Reverse Meltdown [12b/?]
anonymous
October 22 2010, 06:12:08 UTC
Once the food is finished, he washes the plate. The faucet water creates the gap of silence in between them.
“Hey America,” England breaks it.
“Yeah?”
“About before… sorry about the kiss,”
America chuckles nervously, hoping his voice won’t crack. “It’s okay. I mean, you were half-asleep and all. You must’ve been thinking about someone else. He. Don’t tell me you were thinking about one of those women in your porn mags? That’s kind of fast, you know. It’s funny. I turn my back on you and you’re an adult again-,”
“I’m not,”
He can hear England’s abnormal breathing; it sounds like the beginning of tears. “I haven’t read any porn you idiot. Neither have I been thinking about women. When I kissed you I really thought it was you.”
America doesn’t respond and listens to the slight clink of the plate as he sets it on the dish rack. His face is probably blushed with unmanliness. He hasn’t turned off the sink yet. There’s more for his water bill.
“England,” he breathes, “Tell me, what were you dreaming about?”
England hesitates. “Darkness. I was in a dark, endless world. There is no light. Only one person is with me, embracing me, but I can’t see or hear them. H-he was the one who made me happy. Then I blinked and kissed him,”
“So was the person you kissed the one you love?”
“Yes,” he answers confidently.
“Is that by any chance, me?”
Before he can answer, the phone rings. He glances at England, then the flashing red light of the phone. He picks the machine up. It’s his boss-wrong time, wrong place, and why the hell was he calling this late?
While he talks, he hears the thumping of footsteps going up the stairs. Damn his boss; he just made him lose his maybe one and only chance.
Hooray for fast update! But the next one might be a bit slow, since I really really need to do homework before I'm screwed silly (and not in a good way >:U).
Reverse Meltdown [13/?]
anonymous
October 31 2010, 06:17:40 UTC
“Is that by any chance, me? Of course it’s you!” England sobs into the pillow.
It’s two o’clock in the morning and he still hasn’t talked to America after that predicament. He had just woken up from a fairly short respite, and, to his dismay, isn’t able to fall back asleep. As he looks outside the window, he sees darkness blanketing even more black, but the stars still shine through. It reminds him of a certain someone.
“No need to cry over spilt milk!” he reassures himself.
He then stumbles out of the warm bed regretfully, greeted by the freezing floor. He shivers, and then searches for socks; any would do. When he does find them-somehow on a bookshelf; America really needs to clean up his room-he fumbles to put them on, twiddling his fingers somewhat, resulting clumsiness. Putting on shoes was an even worse task.
His state seems to have deteriorated.
He curses, either to himself or the socks he cannot tell, and then carefully goes outdoors to receive a pleasant surprise.
It’s snowing.
A flake melts on his pale skin and he huffs smiling, a visible white puff coming out. Around him, barely and inch of snow has piled up. He gathers into a pile, though it isn’t very big. His hands scoop up the fluffy snow and piles it up. He repeats this motion until his palms are as red as his face a few hours ago. After he’s mounded all the snow he can find, he sits under a tree to look at the sky. It’s now a bit grayish.
He yawns tiredly after the exercise, wanting to build a snowman-or a snowunicorn-but now too tired to. His eyelids and arms droop as he falls asleep against the tree…
-~-
“-Land!” America cries out, awake from the warm spot on the kitchen table.
He hadn’t been asleep from the job; he had fallen once he had finished. Now his laptop is a heater, ready to shut down any minute. To save electricity (for the sake of the world!), he turns it off with a click of a button. Immediately, he remembers everything from last night to his dream.
Worrying it isn’t a foretelling dream, he runs upstairs to his room to find his room is a little messier than before (if that’s even possible) and has been untouched for hours. He panics a bit and flails around the house, in search of an eyebrow or hair. He hears a loud ‘thunk’ on the outside and rushes to his front yard, barefoot. “England? England?” he calls.
All he sees is a white blanket covering the world, which he would’ve enjoyed if he hadn’t been so preoccupied, and two abnormal mounds of snow. He digs up the first one, but there is no body. He colorfully curses under his breath as he digs up the second hill of snow, hoping that this one will at least give some kind of clue.
