If (When) You Go [4/?]
anonymous
June 24 2010, 00:16:11 UTC
A vague sensation of dampness greets America on his next tentative voyage into reality. He can tell he's making progress now - even the thought gives him strength - because he registers that dawn is just breaking, that his mouth tastes of spring water, and that the damp feeling is England's lips on his. In case he's hallucinating he pushes his tongue forwards between those lips and is rewarded by hands circling up behind his head, pulling him closer and deeper. Probably not hallucinating, but to be sure, America lowers his own hands and guides England's waist into the curve of his hips, feeling the hard pressure through bedsheets.
England's muffled moan is definitely no hallucination. He, on his part, knots his legs around America, already freeing a hand to start wrestling away clothes. This is more than the bed has coped with in a long time, gathering dust much like the books in the library. He tugs at America's mouth and shudders in anticipation, fingers hooked around the edge of the pants, sliding them down and then trailing back up between America's legs which are still hot and slick with sweat.
Before he gets anywhere, however, America's hand grabs his. Even when ill the other nation is stronger and, to add further insult, is smiling from his pale, clammy face.
“Breakfast first.”
“Hell,” pants England, and then, because he doesn't feel he's quite made his point yet, “Shit. Fuck, America.”
“I'm dying here. Get me something with bacon in.”
Once England leaves, America drags a hand across the back of his mouth and tries to prop himself up. He makes it to his elbows before flopping back onto the bed. It's infuriating, to feel as if his insides have been replaced with knitted replicas, soft and hollow and useless.
Still. It has its advantages. For one thing, England is making him a sandwich. The smell rising through the floor, bacon frying, suggests that he's putting in more effort than usual, to apologise for dinner. Come to think of it, it's more of a challenge to find the downside here. Lying in bed all day while England waits on him hand and foot? What's not to like? So he pretends to have fallen asleep when his breakfast is brought in. He mimes a long, drawn out yawn, the kind which stretches through his whole body and lets him sink back into the mattress, though not before a hand has darted out to retrieve the sandwich.
England watches without noticing any of these minor details. He is wholly fixated upon America in general, lying in his bed, his sheets, all his. If he wanted, he could touch him, or lie beside him, or just sit here for the rest of the day studying him until he knows the features off by heart. As if he doesn't already. As if he couldn't already trace out the line of America's jaw, his shoulders and his chest, battle scars included, some of them inflicted by England himself. Something they can share.
“Am I eating this sandwich in a particularly epic manner?”
England realises that someone is talking to him. It takes him some time to work out that it's America and process the question, after which he adopts his usual dry tone.
“No. You're eating it in a particularly uncouth manner. Why?”
“Cause you were staring at me again.”
“That's because you're getting crumbs all over my sheets.”
As a punishment for this rebuke, America pretends not to notice England leaning towards him as soon as the sandwich is gone and closes his eyes. It's not as much of an act as he would like; before he has the chance to take any pleasure in deflecting the advance, he is struck by how heavy his limbs feel and how urgently sleep is trying to overtake him. The mulch of the sandwich rests uncomfortably in his stomach.
“Am I dead yet?” he asks. The words are slurred slightly, which gains him no sympathy.
“If you are, you're making an astonishing amount of noise.”
“It sure feels like I'm dead. How about now?”
“You won't die while I'm looking after you.”
Because I need you, adds England silently, I need you and I could never let you go. When America seems to be asleep again, he lowers himself onto the bed and, tenderly, snakes his arms around the other, content just to lie there and hold him.
Re: If (When) You Go [4/?]
anonymous
June 24 2010, 11:15:22 UTC
Ooohh, I love the creepiness, and the fascinating multilayered power-play here...America being somewhat conscious of what's happening, but sometimes not, unable to control it but sometimes can? and England's creepy need, his dominance over America because of the sickness, but America still being stronger, his power over the other because he needs England to take care of him, but the way his own creepy dependance makes him be controlled in its own way.
