Summary: Wander out deep enough and you realise the ocean only looks calm on the surface.
Undertow
-o-
"We're fine, aren't we?" England asks, eyes searching, a tightness in his chest that he can't explain. He isn't even sure why he feels this, why the sense of something clenching his insides in an unyielding grip. The boy is still smiling at him and it should be a good thing. But it only makes him hurt the more.
"Of course." The words roll smoothly off of the child's tongue, blue eyes rise to meet his - clear as the Mediterranian. A smile plays at the edges of those lips, guileless. "Why wouldn't we be?"
He doesn't answer, he can't. The words tangle in his throat and he swallows them down - jagged, sharp things. Why, indeed? Forgiven, just like that? He lets out a breath, coming harder than he expects. "No reason, I suppose..."
Eyes flit away from him and toward the water, bare feet in the rough sand as they wander out past the tide line. The sand is dark beneath them, clinging to their toes. Footprints follow them, darting in and out of the dampness, clear and deeply imprinted in places and fading to near-nothingness in others.
They don't hold hands. Never that. Still, it's the closest they've come, to be able to walk almost side by side.
The boy pauses and England barely notices for a second, going on a few more steps before drawing to a halt himself, turning to look behind. His eyes widen a fraction as he watches those small footprints edge closer to the water, the lapping waves starting to pull at them, pulling them out of shape, obscuring them and clinging to slender, bare limbs.
His mouth opens as he takes a few steps to follow, freezing as he feels the first droplets of water against his toes, salt and cold, too cold for comfort. He edges back a step and watches, brows furrowed, as the boy eases farther out, water surging around skinny knees, dampening the cuffs of the plain blue shorts. The boy reaches a hand down as the wave comes in, the water rolling off his fingers, splitting around the slight barrier of his hand.
When the boy turns his head again, there is some of that same depth in his gaze, the colour reflecting the cold murkiness of the Thames, and then he knows. He knows that they're not fine. A slow blink and the waters calm, back to that same bright shade as before, hiding the dark current beneath.
It's still there though. Now that he's seen it, he cannot unsee. Still there and perhaps one day the bright, inviting surface will lure him in, to be dragged down among the rocks like so many sailors. He takes a step further back from the water. "We should go. The tide is coming in."
"Just a second longer..." Soft, almost dreamy. "Can you hear it...? Can you hear the sea?"
And he can. He hears it in every word, like listening at the mouth of a seashell. "Don't be ridiculous. You'll catch cold out there."
Turning, toward him again, moving through the water toward the shore, the sea drawing back only reluctantly to leave the boy standing there, glistening wet, droplets trailing down the inside of his calves and tracing the curve of one ankle. This time he holds out his hand as he approaches, his eyes guileless as he looks up at England.
England feels the pull, silent and inexorable, a siren's call. He swallows.
A small hand slips into his own and he drowns, even as the ocean recedes behind them.
Characters: England, Sealand(implied)
Summary: Wander out deep enough and you realise the ocean only looks calm on the surface.
Undertow
-o-
"We're fine, aren't we?" England asks, eyes searching, a tightness in his chest that he can't explain. He isn't even sure why he feels this, why the sense of something clenching his insides in an unyielding grip. The boy is still smiling at him and it should be a good thing. But it only makes him hurt the more.
"Of course." The words roll smoothly off of the child's tongue, blue eyes rise to meet his - clear as the Mediterranian. A smile plays at the edges of those lips, guileless. "Why wouldn't we be?"
He doesn't answer, he can't. The words tangle in his throat and he swallows them down - jagged, sharp things. Why, indeed? Forgiven, just like that? He lets out a breath, coming harder than he expects. "No reason, I suppose..."
Eyes flit away from him and toward the water, bare feet in the rough sand as they wander out past the tide line. The sand is dark beneath them, clinging to their toes. Footprints follow them, darting in and out of the dampness, clear and deeply imprinted in places and fading to near-nothingness in others.
They don't hold hands. Never that. Still, it's the closest they've come, to be able to walk almost side by side.
The boy pauses and England barely notices for a second, going on a few more steps before drawing to a halt himself, turning to look behind. His eyes widen a fraction as he watches those small footprints edge closer to the water, the lapping waves starting to pull at them, pulling them out of shape, obscuring them and clinging to slender, bare limbs.
His mouth opens as he takes a few steps to follow, freezing as he feels the first droplets of water against his toes, salt and cold, too cold for comfort. He edges back a step and watches, brows furrowed, as the boy eases farther out, water surging around skinny knees, dampening the cuffs of the plain blue shorts. The boy reaches a hand down as the wave comes in, the water rolling off his fingers, splitting around the slight barrier of his hand.
When the boy turns his head again, there is some of that same depth in his gaze, the colour reflecting the cold murkiness of the Thames, and then he knows. He knows that they're not fine. A slow blink and the waters calm, back to that same bright shade as before, hiding the dark current beneath.
It's still there though. Now that he's seen it, he cannot unsee. Still there and perhaps one day the bright, inviting surface will lure him in, to be dragged down among the rocks like so many sailors. He takes a step further back from the water. "We should go. The tide is coming in."
"Just a second longer..." Soft, almost dreamy. "Can you hear it...? Can you hear the sea?"
And he can. He hears it in every word, like listening at the mouth of a seashell. "Don't be ridiculous. You'll catch cold out there."
Turning, toward him again, moving through the water toward the shore, the sea drawing back only reluctantly to leave the boy standing there, glistening wet, droplets trailing down the inside of his calves and tracing the curve of one ankle. This time he holds out his hand as he approaches, his eyes guileless as he looks up at England.
England feels the pull, silent and inexorable, a siren's call. He swallows.
A small hand slips into his own and he drowns, even as the ocean recedes behind them.
-o-
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