Fanfic: Shadows Moving Beyond Time
*******
Title: Shadows Moving Beyond Time
Author: slashy_lady
Rating: PG
Character(s)/Pairing(s): America and England/AmericaxEngland
Disclaimer: The characters involved in this story do not belong to me, nor do they have any connection to real nation(s). No infringement intended.
Some Kind of Summary: (taken from the prompt) Somehow, England found out that in the future, America and him would end up being lovers, so he started to do things that would prevent that, but somehow, the things he does is what end up getting him and America together.
Note: Written for usxuk's 2011 Spring Fever Fic/Art-Athon. The prompt was: Somehow, England found out that in the future, America and him would end up being lovers, so he started to do things that would prevent that, but somehow, the things he does is what end up getting him and America together.
*******
For as long as England could remember, he could always get a glimpse of shadows moving beyond time. He could see them, those shadows of the far future, those of the days old past. They were there, existing silently against the backdrop of time. And at times, at some very rare yet cherished times, he was allowed to see them-just a glimpse, nothing more.
He kept it with him. It was his secret. No one knew about his gift (for it was indeed a gift), or at least he liked to pretend that no one was aware of it. And if he were to be truthful, he knew that people would only give him an amused (condescending) smile if he told them that he could see beyond the present. He knew they would humor (laugh at) him if he told them that when he touched a door, he could sense the presence of the man who had gone through that door centuries past. He knew they would only smile (frown) if he told them that when he touch someone, he could see the way they would die decades ahead. Some skeptics might even want to test him. They might shove an object to his direction and order him to tell its past, its future, with a patronizing smirk on their faces-the smirk that would only grow when he told them that it didn’t work like that. He could not casually touch anything and knew about its past or its future. The gift came to him when it was needed-when it was its due, when there’s something important to be shown to him, when fate let it be. He could not command it, rule it, lord over it.
No. It was commanding him. And if fate wanted him to see nothing, then nothing would come to him.
He never did tell anyone about it, so there had been no one trying to test him. But he knew it would happen exactly like what he had predicted. He did not even need his gift to tell him that. So he kept his silence, for it was the best.
And if he smiled, or cringed, at times-fingers casually touching the surface of some papers or palm brushing over the edge of the wall-he could always hide it. He had had centuries of practice. He could easily hide it.
But there was one time when he simply could not.
*
The so called ‘one time’ happened on one fine Thursday somewhere in May, which perhaps should have told England that surely something was going to happen. He could never get a hold of Thursday. It seemed that every unpleasant thing always happened on that particular day.
So it was Thursday, and he had been trapped in the conference room since morning to discuss about the new policy on trading with his fellow nations. Being nation, of course he was used to sitting for hours listening to people debating on the merit of one thing versus another-politic never really changed throughout the years. Still, when the clock struck midday and it was time for their much needed lunch break, he could not hold back his soft sigh of relief. He simply could not stand another minute of listening to boring presentation without at least a cup of very strong tea to soothe his nerve. And food did seem lovely too.
He was tidying up his papers when he felt a presence behind his right shoulder. He knew who it was even before he turned his body to face the newcomer.
He turned his face, nonetheless, and came to see America smiling at him. It was the kind of smile that always made him want to smile back at him. And he did.
“Hey,” America said. “Do you have some time to spare?”
He stared at him with a bit of wariness. “Depends, I guess. What do you want?”
“No need to be so suspicious,” America said. He extended his hand and touched England’s elbow. It was an innocent touch, a friendly gesture, nothing so extraordinary.
The touch was nothing special. But the flashes of images, scents, feeling, emotions that assaulted him afterward were more than enough to make him gasp.
“England?” America said. There was something cautious in his voice. “Are you alright?”
He wanted to answer him-wanted to lie and told him that yes, he was alright. But America’s hand moved from his elbow. He was-oh God-he was holding his hand now. The touch of skin on skin sent another jolt of emotion, made the images flashing before him more vivid, threw him off balance for once.
With a gasp he yanked his hand free of America’s hold. He was breathing hard. He was making a scene, he knew that, and America was staring at him in concern.
He covered his eyes with his hand as he tried to regain his breath. It was too much. It was simply too much. He had dealt with his gift for longer than he could remember yet never it affected him so.
“I’m sorry,” he said once he felt like he could breathe easily again. “I don’t… I’m not feeling quite well, sorry. What did you say?”
“I just asked if you could spare some time…” America caught the rest of his sentence as he seemed to appraise England closely. “…which, I think, you couldn’t. England, seriously, are you okay? You look terrible.”
“Yes, I’m fine,” he answered quickly. Too quickly, perhaps, if he were to judge America’s disbelieving stare. And he had to turn his face away from that stare-those blue eyes, their gaze fixed at him and him alone-before he embarrassed himself further.
“I think I need some fresh air,” he found himself saying, still refusing to look at America. “Can you… can anything that you want to talk with me wait until later?”
“Yeah, sure,” America said. He held himself as if he was not sure if it was okay to touch England and that made England realize that he should get away. “Do you want some company?”
“No,” he said firmly as he took a step back, trying to assure himself that the flash of hurt on America’s face was merely his imagination. “No, I think I prefer to be alone.”
He did not let himself see the suspicion on America’s face. He did not let himself think if his harsh words had somehow managed to wound his fellow nation. He simply walked past, trying to create as much distance as he could between America and him. He needed to get away.
He needed to stop himself from repeating those flashes of images in his mind.
