Misplaced Soil | USUK | 12/?
anonymous
May 1 2010, 20:09:28 UTC
Fighting was normal in a healthy relationship-England knew that. But England also knew that it probably wasn’t healthy to go from one extreme to the other in his relationship with America: wanting to coddle the little bastard one moment and then wanting to smash his face in. It was probably also unhealthy how many times England found he wanted to smash America’s face in on a regular basis.
Stomping outside, waiting for the bus, and riding towards his destination left England with plenty of time to fest his rage (he could have taken the limousine, but if he was going to talk about global warming, he may as well practice what he preached). Except within fifteen minutes he was slumped against the window and muttering obscenities to himself and fighting the ridiculous urge to cry. Cars honked outside and he watched indifferently as pedestrians dove for safety in the face of the onslaught of city buses, cars, and bicyclists. England muttered curses under his breath and his fellow bus patrons gave him slightly deranged looks, undoubtedly trying to determine whether or not England really was from England (damn America and his citizen’s obsessions with his accent-it wasn’t that damned exotic, honestly).
He made it to his meeting only a few minutes late, but it seemed the rest of his men were running behind schedule regardless, so it left England a few precious moments to boil some water (once again with a cauldron of a kettle, what was with the lack of electric kettles? Surely they existed) and make himself a soothing cup of chamomile tea. Except it wasn’t very soothing and he left the teabag in for too long, leaving the tea to taste bitter and unpleasant. England drank it anyway.
“Are you alright, sir?” one of his aides asked later, peering at his unpressed pants, his wrinkled shirt, and the slightly lopsided tie.
England stared at him for a long moment before sighing. “I’m quite alright.”
Possibly embarrassed, the aide nodded and didn’t pressed the issue. England remained sitting, letting the men around him drone on and feeling all the words rush over his head. His fingers traced the lip of his teacup and felt the dread pooling in his stomach, ushered in by the bitter taste of chamomile. He was utterly defeated.
“Sir,” another aide said after a break in the meeting. England glanced at him and then at the clock-two hours had passed but England hadn’t noticed any time moving, nor could he remember what anyone had spoken about for the past two hours. “Sir,” his aide said again and England’s attention flickered back. “Sir, do you have the papers?”
“The what?” England asked and then the words registered and he shook his head. “Oh, yes, of course. Of course, they’re right here…”
He opened his briefcase and stared. And then stared longer. And then continued to stare, as if continuing to stare would mean that the papers would magically appear in his briefcase, as they should be, and everything would be just as it was meant to be.
Misplaced Soil | USUK | 13/?
anonymous
May 1 2010, 20:10:28 UTC
But no, in England’s mind eye, he could see the papers sitting in their silly manila folder precariously and perfectly innocently on the kitchen table in America’s apartment.
“Oh,” England said softly.
“Sir?” asked the aide.
England shook his head. “Fuck.”
The aide looked startled, reeling back at the sudden curse and blinking owlishly at England, who muttered a few more profanities.
“God damn it.” England sighed. “I left them behind.”
He continued to spout out some blasphemy towards God before he shook his head with a sigh, pressing a hand to his face.
“I’m distracted today.”
“Er… yes,” the aide agreed. He shuffled the papers he did hold. “Well… where you’re staying isn’t too far from here, is it? If we take our lunch break now, you can pop over and pick the papers up, can’t you?”
The other aides in the room agreed, with small nods and sympathetic looks at England, who did indeed look incredibly out of it and flustered, unprofessional looking in his wrinkled suit and his morose expressions, worse than usual. England nodded his agreement, clipped his briefcase shut, turned on his heel, and left the building to go back, albeit hesitantly, towards he apartment. Not that America would be there-he would have left for his meeting over an hour ago.
The ride back on the city bus was just as tense as before, only England couldn’t shake the feeling of disgust, and the bile rising in his throat. The city smelled like sour milk and it left England to mutter more obscenities about color-coded milk cartons of two percent and one percent and sixty-eight percent or whatever stupid coding system America used to label his milk. America, America-
The bus stopped at his stop and England remembered to scramble off the bus in time before he was whisked away down more city blocks in the wrong direction. He straightened his tie, smoothed down his hair-and wondered why he was making himself presentable for something that would take less than a minute. He knew exactly where the papers were, exactly where he needed to go and how to get back. He’d spend more time waiting for the bus than he would capturing the papers and wrangling them into his briefcase.
So of course America was there when England opened the door.
They stared at each other in surprise, England’s hand still on the door handle. When he saw another body he thought perhaps he’d walked right into the wrong room and was about to shut the door with a quick apology before green eyes locked with the baby blue ones, staring at him in wide-eyed surprise.
And then the tense silence followed.
“Ba-England.” That was America’s voice, all right, saturated with surprise.
“Bengland?” England repeated, slightly dazed. He stepped into the apartment, closing the door behind him.
America puffed up and looked away. “Yeah. I added a B to your name.”
“Oh?”
“The B’s for Bitch.” America turned away completely now, crossing his arms.
“Oh,” England muttered. “Of course.”
Of course it would come down to something like this. England felt the anger return full-force, and hated that he’d actually felt remorseful earlier in the day. America didn’t deserve any sympathy-the idiot always expected everything to be handed to him on a silver platter and-
England was too tired to think about it, so he sighed and walked towards the kitchen. “What are you still doing here?”
