Goodbye, Brother [11/?]
anonymous
April 18 2010, 09:52:58 UTC
“Because I’m your colony?” America can’t help but ask, little hands fisting England’s nightshirt. The tears are threatening to fall at any moment now.
England nods slowly, almost like he doesn’t want to but can’t really bring himself to lie. “Yes. In a way, that does play a role in the matter. I can never be yours the same way you are mine, but I do love you so very much, America. Never forget or doubt my feelings for you.”
“If…if you can’t be mine, then can you at least never love anyone more than you love me?” America bites his lower lip nervously, fidgeting with his hands. “Um. Besides the Mother Country that is,” he adds hastily, cheeks flushed a bright pink.
England blinks, surprised. Then he laughs, the smile America loves so much lighting up his face. “You stubborn, stubborn boy. Fine.” Another chuckle, another smile, and America’s cheeks grow warmer at the sound of England’s laughter. “I promise. You’ll be my number one, and no one will ever take your place. Happy?”
America is. He is immensely happy. He laughs along with England when the empire sweeps him up his arms again, kissing both his cheeks before ordering him to go to bed. America does without protest, happy to go to sleep encased in England’s warmth.
He’s lulled to sleep by the sound of England’s heartbeat. America makes the most of being in England’s arms, fully aware that he would have to make do without everything that was England for a long time once the busy empire left for the motherland.
But it was okay, because England always came back to America. He always did, and he always would.
- -
- -
Years pass, and America grows taller.
And as his body grows, so does his mind.
He goes outside more, always careful to keep his strength at bay lest he be accused of being a demon. It has happen before, when one of his nannies accidentally saw him carrying his wounded horse to the stables. America does not know what happened to her; England said he would take care of it, and America never saw the old nanny again. It was the first time he’d seen England look so serious, but when he promised America that everything would be okay and to not worry, America had simply shrugged his shoulders and gone off to play outside.
Outside; it’s a new world to him, the bustling towns and lively villagers. The house England purchased for him is big and mostly isolated, far from the civilizations of the towns. The servants are few and silent, and every five years or so, England replaces them with a new bunch. As to how he replaces them, America does not know. He never sees them again though, and he never asks England about them either.
The friends he’s made are a new breath of fresh air. He’s learned more from them than he’s ever learned from his many tutors. In fact, he often skips his lessons to go to the prairie with them, or to the stables. They share secrets and jokes and stories; the thrilling adventures they have together make for great memories as well.
Goodbye, Brother [12/?]
anonymous
April 18 2010, 09:57:44 UTC
But recently, their most discussed topic has become that of fluttering skirts and bell-like giggles, coy eyes and plump, cheery pink lips. America is confused as to why they have stopped pulling pranks on the girls and begun to fetch their handkerchiefs for them instead of planting bugs in their food. He does not understand the reason why suddenly having the girls play with them takes priority over crusading through the forests.
The boys turned teenagers talk of kisses behind the farmhouse, of the sweet pastor’s daughter who blushes prettily whenever one of the boys looks at her. They nudge America with their elbows, and with waggling eyebrows ask him for his opinion on who the prettiest girl in town is.
They ask America which girl he likes best, and all America can think of is England and how much he misses him.
He hasn’t seen England in years. Canada visits him often, but England hasn’t come to see him a long time. America knows that as the Mother Country England has to prioritize his work over him, but that doesn’t meant America has to like it. He wishes England would stay with him forever, not two, maybe three weeks a year.
America misses England’s smiles, his hugs, and even his horrible cooking. America misses sleeping in the same bed as England, because England always let him crawl in his bed during a storm or whenever America felt lonely in his too big room. England would wrap his arms around America and hold him close to his breast, gently threading his fingers through the colony’s golden hair to reassure him that everything was okay. England’s arms were always so tender when he held him, his lips so soft and gentle on America’s forehead. The sound of England’s heartbeat beneath America’s ear always helped him fall sleep, as did the scent that was indubitably England that clung to the empire’s skin. It was a gentle, comforting scent that smelled faintly of something sweet and coppery that America couldn’t quite name. Whatever it was, America had come to identify the scent as England, and he often buried his face in the crook of his colonizer’s neck to get a better whiff of it whenever England held him close while they slept.
He feels his cheeks heat up at the memory, and when his friends ask him what’s wrong, America quickly shakes his head and says it’s nothing.
It’s not ‘nothing’ though, America knows it’s not just ‘nothing’. If it was, he wouldn’t-
“Now listen here, young master Jones,” a dry, satirical voice snaps America out of his daze, and he starts when a ruler is swiftly brought down inches away from where his hand is poised to take notes, but is actually doing no such thing. “I am here for one thing, and one thing only, and that is to fill that empty little head of yours with knowledge. Sadly, you remain as stubborn as a mule, and refuse to learn anything. Master Kirkland will not be pleased with your development, child.”
The governess is a young woman by all means, and America often hears the servants gossip in the kitchen about her. They speak mostly of her pretty face, and how it was the only reason England had hired her. The servants speak of other things, foreign words and strange phrases America does not fully understand but somehow still make him feel an odd, warm feeling in the pit of his stomach
Goodbye, Brother [13/?]
anonymous
April 18 2010, 10:02:04 UTC
The one word that stood out most of all was the word ‘love’, and America remembers breaking whatever had been in his hands at the time. America’s old nursemaid, the only servant England has never fired in the past forty years since he brought her from the motherland, patches his bleeding hands quickly, and although she inquires the details of how he came to hurt himself, America does not answer her.
England in love with the young pretty governess?
America is surprised by how angry this piece of knowledge makes him feel.
Puffing his cheeks out, he shrugs his shoulder at the strict woman. “Arthur is always pleased with me,” he retorts, forgetting all of his ingrained manners and chivalry. The bubbling anger is there, it is always there whenever he is in the woman’s presence. “He doesn’t care if I don’t pay attention to stupid lessons.”
Slender brows draw together in disapproval, a set of cupid bow lips set into a frown. “Young master Jones, I suggest you hold your tongue if you have nothing pleasant to say,” she replies loftily, a subtle warning for the young nation to return to the lesson at hand.
Although she was his governess, she had nothing to do with America’s studies but everything to do with his training in manners and court behavior. America had tutors for that, and a Spanish scholar of sharp intellect and broad learning, who had decreed America’s lessons must be rigorous, in charge of overseeing his studies. His name was Juan Luis Vives, and he was thin lipped and ill-tempered. Tufts of dark hair sprouted from his ears. He was never without his walking stick, which had a silver knob at the top in the shape of a fox’s head. America fancied it resembled the tutor himself.
“I see that you have been badly spoiled,” he’d purred in their first lesson, like a cat about to pounce on a mouse. Then he changed into a roaring lion. “It is my belief that children should feel the rod upon their backs at least once a day.”
