Rating: PG
Pairing: England/China
Word Count: 488
Notes: IDK my angst is showing /shot
xxx
China felt warm against England's chest. Warm and soft and small. China's arms were tightly wrapped around the taller nation, fingers desperately clinging to England's uniform coat, threatening to tear holes into the worn and blood-stained fabric. A shudder wracked the older nation's body, and it was at that moment that England realised China was crying. Silently, as if he were trying to keep it a secret from the other nation, but England knew better. His clothes were growing damp with every tear China shed.
England moved his arms and held China tightly, buried his face into China's hair, and sniffed in the man's scent. Fresh, like flowers and spring, but a hint of death loomed around him. The thought caused England to hold China tighter, and that's when it hit him—he too was crying. Tears slowly ran down his face and got lost in a mess of dark hair. He couldn't remember a time when they could lie together, side by side, without fighting or crying. All he remembered was pain. Everything hurt. China hurt. England hurt. Their bodies, minds, souls, hearts—everything.
England hated reminiscing about the past. He knew he wasn't alone in the matter, but his memories were always ugly: war, bloodshed, death, disease, betrayal—his entire life was a blur of black and red. That is, until he met China. For a while, England thought his life could be normal, like that of a human. When he was with China, he believed he could forget about what was going on back home, overlook the meaningless killing and hate. He believed he could let love consume him, let China's very being consume him. China's smile and shy words, long hair and elegant clothes, poised composure and sparkling eyes—they made England's heart thump and his cheeks flare.
But he threw away love and honour and tenderness. He threw away China and his gentle touches and sweet smiles. He threw it all away for a meaningless war, more bloodshed and lies, more betrayals and death. He had searched so long to find China, and when he did, he broke him. Tore him. Used him. Dirtied him.
And how it had hurt England. He was stupid and foolish—he knew that much. All along, he had wanted nothing more than to reach out and hold China. Kiss away the pain and lies and—
"You're wetting my hair," a hushed voice said.
"It's payback for wetting my shirt," England retorted.
A small huff. "So childish."
England frowned and suddenly tightened his arms around China. He pressed a kiss against China's head and murmured apologies into China's hair.
And China pulled him closer, fingers trembling, concealed tears slipping past closed eyelids. "Don't let go, opium bastard," came the soft words. A small, sad smile appeared on England's lips. He tightened his grip, answering China's demand. Perhaps if China forgave him, England could one day forgive himself too.