England distinctly feels the dip in the bed where America sits. He’s tucked him in, with a hot hand against a fevered brow. England’s lips part to form an apology but it stays put. He never could truly tell America how he really felt.
How sorry-
“We’re weak now.”
Dry mouth.
“Pardon?”
He can barely make the outline of what cannot be thoughtful comprehension in America’s profile.
“It’s nothing England. Sleep well.”
America motions to rise, both hands on the sheets pressing up but England’s hand whips out from beneath the covers to grab at the edge of his jacket, eyes as dry as his mouth those words twisting back up but they do not come out, instead a whistle to hum, all that he’d not wanted to say because he’d wanted to resist to the end and cannot-
“Stay.”
--
Canada can’t sleep.
France places the coffee cup before him, piping hot. He asks if he wants any milk or sugar. Canada accepts sugar. America would have wanted sugar and milk. Lots of sugar.
Lots of milk.
When they were young England had always had to keep pouring until the tea was more milk than tea. But neither ever seemed to mind in their own world, looking at the other, laughing, happily- a world Canada had wanted to be part of, had wanted to be remembered in until he realized it was a completely different place where only those two could stand by the other, and most of all, a place he didn’t want to be part of especially if-
-hands fumbling in the dark, the black of the night burns against his eyes as he makes out the silhouettes in the scarcest star light, in the kitchen where they’d eaten dinner before America is up on the kitchen table. His night clothes pushed above his hips as England grunts above him, large hands gripping at tiny hips, tinier fingers scratch at his arms as America clutches at them and bites his lip trying to not let a sound out. England nipping at America’s chin and neck, urging every little noise, grunting increasing as he thrusts harder-
“Please tell me Canada,” France is telling him, voice soft, not silky smooth like when he’d like to lure you to bed or steal a kiss and touch and swallow you in a gaze. Not at all, instead it is laced with concern, a calm agitation. France was always patient with him. Always caring. France always knew he and America were different, are different.
Vastly.
But whose fault is that?
Should it matter.
And it chokes again at the back of the throat, England.
part 10 ; Sing Sung Songs [13/?]
anonymous
July 6 2010, 09:02:37 UTC
France’s fleeting glance, downcast gaze confirms all but it’s not what he already knows that he wants to discuss rather- he shifts a little in his seat, arms, clasped. Blue sofas, France’s house. The smell of roses, Canada wonders who really tends to the rose garden here. As appreciative France is of the beautiful it is one thing to appreciate and another to tend to.
Painstakingly holding, growing, looking after something without breaking it, harming it. Sharp, stingingly the gasp he makes.
“The roses-”
“England,” France tells him, “He grumbles and swears all the while.”
When he tirelessly tends to them because he has a rose garden himself, a beautiful garden, and if France can cook delicious food then England can grow and raise lovely healthy roses. He can do it better than France who doesn’t know anything about gardening (this is not true, but England likes to think so as an excuse to stay, to get his hands dirty and prickled by earth and weeds, hauling water and fertilizer, humming now and then a tune they all pretend they don’t know) Canada quirks a smile. France would play along and he’d try to help by unwinding the hose, which he’d feign not knowing how to use and end up spraying England with water. England in turn would rush at him and try to rip off that beard-
But it leaves him, that smile. As does this image of an England who cares only for a rose garden of a friend not friend, whose cooking he’ll eat hastily and begrudgingly before leaving for home as compensation for the red, pink, white, yellow, the array of colours roses can be, blossoming under a sunny day at the home of an old nemesis.
If England can care diligently to roses why could he not have taken better care of-
But the end of that sentence.
That rationale.
Canada knows.
Roses are just flowers, they aren’t people, aren’t nations, aren’t beings who fester desire in another. Roses can’t love you back. Not the way America could should you hold his heart.
“You told me before didn’t you? That I don’t know really what England’s capable of. But, I know…” his already quiet voice, normal in the silent room save for the clock ticking steadily away, how many more minutes would he spend in hesitance?
I know something you don’t know.
Feels arrogant even as the truth.
The brief part when lips take in breath, a slight one with a flex of the bottom lip. France’s mouth does this, the golden whiskers of his beard look glossy even in the dimmer light. Canada thinks it takes a lot to look good with facial hair, when he grows out a little he just feels like he’s spent too long camping in the mountains again and will need a bath.
part 10 ; Sing Sung Songs [14/?]
anonymous
July 6 2010, 09:03:12 UTC
America- when he’d asked about this (“How do you think we’d look?”), had grown stubble with him when they were young, he’d still been part of England and America a nation- they’d rubbed their fingers over the other’s, rubbed those whiskered cheeks against one another, comparing growth speed, colour and texture. England had visited once during this experiment. America had promptly shaved it off after he’d seen it, became irritated and was gone. Deriving a certain pleasure in every little crease of England’s brow.
“America loves England.”
France sits back, crosses a leg. Fingers twitch in the fold of his hands, he holds a hand out to place on Canada’s shoulder as the younger nation buries his face in his hands, cheeks feeling the sweat that’s spread on his palms. That hand does not reach its destination as muffled, but louder than the voice that is not screened behind the shield of flesh and bone.
“He slept with England.”
Incredulous, that noise- it’s not a chuckle, but it’s a sort of laugh.