*
…there were sounds-sounds of happy laughter and hushed conversations and barely concealed chuckles. The sounds were always the first to reach him. The sounds told him of a happy time, of a cherished moment. He recognized those sounds-that laughter-and he could imagine a pair of blue eyes twinkling at him as the owner of those eyes laughed merrily…
…there were scents. They reached his nostrils. The scents of freshly washed sheet and cinnamon mixed with musk. He could smell the scents clearly. It soothed his feeling, somehow. It smelled familiar and safe and above all, it made him feel loved. And he recognized those scents… no, he recognized that hint of cinnamon mixed with musk. He often caught that scent, just a moment before someone walked past him, before that certain someone touched his shoulder and made him turn his face to see…
…there were sights-scenes flashing before his eyes. He could see them clearly, as clear as day, as clear as reality. He could see himself smiling, looking so happy, looking so much in love. And he could see the other person too, the one with those blue eyes, the one with that unmistakable scent of cinnamon and musk, the one who had his pair of arms around him, who was kissing him lovingly as if he was the most precious thing in the world.
He could see himself in America’s arms, being kissed, being loved. He could see himself smiling, enjoying the kiss, loving the person who gave himself the kiss. He could see the two of them as clearly as he could smell that scent of cinnamon and musk, as clearly as he could hear them both chuckling after the kiss ended.
Those were the things he heard, he smelled, he saw, when America touched him. The flashes of the future, taunting him from that boundary that time so loved to tread. But all he smelled, all he heard, all he saw could not overpower what he could feel when those flashes came to him.
Because that time, he felt nothing but love, and that scared him more than anything.
*
Standing alone on the balcony, England was lost in his thought. He could not help revisiting what had happened earlier-minutes earlier with him and America.
He would not lie. The thought of those flashes still left him blushing. The thought of that kind of future left him wanting, craving for more. He wished, fervently, that it would become reality. But he knew he could not have that. They could not have that.
They had too much history between them-him and America. It was only with years of hard works and patience that they could overcome their past bitterness and develop a relationship which, while could not perfectly be described as perfect, at least was considered more than civil enough for both parties. Trying to achieve more would only endanger their relationship, England knew that. He knew himself and he knew America. While the idea of getting attached romantically with him was enchanting, he knew it wouldn’t last. Their personalities ensured that and if that was not enough, their past would be more than sufficient to put a strain in their relationship.
England snorted. He really wished for a smoke at that moment but he knew he could not have it. He often did that-wanting things that he knew he could not get. That was what had shaped him into the powerful British Empire in the past. That was the fire that had fueled his way through world domination in the past.
In the past, yes, but that time he had had enough.
He still did not know why fate decided to show him those flashes of future (their future-his and America’s) but he knew what he should do. Even though it would mean to confront fate itself, he knew what to do. He would make sure, no matter how, that it wouldn’t happen-that kiss, that love, their future. He would challenge fate to make sure of that and he would win.
*
Five days after that fateful day, their conference came to an end and America cornered him on one of the hallways.
“So… um,” America said with a hint of nervousness that he could not quite conceal. “England, do you have time?”
England stared at him warily. He had tried for the past five days to avoid America unless it was absolutely necessary to see him. He had succeeded, too, before America somehow managed to find him and corner him. And there he was now, standing on some empty hallway with the one person whom he had tried so hard to stay away from.
“Time?” he asked without quite managing to meet America’s eyes. Unconsciously, he held his briefcase tighter in his grasp. “That depends, I guess. What do you want?”
He could hear America chuckling. He could smell his familiar cologne of cinnamon and musk. He had to close his eyes briefly to remind him that it was reality, it was the present, and no, America was not going to kiss him anytime soon.
“It’s funny,” America said. “I seem to remember you’re saying something along that line when I asked you similar question days ago. You remember that? You looked… uh, unwell back then. Are you alright now?”
“Yes, of course… thank you for your concern,” he said. “So, you’re saying…”
“Um… yes, I’m wondering if you’d like to have dinner with me,” America said. His words sent the warning bells ringing in England’s head and he could feel his breath catch in his throat as he stared, with no little amount of surprise in his eyes, at America.
“Sorry?” he asked.
“Why do you seem so surprised?” America said, laughing. “I need to revisit some of those documents with you... or, to be honest, my boss asked me to revisit those documents-you know, that statement of agreement between our countries-and your help would be very much appreciated. Come on, I’ll pay you back by buying you dinner. I won’t even mind if you want to go to that posh place that you love so much, the one complete with chandelier and dancing floor.”
England knew the place that America spoke of. He really loved that place, America got that right. In the past, he would have been overjoyed that America was willing to take him there, for his distaste toward that particular restaurant was so obvious. But…
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m afraid I’m really busy and have my schedule tight for the foreseeable future.”
“Oh,” America said. He seemed to be down and England wondered if he had gone too far. Seeing from the fact that he was willing to take England to some fancy restaurant for their so-called discussion, he suspected that America’s boss did not so much as ‘ask’ him as he was ordering him strictly to deal with those documents.
He needed to get away from America, yes, but he never wanted to let him down. He still cared about him, perhaps he even cared too much about him.
“I could ask my assistant to talk with you about those documents on my behalf,” he said to dispel that look of dejected acceptance from America’s face.
America perked up at that. But then his expression turned contemplative.
“But you said you’ll be running on tight schedule for the near future,” America said. “Won’t you need your assistant?”
England smiled and shrugged. “It’s not like I only have one assistant.”
“Still, you’re willing to lend me one of your precious assistant,” America said with an exaggerated look of admiration. “I’m touched by your sacrifice. Oh, hey, I prefer Linda if I can choose. She’s gorgeous, so it will be a bonus for me.”
England knew he shouldn’t be jealous hearing America’s compliment, but he did. By God, he did. And that irked him.
“I’m letting you borrow my assistant for some serious discussion, not for an evening of mindless chatter,” he said sharply.
“I’m just joking,” America said. “Calm down.”
“Well, I’m not in the mood for jokes,” England said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have someplace I have to be.”
He gave America one last polite yet impersonal smile. And, trying hard not to feel guilty about it, he turned his body and walked away without waiting for America’s goodbye.
*
It was childish, he knew it. It was petty and it was unkind. But it was the most efficient method that he could think of to get America away from him.
