Misplaced Soil | USUK | 20/?
anonymous
May 5 2010, 04:09:24 UTC
Of course, paying for the groceries couldn’t possibly be an easy task. No, the rest of England’s day had already gone to hell, why should it stop being a bastard now, England had to wonder. He stood in line at the grocery store check-out, the cashier ringing up whoever was in front of him. Silently, England stacked his produce and canned goods onto the conveyer belt and waited his turn. In the meantime, he dug around in his pocket and pulled out American money, squinting down at them in a vain attempt to work out how much he would owe before he got there. This way he wouldn’t have to scramble around the woman cashier in his attempts to not act like a bumbling, flustered fool.
He could work out the bills just fine, that was simple. The coins are what caused him the most concern. After approximate addition of how much everything would be, England fiddled with the various dimes and nickels, trying to remind himself that the stupid smallest coin did not mean the least amount of money (Damn it, America, he cursed, and not for the first time).
The cashier had begun ringing up England’s groceries and he stood in polite silence, patiently waiting to hand over the fistful of bills and coins he gripped tightly in his coat pocket. England watched the price run up as she scanned each item over the scanner. In the end, it came to a price he’d expected and he breathed a sigh of relief, opening his palm to scan through his coins one last time. And then the cashier fiddled with a few of the buttons, hit the big enter key, and the number flashed-adding on more money.
“… Excuse me,” England said politely and the one’s eyes slanted towards him. He hoped she would be sensible and not react to his accent, but could England ever be so lucky in America’s country? “What did you add to my price?”
“Sales tax,” she said with an absent shrug. “That’ll be twenty dollars and sixty-three cents.”
England managed, just barely, to swallow a disdainful sob over his prolonged persecution. He dug around in his pocket, trying to scrape together enough coins to cover the ridiculous sales tax-what kind of stupid country didn’t factor the tax into the food prices? For fuck’s sake-and knowing that it was all in vain. He dropped the coins on the counter as he scrambled to search every pocket. The line grew behind him and his face flushed with shame.
“Fuck it,” England growled to himself and ignored the scandalized gasp behind him as a mother shielded her child’s ears from such profanity. England almost swore again just to be an asshole, but decided that spreading a bad mood was not nearly as satisfying as going home and smashing all the aubergines into America’s smug little face. (England knew he wouldn’t subject the poor aubergines to such a dramatic fate, however, no matter how much he liked to fantasize such things.)
Following his profane proclamation, England reluctantly pulled out his wallet, fished around for his credit card, and handed it over to the now exasperated cashier.
“Crebid O’Debbid,” she drawled.
England stared at her. “No, the name is Arthur Kirkland. It’s on the card.”
She gave him a deadpan look, looking very much as if she wanted him to just go away-England almost preferred the mock orgasm other people tended to get from listening to him speak English like a normal person should.
Re: Misplaced Soil | USUK | 21/?
anonymous
May 5 2010, 04:11:26 UTC
“Credible Debbie,” she said again.
“I’m sure she’s very credible, yes,” England agreed, wishing the woman would just get on with it and swipe his card already. He wasn’t sure when the next bus would come, but he wanted to get back as soon as possible-not because he wanted to see America or anything, but rather because he was hungry and tired and just wanted to book a flight back to England as soon as possible.
The woman barked out more word and it became adamantly clear to England that he had no idea what the woman was saying. It was already embarrassing enough to have apparently said the wrong thing, and now asking the woman to repeat herself after misunderstanding twice would be entirely rude and humiliating.
England swallowed. The woman stared at him with the withering gaze usually reserved for the lowest vermin on earth, to which she was only half willing to deign herself to stomp on. So England did what he typically did when he had no idea what was going on: he gave a slow, half-nod, uncommitted to doing a completely full nod, lest she actually think he was nodding. The trick was to look as if he was agreeing but then have deniability when called out on it. He wasn’t saying yes, but he could be!
The woman seemed entirely unsympathetic and entirely not amused.
“Credit,” she said harshly, glaring at him now, “or debit?”
England blinked at her. What the hell, America?
No one back home asked him such a stupid question. His credit card did not magically turn into a debit card when it was out of view (and England should know, being quite an expert when it came to magic. Unicorns would never waste their time on such insignificant human drivel. He’d tried to explain as much to America once when he got around to asking England if his fairies could fix financial crises-America hadn’t liked England’s lecture on why that was the stupidest thing he’d ever asked). But a credit card was a credit card and a debit card was a debit card-there didn’t have to be some kind of mystery surrounding it, and England had a brief moment to believe that maybe all American citizens were idiots. He knew this was an unfair statement, but frankly every time he visited the country he was baffled.