“Of course have you seen them now-”
“Before he was a nation.”
France’s throat closes up.
“Before he could-”
Canada’s eyes glisten, moisten as he peers over his hands, voice growing steadily stronger though it quakes.
“-before his head could rest against your shoulder or your hip.”
England’s hip. When America could just reach it, England would fumble his touch against the back of America’s head on the cushions of a chair in the room he’d love to sew in, fumble those fingers to hook under America’s chin and hold it in place as his other hand reached to tug out from beneath his breeches-
France’s grip slips away as he stands, so violently straightforward with a sharpness grace cannot attend. It alarms Canada but does not stop him from finishing.
“Not in the way you and I would.”
Under the covers, it’s cold, but big brother is there to warm him in a gentle embrace, as drifting and soft, they fell to slumber, to dream. Canada does not fear ghosts or monsters in the dark where he’s found peace and comfort in anticipation of another day (there must be night for day to come) unlike America who cries at any small sound, any small indication of movement, shadow that is or is not there. Monsters to eat him, ghosts to haunt him. America fears the dark, for what it brings to him is not the same as what it brings to Canada.
-pressed so deeply it might as well they be one body, one figure estranged in the pitch dark. Sleepily rub away vision, Canada can only creep back to bed and pretend and ignore and forget-
Augh, all those little snippets of the past are heart-breaking enough, but I still feel so bad for Canada-- And now France, too! Canada, who was unable to stop what was happening or even able to say anything -- he still has that kind of "I know something you don't know, and it's even more horrible than you could imagine" feeling. France, entirely unknowing. And neither able to fix the present or future, either. >_< Although I'm looking forward to France kicking some ass, either literally or metaphorically. *cheers big brother France on*
That last line is a tiny piece of heart-break, but this is just gorgeous:
Under the covers, it’s cold, but big brother is there to warm him in a gentle embrace, as drifting and soft, they fell to slumber, to dream. Canada does not fear ghosts or monsters in the dark where he’s found peace and comfort in anticipation of another day (there must be night for day to come) unlike America who cries at any small sound, any small indication of movement, shadow that is or is not there. Monsters to eat him, ghosts to haunt him. America fears the dark, for what it brings to him is not the same as what it brings to Canada.
God, that's seriously heart-breaking. And enough to fuck everyone up for life. T_T
... Captcha: "Mermaids know" Er, then the mermaids need to kick England's ass and/or get him some therapy? Preferably both, dammit.
Re: part 10 ; Sing Sung Songs [14/?]
anonymous
July 7 2010, 02:06:32 UTC
You... you're back! *sobs in happiness*
When I saw this on the Fill list, I immediately went back and reread the previous parts then this new part. I crave more now!
Gosh, shit's really going to hit the fan after this part, isn't it? France's reaction was so wonderfully written. It wasn't written as being over the top, and just perfect.
My favorite part was this paragraph:
Under the covers, it’s cold, but big brother is there to warm him in a gentle embrace, as drifting and soft, they fell to slumber, to dream. Canada does not fear ghosts or monsters in the dark where he’s found peace and comfort in anticipation of another day (there must be night for day to come) unlike America who cries at any small sound, any small indication of movement, shadow that is or is not there. Monsters to eat him, ghosts to haunt him. America fears the dark, for what it brings to him is not the same as what it brings to Canada.
Re: part 10 ; Sing Sung Songs [14/?]
anonymous
July 9 2010, 09:09:04 UTC
OMG I'm so happy your back!! oh wow.. this is so sad.. and the last part. whoa! ow my heart, but I love you for it.<3 why does America's personality fit so well with this it's becoming my head cannon. I think I'm going to cry.. poor America. ;_; why are you so amazing Author!Anon?
Re: part 10 ; Sing Sung Songs [14/?]
anonymous
August 2 2010, 06:41:32 UTC
I only just found this while perusing the recs list and read everything in one go, and I'm kind of overwhelmed by the richness of emotions and your style. You've given me an ache I'm not sure I want to shake off. Amazing.
part 10 ; Sing Sung Songs [15/?]
anonymous
September 13 2010, 06:16:03 UTC
Dinner parties are always mistakes he soon learns.
Even though they are small and nothing of the extravagance of those he has in Europe, he cannot help wanting to indulge America with just a glimpse of what he cannot obtain. For America to experience the real thing, England would have to take his boy home with him, across that dangerous ocean. And allow him to enjoy not only the wonder, but the capricious and longing eyes of the rest of Europe. Something his very heart cannot allow, let alone a rational mind. That someone should steal America away in his own midst… it was better to keep him here. And though they are surrounded not by countries but by humans, subjects, officials- surely America is having a good time feeling just a bit grown up?
He’d recently gotten taller, his little head reaching almost at England’s breast now. It makes said heart in his breast swell with just a little something more than only pride (a self indulgent satisfaction you are what you are because of me). America deserved this if one day he’d grow into an adult and-
And…
England’s mouth is dry. Whenever he sees America laughing, always laughing. America not just laughs with him after all, the times England leaves him be, has to (that gnawing guilty feeling, stop stop stop but how can he if he remains by America’s side? Why should he when America lov-) mean it is not just his company that enjoys America’s though he tries not to wish that the case. Tries to overcome. What are these people but specks, on their long lives, nationhood? But America is not a nation, he will only be akin to one by England’s side (but should America leave it…)
A lady who has tried to engage him in conversation looks on at him almost oddly as England shakes his head. He shouldn’t think like that, he’d taken all the necessary precautions to prevent that hadn’t he? America for instance, was only allowed to trade with him and-
-should only be able to laugh with him.