He would hurt him, he knew, with his avoidance. He would hurt him with his cold attitude. He would surely hurt him with his harsh words and unsympathetic manner.
And in the process, England knew that he would hurt himself too but that was a penance he’s willing to pay. For it would hurt him, true, but it was better than the prospect of them both getting hurt. He could stand getting hurt, but he never wanted anyone (America) to get hurt, not if he could help it. Perhaps that was the reason why he was shown those glimpses. Perhaps it was his responsibility to prevent them from happening. And perhaps if he tried harder he could believe his own lie.
*
“You are avoiding me,” America told him.
England hated himself for the hitch of breath he could not quite suppress when he was confronted with that statement. America looked offended when he said those words and the look was not good on him. He did not like seeing that look on America. He did not like to think that he was partially the reason behind that look.
“I’m sorry?” he asked, as if he did not know what America was talking about. Such a lie, his mind (with America’s voice) told him, and he wanted to tell that voice to shut up because it was annoying (because it had no right to use America’s voice).
“You are avoiding me,” America repeated. “Why? Have I done anything to offend you? Or is there something bothering you? Or what?”
“You’ve done nothing to offend me,” he assured him, and at the same time refusing to answer America’s question on whether or not he’s avoiding him. He hoped-really hoped-that America would leave it at that, but he should have known better. America was persistent, and if he had a question, he would not stop until he got the answer.
“But you are avoiding me,” America said. His gaze sharpened and England had to hold himself back from flinching. “You did not deny that.”
England took a breath and his gaze swept through the room they were in, trying to tell himself that he was not searching for the quickest way out. The fact that the room-a hotel lobby where they were having a conference that day-was not only very spacious but also filled with many people of important standing, making it difficult for him to simply walk out without anyone trying to get his attention.
“Can we not speak about it here?” he asked, though he knew that the chance of America letting the matter rest was very slim at best.
“Why not?” America asked. “You want to walk away and stay away from me again?”
The hint of hurt in that voice nearly broke him. Nearly.
“I’m not doing this to hurt you,” he said before he could think better.
America let out a derisive chuckle. “What? Are you trying to say this is for my own benefit or something like that?”
He did not answer, but America seemed to take his silence for affirmation.
“The last time we talked was nearly two months ago, you remember? Two months, England, and you’ve been avoiding me ever since then,” America said. He sounded angry, which England could understand. And he sounded hurt, which made England feel like the worst person on earth for hurting him like that.
“We talked just this morning,” he said softly.
America let out a derisive snort.
“You know what I mean,” he said. “Talking with me and speaking when I’m in your presence are not the same things. We used to… have some little chat, now and then. We used to communicate. What has changed that now you never seek me and whenever I tried to seek you out you always turn me down? Just… England, why?”
England took a breath and clenched his fist. He doubted that America would believe it if he told him his reasons, if he told him about those flashes. Moreover, he doubted that America would accept that.
“Have I done something?” America asked in a tone so soft it was nearly a whisper. “I know you said I’ve done nothing to offend you and… and I want to trust you but there has to be something. Please, just tell me what I should do or what I shouldn’t have done to stop this, because I hate it.”
Before he could stop himself, England found himself asking, “Why?”
“Why what?” America asked back.
“Why do you hate it?” he asked, genuinely curious.
He could see America shrugging, could see how he bit his lower lip for a second, and from those signs knew that whatever it was America was going to say, it made him uncomfortable.
Then America smiled-was smiling at him-and said, “Because I’m not used to not having you.”
That sentence alone was enough to make England’s eyes widen, his heart beat faster, his breath speed up. But then he saw the sincerity on America’s face, the-God, dare he say it-love in his eyes. A shiver ran down his back when America moved a single step ahead, closing the distance between them to touch his wrist.
And said, “And it made me realize how much I want you… no, how much I love you.”
“America…” he whispered. He needed to stop before it went too far. He should create some distance between them. He should not keep standing there, feeling hopeless yet at the same time so expectant. “Don’t do this. Don’t do this to us, please.”
America frowned at him. “What do you mean?”
“You can’t want this,” he insisted. “Trust me. You can’t say that you… you can’t want me.”
America chuckled mirthlessly. “I don’t think it’s something you have control over.”
“No, trust me, you can’t want it,” England said. He was desperate. He needed to act fast. He had to prevent… had to stop all of it from happening. “This is a mistake. I should go, I…”
America’s hand grasped his wrist. Those fingers curled around his wrist gently, warmly. And he was helpless to prevent it-he could not find any strength to break free for he was not even so sure that he wanted that.
Then America gave a slight pull on his wrist, signaling with his eyes that they should get away from there. His grip was not so strong. If England wanted it, he could easily break free. Still, he did not. Still, he followed America out of that lobby, his wrist still tenderly held in America’s grasp.
They ended up walking to America’s hotel room. The function they were attending at that time being was scheduled for a week and thus they were accommodated with comfortable rooms in the hotel where it was being held. That was one of the perks of being the representative of nations. But as he entered America’s room that night, England could hardly enjoy the posh hotel room as he was too busy being anxious and, to a certain extent, curious.
America had yet to release his wrist when he halted his step, making them both stand in the middle of the room, halfway up from the front door to the threshold of his bedroom area. For a moment, they just stood there, not speaking or doing anything. Until after a couple of seconds went by, America released his hold on his wrist and turned his body to face him.
“I want you,” America said bluntly. “I want you because I love you, and you can’t just tell me I can’t want that because nothing you say can change what I feel for you.”
England unconsciously drew a sharp breath and was about to turn his gaze away. For it was too much, the sincerity and tender expression on America’s face. It made him want to weep and laugh at the same time, made him want to run away and move closer to him at the same time.
He felt America’s hands clasping his shoulders, America’s face so close to his. And he could not turn his gaze away from those blue eyes. He could smell the scent of cinnamon mixed with musk, so very clearly.
