Past-Part Fills Post 1 -- CLOSED
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“I hate you,” America told the button.
He didn’t mean it. It wasn’t the button’s fault and America loved his jacket too much to be upset with it-the jacket was awesome. If America was honest, this thing about England started way before this, possibly before the jacket even existed, although America didn't know when the boundaries blurred and certain ideas had taken root.
Usually, he could shove it back down. Bite back on the impulse to touch, to reach out. Ignore the weird butterflies in his stomach.
America was having a very rough time doing that now.
“Shit. Why that?” Sewing. Of all the possibilities to corner America into admitting he was screwed, it would be the girly, freaky one. He stuffed another hamburger into his mouth and tried to eat his thoughts into oblivion. It could happen. America did it once. Like, a while ago, but it worked. It might've been a food coma, but it worked.
He ignored the stares from other patrons at McDonald’s. The tray was over halfway full, and that was because they had to make more burgers.
But burying the delighted wiggly feeling in beef and bread wasn’t going very well. If anything, the image latched back to America’s head and the feeling got stronger. England, the sun through the windows, and the way he’d sat on the table but propped his feet on a chair. Pale fingers with knobby knuckles and a few scattered scars, none from needlepoint, manipulating the collar of his jacket with ease and care. The long, delicate pull of thread.
England’s smile, almost hidden but for the satisfied curve of his mouth.
“This isn’t working!” howled America, pounding his seat with a fist. A group sitting near the window jumped.
It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair.
And why couldn’t America have figured this thing out before? Because he’d spent a lot of time pushing England away, and so England stayed away now, giving them more space than America could stand some days. He only had himself to blame, but jeez. And it wasn’t like he could just… tell England differently. America wasn’t very good with those kinds of words.
What could he say? Sorry, England, but I can’t really look at you like the guy who took care of me anymore. If I do, I’ll go crazy, because all I want to do is pull you against me, wrap around you, and never let go, even when you swear and bite me.
It was a little cheesy.
I don’t even like you so much as you’re a part of me, something I can’t yank out of who I am, and the more this goes on, the less I wanna lose it.
Too vague.
I’ve only ever wanted one nation to acknowledge me.
Not entirely true, and a little weak.
Look at me only look at me never anyone else because it should always be me, England, just like it has to always be you.
He’d get called a selfish brat.
Lately, all I seem to do is watch you. The way you walk, the movements of your eyes, the dimensions of your body. I want to trace your bones and lick your shoulder blades and discover every part of you that is known, and unknown, to your people-
Okay, he’d get punched.
America groaned and buried his head in his arms on the table. The tray of hamburgers was left alone. He wondered, briefly, if this was how France felt all the time, every second of the day: this unbearable biting want for someone against you. Maybe he was turning into a pervert like France. Oh god, England would really hate him then.
“I wanna be closer to you,” he said despondently into his jacket sleeve, squeezing his eye shut. “S’not fair.”
His fingers tangled around the button, cause of his ire.
“You got more nice Englandy attention than I’ve gotten in-”
America’s eyes flew open. He stared at an empty ketchup packet in amazement. “That’s it!”
He was a super awesome genius! Unbeatable! A master strategist and undefeatable mastermind of plans and stuff. He was hot shit, and he was going to do what America was made for-making the impossible happen.
America sat up, took hold of his dress shirt collar, and pulled hard in both directions.
The shredding of cotton was the best sound he’d ever heard.
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