His whole body gives a jolt, selfishness. What was wrong with him, there was no sin it was the greatest sin- America had done this to him. By drawing him in and taking his heart why should he feel anything other than envy as one countless official, or one enthused youth- placed a hand on his colony’s shoulder in familiarity, in joke, a friendly gesture? Why shouldn’t he because America’s eyes should be upon him and not this- not this mere- America sees England starring at him, and turns (ah so you can feel it after all?!) and England’s face immediately collapses to that of relief and delight as America comes over to half fold upon his arms and tells him, almost darling- “I’m tired, is it alright if I go to my room?”
England excuses him immediately, trying to shake off that knowing glint he’d see, the merest of satisfaction in those blue eyes whose gaze he’d wanted all evening. For your sake.
Going unsaid.
And for mine.
--
All is for naught.
As later that evening when the guests have gone away and America is drowsily playing war tactics with that set of soldiers England had specifically made of him. It’s all a bunch of drills (that also serve to teach him for the real thing he’s told, though England has made it quite clear that as long as he lives America will fight no battle on anyone’s behalf- England will do that for him, England will protect him-) and he cannot really even play war when there is no set of opposing soldiers to engage war with (though he muses if there were to be these enemy soldiers would be France’s; who he does not mind but who England hates more than anyone it appeared…)
“If it could only be just you and me,” England starts as he closes the door.
All the guests have departed and for what it matters, the house is barren with only them left.
part 10 ; Sing Sung Songs [16/?]
anonymous
September 13 2010, 06:22:02 UTC
America rolls onto his back, clutching at one of the toy soldiers he’d been in the middle of moving. Smiling a little, in the way one does when they don’t quite understand (rather not), even with the cool of the doorknob slipping from comprehension in England’s mind he can still make out the barest little hint of teeth as America bites his lips, should he say? America is bold.
“But England, if it was only you and me it’d be boring.”
England brow gives that crease, and in his chest his rapidly beating heart rises and twists.
Voice revealing how wounded he actually is than intended, it always was like that with England- “Is it… is it boring to be with me?”
And sometimes tears would form in his eyes and America would always always go to him, to wipe them away, kiss them away. This time America lies there still, he does not go to England, and looks rather haughtily at the ceiling avoiding England’s expression. Avoiding answering.
It is only a few swift steps before England kneels before him, bending over to drape his body over America’s smaller one. Now is the time America would really bite his lip worry it red like England likes to, and shut his eyes tight tight tight tighter England thought than how America feels inside- and how tight he is-
Instead, swallowing thickly when America’s eyes look over into his own and burn with a rebellion England has never seen before, almost startled he gives a shuddering move back until it gives way to anger, indignation fingers rigid as he clutches at America’s face shaking his head.
“What are those eyes for America? Is what we do not enough? Do you feel you are not-”
Almost spitefully England grabs America’s shoulders and slams them against the floor, hands shaking he’s never- never wanted- not like this- not without love to- but bad boys have to be punished ah then this is not the way- a million thoughts jumbled up and unrelenting this desire as England gives in half a yell half a whisper, “-you are not strong enough?”
The shove had really startled America who trembles, (as if remembering his place and no no no England thinks the back of his eyes heavy not like that darling, your place is besides me, merely-) so England kisses him, at the little juncture of the neck and shoulder he loves, on America’s fingers to the tips, the chin, the cheek, America murmuring what England hopes can only be his name.
“It will be alright, there are ways to fix this. I promise you won’t ever tire of me, I don’t tire of you!”
It’s not mutual.
It’s not mutual.
England doesn’t understand what those words even mean, if America doesn’t love him he would not have said he did. If he didn’t like this he would not have relented. If America did not want to become strong he would not work so hard to become strong.
England fumbles to pull America’s shorts down, snapping off, untying what need be to see the soft skin beneath. His hands always shake in anticipation at this part, like unwrapping a gift, a beloved and precious gift that is only for him, but this time one of America’s hands grab at his, it is a weak grab (“See? Not nearly strong enough!”) and it isn’t long before England descends, sucking at America’s small prick as he squirms against the hard floor. And clutches, clutches with all his might in his fists that small toy soldier. It is- it was his favourite one. Green eyes, and thick brow, even a little shorter than the others, England had not left that little detail out even if it meant a small piece of dignity sacrificed, all to bemuse America who’d not been thought to be able to notice intentional accuracy.
When England sees that America rather hold this small toy against him (his beating heart, his heavy chest; he’s flushed from the neck down and the room is well lit with a sufficient amount of candles for England to see) the jealousy he’d been holding back during the dinner party erupts in one vicious motion.
He pries the toy from America’s fingers. America’s fingers clutching like they’d never before, scratching, clawing, imploring (how England wants that strength, that intensity against his shoulders, his back, America’s fingernails gliding, tearing at his skin oh how-) “Why?!”
part 10 ; Sing Sung Songs [17/?]
anonymous
September 13 2010, 06:28:01 UTC
A meager substitute that was more for England to feel better (that I must go) than to serve as a crutch for America.