Luckily, someone above answered his prayers and England emerged, frighteningly cold, but still breathing softly. He embraces him and whispers, “I thought you were gone, like in my dream. And if you were then I couldn’t… Hey England I…”
“Love you,” England finishes clearly.
America pulls back to see a flushed, wide-awake face staring back at him. “H-hey England…?”
England chuckles, not afraid to hide anything, “Yes.”
An overly short part for you guys. Happy Halloween! Especially to those who live in the future...
Reverse Meltdown [14a/?]
anonymous
November 5 2010, 05:39:27 UTC
“That totally wasn’t what I was going to say,” America blatantly states.
“Wait… what?”
England wrinkles his brows intensely and America chuckles because of the cuteness. He holds the other’s cold hands to nuzzle on his face-nothing a hero can’t handle!
“As I said,” he hums into the fingers “I wasn’t going to say ‘I love you,’”
England lowers his head dejectedly and jerks backwards-wait, that isn’t how it’s supposed to be! “I was going to say,” he continues in a rush, almost slurring his words together, but then takes a deep breath and sighs, “I’m completely crazy beyond belief, heart fallen to the bottom of your ocean, worrying about one man that can as well send me off to the moon.”
He lands a chaste kiss on both of England’s forehands and leers. “You’re just that powerful, Arthur.”
Now he feels his entire body flaming in embarrassment and sees the same thing is happening to England… until the old man faints. He makes a miraculous catch to find the red cheeks aren’t from love, but a horrible fever.
“It’s because you stayed out here all morning, huh? Oh well, I guess I’ll have to tell you the rest once you wake up. First, let’s go inside…”
I am head over heels for you.
-~-
If happiness were money, then he would be the richest country in the world. What is the wealthiest one anyways? Who knows? Probably Germany.
Yet, he just has to black out at the best part. Is his life a television show or something? He could’ve sworn America-Alfred would’ve swooped him off his feet with those three magical words. He orders himself to wake up… and he does.
When he opens his eyes, his head feels horribly pained and dizzy, vision groggy, and stomach doing more than enough cartwheels.
“England, are you awake?” he hears America call a second later.
“Yes,” he replies, voice surprisingly scratchy. What had happened to “Arthur?”
America appears from the door, smiling and bubbly and all, yet brighter than normal-if that’s possible. That last thing he needs is his heart doing the same exercises as his stomach.
“You still sound sick,” America comes up face-to-face to him and lands his lips on his forehead “and you’re burning up also,”
“I guess so,” he hoarsely mutters, his heart now doing those damn flips because of America’s cuteness.
“Medicine,”
America grabs pills on the nightstand, while England closes his eyes and widens his mouth a bit. He thinks they’ll be transferred by mouth, only for them to be plopped on his tongue. He immediately snaps his eyes open and snatches the glass of water in America’s hands to gulp them down in shame and disappointment. The bitterness of the capsule had enough time to seep in his taste buds.
“Better go back to sleep now,” America recommends, starting to leave the room.
Reverse Meltdown [14b/?]
anonymous
November 5 2010, 05:41:19 UTC
-~-
When he wakes up again, he discovers he’s had no dreams. The room stays exactly the same, of course, since he hasn’t moved at all. His throat feels dreadfully itchy and nose is clogged. Not only that, he seems to be the same as if he is a baby, just like before. All those years he had tried to become “normal” again boiled down to one point: he can’t.
It’ll just keep coming back, like that bird he watches everyday passing by his house (he highly doubts that is the same exact bird, but its spawn). That’s when he gets scared, afraid out of his mind, and ready to have a panic attack. His breathing appears irregular.
“Am-er-i-ca,” he huffs, panting shorter and faster.
He might die then and there. Don’t people call him old all the time anyways?
Luckily, America appears to his soft-spoken command. “What is it England?”
He stops to stare at England and almost jumps him, but walks over slowly. He sits (actually not jumping) on the bed and pulls him in his arms. He leads England’s arms over his shoulders and strokes his back. England starts to calm down, his breaths shuddering as if he had cried, but now more natural. He hears America humming some lullaby he cannot pick out, which is probably because it is only American. It’s unlike him-them to be like this, he thinks. Before America had taken care of him, he never would’ve thought to be together, embracing each other in a calming manner. He never would’ve thought to love him either.
