Title – Reminiscence
Rating – K+
Pairing(s) – unrequited?USxUK
Genres – Angst
Warning(s) – Personified countries
x.
Saturated photographs were strewn across the carpet, most of them greyscale and sepia toned, all reflecting the bittersweet memories captured on film. Of course, not all memories were captured: he had so many nostalgic film sequences flickering on and off in his mind, ones that nobody remembered in the same way he did. There was his brothers fooling him and chasing him through the woods; France claiming and tainting him, his blood from war wounds and "love making" slipping onto the stone floor; an innocent America holding his hand...
He had a lot of photographs of America, but most of them were fake or dark. There were the old vintage ones of America and Canada trying on their suits, the revulsion and disgrace lingering clearly in the more extroverted brother's stormy eyes (How long had he looked so scarily grown up and repulsed by England without his noticing?). With trembling hands, he allowed that photo to slip from his fingertips and onto the floor to accompany the assortment of other painful memories lying there innocently.
The darjeeling tea had long since turned cold due to its neglect in favour of photographs. Nonetheless, he sipped it with vigour, greedily gulping down the cold black tea and grimacing at the bitter taste it left. He took a shuddering breath and carefully placed his delicate and slightly chipped china tea cup on his mahogany table (the one with the wonky leg that often creaked under too much weight), twitching at the sound of china clinking on wood.
Photographs, for him, were like the sea: the bottom was imperceptible, but you could always tell they were deep and meaningful.
His poignant gaze swept over the room full of melancholy reminders of what used to be and what would never be again, catching on some and rewinding. Brighton beach, we all went to have a picnic (France cooked, but only because I didn't feel up to it) and paddle in the sea, but it started to pour with rain so we got soaked and sought refuge beneath the pier. His lips twitched at the sound of cascading rain and innocent laughter that filled the silence, but the dreamy atmosphere was broken by the shrill ring of the telephone. Heaving a sigh, he grabbed his tea cup (he would drop it off in the kitchen after he took the call), and wove his boney fingers around the phone.
"Hello?" he breathed, voice unusually soft, as if he had been suffocating in the thick air that contained too many memories. Reminiscing always stole his breath away. It was as if he had been alive in the past, and that was when he had been breathing. Now, he was existing, almost as if he was in a comatose state...
He was torn out of his reverie by an exuberant voice, the sound like chalk on a black board, wind chimes and car horns. "Heya, England!" the person on the other end of the line greeted brightly, as loud and dominant as ever - his voice always overruled areas. Whenever they went out, he always cut off whoever was speaking to throw in his own two cents or to change the topic. Sometimes, he felt as if the other man was constantly undermining his opinion. Or just didn't care.
"America," he responded, hoping that his wavering voice sounded normal; the emotions behind that one name were undetectable...
"So, how're you?" he asked, and England felt his heart flutter and butterflies blossom inside of him because the fool was actually asking after his health and well being- "Ah, whatever, it's not like that's important anyway." He felt his heart sink and - what was with that metaphor anyway? Organs did not simply sink. Although, currently, he felt as if he could have been drowning... The flood of past images flowing in his mind's eye and the very same voice he had fallen asleep listening to in the past speaking such uncaring words down the phone... "I was just calling 'cause..."
He put the phone back on the receiver, wondering how America would react to the unresponsive dial tone. He would probably just get irritated and then forget about England entirely, getting on with his day, unperturbed by thoughts of people from his past as if they didn't matter at all.
He slid down the wall and let his cup fall. It didn't smash, but the crack slipped open more, and the few leftover drops of tea seeped out and into the carpet.
It wasn't just the cup that was cracking...