Weakness can’t be permitted can it?
It seems the excuse, the lie, the cover up, has become a convenient truth not just for America but for England’s peace of mind.
(I do these things because I love you.)
But America doesn’t understand love.
Instead he understands.
(Grow big and strong.)
“If that is what you really want-”
Takes it in a hand rearing back, England bends- clutching the toy soldier, little red coat, between his fingers and America’s eyes jolt wide open in surprise, having expected if anything the familiar feel of the hot and hard penetration of England’s cock into him.
But instead it is the dry wood of the smooth toy soldier that England is moving into him, his wrist straining painfully as if doing this is more than he can bear, eyes enviously watching his fingers push in and out the little toy soldier, in and out into his America who after every other thrust cannot contain a sharp cry, one, two- the noise hovers heavily in England’s breast. He even resists sparing those pink lips a kiss, from where those sounds come, more enticing than any siren’s call. Though he wants to, he wants to, he wants to-
“If you want him rather than me America do it yourself,” England tells America softly, poisoned with envy. Fingers latching up almost mechanically now to lead, stretched and arching limbs, to direct America’s hands down to barely catch at the end of the little toy soldier that peaks out from where it’s in his arsehole. Diligently almost, America struggles to repeat the rhythm England had set, only he can barely reach, and more fearful of the toy soldier being trapped within him than any manner of preference he cries and begs, face a familiar moist, that flicker of rebellion all washed away- “No! No, England! If it’s not you-”
Startlingly, England reaches down to cup a hand over America’s where he is still pumping the toy soldier in and out of him, neck straining up as his little boy tries to come closer to him him him, England guides America’s hands to be more forceful (you don’t like it you don’t like it at all do you, because it should be me America it should be me) harsher, even harsher when he remembers America’s honeyed smile from the dinner party for someone else-
“Ah, ah ah- America-“ England pants, America’s little knees are nudging over and over against his hip bones, his clothes- his clothes why are they still- “Then help me.”
England tells him as he himself pulls off a long coat, a shirt, America’s nimble fingers working to rid him of his breeches, nervous and anxious- stockings and shoes, those fingers timidly press against England’s skin, along his rib cage to his chest where they curl up at the usual place. Forgivingly England slowly inches the little toy soldier out, a nasty smile he cannot rid his mouth of fully intact.
You’re not needed.
Where it tumbles against the floor wetly.
Unheard as England has pressed inside America urgently, happily, hands scraping, grabbing at America’s hips, those legs around his waist where they should be- “This is better isn’t? Isn’t it America? You like this don’t you?”
It’s a foolish, it’s a cruel reasoning. If you don’t like one you must like the other. (What would you rather have? Apples or oranges? Those are the only choices and you have to make a choice.)
America makes his choice, nodding, griping upon the tops of England’s shoulders like they are his only lifeline as England thrusts into him again, again, the knowing pace America is used to- the one that has given him strength until today- is it because England is powerful that this makes him strong as well? Is this the only way for America to receive strength from England?
He does not voice these questions, comments aloud, like he had the one earlier. Instead he moans, cries, with no apparent synch to England above him who gropes around his back and bottom, bringing him closer- always closer as if to make up for the times he is far far away-
part 10 ; Sing Sung Songs [18/?]
anonymous
September 13 2010, 06:33:26 UTC
“Y-You only-”
He can feel America’s moist face buried against his throat now, lips accidentally catching at his collarbone as England rocks back onto his bottom and pushes America up and down his cock, tight and hot all around-
“-only need me don’t you America?”
England isn’t really expecting an answer though he’d like one, satisfied as he usually is with America mewling and grinding against him, his little face screwed up in pain and pleasure or one or the other is enough-
“Yes,” America tells him, voice high pitched as England nudges against his prostate and he comes jerking and shamefully against England’s stomach, England coming soon after- he is jittery and overjoyed- kissing America all over in the most gentle he’s ever been since they’d first met (and England had been timid “Do you not like it?” he’d asked then too, but America had loved it, loved whatever attention England would give him until…) touches at America’s dripping cock with his hand right on to smear with it all the come he can and when he does bends to lap at it, alternately licking and dabbing kisses on America’s red cheek.
“My dear boy-” England tells him but America doesn’t remember what England says after that.
--
When he wakes, sun is glaring over his face. He’s usually careful in remembering to draw back the curtains but last night he’d-
He’d-
-not. And blinded he gropes about for his clothes, and deciding they’re too wrinkled to be bothered with but he’s too hung over to have enough coordination to give the drawers of his wardrobe a shot. He hobbles downstairs, fully intent on setting a kettle for tea on the stove- when the heavy scent of fat greasy what can only be bacon assaults his nose.
It’s now with a dream sense he stumbles into the kitchen, and onto a dining room chair. In front of him is a plate of eggs, toast, and a cup of coffee. The newspaper is folded left, silverware on the right. He;s suddenly so hungry he doesn’t care.
“Couldn't you have waited for the bacon?” an almost irritated voice asks him.
As from a frying pan four gracious slices and slid onto his now half empty plate. England wolfishly eats into those and starts on the coffee-
Makes a face.