America remembers feeling slightly sick at the tutor’s words. He’d seen the children of his nannies slapped once or twice, and on one account he’d even seen England reprimand his own servants, but not once had England or anyone else ever struck him.
“Don’t be afraid of him, dear,” his old nursemaid comforted him, hours later after America had rushed to his bedchambers to avoid the wrath of his tutor. “Your brother, Master Kirkland, has made it plain that he is not to lay a hand upon you.”
“I’m not afraid of him!” America had denied the accusation in a heartbeat, but even to this day, he goes out of his way to avoid the scary man. At least until England came back, and then America could ask him to fire the Spaniard and hire a new tutor for him. England hated the Spanish just as much as he hated the French; America was sure he would get him an English tutor once he found out the head butler he left in charge of his colony hired a Spaniard to tutor his little brother.
America’s governess, on the other hand, was completely different from the Spanish scholar, even though they were alike in some aspects. She too was strict, but rather than parade around with an awful stick, she taught America with polite, cold mannerisms that made the colony want to throw his books in the air just to spite her. Whenever America was not with Vives or his tutors in religion and theology or his music teachers, he was with his governess, learning all the rules concerning sitting, standing, kneeling, eating, drinking, dressing, speaking, and every other public act. The lessons were excruciatingly boring, and because the lessons were taught by her, America hated them even more.
Goodbye, Brother [14/?]
anonymous
April 18 2010, 10:06:32 UTC
England’s lover, the servants called her behind America’s back, careful not let the young master of the house overheard their gossip. She was England’s lover, and that was the only reason why she’d been hired to tutor the master’s younger brother when so many others, many more better qualified, could have been hired for the job.
England had indeed hired her the last time he visited America, a little more than four years ago. America was waiting for the day England would return to fire her too. It was what England always did when too many years passed and America showed no signs of aging.
But lately, America had been growing so fast. The first time the governess set foot in the house America had stood as tall as a nine year old. Four years had gone by and now America looked those nine plus four years.
And with those years came new feelings, new sensations and thoughts that made all the blood in his body rush to his face. America doesn’t know what to call them, but they feel alike to running through the vast, open forests without curfew, without rules and without inhibitions.
It’s a strange, scary feeling, and America finds he likes it immensely. And why wouldn’t he? It’s England who makes him feel like this, the same England who America loves so dearly.
So it’s understandable for him to hate the governess. She was trying to take England away from America, of course he would hate her. America was number one in England’s heart, and America was the one England loved best, yet here she was trying to take that position away from him.
“Young master Jones?” Arching a slender eyebrow, the young governess’s honey-brown eyes narrow slightly.
America scoffs, his arms crossed over his chest. He glares at the woman, hating her pretty face and long curly hair and everything else about her that England might like. “You’re no my mother, you don’t tell me what to do.”
Her left eyebrow twitches, her lips pressed into a tight line. “I am not, young master Jones, but if I was your mother, I would wash your mouth with soap.”
“I don’t have a mother,” he replies through gritted teeth, his hands tight fists. He can feel the anger bubble, just waiting to explode. It’s been happening a lot lately, these bouts of sudden, unexplainable anger. He doesn’t know why he’s always angry these days, but he does know the rage is somehow connected to the warm fluttery feeling he gets whenever he thinks of England. “I don’t need one either.”
She looks like she might say something else, or even hit him. She refrains, and takes a deep, long breath, the ruler trembling in her hands. “I pity Master Kirkland,” she says at length, her honey-brown eyes like ice, “for having such a troublesome brother. Not many men his age would stick around to raise their siblings, especially when they are as rotten as you are, young master Jones.”
The words strike a chord in America’s chest, making something twist in his heart. For a second, it feels like he can’t breath, and the room spins. “I’m not a chore,” he says at last, and the pretty governess clucks her tongue.
Goodbye, Brother [15/?]
anonymous
April 18 2010, 10:17:23 UTC
“All children are chores, young master Jones,” she smiles merrily, smacking the ruler into the palm of her hand. “Master Kirkland provides for you because you are a child, and he will continue to do so until you come of age. Only then, will you stop being a chore.”
She was wrong. She was wrong she was wrong she was wrong. She [had] to be wrong, because if England did not love America…if England didn’t…if England…
“Arthur loves me!” America slams his hands on the desk, the pile of books falling on the thick Persian rug. There’s a loud crack, a sick crunch of wood, and the cheery oak desk crumbles from the force of America’s attack. The governess eyes widen, her hand covering her mouth in horror and she takes a step back. “Arthur loves me more than he loves anyone!”
America grits his teeth, his molars grinding together. His shoulders are shaking, and he does not know if it’s from anger or from the sting of tears in his eyes. “He would pick me over you any day!”
The crown jewel of England, the pearl of England’s world, wasn’t that who America was?
“Yes, I would pick you, Alfred my love.”
Both America and the governess startle. Leaning casually against the library’s closed doors, England smacks his cane into the palm of his hand in the same manner the governess had done mere minutes ago. The action looks more intimidating coming from England, the rich blue and gold of his attire brightening the gloomy library. Like always, he is dressed like a perfect gentleman, not a ruffle out of place. Setting his cane done with a solid thud, he clears the space between him and America with quick, elegant strides. The soles of his high topped boots meeting the floor are the only sound in the room.
America blinks up at him, and realizes with surprise that he stands around three inches and a half above England’s shoulder. He opens his mouth, wanting to say something, anything-but his heart is beating so fast and all he can manage to do is look up at England with wide blue eyes and red cheeks.
He swallows thickly, his tongue as dry as sandpaper. His hands are sticky with sweat, and America feels something akin to butterflies in his stomach. “England-”
“Alfred.” England’s expressions softens, the hard lines disappearing from his face and his lips quirk into a gentle smile. He takes a step backward, and runs his green eyes over the length of America’s body. America’s cheeks turn a darker red. “It seems my little man has done some serious growing,” he states proudly, and leans down to kiss America chastely on the forehead, one gloved hand caressing the colony’s cheek sweetly. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner, poppet. Do you forgive me?”
America would have forgiven England for anything as long as he kept smiling at him like that.
---
Orz. Sorry, random!author!anon has been sleeping for the past 48 hours. Some really important exams are right around the corner, so even though these parts were done three days ago, I didn’t have time to post them. Never study and forget to sleep, anons, it tires you out hardcore. FYI America is 13-ish here, so expect more of the awkwardness that comes with puberty and hormones soon. Like, wet dreams and inconvenient morning wood hurhurhur~
Please ignore any grammatical errors, it’s 5 AM as I post this ;D
Retarded play-by-play b/c I fail like that! :D
anonymous
April 18 2010, 10:54:07 UTC
I love America's decision to hog England's borderline poisonous all to himself here, as well as his general possessiveness; obviously it has dark overtones, especially for a small child, but it works really well the way you write it.
