OP asked for America being a secret Shakespeare expert and England's reaction. I took it one step farther and played with it. Title is also shamelessly pulled from Shakespeare in Love because I couldn't think of one.
-------- England was pretty sure that this was a first. He was quite sure that it was a first, because he had never been sent a love poem before. And it wasn’t a rubbish poem, either, that some poor soul had written, hoping that it was good. No, it came straight from the Bard himself.
Let me not to the marriage of true minds Admit impediments. Love is not love Which alters when it alteration finds, Or bends with the remover to remove: O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark, That looks on tempests and is never shaken; It is the star to every wandering bark, Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken. Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks Within his bending sickle's compass come; Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, But bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error and upon me proved I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
Sonnet Number 116, on a nondescript piece of paper folded twice and wrinkled. The writing was nobody’s that he recognized, but then, handwriting can be disguised, can’t it? Who, that he knew, could possibly have the knowledge of Shakespeare’s sonnets to pick this one, of all things. If anything, one would have picked the rather famous Sonnet 18.
But his mysterious admirer hadn’t. He’d picked a lesser known one, but with the meaning completely clear and intact. England reread it and felt himself go red, because who could think that about him?
For a few seconds, he let himself hope that it might be him, but on second thought, it couldn’t. The idiot wouldn’t have the literacy to read a Shakespeare sonnet, much less comprehend it. Or quite possibly even know who Shakespeare is. England sighed. But he supposed the reasons why he loved the git didn’t have anything to do with whether he knew the works of England’s greatest literary genius or not.
Except…when someone was trying to woo him through using Shakespeare’s sonnets. He wasn’t quite sure how he felt about it, already being quite in love with the git (He should really do something about that someday, a voice deep down said, but he ignored it.) but…it was Shakespeare. And someone obviously had done their research. England couldn’t just ignore it.
So, it was time to find out exactly who was harboring feelings for him.
--------- The git was completely ruled out at the beginning, for being generally idiotic in the completely endearing way that England should really not love but did. And should stop staring at him doodling on his notes and get on with it.
Across from him sat France, and if it were him, England really did not want to know. He’d rather remain in the dark than know that the perverted frog was misusing Shakespeare.
Down the table, Japan was taking diligent notes and nodding at all the right places. It could be him, but if anything England would have assumed that he would have used a haiku. Of course, that would also lead to his identity being found out rather easily. Using Shakespeare was a way to pin it so that England didn’t know, couldn’t figure it out because about everyone at least knew that Shakespeare existed.
And anyway, he was sure that Greece and Japan were an item, or at least friends with benefits. He gazed over at the sleeping Greek, surrounded by cats, and then moved a few seats down to South Italy.
…No, he thought, watching South Italy glare and make threatening motions at Spain, who mouthed ‘so cute’ and smiled like an idiot. And definitely not Spain, if the way he flinched in abject terror when England’s eye settled on him had any bearing. He gave an undignified grin at remembering how he had sunk Spain’s armada, before moving on.
America in Love [1b/?]
anonymous
June 22 2010, 02:08:48 UTC
Same time period, different subject. And it wasn’t North Italy, either, for everyone within a ten mile radius knew that North Italy and Germany were together. Hell, he was pretty sure that their entire countries knew they were together.
Speaking of Germany, Prussia had snuck in once again, and was acting like he owned the place. But Prussia wasn’t one for subtleties. If he wanted something, he would get it. And the way his eyes were drifting between Austria and Hungary and the way they were replying told England that it was a threesome he should not get involved in.
Russia was slightly off his rocker and liked the Baltics too much, China was too old and set in his ways (not to mention the opium…), Sweden and Finland were practically married, the one he couldn’t remember was too shy, Denmark was communicating silently with Norway using only eyebrows, Switzerland loved his guns and his sister more than any other Nation, Egypt and Turkey were making eyes at each other, and Belarus was…well, Belarus.
By the end of the meeting, he realized that he had eliminated everyone, and by his logic it could be no one. But it had to be someone, unless his fairies were playing tricks on him. Maybe he should sit back and think about this more rather than jumping headlong. He pulled the crinkled paper out of his pocket, and looked at it, willing a clue to just out at him.