“Besides, who said that was for you?”
England is about to reply something to likings of ‘my house, my food’.
When America making a scrunched face at him, sets down a plate (of food many shades darker than the food he’d just been eating) and a cup of-
“OH!” England exclaims.
America sighs, “I even went to all the trouble cooking it as you like it!”
England makes a motion to take America’s cup (well that’s his too anyway right?) but America snatches it up before England can, “Uh ah England. You drank my coffee so I’m going to drink your-”
“Tea? Really America?”
America looks like he’s having the exact same second thoughts as England predicted he would. That and England knows America couldn’t brew a decent cup of tea anymore to save his life (still that would have been better than-) “But you drank all of it all of it.”
America is gesturing to ‘England’s’ empty cup. England only has the instant one serving stuff America had sent him ages ago and so.
“There should be more,” like there should be more tea, it’s not like he can’t make his own.
England rises, intent on making himself something nice to drink when America sitting adjacent from him reaches out to grab at his wrist. Stops him. Not the motion. Not America’s hand.
But rather the pensive thoughtful expression that’s taken over America's features.
--
Dark.
England distinctly feels the dip in the bed where America sits. He’s tucked him in, with a hot hand against a fevered brow. England’s lips part to form an apology but it stays put. He never could truly tell America how he really felt.
How sorry-
“We’re weak now.”
Dry mouth.
“Pardon?”
He can barely make the outline of what cannot be thoughtful comprehension in America’s profile.
“It’s nothing England. Sleep well.”
America motions to rise, both hands on the sheets pressing up but England’s hand whips out from beneath the covers to grab at the edge of his jacket, eyes as dry as his mouth those words twisting back up but they do not come out, instead a whistle to hum, all that he’d not wanted to say because he’d wanted to resist to the end and cannot-
“Stay.”
--
Canada can’t sleep.
France places the coffee cup before him, piping hot. He asks if he wants any milk or sugar. Canada accepts sugar. America would have wanted sugar and milk. Lots of sugar.
Lots of milk.
When they were young England had always had to keep pouring until the tea was more milk than tea. But neither ever seemed to mind in their own world, looking at the other, laughing, happily- a world Canada had wanted to be part of, had wanted to be remembered in until he realized it was a completely different place where only those two could stand by the other, and most of all, a place he didn’t want to be part of especially if-
-hands fumbling in the dark, the black of the night burns against his eyes as he makes out the silhouettes in the scarcest star light, in the kitchen where they’d eaten dinner before America is up on the kitchen table. His night clothes pushed above his hips as England grunts above him, large hands gripping at tiny hips, tinier fingers scratch at his arms as America clutches at them and bites his lip trying to not let a sound out. England nipping at America’s chin and neck, urging every little noise, grunting increasing as he thrusts harder-
“Please tell me Canada,” France is telling him, voice soft, not silky smooth like when he’d like to lure you to bed or steal a kiss and touch and swallow you in a gaze. Not at all, instead it is laced with concern, a calm agitation. France was always patient with him. Always caring. France always knew he and America were different, are different.
Vastly.
But whose fault is that?
Should it matter.
And it chokes again at the back of the throat, England.
“You know England better than any of us.”
“More than he’d like.”
“More than you’d like.”
“We have been enemies for the longest time.”
“As long as you’ve been friends.”
Reply
Painstakingly holding, growing, looking after something without breaking it, harming it. Sharp, stingingly the gasp he makes.
“The roses-”
“England,” France tells him, “He grumbles and swears all the while.”
When he tirelessly tends to them because he has a rose garden himself, a beautiful garden, and if France can cook delicious food then England can grow and raise lovely healthy roses. He can do it better than France who doesn’t know anything about gardening (this is not true, but England likes to think so as an excuse to stay, to get his hands dirty and prickled by earth and weeds, hauling water and fertilizer, humming now and then a tune they all pretend they don’t know) Canada quirks a smile. France would play along and he’d try to help by unwinding the hose, which he’d feign not knowing how to use and end up spraying England with water. England in turn would rush at him and try to rip off that beard-
But it leaves him, that smile. As does this image of an England who cares only for a rose garden of a friend not friend, whose cooking he’ll eat hastily and begrudgingly before leaving for home as compensation for the red, pink, white, yellow, the array of colours roses can be, blossoming under a sunny day at the home of an old nemesis.
If England can care diligently to roses why could he not have taken better care of-
But the end of that sentence.
That rationale.
Canada knows.
Roses are just flowers, they aren’t people, aren’t nations, aren’t beings who fester desire in another. Roses can’t love you back. Not the way America could should you hold his heart.
“You told me before didn’t you? That I don’t know really what England’s capable of. But, I know…” his already quiet voice, normal in the silent room save for the clock ticking steadily away, how many more minutes would he spend in hesitance?
I know something you don’t know.
Feels arrogant even as the truth.
The brief part when lips take in breath, a slight one with a flex of the bottom lip. France’s mouth does this, the golden whiskers of his beard look glossy even in the dimmer light. Canada thinks it takes a lot to look good with facial hair, when he grows out a little he just feels like he’s spent too long camping in the mountains again and will need a bath.
Reply
“America loves England.”