“I like sleeping in my own filth,” America grumbles, careful not to bruise England with his grip. “Sleeping in my own filth is fun.” This is just awesome, although ... it's a bit scary that he has to worry about physically hurting England just holding onto him. Then again, it's probably just as scary that he's so aware of the need to hold back. ^_^;
England is looking at him again, the way it should always be, and he sticks his tongue out at Canada when the empire isn’t looking. Creepy or cute? I don't even know ... >_>
Oh god, anon, England calls him 'love'. ;asdj fkaf My ultimate weakness, how did you knoooow?
“You must think me a horrible parental figure. Every time I come back, you’ve grown up so much since the last time I saw you. I feel like one day something very important is going to happen and I won’t be here to witness it.” Why England, how naughty! Your foreshadowing is showing. :O
Oh lord, the nanny that saw America carrying his horse ... D:
They ask America which girl he likes best, and all America can think of is England and how much he misses him. Oh America, you're so ... honest. <3
Um. It was a gentle, comforting scent that smelled faintly of something sweet and coppery that America couldn’t quite name. Somehow, that scent kinda sounds forboding, anon. D:D
Daaaamn, England's interest in that last scene in part 15 gave me the biggest hard-on for that character EVER. Good god, anon. And good job, for that matter. <3
Re: Goodbye, Brother [15/?]
anonymous
April 18 2010, 12:35:23 UTC
Well, even though waiting up longer when I said I would didn't quite help... reading all this definitely made up for all the waiting! Random!anon, you're amazing, filling this prompt beautifully. I was a little worried that by writing about puberty, you were gonna skip all those years and go immediately into when Al is like 16 or something but instead you give us all this lovely desrcription :'D. I felt it was much needed for Alfie to meet Canada and it played out great -even with all the rivalry. Perfect ^^ Also, this Brit!Anon appreciates England using 'love' <3 ...you make sure you get enough sleep and post next parts soon!!! *wet dreams and morning wood? HELL YEAH!*
Re: Goodbye, Brother [15/?]
anonymous
April 18 2010, 15:44:20 UTC
Oh anon... this is so good. The writing, the descriptions, the dialogue, America's thoughts and how they are childishly dark, yet slightly mature all at once. This is an amazing fill anon, and I can wait to read the next installment ♥
Re: Goodbye, Brother [15/?]
anonymous
April 18 2010, 15:44:26 UTC
Thank you Thank you Thank you for the update! I absolutely love this fic, and I'm delighted with every part I read. I can't wait to read about America's oncoming puberty; poor guy; he doesn't know what he's in for! Your England is great. I loved the cuddle scene with America in his arms at night. But woah, what're they going to do now that America is already taller?
Re: Goodbye, Brother [15/?]
anonymous
April 19 2010, 18:14:23 UTC
Eeeeeeeee...
This is so seemingly unintentionally dark (but I know you're doing it on purpose, Author!anon. You're just doing it so well. <3). I love it and I can't wait for more.
What goes on around America is more telling than what America actually focuses on.
Goodbye, Brother [16/?]
anonymous
April 21 2010, 05:13:48 UTC
He opens his mouth, closes it, and opens it again. He wants so badly to tell England how much he missed him. He wants England to know that as long as he’s here now, America will forgive him. America wants to say so many things, but he’s tongue tied and far more nervous than he’s ever been in his entire life.
Maybe it’s England’s heart-melting smile, the way his green eyes fill with love upon seeing America. His posture changes, relaxing, his shoulders no longer as tense and rigid. The cold, strict mask falls off, and his cheeks flush with happiness, his face alight with warm and tender emotions. It could be any of these small details that make America feel as if his very breath has been knocked out of him, his heart threatening to break free from his ribcage.
“Look at you,” England says with a smile-but his smile looks slightly off, just a little bit sad, just a tiny bit forced. He grips America’s shoulders with barely-but-still trembling fingers, holding him at arm’s length. Not that America notices, he’s too busy staring, his mouth slightly agape. “You’ve grown splendidly, America. My dear baby, I hardly recognize you.”
Licking his suddenly dry lips, America wonders what the strange, warm feeling pooling in the pit of his stomach is. The feeling increases when his eyes fall on England’s lips, not really hearing him, much rather entranced by the sensitive coral-pink folds of skin.
It’s at this moment that America notices how England isn’t as tall as he first thought him to be. He’s of smaller stature than most of the men in town, his frame wiry and lean and quite unlike the strong, bulky bodies of the servants tending the farmlands. England is more like the elegant, sophisticated women America often sees in the bigger, richer towns. Strong but refined, proud and clever and with a touch of royalty to go hand-in-hand with their luscious red lips and coy smiles. England is a true gentleman, not a common, regular farm worker with calloused hands.
England wears silk gloves, and beneath those gloves his fingers are adorned with golden rings and heavy emeralds and blood red rubies. They’re strong hands, with strong fingers that curl expertly around the shaft of a jewel-encrusted sword and the butt of a heavy pistol. They’re soft hands, gentle in the way they touch America; they’re loving hands, careful and attentive whenever they make America’s meals.
England rarely wears his gloves when he touches America; it’s his bare, pale fingers that hold America’s bronzed, rougher ones, and never white silk. He wears them any other time, when he shakes hands, when he drinks tea, when he has meetings, or when he does his paperwork. But when he does anything that relates to America, he rarely, if ever, wears his gloves, almost as if everything else was too filthy for him to touch without some sort of protection.
Blushing, America is suddenly struck by how intimate such a gesture is.
“Just make sure you don’t get taller than me, sport,” England chuckles, and America snaps out of his daze. He hasn’t heard a single word England has said, and neither does he hear the hidden layer of what could only be sadness and fake happiness in England’s laughter. “Promise me you’ll always be my precious baby, hmm? Always be my darling, golden boy.”
Goodbye, Brother [17/?]
anonymous
April 21 2010, 05:18:45 UTC
It’s not his fault England makes him lose focus; America can’t help but be distracted by the way England moves, the slope of his shoulders, the pale pink lips that feel so soft and warm against America’s temples. It’s not like America wants to notice all these things, he just does. He’s been thinking about England for years, keeping his memory alive while he’s gone, and now that he has the empire in front of him, all flesh and bone and real, America doesn’t quite know what to do with himself.
America feels different. He feels strange and awkward in this new body with its longer limbs and messy hair. He feels specially awkward with England so close to him. America feels clumsy and easily embarrassed, not sure if he should wrap his arms around England and hug him like he’d done so many times in the past. He’s bigger now, and England can no longer pick him up in his arms like before. In the past, America would have run into England’s arms and kissed him, but doing that now seems…not right anymore.