“Boss thought I looked like I needed the day off,” America said, still not looking at England. England tried not to think about why it was that America’s boss would give the boy the day off, just how one looked like they needed it… or why America looked that way. He made a beeline for the manila folder waiting for him. America called after him, “What the hell are you doing here?”
Misplaced Soil | USUK | 14/?
anonymous
May 1 2010, 20:11:20 UTC
“Forgot these,” England said, snatching up the papers and waving it over his shoulder before clicking open his briefcase and slipping the papers inside.
“Oh, the details for how you’re going to just abandon me?”
“Can we not talk about this, please?” England said with a sigh. “And for your information, that is not what these papers are for.”
“Whatever, England.”
“America,” England said calmly, closing his briefcase and straightening, already moving towards the front door again. “Stop behaving like a child.”
“Only if you stop behaving like a Grade A Douchebag,” America protested, in what was, naturally, an incredibly childish manner.
England rolled his eyes, slipped his fingers through his hair, and sighed. “I’m not. If you would just think for once in your life, you would realize-”
“I thought you were here to apologize,” America admitted, crossing his arms and trying to look nonchalant as he leaned against the wall, hip jutted out slightly.
England felt his entire body twitch. “Me?”
“Yeah.”
“If anyone’s to apologize, it’ll be you,” England snapped, staring at the man he inexplicably loved. (Really, England had to wonder just how much of a masochist he was.)
“Yeah right.”
“See, it’s that stubborn nature of yours that makes you so unbearable.”
“Fuck you!”
“America,” England said, tense, looking desperately at his feet before lifting his gaze and staring at America-angry, so angry, but trying so hard to get him to understand. “America, listen to me-”
America snorted.
England’s brow furrowed. “How it is now-it isn’t equal. Think about it. Just think.”
“Whatever,” America said. “You got your papers. Leave me alone. I’m going to go kill some commies.”
And with that, America stalked away, undoubtedly to go play one of his video games. England lowered his eyes and closed the door behind him.
---
The rest of the meetings went on without much incident. It was clear that England’s mind was elsewhere, so the men working around him did their best to work around the issues and present the facts. England stared vacantly at the papers, at the powerpoint slides. It wasn’t clear whether anything even made it into his consciousness. He stayed, hunched slightly, hand in his chin and staring morosely at the table-ignoring his heart.
“Perhaps it’s foggy in London,” he heard one of his aides whisper and England closed his eyes, letting them believe that was the reason. It was sunny in London today, but there was smog. But that didn’t seem to register in England’s heart.
When they broke for a few minutes, for coffee and the wash room, England spent his time at the window, looking out over the American cityscape, his eyes hooded and his mind elsewhere. He couldn’t fight back the things in his heart, the things he knew would never be but that he could not help but shake, something where he woke up in the morning and it existed.
Time could take its toll on the best of them, and England felt far too old despite looking so young. And being with America, who was infinitely younger in both body and spirit left him to feel a bit like a setting sun. Or just something that was falling-something easily forgotten, discarded, and replaced.
Misplaced Soil | USUK | 15/?
anonymous
May 1 2010, 20:13:11 UTC
He knew that America cared-it was impossible to forgot the way those blue eyes looked at him as he bent over England (impossible baby blue). Impossible to forget the soft touch of hands smoothing over the bruises he left (apologetic, trying so hard to curb his strength), impossible to forget the soft touch of his lips to his (for good luck, for good bye, for hello again). Impossible to forget those moments when he bent his laws for him, when he found a way to always fly back to him even when his people said no (soft hands wrapping bandages around him, quiet lips brushing over his sweating forehead, the softly whispered words that America was always too proud to admit to saying the next morning…).
“Fuck,” he whispered as he felt tears prickling at the back of his eyes.
He forced himself to remember his faults, also impossible to forget-
Obnoxious, self-centered, dismissive, entitled…
Blue eyes that seemed to light up whenever they saw him, a smile only for him, fingers lacing together between the sheets, the honeyed, soured taste of a kiss in the morning, the smell of coffee spilling onto pillowcases…
Forgetful, dismissive, entitled, taking advantage as he saw fit, poking his nose into others business, throwing fits when others didn’t do what he wanted-
Keeping tea in the cupboard for him, buying union jack boxers just to see England’s face when he finally took his clothes off, resting quietly in his lap as England did his needlework-
“Fuck,” England hissed.
Focus, focus-
Always making fun of him on July fourth, always leaving him to drink alone, demanding so much from him and his people, knowing nothing about his own culture, butchering the English language, pollution, hypocrisy, flirting with other nations…
Laughing, laughing, laughing in his ear as England straddled him, drinking his tea. Laughing, so softly, fingers curled in his hair, face split into a smile just for him-
Fuck.
---
That's all for now! Short little update today. Not much to do with the article this round, but I promise we'll return to it soon.
Thanks everyone for such nice comments. You've all been way too nice to me thus far and I really appreciate it.
Re: Misplaced Soil | USUK | 15/?
anonymous
May 1 2010, 20:24:07 UTC
... hmmmm I think I might know who you are, anon~ (And if I'm right, I think you should deanon once this is done! And even if I'm wrong, it'd still be great to know the awesome person who's writing this!)
This installment was great. Don't be so hard on yourself. Can't wait for more.
