Past-Part Fills Post 1 -- CLOSED
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For a long time, America didn’t come to his doorstep. With or without something in hand to fix. England wasn’t sure if he was better or worse off for it. In some ways, it was a relief to go back to an existence of certainties (it could have never been the way you wanted it, those selfish and creeping desires, the snowglobe you shook too hard). In other ways, it was much, much worse.
Strange, how the smallest of things burrow themselves so deeply.
It was nearly half a year-six months of normalcy that tasted as sweet as it did almond-bitter-before something gave way. A hotel door, at a convention center in France of all places, and an impatient knock that England would recognize anywhere on the planet.
When he opened the door, America looked up and fidgeted. He had on the trousers for the formal dinner they were due at in less than an hour, and a starched white shirt and cummerbund. It was a good, slick look on him. England crushed the longing before it could see light.
“What is it? You’ll make me late. Just because you can’t be arsed about being on time doesn’t mean-”
“I need help,” interrupted America. He grimaced and tugged at the bottom of his shirt, and England noticed it: a loose button.
Of course.
“I know you’re probably busy, but I’m not very good with this kind of stuff,” America was saying, and for once, he seemed weary more than anything, a serious structure building up his countenance. “D’you think you could give me a hand? Just one more time?”
“Don’t be daft.” England rubbed his temple. “… Come in.”
He got his sewing kit out (new thread had been added, but the satisfaction at his own cleverness wasn’t nearly there, not as before). They were going to be late at this rate, so it had to be a quick job. Thank goodness it was just a button. England sat on the edge of his mattress and gestured for America to come closer.
Obedient, for once, America drifted toward him. He came to a stop in front of England, brow furrowing in confusion.
“I’ll just do it right here,” said England, reaching up. He slipped one hand beneath America’s dress shirt (skin as warm as breath, shifting under his fingers as if shy, veering away) and set to work with the other. If he forced his mind to go blank, he could ignore their closeness, the awkward stiffness to America’s arms as they hung at his sides, and the nearly unbearable urge to just lean forward and rest his cheek against-
His heart hurt. When had it come down to this? It used to be, England didn’t bother with hope. It used to be, no one gave him reason to hold onto it.
He didn’t need this. He didn’t need America. England was strong, and old, and had weathered more dreadful things than this love he had no idea what to do with. He was a master at stitching together what was left of rags (and of himself). There was not a scrap left of this to hold onto.
It was done. He bit the thread.
“You know,” said America quietly, above his head, “I’m an ungrateful brat.”
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