It seems too childish, too…not right. Too plain, too bland. It just doesn’t seem right for America to greet England with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Everyone greeted England like that; America didn’t want to be like everybody else to England. He wanted to be special, unique, and one of a kind to England.
“America?” England furrows his brow, concern in his voice. “Is everything alright? You look down.”
Threading his gloved fingers through America’s sun-kissed locks, England pulls him into a hug, the sweet, coppery scent of his skin making the colony feel slightly dizzy. He’s tall enough now that when England pulls him close to his breast, his chin is tucked neatly in the crook of the empire’s shoulder. America’s face flushes at the feel of England’s body pressed against his own, not sure where his hands should go.
Just when he’s about to place his hands on England’s waist, England pulls away from him. America’s hands feel empty. England looks worried. Biting his lower lip, he cups America’s face in his hands and presses their foreheads together. “You don’t appear to have a fever. What’s the matter?”
America’s breath hitches. Their faces are so close together; he can count each and every one of England’s eyelashes. Again, the butterflies return. Again, America feels the sudden, unexplainable urge to lean up, shorten the distance between their faces and-
“Madam Epstein,” England says, no smile to be found on his face, “if you would be so kind as to give me some time alone with my boy, I would dearly appreciate it.”
The governess, who has been standing in the background, silent and wide-eyed, jumps at the being addressed. Her hands tremble, and her lip quivers before she swallows thickly and composes herself. Nodding her head, she clears her throat. “As you wish, Master Kirkland.” Her eyes go from the empire to the young colony. “And we will pick up where we left on the lesson in one hour, young master Jones.”
“No.” England shakes his head, his hands falling from America’s face. He looks refined, the soft, gentle and loving look he’d shown America gone from his face. He’s the British Empire, cold and unforgiving, and master of the house. “Alfred will no longer attend your lessons while I am here. I’ll take it upon myself to teach him proper etiquette, Madam.”
Goodbye, Brother [18/?]
anonymous
April 21 2010, 05:25:59 UTC
America doesn’t see her leave, nor does he hear her hurried, frantic footsteps. His eyes are glued on England, his attention held by England alone. The door closes behind her, and America is suddenly very conscious of how they are the only two people in the room.
“America,” England’s thick eyebrows draw together in concern. “America, what did she do?” he inquires gently, with a soothing voice that sends dizzying chills down the colony’s spine.
He feels like he’s under a spell, like the heroes in England’s stories, the ones that are led to their deaths by the bewitching siren’s song.
And so America says nothing, unable to string two words together to save his life. He’s so unaware of his surroundings he doesn’t even feel the sting of pain coming from his hands, the red crescent-shaped marks on the tender skin of his palms and his bruised knuckles. England’s emerald green eyes narrow dangerously, angrily, and before America knows what is happening, England is walking away from him and out of the library, the heavy doors falling shut with a bang after him. As he leaves, his coattails flutter aimlessly behind him, shifting and parting and giving view of long, slender legs snugly encased in the confinement of the breeches.
Struck by a sudden feeling of shame, America takes a shallow, shaky breath, clutching his chest. His heart is beating so fast he fears England will be able to hear it.
It’s England, it’s definitely England who makes his heart race like this. England is the only one who makes him feel like he can’t breathe.
[‘Would you kiss her?’ one of the boys had asked, pointing at a fair-haired girl. Then at a curly-haired girl with russet colored hair, and after that a lovely pale girl with hair the color of ink, ‘How about her?’]
Seconds turn to minutes. The doors open, England’s face is tight with anger. He slams the doors close, muttering choice words under his breath. Taking a deep, long breath, he rubs his temples. His hands are pale and elegant, if slightly bony, beneath his gloves. His nails are well taken care of, and the cuffs of his shirt are spotted with red droplets of some kind of thick, coppery liquid. Glaring at the doors one last time, he turns around, his expression of anger melting to one of loving affection almost immediately when he sees America right where he left him. “I apologize about that, sweetheart,” he says. One, two, three long strides and he’s back to his colony’s side, smiling sweetly at him, petting America on the head with one of those elegant, warm hands. “I had some, ah, business with Madam Epstein to take care of. But don’t you worry about it, everything is taken care of.”
Heart fluttering like crazy in his ribcage, America looks away. He can’t meet England’s eyes. “Okay,” he says, and adds seconds later, “Is she your lover?”
[America had frowned, pinching his lower lip between his teeth. He’d glanced at the girl, at the fair-haired girl, and been disappointed with her too bright, wheat-colored her, her hazel eyes, and blossoming breasts and curvy hips. ‘She’s not my type,’ he’d murmured softly, cheeks blooming with heat, his hands nervously picking at a loose thread in his shirt. England had sown it himself, every tiny little stitch and tiny little button.]
Goodbye, Brother [19/?]
anonymous
April 21 2010, 05:37:05 UTC
England blinks, completely taken by surprise. He says nothing for several, long moments, green eyes wide and eyebrows fully raised. America feels anger bubble in the pit of his stomach again, hot and acidic. He looks down at the floor, his hands clenching into tight fists. “I heard,” he begins, stopping, swallowing, and continuing, “I heard that you hired her because she was a good lay.”
England sputters, his composure slipping. Before he can say anything, America goes on, his shoulders shaking, the desire to break something again incredibly strong. “I heard that you don’t love me anymore, is that true?” he asks, the words like broken glass on his mouth.
For a second, England looks so completely devastated that America thinks of taking the words back. This is a face he’s never seen on England before. England is so strong and so big and so majestic; he bows down to no one, and he rules the seven seas with an iron fist. France has a knack for gossip, and Canada retells his stories to America. Most of them are about England, of his conquests, his faultless victories and wins despite all the odds stacked against him. England is the kind of person who would never be afraid of anything or anyone-yet England’s expression now is one of definite fear.
The British Empire is said to have no weakness, no soft spots. But apparently, this isn’t so true after all.
“No,” England rushes to say, face distraught, eyes panicky, and he immediately pulls America into his arms. He hugs America more forcefully than usual, his arms tight around him, almost as if he were trying to fuse them together. America hugs him back, his hands tight and bruising on England’s hips. “Of course not. I would never, ever do that, love. You’re my most important, my most precious treasure, darling America. My baby, I would never abandon you. What made you think I would ever stop loving you?” he murmurs against America’s hair, not seeming to mind America’s bruising hold.
America holds him tighter.
[The boys had scoffed, hands at their hips. The loud, trouble-making of the group jabbed America with a bony elbow. ‘Then what’s your ideal girl? Everyone has one!’ he’d teased, a leer across his face.]
