Hetalia Kink meme part 9 -- CLOSED

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hetalia kink meme
part 9

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A Kind of Peace 1/3

[anonymous]

The sun had gone down, but it wasn’t dark yet. The world was a sleepy blue-gold. A kind of luminous mix of dusky colors that never really occurred in England’s own land. He knew the brown of Oxford and the grey of London, and the green of the seas. But the new continent had been painted by an entirely different palate. Every shade was clear and deep, even like this, at the end of the day. It would never cease to amaze him. A good half hour after sunset, the landscape and the road before them were still quite visible. Everything from the tracks of the wagon wheels to the last birds flitting toward the trees.

It wasn’t until the barely noticeable breeze took on a chill and the bundle in England’s arms began to make unhappy little mewling sounds that he was drawn out of his own wonder. “Cold?” he asked. America made no reply, just tightened farther in on himself, shaking his head back and forth. Taking a careful grip on him, England sped up a few steps and caught onto the back of the cart that was rolling in front of them. There were other people about, walking and leading horses along. Coming back from a long day of work at building a new country. It would probably be fully dark and cold by the time they all reached home.

The back of the cart had hay piled in it, stacked in bales along the sides and strewn loosely everywhere else. It formed a sort of nice little nest out of the breeze. England picked up a patchwork quilt that had been lying to one side. An old, worn thing in need of repair, but good enough for what he wanted it for. He spread it out before sitting down, and unfolded America’s blanket over the both of them as well. It was really a rather warm and pleasant arrangement, once he had the two of them settled.

For a long time, it was just the creak of the wagon’s wheels, and the slow swaying of its wooden structure. Out beyond the hay bales, other people were still making their ways along the road. But most were blocked from view, and the murmur of their voices was low and distant.

America squirmed in England’s grasp. It had been a long day for him, as well-it was not easy to become a new nation. As full of joy and energy as the boy was, the days often left him worn out. The people of the colony worked hard, and their exhaustion sometimes echoed in America. It was never the desperate, frightened exhaustion that England had known as a child. Not old Europe’s cold, starving fatigue. Rather, it was a kind of satisfied weariness. A warm, sore sort of drowsiness that came from the rigorous use of strength.