He tears up, but holds it back. He doesn’t want to worry America any more. “I’m fine now,” he utters with the most normal voice he could manage.
America pushes back, confused, but shrugs it off. His eyes darken. “England, you’re hiding something from me, aren’t you?”
“I’m not,”
“Yes you are,”
He averts his eyes, so they could avoid the topic altogether, but no avail. Feeling America’s glare, he groans in defeat, “Okay, yes I am,”
He offers him water and he chugs it down before explaining, “I haven’t gotten much better. I’m still… toddler-like, you could say. And… I guess that’s it.”
“Is that all?” England nods. “Then that’s nothing!” America laughs. “We’ll just try again. It worked the first time, right?”
“Yeah… the first time,”
He gets pulled into a bear hug again, though it doesn’t bother him as much it makes him warm. “Don’t worry England,” America sings, “I now know, so I can make it better,”
With America, maybe he can.
It's late out and my vision is getting blurry-- wait what?!
Re: Reverse Meltdown [14b/?]
anonymous
November 5 2010, 14:23:24 UTC
Thank you! xD
Actually I am... but it's not that bad! I'm almost through Dx! Just a few sniffles and all... this totally wasn't the reason why I made England sick ffff.
Reverse Meltdown [15a/?]
anonymous
November 10 2010, 05:49:14 UTC
Note so important it's put in the beginning: No Justin Bieber (fans) were intentionally harmed in this part. Please do not take offense even though this anon dislikes him. It's what happens when your friends sing that song a million times.
It’s back to step one.
Not the best ever, but at least it’s not impossible. Plus this time-this time they’re lovers, or at least he believes so. It’s not quite clear to him yet; everything is a blur in his mind. Maybe when he confesses it’ll be different, but that’s the hard part. Whenever he tries, his brain becomes a mess of mush and his face screaming hot, and yet at the same time he wants to wrap England around his arms and shower him with kisses, all in place of those three words. How love works.
He is feeding England medicine again, seeing how he’s still ill, and actually thinking about mouth feeding, but decides against it. He’s sure England wouldn’t oblige.
And while he does this, a lump forms in his throat. He remembers England calling him “bloody bright” sometimes before as an insult, but he takes it as a compliment and truly he isn’t. The one who is truly “bright” is England himself. He is the sun, radiating power at all times. Even in his most vulnerable state, he has been able to get through the clouds. America, on the other hand, shall be his moon and only his. Without him, he doesn’t know how to give a genuine smile or laugh or whatnot. That’s how much he needs him.
This feeling probably formed from living together for so long. If someone else had this problem and he had been forced to help, then he may have fallen for that other person. There’s a possibility, but he sure doesn’t want to consider it. Or maybe, just maybe, he had been in love with England all along and it had required this one event to let him realize.
He wonders how long England had liked him.
“America!” England shouts, breaking him from his thoughts. “The water please?”
“Y-yeah,” he rushes and hands him the glass.
He watches as England’s Adam’s apple bobs up and down slowly… little by little…
He doesn’t notice he has been nodding off until he feels a stroke against his cheek. It feels terribly soothing, so he cuddles back and opens his eyes to find the culprit blushing furiously. “You know you love me,” he jokes, about to start a Justin Bieber song.
“Don’t,” England warns, but then laughs.
Of course they can’t be serious with that song; he starts to “emotionally” sing it, “Baby, baby, baby, oh!!!”
He hears England writhing in hilarity of the off-tune and smiles, but then hesitates to say, “…I’d thought you’d always be mine… mine,”
Unfortunately, England hears the tone in his voice. “America?”
Shit. “Uh… nothing. I guess I should stop bashing the guy now,”
“Hey, why do you always have very… high-pitched male artists?”
“Hey! It’s not my fault millions of girls fall in love with them,”
He thinks England just giggle snorted. Is that even possible?
“But,” he continues, “you’ll always be my one, England,”
England’s eyes widen in surprise-wait, is it that shocking? “W-wait what America? Say that again?”
“No! That was just your imagination! N-now go to rest or something. Good night!”