“Nothing. Never mind.” Smiling, America buries his face in the crook of England’s neck. He feels like he’s floating, or even walking on air. America has never felt so light before. “Forget about it.”
Everything makes sense now.
[Cheeks pink and eyes lowered, America thought of the ocean, and how vast and grand it was. Of how it was the one thing separating England from him. Of how England loved the sea so much, and of how America wished it would disappear forever. With that wish in his heart and the memory of England right next to it, he’d answered, ‘I don’t have one.’]
The heartwarming smile on England’s face sends America’s heart into a frenzy. There’s still a tinge of panic, of sadness on the empire’s face, but it is overshadowed by the happiness and love. “Really, America. You had me worried. I’m getting too old for these kind of shocks, you little cretin.”
Goodbye, Brother [20/?]
anonymous
April 21 2010, 05:48:27 UTC
Snorting, America throws his whole weight against the taller nation, standing on his tiptoes to see eye to eye with the empire. Just a bit more, a couple of more inches, and then he’d be taller. “It’s not my fault you hire hussies to tutor me, England,” he teases lightly, laughing when England playfully smacks him on the back of the head.
“Mind your language, boy. Goodness gracious, you’ve really grown since I last saw you,” he says, a note of disbelief in his voice. He takes one of America’s hands in his own, entwining their fingers. England’s fingers are still a few centimeters longer, but America’s hand is thicker, bigger, and tougher from working the land.
Fondly, and with an incredibly tender, vulnerable look on his face, he smiles. If America had taken a second to better observe his facial expressions, he would’ve noticed it was a wistful sort of smile, and not entirely happy. “My little boy is turning into a man.” Chuckling softly, England ruffles America’s already messy hair. “Next thing I’ll know you’ll be bringing home a girl for me to meet.”
America smiles a tiny, secret smile. He says nothing, nestled in England’s arms. Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath of the sweet, coppery scent clinging to the empire’s skin.
Bigger and bigger still he would grow. And then he would be the one to take care of England.
[Because England wasn’t a girl.]
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Random!Author!Anon is happy you guys notice the dark undertones :D In my headcanon, America is a simple-minded guy with yandere moments (cold war anyone?); in my headcanon, England was never a pedo either, and that’s the reason why England doesn’t really think of America as a potential lover in this fill. Despite this, there will be sexy times. Take that as you will, anons~
Orz. Please ignore any grammatical errors. It’s really late, and I’m dead tired and I have to wake up for classes soon. I’ll update again this week, promise. And the OP, wherever she may be, please tell me what kind of ending you would prefer. From what I have so far, the ending is, eh, kind of revolutionary war-themed, orz, orz.
England nods slowly, almost like he doesn’t want to but can’t really bring himself to lie. “Yes. In a way, that does play a role in the matter. I can never be yours the same way you are mine, but I do love you so very much, America. Never forget or doubt my feelings for you.”
“If…if you can’t be mine, then can you at least never love anyone more than you love me?” America bites his lower lip nervously, fidgeting with his hands. “Um. Besides the Mother Country that is,” he adds hastily, cheeks flushed a bright pink.
England blinks, surprised. Then he laughs, the smile America loves so much lighting up his face. “You stubborn, stubborn boy. Fine.” Another chuckle, another smile, and America’s cheeks grow warmer at the sound of England’s laughter. “I promise. You’ll be my number one, and no one will ever take your place. Happy?”
America is. He is immensely happy. He laughs along with England when the empire sweeps him up his arms again, kissing both his cheeks before ordering him to go to bed. America does without protest, happy to go to sleep encased in England’s warmth.
He’s lulled to sleep by the sound of England’s heartbeat. America makes the most of being in England’s arms, fully aware that he would have to make do without everything that was England for a long time once the busy empire left for the motherland.
But it was okay, because England always came back to America. He always did, and he always would.
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Years pass, and America grows taller.
And as his body grows, so does his mind.
He goes outside more, always careful to keep his strength at bay lest he be accused of being a demon. It has happen before, when one of his nannies accidentally saw him carrying his wounded horse to the stables. America does not know what happened to her; England said he would take care of it, and America never saw the old nanny again. It was the first time he’d seen England look so serious, but when he promised America that everything would be okay and to not worry, America had simply shrugged his shoulders and gone off to play outside.
Outside; it’s a new world to him, the bustling towns and lively villagers. The house England purchased for him is big and mostly isolated, far from the civilizations of the towns. The servants are few and silent, and every five years or so, England replaces them with a new bunch. As to how he replaces them, America does not know. He never sees them again though, and he never asks England about them either.
The friends he’s made are a new breath of fresh air. He’s learned more from them than he’s ever learned from his many tutors. In fact, he often skips his lessons to go to the prairie with them, or to the stables. They share secrets and jokes and stories; the thrilling adventures they have together make for great memories as well.
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The boys turned teenagers talk of kisses behind the farmhouse, of the sweet pastor’s daughter who blushes prettily whenever one of the boys looks at her. They nudge America with their elbows, and with waggling eyebrows ask him for his opinion on who the prettiest girl in town is.
They ask America which girl he likes best, and all America can think of is England and how much he misses him.
He hasn’t seen England in years. Canada visits him often, but England hasn’t come to see him a long time. America knows that as the Mother Country England has to prioritize his work over him, but that doesn’t meant America has to like it. He wishes England would stay with him forever, not two, maybe three weeks a year.
America misses England’s smiles, his hugs, and even his horrible cooking. America misses sleeping in the same bed as England, because England always let him crawl in his bed during a storm or whenever America felt lonely in his too big room. England would wrap his arms around America and hold him close to his breast, gently threading his fingers through the colony’s golden hair to reassure him that everything was okay. England’s arms were always so tender when he held him, his lips so soft and gentle on America’s forehead. The sound of England’s heartbeat beneath America’s ear always helped him fall sleep, as did the scent that was indubitably England that clung to the empire’s skin. It was a gentle, comforting scent that smelled faintly of something sweet and coppery that America couldn’t quite name. Whatever it was, America had come to identify the scent as England, and he often buried his face in the crook of his colonizer’s neck to get a better whiff of it whenever England held him close while they slept.
He feels his cheeks heat up at the memory, and when his friends ask him what’s wrong, America quickly shakes his head and says it’s nothing.
It’s not ‘nothing’ though, America knows it’s not just ‘nothing’. If it was, he wouldn’t-
“Now listen here, young master Jones,” a dry, satirical voice snaps America out of his daze, and he starts when a ruler is swiftly brought down inches away from where his hand is poised to take notes, but is actually doing no such thing. “I am here for one thing, and one thing only, and that is to fill that empty little head of yours with knowledge. Sadly, you remain as stubborn as a mule, and refuse to learn anything. Master Kirkland will not be pleased with your development, child.”