“Whatcha got?” America asked, leaning over. “A poem?”
“None of your bloody business, America.” Oh, how he wanted to kiss those red lips and touch that face and run his hands through that golden hair and sing sweet nothings in that ear and make love to that beautiful, insufferable, childish, idiotic git. And now he even sounded a bit like Shakespeare, it must be catching.
Still, he pushed the note into his pocket, and stood up. America followed, an almost hopeful look on his face.
“So, is it a poem? Who’d you get it from?” he asked, smiling with a look almost like an enthusiastic puppy. England had to fight not to reach out to him.
“I don’t know,” he muttered. “But I’m going to find out who. See you next meeting, America.” He took off towards the door, already mentally calculating his next step in discovering the identity of his admirer.
What he didn’t see was America’s puppy look slide off his face to be replaced with something almost like crushing defeat.
Re: America in Love [1b/?]
anonymous
June 22 2010, 02:35:37 UTC
... So cute. :D
I love your characterization here, especially England's massive blind spot towards America and the way he apparently always has time to gloat over terrorizing Spain. <3 And awesome choice of sonnet; it's a good one, and it's probably the one I'd choose for these guys. Uh. The happy one. If you want a melancholy one, I'd choose 120 (England to America). Being an angst whore and all!
That you were once unkind befriends me now, And for that sorrow which I then did feel Needs must I under my transgression bow, Unless my nerves were brass or hammered steel. For if you were by my unkindness shaken, As I by yours, you’ve passed a hell of time, And I, a tyrant, have no leisure taken To weigh how once I suffered in your crime. O that our night of woe might have rememb’red My deepest sense, how hard true sorrow hits, And soon to you as you to me then tendered The humble salve which wounded bosoms fits! But that your trespass now becomes a fee; Mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom me.
Re: America in Love [1b/?]
anonymous
June 22 2010, 13:19:40 UTC
I already like this fill, Alfred who is actually smarter than he looks (YES), Arthur totally lost at his forte (Shakespeare's against you this time Arthur!)
That and the fact you added Spain in just for spite, that's ftw.
America in Love [2a/?]
anonymous
June 23 2010, 20:03:51 UTC
I would like to state, that this sonnet is all a certain friend of mine's fault, since she encouraged me. You know who you are. >.> But it did work out, and if you don't exactly...get the meaning of the sonnet, sparknotes it.
----------- The next note was on his desk the next morning folded twice over on proper stationary. Flicking it open, it was the sort of stationary a woman would use, covered with a flower border. But it couldn’t be any woman he would know, so they were just using it to confuse him.
The poem wasn’t nearly as ambiguous.
Love is too young to know what conscience is, Yet who knows not conscience is born of love? Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss, Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove: For, thou betraying me, I do betray My nobler part to my gross body's treason; My soul doth tell my body that he may Triumph in love; flesh stays no farther reason, But rising at thy name doth point out thee, As his triumphant prize. Proud of this pride, He is contented thy poor drudge to be, To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side. No want of conscience hold it that I call Her love, for whose dear love I rise and fall.
…oh. Oh. A blush started to creep up his face and tinge his ears and neck as he sat down, staring at it like it was something completely incomprehensible, but in reality he understood every word. It was…oh, hell. He read it again. The words didn’t change. It was still Sonnet 151.
England squeaked out loud, dropping it on the desk like it was on fire. He then glared at it, willing it to disappear. It didn’t, the words in the same curvy looping script staring at him and almost taunting him with their meaning. He pulled the other note out and set them side-by-side. Same writing, even if they were on different types of paper. Still Shakespeare, even if they were…quite different in meaning.
He felt himself start to blush again, and told himself to calm down. He was England, damn it. He was not going to get worked up and flustered over a sonnet sent to him, even if it was this particular sonnet.
But what was his secret admirer trying to say with using these two sonnets, one right after another? Just as he settled back into his chair to think about it, America slammed open his door.
“Hi, Iggy!”
“Ah!” He jumped and grabbed the two sonnets, stuffing them in his pocket. “Don’t do that, you absolute wanker!”
He tilted his head, staring at England. “What did you just stuff in your pockets?”