America gently, briefly, squeezed his shoulders and asked him, with a very soft voice, “Why did you say that I can’t want this-that I can’t love you?”
England shook his head and let out a cynical chuckle.
“Don’t you see?” he said. “It will only lead to disaster.”
“What?” America said, looking as if he honestly did not get it.
“This. You and I. Our…” England tried to say and found his breath hitching, “…our relationship. It will only come to disaster. We have too many things in the past, we’re not compatible, we tend to fight-in fact, we often fought. We will only hurt each other, I will only hurt you and…”
There were so many things-still so many things that he could say about why it would only lead to disaster. But America’s softly whispered words of, “You knew,” disrupted him and made him stop talking.
He stared helplessly at America, finding the apprehension dawning on his face.
“You’ve been thinking over this matter, from the look of things,” America said. He enunciated his words slowly, as if he was thinking hard. “You have considered the possibility of… of us, of me loving you, of me having a relationship with you. You have been thinking over this and… that’s the reason why you avoided me lately, right? Because you think it’s for my own good.”
Sometimes, America could be so damn perspective. And England found he could do nothing but stand there, America’s hands still clasping his shoulders, watching America slowly came to his understanding.
“And you honestly thought it was… oh, England,” America said before he laughed. “England, my England, you…”
Suddenly there were arms around him. The scent of America’s aftershave seemed to envelope him as America drew him in to a tight hug. It was warm within his arms. It felt safe and England felt betrayed because he reveled in it. He was too weak to deny the temptation of that warm embrace, of America’s hand on the back of his head, of the feeling of America’s thumping heart as he laid his hand against his chest.
God, but he wanted him so much.
God, but he loved him so much.
“We can’t do this,” he whispered even though he made no move to disentangle himself from America’s embrace.
“Who are you to decide that?” America said.
“America, really…”
“Do you love me?” America said, stopping him from finishing his sentence.
He moved his face from America’s shoulder, creating a bit of space between them so he could look at his face. Their faces were still close, so very close, close enough so he could see the earnest inquiry in America’s eyes.
(Close enough so it would be really easy to lean a bit and kiss him.)
“Be honest with me,” America said. “I just want to know. I was honest when I told you that I love you so now I ask the same from you. Be honest with me and tell me, do you love me?”
It would be so easy to lie, but America had asked for his honesty. So he smiled, touched America’s cheek, and told him, “I love you.”
America bit his lip before he chuckled. He looked so very happy, so very amazed, and at the same time, so very confused. England knew how that felt. He figured that his face also held the same expressions.
“It’s a bit funny, you know, when you think about it,” America said. “You did all this, the whole avoiding me stint and all that, to… what, make sure that we won’t end up being together? But it only made me realize how I love you. I mean, I guess people are right when they say that you won’t realize how much you love something before it’s taken away from you. I… always took you for granted, England, before this. And it’s only when I didn’t have you on my side that I realized that I don’t want to life without you.”
America’s hand move to cradle his face. His smile was so wide and so… happy, so full of love, and England was reminded of those flashes he had seen months ago. How radiant had America looked back then.
“Let’s try this,” America said.
He snorted. “It’s not something that you can easily treat with try and error approach.”
“Why not?” America said, shrugging. “If it works, we’ll have that wonderful happily ever after. If it doesn’t… well, there will be heartache, true, but…”
America visibly gulped and there was hint of tears on his eyes. He took a shaky breath before he pressed his forehead against England’s.
“You hurt me once, hurt me so much to the point of taking my freedom away. But I forgave you and I love you still, England. Just like how you forgave me and love me even after I raised my weapon at you,” he whispered. “If we could get past all that… if I could love you still even after everything… if you could love me still even after I did that to you… I just simply don’t think there will be anything, anything at all, that can make me stop loving you.”
He closed his eyes, feeling America’s warmth enveloping him, his words ringing in his head and made him… sent him aching. He was so happy he could cry, or perhaps he was merely too emotional, but…
“Do you really mean it?” he whispered.
“Yes,” America said. “Oh, God, yes.”
He bit his lip and opened his eyes, looking up to seek America’s gaze. “For the record, I’m still a bit terrified…”
America laughed softly. “England, I’m more than a bit terrified. I just… this is such a huge thing for me.”
“But, well…” he said.
He let his words died on his lips as he took a breath and finally thought that he had enough courage to decide. Looking into America’s eyes, he somehow believed that he would do the right thing.
Please, he thought fervently, let it be the right thing.
“But I’m willing to try,” he said assuredly. Smiling, he dared to circle his hand around America’s wrist. “So, yes, let’s try this.”
For a moment America did nothing but staring back at him. Then he chuckled, only for his chuckle to develop into a full blown laughter as he seized England’s waist and embraced him tight, so tight against him.
“Yes,” America said. “Good, yes, so can we kiss now?”
America did not wait for his permission. Or perhaps he did not need permission. Or perhaps he could already hear England’s permission even though he did not say it out loud. The fact remained that just a moment after he said that, America lovingly touched his cheek and gave him a very tender kiss. It was just a simple press of lips against lips. It was not his best kiss, not his dirtiest, not his most memorable. But he could feel America’s smile in that kiss and he knew-when they finally ended that kiss and looked at each other in a mix of amazement and happiness-that he was smiling back at him.
He could not hide his laughter, though, when he realized that the scene was familiar to him. The way America’s arms were wound around him, the way he was looking at him, even the kiss they had earlier-he had seen all of those things. He had experienced all that in those (cherished) flashes of the future that he had had months ago.
In the end, he thought fondly as America caressed his cheek, he could not beat fate. But he did not mind losing, now when it gave him something so beautiful and precious in return.
End
(A/N: I Initially wrote a crack piece for this prompt then in the middle of it something in my mind went 'ka-chink' and you get this... sappy fic instead.)
