You Take Me In (13/?)
anonymous
October 15 2010, 18:19:18 UTC
It was raining again in London. Looking down from the third story of his flat, England beheld a sea of umbrellas muddling together in the street below. They passed another so closely, it was nearly impossible to catch sight of the people beneath them. The roads had a steady flow of traffic, busses and cars filing by with the changing of the lights, windshield wipers moving at a continuous pace that was neither too fast nor too slow. All in all, a typical view for a nation so used to the rain.
Which led England to recall that late night no two months before where America had offered him something he hadn't considered. Not in a long time, at least. It was raining then, as well. For whatever reason, no matter how accustomed to the frequency of showers he was, England felt fixated on that particular day, on that particular rain fall. Probably- definitely- because it had something to do with America.
Today he had a similar feeling of significance. It wasn't something he could easily explain. It wasn't nation's intuition; that feeling was usually followed with fright and foreboding, and the events tied to those emotions horrific and terrible. Any nation could relate to that feeling. This one was linked solely on America. It was an old anxiety mingled with memories of true happiness and twisted of sorrow. It made him long for, dread, desire his former colony in a way he'd scarey felt for anyone else save for few.
The one common denominator for that feeling wholly America was the rain.
The whistling of the kettle broke his reverie, making England jump and hurry over to set it aside from the heat. Sighing in frustration, England grabbed a cup from the cupboard and set it aside, searching for just the right tea to sooth his feverish fancies, but that would only be a temporary solution. The remedy for such an occasion was so simple, yet approximately 5320 kilometers away, give or take, across the Atlantic. America had his own issues to attend to, though. As England recalled, his presidential elections were near and especially trying to put up with.
America hated elections. He really resented what it did to his people, driving ideological wedges between them and twisting facts into fiction for political gain. To many, it would seem that the last superpower lived for these events, but in truth, America was more than happy to be done with them.
The only time England could remember where America was excited and thrilled for elections was when John F. Kennedy ran for president. England suspected, but never dared said aloud, that America was in love with the young politician. He had looked at that man with eyes England once held for his beloved Elizabeth. Unlike his queen, however, America's former leader had a family, a lovely wife and two children. Infidelity occurred, as it usually did with most persons of such power, but weather or not America had ever been one of Kennedy's flames, England didn't know. And part of him, a jealous, hypocritical part, didn't want to know.
Apart from JFK, America put up a good front, an easy smile, and never let anyone, England included, in on his true opinion of the candidates. What he must be going through now with tensions high over policy and social issues, England didn't envy him.
England sighed again and grabbed his tin of earl grey, opening it and inhaling the scent of the tea leaves within before grabbing a bag and putting it aside. Much as he longed to see America, it would have to wait until his bloody elections were done. And there was still that matter of their sex life that needed to be taken care of. It was a matter of urgency to England, but priority for America. Bizarrely enough, it was England who was now growing impatient and the younger man who was bidding his time, making certain that when the moment was right, it was really right. For how much more England could get a hold of himself, though... When all his dreams taunted him with visions of dazed blue eyes, smooth, defined muscles, and locks of golden hair strewn about haphazardly-
Which led England to recall that late night no two months before where America had offered him something he hadn't considered. Not in a long time, at least. It was raining then, as well. For whatever reason, no matter how accustomed to the frequency of showers he was, England felt fixated on that particular day, on that particular rain fall. Probably- definitely- because it had something to do with America.
Today he had a similar feeling of significance. It wasn't something he could easily explain. It wasn't nation's intuition; that feeling was usually followed with fright and foreboding, and the events tied to those emotions horrific and terrible. Any nation could relate to that feeling. This one was linked solely on America. It was an old anxiety mingled with memories of true happiness and twisted of sorrow. It made him long for, dread, desire his former colony in a way he'd scarey felt for anyone else save for few.
The one common denominator for that feeling wholly America was the rain.
The whistling of the kettle broke his reverie, making England jump and hurry over to set it aside from the heat. Sighing in frustration, England grabbed a cup from the cupboard and set it aside, searching for just the right tea to sooth his feverish fancies, but that would only be a temporary solution. The remedy for such an occasion was so simple, yet approximately 5320 kilometers away, give or take, across the Atlantic. America had his own issues to attend to, though. As England recalled, his presidential elections were near and especially trying to put up with.
America hated elections. He really resented what it did to his people, driving ideological wedges between them and twisting facts into fiction for political gain. To many, it would seem that the last superpower lived for these events, but in truth, America was more than happy to be done with them.
The only time England could remember where America was excited and thrilled for elections was when John F. Kennedy ran for president. England suspected, but never dared said aloud, that America was in love with the young politician. He had looked at that man with eyes England once held for his beloved Elizabeth. Unlike his queen, however, America's former leader had a family, a lovely wife and two children. Infidelity occurred, as it usually did with most persons of such power, but weather or not America had ever been one of Kennedy's flames, England didn't know. And part of him, a jealous, hypocritical part, didn't want to know.
Apart from JFK, America put up a good front, an easy smile, and never let anyone, England included, in on his true opinion of the candidates. What he must be going through now with tensions high over policy and social issues, England didn't envy him.
England sighed again and grabbed his tin of earl grey, opening it and inhaling the scent of the tea leaves within before grabbing a bag and putting it aside. Much as he longed to see America, it would have to wait until his bloody elections were done. And there was still that matter of their sex life that needed to be taken care of. It was a matter of urgency to England, but priority for America. Bizarrely enough, it was England who was now growing impatient and the younger man who was bidding his time, making certain that when the moment was right, it was really right. For how much more England could get a hold of himself, though... When all his dreams taunted him with visions of dazed blue eyes, smooth, defined muscles, and locks of golden hair strewn about haphazardly-
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