21st July, 2005; London, England
(First Test of the Ashes; Lord's Cricket Ground, St John's Wood)
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England has very simple rules about touching America.
Actually, it's only one rule, but it is very simple; just one word: DON'T. The uppercase is important, England feels, and sometimes, when the grip on his self-control is particularly precarious, he imagines it in bold. And underlined.
At this moment, however, his mental image of that word is bold, double underlined, and flashing a bright, warning red.
America had nodded off about half an hour after they arrived at Lord's, and over the course of what remained of morning, had sunk deeper and deeper into his chair, legs sprawling, until his head had eventually come to a rest against England's shoulder not ten minutes ago. England hasn't even dared to look at him since then, so he's aware of nothing more than the slow cadence of America's breathing, loud even over the sound of the crowd, and the weight and warmth of him, seeping through England's thin shirt at every point where their bodies touch.
America shifts slightly, fingers briefly tangling in the material of England's sleeve as though he's scrabbling for purchase before he resettles himself again. In his new position, the corner of his glasses bites deeply into the top of England's bicep, and England has to lace his own fingers together to stop himself from leaning over and slipping them from his face. It's such a small gesture, and both of them would no doubt be more comfortable for England having made it, but England cannot – does not – trust himself to stop there.
If he lets himself remove America's glasses, then why not smooth back the strands of hair he's sure are splayed across the curve of his shoulder afterwards? And after he's neatened sleep-ruffled hair, why not pull America a little closer to his side, hold him steady and halt his slow but inevitable slide off his chair?
And what if his actions were to wake America? More than likely, America would simply shove England away and laugh at him for fussing, but what if he didn't? It's one of England's worst thoughts – one that makes him angry at himself for weeks whenever it manages to sneak past the barriers he has thrown up around it in his mind – but he still has to admit there is a chance that America might respond favourably, instead. Granted, it's a chance so slim as to be approaching non-existence, but if America pressed forward instead of pulling back, if he pushed for greater intimacy, then where would that leave England?
Sex, even amongst their kind, is usually a fleeting thing, and England has to weigh it against what could be an eternity without his magic if he ever succumbed to temptation. It is a choice he has faced many times before, and his decision has always been the same.
Is still the same, England reminds himself forcefully. He's not like his brothers, willing to throw away the vast wellspring of power they once had at their fingertips for an ephemeral moment of pleasure. He is stronger than that. He will persevere.
England closes his eyes, and concentrates on taking deep, steadying breaths until the ache of need that America's proximity has wrapped tight around his muscles has seeped safely away. Then, he raps his knuckles smartly against the top of America's thick skull.
England's rule has two exceptions; two circumstances in which he is allowed to lay hands on America. One, to remove him from immediate physical danger, and two, as a correctional aid to draw America's attention to whatever boorish behaviour he might be engaged in at the time. As lolling all over England as though he's simply another piece of furniture definitely falls under the 'boorish' clause, England feels the contact is fully justified.
America awakes with a snort, arms flailing, and the back of one of his hands brushes lightly across England's cheek. England feels sure enough of himself again now to ignore it, however.
"What was that for?" America asks, his voice dragging tiredly.
Now that he's awake, England feels able to look at him again. America's face is flushed, glasses knocked askew, and his hair is indeed mussed beyond easy repair. All in all, he paints a faintly ridiculous picture, which is nothing but a relief.
"I assumed that you couldn't follow the match very well with your eyes closed," England tells him.
"I fell asleep?" America chuckles. "I guess I must have been even more bored than I thought."
England welcomes his irritation; it's a long-familiar emotion where America's concerned and much more comfortable to deal with than the newer feelings which keep trying to supplant it.
"Bored? This is the first day of the… Do you know how hard it was to get tickets for today?" It wasn't at all – England always receives two tickets to every Ashes match – but he isn't about to pass up the chance to nurture his irritation into full blown anger, even if it is built on a lie.
"You know I've always thought cricket's boring." America sounds a little irritated himself, now, as well as sleepy. "You probably should have given the other one to someone else."
There were plenty of other nations who would probably have better appreciated the ticket, even if some of them – namely his brothers – would have enjoyed the opportunity to annoy England by cheering on Australia's team right beside him more than they would the game itself. The fact remained that they still would have enjoyed themselves, which is more than can be said for America, apparently. England can't even remember now why he did invite America, but he suspects his motivations at the time probably weren't particularly noble.
"You used to like it when you were younger," England points out. "Even begged me to teach you how to play it, if I recall correctly."
"I did?" America looks honestly baffled. "Well, that was back before I had my own, better games, I guess. I don't remember any of the rules now, though. I couldn't even tell you what," America quickly scans the pitch, eyes darting back and forth before settling on one of England's players, whom he nods towards, "that guy's doing."
"He's fielding, Alfred," England says slowly, a little unsure whether or nor America is actually taking the piss now. "Mid-wicket, to be precise. Honestly, it's not really that dissimilar to baseball."
"Except it's much, much more boring," America says, shaking his head. "Look, why don't you try explaining what's going on again. Maybe I'd be able to stay awake if I could follow the game."
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Before England and America have chance to leave their seats when play breaks for lunch, Australia descends upon them, grinning broadly.
"How you doing, old man?" he says to England, plopping himself down in the recently-vacated chair next to America. "Still hopeful?"
England scowls at him. "Of course I'm still hopeful. It's only the first bloody day."
"Always the optimist, but how long has it been now?" Australia cups his chin in one hand, feigning deep concentration. "Fifteen years?"
"Eighteen," England says sharply, "as you well know."
"Eighteen. How could I have forgotten that?" Australia's grin springs back as quickly as though it had never left.
England's dealings with Australia are usually very cordial, his feelings uncomplicatedly warm, except when cricket or rugby are involved. When they are, he often finds himself, as he is now, battling the urge to not only throttle the other nation, but also to ensure that he prolonged the experience as much as possible.
"I can't imagine." England is nevertheless able to force a smile to his own lips, because he is, after all, stronger than all of his inappropriate urges, whatever their source. "So, did you come over here for a reason, or did you just want to gloat. Pre-emptively, I might add."
"There's a seat free next to me, and I thought Al here might like a change of scenery after lunch," Australia says, slinging a companionable arm around America's shoulders. "I noticed he was fast asleep earlier. Your commentary must be fascinating."
America does not protest that, which does not surprise England. His refusal of the offer, however, does. England can only think that America imagines, quite rightly, that Australia's own brand of commentary will be provided at such a high volume that it will be impossible for him to doze off again if needs be.