Re: Misplaced Soil | USUK | 15/?
anonymous
May 2 2010, 06:28:34 UTC
Just found this fill and it has instantly become a top favourite! Hell, normally I don't even like USUK that much, but their relationship dynamic is so real and so human. I can't get enough! I eagerly await next update! Oh, and also the smut is wonderful. Everything about this fill makes me so happy and sad and upset and conflicted and tl;dr anon I think I love you and this is best ever. ♥♥♥
Re: Misplaced Soil | USUK | 15/?
anonymous
May 2 2010, 13:04:36 UTC
*sobs* Ahhh, England! Ah, America! That last bit when he's remembering, despite himself, Alfred being adorable, I got all teary. Y'know, I was kinda expecting something cracky, what with the Cracked article, but it's not, and yet it fits SO WELL. Is the bit where the British author of the article goads his wife into leaving him going to be involved? I laughed when I read that but I have a feeling I'll sob when you do it - and that's not an insult, that's a compliment to your powers of writing.
Small request: reading this late at night kind of inspired me to write a small fic, not really following this except the 'america and england break up over England's withdrawing support' could I post it?
author!anon here
anonymous
May 2 2010, 17:51:45 UTC
I'm not the best at writing crack, so throwing in drama was my clever ruse to make up for my limitations in writing. |D /has been discovered
And you don't have to ask permission for something like that. I'm hardly the creator of the idea, after all, and I'd love to see what you've written. ♥
Re: author!anon here
anonymous
May 2 2010, 21:02:03 UTC
In my opinion, really touching drama, where you really make your readers feel and don't just resort to tired over-the-top traumas (OMG he's raped! OMG they're suicidal! OMG he's dead!) is a mark of really sharp writing skills, and I think you have those. So kudos again!
Random!anon here :D
anonymous
May 3 2010, 10:52:21 UTC
In my opinion, really touching drama, where you really make your readers feel and don't just resort to tired over-the-top traumas (OMG he's raped! OMG they're suicidal! OMG he's dead!) is a mark of really sharp writing skills
I agree with you so damn much, fellow anon. <3<3<3 I'm kind of glad to know I'm not alone!
Re: Random!anon here :D
anonymous
May 3 2010, 11:03:53 UTC
Heheheh thanks. I'm really amazed, Hetalia fandom has such good writers in it. I think the Bealtaine and Serenity-verse authors - oh, and whoever wrote Elastic People - are among the best I've ever met at it.
Misplaced Soil | USUK | 16/?
anonymous
May 2 2010, 23:30:34 UTC
The rest of the meetings ran on in such a manner, with England’s mind visibly elsewhere. No one pressed him on the issues, and England offered up no excuses, though he tried a few times to focus in on the conversation, only to be hit with a sense of revulsion and withdraw again-listening to politics was too tiring, too tiring when all his mind picked up on was ‘America this’ and ‘America that.’
At the end of the day, he stayed in the executive bathroom for a long while, staring at himself in the mirror, pausing occasionally to wash his face, hands pressed against his face as if trying to recollect some dignity and, quite possibly, sanity.
“Maybe I should just apologize,” he told his reflection, dripping with water from the facet. His reflection stared back at him.
He was far too tired. England lowered his gaze, taking up a towel and wiping his hands absently, staring down at the sink and the counter, tracing the lines of the tiles. He sighed. He sighed twice.
“No,” he said faintly, “Don’t be ridiculous.”
It would be better if neither of them were dependent on the other. In the grand scheme of things, this was quite possibly a blessing in disguise. It would be bad to be on the United States’ bad side, but at the same time separating himself from the country would give him a better footing in European matters, instead of actively dismissed as the lapdog. England snorted quietly to himself-who would have believed that the once great British Empire would be accused of being subordinate to an upstart little colony? The irony was not lost on England, who he didn’t find it particularly entertaining or amusing.
“If I just explain the situation to him…” England murmured. “If he’d just listen…”
He curled his fingers along the edge of the sink and leaned forward, resting his forehead against the cool surface of the glass. His eyes hurt from reading too much-reading and no comprehension.
“I’ll make him dinner,” he decided. “I’ll explain.”
---
The problem with making dinner, of course, was that England was very much alone in the world. He stood helplessly in an aisle, staring at all the brands he didn’t even recognize. Under normal circumstances, when he visited America, the boy would do the grocery shopping. He’d occasionally come back with British brand names that England recognized, though England couldn’t discern where the hell the boy found them from (he was lost in a foreign grocery store, staring at brand names and products he couldn’t recognize if he tried). With a growing sense of desperation, he almost debated calling America’s apartment and demanding help. But he refused to allow such a thing to happen.
Instead, he stared at a can of kidney beans with utmost concentration that he knew if the can of beans had any consciousness it would just wither and die. As such, it was just a can and England was just staring at it rather harshly in the center of a grocery store aisle. He shifted his gaze between one can and the other, lost as to determine which would be better. One was a dollar more, and that probably meant it was higher quality, but was the cheaper one really so terrible?
He stared at the prices. He stared a very long time.
He stared at the size. He stared a very long time.
“Why doesn’t this idiot use the metric system?” England muttered to himself, staring desperately. “I’ve visited this damn country for years and I still don’t understand it. I don’t think even he understands it.”
The cans didn’t answer him, which was just as well.
