part 10 ; Sing Sung Songs [21/?]
anonymous
September 13 2010, 06:53:56 UTC
And now with England guiltily gazing away from him-
“Look at me!” Frances roars, England’s eyes startled emeralds- does. Looks at France’s agonized expression, regret, pain, remorse, dejection. Sharing bare everything, can be more harmful to the perpetrator than the victim. But France is not the victim; he is for now his substitute. England knows, despite France’s love lust all attitude there is an understanding heart there that knows darkness as well as it knows light. That a person is capable of both while not being swallowed up by either or is miraculous. He’s only a little jealous. Extremes have always gotten the better of England.
“You’re annoying!” England breaks out, a haughty grin treats his lips and suits him fine, go ahead France. Go ahead and appear weak and hurt and empathetic. That won’t change a thing.
“Don’t you get it yet? Or perhaps your stupid beard is blocking out comprehension- you’re not wanted.”
France’s starts back, expression switching back to dangerous and promising of violence as it had seconds before. “Oh?”
“Yeah that’s right. Did you forget France? America chose me. Not you.”
Not anyone else.
England sidles from beneath America’s arm and is brimming over with malicious glee unmerciful when he says- “Get lost.”
A knight may protect his king but it should not be forgotten who holds the real power.
England gives France a shove. France sneers at him, “The child as always England.”
France turns to America, a determined expression in place. America likes to claim he holds justice for all; America brings it for others, it is what a hero does. France brings justice for himself and his citizens.
But that is an old tune, faded in the background.
Wallpaper you see every day, that while your mind can bring up an image of it to your eyes you cannot accurately describe the pattern in every little detail.
It’s to America France addresses these words.
“Do you love him?”
America’s eyes are startled, France never forgot what shade of blue they are. England would obsess over it in the most discreet ways, fabric he bought, jewels he stole. But you cannot covet the vast free sky.
America’s mouth motions, silent.
Until he manages to reply.
“What?”
France smiles almost kindly, a twinge of melancholy that America’s demeanor yields to with a hopeful bewildered tilt of his head.
“I’ll give up. I’ll go home now. I’ll leave you two alone forever if that’s what you want. If you can tell me America. Do you love England?”
As if someone had suddenly stabbed England into the gut, what may not be a fatal blow carries the intent of one. He glares hatefully seconds after at France before wielding desperate eyes at America who gapes, folds into confusion, tormented confusion when he can’t- as before- his mouth moves but no sound- why can’t he-
Doubtless, France knows, words America has never said (not in this day and age, not ever since before that night), he has never said them to England. Not now and, like he’s drowning, America struggles.
“I- I… I love-”
America who loves everything. He loves ice cream on hot days, cold days. He loves the girls who daringly ride their bicycles but wear frilly short skirts. The way the sun gleams off a metal baseball bat before it swings. The smell of oil. The sound of an airplane as its engine roars for take off. The moon and its reflection in a lake. When Canada accidentally pours too much maple syrup on the pancake’s he’s made for him. When he calls Japan and Japan may not be talking but he’s listening. Tying his shoe laces. His boss’s face when he’s signed the last document of the day. The peakning green leaves from the ground of a new crop.
The embroidery England used to do as he sat in his rocking chair and told America a million stories of adventures at sea. Tea. The scent of tea, food, when England fixes it. The toy soldiers England had made just for him. England’s smile when America praises a particularly burnt dish, that smile happier when America eats it all. That gentle hand above his head, a slight pat of affection. England’s voice when he tells America how proud he is of America. England when he comes home weary and exhausted-
“Look at me!” Frances roars, England’s eyes startled emeralds- does. Looks at France’s agonized expression, regret, pain, remorse, dejection. Sharing bare everything, can be more harmful to the perpetrator than the victim. But France is not the victim; he is for now his substitute. England knows, despite France’s love lust all attitude there is an understanding heart there that knows darkness as well as it knows light. That a person is capable of both while not being swallowed up by either or is miraculous. He’s only a little jealous. Extremes have always gotten the better of England.
“You’re annoying!” England breaks out, a haughty grin treats his lips and suits him fine, go ahead France. Go ahead and appear weak and hurt and empathetic. That won’t change a thing.
“Don’t you get it yet? Or perhaps your stupid beard is blocking out comprehension- you’re not wanted.”
France’s starts back, expression switching back to dangerous and promising of violence as it had seconds before. “Oh?”
“Yeah that’s right. Did you forget France? America chose me. Not you.”
Not anyone else.
England sidles from beneath America’s arm and is brimming over with malicious glee unmerciful when he says- “Get lost.”
A knight may protect his king but it should not be forgotten who holds the real power.
England gives France a shove. France sneers at him, “The child as always England.”
France turns to America, a determined expression in place. America likes to claim he holds justice for all; America brings it for others, it is what a hero does. France brings justice for himself and his citizens.
But that is an old tune, faded in the background.
Wallpaper you see every day, that while your mind can bring up an image of it to your eyes you cannot accurately describe the pattern in every little detail.
It’s to America France addresses these words.
“Do you love him?”
America’s eyes are startled, France never forgot what shade of blue they are. England would obsess over it in the most discreet ways, fabric he bought, jewels he stole. But you cannot covet the vast free sky.
America’s mouth motions, silent.
Until he manages to reply.
“What?”
France smiles almost kindly, a twinge of melancholy that America’s demeanor yields to with a hopeful bewildered tilt of his head.
“I’ll give up. I’ll go home now. I’ll leave you two alone forever if that’s what you want. If you can tell me America. Do you love England?”
As if someone had suddenly stabbed England into the gut, what may not be a fatal blow carries the intent of one. He glares hatefully seconds after at France before wielding desperate eyes at America who gapes, folds into confusion, tormented confusion when he can’t- as before- his mouth moves but no sound- why can’t he-
Doubtless, France knows, words America has never said (not in this day and age, not ever since before that night), he has never said them to England. Not now and, like he’s drowning, America struggles.
“I- I… I love-”
America who loves everything. He loves ice cream on hot days, cold days. He loves the girls who daringly ride their bicycles but wear frilly short skirts. The way the sun gleams off a metal baseball bat before it swings. The smell of oil. The sound of an airplane as its engine roars for take off. The moon and its reflection in a lake. When Canada accidentally pours too much maple syrup on the pancake’s he’s made for him. When he calls Japan and Japan may not be talking but he’s listening. Tying his shoe laces. His boss’s face when he’s signed the last document of the day. The peakning green leaves from the ground of a new crop.
The embroidery England used to do as he sat in his rocking chair and told America a million stories of adventures at sea. Tea. The scent of tea, food, when England fixes it. The toy soldiers England had made just for him. England’s smile when America praises a particularly burnt dish, that smile happier when America eats it all. That gentle hand above his head, a slight pat of affection. England’s voice when he tells America how proud he is of America. England when he comes home weary and exhausted-
A sharp pain strikes in America’s chest, urgent.
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