Title: Shadows Moving Beyond Time
Author: slashy_lady
Rating: PG
Character(s)/Pairing(s): America and England/AmericaxEngland
Disclaimer: The characters involved in this story do not belong to me, nor do they have any connection to real nation(s). No infringement intended.
Some Kind of Summary: (taken from the prompt) Somehow, England found out that in the future, America and him would end up being lovers, so he started to do things that would prevent that, but somehow, the things he does is what end up getting him and America together.
Note: Written for usxuk's 2011 Spring Fever Fic/Art-Athon. The prompt was: Somehow, England found out that in the future, America and him would end up being lovers, so he started to do things that would prevent that, but somehow, the things he does is what end up getting him and America together.
*******
For as long as England could remember, he could always get a glimpse of shadows moving beyond time. He could see them, those shadows of the far future, those of the days old past. They were there, existing silently against the backdrop of time. And at times, at some very rare yet cherished times, he was allowed to see them-just a glimpse, nothing more.
He kept it with him. It was his secret. No one knew about his gift (for it was indeed a gift), or at least he liked to pretend that no one was aware of it. And if he were to be truthful, he knew that people would only give him an amused (condescending) smile if he told them that he could see beyond the present. He knew they would humor (laugh at) him if he told them that when he touched a door, he could sense the presence of the man who had gone through that door centuries past. He knew they would only smile (frown) if he told them that when he touch someone, he could see the way they would die decades ahead. Some skeptics might even want to test him. They might shove an object to his direction and order him to tell its past, its future, with a patronizing smirk on their faces-the smirk that would only grow when he told them that it didn’t work like that. He could not casually touch anything and knew about its past or its future. The gift came to him when it was needed-when it was its due, when there’s something important to be shown to him, when fate let it be. He could not command it, rule it, lord over it.
No. It was commanding him. And if fate wanted him to see nothing, then nothing would come to him.
He never did tell anyone about it, so there had been no one trying to test him. But he knew it would happen exactly like what he had predicted. He did not even need his gift to tell him that. So he kept his silence, for it was the best.
And if he smiled, or cringed, at times-fingers casually touching the surface of some papers or palm brushing over the edge of the wall-he could always hide it. He had had centuries of practice. He could easily hide it.
But there was one time when he simply could not.
*
The so called ‘one time’ happened on one fine Thursday somewhere in May, which perhaps should have told England that surely something was going to happen. He could never get a hold of Thursday. It seemed that every unpleasant thing always happened on that particular day.
So it was Thursday, and he had been trapped in the conference room since morning to discuss about the new policy on trading with his fellow nations. Being nation, of course he was used to sitting for hours listening to people debating on the merit of one thing versus another-politic never really changed throughout the years. Still, when the clock struck midday and it was time for their much needed lunch break, he could not hold back his soft sigh of relief. He simply could not stand another minute of listening to boring presentation without at least a cup of very strong tea to soothe his nerve. And food did seem lovely too.
He was tidying up his papers when he felt a presence behind his right shoulder. He knew who it was even before he turned his body to face the newcomer.
He turned his face, nonetheless, and came to see America smiling at him. It was the kind of smile that always made him want to smile back at him. And he did.
“Hey,” America said. “Do you have some time to spare?”
He stared at him with a bit of wariness. “Depends, I guess. What do you want?”
“No need to be so suspicious,” America said. He extended his hand and touched England’s elbow. It was an innocent touch, a friendly gesture, nothing so extraordinary.
The touch was nothing special. But the flashes of images, scents, feeling, emotions that assaulted him afterward were more than enough to make him gasp.
“England?” America said. There was something cautious in his voice. “Are you alright?”
He wanted to answer him-wanted to lie and told him that yes, he was alright. But America’s hand moved from his elbow. He was-oh God-he was holding his hand now. The touch of skin on skin sent another jolt of emotion, made the images flashing before him more vivid, threw him off balance for once.
With a gasp he yanked his hand free of America’s hold. He was breathing hard. He was making a scene, he knew that, and America was staring at him in concern.
He covered his eyes with his hand as he tried to regain his breath. It was too much. It was simply too much. He had dealt with his gift for longer than he could remember yet never it affected him so.
“I’m sorry,” he said once he felt like he could breathe easily again. “I don’t… I’m not feeling quite well, sorry. What did you say?”
“I just asked if you could spare some time…” America caught the rest of his sentence as he seemed to appraise England closely. “…which, I think, you couldn’t. England, seriously, are you okay? You look terrible.”
“Yes, I’m fine,” he answered quickly. Too quickly, perhaps, if he were to judge America’s disbelieving stare. And he had to turn his face away from that stare-those blue eyes, their gaze fixed at him and him alone-before he embarrassed himself further.
“I think I need some fresh air,” he found himself saying, still refusing to look at America. “Can you… can anything that you want to talk with me wait until later?”
“Yeah, sure,” America said. He held himself as if he was not sure if it was okay to touch England and that made England realize that he should get away. “Do you want some company?”
“No,” he said firmly as he took a step back, trying to assure himself that the flash of hurt on America’s face was merely his imagination. “No, I think I prefer to be alone.”
He did not let himself see the suspicion on America’s face. He did not let himself think if his harsh words had somehow managed to wound his fellow nation. He simply walked past, trying to create as much distance as he could between America and him. He needed to get away.
He needed to stop himself from repeating those flashes of images in his mind.