England reached into his pocket, digging around for the right amount of money, to make sure he had enough to even purchase a can of kidney beans-he wasn’t even sure what he’d make for America once he returned to the apartment, or even if America would want anything he’d make, but damned if it wasn’t going to have kidney beans in it.
“… The five cent piece is probably the smallest, right?” he asked the can of kidney beans, inspecting the small silver coin with utmost distaste. It said ‘one dime’ on it, which was hardly any help for England. “The dime is ten cents, isn’t it?”
Misplaced Soil | USUK | 17/?
anonymous
May 2 2010, 23:31:15 UTC
He dug around in his pocket and pulled out a nickel. That one, thankfully, actually said it was five cents.
“That doesn’t even make any fucking sense,” England muttered to the coins in his hand, who glittered up at him under the harsh fluorescent light above him. “Why is the smallest coin worth more than the five cent piece? And why doesn’t the stupid thing even say it’s worth ten cents!”
He realized, belatedly, that he was talking to coins, and had been talking to cans of beans earlier. But it wouldn’t be the strangest thing that England had ever done, at least according to America. England smiled bitterly. No, probably America would make some snide comment that at least this time he could see the weird things that England was talking to. And then he’d probably run away before England could explain the fairies and his unicorn were very much real, breathing creatures.
“… At least he uses the decimal system,” England conceded, hanging his head. Perhaps he was too hard on America.
But then again…
He really needed to stop thinking.
“Come now,” he said, grabbing the cheaper can of kidney beans off the shelf and throwing it into his basket. “Stiff upper lip.”
He turned to keep walking and found a hapless woman staring at him with wide eyes, holding a can of pineapples. It seemed his British accent was enough to send her into a coma, and possibly the British phrase hadn’t done much for her psyche. Flushing, England excused himself and quickly walked away-if there was one thing he would never get used to it, it was American citizens’ fascination with his accent.
“You’d think if they were so enamored by it, they’d attempt to know more about the culture beyond tea and the Beatles.”
America, too, always seemed rather charmed by the accent. Especially if it was whispered words in the early morning, underneath the sheets-dirty words that would make England blush afterward and-
He really, really needed to stop thinking.
He moved slowly down the aisles, collecting a few things-he couldn’t find anything remotely typical in a British store, but he was used to such things-and wandered towards the produce section. He stood there silently a moment, watching various other store patrons. Three for a dollar-that was a deal, wasn’t it? Was two dollars and fifty-five cents a pound too much?
He fell into another heavy, morose silence. Aubergines. He wanted aubergines, he decided.
Except he couldn’t see them listed with the other vegetables. England frowned. He’d seen America purchase them before, so he knew they definitely existed in his country. He scoped around and couldn’t see it right away. He sighed, giving up. He approached the food stocker, shelving loaves of bread by the bucketful the next aisle ever.
“I beg your pardon,” he said.
The woman jumped, looking startled-again, with the reaction to the accent-and stared at him a moment before smiling. “Yes, sir, can I help you?”
The ‘may’ was already on England’s lips, to correct her, but he restrained himself. America would throw a fit if he learned England was going around correcting his citizens’ grammar. It was something that England only really liked to do with America, though, aggravations aside. He always reacted so strongly…
England cleared his throat. “I was searching through the produce section and I was hoping you could point me in the direction of the aubergines.”
She stared at him for a longer moment before mouthing the word to herself and finally managing to parrot: “Aubergines?”
“Yes. The aubergines,” England said again, and started moving his hands to demonstrate what one looked like.
Apparently, the hand movements were too overwhelming for the poor woman, however, as she looked to be having an intensely erotic experience, cleared her throat, and closed her eyes. After waving haphazardly towards all the produce in the store, she quickly excused herself and went along her way, face red.
Misplaced Soil | USUK | 18/?
anonymous
May 2 2010, 23:31:49 UTC
“… Well, if they’re here, I suppose I missed them,” England mused to himself and, taking his basket, retreated to the produce section again, searching out the aubergines. It took him far longer than he would have liked, and he debated just giving up.
And then he found them.
“Eggplants.” England stared at the purple vegetable in shock, and then stared up at the ceiling. “Eggplants.”
His hand was reaching for his cellphone before he could stop it, going to dial to America and tell him that he was an idiot. But he thought better of it and called France instead.
“Eggplants!” he shouted into the phone as soon as he heard France pick up. “He calls aubergines ‘eggplants’!”
France made a distant noise and England realized belatedly (and with a bit of sinful glee) that it was late in France. France’s heavily accented, albeit sleepy, cooed, “Hello to you, too.”
“Yes, yes,” England interrupted. “But honestly. He calls them eggplants. Why would he do that? They aren’t even shaped like an egg!”
He help the aubergine up, cupping it in his palm and staring at it as if it would reveal to him just why it was called the way it was.
France was quiet a moment and England wondered if he’d fallen back asleep. Then France said, “Well, he does enjoy being original, as you know. His logic is a special kind.”
“That’s just a pleasant way of saying he’s a fucking idiot,” England growled, and then glanced warily around to make sure no children were around to hear him cussing.
“Having some troubles, hmmm?” France purred into the phone.
“That’s not any of your business,” England growled, shoving some aubergines into a plastic bag and strangling them into the basket with the rest of his food.
“If you two are having some trouble, perhaps it is my duty as big brother France to come and give you some comfort?”