“Don’t worry about it, America,” he said, a bit flustered and flushed. America was wearing that bomber jacket of his today, and England couldn’t ignore the way it smelt like leather and engine oil and just America. He wanted to bury his face in it and inhale the sweet smell.
“…Whatever you say. Anyway, I was wondering if you wanted to go get breakfast with me. Promise it won’t be at McDonald’s.”
“Well, maybe I don’t want to have breakfast with you!” Then America looked at him with those eyes, the trembling bright blue eyes that made him do anything. England couldn’t resist them when he was a child, and he certainly couldn’t now. “Oh, all right then. As long as they have good breakfast tea.”
They ended up at a little café down the street from the UN, America stirring his coffee and eating a giant cinnamon bun. It looked delicious, but England was not about to tell America that, not when he order tea with a simple croissant.
America in Love [2b/?]
anonymous
June 23 2010, 20:05:31 UTC
“So, what’s on your mind?” England looked up from his tea to see America staring at him from across the table, chin in his hand and elbow on the table.
“There is nothing on my mind!” he said defensively, though his one hand went compulsively to his pocket to check if the sonnets were still there.
“Aha, but there is, because you would have been correcting my posture and grammar and stuff if you weren’t thinking about something else.” That struck him as absurd, yet completely true. He thought for a moment, staring at his teacup. Maybe… Maybe America can be a bit useful in this. After all, he couldn’t be doing it.
“Well, there is, a bit. Imagine, and this is purely hypothetical, I assure you, that someone started sending you poems.”
“Poems,” America said, leaning forward.
“Poems. And they weren’t ordinary poems… They were poems about love. Well, almost. The first was about love, the other was well, about…” Here he blushed a bit. “Other things.”
“You mean like sex?” America asked, grinning almost smugly. England shushed him, flailing an arm in his direction.
“Not so loud, you git!”
“But I thought it was hypothetical, Iggy,” he said, his grin even wider now.
“It is! Just…don’t say that word in public!” he said, blushing all the harder. America just sniggered and England kicked him under the table. “Anyway, hypothetically, what do you think it means?”
America took a sip of his coffee and said, “I think it means that you got yourself a secret admirer.”
“Other than that! I know that already! I meant what do you think it means, them being one after another,” he said, crossing his arms. Then he realized what America had said and backtracked. “And this isn’t me! It’s a…friend of mine.”
“Suuuure, Iggy. Just a friend. And what I think it means?” America set down his cup thoughtfully and leaned across the table. “I think it means that your so-called friend’s secret admirer truly wants them. The first poem was about love, and the second was about sex.” He continued on, oblivious of England starting to flush. “I’m just guessing here, because I of course don’t know what the poems were, but it’s both sides of a coin. You can’t have love without sex, no matter how much movies and things want to convince us. It’s unconditional love, but it’s not the platonic, untouchable love, it’s more of an earthly, passionate, ‘I love you so much I want you’ love. Get it?”
England just stared, and at that moment wanted to take that idiotic man by the collar of his bomber jacket and kiss him. Obviously, that was what his secret admirer wanted to convey, and America was a genius (still an idiotic genius, though) to think of it.
“…That’s exactly it! Thank you, America!” Now, he had an idea of their motive, it would be easier to figure out who it was. “I have to go tell my friend, right now. They’ll be happy to know. You were going to pay, weren’t you?” He stood up, draining his cup of tea, and set some money down on the table. “There’s my share. Can’t let you pay for it all yourself. See you at the meeting this afternoon.”
He cut across the street to hail a cab, because he knew exactly who to get the help of, though he was loathe to do it.
He didn’t see America stare at him with a look of exasperated frustration and down his coffee in one gulp.
Re: America in Love [2b/?]
anonymous
June 24 2010, 00:03:55 UTC
Oh England, honey ... XD He's really not at his most perceptive when it comes to America, is he? Poor America; I'd feel sorrier for him, but I'm willing to bet that all your readers want to bang him right now, so!
And awesome choice of sonnet again, although I wouldn't have chosen that one. I had forgotten it existed, actually. ORZ
Naughty, naughty, England. No eating croissants, especially in front of America.
... I have a strange feeling I know whose advice he's seeking, anon. <3
America in Love [3a/?]
anonymous
June 27 2010, 21:52:33 UTC
This one isn't a sonnet, it's four lines from Act 1, Scene 1 of A Midsummer Night's Dream, because I found these lines expressed what I wanted to express, and couldn't find a sonnet.