With the flippancy of total incomprehension, England said, “My credit card is a credit card.” The woman narrowed her eyes. England added, “I do so hope you won’t need it, but shall I ask if you need any further elucidation on this point?”
The woman took the card and began to prepare for the majestic swiping of said card-after such unnecessary and stupid build up. She didn’t say anything more and it was a morbid, grim satisfaction that England decided that, yes, spreading bad moods was very satisfying, in a dickish way.
England truly couldn’t bring himself to give that much of a fuck. His day was already the worst he could remember for at least a few weeks. He collected his bag of groceries, pocked the coins he’d left abandoned on the countertop, and trudged off towards the bus stop.
---
Short update for now. I apologize for disappearing (n-not that it was for long, it's only been a few days). I'm in the middle of final examinations atm, but I'll be done soon. Until then, sporadic updating! I didn't want to leave you hanging, though. :3
I'm currently procrastinating from studying. Written quickly, so I apologize for typos that are all over the place in this part and in the other 20 parts.
and again, thank you everyone for such sweet comments. You encourage me to keep going with this fill. ♥
Re: Misplaced Soil | USUK | 21/?
anonymous
May 5 2010, 07:59:42 UTC
lmao oh poor England. I get the feeling I would be similarly baffled if I ever travelled to America. Take your time with the updates and good luck with exams!
Btw, have you thought about posting updates on the fills page? I think you'd get more comments if you did =]
Oh, I hadn't known it was allowed to post multiple times in the fills page when you updated. I'll keep that in mind for the future. Thanks for the heads up, anon! /kink meme noob
Re: Misplaced Soil | USUK | 21/?
anonymous
May 8 2010, 09:54:34 UTC
Good luck with exams, anon! <333
Loved this part too, especially the aside with America asking him if fairies could fix financial crises, because I could totally see that (and the subsequent lecture xD) and this bit, England decided that, yes, spreading bad moods was very satisfying, in a dickish way because it's so darn true. :Db
Also... why are they called eggplants? Someone enlighten poor idiot anon. :O
Thank you, anon (and to all the other anons who commented above, too ♥)
I have no idea why they're called eggplants, either. And I tried to figure out why when I was writing that section but I couldn't find anything ha ha. Another example of weird names for things that hardly make sense.
Misplaced Soil | USUK | 22/?
anonymous
May 10 2010, 04:08:51 UTC
Waiting at the bus, as was typical of all things iconic of a bad day, it began to rain. England found shelter under a lonesome looking newspaper fluttering along the gutter. He scooped it up to shield above his head as he made a mad dash for the bus stop and, hopefully, some solace from the rain underneath the bus shelter. The dash lasted for about one block before England sighed, gave up, and trudged the rest of the way, balancing the newspaper above his head, his briefcase under one arm, and his bag of groceries perched precariously on his forearm, attempting to balance it all and keep it from getting too wet. The paper bag was getting soggy.
He wasn’t the only one at the bus stop once he did reach it, and the man underneath the overhang scooted aside slightly to make room for England. England nodded his thanks and shook out the newspaper, scattering the stray water droplets away from him with a tiny sigh. They stayed in relative silence, England trying to line the paper up correctly so he could fold it-which is when he saw it.
Could Britain’s Three-Way End the “Special Relationship”? the editorial section asked.
First, England had to snort at the headline. Then he felt the dread boil in his stomach. He sat down on the bench beneath the overhanging, setting his soggy bag of groceries at his feet and his briefcase at his side. He glanced up at his companion, but he was staring down the street, looking to see if the bus was coming anytime soon. England straightened out the newspaper and began to read the editorial, eyes greedily striding across the page, trying to get at the words, trying to discern some kind of meaning, some kind of reality that he wasn’t sure he wanted to face.
He read the article, not even realizing that he’d stopped breathing in the downpour of rain:
FOR MOST of the past year, Britain's upcoming election looked to be a familiar battle between Prime Minister Gordon Brown's Labor Party and the Conservatives under David Cameron. Once far behind, Mr. Brown seemed to be making a modest comeback when, in the past two weeks, the campaign was shaken by the introduction of an American import: the televised candidates' debate. The beneficiary has been neither Mr. Brown nor Mr. Cameron, but Nicholas Clegg, the leader of Britain's perennially also-ran Liberal Democratic Party. Judged the winner of the debates held this far, Mr. Clegg has suddenly become a contender -- and the election is looking as if it could significantly shift Britain's course.