*
…there were sounds-sounds of happy laughter and hushed conversations and barely concealed chuckles. The sounds were always the first to reach him. The sounds told him of a happy time, of a cherished moment. He recognized those sounds-that laughter-and he could imagine a pair of blue eyes twinkling at him as the owner of those eyes laughed merrily…
…there were scents. They reached his nostrils. The scents of freshly washed sheet and cinnamon mixed with musk. He could smell the scents clearly. It soothed his feeling, somehow. It smelled familiar and safe and above all, it made him feel loved. And he recognized those scents… no, he recognized that hint of cinnamon mixed with musk. He often caught that scent, just a moment before someone walked past him, before that certain someone touched his shoulder and made him turn his face to see…
…there were sights-scenes flashing before his eyes. He could see them clearly, as clear as day, as clear as reality. He could see himself smiling, looking so happy, looking so much in love. And he could see the other person too, the one with those blue eyes, the one with that unmistakable scent of cinnamon and musk, the one who had his pair of arms around him, who was kissing him lovingly as if he was the most precious thing in the world.
He could see himself in America’s arms, being kissed, being loved. He could see himself smiling, enjoying the kiss, loving the person who gave himself the kiss. He could see the two of them as clearly as he could smell that scent of cinnamon and musk, as clearly as he could hear them both chuckling after the kiss ended.
Those were the things he heard, he smelled, he saw, when America touched him. The flashes of the future, taunting him from that boundary that time so loved to tread. But all he smelled, all he heard, all he saw could not overpower what he could feel when those flashes came to him.
Because that time, he felt nothing but love, and that scared him more than anything.
*
Standing alone on the balcony, England was lost in his thought. He could not help revisiting what had happened earlier-minutes earlier with him and America.
He would not lie. The thought of those flashes still left him blushing. The thought of that kind of future left him wanting, craving for more. He wished, fervently, that it would become reality. But he knew he could not have that. They could not have that.
They had too much history between them-him and America. It was only with years of hard works and patience that they could overcome their past bitterness and develop a relationship which, while could not perfectly be described as perfect, at least was considered more than civil enough for both parties. Trying to achieve more would only endanger their relationship, England knew that. He knew himself and he knew America. While the idea of getting attached romantically with him was enchanting, he knew it wouldn’t last. Their personalities ensured that and if that was not enough, their past would be more than sufficient to put a strain in their relationship.
England snorted. He really wished for a smoke at that moment but he knew he could not have it. He often did that-wanting things that he knew he could not get. That was what had shaped him into the powerful British Empire in the past. That was the fire that had fueled his way through world domination in the past.
In the past, yes, but that time he had had enough.
He still did not know why fate decided to show him those flashes of future (their future-his and America’s) but he knew what he should do. Even though it would mean to confront fate itself, he knew what to do. He would make sure, no matter how, that it wouldn’t happen-that kiss, that love, their future. He would challenge fate to make sure of that and he would win.
*
Five days after that fateful day, their conference came to an end and America cornered him on one of the hallways.
“So… um,” America said with a hint of nervousness that he could not quite conceal. “England, do you have time?”
England stared at him warily. He had tried for the past five days to avoid America unless it was absolutely necessary to see him. He had succeeded, too, before America somehow managed to find him and corner him. And there he was now, standing on some empty hallway with the one person whom he had tried so hard to stay away from.
“Time?” he asked without quite managing to meet America’s eyes. Unconsciously, he held his briefcase tighter in his grasp. “That depends, I guess. What do you want?”
He could hear America chuckling. He could smell his familiar cologne of cinnamon and musk. He had to close his eyes briefly to remind him that it was reality, it was the present, and no, America was not going to kiss him anytime soon.
“It’s funny,” America said. “I seem to remember you’re saying something along that line when I asked you similar question days ago. You remember that? You looked… uh, unwell back then. Are you alright now?”
“Yes, of course… thank you for your concern,” he said. “So, you’re saying…”
“Um… yes, I’m wondering if you’d like to have dinner with me,” America said. His words sent the warning bells ringing in England’s head and he could feel his breath catch in his throat as he stared, with no little amount of surprise in his eyes, at America.
“Sorry?” he asked.
“Why do you seem so surprised?” America said, laughing. “I need to revisit some of those documents with you... or, to be honest, my boss asked me to revisit those documents-you know, that statement of agreement between our countries-and your help would be very much appreciated. Come on, I’ll pay you back by buying you dinner. I won’t even mind if you want to go to that posh place that you love so much, the one complete with chandelier and dancing floor.”
England knew the place that America spoke of. He really loved that place, America got that right. In the past, he would have been overjoyed that America was willing to take him there, for his distaste toward that particular restaurant was so obvious. But…
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m afraid I’m really busy and have my schedule tight for the foreseeable future.”
“Oh,” America said. He seemed to be down and England wondered if he had gone too far. Seeing from the fact that he was willing to take England to some fancy restaurant for their so-called discussion, he suspected that America’s boss did not so much as ‘ask’ him as he was ordering him strictly to deal with those documents.
He needed to get away from America, yes, but he never wanted to let him down. He still cared about him, perhaps he even cared too much about him.
“I could ask my assistant to talk with you about those documents on my behalf,” he said to dispel that look of dejected acceptance from America’s face.
America perked up at that. But then his expression turned contemplative.
“But you said you’ll be running on tight schedule for the near future,” America said. “Won’t you need your assistant?”
England smiled and shrugged. “It’s not like I only have one assistant.”
“Still, you’re willing to lend me one of your precious assistant,” America said with an exaggerated look of admiration. “I’m touched by your sacrifice. Oh, hey, I prefer Linda if I can choose. She’s gorgeous, so it will be a bonus for me.”
England knew he shouldn’t be jealous hearing America’s compliment, but he did. By God, he did. And that irked him.
“I’m letting you borrow my assistant for some serious discussion, not for an evening of mindless chatter,” he said sharply.
“I’m just joking,” America said. “Calm down.”
“Well, I’m not in the mood for jokes,” England said. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have someplace I have to be.”
He gave America one last polite yet impersonal smile. And, trying hard not to feel guilty about it, he turned his body and walked away without waiting for America’s goodbye.
*
It was childish, he knew it. It was petty and it was unkind. But it was the most efficient method that he could think of to get America away from him.