------ “Sonnet 151, hm?” France asked, leering across the table at England who blushed bright red and kicked him, hard.
“Stop making it…dirty! Or something!” Even though it was dirty, in a way, but England couldn’t get the way America had explained it out of his head. ‘It’s unconditional love, but it’s not the platonic, untouchable love, it’s more of an earthly, passionate, ‘I love you so much I want you’ love.’ It sounded so utterly romantic, explained that way.
In all honesty, it sent shivers up and down his spine. But only if America had been talking about him that way, then maybe he would really have something to shiver about. He blinked, and realized that France was still staring at him, an eyebrow raised.
“Mon ami, you do realize you just shivered.” England gave him a questioning glance. France sighed and elaborated. “I have seen it enough to know it wasn’t a cold shiver. You came to me for help, so therefore, you must tell me everything.”
“Oh, it’s just that America explained it to me, and it was…” England stopped abruptly, because he had just realized that France had tricked him. France grinned, leaning back in his chair and swirling his wine about in his wineglass.
“Amerique makes you shiver, does he?”
“He does not!” England said, but he started to blush red up to the tips of his ears, and France wasn’t fooled, not for a moment.
“Oh, it seems that you are harboring feelings for your former colony!” he said dramatically, putting a hand against his forehead. England glared in a way that he hoped said, ‘You had better shut up or I’ll make you.’ “So much that when he explains the meaning of two poems to you, you shiver uncontrollably at the mere memory!”
“Shut up, you wine bastard!” he growled, standing up and knocking his wine glass over as he slammed his hands on the table. “He doesn’t love me anyway!”
France was completely unfazed by England’s outburst. “Are you so sure about that?” he asked in a normal tone of voice.
“Yes! Look at him and…and…look at me! He’s the beautiful golden boy and I’m just some unattractive grumpy old man! There is no way he can love me,” England said sadly, sitting back down in his chair and staring longingly at the wine he had spilled. He could use a drink right now. France refilled his glass, a mercy.
“You would be surprised, mon ami. Love can happen in the most unexpected places, and sees the truth of things where people cannot.”
“…Are you sure that you’re not sending these poems to me?” England said in a deadpan voice. France sighed, burying his face in his hands.
“Could it be possible that Amerique is sending you the poems?” he asked. “He did explain them to you.”
“No, no way,” he said firmly. “America doesn’t know anything about Shakespeare, and wouldn’t have half the brains it needed to come up with this.”
“And yet, you love him,” France pointed out.
“Yes, France, and yet I love him, for the idiotic git he is. Strange, isn’t it, that how one trait that would be so damned annoying in anyone else becomes something completely endearing in the one you love,” he said, half wistful.
“It’s the nature of love. Completely and utterly illogical, it is, and yet we find ourselves drawn to it. I do wonder if all the philosophers and scientists are right, considering love as a mental illness. It doesn’t change a thing, though. You would rather die than be cured of your love for Amerique, yes?”
“A thousand deaths, even if it’s never returned,” England said, sipping his wine. “I used to think people in love were crazy, until it happened to me. Now it seems like the only sane thing in the universe, the only sure thing. The earth will still turn, the sun will still shine, and I’ll still be in love with America. Pathetic, isn’t it?”
America in Love [3b/?]
anonymous
June 27 2010, 21:57:01 UTC
“Angleterre, think of who you are saying it to. Of course I don’t think it pathetic. However, I do think it pathetic that you have yet to tell him and that you are discounting him from being the one sending you the poems.”
“Oh, really now. Think about it, France. What are the chances that America could also be in love with me and trying to woo me through Shakespeare?”
“Stranger things have happened,” he said, hiding a smile behind his wine glass. “Like you falling in love with him in the first place.”
“Are you going to help me, or aren’t you?” England asked, fed up and frustrated with France insisting that it was America. It couldn’t be.
“Sorry, but I don’t have any idea, other than your one true love,” England glared and France continued on oblivious, “and it is most certainly not me. My advice…forget all about it and confess your love to Amerique. You will be ten times happier.”
