Punch Drunk Love(1.5/?)
anonymous
April 20 2010, 04:38:18 UTC
Said answer seeking had been inspired when he had been drinking with America after a grueling world conference in London. The circumstances hadn't been different from any other instance where he and America had gone to the pub. At the time, he had been extremely drunk, while a somehow still-sober America watched on. This was also staple occurrence every time the two countries would go drinking together, (bloody Alfred and his ability to process liquor.)
The combination of alcohol and lowered inhibitions, Arthur finally made an actual pass at Alfred. He didn’t understand so much why he chose now, as not earlier, or later… but somehow, NOW was the time.
200 years later, America still was clueless. America had laughed at him, patted him on the back, and grinned with his same, beaming smile as he commented to Arthur,
“England, you’re gonna feel like shit tomorrow.”
But the American hadn’t rejected him. Even after Arthur had trailed his hand down near the lonely state of Florida, America had simply shifted away. No shout, no curse, no tearing out of the establishment. He just acted like it hadn’t happened. All was evident was a slight flush of the face, an ever so slight intake of the breath- and one more drink later, the two of them leaving the pub, America escorting the drunken nation home.
By then, England was so hammered he could barely focus on walking, letting alone trying again. Only when he reached the doorstep did he even bother a second shot.
“Stay wiff me,“ he mumbled, with a pathetic look in America’s direction. Despite his intoxication, the feeling that pulled on his heart was reminiscent of when he had told a small colony the same thing. But Alfred had left him. Left him in the rain with his bloody Revolution-
“England, I got a flight out of Heathrow tomorrow morning. Y’know, American hero type stuff going down in Washington. I can’t miss it.” The blue eye winked at him, and England’s stomach lurched. Arthur had then grabbed America to steady himself. He distantly recalled Alfred tensing up immensely at the touch, and a small, choked off noise.
But once again, America didn’t shove him off. He simply used that godawful strength of his to pry England off him, walk him into his flat, and set him up to lie down on the couch. By then England was feeling drowsy, so he barely cared, only mumbling nonsensically.
The last thing he recalled was the half-dreamed feeling of someone gently running fingers through his hair.
Punch Drunk Love (2/?)
anonymous
April 26 2010, 06:55:36 UTC
The next day, England had felt like someone had kicked his head in several times. He had threw up several times upon waking- (thoughtfully, America had left a rubbish bin right next to the couch) and groaned aloud to the emptiness of his flat.
While the morning hours were spent in a hangover hell, by the afternoon his illness had stopped enough to get him to actually think about the previous night’s events.
While there were definite gaps in his memory, he remembered two important things:
1.) He had finally had made recognizable, non-subtle pass at America. 2.) America had neither accepted nor rejected him.
And that was what really confused Arthur. As embarrassed as England was now, (and he would have to ensure at the next time he saw America, he would immediately play off anything the nation would try to instigate to rile him up) the night had indeed brought him answer.
He still had no fucking clue if America possibly replicated his feelings.
The nation growled, rolling over on his stomach on the plush couch. America had shown signs of interest- the flushed cheeks, the hesitant gasp there… and yet he had shied away from contact. Every single time.
What did that mean?
The answer didn’t come to Arthur until several days later, when he had been flipping channels through the telly, landing on the international version of CNN. The American reporter on the screen was standing next to a busy street, while a throng of people behind her waved signs at ongoing traffic.
“Today, in Connecticut, members of the Sunlife Congregation are protesting against the legalization of same-sex marriage’-
England pressed the clicker onwards, uninterested.
"TRY CILLIT BANG-"
Ugh.
After clicking through various channels for quite some time, he left the television on the BBC as he went to prepare some afternoon tea. After said tea making was done, he came back to a documentary attempting to explain some holiday in the states called Thanksgiving. England had only begun to move his finger down the remote in disinterest about some random celebration about eating (typical America), when the narrator mentioned a sentence that had him pause his finger-
“The first American Thanksgiving, celebrated by the Puritans, would mark a tradition that would stem a long lasting tradition of celebrating the harvest. However, it was not officially a holiday in the country until 1863, whereas-“
But England was no longer listening. Instead, he was remembering.
The Puritans.
Arthur distantly remembered their request to go the New World. At the time, he had simply shrugged, given them his blessing, and thought privately to himself it was best if their little religious sect was far the hell away from his own Church of England.
Mulling that over, England recalled the Puritans also being especially opposed to any type of open sexuality. But that was a long, long time ago.
Hm.
Arthur turned off the television with a click of the button.
First, the Puritans had gone off with their beliefs. Then, hundreds of years later, other religious groups had taken their place, protesting many of the same things they had. America had been subjected to centuries of passionate religious thinking.
England knew America wasn’t a reflection of these at all. Rather, he was more aloof towards religions, only stating in response to an enquiry- “Separation of Church and State.”
But that didn’t mean those strong ideals didn’t have an influence on how America acted. Thinking it over, Arthur felt he may have misjudged Alfred’s denseness in romance incorrectly. Perhaps, deep down, Alfred wanted England as much as he desired his former colony.
However, America might be shy towards any advances due to that self-repression that began with the Puritans, and was expressed today by other religious groups. That had to be the answer to all this nonsense…it made the most sense….but how to pry America’s feelings out of him?