If (When) You Go [5/?]
anonymous
June 24 2010, 22:24:13 UTC
That's the first time. When America finally stumbles home that evening and finds himself healthy enough to bother Canada for a while, he doesn't give it a second thought, though his brother notes how pale he is. Not that's he's too concerned for America. This is partly because of the usual confident swagger but also because, when they begin an evening game of catch, his pitches don't try to cannon the ball straight through Canada's flesh, which is appreciated. If this new subdued edition was around all the time he could easily get used to it. Anyway, America has always been able to cope with his own problems; as long as he doesn't infect everyone else, it's fine.
Alone in the house, England sits in his library for a while, watching the gap on the shelf where the borrowed book used to live. There's a square patch of shelf where the dust has been brushed away. The book on the right is crooked without its partner to support it. A spider frantically rebuilds its disturbed web, one thread barely clinging now to The Hound of the Baskervilles. England never needs to read these, each text committed to his heart from the moment they were published.
He doesn't need America. He has his books, and his fairies - Elsie, Frances, can you hear me now? - and why should he ask for anything more? People only fade away, like so many dead flowers pressed between the pages of the oldest book of all, which is a view he intends to hold forever or until he answer the knock on the front door the next time America visits. England wants to pin that man down to stop him running away, because every time he goes England hates him and every time he returns that makes his desire stab at him more deeply.
The next few days are a haze for both. America periodically finds himself needing to sit down and breathe deeply for a minute or two as the world swims out of sight. England finds himself needing to get up, pace the room, wander aimlessly through the countryside and generally do anything which will keep his mind off what will happen next time. The time they spent together, the sleepy fumbling, the breath on his neck - it sickens him and he wants more. He has it worse than America, he insists to himself. Physical sickness, no matter how unpleasant, is nothing to the psychological decomposition he endures, nourishing loathing alongside affection.
And so when the knock comes, America wanting to exchange his book for another, the strychnine is ready. Tea is supposed to be that bitter, England promises, not that it matters because by the time America notices something odd it's too late. The convulsions - quite tectonic in character - ensure that his suspicions will be forgotten by the time he comes to his senses. He thinks it's an ongoing illness and is grateful to have a nurse as dedicated as England caring for him. It's a shame that the drugs administered to help him recover only make him feel worse, knocking him out for more than a day this time and leaving a horrible vacant feeling in his chest, as if his heart has turned to ashes, when he wakes paralysed.
Potassium chloride injected straight into the bloodstream does that to a person.
He overcomes it eventually, because he has to as a proud and heroic nation, so again with arsenic.
When he seems well they celebrate with a toast - sparkling cyanide.
Hemlock, nightshade, belladonna in the coffee. The various ways of felling an America on the brink of recovery are as extensive as one's imagination; the imagination of the nation who brought the Queen of Crime to the world is inexhaustible. And England knows that he can keep on doing it, at least until it goes wrong.
Re: If (When) You Go [5/?]
anonymous
June 25 2010, 02:21:58 UTC
You have managed to fit some of my favorite things in this story thus far: Sherlock Holmes, poisons, creeper!England, and sick!America. ♥ I love you madly.
Moreover, your prose is gorgeous. Your technique is just so... awesome. Well-paced and descriptive without ever losing its readability, and my god, do you know your characters well. I believe this. This is amazing.
Thank you so, so much for writing it. I will check back like the stalker I am to see if you've done more. T_T
I'm super curious as to who's gonna figure it out, if it's America or another nation. Or if anyone will figure it out. Secretly voting for Canada, but I will love ANYTHING YOU DO WITH THIS.
Re: If (When) You Go [5/?]
anonymous
June 25 2010, 08:38:20 UTC
G-good god, anon, why is creeper!England so damn creepy? And brazenly inventive, for that matter: When he seems well they celebrate with a toast - sparkling cyanide.
I'm loving this fill; I wonder, would you mind posting updates (or at least when you finish) to the fills list so more people know you're working on this? I keep checking back for updates, but I bet more people would enjoy reading this, too! <3
Er. Captcha: "enormity works" Hopefully England won't administer ENORMOUS amounts of poison, ReCaptcha. D:
...I have no idea why I forgot to post this to the fills list. Thanks for reminding me!
And thanks everyone for the comments, too, this is miles out of my usual style so I apologise if it's weird or unreadable in parts. oRz I hope I'm not destroying your prompt, OP!