Reverse Meltdown [15b/?]
anonymous
November 10 2010, 05:55:23 UTC
It’s as if nothing has happened.
No words have been said, no feelings have been changed and it makes him awfully worried. He won’t even lie now that he is preoccupied with doubt more than focusing on getting well.
Though, all that’s left in him are a reoccurring cough and a stuffy nose. He’d rather not talk and luckily America understands.
He now practices his penmanship because it’s worse than a kindergartener’s and that’s probably not a good thing, especially when it had been the best months ago. His “A’s” look more like an “H” to him than anything, though somehow in the name of God, America can read everything he writes. He sits right next to him, watching the television with no deep thoughts as if he were alone. It makes England a bit uncomfortable.
He rewrites the alphabet over and over again, but eventually gets dreadfully bored out of his mind. America suddenly looks his way and he twists his head the same direction to avoid eyesight. He’s not quite sure why he did that.
Then, he shivers at a tingle of warmth brushing his right hand, only for it to be completely held by America’s. He glares back at the culprit to receive a smirk. He shifts his gaze downwards to see America is writing with his hand. It starts out as the normal alphabet, but then turns into sentences and into a silent conversation between the two of them like “what’s for dinner tonight?” or “who the hell does she think she is?”
Not only is he a bit more interested, his handwriting actually improves, only by a tiny bit because America’s isn’t the greatest either. Eventually, old habits surface and they argue on a sheet of paper with one pencil and two hands. He doesn’t even know what the topic is and he doubts America knows either.
America bangs his fist on the stumpy coffee table, ending the quarrel. England quickly tries to change the topic and scribbles down, “What does independence mean to you?”
He can shoot himself for that as America stares him down as if he’s a foreign object. He then writes in response, “A lot of things.”
“Like what?”
“Like… freedom.”
“Well, yes that’s part of it’s meaning, but it should mean something specifically to you,”
“Having millions of burgers at my place?” He will point the barrel at America’s head instead. “And me being able to be the hero!”
“Of course.”
“Y-yeah… there’s one more thing,”
“…?”
“Well… you see… because I became independent… I… um…" America turns red rapidly “I love you,”
England stops for a moment to let the heat rise up to his face. “And you can only say it to me if you’re independent?”
“No,” America states vocally “it’s because I became independent, I was able to become your equal. This has nothing to do with confessions,”
Equal. He writes it once or twice before putting down the pencil to regularly hold both of America’s hand, interlocking their fingers. He closes his eyes to only feel the thing in front of him and to wait for the next-second future.
He thinks that is what independence means to him also.
/didn't manage to do homework in the end. Oh well. I'm busy contemplating over putting sex in here or not. Any opinions? xD
“Hey America,” England breaks it.
“Yeah?”
“About before… sorry about the kiss,”
America chuckles nervously, hoping his voice won’t crack. “It’s okay. I mean, you were half-asleep and all. You must’ve been thinking about someone else. He. Don’t tell me you were thinking about one of those women in your porn mags? That’s kind of fast, you know. It’s funny. I turn my back on you and you’re an adult again-,”
“I’m not,”
He can hear England’s abnormal breathing; it sounds like the beginning of tears. “I haven’t read any porn you idiot. Neither have I been thinking about women. When I kissed you I really thought it was you.”
America doesn’t respond and listens to the slight clink of the plate as he sets it on the dish rack. His face is probably blushed with unmanliness. He hasn’t turned off the sink yet. There’s more for his water bill.
“England,” he breathes, “Tell me, what were you dreaming about?”
England hesitates. “Darkness. I was in a dark, endless world. There is no light. Only one person is with me, embracing me, but I can’t see or hear them. H-he was the one who made me happy. Then I blinked and kissed him,”
“So was the person you kissed the one you love?”
“Yes,” he answers confidently.
“Is that by any chance, me?”
Before he can answer, the phone rings. He glances at England, then the flashing red light of the phone. He picks the machine up. It’s his boss-wrong time, wrong place, and why the hell was he calling this late?
While he talks, he hears the thumping of footsteps going up the stairs. Damn his boss; he just made him lose his maybe one and only chance.
Hooray for fast update! But the next one might be a bit slow, since I really really need to do homework before I'm screwed silly (and not in a good way >:U).
