Past-Part Fills Post 1 -- CLOSED
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It was France that put the thought into England’s head.
“So much wear and tear,” the nation drawled, dipping next to England and getting into his personal space. “He must have a lover, oui?”
“Beg pardon?” The response was immediate and automatic.
“America. I know your work, England, and he’s definitely wearing it.” France snuck him a sly glance, eyelashes lowered coyly. “Though, what work am I speaking of? Did you make the holes and then mend them, or did you mend the holes that someone else made?”
England stared at him.
Then, he turned back to the front of the room where America was exuberantly making plans and-ruining England’s life by merely existing, that bastard-gesturing with sleeves that had been put back to rights by England’s own hands too many times to count. He loved those sleeves. He was proud of them. He’d worked hard on them.
Someone else might have worked hard wrecking them.
It made sense, really. As much as he hated to give the wine bastard any credit. There was no way the series of implausible accidents America claimed ownership of could have happened so often, so radically. England hadn’t really figured-he just hadn’t, too secretly pleased in being needed, too happy to obtain the company he hungered for. He’d been a fool.
It’s not the end of everything. So America has a lover. What business is it of yours?
Every stitch, perhaps over ten thousand of them, and they suddenly mattered nothing. Not a whit.
Get a hold of yourself.
What was it about America that brought England to his knees so often? Dashed his emotions out on the rocks, drug the most wretched and wonderful of things from inside of him? What kind of claim did America have on him, when surely there was no claim that England had on America? It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. He didn’t deserve or ask for this.
You never had him, so you can’t lose him again.
It was just a bit of stitching. That was all.
driftwood
Something was wrong.
Something had been damaged. Something was changed. America’s shirts came back mended, his hems were repaired, his seams tightened and realigned, but England’s silences ranged from cold to tired. Their conversations were strained; often, England cut their visits short.
The line was trailing out of America’s grasp and he had no way of finding the end in time.
What was it? What had he missed? He had said nothing, nothing. Not to deserve this distance. This space that America had toiled so hard to wear down between them. It widened into a crevice eaten by the earth like some monster lurking the whole line of here to there.
“I was thinking,” said England, studiously examining his work, “that maybe you ought to start investing in clothes again. They’re worn through, America.”
He could fire off a joke or plan at a moment’s notice, but he wasn’t good at speaking like this. Not when it mattered. He didn’t know what to say here!
“If you want, I can recommend some sturdier, more durable brands?”
In the end, America’s fast-talking, quicksilver mouth was useless. He let himself give a wooden nod, trying to reign in the clamor that said he wanted anything but.
The white cotton shirt England handed him was like a surrender; he just didn’t know whose.
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