“Don’t you dare,” England growled into the phone.
“Then perhaps I shall comfort America, instead!” France laughed.
England glared at the aubergines still left to lie innocently against one another. He grabbed another, just in case-America did eat a lot.
“He doesn’t even like you that much right now,” England muttered.
“True enough,” France admitted with a large guffaw, his sleepiness seemingly sinking away in the face of aggravating England further. “In fact, it seems you are the only one who he can honestly say he likes in Europe at the moment, yes? The only one who has stuck with him so readily.”
England fell silent.
France continued, “But, truly. He does have a tendency to rename things he doesn’t like-do you remember, during the world wars, when sauerkraut became liberty cabbage? I find that unspeakably darling. And French fries to freedom fires, ha ha ha! And renaming all your words, too, yes? What is that charming little word he calls biscuits again?”
“Cookies,” England whispered and hated that he felt like crying again.
“Yes, that. How-what is the word-sweet!” France laughed again.
“Whatever, frog. I have to go pay for these aubergines.”
He hung up without waiting for France’s reply. As France did not call back, England assumed that the man had simply gone back to sleep. England pocketed his phone, stood staring at the aubergines for a long moment. And then he felt his bottom lip wobbled and completely hated himself for it.
He felt someone tugging on his coat. He looked down.
“It’s okay,” a little boy said, staring up at him. “I hate vegetables, too.”
England stared at him. “Huh?”
“You look really sad about having to eat eggplants,” the boy explained. “I don’t like them either, but Mama makes me eat them. She said it helps you get stronger, and also I can’t have desert without eating my vegetables. So I do.”
“And where is your mother now?” England asked, slightly taken aback-children, he did not deal with children well (not ever since-).
The child pointed to a woman observing cabbage with a critical eye.
“She’s making me shop with her! But because of that I get to pick out the cereal!”
“That’s a very important task,” England agreed, expression softening.
“Mhm!” the boy said. “She also wanted me to get the eggplants for her.”
Stomping outside, waiting for the bus, and riding towards his destination left England with plenty of time to fest his rage (he could have taken the limousine, but if he was going to talk about global warming, he may as well practice what he preached). Except within fifteen minutes he was slumped against the window and muttering obscenities to himself and fighting the ridiculous urge to cry. Cars honked outside and he watched indifferently as pedestrians dove for safety in the face of the onslaught of city buses, cars, and bicyclists. England muttered curses under his breath and his fellow bus patrons gave him slightly deranged looks, undoubtedly trying to determine whether or not England really was from England (damn America and his citizen’s obsessions with his accent-it wasn’t that damned exotic, honestly).
He made it to his meeting only a few minutes late, but it seemed the rest of his men were running behind schedule regardless, so it left England a few precious moments to boil some water (once again with a cauldron of a kettle, what was with the lack of electric kettles? Surely they existed) and make himself a soothing cup of chamomile tea. Except it wasn’t very soothing and he left the teabag in for too long, leaving the tea to taste bitter and unpleasant. England drank it anyway.
“Are you alright, sir?” one of his aides asked later, peering at his unpressed pants, his wrinkled shirt, and the slightly lopsided tie.
England stared at him for a long moment before sighing. “I’m quite alright.”
Possibly embarrassed, the aide nodded and didn’t pressed the issue. England remained sitting, letting the men around him drone on and feeling all the words rush over his head. His fingers traced the lip of his teacup and felt the dread pooling in his stomach, ushered in by the bitter taste of chamomile. He was utterly defeated.
“Sir,” another aide said after a break in the meeting. England glanced at him and then at the clock-two hours had passed but England hadn’t noticed any time moving, nor could he remember what anyone had spoken about for the past two hours. “Sir,” his aide said again and England’s attention flickered back. “Sir, do you have the papers?”
“The what?” England asked and then the words registered and he shook his head. “Oh, yes, of course. Of course, they’re right here…”
He opened his briefcase and stared. And then stared longer. And then continued to stare, as if continuing to stare would mean that the papers would magically appear in his briefcase, as they should be, and everything would be just as it was meant to be.
Reply
“Oh,” England said softly.
“Sir?” asked the aide.
England shook his head. “Fuck.”
The aide looked startled, reeling back at the sudden curse and blinking owlishly at England, who muttered a few more profanities.
“God damn it.” England sighed. “I left them behind.”
He continued to spout out some blasphemy towards God before he shook his head with a sigh, pressing a hand to his face.
“I’m distracted today.”
“Er… yes,” the aide agreed. He shuffled the papers he did hold. “Well… where you’re staying isn’t too far from here, is it? If we take our lunch break now, you can pop over and pick the papers up, can’t you?”
The other aides in the room agreed, with small nods and sympathetic looks at England, who did indeed look incredibly out of it and flustered, unprofessional looking in his wrinkled suit and his morose expressions, worse than usual. England nodded his agreement, clipped his briefcase shut, turned on his heel, and left the building to go back, albeit hesitantly, towards he apartment. Not that America would be there-he would have left for his meeting over an hour ago.