Re: author!anon
anonymous
June 25 2010, 15:38:17 UTC
I almost skipped over this in the fills list [soooo much USK], but OMG so glad I gave it a shot! I have no words to adequately describe my glee and joy at your prose. Creeper!England is disturbingly hot and needy, while still being his tsun tsun self. Totally bookmarking and looking eagerly awaiting your updates <3 Poor trusting Al... [Is that title from the Emiliana Torrini song? You have that mood down to a TEE]
Re: author!anon
anonymous
June 26 2010, 09:58:03 UTC
I'd never heard the song before, but after that I had to look it up. That is eerily appropriate, anon, thanks for sharing. <3
(The title's actually from the song 'If (When You Go)', by a relatively obscure British artist called Judie Tzuke. The song has nothing to do with the fic, though.)
Re: If (When) You Go [5/?]
anonymous
June 25 2010, 15:28:36 UTC
I just realised that England would be the most masterful criminal mind ever to exist. And it gave me shivers. Good shivers This fandom is corrupting me. Never stop ♥ I also wonder if there's something at play here other than England being a creep...does America know? It seems an awful lot of bad luck to fall ill every time he visits...not even he is that oblivious. Might it be that he subconsciously knows but repressed it and keeps on going there and letting things happen?
If (When) You Go [6/8]
anonymous
June 26 2010, 09:43:17 UTC
There's a blue tinge to America today, like the underside of a fish or a finger from which the blood supply has been cut off. His breath flutters like paper in the wind. It can't form words but England knows he's wanted, from the way the eyes flicker towards him, and he rests a hand on America's cheek.
“I'm still here, don't worry.”
He must have died, as much as he can, a hundred times and England has sat with him through each one, held his hand, mopped his forehead and brought him back to life, promising that he will be fine; if that isn't a mark of how much he cares for America, he doesn't know what is. Nothing could tear him away.
Which is why France, inviting himself over, dispenses with knocking at the door and strides directly inside when no one answers him. He runs a finger over the hall table and lifts it grey. The house can't have been cleaned properly for weeks, which is unusual for England, who usually makes at least a token effort before accepting that he's never going to be able to find his keys or a pen when he needs them and gives up. Too distracted by America, perhaps? No one has seen either for some time. France's lip curls and he steps in silence, upstairs, finding all rooms empty but the bedroom. It's frustratingly quiet when he first puts his ear against it, but just as he begins to lose hope he hears a groan which sounds exactly like America.
The image he finds when he opens the door does not live up to his expectations. Both men are fully clothed, to begin with, and it's impossible to equate the pile of skin spreadeagled across the bed with America. It's thin and ragged and white when it should be leaping to its feet, bounding over to greet France, outlining a new idea through a mouthful of hamburger. This thing looks like a corpse, though slightly less healthy. Then there's England - he should be marching France out of his house while insisting on his privacy, not bent over America without stirring when the door opens. His shirt folds around his ribs, bones too easily visible.
“England - you look ill. America looks worse.”
England twists from the waits, bones moving, and stares at France with hollow dark eyes.
“I need to stay with him.”
He must have been holed up here with America for days. Typical of England to have this sentimentality hidden inside him. How like him to insist that America is a mere annoyance, then throw himself without a word into the task of saving him.
“Very admirable, but you need to take care of yourself as well. I'll help America home for you, and you can get some rest.”
No, snarls England soundlessly, not when he has come so far and done so much to protect himself from that same loss; America is his now, not for France, not for anyone else in the world. Tired, his mind jumps to automatic and encourages him, daring him to hurt France, to push him away, keep him out when he isn't wanted in a situation which should be no one but England and America. He worked for this. He earned his America and found a way to control him, which is no mean feat.
But he stops - sighs - the usual routine.
“I wouldn't trust you alone with him when he's in this state.”
“Be careful, or I might begin to think you capable of emotion.” In truth this hidden romantic side of England is almost touching, now France sees it for the first time, but a comment on his devotion could be interpreted as a compliment and that would never do. He goes on instead, “You can't have been feeding him properly. You, cook a nourishing meal? It's impossible. I'll take him back to Canada, if you're that worried, then return to make sure you eat something.”
