because I go back to bed right after dinner. Plus, the grading period was coming to an end and I was worried about my score in math (curse you Pre-calculus!) I've really been meaning to get around to this, but life just keeps getting in the way. That aside, thanks so much for everyone who's still sticking with this story. (Especially the anonymous reviewer Baley and any like her who left multiple reviews asking for my return).
So, in conclusion, I'm not dead, you guys are all amazing and I have every intention of finishing this story.
Please review! I know it might be a bit much to ask after the fail I've been, but please find it in your hearts to forgive me. And remember, every time you don't review Timothy Filbert is assaulted by England. (Btws, he sends his regards.)