Past-Part Fills Post 1 -- CLOSED
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England’s jaw dropped, and for a moment he had to grope around for something to say. In the end, all he came up with was, “What?”
He’d been staring at his hands, but now America turned to look at him, and he said anxiously, “Maybe in the past I wouldn’t’ve asked, but that was before and this is now, and you’re my best friend, and I’d like to know if there’s… if there’s someone, you know? And I’m sorry if you’re gonna get mad at me for asking, but letting me know would be the nice thing to do.”
At that, England was left gaping. America had never used the words “best friend” to describe him before, and even if being America’s best friend at a time like this might not have meant much to an outside observer, he was pretty sure that America wasn’t just saying that because he wasn’t the most popular guy right now. Hell, he’d never even admit that he wasn’t the most popular guy right now. And moreover, the idea that America not only thought that he was sleeping with someone but was concerned about the idea was… it was…
Oh my god.
“Who said I was wanting to use the card?” England asked as he snatched his glass back, and he downed about half of what was left of the wine.
“You picked it up.”
“Maybe I just thought it’d be funny.” Truthfully, England couldn’t really articulate to himself why he’d picked it up. It had just seemed like a good idea at the time, but a lot of things seemed like good ideas at times when he was drunk, even if they turned out later on to be really stupid ideas.
“Is it funny?” America asked earnestly. Everything about him was always so damn earnest.
“No.” England was quite sure that at this point anything that could possibly be written on the card would not strike him as funny. He now realized that if he took it out and read it, he’d just find it depressing.
“So what kind of stuff does it say, then?” America sounded somewhat exasperated, like he thought that England wasn’t telling him the whole truth. England couldn’t very well fault that, since the last time he’d ever been completely honest with America had been the day he failed to kill him. And in the end, the tears hadn’t seemed to really penetrate America’s thick skull anyway. America probably still had no idea that he’d ever broken England’s heart, much less done it more than once.
“I don’t know,” England said, refusing to meet America’s eyes. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the card, now neatly folded in half. He stared at the blank outside and added, “I haven’t read it.”
“Oh.” America’s response was unexpectedly brief and passive, and England waited a few moments, thinking that he’d say something more, but the addendum never came. Finally he glanced over and found America with his arms crossed over his chest, staring pensively at what was most likely nothing at all.
He sighed and finished off the last of the wine. He fiddled with the card in his fingers and stared at a spot on the floor. It had been well over two hundred years since their relationship began to morph into whatever it was now, which, all things considered and from England’s point of view at least, was an awkward and undesirable but unavoidable limbo. It wasn’t what he wanted, and it wasn’t cold or detached enough to make not having what he wanted a little easier to ignore. It was halfway there.
England took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He wished he had more alcohol, but he couldn’t leave before he said what he’d suddenly realized what he wanted to say. He knew that what he wanted to say wasn’t the best possible thing that he could say, but it was all he could bring himself to. He was willing to admit to himself that, at least in his personal life, he was a coward.
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