“I can’t do that! It won’t be returned, it won’t be. And I’m curious as to who this is.”
“It’s possibly who you refuse to consider.”
“It is not America, you crazy French frog! I told you why it can’t be him,” he said, standing up and draining his wine glass. He stuffed the notes in his pocket and walked towards the door.
“And they are silly and ultimately meaningless reasons. Don’t discount him. Give him the benefit of the doubt. You love him, don’t you?”
“No thanks for the help, you crazy bastard,” England said, leaving France’s room. It wasn’t America, no matter how his heart hoped. Thinking it was would only lead to his heart being broken. He’d much rather keep his love safe and sheltered in his own heart, than have it exposed and rejected and broken beyond repair.
What he didn’t see was France reaching for his cell phone.
And when he got back to his room, stuck in the door was a tiny slip of paper. It read:
Things base and vile, holding no quantity, Love can transpose to form and dignity. Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind. And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.
OP asked for America being a secret Shakespeare expert and England's reaction. I took it one step farther and played with it. Title is also shamelessly pulled from Shakespeare in Love because I couldn't think of one.
--------
England was pretty sure that this was a first. He was quite sure that it was a first, because he had never been sent a love poem before. And it wasn’t a rubbish poem, either, that some poor soul had written, hoping that it was good. No, it came straight from the Bard himself.
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
Sonnet Number 116, on a nondescript piece of paper folded twice and wrinkled. The writing was nobody’s that he recognized, but then, handwriting can be disguised, can’t it? Who, that he knew, could possibly have the knowledge of Shakespeare’s sonnets to pick this one, of all things. If anything, one would have picked the rather famous Sonnet 18.
But his mysterious admirer hadn’t. He’d picked a lesser known one, but with the meaning completely clear and intact. England reread it and felt himself go red, because who could think that about him?
For a few seconds, he let himself hope that it might be him, but on second thought, it couldn’t. The idiot wouldn’t have the literacy to read a Shakespeare sonnet, much less comprehend it. Or quite possibly even know who Shakespeare is. England sighed. But he supposed the reasons why he loved the git didn’t have anything to do with whether he knew the works of England’s greatest literary genius or not.
Except…when someone was trying to woo him through using Shakespeare’s sonnets. He wasn’t quite sure how he felt about it, already being quite in love with the git (He should really do something about that someday, a voice deep down said, but he ignored it.) but…it was Shakespeare. And someone obviously had done their research. England couldn’t just ignore it.
So, it was time to find out exactly who was harboring feelings for him.
---------
The git was completely ruled out at the beginning, for being generally idiotic in the completely endearing way that England should really not love but did. And should stop staring at him doodling on his notes and get on with it.
Across from him sat France, and if it were him, England really did not want to know. He’d rather remain in the dark than know that the perverted frog was misusing Shakespeare.
Down the table, Japan was taking diligent notes and nodding at all the right places. It could be him, but if anything England would have assumed that he would have used a haiku. Of course, that would also lead to his identity being found out rather easily. Using Shakespeare was a way to pin it so that England didn’t know, couldn’t figure it out because about everyone at least knew that Shakespeare existed.
And anyway, he was sure that Greece and Japan were an item, or at least friends with benefits. He gazed over at the sleeping Greek, surrounded by cats, and then moved a few seats down to South Italy.
…No, he thought, watching South Italy glare and make threatening motions at Spain, who mouthed ‘so cute’ and smiled like an idiot. And definitely not Spain, if the way he flinched in abject terror when England’s eye settled on him had any bearing. He gave an undignified grin at remembering how he had sunk Spain’s armada, before moving on.
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Speaking of Germany, Prussia had snuck in once again, and was acting like he owned the place. But Prussia wasn’t one for subtleties. If he wanted something, he would get it. And the way his eyes were drifting between Austria and Hungary and the way they were replying told England that it was a threesome he should not get involved in.
Russia was slightly off his rocker and liked the Baltics too much, China was too old and set in his ways (not to mention the opium…), Sweden and Finland were practically married, the one he couldn’t remember was too shy, Denmark was communicating silently with Norway using only eyebrows, Switzerland loved his guns and his sister more than any other Nation, Egypt and Turkey were making eyes at each other, and Belarus was…well, Belarus.