The ride back on the city bus was just as tense as before, only England couldn’t shake the feeling of disgust, and the bile rising in his throat. The city smelled like sour milk and it left England to mutter more obscenities about color-coded milk cartons of two percent and one percent and sixty-eight percent or whatever stupid coding system America used to label his milk. America, America-
The bus stopped at his stop and England remembered to scramble off the bus in time before he was whisked away down more city blocks in the wrong direction. He straightened his tie, smoothed down his hair-and wondered why he was making himself presentable for something that would take less than a minute. He knew exactly where the papers were, exactly where he needed to go and how to get back. He’d spend more time waiting for the bus than he would capturing the papers and wrangling them into his briefcase.
So of course America was there when England opened the door.
They stared at each other in surprise, England’s hand still on the door handle. When he saw another body he thought perhaps he’d walked right into the wrong room and was about to shut the door with a quick apology before green eyes locked with the baby blue ones, staring at him in wide-eyed surprise.
And then the tense silence followed.
“Ba-England.” That was America’s voice, all right, saturated with surprise.
“Bengland?” England repeated, slightly dazed. He stepped into the apartment, closing the door behind him.
America puffed up and looked away. “Yeah. I added a B to your name.”
“Oh?”
“The B’s for Bitch.” America turned away completely now, crossing his arms.
“Oh,” England muttered. “Of course.”
Of course it would come down to something like this. England felt the anger return full-force, and hated that he’d actually felt remorseful earlier in the day. America didn’t deserve any sympathy-the idiot always expected everything to be handed to him on a silver platter and-
England was too tired to think about it, so he sighed and walked towards the kitchen. “What are you still doing here?”
“Boss thought I looked like I needed the day off,” America said, still not looking at England. England tried not to think about why it was that America’s boss would give the boy the day off, just how one looked like they needed it… or why America looked that way. He made a beeline for the manila folder waiting for him. America called after him, “What the hell are you doing here?”
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“Oh, the details for how you’re going to just abandon me?”
“Can we not talk about this, please?” England said with a sigh. “And for your information, that is not what these papers are for.”
“Whatever, England.”
“America,” England said calmly, closing his briefcase and straightening, already moving towards the front door again. “Stop behaving like a child.”
“Only if you stop behaving like a Grade A Douchebag,” America protested, in what was, naturally, an incredibly childish manner.
England rolled his eyes, slipped his fingers through his hair, and sighed. “I’m not. If you would just think for once in your life, you would realize-”
“I thought you were here to apologize,” America admitted, crossing his arms and trying to look nonchalant as he leaned against the wall, hip jutted out slightly.
England felt his entire body twitch. “Me?”
“Yeah.”
“If anyone’s to apologize, it’ll be you,” England snapped, staring at the man he inexplicably loved. (Really, England had to wonder just how much of a masochist he was.)
“Yeah right.”
“See, it’s that stubborn nature of yours that makes you so unbearable.”
“Fuck you!”
“America,” England said, tense, looking desperately at his feet before lifting his gaze and staring at America-angry, so angry, but trying so hard to get him to understand. “America, listen to me-”
America snorted.
England’s brow furrowed. “How it is now-it isn’t equal. Think about it. Just think.”
“Whatever,” America said. “You got your papers. Leave me alone. I’m going to go kill some commies.”
And with that, America stalked away, undoubtedly to go play one of his video games. England lowered his eyes and closed the door behind him.
---
The rest of the meetings went on without much incident. It was clear that England’s mind was elsewhere, so the men working around him did their best to work around the issues and present the facts. England stared vacantly at the papers, at the powerpoint slides. It wasn’t clear whether anything even made it into his consciousness. He stayed, hunched slightly, hand in his chin and staring morosely at the table-ignoring his heart.
“Perhaps it’s foggy in London,” he heard one of his aides whisper and England closed his eyes, letting them believe that was the reason. It was sunny in London today, but there was smog. But that didn’t seem to register in England’s heart.
When they broke for a few minutes, for coffee and the wash room, England spent his time at the window, looking out over the American cityscape, his eyes hooded and his mind elsewhere. He couldn’t fight back the things in his heart, the things he knew would never be but that he could not help but shake, something where he woke up in the morning and it existed.
Time could take its toll on the best of them, and England felt far too old despite looking so young. And being with America, who was infinitely younger in both body and spirit left him to feel a bit like a setting sun. Or just something that was falling-something easily forgotten, discarded, and replaced.
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He knew that America cared-it was impossible to forgot the way those blue eyes looked at him as he bent over England (impossible baby blue). Impossible to forget the soft touch of hands smoothing over the bruises he left (apologetic, trying so hard to curb his strength), impossible to forget the soft touch of his lips to his (for good luck, for good bye, for hello again). Impossible to forget those moments when he bent his laws for him, when he found a way to always fly back to him even when his people said no (soft hands wrapping bandages around him, quiet lips brushing over his sweating forehead, the softly whispered words that America was always too proud to admit to saying the next morning…).
“Fuck,” he whispered as he felt tears prickling at the back of his eyes.
He forced himself to remember his faults, also impossible to forget-
Obnoxious, self-centered, dismissive, entitled…
Blue eyes that seemed to light up whenever they saw him, a smile only for him, fingers lacing together between the sheets, the honeyed, soured taste of a kiss in the morning, the smell of coffee spilling onto pillowcases…
Forgetful, dismissive, entitled, taking advantage as he saw fit, poking his nose into others business, throwing fits when others didn’t do what he wanted-
Keeping tea in the cupboard for him, buying union jack boxers just to see England’s face when he finally took his clothes off, resting quietly in his lap as England did his needlework-
“Fuck,” England hissed.