It's stated so definitively, so logically, while England's mind is wandering so far away from the situation at hand, that he cannot find the words to protest. He helps carry America to the door just for the sake of touching him one last time and watches, a blank, as his possession is removed and love sours into hatred again.
If (When) You Go [7/8]
anonymous
June 26 2010, 09:48:14 UTC
When Canada first sees his brother, he is shaken by a tremor of guilt at his earlier fondness for America's illness. He's faded from blue to grey and doesn't seem to know where he is, nor who is holding him or where he's put; having never known him as anything but boisterous, Canada finds this distressing. With France's help he heaves America into his own bed and tries to work out a way to treat his sickness, only to discover that there is none; he must watch, and wait, and hope.
The effect wears off progressively as America comes round. By the time the patient is sat up in bed eating and only occasionally remembering to complain, Canada knows better than to indulge his requests. Concerned he may be, but he knows when America is fishing for sympathy. It doesn't put an end to his anxiety over the cause.
“Can you get me a drink?”
“Not right now.”
“I'm an invalid,” chokes out America, in a sudden fit of ersatz agony. “Your bedside manner sucks, man.”
Canada takes one of the books from the bedside table instead. Musty, the pages yellowed - it can only be England's. When he opens it he finds a collection of short stories, which he flicks through idly until one segment catches his eye. He nudges his glasses up his nose and studies it more closely, glancing at America after every few paragraphs, then holds the book out open on that chapter.
“Have you read this?”
Aware that he is not going to succeed in making Canada run errands for him, America glances at the page, though only when it's thrust under his nose. He's strangely reluctant to take it in and shrugs when he has.
“Melodramatic, isn't it? Yeah, I think I read that one, why? It seemed kinda stupid.”
“It seems... familiar, doesn't it?”
A dinner party in which guests are poisoned with digitalis leaves, mistaken for sage? What could be familiar about that? America insists as much, adding that Canada shouldn't listen to England's wild fantasies now that he's an adult, that he worries too much, that America is a hero and not the victim of a quaint English village murder mystery, then finishes with,
“It had to be food poisoning, must have been. You know what England's cooking is like.”
Canada doesn't point out that America's own tastes aren't exemplary when it comes to cuisine. He can tell that the other nation is denying too much to believe his own words and that all he has to do is pause, just enough, before he says,
“You aren't even slightly suspicious, then.”
Forgetting his attempts to be doted upon, America pushes himself out of bed. He's gone for a long while, leaving Canada sat thumbing further through the book, and returns with a glass of water, sitting on the edge of the bed. It's one of those rare times when he looks serious, with his jaw set and the light from the window framing him neatly.
“Yes,” he says. His hand tightens around the water, leaving prints in the condensation. “Of course I'm suspicious. But it's - it's him. It's England. What am I supposed to do? If I can't prove it I'm not going to suspect him. I don't want to.”
“And if you could prove it?”
No answer to that one.
It leaves Canada to take care of the job himself. It's not as if England would ever notice him, so he visits the house safe in the knowledge that he has an almost free reign of the place for as long as he likes - ample time to find the traces he needs, of drugs and poisons and death in little glass bottles. When Canada lifts them, disbelieving, and lines them up on the counter, they catch the sunlight quite prettily. Ample time as well to run his hands across them, across the crystal necks and little stoppers, then across the faded label of a bottle near the end. The paper twists underneath his touch and the ink is gradually vanishing, but he can still read the word Coniine in old, Victorian script. Ample time to slip it into his pocket and disappear without a trace.
If (When) You Go [8/8]
anonymous
June 26 2010, 09:56:22 UTC
Locked down into the mattress and paralysed, a corpse which drowns in air unable to breathe and dreams of being dead. England moves arms he knows he has and gets no response. Like a phantom reflex, like a war, feeling a long gone limb which is now only so much bone and flesh in the ground, but before the pain sweeps over to remind a body of its loss - because all he feels is the cold. It's very cold here. Very cold.
