Disclaimer: I own nothing. I own less Hetalia than England owns cooking ability.
Summary: America hurts him time and again, but England keeps coming back for more. (Unintentional harm, consensual.)
Pairing: America x England
Rating: T (lots of hints at sex.)
Kryptonite
A sigh wakes him, lashes reluctantly blinking away sleep. Lazy afternoon sun filters in through wide windows, bright blue skies invading his vision. America yawns as he turns slightly more to his side, pulling the man in his arms a bit closer.
"Mornin', sunshine," he drawls, watching green eyes roll back into England's skull.
England turns to him and plucks the smudged and out-of-shape spectacles from America's face, setting them on a side table. Only now does the American notice a dull ache along the side of his face, likely where the wire had been forced against his skin; smothered by his pillow.
He lets his head rest against the pillow again, loosening his grip around England's middle to watch him with an drowsy curiosity, fueled by the absence of caffeine in his system. The shorter blonde shrugs off his arms completely and massages what appears to be a crick in his neck with one hand, scowling. The sheets slide down a bit as he sits up, and suddenly the lovebites adorning England's neck are free for his viewing pleasure.
Alfred thinks he likes these best, the lazy mornings after when he's too tired to ruin England's mood and England is too tired to be difficult and stop him.
England gives some sort of a sigh of defeat and lies back against the mattress, and America suddenly wants nothing more than to gather him into his arms and hold him forever. Nothing but the two of them.
He watches as England grumbles to himself, trying to get himself to stand up. America lets him, quietly watching as the other walks to the bathroom, ruffling his own hair and silently grouching about something or other. Blue eyes watch him move away curiously, noticing things he didn't notice the night before – a small cut on his arm, ten identical purple bruises outlining pale hips.
America frowns and shifts to be a bit deeper inside of his cocoon of warm blankets. Why doesn't England say anything? America can be gentle.
He can try.
The blonde closes blue eyes and tries not to dwell on it; the limp that England gets for days, the bruises dotted all over his skin. The five parallel lines of blood on his back after their first night, the hats that England wore for weeks after that experiment with hair-pulling, the cracked ribs he'd gotten back before America had trained himself not to hold his lovers too tightly.
Time and again, he hurt England. Made him get cut and bruised. He would never forget last August. He'd laid out a picnic for the two of them, red and white checkered cloth in the middle of green grass; red, white and blue – red in his cheeks, white knuckles grasping a basket, blue skies stretching out forever behind England.
They had fun, hadn't they? – America forced down a few scones, England retaliated against cooking remarks, they kissed. Went home.
Had sex.
England had hit his head against the headboard a few times – a lot of times would be more appropriate to say, and violently - and for hours afterward he had been drowsy; responding slowly, looking sleepy.
America worried.
To the point where the other had to be taken to the hospital and – oh God he'd given England a concussion.
As if it couldn't get any worse, sitting at his bedside and gripping his hand too tightly, he'd broken one of his fingers. England couldn't move his left pinky, anymore. But still, they were together.
"Why are we still together," America blurts out – sitting up in bed - as soon as England steps out of the bathroom, steam wafting through the room, "after I've hurt you so much?"
England furrows his brows – an impressive sight, as always – and sighs, coming to sit back down on the bed, thwacking America in the back of the head.
"Nitwit," he accuses. America doesn't even have the audacity to look offended. "It's because I love you, of course."
America continues to look unconvinced, frowning. "But I hurt you. A lot… so much, Arthur."
"It's – It's difficult, I'll admit," England starts carefully, "to keep from raising much suspicion from officials. But I know that you don't mean to do it, and I heal fairly quickly…
"I guess," he says, looking at America with those green eyes that know so much more than they let on, "leaving you for your natural strength would be like leaving me for my love of tea. It's part of who you are, and you can't change it…"
America pouts.
"Tea is hardly a good reason to break up with a person, England…"
England clears his throat as if to say "You clearly didn't think that a few centuries ago," but he doesn't press it.
"I guess you could say that… having the injuries reminds me of you. They don't hurt too badly, but whenever I took a deep breath and had that brief jab of pain, or when I try drumming my fingers on the table, I think of you."
America doesn't really understand, but the calming tone quells his anxiety for now. He extends a hand and wordlessly threads together his right fingers with England's left, taking care not to squeeze and pulling him close again with his spare arm, kissing his neck apologetically.
"I love you, you know," America whispers against England's skin, resting his forehead on the other man's shoulder.
"I know," England mumbles, face heating up, "and I'll have the bruises for a week to remind me."
xxxEnd
Heyyyyy guys. Itsa me, Emmilene! I'm sort of on a writing binge right now (trying to stop being rusty, grah), I should have something else for you guys sometime within the next week. If all goes well, you'll get a taste of my guilty and obscure (read: nonexistent) favorite pairing – NorLat. Unf. And after that, I've been feeling the SpaRo bug biting, again; so… let's give this whole fanfiction thing another shot!