Midnight Confessions 1/1
anonymous
October 9 2009, 18:05:09 UTC
This is this anon's first fill, so I'm sorry if it's terrible. /)_(\
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He was used to receiving thinly veiled propositions. A lingering touch here, a warm gaze there. Be it from his fellow nations or the general public, he was no stranger to being wanted.
Unfortunately for all of them he only had eyes for one.
Even more unfortunately it wasn’t in the way that "one" wanted it.
The same "one" who was in so much of a drunken stupor that he couldn’t walk on his own. The obvious solution was to have America carry him to his room, decided with many meaningful glances in his direction. Of course he’d carry him, he was a hero! At least that was the reasoning he gave as he hoisted the drunken England up on his back, while said nation cursed him to hell and back for everything he had done.
America didn’t mind, this part was easier than what might inevitably come. He’d almost thought he’d escaped when he’d managed to make it back to England’s room with only some bruises and enough curses for several lifetimes. But then it happened, just as he deposited the other nation on his bed and made to move away, a strong, determined hand caught at his wrist. Every nerve in him screamed to pull away and keep going as if nothing had happened (England wouldn’t remember this in the morning anyway!), but against his better judgment, he turned back to meet England’s gaze.
There it was, that soft look, that warm, loving smile. His eyes were filled with so, so much unbridled, unabashed adoration that America almost had to turn his head in shame, but instead he steadfastly kept that gaze. England’s free hand reached up, as if to caress his cheek, but his reach wasn’t long enough and his hand hung in mid-air.
"I love you so much, Alfred," he murmured, eyes softening even more if it was possible. America kept carefully still, betraying nothing. Abruptly the hand in the air dropped and his grip on America’s wrist loosened, those eyes closed.
It was only after England started snoring loudly that America finally let out the shuddering sigh he had been holding in. This never got any easier. Nevertheless, he covered the older nation with a blanket and carefully leaned over to kiss his forehead.
"...I know. Thank you."
He had known for a very long time. Longer than anyone realized. It had come as a shock, granted, to realize that those looks were filled not just with the love of father or brother, but with such intense longing that anyone with half a brain would realize the truth.
It wasn’t that he found England’s feelings revolting. Far from it. In fact, it made him happy that England could still love him so much even after all those years, even after all that happened. He just regretted that he could never return those feelings.
Not that he didn’t love England, because he did. Dearly. But as a brother or a mentor. He had had a hand in raising him, had been a steadfast, loyal ally for many years. Should the world fall away, he knew that England would be there by his side to the bitter end, just as he would do the same in return.
He didn’t want to hurt him. He knew how badly the Revolution had hurt him, he could only imagine how he would react to a straight up rejection. He couldn’t openly acknowledge England’s feelings either, no, the best course of action was to willfully act oblivious. Neither give England false hope nor take it away.
He’d never take that smile away, no matter how long he had to keep up that charade, no matter how long England stubbornly held onto his feelings. He’d never fall in love with anyone, nor accept any of those thinly veiled propositions. Even if it meant sacrificing his own happiness, America would never compromise the happiness of the one most dear to him.
So the following morning, when he saw the way England’s eyes lit up with hope and happiness at the sight of him before settling into his usual grumpy countenance, it was like second nature to assume a goofy, clueless grin and steel himself for whatever may come.
Let it not be said that he couldn’t really be a hero when need be.
T-this was so perfect, and exactly the kind of tone I had hoped for <3 You've made this anon soooo unbelievably happy writernon
It was just so sad and painful, but so endearing at the same time. It's not every day that you see America be so mature about something (even if it's sad that he's been a martyr), and his love for England is just so prevalent and strong and so...obvious~ You really, really made my weekend, at the very least X3
...I think I'm starting to grow too fond of this angle on America, haha ^^'
Re: Midnight Confessions 1/1
anonymous
October 10 2009, 02:01:58 UTC
I'm suddenly reminded of that scene from Honey and Clover (for those who have seen it) where Mayama is carrying Yamada on his back and she is saying "I love you. I love you so much." and his reply is just "I know." "I know. Thank you." It's funny, because I was just thinking about that scene today concerning these two.