England shifted, crossing one leg over the other, leaning back against the overhang’s support pole. He continued to read:
At this point it looks unlikely that Mr. Clegg's party will win the May 6 election and form the next government, if only because of the way Britain's voting system works. But it could force the first "hung parliament" since 1974, in which no party has a majority. That could mean messy negotiations over a coalition government, or a weak minority government. Either way Britain could have difficulty forging policies to emerge from the economic crisis or making decisions about its foreign and defense policies. The country is at something of a crossroads: A strategic defense review after the election could decide whether it continues to act as a close partner of the United States in military operations abroad or retreats to a lesser role.
Oh Jesus, even America’s newspapers were mocking him. His mind flashed back to earlier in the morning, remembering the flush of anger and shame over America physically blocking him in the bathroom, being unable to shove the younger country away from him-the look of utter betrayal in America’s eyes before he decided that was too vulnerable for him. America’s face didn’t suit anger, not truly-he looked his best when he smiled, when his blue eyes were soft and warm. Never when he was angry, never when he was shoving him away (always shoving him away, always, always, always…).
Misplaced Soil | USUK | 23/?
anonymous
May 10 2010, 04:09:20 UTC
England told himself he was trembling because the air was cooler, the sun sinking towards the west, over the long expanse of America’s land. His fingers felt numb from the cold rainfall. He closed his eyes, trying to collect himself, debating that perhaps he shouldn’t finish this article. But he knew he would have to. Curiosity got the best of him.
Mr. Clegg's stance on those issues could make some in Washington nervous. In a speech this week he called for a shakeup in relations between the United States and the United Kingdom and described as "embarrassing the way Conservative and Labor politicians talk in this kind of slavish way about the special relationship." He added that there were "profound differences" between the two countries and argued that the Obama administration had already written off the idea that Britain was a special ally. "If they are moving on, why on earth don't we?" he said.
England snorted. Making Washington nervous indeed. Most of the time America seemed completely oblivious, always assuming that everyone was behind him, always assuming that England would hurriedly whisper what was going on in the world the moment before the world meeting so he wouldn’t make a complete and utter fool of himself. England was always there, to straighten America’s tie, fill him in when he seemed overly bone-headed, and perhaps occasionally allowing for America to whisk England away to an undisclosed attention for some serious “debriefing” as America liked to call it with a loud guffaw, as if no one had any idea what he was talking about anyway.
England shook his head. He really needed to stop thinking about that boy so much. It wasn’t healthy.
But truly…
Intentionally or not, Mr. Obama has offered support for Mr. Clegg's argument: His relatively chilly relationship with Mr. Brown, including several perceived snubs, has been a persistent theme of British news coverage. Yet the United States can hardly afford a weaker or less friendly Britain at a time when it is still fighting two wars and when diplomacy with states such as Iran, North Korea and Syria is failing. Other longtime American allies, from Brazil to Turkey, have begun opposing the Obama administration on Iran and other issues. Though the next British government is unlikely to follow their course, Mr. Obama would be wise to reaffirm the "special relationship."
And with that, the article was finished. England knew he should toss it aside, ignore it as nothing more than fear mongering.
But it still sent shock waves down England’s spine, leaving him cold and having to acknowledge that, no, it wasn’t just the rainfall that left him so cold. He stared at the article uncomprehending, unrelenting. Unwilling to acknowledge…
He needs me, he says, England thought bitterly, staring unblinkingly at the word “snubs.” He doesn’t want me, though. He just needs me because he hasn’t anyone else who’s willing to bend over backwards for him. Damn boy…
“You alright there, pal?” the man asked him and England’s gaze flickered up to see the older man (though still much, much younger than England himself) staring at him with a look of concern.
England pressed a hand to his face absently, realizing that perhaps he really wasn’t as good at hiding his feelings as he liked to think (it seemed it was only ever America who never understood, and that was the boy’s fault more than England’s own).
“Oh, yes,” England said with a shake of his head. “Just reading the editorials.”
The man looked taken aback a moment by the accent before he took a step closer. “… ‘Bout what? Healthcare?”
“No, the Special Relationship,” England said with a shrug, holding the newspaper out to the man for him to read.
