A Circle of Trinity [5/?] [UK/US, UK/?]
anonymous
March 14 2010, 18:33:58 UTC
“...just this once..”
England stopped short, hairs on end, body frozen in shock. Wasn't he supposed to have been back by now? Or were his ears playing tricks on him? He entertained the latter for a moment, only to have his dread reconfirmed. From a dingy alley in a secluded corner, he heard the sounds of shuffled steps and needy moans. He did not dare move, fearing the inevitable. But it was obvious, the voice - the ragged pants and pleasured gasps he was so accustomed to were that of one person.
The one person who should have been back home. In New York.
Not here. Not in London. No. No!
Nononononono! It couldn't be! It...just couldn’t be him.
But it was. From the figure pushed roughly against the wall, to the fur-lined brown jacket, to the messy blonde hair and that ridiculously infuriating cowlick that just wouldn’t stay down, to the way he held.... that - that bastard. It was him. America. He couldn't stomach it, seeing the way he kissed the bastard, the pure friction, sparks of lust first igniting, then being set aflame, tossing and burning each other up.
It was beyond disgusting.
England gripped his briefcase tightly, knuckles turning white, and forced himself to move on, heading straight home. He then proceeded to open his stash of alcohol, mixed himself the most potent concoction he could think of, and after drinking with a vengeance, finally collapsed into a dark oblivion of sleep.
He woke up the next morning with a heavy head and double vision, walked towards the kitchen and sprawled dazedly against the counter. The images still burned in his mind, causing a bout of nausea that threatened to flood his throat.
He should have had known. He really should have had known that this would have happened. But it didn't matter, did it? His faith for him had dwindled down to the small flame of a tiny candle, wick burning; steadily growing dimmer by the minute.
England stopped short, hairs on end, body frozen in shock. Wasn't he supposed to have been back by now? Or were his ears playing tricks on him? He entertained the latter for a moment, only to have his dread reconfirmed. From a dingy alley in a secluded corner, he heard the sounds of shuffled steps and needy moans. He did not dare move, fearing the inevitable. But it was obvious, the voice - the ragged pants and pleasured gasps he was so accustomed to were that of one person.
The one person who should have been back home. In New York.
Not here. Not in London. No. No!
Nononononono! It couldn't be! It...just couldn’t be him.
But it was. From the figure pushed roughly against the wall, to the fur-lined brown jacket, to the messy blonde hair and that ridiculously infuriating cowlick that just wouldn’t stay down, to the way he held.... that - that bastard. It was him. America. He couldn't stomach it, seeing the way he kissed the bastard, the pure friction, sparks of lust first igniting, then being set aflame, tossing and burning each other up.
It was beyond disgusting.
England gripped his briefcase tightly, knuckles turning white, and forced himself to move on, heading straight home. He then proceeded to open his stash of alcohol, mixed himself the most potent concoction he could think of, and after drinking with a vengeance, finally collapsed into a dark oblivion of sleep.
He woke up the next morning with a heavy head and double vision, walked towards the kitchen and sprawled dazedly against the counter. The images still burned in his mind, causing a bout of nausea that threatened to flood his throat.
He should have had known. He really should have had known that this would have happened. But it didn't matter, did it? His faith for him had dwindled down to the small flame of a tiny candle, wick burning; steadily growing dimmer by the minute.
Inevitability.
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