A/N: Anonymous on tumblr requested "We're in the middle of a thunderstorm and you wanna stop and feel the rain?" from a quote fic prompt meme.

The air inside the taxi was hot and sticky despite the freezing rain slapping against the windows. England watched as two particularly fat raindrops raced down the glass only to get obliterated by a fresh wave of wind and water. He crossed his arms and leaned back against the seat, watching as his huffing breath clouded a few inches of the window. The only sounds were the smacking rainfall, the faintest hum of the taxi, and America drumming his fingertips on the door handle.

England huffed again, twisting in his seat and fighting with the damp, clinging bulk of his clothing. The combination of wet and warm made his skin prickle and itch. He wanted nothing more than to get back to America's place, change, and forget everything about the last three days. It didn't seem like that would be happening any time soon, and the last of England's intact nerves began to fray. It was too hot, too cramped, too slow, and America's drumming was too loud.

"Stop that," he snapped, glaring at America.

"What?"

"Tapping. You're being irritating."

America opened his mouth like he was going to retort, but then gave up with a shake of his head, narrowing his eyes at England before turning away and leaning his forehead against his own window. It was quiet for a few moments as England stared down at his lap and pulled his arms around himself even tighter. A sudden clap of thunder banged overhead and he felt America flinch next to him, inhaling sharply. He ignored the urge to reach out and put a comforting hand on his knee like he might normally, instead rolling his eyes for the benefit of nothing but his pretend lack of concern.

"Y'know what?" America said suddenly.

"What?"

He didn't respond right away. A shuddering exhale escaped him, a sound that might have been a laugh if he hadn't followed it up with, "Never mind."

The rain seemed to be lessening, but the thunder continued. England's head was beginning to ache, pain throbbing with the rhythm of his heartbeat thudding dully in his ears. Why had everything turned out so poorly? Of course, they fought from time to time. All couples did. But there had never been such horrible distance between them, not even with a literal ocean separating them. Nothing of note had happened, no comment or incident to set off the passive aggressive sulking and surliness. Perhaps it was because England had been so tired after his plane had landed, and that had set the tone for things. Or perhaps it was because America had been called in the next day, leaving England to his own devices on what was supposed to be the start of a much deserved vacation. Or perhaps it was the disappointing take out food or the even more disappointing sex or the fact that neither of them seemed to want to admit that things felt off and they needed to reset. Perhaps it was just that they'd forgotten what occupying the same space was actually like, and the reality of it wasn't as romantic as the filter distance tended to put on things. Or perhaps things had run their course.

That thought had been running around England's mind for the last six hours and he'd resolutely ignored it. But now the full force of that idea came crashing down like so much rain and thunder on their little taxi that his eyes welled up. A cold, heavy sickness began to eat at his stomach. He pressed a hand over his mouth as he swallowed down the sob clawing it's way up, rubbing his face with both hands to play it off when he realized the driver could see him in the rearview mirror. England's angry resolve was disintegrating and he was working himself up to say something, grab America's hand, do anything, when America cleared his throat and leaned forward.

"Hey, just drop me at the park."

England could only stare at him in confusion as he shifted in his seat, pulling out his wallet and fluffing up the collar of his jacket.

"Are you sure? It's nasty out there," the driver asked, eyes darting between America and England in the rearview mirror.

"Positive."

More thunder rolled as the taxi pulled up to the curb and America gave the driver a thick handful of bills. "Take him the rest of the way. Keep the change."

He was out of the taxi and trudging through the rain before England could even protest. The driver looked questioningly at England in the mirror, and for a moment England genuinely debated telling him to drive on. Instead he shook his head and muttered a quick sorry before dashing out into the rain after America.

England slid and nearly fell on the slick lawn as he jogged along, arms held uselessly over his head as the rain soaked his hair and clothes. America didn't even acknowledge him as he caught up, falling in stride with America's brisk, angry pace.

"Stop! What the devil are you doing?"