Misplaced Soil | USUK | 24/?
anonymous
May 10 2010, 04:10:05 UTC
England waited in patient silence as he stared out over the road. Reaffirm the relationship-it’d been done so many times, but it was always the same. England could still remember the fit America saw after seeing Love Actually and declaring that England was a passive aggressive prick (and England had been too shocked to hear America use the word ‘prick’ instead of ‘dick’ to have much of a response). They’d ended up making up a few hours later, with America moaning as England pressed him up against the mirror and pressed into him.
But now it seemed different-with the way the world seemed to be spiraling now, the way things were shaping up-he felt the distance more than ever, felt the snub, even though America’s eyes stayed just as warm as his fingers tangled in England’s hair, brushed through them to grab his attention away from his needlework and focus on the young man in his lap instead.
How could America expect so much from him when he didn’t even understand, when he didn’t even give anything in return other than heartache?
But England knew that-he’d always known that. America was completely oblivious to things beyond himself.
And now the man was shrugging, handing the article back to England.
“Personally,” the man drawled, in a voice that sounded just like America’s, or what America’s would sound like centuries from now when he finally appeared this man’s age, “It’s probably better if it ends-the “Special Relationship” that is-there’s no point in keeping it around if it doesn’t do any good.”
“Any good,” England mimicked, staring at his feet before sighing and standing up, tucking the newspaper into the outside pocket of his briefcase. “See, I feel that Britain would have a justification for having it end, but coming from your side I’m afraid it sounds a bit like sour grapes.”
“We get more of what we want from Israel, anyway.”
“Oh yes, of course.” England stared up at the sky-how many times had he had to listen to America rattle on about Israel?
“It’d be better if America focused on making close relations with Russia or-”
“Russia! Hah!” England shouted, feeling hysteric. As if Russia could even begin to treat America right-and god the images, the images of Russia drawing America near, of whispering in his ear, of doing things to America and letting America do things to him. England felt sick.
The man looked taken aback by this young British man’s response, but he frowned. “It doesn’t do any side any good-it was just a ploy to lift spirits during wartime.”
England could remember, the first time Churchill said the words and America heard it, turning to England with wide eyes, his blue eyes sparking with hope behind the black eye he’d gotten from the fighting-England had smiled back around the edges of the bandages cover his face from the bombings of London. They’d smiled and there had been a moment of connection, of reconnection after years of separation. He’d-
“Perhaps,” England said lightly, then cleared his throat to make sure his voice didn’t sound so far away, decades away.
“If America doesn’t treat England with the respect and equality it wants, and England has other places it should be focusing on instead of alienating itself from the rest of the world staying in America’s shadow like this… then it’s better if it ends, don’t you think?” He didn’t wait for England’s response, because his attention was captured elsewhere: “Oh-here’s the bus.”
England looked up, but didn’t see the bus through the blur of tears that suddenly filled his eyes-Jesus, what a joke. What a fucking joke, to be crying in the rain like this. England ducked his head, inhaled sharply.
Misplaced Soil | USUK | 25/?
anonymous
May 10 2010, 04:11:03 UTC
“This your bus, pal?” the man asked, jerking his thumb over his shoulder.
England mutely shook his head, not even bothering to look at the number.
“Alright then. Have a safe trip home, buddy,” the man said, climbed aboard the bus, and disappeared from England’s life forever.
Home.
England watched the bus sail away, feeling utterly miserable. His heart felt heavy. The rain fell. He pulled the newspaper out, scanned the headline of the editorial again, and felt the tears come again. He felt utterly ashamed to be crying like this.
England pressed the paper to his face, ignoring the smell of the newsprint. Tears burned his eyes and clouded his vision.
“Yes, of course it’d be better if we left the special relationship behind. Of course it’d be better if I focused on Europe and he focused on Russia-of course, of course I know that. But damn it… damn it…”
He tried to control himself, but the tears dripped onto the editorial.
“Damn it, I don’t want to leave him.”
--
All for now. I'm finished with finals, so I've returned victorious! Thank you everyone for your patience!
Also, I promise I'll actually get back to the article stuff, soon.
Re: Misplaced Soil | USUK | 25/?
anonymous
May 10 2010, 05:51:56 UTC
As much as I love this couple, I am not totally against the end of special relationship. It is not a fair relationship for England, not to mention that he only suffers from the relationship
But still, I hope they can have a happy ending together. Actually I do not think their relationship is based on the special relationship or any political and diplomatic relations. Well..