England dreams of history. This is why England cannot sleep at night. This is why England wants America with him. He wants to move into the idealistic future America paints because his past is war and torture and, most of all, because he knows that much of it was caused by himself. A person's past makes them who they are and England wants to run from his, run anywhere, to escape it, but his legs won't move and his lungs won't breathe. He's stuck with the wars and the bodies of his people rotting on battlefields and the nations he's corrupted, abandoned, abused. A host of them accuses him now in dreams of skulls and green tinged flesh.
He can remember all of this but not what was happening an hour ago.
Maybe America invited him over for a drink and maybe that was when his body began to shut itself down, or maybe he's imagining that. Maybe he's imagining an echo of America's voice, when he found himself gulping for air and folding slowly downwards, saying,
“You're just getting old. Aching joints, all that stuff.”
Maybe it's an invention of his mind, which is clearly descending into hellish insanity now, that his mouth began to burn and that, before everything went black for a while, his last thought was Socrates.
Now the doors are barred and he can't escape from himself. It's all he can do to open his eyes, which don't work; streaks of colour flood his vision and none of it makes any sense. He blinks in slow motion but hours pass in the interim. After repeating this process a few times things become clearer and the colours can be distinguished into blue eyes, a mouth talking but making no sound. England watches it move towards him and kiss him, tenderly, lovingly, without being able to feel it at all. It sends him swooping back into his nightmares for a while.
He doesn't notice when he wakes up, because it's too similar to being unconscious. The vision overhead fits in perfectly with his death-dreams of grinning rows of teeth, but he knows it's America, a smile slashed across his face. This time he can hear the words hanging in the air.
“Relax, England, I'll take care of you. Just like you took care of me.”
With an odd sense of resignation, he decides he deserves the sinking terror these words bring.
Re: If (When) You Go [8/8]
anonymous
June 26 2010, 10:36:03 UTC
This is absolutely amazing. I'm so very glad I found it. I love America's line at the end. It's full of vindictiveness and the implication that England's will be much worse than what America himself experienced. It's very like America in my mind.
Thank you so much for writing this. And so quickly! Your style is lovely and so is the way the story progresses. If you've written anything else I would love to read it.
England's muffled moan is definitely no hallucination. He, on his part, knots his legs around America, already freeing a hand to start wrestling away clothes. This is more than the bed has coped with in a long time, gathering dust much like the books in the library. He tugs at America's mouth and shudders in anticipation, fingers hooked around the edge of the pants, sliding them down and then trailing back up between America's legs which are still hot and slick with sweat.
Before he gets anywhere, however, America's hand grabs his. Even when ill the other nation is stronger and, to add further insult, is smiling from his pale, clammy face.
“Breakfast first.”
“Hell,” pants England, and then, because he doesn't feel he's quite made his point yet, “Shit. Fuck, America.”
“I'm dying here. Get me something with bacon in.”
Once England leaves, America drags a hand across the back of his mouth and tries to prop himself up. He makes it to his elbows before flopping back onto the bed. It's infuriating, to feel as if his insides have been replaced with knitted replicas, soft and hollow and useless.
Still. It has its advantages. For one thing, England is making him a sandwich. The smell rising through the floor, bacon frying, suggests that he's putting in more effort than usual, to apologise for dinner. Come to think of it, it's more of a challenge to find the downside here. Lying in bed all day while England waits on him hand and foot? What's not to like? So he pretends to have fallen asleep when his breakfast is brought in. He mimes a long, drawn out yawn, the kind which stretches through his whole body and lets him sink back into the mattress, though not before a hand has darted out to retrieve the sandwich.
England watches without noticing any of these minor details. He is wholly fixated upon America in general, lying in his bed, his sheets, all his. If he wanted, he could touch him, or lie beside him, or just sit here for the rest of the day studying him until he knows the features off by heart. As if he doesn't already. As if he couldn't already trace out the line of America's jaw, his shoulders and his chest, battle scars included, some of them inflicted by England himself. Something they can share.
“Am I eating this sandwich in a particularly epic manner?”
England realises that someone is talking to him. It takes him some time to work out that it's America and process the question, after which he adopts his usual dry tone.
“No. You're eating it in a particularly uncouth manner. Why?”
“Cause you were staring at me again.”
“That's because you're getting crumbs all over my sheets.”
