Title – Winter
Rating – M
Pairing(s) – UKxUSxUK
Genres – Angst, romance
Warning(s) – Personified countries, sex
x.
Once upon a time, it had been he who was afflicted by France, having his innocence torn away and his body and mind tainted by whom he had considered an elder brother. The bastard had informed him that such an act was performed by lovers to express their feelings of affection for one another, but there was no "affection" in it when the elder man had enseamed their ties, stole his chastity and filled him with sin.
His personality ranged from frosity to fiery on a daily basis, but the heat of his temper could never diminish the ice of his words or mentality. He had always been a frigid person, never letting anyone in and encasing his heart in some sort of ice shield. Nothing and no one could diminish the barrier of stoney coldness inside of him.
London's burning, people cried on the streets, and the agonised screams echoed in his own mind and made him shudder at the pain. He felt the hurt of his people, but he didn't feel the heat of the fire eating away at his heart. His heart was too far gone to feel.
Even as the strong, outgoing, young, new America writhed beneath him, gasping and panting, moaning and shouting gibberish, the heat of the actions did nothing to melt the cold. Even as sharp teeth, slightly yellowed from tobacco, bit into his flesh and left scorching marks and the proclamation of mine tarnished his already-tainted flesh, he felt shudders wrack his frame that didn't spurn from the younger nation's efforts.
When America was the one dominating him, embedded deep within and being ordered to go faster, harder, rougher - Make it burn! - the flames of burning heat didn't ebb away at the inner ice.
"What's wrong, England?" the naive, clueless American enquired, glancing up worriedly from the television. All England could hear from it was white noise and the occasional flicker of a meaningless word.
He glanced up from the ink splattered across parchment, and then back down to see typed words on pristine white paper. His trembling hands clenched into fists, his untrimmed fingernails digging into his chilly hands and forming harsh red crescents. The silence of the outside reminded him of the season, and the ticking of the clock filling the room told him the time.
"I'm winter," he breathed, with an empty, frosty laugh.
All America could do was kiss him, but it tasted of frozen tears and cold tea.