Underneath [15/16]
anonymous
May 3 2010, 04:00:24 UTC
"Let me go," England hissed, voice weak from the pain.
"No," America said simply. He used the machete to gently trace a line up England's chest, across his throat, until the tip of the blade was resting just underneath his right eye. America's voice was sorrowful and earnest as he said, "It won't be pretty. It won't be fun, or easy. Change never is. You'll survive it, though; we're hard to kill. Believe me, I know. And when I'm through with you, things will be better. We'll be together." He laughed, voice cracking midway through. "Forever."
There was no running, and no fighting America off, and England knew he wouldn't be able to trick the other nation again. So he took a deep breath and did the only thing he could think to do.
"America," he said, "I'm sorry."
America went still on top of him.
"I'm sorry," England continued, voice a little stronger now that he had his breath back. "I never...never knew that you were going through all of this. And I wish I could say that I would have made it all better if I had known, but you're right. I'm not always a nice person. I've hurt people and done it gleefully. I hurt you." He locked eyes with America. "And I'm sorry. But America, this won't fix things. This won't make them better. You have to let me go." He swallowed. "Please."
America did nothing for what felt like hours, just looking down at England with an expression that had gone blank and inscrutable. Then he stood suddenly and said, so quietly that England didn't hear him at first, "Get out."
England blinked up at him.
"GET OUT!" America roared, and England didn't need to be told twice. He hauled himself to his feet and nearly fell down the stairs in his haste, never slowing down once. Adrenaline pushed him forward when he might have collapsed, and he didn't dare relax until he was speeding down the highway, putting as many miles between America and himself as he could.
"No," America said simply. He used the machete to gently trace a line up England's chest, across his throat, until the tip of the blade was resting just underneath his right eye. America's voice was sorrowful and earnest as he said, "It won't be pretty. It won't be fun, or easy. Change never is. You'll survive it, though; we're hard to kill. Believe me, I know. And when I'm through with you, things will be better. We'll be together." He laughed, voice cracking midway through. "Forever."
There was no running, and no fighting America off, and England knew he wouldn't be able to trick the other nation again. So he took a deep breath and did the only thing he could think to do.
"America," he said, "I'm sorry."
America went still on top of him.
"I'm sorry," England continued, voice a little stronger now that he had his breath back. "I never...never knew that you were going through all of this. And I wish I could say that I would have made it all better if I had known, but you're right. I'm not always a nice person. I've hurt people and done it gleefully. I hurt you." He locked eyes with America. "And I'm sorry. But America, this won't fix things. This won't make them better. You have to let me go." He swallowed. "Please."
America did nothing for what felt like hours, just looking down at England with an expression that had gone blank and inscrutable. Then he stood suddenly and said, so quietly that England didn't hear him at first, "Get out."
England blinked up at him.
"GET OUT!" America roared, and England didn't need to be told twice. He hauled himself to his feet and nearly fell down the stairs in his haste, never slowing down once. Adrenaline pushed him forward when he might have collapsed, and he didn't dare relax until he was speeding down the highway, putting as many miles between America and himself as he could.
He didn't look back.
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