As a punishment for this rebuke, America pretends not to notice England leaning towards him as soon as the sandwich is gone and closes his eyes. It's not as much of an act as he would like; before he has the chance to take any pleasure in deflecting the advance, he is struck by how heavy his limbs feel and how urgently sleep is trying to overtake him. The mulch of the sandwich rests uncomfortably in his stomach.
“Am I dead yet?” he asks. The words are slurred slightly, which gains him no sympathy.
“If you are, you're making an astonishing amount of noise.”
“It sure feels like I'm dead. How about now?”
“You won't die while I'm looking after you.”
Because I need you, adds England silently, I need you and I could never let you go. When America seems to be asleep again, he lowers himself onto the bed and, tenderly, snakes his arms around the other, content just to lie there and hold him.
America isn't asleep, but he doesn't protest.
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Alone in the house, England sits in his library for a while, watching the gap on the shelf where the borrowed book used to live. There's a square patch of shelf where the dust has been brushed away. The book on the right is crooked without its partner to support it. A spider frantically rebuilds its disturbed web, one thread barely clinging now to The Hound of the Baskervilles. England never needs to read these, each text committed to his heart from the moment they were published.
He doesn't need America. He has his books, and his fairies - Elsie, Frances, can you hear me now? - and why should he ask for anything more? People only fade away, like so many dead flowers pressed between the pages of the oldest book of all, which is a view he intends to hold forever or until he answer the knock on the front door the next time America visits. England wants to pin that man down to stop him running away, because every time he goes England hates him and every time he returns that makes his desire stab at him more deeply.
The next few days are a haze for both. America periodically finds himself needing to sit down and breathe deeply for a minute or two as the world swims out of sight. England finds himself needing to get up, pace the room, wander aimlessly through the countryside and generally do anything which will keep his mind off what will happen next time. The time they spent together, the sleepy fumbling, the breath on his neck - it sickens him and he wants more. He has it worse than America, he insists to himself. Physical sickness, no matter how unpleasant, is nothing to the psychological decomposition he endures, nourishing loathing alongside affection.
And so when the knock comes, America wanting to exchange his book for another, the strychnine is ready. Tea is supposed to be that bitter, England promises, not that it matters because by the time America notices something odd it's too late. The convulsions - quite tectonic in character - ensure that his suspicions will be forgotten by the time he comes to his senses. He thinks it's an ongoing illness and is grateful to have a nurse as dedicated as England caring for him. It's a shame that the drugs administered to help him recover only make him feel worse, knocking him out for more than a day this time and leaving a horrible vacant feeling in his chest, as if his heart has turned to ashes, when he wakes paralysed.
Potassium chloride injected straight into the bloodstream does that to a person.
He overcomes it eventually, because he has to as a proud and heroic nation, so again with arsenic.
When he seems well they celebrate with a toast - sparkling cyanide.
Hemlock, nightshade, belladonna in the coffee. The various ways of felling an America on the brink of recovery are as extensive as one's imagination; the imagination of the nation who brought the Queen of Crime to the world is inexhaustible. And England knows that he can keep on doing it, at least until it goes wrong.
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Moreover, your prose is gorgeous. Your technique is just so... awesome. Well-paced and descriptive without ever losing its readability, and my god, do you know your characters well. I believe this. This is amazing.
Thank you so, so much for writing it. I will check back like the stalker I am to see if you've done more. T_T
I'm super curious as to who's gonna figure it out, if it's America or another nation. Or if anyone will figure it out. Secretly voting for Canada, but I will love ANYTHING YOU DO WITH THIS.
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I'm loving this fill; I wonder, would you mind posting updates (or at least when you finish) to the fills list so more people know you're working on this? I keep checking back for updates, but I bet more people would enjoy reading this, too! <3
Er. Captcha: "enormity works" Hopefully England won't administer ENORMOUS amounts of poison, ReCaptcha. D:
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And thanks everyone for the comments, too, this is miles out of my usual style so I apologise if it's weird or unreadable in parts. oRz I hope I'm not destroying your prompt, OP!
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I have no words to adequately describe my glee and joy at your prose. Creeper!England is disturbingly hot and needy, while still being his tsun tsun self. Totally bookmarking and looking eagerly awaiting your updates <3
Poor trusting Al...