"Don't worry about. I just need some fresh air."

"You're not likely to find it out here."

"I need to clear my head, okay?"

"We're in the middle of a thunderstorm and you want to stop and feel the rain? Stop this before you get sick."

"Look, why don't you just go home? Leave me alone."

"Your home or mine?" England stepped in front of America abruptly, and they nearly collided. America looked down at him, the anger in his face softening to something that might have been hurt, but it was hard to tell behind the splattered raindrops covering his glasses.

"England—"

"I will go, if you want me to. But you can't run away from an argument."

America looked at him incredulously, pushing his way around him to continue stomping across the muddy grass. "What about you? You've been avoiding it! All day today you couldn't even stand being next to me, but now we have to talk about this just because you want to?"

"You're right. I'm sorry." England didn't follow him, the sick, cold feeling in his stomach from before cementing him to the wet ground.

America stopped a few yards away, fists clenched at his sides. He looked up at the sky, the last of the rain still dripping from the clouds, and took off his glasses and put them in his pocket so he could wipe his face with a sad sigh. "Why are you mad at me? I don't get it. I've been trying to figure out all day what I did wrong, and I can't. So just tell me, okay, because I hate this."

The sickness in his stomach sunk even further as he realized how much he'd been hurting America by wallowing in his own nonsensical hurt. He wanted to explain it away, spill all of the jumbled thoughts that had been devouring him, but all he could manage was a quiet, "I'm not mad at you."

"Are you sure?" America turned around, and his eyes looked puffy, rain flattening his hair and making it stick to his temples. "Because it kinda feels like I'm mad at you, and I don't have a reason to be and I hate that, too."

"I'm not, I wasn't, I—" England covered his face with his hands and then slicked them back through his hair. "I don't know. I don't know what happened. I think… I think we just forgot what it was like to be together and made a mess of it."

America just stared at him, and England could feel his eyes welling up again. There would be no graceful exit, no reasonable way to end things. The superficial cold of the rain was nothing compared to the chill England felt as he realized he was going to be be dumped on the third day of his vacation in a park in the middle of a thunderstorm. The melodrama of it all would have been funny if it hadn't been America, if England hadn't loved as much as he did.

After several endless moments, America closed the gap between them, pulling England into a tight, wet hug. "Well then we're going to have to figure out a way to see each other more often because this can't happen again."

England's shocked exhale came out as the sob he'd been fighting back, and he held onto fistfuls of America's jacket with a desperation he was no longer embarrassed to feel. Even with the rain and thunder and the clammy press of America's cheek against his neck, this was what England had been missing, the overwhelming rightness of being close to America. He shut his eyes and held on tight, whispering, "Thank god."

"What?" America broke the hug, but didn't step away.

Wiping his eyes, and shamelessly rubbing his nose on his sleeve, England took a deep, calming breath. "No, I— well, I was expecting you to break up with me."

Now America looked like he might cry, and he brushed some of the damp hair sticking to England's forehead aside with a tenderness that made England's stomach clench. "It's hard but I don't think it's too hard. Do you?"

"No." England shook his head and smiled. It was weak and flickering, but it was genuine.

America smiled back and arranged more of England's hair. He seemed to be at a loss for what else could say, but settled on exactly what England needed to hear. "I love you."

"I love you, too."

It didn't matter who initiated. All that mattered is that they were kissing and it felt like England's heart would burst. His hands found his way into America's hair and he pulled him closer, trying to soak up every last bit of this feeling to fortify him against future doubts. And there would be doubts, many of them, and arguments, too. But there would also be a million kisses, and laughter, and staggering amounts of love. There would always be love.

America pulled away first, but only to laugh and sniffle and bump his forehead against England's before kissing him one last time. "C'mon, I'll try to get another cab."

The storm was dying out, and England didn't care that his coat and shoes were soaked. It was less than ten blocks, and as England took America's hand in his and felt the comforting, familiar warmth, it didn't seem long enough.

"No. Let's walk."