France sits back, crosses a leg. Fingers twitch in the fold of his hands, he holds a hand out to place on Canada’s shoulder as the younger nation buries his face in his hands, cheeks feeling the sweat that’s spread on his palms. That hand does not reach its destination as muffled, but louder than the voice that is not screened behind the shield of flesh and bone.
“He slept with England.”
Incredulous, that noise- it’s not a chuckle, but it’s a sort of laugh.
“Of course have you seen them now-”
“Before he was a nation.”
France’s throat closes up.
“Before he could-”
Canada’s eyes glisten, moisten as he peers over his hands, voice growing steadily stronger though it quakes.
“-before his head could rest against your shoulder or your hip.”
England’s hip. When America could just reach it, England would fumble his touch against the back of America’s head on the cushions of a chair in the room he’d love to sew in, fumble those fingers to hook under America’s chin and hold it in place as his other hand reached to tug out from beneath his breeches-
France’s grip slips away as he stands, so violently straightforward with a sharpness grace cannot attend. It alarms Canada but does not stop him from finishing.
“Not in the way you and I would.”
Under the covers, it’s cold, but big brother is there to warm him in a gentle embrace, as drifting and soft, they fell to slumber, to dream. Canada does not fear ghosts or monsters in the dark where he’s found peace and comfort in anticipation of another day (there must be night for day to come) unlike America who cries at any small sound, any small indication of movement, shadow that is or is not there. Monsters to eat him, ghosts to haunt him. America fears the dark, for what it brings to him is not the same as what it brings to Canada.
-pressed so deeply it might as well they be one body, one figure estranged in the pitch dark. Sleepily rub away vision, Canada can only creep back to bed and pretend and ignore and forget-
England loves America more.
--
TBC
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... I'm going to reread everything before I read this, but welcome back. ♥~
Duuuuuude, Captcha is excited too: "breakthrough fondled" D:
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That last line is a tiny piece of heart-break, but this is just gorgeous:
Under the covers, it’s cold, but big brother is there to warm him in a gentle embrace, as drifting and soft, they fell to slumber, to dream. Canada does not fear ghosts or monsters in the dark where he’s found peace and comfort in anticipation of another day (there must be night for day to come) unlike America who cries at any small sound, any small indication of movement, shadow that is or is not there. Monsters to eat him, ghosts to haunt him. America fears the dark, for what it brings to him is not the same as what it brings to Canada.
God, that's seriously heart-breaking. And enough to fuck everyone up for life. T_T
... Captcha: "Mermaids know" Er, then the mermaids need to kick England's ass and/or get him some therapy? Preferably both, dammit.
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When I saw this on the Fill list, I immediately went back and reread the previous parts then this new part. I crave more now!
Gosh, shit's really going to hit the fan after this part, isn't it? France's reaction was so wonderfully written. It wasn't written as being over the top, and just perfect.
My favorite part was this paragraph:
Under the covers, it’s cold, but big brother is there to warm him in a gentle embrace, as drifting and soft, they fell to slumber, to dream. Canada does not fear ghosts or monsters in the dark where he’s found peace and comfort in anticipation of another day (there must be night for day to come) unlike America who cries at any small sound, any small indication of movement, shadow that is or is not there. Monsters to eat him, ghosts to haunt him. America fears the dark, for what it brings to him is not the same as what it brings to Canada.
Oh... it really pulls at my heart. America... ;_;
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oh wow.. this is so sad.. and the last part. whoa! ow my heart, but I love you for it.<3 why does America's personality fit so well with this it's becoming my head cannon. I think I'm going to cry.. poor America. ;_; why are you so amazing Author!Anon?
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(Wanna join me in stalking this thread? :D)
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T-THIS FILL. I THINK I'M GOING TO CRY NOW, ANON.
p-please more... I'm such a sucker for angst and trauma and heartbreak...
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Even though they are small and nothing of the extravagance of those he has in Europe, he cannot help wanting to indulge America with just a glimpse of what he cannot obtain. For America to experience the real thing, England would have to take his boy home with him, across that dangerous ocean. And allow him to enjoy not only the wonder, but the capricious and longing eyes of the rest of Europe. Something his very heart cannot allow, let alone a rational mind. That someone should steal America away in his own midst… it was better to keep him here. And though they are surrounded not by countries but by humans, subjects, officials- surely America is having a good time feeling just a bit grown up?
He’d recently gotten taller, his little head reaching almost at England’s breast now. It makes said heart in his breast swell with just a little something more than only pride (a self indulgent satisfaction you are what you are because of me). America deserved this if one day he’d grow into an adult and-
And…
England’s mouth is dry. Whenever he sees America laughing, always laughing. America not just laughs with him after all, the times England leaves him be, has to (that gnawing guilty feeling, stop stop stop but how can he if he remains by America’s side? Why should he when America lov-) mean it is not just his company that enjoys America’s though he tries not to wish that the case. Tries to overcome. What are these people but specks, on their long lives, nationhood? But America is not a nation, he will only be akin to one by England’s side (but should America leave it…)
A lady who has tried to engage him in conversation looks on at him almost oddly as England shakes his head. He shouldn’t think like that, he’d taken all the necessary precautions to prevent that hadn’t he? America for instance, was only allowed to trade with him and-
-should only be able to laugh with him.