As if Russia could even begin to treat America right-and god the images, the images of Russia drawing America near, of whispering in his ear, of doing things to America and letting America do things to him. England felt sick. The image made me feel sick, too. orz
btw, I do not see England does anything wrong here, the fight is mainly due to America's being unreasonable anyway, why should he feel guilty...- -
Re: Misplaced Soil | USUK | 25/?
anonymous
May 10 2010, 07:36:56 UTC
Oh, England. The United States of America has already ended the Special Relationship, really. The treaties didn't get canceled, the intelligence and upgrades didn't stop, the trade kept flowing. UK is an important partner still, and the only thing it means is that now we're listed in the same breath as South Korea, Japan, Poland, Israel, Egypt, Canada and all that instead of in our own sentence. It's okay. We're getting by.
I sometimes feel like my country is being childish about it: every half a year or so, we announce 'the Special Relationship is OVER!, do you hear me!, WE ARE ENDING IT! Before you can! We are!', America looks over and goes 'Dude, we're dating? Since when? Huh. Cool, then I can crash on your couch tonight, right?" and then a month later we're underneath USA's window pissed and sobbing and asking if he loves us more then he loves Argentina (which is what sparked off this current OVER! fit). People like to act like it's an abusive relationship on this meme sometimes, but that's giving us far too much more credit. It's a lot less dramatic and a lot more stupid, I fear.
...But it really, really, really makes for a good story. I'm really appreciating this. UK feels like an actual character here: he acts and reacts without falling in to 'ridiculous moe blob who has never harmed a fly much less a country' or 'evil manipulative jackass who spends most of his time rubbing his hands together pretending he's light from death note'. He's real, so are the problems, and that makes it a pleasure to read.
He could work out the bills just fine, that was simple. The coins are what caused him the most concern. After approximate addition of how much everything would be, England fiddled with the various dimes and nickels, trying to remind himself that the stupid smallest coin did not mean the least amount of money (Damn it, America, he cursed, and not for the first time).
The cashier had begun ringing up England’s groceries and he stood in polite silence, patiently waiting to hand over the fistful of bills and coins he gripped tightly in his coat pocket. England watched the price run up as she scanned each item over the scanner. In the end, it came to a price he’d expected and he breathed a sigh of relief, opening his palm to scan through his coins one last time. And then the cashier fiddled with a few of the buttons, hit the big enter key, and the number flashed-adding on more money.
“… Excuse me,” England said politely and the one’s eyes slanted towards him. He hoped she would be sensible and not react to his accent, but could England ever be so lucky in America’s country? “What did you add to my price?”
“Sales tax,” she said with an absent shrug. “That’ll be twenty dollars and sixty-three cents.”
England managed, just barely, to swallow a disdainful sob over his prolonged persecution. He dug around in his pocket, trying to scrape together enough coins to cover the ridiculous sales tax-what kind of stupid country didn’t factor the tax into the food prices? For fuck’s sake-and knowing that it was all in vain. He dropped the coins on the counter as he scrambled to search every pocket. The line grew behind him and his face flushed with shame.
“Fuck it,” England growled to himself and ignored the scandalized gasp behind him as a mother shielded her child’s ears from such profanity. England almost swore again just to be an asshole, but decided that spreading a bad mood was not nearly as satisfying as going home and smashing all the aubergines into America’s smug little face. (England knew he wouldn’t subject the poor aubergines to such a dramatic fate, however, no matter how much he liked to fantasize such things.)
Following his profane proclamation, England reluctantly pulled out his wallet, fished around for his credit card, and handed it over to the now exasperated cashier.
“Crebid O’Debbid,” she drawled.
England stared at her. “No, the name is Arthur Kirkland. It’s on the card.”
She gave him a deadpan look, looking very much as if she wanted him to just go away-England almost preferred the mock orgasm other people tended to get from listening to him speak English like a normal person should.
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“I’m sure she’s very credible, yes,” England agreed, wishing the woman would just get on with it and swipe his card already. He wasn’t sure when the next bus would come, but he wanted to get back as soon as possible-not because he wanted to see America or anything, but rather because he was hungry and tired and just wanted to book a flight back to England as soon as possible.
The woman barked out more word and it became adamantly clear to England that he had no idea what the woman was saying. It was already embarrassing enough to have apparently said the wrong thing, and now asking the woman to repeat herself after misunderstanding twice would be entirely rude and humiliating.