The governess is a young woman by all means, and America often hears the servants gossip in the kitchen about her. They speak mostly of her pretty face, and how it was the only reason England had hired her. The servants speak of other things, foreign words and strange phrases America does not fully understand but somehow still make him feel an odd, warm feeling in the pit of his stomach
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England in love with the young pretty governess?
America is surprised by how angry this piece of knowledge makes him feel.
Puffing his cheeks out, he shrugs his shoulder at the strict woman. “Arthur is always pleased with me,” he retorts, forgetting all of his ingrained manners and chivalry. The bubbling anger is there, it is always there whenever he is in the woman’s presence. “He doesn’t care if I don’t pay attention to stupid lessons.”
Slender brows draw together in disapproval, a set of cupid bow lips set into a frown. “Young master Jones, I suggest you hold your tongue if you have nothing pleasant to say,” she replies loftily, a subtle warning for the young nation to return to the lesson at hand.
Although she was his governess, she had nothing to do with America’s studies but everything to do with his training in manners and court behavior. America had tutors for that, and a Spanish scholar of sharp intellect and broad learning, who had decreed America’s lessons must be rigorous, in charge of overseeing his studies. His name was Juan Luis Vives, and he was thin lipped and ill-tempered. Tufts of dark hair sprouted from his ears. He was never without his walking stick, which had a silver knob at the top in the shape of a fox’s head. America fancied it resembled the tutor himself.
“I see that you have been badly spoiled,” he’d purred in their first lesson, like a cat about to pounce on a mouse. Then he changed into a roaring lion. “It is my belief that children should feel the rod upon their backs at least once a day.”
America remembers feeling slightly sick at the tutor’s words. He’d seen the children of his nannies slapped once or twice, and on one account he’d even seen England reprimand his own servants, but not once had England or anyone else ever struck him.
“Don’t be afraid of him, dear,” his old nursemaid comforted him, hours later after America had rushed to his bedchambers to avoid the wrath of his tutor. “Your brother, Master Kirkland, has made it plain that he is not to lay a hand upon you.”
“I’m not afraid of him!” America had denied the accusation in a heartbeat, but even to this day, he goes out of his way to avoid the scary man. At least until England came back, and then America could ask him to fire the Spaniard and hire a new tutor for him. England hated the Spanish just as much as he hated the French; America was sure he would get him an English tutor once he found out the head butler he left in charge of his colony hired a Spaniard to tutor his little brother.
America’s governess, on the other hand, was completely different from the Spanish scholar, even though they were alike in some aspects. She too was strict, but rather than parade around with an awful stick, she taught America with polite, cold mannerisms that made the colony want to throw his books in the air just to spite her. Whenever America was not with Vives or his tutors in religion and theology or his music teachers, he was with his governess, learning all the rules concerning sitting, standing, kneeling, eating, drinking, dressing, speaking, and every other public act. The lessons were excruciatingly boring, and because the lessons were taught by her, America hated them even more.
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England had indeed hired her the last time he visited America, a little more than four years ago. America was waiting for the day England would return to fire her too. It was what England always did when too many years passed and America showed no signs of aging.
But lately, America had been growing so fast. The first time the governess set foot in the house America had stood as tall as a nine year old. Four years had gone by and now America looked those nine plus four years.
And with those years came new feelings, new sensations and thoughts that made all the blood in his body rush to his face. America doesn’t know what to call them, but they feel alike to running through the vast, open forests without curfew, without rules and without inhibitions.
It’s a strange, scary feeling, and America finds he likes it immensely. And why wouldn’t he? It’s England who makes him feel like this, the same England who America loves so dearly.
So it’s understandable for him to hate the governess. She was trying to take England away from America, of course he would hate her. America was number one in England’s heart, and America was the one England loved best, yet here she was trying to take that position away from him.
“Young master Jones?” Arching a slender eyebrow, the young governess’s honey-brown eyes narrow slightly.
America scoffs, his arms crossed over his chest. He glares at the woman, hating her pretty face and long curly hair and everything else about her that England might like. “You’re no my mother, you don’t tell me what to do.”
Her left eyebrow twitches, her lips pressed into a tight line. “I am not, young master Jones, but if I was your mother, I would wash your mouth with soap.”
“I don’t have a mother,” he replies through gritted teeth, his hands tight fists. He can feel the anger bubble, just waiting to explode. It’s been happening a lot lately, these bouts of sudden, unexplainable anger. He doesn’t know why he’s always angry these days, but he does know the rage is somehow connected to the warm fluttery feeling he gets whenever he thinks of England. “I don’t need one either.”
She looks like she might say something else, or even hit him. She refrains, and takes a deep, long breath, the ruler trembling in her hands. “I pity Master Kirkland,” she says at length, her honey-brown eyes like ice, “for having such a troublesome brother. Not many men his age would stick around to raise their siblings, especially when they are as rotten as you are, young master Jones.”
The words strike a chord in America’s chest, making something twist in his heart. For a second, it feels like he can’t breath, and the room spins. “I’m not a chore,” he says at last, and the pretty governess clucks her tongue.
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She was wrong. She was wrong she was wrong she was wrong. She [had] to be wrong, because if England did not love America…if England didn’t…if England…
“Arthur loves me!” America slams his hands on the desk, the pile of books falling on the thick Persian rug. There’s a loud crack, a sick crunch of wood, and the cheery oak desk crumbles from the force of America’s attack. The governess eyes widen, her hand covering her mouth in horror and she takes a step back. “Arthur loves me more than he loves anyone!”
America grits his teeth, his molars grinding together. His shoulders are shaking, and he does not know if it’s from anger or from the sting of tears in his eyes. “He would pick me over you any day!”
The crown jewel of England, the pearl of England’s world, wasn’t that who America was?
“Yes, I would pick you, Alfred my love.”
Both America and the governess startle. Leaning casually against the library’s closed doors, England smacks his cane into the palm of his hand in the same manner the governess had done mere minutes ago. The action looks more intimidating coming from England, the rich blue and gold of his attire brightening the gloomy library. Like always, he is dressed like a perfect gentleman, not a ruffle out of place. Setting his cane done with a solid thud, he clears the space between him and America with quick, elegant strides. The soles of his high topped boots meeting the floor are the only sound in the room.
America blinks up at him, and realizes with surprise that he stands around three inches and a half above England’s shoulder. He opens his mouth, wanting to say something, anything-but his heart is beating so fast and all he can manage to do is look up at England with wide blue eyes and red cheeks.
He swallows thickly, his tongue as dry as sandpaper. His hands are sticky with sweat, and America feels something akin to butterflies in his stomach. “England-”
“Alfred.” England’s expressions softens, the hard lines disappearing from his face and his lips quirk into a gentle smile. He takes a step backward, and runs his green eyes over the length of America’s body. America’s cheeks turn a darker red. “It seems my little man has done some serious growing,” he states proudly, and leans down to kiss America chastely on the forehead, one gloved hand caressing the colony’s cheek sweetly. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner, poppet. Do you forgive me?”