His whole body gives a jolt, selfishness. What was wrong with him, there was no sin it was the greatest sin- America had done this to him. By drawing him in and taking his heart why should he feel anything other than envy as one countless official, or one enthused youth- placed a hand on his colony’s shoulder in familiarity, in joke, a friendly gesture? Why shouldn’t he because America’s eyes should be upon him and not this- not this mere-
America sees England starring at him, and turns (ah so you can feel it after all?!) and England’s face immediately collapses to that of relief and delight as America comes over to half fold upon his arms and tells him, almost darling- “I’m tired, is it alright if I go to my room?”
England excuses him immediately, trying to shake off that knowing glint he’d see, the merest of satisfaction in those blue eyes whose gaze he’d wanted all evening. For your sake.
Going unsaid.
And for mine.
--
All is for naught.
As later that evening when the guests have gone away and America is drowsily playing war tactics with that set of soldiers England had specifically made of him. It’s all a bunch of drills (that also serve to teach him for the real thing he’s told, though England has made it quite clear that as long as he lives America will fight no battle on anyone’s behalf- England will do that for him, England will protect him-) and he cannot really even play war when there is no set of opposing soldiers to engage war with (though he muses if there were to be these enemy soldiers would be France’s; who he does not mind but who England hates more than anyone it appeared…)
“If it could only be just you and me,” England starts as he closes the door.
All the guests have departed and for what it matters, the house is barren with only them left.
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“But England, if it was only you and me it’d be boring.”
England brow gives that crease, and in his chest his rapidly beating heart rises and twists.
Voice revealing how wounded he actually is than intended, it always was like that with England- “Is it… is it boring to be with me?”
And sometimes tears would form in his eyes and America would always always go to him, to wipe them away, kiss them away. This time America lies there still, he does not go to England, and looks rather haughtily at the ceiling avoiding England’s expression. Avoiding answering.
It is only a few swift steps before England kneels before him, bending over to drape his body over America’s smaller one. Now is the time America would really bite his lip worry it red like England likes to, and shut his eyes tight tight tight tighter England thought than how America feels inside- and how tight he is-
Instead, swallowing thickly when America’s eyes look over into his own and burn with a rebellion England has never seen before, almost startled he gives a shuddering move back until it gives way to anger, indignation fingers rigid as he clutches at America’s face shaking his head.
“What are those eyes for America? Is what we do not enough? Do you feel you are not-”
Almost spitefully England grabs America’s shoulders and slams them against the floor, hands shaking he’s never- never wanted- not like this- not without love to- but bad boys have to be punished ah then this is not the way- a million thoughts jumbled up and unrelenting this desire as England gives in half a yell half a whisper, “-you are not strong enough?”
The shove had really startled America who trembles, (as if remembering his place and no no no England thinks the back of his eyes heavy not like that darling, your place is besides me, merely-) so England kisses him, at the little juncture of the neck and shoulder he loves, on America’s fingers to the tips, the chin, the cheek, America murmuring what England hopes can only be his name.
“It will be alright, there are ways to fix this. I promise you won’t ever tire of me, I don’t tire of you!”
It’s not mutual.
It’s not mutual.
England doesn’t understand what those words even mean, if America doesn’t love him he would not have said he did. If he didn’t like this he would not have relented. If America did not want to become strong he would not work so hard to become strong.
England fumbles to pull America’s shorts down, snapping off, untying what need be to see the soft skin beneath. His hands always shake in anticipation at this part, like unwrapping a gift, a beloved and precious gift that is only for him, but this time one of America’s hands grab at his, it is a weak grab (“See? Not nearly strong enough!”) and it isn’t long before England descends, sucking at America’s small prick as he squirms against the hard floor. And clutches, clutches with all his might in his fists that small toy soldier. It is- it was his favourite one. Green eyes, and thick brow, even a little shorter than the others, England had not left that little detail out even if it meant a small piece of dignity sacrificed, all to bemuse America who’d not been thought to be able to notice intentional accuracy.
When England sees that America rather hold this small toy against him (his beating heart, his heavy chest; he’s flushed from the neck down and the room is well lit with a sufficient amount of candles for England to see) the jealousy he’d been holding back during the dinner party erupts in one vicious motion.
He pries the toy from America’s fingers. America’s fingers clutching like they’d never before, scratching, clawing, imploring (how England wants that strength, that intensity against his shoulders, his back, America’s fingernails gliding, tearing at his skin oh how-) “Why?!”
“Why would you rather have this than me?”
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Weakness can’t be permitted can it?
It seems the excuse, the lie, the cover up, has become a convenient truth not just for America but for England’s peace of mind.
(I do these things because I love you.)
But America doesn’t understand love.
Instead he understands.
(Grow big and strong.)
“If that is what you really want-”
Takes it in a hand rearing back, England bends- clutching the toy soldier, little red coat, between his fingers and America’s eyes jolt wide open in surprise, having expected if anything the familiar feel of the hot and hard penetration of England’s cock into him.