England swallowed. The woman stared at him with the withering gaze usually reserved for the lowest vermin on earth, to which she was only half willing to deign herself to stomp on. So England did what he typically did when he had no idea what was going on: he gave a slow, half-nod, uncommitted to doing a completely full nod, lest she actually think he was nodding. The trick was to look as if he was agreeing but then have deniability when called out on it. He wasn’t saying yes, but he could be!
The woman seemed entirely unsympathetic and entirely not amused.
“Credit,” she said harshly, glaring at him now, “or debit?”
England blinked at her. What the hell, America?
No one back home asked him such a stupid question. His credit card did not magically turn into a debit card when it was out of view (and England should know, being quite an expert when it came to magic. Unicorns would never waste their time on such insignificant human drivel. He’d tried to explain as much to America once when he got around to asking England if his fairies could fix financial crises-America hadn’t liked England’s lecture on why that was the stupidest thing he’d ever asked). But a credit card was a credit card and a debit card was a debit card-there didn’t have to be some kind of mystery surrounding it, and England had a brief moment to believe that maybe all American citizens were idiots. He knew this was an unfair statement, but frankly every time he visited the country he was baffled.
With the flippancy of total incomprehension, England said, “My credit card is a credit card.” The woman narrowed her eyes. England added, “I do so hope you won’t need it, but shall I ask if you need any further elucidation on this point?”
The woman took the card and began to prepare for the majestic swiping of said card-after such unnecessary and stupid build up. She didn’t say anything more and it was a morbid, grim satisfaction that England decided that, yes, spreading bad moods was very satisfying, in a dickish way.
England truly couldn’t bring himself to give that much of a fuck. His day was already the worst he could remember for at least a few weeks. He collected his bag of groceries, pocked the coins he’d left abandoned on the countertop, and trudged off towards the bus stop.
---
Short update for now. I apologize for disappearing (n-not that it was for long, it's only been a few days). I'm in the middle of final examinations atm, but I'll be done soon. Until then, sporadic updating! I didn't want to leave you hanging, though. :3
I'm currently procrastinating from studying. Written quickly, so I apologize for typos that are all over the place in this part and in the other 20 parts.
and again, thank you everyone for such sweet comments. You encourage me to keep going with this fill. ♥
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Btw, have you thought about posting updates on the fills page? I think you'd get more comments if you did =]
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Not to worry, anon. I can wait forever for you!
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reCaptcha says 'muter Allied'... I think Captcha is reading as well, though it's a pew parts behind
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Good luck with your exams ;u;
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Loved this part too, especially the aside with America asking him if fairies could fix financial crises, because I could totally see that (and the subsequent lecture xD) and this bit, England decided that, yes, spreading bad moods was very satisfying, in a dickish way because it's so darn true. :Db
Also... why are they called eggplants? Someone enlighten poor idiot anon. :O
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I have no idea why they're called eggplants, either. And I tried to figure out why when I was writing that section but I couldn't find anything ha ha. Another example of weird names for things that hardly make sense.
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He wasn’t the only one at the bus stop once he did reach it, and the man underneath the overhang scooted aside slightly to make room for England. England nodded his thanks and shook out the newspaper, scattering the stray water droplets away from him with a tiny sigh. They stayed in relative silence, England trying to line the paper up correctly so he could fold it-which is when he saw it.
Could Britain’s Three-Way End the “Special Relationship”? the editorial section asked.
First, England had to snort at the headline. Then he felt the dread boil in his stomach. He sat down on the bench beneath the overhanging, setting his soggy bag of groceries at his feet and his briefcase at his side. He glanced up at his companion, but he was staring down the street, looking to see if the bus was coming anytime soon. England straightened out the newspaper and began to read the editorial, eyes greedily striding across the page, trying to get at the words, trying to discern some kind of meaning, some kind of reality that he wasn’t sure he wanted to face.
He read the article, not even realizing that he’d stopped breathing in the downpour of rain:
FOR MOST of the past year, Britain's upcoming election looked to be a familiar battle between Prime Minister Gordon Brown's Labor Party and the Conservatives under David Cameron. Once far behind, Mr. Brown seemed to be making a modest comeback when, in the past two weeks, the campaign was shaken by the introduction of an American import: the televised candidates' debate. The beneficiary has been neither Mr. Brown nor Mr. Cameron, but Nicholas Clegg, the leader of Britain's perennially also-ran Liberal Democratic Party. Judged the winner of the debates held this far, Mr. Clegg has suddenly become a contender -- and the election is looking as if it could significantly shift Britain's course.
