Misplaced Soil | USUK | 10/?
anonymous
April 29 2010, 19:22:55 UTC
“Easy for you to say!” England shouted, choked slightly. “Maybe I should have done something instead of just letting myself and my administration act as your little lapdog and your constant booty call whenever the fuck you damned well pleased! Maybe if we hadn’t been so busy sucking your precious dick my country wouldn’t be in such a mess-if we’d just refused and ignored your selfish, fucked up whims you would have been alone and we really could have just fucking isolated you from doing stupid things!”
America stared at him and didn’t shoot back with a lofty comeback as England had half expected. Instead he just stared at England a moment, his face contorted in rage, before he turned his face away.
“Oh.”
It was in that moment that England knew he’d said too much.
“It’d be much better if my administrations could focus on Europe than on being your little sidekick, at your whim to be played with,” England said and secretly hated himself for saying even morewhen he didn’t need to.
America didn’t say anything right away, his expression darkened. The earlier laughter was completely gone, and England silently mourned the course of the morning had taken-this hadn’t been what he’d wanted at all. His heart pounded.
“Give me back my shirt,” America said suddenly, whipping his hands out and shoving England’s jacket off. England gave a shout of protest but America ignored him, nearly ripping the jacket off and fingers fumbling for England’s buttons. He shoved the fabric off England, leaving him with just the tie and his undershirt.
America turned on his heel, holding his shirt, and stomped away, leaving England alone in the bathroom.
What followed was a tense, morose silence. England glanced wearily at the clock and knew he’d be late. He picked up his wrinkled shirt and shrugged into it, undoing his tie to redo the knot around his new shirt. He picked up the jacket America had discarded so carelessly. He glanced at the other nation’s back, who stood at the window, arms crossed and head bowed. England wondered if he should say sorry but thought better of it-
Why should he be the one to apologize when the idiot refused to acknowledge the disparity in their two country’s relationship? It made no sense.
As if sensing England’s gaze on him, America turned his head and glared at England. England glared back, straightening his tie and turning his face away.
“Well then,” he said, primly, “I’ll take my leave.”
“Why don’t you just stab me in the back and be done with it already, huh?” America asked. “It’d be faster.”
“Shut the fuck up, you twit,” England snapped. “I’m sure you’ll be able to carry on just as well as you have been in Iraq and Afghanistan without your little poodle to kick around.”
“Yeah, it’s not like you’re ever any help anyway,” America snapped back, arms crossed still as he turned to face England fully. “I don’t know how I’ll possibly survive without you-what was it? Sucking my ‘precious dick’, or whatever. Oh and by the way?”
“What?” England was almost afraid to ask.
“You give bad head, anyway.”
“Oh-!” England began, before the words sank in and he looked taken aback. That really hadn’t been the insult he’d expected.
America slanted his eyes away, and England recognized in the back of his mind that America really was upset but-but so was England. He wouldn’t apologize, he wouldn’t-that’d be admitting that England was wrong when he wasn’t. America was a selfish boy, but when he looked like that-
England couldn’t, didn’t want to fight him. Not really. They fought all the time, especially when England came to stay with America or vice versa. But it never left England feeling as if he might cry, or made America look as if he was about ready to do the same.
“My dear-”
“Don’t fucking call me that,” America snapped. “I’m not yours-I haven’t been yours for two hundred years and I’m never gonna be your anything. So stop it, it’s annoying.”
America stared at him and didn’t shoot back with a lofty comeback as England had half expected. Instead he just stared at England a moment, his face contorted in rage, before he turned his face away.
“Oh.”
It was in that moment that England knew he’d said too much.
“It’d be much better if my administrations could focus on Europe than on being your little sidekick, at your whim to be played with,” England said and secretly hated himself for saying even morewhen he didn’t need to.
America didn’t say anything right away, his expression darkened. The earlier laughter was completely gone, and England silently mourned the course of the morning had taken-this hadn’t been what he’d wanted at all. His heart pounded.
“Give me back my shirt,” America said suddenly, whipping his hands out and shoving England’s jacket off. England gave a shout of protest but America ignored him, nearly ripping the jacket off and fingers fumbling for England’s buttons. He shoved the fabric off England, leaving him with just the tie and his undershirt.
America turned on his heel, holding his shirt, and stomped away, leaving England alone in the bathroom.
What followed was a tense, morose silence. England glanced wearily at the clock and knew he’d be late. He picked up his wrinkled shirt and shrugged into it, undoing his tie to redo the knot around his new shirt. He picked up the jacket America had discarded so carelessly. He glanced at the other nation’s back, who stood at the window, arms crossed and head bowed. England wondered if he should say sorry but thought better of it-
Why should he be the one to apologize when the idiot refused to acknowledge the disparity in their two country’s relationship? It made no sense.
As if sensing England’s gaze on him, America turned his head and glared at England. England glared back, straightening his tie and turning his face away.
“Well then,” he said, primly, “I’ll take my leave.”
“Why don’t you just stab me in the back and be done with it already, huh?” America asked. “It’d be faster.”
“Shut the fuck up, you twit,” England snapped. “I’m sure you’ll be able to carry on just as well as you have been in Iraq and Afghanistan without your little poodle to kick around.”
“Yeah, it’s not like you’re ever any help anyway,” America snapped back, arms crossed still as he turned to face England fully. “I don’t know how I’ll possibly survive without you-what was it? Sucking my ‘precious dick’, or whatever. Oh and by the way?”
“What?” England was almost afraid to ask.
“You give bad head, anyway.”
“Oh-!” England began, before the words sank in and he looked taken aback. That really hadn’t been the insult he’d expected.
America slanted his eyes away, and England recognized in the back of his mind that America really was upset but-but so was England. He wouldn’t apologize, he wouldn’t-that’d be admitting that England was wrong when he wasn’t. America was a selfish boy, but when he looked like that-
England couldn’t, didn’t want to fight him. Not really. They fought all the time, especially when England came to stay with America or vice versa. But it never left England feeling as if he might cry, or made America look as if he was about ready to do the same.
“My dear-”
“Don’t fucking call me that,” America snapped. “I’m not yours-I haven’t been yours for two hundred years and I’m never gonna be your anything. So stop it, it’s annoying.”
“I-” England began.
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