But instead it is the dry wood of the smooth toy soldier that England is moving into him, his wrist straining painfully as if doing this is more than he can bear, eyes enviously watching his fingers push in and out the little toy soldier, in and out into his America who after every other thrust cannot contain a sharp cry, one, two- the noise hovers heavily in England’s breast. He even resists sparing those pink lips a kiss, from where those sounds come, more enticing than any siren’s call. Though he wants to, he wants to, he wants to-
“If you want him rather than me America do it yourself,” England tells America softly, poisoned with envy. Fingers latching up almost mechanically now to lead, stretched and arching limbs, to direct America’s hands down to barely catch at the end of the little toy soldier that peaks out from where it’s in his arsehole. Diligently almost, America struggles to repeat the rhythm England had set, only he can barely reach, and more fearful of the toy soldier being trapped within him than any manner of preference he cries and begs, face a familiar moist, that flicker of rebellion all washed away- “No! No, England! If it’s not you-”
Startlingly, England reaches down to cup a hand over America’s where he is still pumping the toy soldier in and out of him, neck straining up as his little boy tries to come closer to him him him, England guides America’s hands to be more forceful (you don’t like it you don’t like it at all do you, because it should be me America it should be me) harsher, even harsher when he remembers America’s honeyed smile from the dinner party for someone else-
“Ah, ah ah- America-“ England pants, America’s little knees are nudging over and over against his hip bones, his clothes- his clothes why are they still- “Then help me.”
England tells him as he himself pulls off a long coat, a shirt, America’s nimble fingers working to rid him of his breeches, nervous and anxious- stockings and shoes, those fingers timidly press against England’s skin, along his rib cage to his chest where they curl up at the usual place. Forgivingly England slowly inches the little toy soldier out, a nasty smile he cannot rid his mouth of fully intact.
You’re not needed.
Where it tumbles against the floor wetly.
Unheard as England has pressed inside America urgently, happily, hands scraping, grabbing at America’s hips, those legs around his waist where they should be- “This is better isn’t? Isn’t it America? You like this don’t you?”
It’s a foolish, it’s a cruel reasoning. If you don’t like one you must like the other. (What would you rather have? Apples or oranges? Those are the only choices and you have to make a choice.)
America makes his choice, nodding, griping upon the tops of England’s shoulders like they are his only lifeline as England thrusts into him again, again, the knowing pace America is used to- the one that has given him strength until today- is it because England is powerful that this makes him strong as well? Is this the only way for America to receive strength from England?
He does not voice these questions, comments aloud, like he had the one earlier. Instead he moans, cries, with no apparent synch to England above him who gropes around his back and bottom, bringing him closer- always closer as if to make up for the times he is far far away-
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He can feel America’s moist face buried against his throat now, lips accidentally catching at his collarbone as England rocks back onto his bottom and pushes America up and down his cock, tight and hot all around-
“-only need me don’t you America?”
England isn’t really expecting an answer though he’d like one, satisfied as he usually is with America mewling and grinding against him, his little face screwed up in pain and pleasure or one or the other is enough-
“Yes,” America tells him, voice high pitched as England nudges against his prostate and he comes jerking and shamefully against England’s stomach, England coming soon after- he is jittery and overjoyed- kissing America all over in the most gentle he’s ever been since they’d first met (and England had been timid “Do you not like it?” he’d asked then too, but America had loved it, loved whatever attention England would give him until…) touches at America’s dripping cock with his hand right on to smear with it all the come he can and when he does bends to lap at it, alternately licking and dabbing kisses on America’s red cheek.
“My dear boy-” England tells him but America doesn’t remember what England says after that.
--
When he wakes, sun is glaring over his face. He’s usually careful in remembering to draw back the curtains but last night he’d-
He’d-
-not. And blinded he gropes about for his clothes, and deciding they’re too wrinkled to be bothered with but he’s too hung over to have enough coordination to give the drawers of his wardrobe a shot. He hobbles downstairs, fully intent on setting a kettle for tea on the stove- when the heavy scent of fat greasy what can only be bacon assaults his nose.
It’s now with a dream sense he stumbles into the kitchen, and onto a dining room chair. In front of him is a plate of eggs, toast, and a cup of coffee. The newspaper is folded left, silverware on the right. He;s suddenly so hungry he doesn’t care.
“Couldn't you have waited for the bacon?” an almost irritated voice asks him.
As from a frying pan four gracious slices and slid onto his now half empty plate. England wolfishly eats into those and starts on the coffee-
Makes a face.
“Besides, who said that was for you?”
England is about to reply something to likings of ‘my house, my food’.
When America making a scrunched face at him, sets down a plate (of food many shades darker than the food he’d just been eating) and a cup of-
“OH!” England exclaims.
America sighs, “I even went to all the trouble cooking it as you like it!”
England makes a motion to take America’s cup (well that’s his too anyway right?) but America snatches it up before England can, “Uh ah England. You drank my coffee so I’m going to drink your-”
“Tea? Really America?”
America looks like he’s having the exact same second thoughts as England predicted he would. That and England knows America couldn’t brew a decent cup of tea anymore to save his life (still that would have been better than-) “But you drank all of it all of it.”
America is gesturing to ‘England’s’ empty cup. England only has the instant one serving stuff America had sent him ages ago and so.
“There should be more,” like there should be more tea, it’s not like he can’t make his own.
England rises, intent on making himself something nice to drink when America sitting adjacent from him reaches out to grab at his wrist. Stops him. Not the motion. Not America’s hand.
But rather the pensive thoughtful expression that’s taken over America's features.
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