England shifted, crossing one leg over the other, leaning back against the overhang’s support pole. He continued to read:
At this point it looks unlikely that Mr. Clegg's party will win the May 6 election and form the next government, if only because of the way Britain's voting system works. But it could force the first "hung parliament" since 1974, in which no party has a majority. That could mean messy negotiations over a coalition government, or a weak minority government. Either way Britain could have difficulty forging policies to emerge from the economic crisis or making decisions about its foreign and defense policies. The country is at something of a crossroads: A strategic defense review after the election could decide whether it continues to act as a close partner of the United States in military operations abroad or retreats to a lesser role.
Oh Jesus, even America’s newspapers were mocking him. His mind flashed back to earlier in the morning, remembering the flush of anger and shame over America physically blocking him in the bathroom, being unable to shove the younger country away from him-the look of utter betrayal in America’s eyes before he decided that was too vulnerable for him. America’s face didn’t suit anger, not truly-he looked his best when he smiled, when his blue eyes were soft and warm. Never when he was angry, never when he was shoving him away (always shoving him away, always, always, always…).
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Mr. Clegg's stance on those issues could make some in Washington nervous. In a speech this week he called for a shakeup in relations between the United States and the United Kingdom and described as "embarrassing the way Conservative and Labor politicians talk in this kind of slavish way about the special relationship." He added that there were "profound differences" between the two countries and argued that the Obama administration had already written off the idea that Britain was a special ally. "If they are moving on, why on earth don't we?" he said.
England snorted. Making Washington nervous indeed. Most of the time America seemed completely oblivious, always assuming that everyone was behind him, always assuming that England would hurriedly whisper what was going on in the world the moment before the world meeting so he wouldn’t make a complete and utter fool of himself. England was always there, to straighten America’s tie, fill him in when he seemed overly bone-headed, and perhaps occasionally allowing for America to whisk England away to an undisclosed attention for some serious “debriefing” as America liked to call it with a loud guffaw, as if no one had any idea what he was talking about anyway.
England shook his head. He really needed to stop thinking about that boy so much. It wasn’t healthy.
But truly…
Intentionally or not, Mr. Obama has offered support for Mr. Clegg's argument: His relatively chilly relationship with Mr. Brown, including several perceived snubs, has been a persistent theme of British news coverage. Yet the United States can hardly afford a weaker or less friendly Britain at a time when it is still fighting two wars and when diplomacy with states such as Iran, North Korea and Syria is failing. Other longtime American allies, from Brazil to Turkey, have begun opposing the Obama administration on Iran and other issues. Though the next British government is unlikely to follow their course, Mr. Obama would be wise to reaffirm the "special relationship."
And with that, the article was finished. England knew he should toss it aside, ignore it as nothing more than fear mongering.
But it still sent shock waves down England’s spine, leaving him cold and having to acknowledge that, no, it wasn’t just the rainfall that left him so cold. He stared at the article uncomprehending, unrelenting. Unwilling to acknowledge…
He needs me, he says, England thought bitterly, staring unblinkingly at the word “snubs.” He doesn’t want me, though. He just needs me because he hasn’t anyone else who’s willing to bend over backwards for him. Damn boy…
“You alright there, pal?” the man asked him and England’s gaze flickered up to see the older man (though still much, much younger than England himself) staring at him with a look of concern.
England pressed a hand to his face absently, realizing that perhaps he really wasn’t as good at hiding his feelings as he liked to think (it seemed it was only ever America who never understood, and that was the boy’s fault more than England’s own).
“Oh, yes,” England said with a shake of his head. “Just reading the editorials.”
The man looked taken aback a moment by the accent before he took a step closer. “… ‘Bout what? Healthcare?”
“No, the Special Relationship,” England said with a shrug, holding the newspaper out to the man for him to read.
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But now it seemed different-with the way the world seemed to be spiraling now, the way things were shaping up-he felt the distance more than ever, felt the snub, even though America’s eyes stayed just as warm as his fingers tangled in England’s hair, brushed through them to grab his attention away from his needlework and focus on the young man in his lap instead.
How could America expect so much from him when he didn’t even understand, when he didn’t even give anything in return other than heartache?
But England knew that-he’d always known that. America was completely oblivious to things beyond himself.
And now the man was shrugging, handing the article back to England.