He would hurt him, he knew, with his avoidance. He would hurt him with his cold attitude. He would surely hurt him with his harsh words and unsympathetic manner.
And in the process, England knew that he would hurt himself too but that was a penance he’s willing to pay. For it would hurt him, true, but it was better than the prospect of them both getting hurt. He could stand getting hurt, but he never wanted anyone (America) to get hurt, not if he could help it. Perhaps that was the reason why he was shown those glimpses. Perhaps it was his responsibility to prevent them from happening. And perhaps if he tried harder he could believe his own lie.
*
“You are avoiding me,” America told him.
England hated himself for the hitch of breath he could not quite suppress when he was confronted with that statement. America looked offended when he said those words and the look was not good on him. He did not like seeing that look on America. He did not like to think that he was partially the reason behind that look.
“I’m sorry?” he asked, as if he did not know what America was talking about. Such a lie, his mind (with America’s voice) told him, and he wanted to tell that voice to shut up because it was annoying (because it had no right to use America’s voice).
“You are avoiding me,” America repeated. “Why? Have I done anything to offend you? Or is there something bothering you? Or what?”
“You’ve done nothing to offend me,” he assured him, and at the same time refusing to answer America’s question on whether or not he’s avoiding him. He hoped-really hoped-that America would leave it at that, but he should have known better. America was persistent, and if he had a question, he would not stop until he got the answer.
“But you are avoiding me,” America said. His gaze sharpened and England had to hold himself back from flinching. “You did not deny that.”
England took a breath and his gaze swept through the room they were in, trying to tell himself that he was not searching for the quickest way out. The fact that the room-a hotel lobby where they were having a conference that day-was not only very spacious but also filled with many people of important standing, making it difficult for him to simply walk out without anyone trying to get his attention.
“Can we not speak about it here?” he asked, though he knew that the chance of America letting the matter rest was very slim at best.
“Why not?” America asked. “You want to walk away and stay away from me again?”
The hint of hurt in that voice nearly broke him. Nearly.
“I’m not doing this to hurt you,” he said before he could think better.
America let out a derisive chuckle. “What? Are you trying to say this is for my own benefit or something like that?”
He did not answer, but America seemed to take his silence for affirmation.
“The last time we talked was nearly two months ago, you remember? Two months, England, and you’ve been avoiding me ever since then,” America said. He sounded angry, which England could understand. And he sounded hurt, which made England feel like the worst person on earth for hurting him like that.
“We talked just this morning,” he said softly.
America let out a derisive snort.
“You know what I mean,” he said. “Talking with me and speaking when I’m in your presence are not the same things. We used to… have some little chat, now and then. We used to communicate. What has changed that now you never seek me and whenever I tried to seek you out you always turn me down? Just… England, why?”
England took a breath and clenched his fist. He doubted that America would believe it if he told him his reasons, if he told him about those flashes. Moreover, he doubted that America would accept that.
“Have I done something?” America asked in a tone so soft it was nearly a whisper. “I know you said I’ve done nothing to offend you and… and I want to trust you but there has to be something. Please, just tell me what I should do or what I shouldn’t have done to stop this, because I hate it.”
Before he could stop himself, England found himself asking, “Why?”
“Why what?” America asked back.
“Why do you hate it?” he asked, genuinely curious.
He could see America shrugging, could see how he bit his lower lip for a second, and from those signs knew that whatever it was America was going to say, it made him uncomfortable.
Then America smiled-was smiling at him-and said, “Because I’m not used to not having you.”
That sentence alone was enough to make England’s eyes widen, his heart beat faster, his breath speed up. But then he saw the sincerity on America’s face, the-God, dare he say it-love in his eyes. A shiver ran down his back when America moved a single step ahead, closing the distance between them to touch his wrist.
And said, “And it made me realize how much I want you… no, how much I love you.”
“America…” he whispered. He needed to stop before it went too far. He should create some distance between them. He should not keep standing there, feeling hopeless yet at the same time so expectant. “Don’t do this. Don’t do this to us, please.”
America frowned at him. “What do you mean?”
“You can’t want this,” he insisted. “Trust me. You can’t say that you… you can’t want me.”
America chuckled mirthlessly. “I don’t think it’s something you have control over.”
“No, trust me, you can’t want it,” England said. He was desperate. He needed to act fast. He had to prevent… had to stop all of it from happening. “This is a mistake. I should go, I…”
America’s hand grasped his wrist. Those fingers curled around his wrist gently, warmly. And he was helpless to prevent it-he could not find any strength to break free for he was not even so sure that he wanted that.
Then America gave a slight pull on his wrist, signaling with his eyes that they should get away from there. His grip was not so strong. If England wanted it, he could easily break free. Still, he did not. Still, he followed America out of that lobby, his wrist still tenderly held in America’s grasp.
They ended up walking to America’s hotel room. The function they were attending at that time being was scheduled for a week and thus they were accommodated with comfortable rooms in the hotel where it was being held. That was one of the perks of being the representative of nations. But as he entered America’s room that night, England could hardly enjoy the posh hotel room as he was too busy being anxious and, to a certain extent, curious.
America had yet to release his wrist when he halted his step, making them both stand in the middle of the room, halfway up from the front door to the threshold of his bedroom area. For a moment, they just stood there, not speaking or doing anything. Until after a couple of seconds went by, America released his hold on his wrist and turned his body to face him.
“I want you,” America said bluntly. “I want you because I love you, and you can’t just tell me I can’t want that because nothing you say can change what I feel for you.”
England unconsciously drew a sharp breath and was about to turn his gaze away. For it was too much, the sincerity and tender expression on America’s face. It made him want to weep and laugh at the same time, made him want to run away and move closer to him at the same time.
He felt America’s hands clasping his shoulders, America’s face so close to his. And he could not turn his gaze away from those blue eyes. He could smell the scent of cinnamon mixed with musk, so very clearly.