[Is that title from the Emiliana Torrini song? You have that mood down to a TEE]
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(The title's actually from the song 'If (When You Go)', by a relatively obscure British artist called Judie Tzuke. The song has nothing to do with the fic, though.)
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This fandom is corrupting me. Never stop ♥
I also wonder if there's something at play here other than England being a creep...does America know? It seems an awful lot of bad luck to fall ill every time he visits...not even he is that oblivious. Might it be that he subconsciously knows but repressed it and keeps on going there and letting things happen?
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This is why America casts England as the villain in all of his films.
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Then your writing drew me in, and now I find myself in love. Your writing is beautiful, anon. And those last lines--so creepy yet amazing.
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“I'm still here, don't worry.”
He must have died, as much as he can, a hundred times and England has sat with him through each one, held his hand, mopped his forehead and brought him back to life, promising that he will be fine; if that isn't a mark of how much he cares for America, he doesn't know what is. Nothing could tear him away.
Which is why France, inviting himself over, dispenses with knocking at the door and strides directly inside when no one answers him. He runs a finger over the hall table and lifts it grey. The house can't have been cleaned properly for weeks, which is unusual for England, who usually makes at least a token effort before accepting that he's never going to be able to find his keys or a pen when he needs them and gives up. Too distracted by America, perhaps? No one has seen either for some time. France's lip curls and he steps in silence, upstairs, finding all rooms empty but the bedroom. It's frustratingly quiet when he first puts his ear against it, but just as he begins to lose hope he hears a groan which sounds exactly like America.
The image he finds when he opens the door does not live up to his expectations. Both men are fully clothed, to begin with, and it's impossible to equate the pile of skin spreadeagled across the bed with America. It's thin and ragged and white when it should be leaping to its feet, bounding over to greet France, outlining a new idea through a mouthful of hamburger. This thing looks like a corpse, though slightly less healthy. Then there's England - he should be marching France out of his house while insisting on his privacy, not bent over America without stirring when the door opens. His shirt folds around his ribs, bones too easily visible.
“England - you look ill. America looks worse.”
England twists from the waits, bones moving, and stares at France with hollow dark eyes.
“I need to stay with him.”
He must have been holed up here with America for days. Typical of England to have this sentimentality hidden inside him. How like him to insist that America is a mere annoyance, then throw himself without a word into the task of saving him.
“Very admirable, but you need to take care of yourself as well. I'll help America home for you, and you can get some rest.”
No, snarls England soundlessly, not when he has come so far and done so much to protect himself from that same loss; America is his now, not for France, not for anyone else in the world. Tired, his mind jumps to automatic and encourages him, daring him to hurt France, to push him away, keep him out when he isn't wanted in a situation which should be no one but England and America. He worked for this. He earned his America and found a way to control him, which is no mean feat.
But he stops - sighs - the usual routine.
“I wouldn't trust you alone with him when he's in this state.”
“Be careful, or I might begin to think you capable of emotion.” In truth this hidden romantic side of England is almost touching, now France sees it for the first time, but a comment on his devotion could be interpreted as a compliment and that would never do. He goes on instead, “You can't have been feeding him properly. You, cook a nourishing meal? It's impossible. I'll take him back to Canada, if you're that worried, then return to make sure you eat something.”
It's stated so definitively, so logically, while England's mind is wandering so far away from the situation at hand, that he cannot find the words to protest. He helps carry America to the door just for the sake of touching him one last time and watches, a blank, as his possession is removed and love sours into hatred again.
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The effect wears off progressively as America comes round. By the time the patient is sat up in bed eating and only occasionally remembering to complain, Canada knows better than to indulge his requests. Concerned he may be, but he knows when America is fishing for sympathy. It doesn't put an end to his anxiety over the cause.
“Can you get me a drink?”
“Not right now.”
“I'm an invalid,” chokes out America, in a sudden fit of ersatz agony. “Your bedside manner sucks, man.”