“Personally,” the man drawled, in a voice that sounded just like America’s, or what America’s would sound like centuries from now when he finally appeared this man’s age, “It’s probably better if it ends-the “Special Relationship” that is-there’s no point in keeping it around if it doesn’t do any good.”
“Any good,” England mimicked, staring at his feet before sighing and standing up, tucking the newspaper into the outside pocket of his briefcase. “See, I feel that Britain would have a justification for having it end, but coming from your side I’m afraid it sounds a bit like sour grapes.”
“We get more of what we want from Israel, anyway.”
“Oh yes, of course.” England stared up at the sky-how many times had he had to listen to America rattle on about Israel?
“It’d be better if America focused on making close relations with Russia or-”
“Russia! Hah!” England shouted, feeling hysteric. As if Russia could even begin to treat America right-and god the images, the images of Russia drawing America near, of whispering in his ear, of doing things to America and letting America do things to him. England felt sick.
The man looked taken aback by this young British man’s response, but he frowned. “It doesn’t do any side any good-it was just a ploy to lift spirits during wartime.”
England could remember, the first time Churchill said the words and America heard it, turning to England with wide eyes, his blue eyes sparking with hope behind the black eye he’d gotten from the fighting-England had smiled back around the edges of the bandages cover his face from the bombings of London. They’d smiled and there had been a moment of connection, of reconnection after years of separation. He’d-
“Perhaps,” England said lightly, then cleared his throat to make sure his voice didn’t sound so far away, decades away.
“If America doesn’t treat England with the respect and equality it wants, and England has other places it should be focusing on instead of alienating itself from the rest of the world staying in America’s shadow like this… then it’s better if it ends, don’t you think?” He didn’t wait for England’s response, because his attention was captured elsewhere: “Oh-here’s the bus.”
England looked up, but didn’t see the bus through the blur of tears that suddenly filled his eyes-Jesus, what a joke. What a fucking joke, to be crying in the rain like this. England ducked his head, inhaled sharply.
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England mutely shook his head, not even bothering to look at the number.
“Alright then. Have a safe trip home, buddy,” the man said, climbed aboard the bus, and disappeared from England’s life forever.
Home.
England watched the bus sail away, feeling utterly miserable. His heart felt heavy. The rain fell. He pulled the newspaper out, scanned the headline of the editorial again, and felt the tears come again. He felt utterly ashamed to be crying like this.
England pressed the paper to his face, ignoring the smell of the newsprint. Tears burned his eyes and clouded his vision.
“Yes, of course it’d be better if we left the special relationship behind. Of course it’d be better if I focused on Europe and he focused on Russia-of course, of course I know that. But damn it… damn it…”
He tried to control himself, but the tears dripped onto the editorial.
“Damn it, I don’t want to leave him.”
--
All for now. I'm finished with finals, so I've returned victorious! Thank you everyone for your patience!
Also, I promise I'll actually get back to the article stuff, soon.
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^diagram of my attempt to predict your story....
Which means your talent is both multi-faceted and fiendish.
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It is not a fair relationship for England, not to mention that he only suffers from the relationship
But still, I hope they can have a happy ending together. Actually I do not think their relationship is based on the special relationship or any political and diplomatic relations. Well..
As if Russia could even begin to treat America right-and god the images, the images of Russia drawing America near, of whispering in his ear, of doing things to America and letting America do things to him. England felt sick.
The image made me feel sick, too. orz
btw, I do not see England does anything wrong here, the fight is mainly due to America's being unreasonable anyway, why should he feel guilty...- -
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I sometimes feel like my country is being childish about it: every half a year or so, we announce 'the Special Relationship is OVER!, do you hear me!, WE ARE ENDING IT! Before you can! We are!', America looks over and goes 'Dude, we're dating? Since when? Huh. Cool, then I can crash on your couch tonight, right?" and then a month later we're underneath USA's window pissed and sobbing and asking if he loves us more then he loves Argentina (which is what sparked off this current OVER! fit). People like to act like it's an abusive relationship on this meme sometimes, but that's giving us far too much more credit. It's a lot less dramatic and a lot more stupid, I fear.
...But it really, really, really makes for a good story. I'm really appreciating this. UK feels like an actual character here: he acts and reacts without falling in to 'ridiculous moe blob who has never harmed a fly much less a country' or 'evil manipulative jackass who spends most of his time rubbing his hands together pretending he's light from death note'. He's real, so are the problems, and that makes it a pleasure to read.
(Congrats on your finals!)
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