America would have forgiven England for anything as long as he kept smiling at him like that.
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Orz. Sorry, random!author!anon has been sleeping for the past 48 hours. Some really important exams are right around the corner, so even though these parts were done three days ago, I didn’t have time to post them. Never study and forget to sleep, anons, it tires you out hardcore. FYI America is 13-ish here, so expect more of the awkwardness that comes with puberty and hormones soon. Like, wet dreams and inconvenient morning wood hurhurhur~
Please ignore any grammatical errors, it’s 5 AM as I post this ;D
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“I like sleeping in my own filth,” America grumbles, careful not to bruise England with his grip. “Sleeping in my own filth is fun.” This is just awesome, although ... it's a bit scary that he has to worry about physically hurting England just holding onto him. Then again, it's probably just as scary that he's so aware of the need to hold back. ^_^;
England is looking at him again, the way it should always be, and he sticks his tongue out at Canada when the empire isn’t looking. Creepy or cute? I don't even know ... >_>
Oh god, anon, England calls him 'love'. ;asdj fkaf My ultimate weakness, how did you knoooow?
“You must think me a horrible parental figure. Every time I come back, you’ve grown up so much since the last time I saw you. I feel like one day something very important is going to happen and I won’t be here to witness it.” Why England, how naughty! Your foreshadowing is showing. :O
Oh lord, the nanny that saw America carrying his horse ... D:
They ask America which girl he likes best, and all America can think of is England and how much he misses him. Oh America, you're so ... honest. <3
Um. It was a gentle, comforting scent that smelled faintly of something sweet and coppery that America couldn’t quite name. Somehow, that scent kinda sounds forboding, anon. D:D
Daaaamn, England's interest in that last scene in part 15 gave me the biggest hard-on for that character EVER. Good god, anon. And good job, for that matter. <3
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Also, this Brit!Anon appreciates England using 'love' <3
...you make sure you get enough sleep and post next parts soon!!! *wet dreams and morning wood? HELL YEAH!*
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Sweet and coppery...sounds like blood
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Post more soon plz!!!
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This is so seemingly unintentionally dark (but I know you're doing it on purpose, Author!anon. You're just doing it so well. <3). I love it and I can't wait for more.
What goes on around America is more telling than what America actually focuses on.
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Maybe it’s England’s heart-melting smile, the way his green eyes fill with love upon seeing America. His posture changes, relaxing, his shoulders no longer as tense and rigid. The cold, strict mask falls off, and his cheeks flush with happiness, his face alight with warm and tender emotions. It could be any of these small details that make America feel as if his very breath has been knocked out of him, his heart threatening to break free from his ribcage.
“Look at you,” England says with a smile-but his smile looks slightly off, just a little bit sad, just a tiny bit forced. He grips America’s shoulders with barely-but-still trembling fingers, holding him at arm’s length. Not that America notices, he’s too busy staring, his mouth slightly agape. “You’ve grown splendidly, America. My dear baby, I hardly recognize you.”
Licking his suddenly dry lips, America wonders what the strange, warm feeling pooling in the pit of his stomach is. The feeling increases when his eyes fall on England’s lips, not really hearing him, much rather entranced by the sensitive coral-pink folds of skin.
It’s at this moment that America notices how England isn’t as tall as he first thought him to be. He’s of smaller stature than most of the men in town, his frame wiry and lean and quite unlike the strong, bulky bodies of the servants tending the farmlands. England is more like the elegant, sophisticated women America often sees in the bigger, richer towns. Strong but refined, proud and clever and with a touch of royalty to go hand-in-hand with their luscious red lips and coy smiles. England is a true gentleman, not a common, regular farm worker with calloused hands.
England wears silk gloves, and beneath those gloves his fingers are adorned with golden rings and heavy emeralds and blood red rubies. They’re strong hands, with strong fingers that curl expertly around the shaft of a jewel-encrusted sword and the butt of a heavy pistol. They’re soft hands, gentle in the way they touch America; they’re loving hands, careful and attentive whenever they make America’s meals.
England rarely wears his gloves when he touches America; it’s his bare, pale fingers that hold America’s bronzed, rougher ones, and never white silk. He wears them any other time, when he shakes hands, when he drinks tea, when he has meetings, or when he does his paperwork. But when he does anything that relates to America, he rarely, if ever, wears his gloves, almost as if everything else was too filthy for him to touch without some sort of protection.
Blushing, America is suddenly struck by how intimate such a gesture is.
“Just make sure you don’t get taller than me, sport,” England chuckles, and America snaps out of his daze. He hasn’t heard a single word England has said, and neither does he hear the hidden layer of what could only be sadness and fake happiness in England’s laughter. “Promise me you’ll always be my precious baby, hmm? Always be my darling, golden boy.”
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America feels different. He feels strange and awkward in this new body with its longer limbs and messy hair. He feels specially awkward with England so close to him. America feels clumsy and easily embarrassed, not sure if he should wrap his arms around England and hug him like he’d done so many times in the past. He’s bigger now, and England can no longer pick him up in his arms like before. In the past, America would have run into England’s arms and kissed him, but doing that now seems…not right anymore.
It seems too childish, too…not right. Too plain, too bland. It just doesn’t seem right for America to greet England with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. Everyone greeted England like that; America didn’t want to be like everybody else to England. He wanted to be special, unique, and one of a kind to England.
“America?” England furrows his brow, concern in his voice. “Is everything alright? You look down.”
Threading his gloved fingers through America’s sun-kissed locks, England pulls him into a hug, the sweet, coppery scent of his skin making the colony feel slightly dizzy. He’s tall enough now that when England pulls him close to his breast, his chin is tucked neatly in the crook of the empire’s shoulder. America’s face flushes at the feel of England’s body pressed against his own, not sure where his hands should go.
Just when he’s about to place his hands on England’s waist, England pulls away from him. America’s hands feel empty. England looks worried. Biting his lower lip, he cups America’s face in his hands and presses their foreheads together. “You don’t appear to have a fever. What’s the matter?”
America’s breath hitches. Their faces are so close together; he can count each and every one of England’s eyelashes. Again, the butterflies return. Again, America feels the sudden, unexplainable urge to lean up, shorten the distance between their faces and-
“Madam Epstein,” England says, no smile to be found on his face, “if you would be so kind as to give me some time alone with my boy, I would dearly appreciate it.”