By the end of the meeting, he realized that he had eliminated everyone, and by his logic it could be no one. But it had to be someone, unless his fairies were playing tricks on him. Maybe he should sit back and think about this more rather than jumping headlong. He pulled the crinkled paper out of his pocket, and looked at it, willing a clue to just out at him.
“Whatcha got?” America asked, leaning over. “A poem?”
“None of your bloody business, America.” Oh, how he wanted to kiss those red lips and touch that face and run his hands through that golden hair and sing sweet nothings in that ear and make love to that beautiful, insufferable, childish, idiotic git. And now he even sounded a bit like Shakespeare, it must be catching.
Still, he pushed the note into his pocket, and stood up. America followed, an almost hopeful look on his face.
“So, is it a poem? Who’d you get it from?” he asked, smiling with a look almost like an enthusiastic puppy. England had to fight not to reach out to him.
“I don’t know,” he muttered. “But I’m going to find out who. See you next meeting, America.” He took off towards the door, already mentally calculating his next step in discovering the identity of his admirer.
What he didn’t see was America’s puppy look slide off his face to be replaced with something almost like crushing defeat.
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I love your characterization here, especially England's massive blind spot towards America and the way he apparently always has time to gloat over terrorizing Spain. <3 And awesome choice of sonnet; it's a good one, and it's probably the one I'd choose for these guys. Uh. The happy one. If you want a melancholy one, I'd choose 120 (England to America). Being an angst whore and all!
Also, d'aw, sad kicked-puppy!America is sad. D:
ReCAPTCHA: "doped on" Er.
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And for that sorrow which I then did feel
Needs must I under my transgression bow,
Unless my nerves were brass or hammered steel.
For if you were by my unkindness shaken,
As I by yours, you’ve passed a hell of time,
And I, a tyrant, have no leisure taken
To weigh how once I suffered in your crime.
O that our night of woe might have rememb’red
My deepest sense, how hard true sorrow hits,
And soon to you as you to me then tendered
The humble salve which wounded bosoms fits!
But that your trespass now becomes a fee;
Mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom me.
Just spreading the Shakespeare. ~_^
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*brofist*
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That and the fact you added Spain in just for spite, that's ftw.
/F5-ing
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-----------
The next note was on his desk the next morning folded twice over on proper stationary. Flicking it open, it was the sort of stationary a woman would use, covered with a flower border. But it couldn’t be any woman he would know, so they were just using it to confuse him.
The poem wasn’t nearly as ambiguous.
Love is too young to know what conscience is,
Yet who knows not conscience is born of love?
Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss,
Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove:
For, thou betraying me, I do betray
My nobler part to my gross body's treason;
My soul doth tell my body that he may
Triumph in love; flesh stays no farther reason,
But rising at thy name doth point out thee,
As his triumphant prize. Proud of this pride,
He is contented thy poor drudge to be,
To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side.
No want of conscience hold it that I call
Her love, for whose dear love I rise and fall.
…oh. Oh. A blush started to creep up his face and tinge his ears and neck as he sat down, staring at it like it was something completely incomprehensible, but in reality he understood every word. It was…oh, hell. He read it again. The words didn’t change. It was still Sonnet 151.
England squeaked out loud, dropping it on the desk like it was on fire. He then glared at it, willing it to disappear. It didn’t, the words in the same curvy looping script staring at him and almost taunting him with their meaning. He pulled the other note out and set them side-by-side. Same writing, even if they were on different types of paper. Still Shakespeare, even if they were…quite different in meaning.
He felt himself start to blush again, and told himself to calm down. He was England, damn it. He was not going to get worked up and flustered over a sonnet sent to him, even if it was this particular sonnet.
But what was his secret admirer trying to say with using these two sonnets, one right after another? Just as he settled back into his chair to think about it, America slammed open his door.
“Hi, Iggy!”
“Ah!” He jumped and grabbed the two sonnets, stuffing them in his pocket. “Don’t do that, you absolute wanker!”
He tilted his head, staring at England. “What did you just stuff in your pockets?”
“Don’t worry about it, America,” he said, a bit flustered and flushed. America was wearing that bomber jacket of his today, and England couldn’t ignore the way it smelt like leather and engine oil and just America. He wanted to bury his face in it and inhale the sweet smell.