England knew there was only way surefire way to pry an answer out of Alfred.
Somehow, he was going to have to get him seriously drunk.
The combination of alcohol and lowered inhibitions, Arthur finally made an actual pass at Alfred. He didn’t understand so much why he chose now, as not earlier, or later… but somehow, NOW was the time.
200 years later, America still was clueless. America had laughed at him, patted him on the back, and grinned with his same, beaming smile as he commented to Arthur,
“England, you’re gonna feel like shit tomorrow.”
But the American hadn’t rejected him. Even after Arthur had trailed his hand down near the lonely state of Florida, America had simply shifted away. No shout, no curse, no tearing out of the establishment. He just acted like it hadn’t happened. All was evident was a slight flush of the face, an ever so slight intake of the breath- and one more drink later, the two of them leaving the pub, America escorting the drunken nation home.
By then, England was so hammered he could barely focus on walking, letting alone trying again. Only when he reached the doorstep did he even bother a second shot.
“Stay wiff me,“ he mumbled, with a pathetic look in America’s direction. Despite his intoxication, the feeling that pulled on his heart was reminiscent of when he had told a small colony the same thing. But Alfred had left him. Left him in the rain with his bloody Revolution-
“England, I got a flight out of Heathrow tomorrow morning. Y’know, American hero type stuff going down in Washington. I can’t miss it.” The blue eye winked at him, and England’s stomach lurched. Arthur had then grabbed America to steady himself. He distantly recalled Alfred tensing up immensely at the touch, and a small, choked off noise.
But once again, America didn’t shove him off. He simply used that godawful strength of his to pry England off him, walk him into his flat, and set him up to lie down on the couch. By then England was feeling drowsy, so he barely cared, only mumbling nonsensically.
The last thing he recalled was the half-dreamed feeling of someone gently running fingers through his hair.
And then, the sound of the door shutting.
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Btw, I think you forgot to post this to the fills page? I only found it through a sudden urge to stalk :P
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And your writing isn't bad at all! Can't wait to see more!
recaptcha says "flimflam to". O.o Just what are you suggesting?
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While the morning hours were spent in a hangover hell, by the afternoon his illness had stopped enough to get him to actually think about the previous night’s events.
While there were definite gaps in his memory, he remembered two important things:
1.) He had finally had made recognizable, non-subtle pass at America.
2.) America had neither accepted nor rejected him.
And that was what really confused Arthur. As embarrassed as England was now, (and he would have to ensure at the next time he saw America, he would immediately play off anything the nation would try to instigate to rile him up) the night had indeed brought him answer.
He still had no fucking clue if America possibly replicated his feelings.
The nation growled, rolling over on his stomach on the plush couch. America had shown signs of interest- the flushed cheeks, the hesitant gasp there… and yet he had shied away from contact. Every single time.
What did that mean?
The answer didn’t come to Arthur until several days later, when he had been flipping channels through the telly, landing on the international version of CNN. The American reporter on the screen was standing next to a busy street, while a throng of people behind her waved signs at ongoing traffic.
“Today, in Connecticut, members of the Sunlife Congregation are protesting against the legalization of same-sex marriage’-
England pressed the clicker onwards, uninterested.
"TRY CILLIT BANG-"
Ugh.
After clicking through various channels for quite some time, he left the television on the BBC as he went to prepare some afternoon tea. After said tea making was done, he came back to a documentary attempting to explain some holiday in the states called Thanksgiving. England had only begun to move his finger down the remote in disinterest about some random celebration about eating (typical America), when the narrator mentioned a sentence that had him pause his finger-
“The first American Thanksgiving, celebrated by the Puritans, would mark a tradition that would stem a long lasting tradition of celebrating the harvest. However, it was not officially a holiday in the country until 1863, whereas-“
But England was no longer listening. Instead, he was remembering.
The Puritans.
Arthur distantly remembered their request to go the New World. At the time, he had simply shrugged, given them his blessing, and thought privately to himself it was best if their little religious sect was far the hell away from his own Church of England.
Mulling that over, England recalled the Puritans also being especially opposed to any type of open sexuality. But that was a long, long time ago.
Hm.
Arthur turned off the television with a click of the button.
First, the Puritans had gone off with their beliefs. Then, hundreds of years later, other religious groups had taken their place, protesting many of the same things they had. America had been subjected to centuries of passionate religious thinking.
England knew America wasn’t a reflection of these at all. Rather, he was more aloof towards religions, only stating in response to an enquiry- “Separation of Church and State.”
But that didn’t mean those strong ideals didn’t have an influence on how America acted. Thinking it over, Arthur felt he may have misjudged Alfred’s denseness in romance incorrectly. Perhaps, deep down, Alfred wanted England as much as he desired his former colony.
However, America might be shy towards any advances due to that self-repression that began with the Puritans, and was expressed today by other religious groups. That had to be the answer to all this nonsense…it made the most sense….but how to pry America’s feelings out of him?
England knew there was only way surefire way to pry an answer out of Alfred.
Somehow, he was going to have to get him seriously drunk.
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Can't wait for the next part.
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reCaptcha: of wantoner. Yes Captcha, I think things will get rather wanton later. :P
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and now I think I get the title haha *is slow*
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