Focus, focus-
Always making fun of him on July fourth, always leaving him to drink alone, demanding so much from him and his people, knowing nothing about his own culture, butchering the English language, pollution, hypocrisy, flirting with other nations…
Laughing, laughing, laughing in his ear as England straddled him, drinking his tea. Laughing, so softly, fingers curled in his hair, face split into a smile just for him-
Fuck.
---
That's all for now! Short little update today. Not much to do with the article this round, but I promise we'll return to it soon.
Thanks everyone for such nice comments. You've all been way too nice to me thus far and I really appreciate it.
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(And if I'm right, I think you should deanon once this is done! And even if I'm wrong, it'd still be great to know the awesome person who's writing this!)
This installment was great. Don't be so hard on yourself. Can't wait for more.
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♥
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laagjngaøæaåæergknjkv :') <3 Perfect.
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Small request: reading this late at night kind of inspired me to write a small fic, not really following this except the 'america and england break up over England's withdrawing support' could I post it?
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And you don't have to ask permission for something like that. I'm hardly the creator of the idea, after all, and I'd love to see what you've written. ♥
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And in case you want to see it, I posted the shortburst here: http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/13943.html?thread=39499127 :PP
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I agree with you so damn much, fellow anon. <3<3<3 I'm kind of glad to know I'm not alone!
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At the end of the day, he stayed in the executive bathroom for a long while, staring at himself in the mirror, pausing occasionally to wash his face, hands pressed against his face as if trying to recollect some dignity and, quite possibly, sanity.
“Maybe I should just apologize,” he told his reflection, dripping with water from the facet. His reflection stared back at him.
He was far too tired. England lowered his gaze, taking up a towel and wiping his hands absently, staring down at the sink and the counter, tracing the lines of the tiles. He sighed. He sighed twice.
“No,” he said faintly, “Don’t be ridiculous.”
It would be better if neither of them were dependent on the other. In the grand scheme of things, this was quite possibly a blessing in disguise. It would be bad to be on the United States’ bad side, but at the same time separating himself from the country would give him a better footing in European matters, instead of actively dismissed as the lapdog. England snorted quietly to himself-who would have believed that the once great British Empire would be accused of being subordinate to an upstart little colony? The irony was not lost on England, who he didn’t find it particularly entertaining or amusing.
“If I just explain the situation to him…” England murmured. “If he’d just listen…”
He curled his fingers along the edge of the sink and leaned forward, resting his forehead against the cool surface of the glass. His eyes hurt from reading too much-reading and no comprehension.
“I’ll make him dinner,” he decided. “I’ll explain.”
---
The problem with making dinner, of course, was that England was very much alone in the world. He stood helplessly in an aisle, staring at all the brands he didn’t even recognize. Under normal circumstances, when he visited America, the boy would do the grocery shopping. He’d occasionally come back with British brand names that England recognized, though England couldn’t discern where the hell the boy found them from (he was lost in a foreign grocery store, staring at brand names and products he couldn’t recognize if he tried). With a growing sense of desperation, he almost debated calling America’s apartment and demanding help. But he refused to allow such a thing to happen.
Instead, he stared at a can of kidney beans with utmost concentration that he knew if the can of beans had any consciousness it would just wither and die. As such, it was just a can and England was just staring at it rather harshly in the center of a grocery store aisle. He shifted his gaze between one can and the other, lost as to determine which would be better. One was a dollar more, and that probably meant it was higher quality, but was the cheaper one really so terrible?
He stared at the prices. He stared a very long time.
He stared at the size. He stared a very long time.
“Why doesn’t this idiot use the metric system?” England muttered to himself, staring desperately. “I’ve visited this damn country for years and I still don’t understand it. I don’t think even he understands it.”
The cans didn’t answer him, which was just as well.
England reached into his pocket, digging around for the right amount of money, to make sure he had enough to even purchase a can of kidney beans-he wasn’t even sure what he’d make for America once he returned to the apartment, or even if America would want anything he’d make, but damned if it wasn’t going to have kidney beans in it.
“… The five cent piece is probably the smallest, right?” he asked the can of kidney beans, inspecting the small silver coin with utmost distaste. It said ‘one dime’ on it, which was hardly any help for England. “The dime is ten cents, isn’t it?”
He stared.
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“That doesn’t even make any fucking sense,” England muttered to the coins in his hand, who glittered up at him under the harsh fluorescent light above him. “Why is the smallest coin worth more than the five cent piece? And why doesn’t the stupid thing even say it’s worth ten cents!”
He realized, belatedly, that he was talking to coins, and had been talking to cans of beans earlier. But it wouldn’t be the strangest thing that England had ever done, at least according to America. England smiled bitterly. No, probably America would make some snide comment that at least this time he could see the weird things that England was talking to. And then he’d probably run away before England could explain the fairies and his unicorn were very much real, breathing creatures.
“… At least he uses the decimal system,” England conceded, hanging his head. Perhaps he was too hard on America.
But then again…
He really needed to stop thinking.
“Come now,” he said, grabbing the cheaper can of kidney beans off the shelf and throwing it into his basket. “Stiff upper lip.”
He turned to keep walking and found a hapless woman staring at him with wide eyes, holding a can of pineapples. It seemed his British accent was enough to send her into a coma, and possibly the British phrase hadn’t done much for her psyche. Flushing, England excused himself and quickly walked away-if there was one thing he would never get used to it, it was American citizens’ fascination with his accent.
