Past-Part Fills Post 1 -- CLOSED
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“Oh my god,” said England in horror. “You’ve ruined it.”
America’s face fell. “What?”
“The next meeting is in twelve minutes! What were you doing?!”
“I just… Well, there was this bull…”
“Give that to me,” snapped England, already making for the dress shirt in hideous disrepair. America bashfully stripped it and handed it away. So absorbed in setting to his task was England that he almost missed America’s equally bashful words.
“I really appreciate it, England.”
Oh.
Oh, then. Then. That was just… yes. England ducked over his stitching, heart pounding entirely too loud in his ears, and tried to buckle a smile down. It didn’t belong there when there was so little time to right things.
a basket born of hope
Over the next few months, America filled England’s mending basket with more clothes than he actually had in his closet (some were bought just for the sake of The Plan). After a while, he was able to create creative excuses for the holes and tears and split patches. They gradually grew more elaborate, until England stopped asking questions, sighed, and would take the shirt or pants offered to him.
“How did you ever do this on your own?” he’d ask.
America just grinned with every ounce of his oozing charisma. “I bought new clothes. A lot. But now I won’t have to do that, and my economy will get even better!”
“You… never mind. Idiot.”
It worked like a charm. America would split a few seams, bundle the items together, and go visit England with a perfect set of excuses for doing so. More often than not, he stuck around after depositing the bundle at England’s feet. That was the whole idea, after all. He even suffered through several batches of homemade scones to be able to remain in the living area, sprawled out on his chest over the velvet loveseat, chin nested on his arms as he watched England work.
First, England cursed (rather impressively). Then he would make compensation demands. Then he would finally, at last, fall into quiet and do his mending in a way that made America’s pulse flicker at odd intervals.
England got caught up when he sewed. And when England was caught up, America drank his fill of catching up with England.
Sometimes they talked. About politics, the weather. Sports, if they could stand to argue more than once. New trends that didn’t make much sense. After a few weeks, it turned to books, to personal opinions that America was amused and yet endeared by, and England’s treaty on why French wine was shit compared to Italian. And yet, other times, they did not speak at all.
In a gentle, abiding silence, they simply co-existed. America kind of liked that part, too.
It was during one of those days, in one of those silences, that America noticed something that wasn’t new. No, never new, but somehow… a surprise.
“Could you hand me that thimble, America?”
“Huh? Oh yeah. Sure.” It was a little silver unicorn thimble. Very girly. But then, England was anything but girly (he’d once almost ripped some guy’s ear off, and America thought that was pretty neat). He passed the thimble over without further comment.
Their fingers met, albeit briefly, and then parted.
“Thanks,” said England absentmindedly. He switched thimbles, spinning the new one about his thumb.
America was too busy slowly retracting his hand and thinking, I love you.
I’ve always loved you, I think, and that’s not nearly so scary as not knowin’ it.
He watched England’s fingertips put the world back together. And thought, for the first time, that maybe England was the one waiting for an answer.
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