The governess, who has been standing in the background, silent and wide-eyed, jumps at the being addressed. Her hands tremble, and her lip quivers before she swallows thickly and composes herself. Nodding her head, she clears her throat. “As you wish, Master Kirkland.” Her eyes go from the empire to the young colony. “And we will pick up where we left on the lesson in one hour, young master Jones.”
“No.” England shakes his head, his hands falling from America’s face. He looks refined, the soft, gentle and loving look he’d shown America gone from his face. He’s the British Empire, cold and unforgiving, and master of the house. “Alfred will no longer attend your lessons while I am here. I’ll take it upon myself to teach him proper etiquette, Madam.”
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“America,” England’s thick eyebrows draw together in concern. “America, what did she do?” he inquires gently, with a soothing voice that sends dizzying chills down the colony’s spine.
He feels like he’s under a spell, like the heroes in England’s stories, the ones that are led to their deaths by the bewitching siren’s song.
And so America says nothing, unable to string two words together to save his life. He’s so unaware of his surroundings he doesn’t even feel the sting of pain coming from his hands, the red crescent-shaped marks on the tender skin of his palms and his bruised knuckles. England’s emerald green eyes narrow dangerously, angrily, and before America knows what is happening, England is walking away from him and out of the library, the heavy doors falling shut with a bang after him. As he leaves, his coattails flutter aimlessly behind him, shifting and parting and giving view of long, slender legs snugly encased in the confinement of the breeches.
Struck by a sudden feeling of shame, America takes a shallow, shaky breath, clutching his chest. His heart is beating so fast he fears England will be able to hear it.
It’s England, it’s definitely England who makes his heart race like this. England is the only one who makes him feel like he can’t breathe.
[‘Would you kiss her?’ one of the boys had asked, pointing at a fair-haired girl. Then at a curly-haired girl with russet colored hair, and after that a lovely pale girl with hair the color of ink, ‘How about her?’]
Seconds turn to minutes. The doors open, England’s face is tight with anger. He slams the doors close, muttering choice words under his breath. Taking a deep, long breath, he rubs his temples. His hands are pale and elegant, if slightly bony, beneath his gloves. His nails are well taken care of, and the cuffs of his shirt are spotted with red droplets of some kind of thick, coppery liquid. Glaring at the doors one last time, he turns around, his expression of anger melting to one of loving affection almost immediately when he sees America right where he left him. “I apologize about that, sweetheart,” he says. One, two, three long strides and he’s back to his colony’s side, smiling sweetly at him, petting America on the head with one of those elegant, warm hands. “I had some, ah, business with Madam Epstein to take care of. But don’t you worry about it, everything is taken care of.”
Heart fluttering like crazy in his ribcage, America looks away. He can’t meet England’s eyes. “Okay,” he says, and adds seconds later, “Is she your lover?”
[America had frowned, pinching his lower lip between his teeth. He’d glanced at the girl, at the fair-haired girl, and been disappointed with her too bright, wheat-colored her, her hazel eyes, and blossoming breasts and curvy hips. ‘She’s not my type,’ he’d murmured softly, cheeks blooming with heat, his hands nervously picking at a loose thread in his shirt. England had sown it himself, every tiny little stitch and tiny little button.]
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England sputters, his composure slipping. Before he can say anything, America goes on, his shoulders shaking, the desire to break something again incredibly strong. “I heard that you don’t love me anymore, is that true?” he asks, the words like broken glass on his mouth.
For a second, England looks so completely devastated that America thinks of taking the words back. This is a face he’s never seen on England before. England is so strong and so big and so majestic; he bows down to no one, and he rules the seven seas with an iron fist. France has a knack for gossip, and Canada retells his stories to America. Most of them are about England, of his conquests, his faultless victories and wins despite all the odds stacked against him. England is the kind of person who would never be afraid of anything or anyone-yet England’s expression now is one of definite fear.
The British Empire is said to have no weakness, no soft spots. But apparently, this isn’t so true after all.
“No,” England rushes to say, face distraught, eyes panicky, and he immediately pulls America into his arms. He hugs America more forcefully than usual, his arms tight around him, almost as if he were trying to fuse them together. America hugs him back, his hands tight and bruising on England’s hips. “Of course not. I would never, ever do that, love. You’re my most important, my most precious treasure, darling America. My baby, I would never abandon you. What made you think I would ever stop loving you?” he murmurs against America’s hair, not seeming to mind America’s bruising hold.
America holds him tighter.
[The boys had scoffed, hands at their hips. The loud, trouble-making of the group jabbed America with a bony elbow. ‘Then what’s your ideal girl? Everyone has one!’ he’d teased, a leer across his face.]
“Nothing. Never mind.” Smiling, America buries his face in the crook of England’s neck. He feels like he’s floating, or even walking on air. America has never felt so light before. “Forget about it.”
Everything makes sense now.
[Cheeks pink and eyes lowered, America thought of the ocean, and how vast and grand it was. Of how it was the one thing separating England from him. Of how England loved the sea so much, and of how America wished it would disappear forever. With that wish in his heart and the memory of England right next to it, he’d answered, ‘I don’t have one.’]
The heartwarming smile on England’s face sends America’s heart into a frenzy. There’s still a tinge of panic, of sadness on the empire’s face, but it is overshadowed by the happiness and love. “Really, America. You had me worried. I’m getting too old for these kind of shocks, you little cretin.”
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“Mind your language, boy. Goodness gracious, you’ve really grown since I last saw you,” he says, a note of disbelief in his voice. He takes one of America’s hands in his own, entwining their fingers. England’s fingers are still a few centimeters longer, but America’s hand is thicker, bigger, and tougher from working the land.
Fondly, and with an incredibly tender, vulnerable look on his face, he smiles. If America had taken a second to better observe his facial expressions, he would’ve noticed it was a wistful sort of smile, and not entirely happy. “My little boy is turning into a man.” Chuckling softly, England ruffles America’s already messy hair. “Next thing I’ll know you’ll be bringing home a girl for me to meet.”
America smiles a tiny, secret smile. He says nothing, nestled in England’s arms. Closing his eyes, he takes a deep breath of the sweet, coppery scent clinging to the empire’s skin.
Bigger and bigger still he would grow. And then he would be the one to take care of England.
[Because England wasn’t a girl.]
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Random!Author!Anon is happy you guys notice the dark undertones :D In my headcanon, America is a simple-minded guy with yandere moments (cold war anyone?); in my headcanon, England was never a pedo either, and that’s the reason why England doesn’t really think of America as a potential lover in this fill. Despite this, there will be sexy times. Take that as you will, anons~
Orz. Please ignore any grammatical errors. It’s really late, and I’m dead tired and I have to wake up for classes soon. I’ll update again this week, promise. And the OP, wherever she may be, please tell me what kind of ending you would prefer. From what I have so far, the ending is, eh, kind of revolutionary war-themed, orz, orz.
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