“You’d think if they were so enamored by it, they’d attempt to know more about the culture beyond tea and the Beatles.”
America, too, always seemed rather charmed by the accent. Especially if it was whispered words in the early morning, underneath the sheets-dirty words that would make England blush afterward and-
He really, really needed to stop thinking.
He moved slowly down the aisles, collecting a few things-he couldn’t find anything remotely typical in a British store, but he was used to such things-and wandered towards the produce section. He stood there silently a moment, watching various other store patrons. Three for a dollar-that was a deal, wasn’t it? Was two dollars and fifty-five cents a pound too much?
He fell into another heavy, morose silence. Aubergines. He wanted aubergines, he decided.
Except he couldn’t see them listed with the other vegetables. England frowned. He’d seen America purchase them before, so he knew they definitely existed in his country. He scoped around and couldn’t see it right away. He sighed, giving up. He approached the food stocker, shelving loaves of bread by the bucketful the next aisle ever.
“I beg your pardon,” he said.
The woman jumped, looking startled-again, with the reaction to the accent-and stared at him a moment before smiling. “Yes, sir, can I help you?”
The ‘may’ was already on England’s lips, to correct her, but he restrained himself. America would throw a fit if he learned England was going around correcting his citizens’ grammar. It was something that England only really liked to do with America, though, aggravations aside. He always reacted so strongly…
England cleared his throat. “I was searching through the produce section and I was hoping you could point me in the direction of the aubergines.”
She stared at him for a longer moment before mouthing the word to herself and finally managing to parrot: “Aubergines?”
“Yes. The aubergines,” England said again, and started moving his hands to demonstrate what one looked like.
Apparently, the hand movements were too overwhelming for the poor woman, however, as she looked to be having an intensely erotic experience, cleared her throat, and closed her eyes. After waving haphazardly towards all the produce in the store, she quickly excused herself and went along her way, face red.
England dropped his hands.
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And then he found them.
“Eggplants.” England stared at the purple vegetable in shock, and then stared up at the ceiling. “Eggplants.”
His hand was reaching for his cellphone before he could stop it, going to dial to America and tell him that he was an idiot. But he thought better of it and called France instead.
“Eggplants!” he shouted into the phone as soon as he heard France pick up. “He calls aubergines ‘eggplants’!”
France made a distant noise and England realized belatedly (and with a bit of sinful glee) that it was late in France. France’s heavily accented, albeit sleepy, cooed, “Hello to you, too.”
“Yes, yes,” England interrupted. “But honestly. He calls them eggplants. Why would he do that? They aren’t even shaped like an egg!”
He help the aubergine up, cupping it in his palm and staring at it as if it would reveal to him just why it was called the way it was.
France was quiet a moment and England wondered if he’d fallen back asleep. Then France said, “Well, he does enjoy being original, as you know. His logic is a special kind.”
“That’s just a pleasant way of saying he’s a fucking idiot,” England growled, and then glanced warily around to make sure no children were around to hear him cussing.
“Having some troubles, hmmm?” France purred into the phone.
“That’s not any of your business,” England growled, shoving some aubergines into a plastic bag and strangling them into the basket with the rest of his food.
“If you two are having some trouble, perhaps it is my duty as big brother France to come and give you some comfort?”
“Don’t you dare,” England growled into the phone.
“Then perhaps I shall comfort America, instead!” France laughed.
England glared at the aubergines still left to lie innocently against one another. He grabbed another, just in case-America did eat a lot.
“He doesn’t even like you that much right now,” England muttered.
“True enough,” France admitted with a large guffaw, his sleepiness seemingly sinking away in the face of aggravating England further. “In fact, it seems you are the only one who he can honestly say he likes in Europe at the moment, yes? The only one who has stuck with him so readily.”
England fell silent.
France continued, “But, truly. He does have a tendency to rename things he doesn’t like-do you remember, during the world wars, when sauerkraut became liberty cabbage? I find that unspeakably darling. And French fries to freedom fires, ha ha ha! And renaming all your words, too, yes? What is that charming little word he calls biscuits again?”
“Cookies,” England whispered and hated that he felt like crying again.
“Yes, that. How-what is the word-sweet!” France laughed again.
“Whatever, frog. I have to go pay for these aubergines.”
He hung up without waiting for France’s reply. As France did not call back, England assumed that the man had simply gone back to sleep. England pocketed his phone, stood staring at the aubergines for a long moment. And then he felt his bottom lip wobbled and completely hated himself for it.
He felt someone tugging on his coat. He looked down.
“It’s okay,” a little boy said, staring up at him. “I hate vegetables, too.”
England stared at him. “Huh?”
“You look really sad about having to eat eggplants,” the boy explained. “I don’t like them either, but Mama makes me eat them. She said it helps you get stronger, and also I can’t have desert without eating my vegetables. So I do.”
“And where is your mother now?” England asked, slightly taken aback-children, he did not deal with children well (not ever since-).
The child pointed to a woman observing cabbage with a critical eye.
“She’s making me shop with her! But because of that I get to pick out the cereal!”
“That’s a very important task,” England agreed, expression softening.
“Mhm!” the boy said. “She also wanted me to get the eggplants for her.”
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