Canada takes one of the books from the bedside table instead. Musty, the pages yellowed - it can only be England's. When he opens it he finds a collection of short stories, which he flicks through idly until one segment catches his eye. He nudges his glasses up his nose and studies it more closely, glancing at America after every few paragraphs, then holds the book out open on that chapter.
“Have you read this?”
Aware that he is not going to succeed in making Canada run errands for him, America glances at the page, though only when it's thrust under his nose. He's strangely reluctant to take it in and shrugs when he has.
“Melodramatic, isn't it? Yeah, I think I read that one, why? It seemed kinda stupid.”
“It seems... familiar, doesn't it?”
A dinner party in which guests are poisoned with digitalis leaves, mistaken for sage? What could be familiar about that? America insists as much, adding that Canada shouldn't listen to England's wild fantasies now that he's an adult, that he worries too much, that America is a hero and not the victim of a quaint English village murder mystery, then finishes with,
“It had to be food poisoning, must have been. You know what England's cooking is like.”
Canada doesn't point out that America's own tastes aren't exemplary when it comes to cuisine. He can tell that the other nation is denying too much to believe his own words and that all he has to do is pause, just enough, before he says,
“You aren't even slightly suspicious, then.”
Forgetting his attempts to be doted upon, America pushes himself out of bed. He's gone for a long while, leaving Canada sat thumbing further through the book, and returns with a glass of water, sitting on the edge of the bed. It's one of those rare times when he looks serious, with his jaw set and the light from the window framing him neatly.
“Yes,” he says. His hand tightens around the water, leaving prints in the condensation. “Of course I'm suspicious. But it's - it's him. It's England. What am I supposed to do? If I can't prove it I'm not going to suspect him. I don't want to.”
“And if you could prove it?”
No answer to that one.
It leaves Canada to take care of the job himself. It's not as if England would ever notice him, so he visits the house safe in the knowledge that he has an almost free reign of the place for as long as he likes - ample time to find the traces he needs, of drugs and poisons and death in little glass bottles. When Canada lifts them, disbelieving, and lines them up on the counter, they catch the sunlight quite prettily. Ample time as well to run his hands across them, across the crystal necks and little stoppers, then across the faded label of a bottle near the end. The paper twists underneath his touch and the ink is gradually vanishing, but he can still read the word Coniine in old, Victorian script. Ample time to slip it into his pocket and disappear without a trace.
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England dreams of history. This is why England cannot sleep at night. This is why England wants America with him. He wants to move into the idealistic future America paints because his past is war and torture and, most of all, because he knows that much of it was caused by himself. A person's past makes them who they are and England wants to run from his, run anywhere, to escape it, but his legs won't move and his lungs won't breathe. He's stuck with the wars and the bodies of his people rotting on battlefields and the nations he's corrupted, abandoned, abused. A host of them accuses him now in dreams of skulls and green tinged flesh.
He can remember all of this but not what was happening an hour ago.
Maybe America invited him over for a drink and maybe that was when his body began to shut itself down, or maybe he's imagining that. Maybe he's imagining an echo of America's voice, when he found himself gulping for air and folding slowly downwards, saying,
“You're just getting old. Aching joints, all that stuff.”
Maybe it's an invention of his mind, which is clearly descending into hellish insanity now, that his mouth began to burn and that, before everything went black for a while, his last thought was Socrates.
Now the doors are barred and he can't escape from himself. It's all he can do to open his eyes, which don't work; streaks of colour flood his vision and none of it makes any sense. He blinks in slow motion but hours pass in the interim. After repeating this process a few times things become clearer and the colours can be distinguished into blue eyes, a mouth talking but making no sound. England watches it move towards him and kiss him, tenderly, lovingly, without being able to feel it at all. It sends him swooping back into his nightmares for a while.
He doesn't notice when he wakes up, because it's too similar to being unconscious. The vision overhead fits in perfectly with his death-dreams of grinning rows of teeth, but he knows it's America, a smile slashed across his face. This time he can hear the words hanging in the air.
“Relax, England, I'll take care of you. Just like you took care of me.”
With an odd sense of resignation, he decides he deserves the sinking terror these words bring.
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Thank you so much for writing this. And so quickly! Your style is lovely and so is the way the story progresses. If you've written anything else I would love to read it.
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