“…Whatever you say. Anyway, I was wondering if you wanted to go get breakfast with me. Promise it won’t be at McDonald’s.”
“Well, maybe I don’t want to have breakfast with you!” Then America looked at him with those eyes, the trembling bright blue eyes that made him do anything. England couldn’t resist them when he was a child, and he certainly couldn’t now. “Oh, all right then. As long as they have good breakfast tea.”
They ended up at a little café down the street from the UN, America stirring his coffee and eating a giant cinnamon bun. It looked delicious, but England was not about to tell America that, not when he order tea with a simple croissant.
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“There is nothing on my mind!” he said defensively, though his one hand went compulsively to his pocket to check if the sonnets were still there.
“Aha, but there is, because you would have been correcting my posture and grammar and stuff if you weren’t thinking about something else.” That struck him as absurd, yet completely true. He thought for a moment, staring at his teacup. Maybe… Maybe America can be a bit useful in this. After all, he couldn’t be doing it.
“Well, there is, a bit. Imagine, and this is purely hypothetical, I assure you, that someone started sending you poems.”
“Poems,” America said, leaning forward.
“Poems. And they weren’t ordinary poems… They were poems about love. Well, almost. The first was about love, the other was well, about…” Here he blushed a bit. “Other things.”
“You mean like sex?” America asked, grinning almost smugly. England shushed him, flailing an arm in his direction.
“Not so loud, you git!”
“But I thought it was hypothetical, Iggy,” he said, his grin even wider now.
“It is! Just…don’t say that word in public!” he said, blushing all the harder. America just sniggered and England kicked him under the table. “Anyway, hypothetically, what do you think it means?”
America took a sip of his coffee and said, “I think it means that you got yourself a secret admirer.”
“Other than that! I know that already! I meant what do you think it means, them being one after another,” he said, crossing his arms. Then he realized what America had said and backtracked. “And this isn’t me! It’s a…friend of mine.”
“Suuuure, Iggy. Just a friend. And what I think it means?” America set down his cup thoughtfully and leaned across the table. “I think it means that your so-called friend’s secret admirer truly wants them. The first poem was about love, and the second was about sex.” He continued on, oblivious of England starting to flush. “I’m just guessing here, because I of course don’t know what the poems were, but it’s both sides of a coin. You can’t have love without sex, no matter how much movies and things want to convince us. It’s unconditional love, but it’s not the platonic, untouchable love, it’s more of an earthly, passionate, ‘I love you so much I want you’ love. Get it?”
England just stared, and at that moment wanted to take that idiotic man by the collar of his bomber jacket and kiss him. Obviously, that was what his secret admirer wanted to convey, and America was a genius (still an idiotic genius, though) to think of it.
“…That’s exactly it! Thank you, America!” Now, he had an idea of their motive, it would be easier to figure out who it was. “I have to go tell my friend, right now. They’ll be happy to know. You were going to pay, weren’t you?” He stood up, draining his cup of tea, and set some money down on the table. “There’s my share. Can’t let you pay for it all yourself. See you at the meeting this afternoon.”
He cut across the street to hail a cab, because he knew exactly who to get the help of, though he was loathe to do it.
He didn’t see America stare at him with a look of exasperated frustration and down his coffee in one gulp.
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And awesome choice of sonnet again, although I wouldn't have chosen that one. I had forgotten it existed, actually. ORZ
Naughty, naughty, England. No eating croissants, especially in front of America.
... I have a strange feeling I know whose advice he's seeking, anon. <3
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I really love this fill so far. Keep it up! <3
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God, I'm such a sucker for this fill, anon. What the hell? <3
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“Sonnet 151, hm?” France asked, leering across the table at England who blushed bright red and kicked him, hard.
“Stop making it…dirty! Or something!” Even though it was dirty, in a way, but England couldn’t get the way America had explained it out of his head. ‘It’s unconditional love, but it’s not the platonic, untouchable love, it’s more of an earthly, passionate, ‘I love you so much I want you’ love.’ It sounded so utterly romantic, explained that way.
In all honesty, it sent shivers up and down his spine. But only if America had been talking about him that way, then maybe he would really have something to shiver about. He blinked, and realized that France was still staring at him, an eyebrow raised.