A great job, anon. It was heartbreaking in it's own way. ;;
Re: Midnight Confessions 1/1
anonymous
October 10 2009, 03:05:57 UTC
Another Anon reader who adored your first fill! I'm so glad OP requested this and I loved your take on it. Deliciously bittersweet, I too love your mature Alfred that no one sees!
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He was used to receiving thinly veiled propositions. A lingering touch here, a warm gaze there. Be it from his fellow nations or the general public, he was no stranger to being wanted.
Unfortunately for all of them he only had eyes for one.
Even more unfortunately it wasn’t in the way that "one" wanted it.
The same "one" who was in so much of a drunken stupor that he couldn’t walk on his own. The obvious solution was to have America carry him to his room, decided with many meaningful glances in his direction. Of course he’d carry him, he was a hero! At least that was the reasoning he gave as he hoisted the drunken England up on his back, while said nation cursed him to hell and back for everything he had done.
America didn’t mind, this part was easier than what might inevitably come. He’d almost thought he’d escaped when he’d managed to make it back to England’s room with only some bruises and enough curses for several lifetimes. But then it happened, just as he deposited the other nation on his bed and made to move away, a strong, determined hand caught at his wrist. Every nerve in him screamed to pull away and keep going as if nothing had happened (England wouldn’t remember this in the morning anyway!), but against his better judgment, he turned back to meet England’s gaze.
There it was, that soft look, that warm, loving smile. His eyes were filled with so, so much unbridled, unabashed adoration that America almost had to turn his head in shame, but instead he steadfastly kept that gaze. England’s free hand reached up, as if to caress his cheek, but his reach wasn’t long enough and his hand hung in mid-air.
"I love you so much, Alfred," he murmured, eyes softening even more if it was possible. America kept carefully still, betraying nothing. Abruptly the hand in the air dropped and his grip on America’s wrist loosened, those eyes closed.
It was only after England started snoring loudly that America finally let out the shuddering sigh he had been holding in. This never got any easier. Nevertheless, he covered the older nation with a blanket and carefully leaned over to kiss his forehead.
"...I know. Thank you."
He had known for a very long time. Longer than anyone realized. It had come as a shock, granted, to realize that those looks were filled not just with the love of father or brother, but with such intense longing that anyone with half a brain would realize the truth.
It wasn’t that he found England’s feelings revolting. Far from it. In fact, it made him happy that England could still love him so much even after all those years, even after all that happened. He just regretted that he could never return those feelings.
Not that he didn’t love England, because he did. Dearly. But as a brother or a mentor. He had had a hand in raising him, had been a steadfast, loyal ally for many years. Should the world fall away, he knew that England would be there by his side to the bitter end, just as he would do the same in return.
He didn’t want to hurt him. He knew how badly the Revolution had hurt him, he could only imagine how he would react to a straight up rejection. He couldn’t openly acknowledge England’s feelings either, no, the best course of action was to willfully act oblivious. Neither give England false hope nor take it away.
He’d never take that smile away, no matter how long he had to keep up that charade, no matter how long England stubbornly held onto his feelings. He’d never fall in love with anyone, nor accept any of those thinly veiled propositions. Even if it meant sacrificing his own happiness, America would never compromise the happiness of the one most dear to him.
So the following morning, when he saw the way England’s eyes lit up with hope and happiness at the sight of him before settling into his usual grumpy countenance, it was like second nature to assume a goofy, clueless grin and steel himself for whatever may come.
Let it not be said that he couldn’t really be a hero when need be.
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It was just so sad and painful, but so endearing at the same time. It's not every day that you see America be so mature about something (even if it's sad that he's been a martyr), and his love for England is just so prevalent and strong and so...obvious~ You really, really made my weekend, at the very least X3
...I think I'm starting to grow too fond of this angle on America, haha ^^'
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Honestly, I'm a big US/UK fan, but I like angsty UK-->US more. orz I also like the idea of America actually being more mature/wise than he lets on.
Seeing this prompt finally kicked the writer's block I've had for years, so thanks!
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You have given me Serious!America!! SUCH. A. TURN. ON.
8'Db I love you.
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A great job, anon. It was heartbreaking in it's own way. ;;
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