America gently, briefly, squeezed his shoulders and asked him, with a very soft voice, “Why did you say that I can’t want this-that I can’t love you?”
England shook his head and let out a cynical chuckle.
“Don’t you see?” he said. “It will only lead to disaster.”
“What?” America said, looking as if he honestly did not get it.
“This. You and I. Our…” England tried to say and found his breath hitching, “…our relationship. It will only come to disaster. We have too many things in the past, we’re not compatible, we tend to fight-in fact, we often fought. We will only hurt each other, I will only hurt you and…”
There were so many things-still so many things that he could say about why it would only lead to disaster. But America’s softly whispered words of, “You knew,” disrupted him and made him stop talking.
He stared helplessly at America, finding the apprehension dawning on his face.
“You’ve been thinking over this matter, from the look of things,” America said. He enunciated his words slowly, as if he was thinking hard. “You have considered the possibility of… of us, of me loving you, of me having a relationship with you. You have been thinking over this and… that’s the reason why you avoided me lately, right? Because you think it’s for my own good.”
Sometimes, America could be so damn perspective. And England found he could do nothing but stand there, America’s hands still clasping his shoulders, watching America slowly came to his understanding.
“And you honestly thought it was… oh, England,” America said before he laughed. “England, my England, you…”
Suddenly there were arms around him. The scent of America’s aftershave seemed to envelope him as America drew him in to a tight hug. It was warm within his arms. It felt safe and England felt betrayed because he reveled in it. He was too weak to deny the temptation of that warm embrace, of America’s hand on the back of his head, of the feeling of America’s thumping heart as he laid his hand against his chest.
God, but he wanted him so much.
God, but he loved him so much.
“We can’t do this,” he whispered even though he made no move to disentangle himself from America’s embrace.
“Who are you to decide that?” America said.
“America, really…”
“Do you love me?” America said, stopping him from finishing his sentence.
He moved his face from America’s shoulder, creating a bit of space between them so he could look at his face. Their faces were still close, so very close, close enough so he could see the earnest inquiry in America’s eyes.
(Close enough so it would be really easy to lean a bit and kiss him.)
“Be honest with me,” America said. “I just want to know. I was honest when I told you that I love you so now I ask the same from you. Be honest with me and tell me, do you love me?”
It would be so easy to lie, but America had asked for his honesty. So he smiled, touched America’s cheek, and told him, “I love you.”
America bit his lip before he chuckled. He looked so very happy, so very amazed, and at the same time, so very confused. England knew how that felt. He figured that his face also held the same expressions.
“It’s a bit funny, you know, when you think about it,” America said. “You did all this, the whole avoiding me stint and all that, to… what, make sure that we won’t end up being together? But it only made me realize how I love you. I mean, I guess people are right when they say that you won’t realize how much you love something before it’s taken away from you. I… always took you for granted, England, before this. And it’s only when I didn’t have you on my side that I realized that I don’t want to life without you.”
America’s hand move to cradle his face. His smile was so wide and so… happy, so full of love, and England was reminded of those flashes he had seen months ago. How radiant had America looked back then.
“Let’s try this,” America said.
He snorted. “It’s not something that you can easily treat with try and error approach.”
“Why not?” America said, shrugging. “If it works, we’ll have that wonderful happily ever after. If it doesn’t… well, there will be heartache, true, but…”
America visibly gulped and there was hint of tears on his eyes. He took a shaky breath before he pressed his forehead against England’s.
“You hurt me once, hurt me so much to the point of taking my freedom away. But I forgave you and I love you still, England. Just like how you forgave me and love me even after I raised my weapon at you,” he whispered. “If we could get past all that… if I could love you still even after everything… if you could love me still even after I did that to you… I just simply don’t think there will be anything, anything at all, that can make me stop loving you.”
He closed his eyes, feeling America’s warmth enveloping him, his words ringing in his head and made him… sent him aching. He was so happy he could cry, or perhaps he was merely too emotional, but…
“Do you really mean it?” he whispered.
“Yes,” America said. “Oh, God, yes.”
He bit his lip and opened his eyes, looking up to seek America’s gaze. “For the record, I’m still a bit terrified…”
America laughed softly. “England, I’m more than a bit terrified. I just… this is such a huge thing for me.”
“But, well…” he said.
He let his words died on his lips as he took a breath and finally thought that he had enough courage to decide. Looking into America’s eyes, he somehow believed that he would do the right thing.
Please, he thought fervently, let it be the right thing.
“But I’m willing to try,” he said assuredly. Smiling, he dared to circle his hand around America’s wrist. “So, yes, let’s try this.”
For a moment America did nothing but staring back at him. Then he chuckled, only for his chuckle to develop into a full blown laughter as he seized England’s waist and embraced him tight, so tight against him.
“Yes,” America said. “Good, yes, so can we kiss now?”
America did not wait for his permission. Or perhaps he did not need permission. Or perhaps he could already hear England’s permission even though he did not say it out loud. The fact remained that just a moment after he said that, America lovingly touched his cheek and gave him a very tender kiss. It was just a simple press of lips against lips. It was not his best kiss, not his dirtiest, not his most memorable. But he could feel America’s smile in that kiss and he knew-when they finally ended that kiss and looked at each other in a mix of amazement and happiness-that he was smiling back at him.
He could not hide his laughter, though, when he realized that the scene was familiar to him. The way America’s arms were wound around him, the way he was looking at him, even the kiss they had earlier-he had seen all of those things. He had experienced all that in those (cherished) flashes of the future that he had had months ago.
In the end, he thought fondly as America caressed his cheek, he could not beat fate. But he did not mind losing, now when it gave him something so beautiful and precious in return.
End
(A/N: I Initially wrote a crack piece for this prompt then in the middle of it something in my mind went 'ka-chink' and you get this... sappy fic instead.)