“Mon ami, you do realize you just shivered.” England gave him a questioning glance. France sighed and elaborated. “I have seen it enough to know it wasn’t a cold shiver. You came to me for help, so therefore, you must tell me everything.”
“Oh, it’s just that America explained it to me, and it was…” England stopped abruptly, because he had just realized that France had tricked him. France grinned, leaning back in his chair and swirling his wine about in his wineglass.
“Amerique makes you shiver, does he?”
“He does not!” England said, but he started to blush red up to the tips of his ears, and France wasn’t fooled, not for a moment.
“Oh, it seems that you are harboring feelings for your former colony!” he said dramatically, putting a hand against his forehead. England glared in a way that he hoped said, ‘You had better shut up or I’ll make you.’ “So much that when he explains the meaning of two poems to you, you shiver uncontrollably at the mere memory!”
“Shut up, you wine bastard!” he growled, standing up and knocking his wine glass over as he slammed his hands on the table. “He doesn’t love me anyway!”
France was completely unfazed by England’s outburst. “Are you so sure about that?” he asked in a normal tone of voice.
“Yes! Look at him and…and…look at me! He’s the beautiful golden boy and I’m just some unattractive grumpy old man! There is no way he can love me,” England said sadly, sitting back down in his chair and staring longingly at the wine he had spilled. He could use a drink right now. France refilled his glass, a mercy.
“You would be surprised, mon ami. Love can happen in the most unexpected places, and sees the truth of things where people cannot.”
“…Are you sure that you’re not sending these poems to me?” England said in a deadpan voice. France sighed, burying his face in his hands.
“Could it be possible that Amerique is sending you the poems?” he asked. “He did explain them to you.”
“No, no way,” he said firmly. “America doesn’t know anything about Shakespeare, and wouldn’t have half the brains it needed to come up with this.”
“And yet, you love him,” France pointed out.
“Yes, France, and yet I love him, for the idiotic git he is. Strange, isn’t it, that how one trait that would be so damned annoying in anyone else becomes something completely endearing in the one you love,” he said, half wistful.
“It’s the nature of love. Completely and utterly illogical, it is, and yet we find ourselves drawn to it. I do wonder if all the philosophers and scientists are right, considering love as a mental illness. It doesn’t change a thing, though. You would rather die than be cured of your love for Amerique, yes?”
“A thousand deaths, even if it’s never returned,” England said, sipping his wine. “I used to think people in love were crazy, until it happened to me. Now it seems like the only sane thing in the universe, the only sure thing. The earth will still turn, the sun will still shine, and I’ll still be in love with America. Pathetic, isn’t it?”
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“Oh, really now. Think about it, France. What are the chances that America could also be in love with me and trying to woo me through Shakespeare?”
“Stranger things have happened,” he said, hiding a smile behind his wine glass. “Like you falling in love with him in the first place.”
“Are you going to help me, or aren’t you?” England asked, fed up and frustrated with France insisting that it was America. It couldn’t be.
“Sorry, but I don’t have any idea, other than your one true love,” England glared and France continued on oblivious, “and it is most certainly not me. My advice…forget all about it and confess your love to Amerique. You will be ten times happier.”
“I can’t do that! It won’t be returned, it won’t be. And I’m curious as to who this is.”
“It’s possibly who you refuse to consider.”
“It is not America, you crazy French frog! I told you why it can’t be him,” he said, standing up and draining his wine glass. He stuffed the notes in his pocket and walked towards the door.
“And they are silly and ultimately meaningless reasons. Don’t discount him. Give him the benefit of the doubt. You love him, don’t you?”
“No thanks for the help, you crazy bastard,” England said, leaving France’s room. It wasn’t America, no matter how his heart hoped. Thinking it was would only lead to his heart being broken. He’d much rather keep his love safe and sheltered in his own heart, than have it exposed and rejected and broken beyond repair.
What he didn’t see was France reaching for his cell phone.
And when he got back to his room, stuck in the door was a tiny slip of paper. It read:
Things base and vile, holding no quantity,
Love can transpose to form and dignity.
Love looks not with the eyes but with the mind.
And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind.
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