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This chapter is awesome despite the fact I wish I can leave you longer comments... *Didn't know what to say next though*
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I'll be waiting for the update, author!anon.
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It’s two o’clock in the morning and he still hasn’t talked to America after that predicament. He had just woken up from a fairly short respite, and, to his dismay, isn’t able to fall back asleep. As he looks outside the window, he sees darkness blanketing even more black, but the stars still shine through. It reminds him of a certain someone.
“No need to cry over spilt milk!” he reassures himself.
He then stumbles out of the warm bed regretfully, greeted by the freezing floor. He shivers, and then searches for socks; any would do. When he does find them-somehow on a bookshelf; America really needs to clean up his room-he fumbles to put them on, twiddling his fingers somewhat, resulting clumsiness. Putting on shoes was an even worse task.
His state seems to have deteriorated.
He curses, either to himself or the socks he cannot tell, and then carefully goes outdoors to receive a pleasant surprise.
It’s snowing.
A flake melts on his pale skin and he huffs smiling, a visible white puff coming out. Around him, barely and inch of snow has piled up. He gathers into a pile, though it isn’t very big. His hands scoop up the fluffy snow and piles it up. He repeats this motion until his palms are as red as his face a few hours ago. After he’s mounded all the snow he can find, he sits under a tree to look at the sky. It’s now a bit grayish.
He yawns tiredly after the exercise, wanting to build a snowman-or a snowunicorn-but now too tired to. His eyelids and arms droop as he falls asleep against the tree…
-~-
“-Land!” America cries out, awake from the warm spot on the kitchen table.
He hadn’t been asleep from the job; he had fallen once he had finished. Now his laptop is a heater, ready to shut down any minute. To save electricity (for the sake of the world!), he turns it off with a click of a button. Immediately, he remembers everything from last night to his dream.
Worrying it isn’t a foretelling dream, he runs upstairs to his room to find his room is a little messier than before (if that’s even possible) and has been untouched for hours. He panics a bit and flails around the house, in search of an eyebrow or hair. He hears a loud ‘thunk’ on the outside and rushes to his front yard, barefoot. “England? England?” he calls.
All he sees is a white blanket covering the world, which he would’ve enjoyed if he hadn’t been so preoccupied, and two abnormal mounds of snow. He digs up the first one, but there is no body. He colorfully curses under his breath as he digs up the second hill of snow, hoping that this one will at least give some kind of clue.
Luckily, someone above answered his prayers and England emerged, frighteningly cold, but still breathing softly. He embraces him and whispers, “I thought you were gone, like in my dream. And if you were then I couldn’t… Hey England I…”
“Love you,” England finishes clearly.
America pulls back to see a flushed, wide-awake face staring back at him. “H-hey England…?”
England chuckles, not afraid to hide anything, “Yes.”
An overly short part for you guys. Happy Halloween! Especially to those who live in the future...
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*Is happy to see what is happening* Let's see what will happen next~ *Eats popcorn while waiting*
And Happy Halloween to you too~ :3
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“Wait… what?”
England wrinkles his brows intensely and America chuckles because of the cuteness. He holds the other’s cold hands to nuzzle on his face-nothing a hero can’t handle!
“As I said,” he hums into the fingers “I wasn’t going to say ‘I love you,’”
England lowers his head dejectedly and jerks backwards-wait, that isn’t how it’s supposed to be! “I was going to say,” he continues in a rush, almost slurring his words together, but then takes a deep breath and sighs, “I’m completely crazy beyond belief, heart fallen to the bottom of your ocean, worrying about one man that can as well send me off to the moon.”
He lands a chaste kiss on both of England’s forehands and leers. “You’re just that powerful, Arthur.”
Now he feels his entire body flaming in embarrassment and sees the same thing is happening to England… until the old man faints. He makes a miraculous catch to find the red cheeks aren’t from love, but a horrible fever.
“It’s because you stayed out here all morning, huh? Oh well, I guess I’ll have to tell you the rest once you wake up. First, let’s go inside…”
I am head over heels for you.
-~-
If happiness were money, then he would be the richest country in the world. What is the wealthiest one anyways? Who knows? Probably Germany.
Yet, he just has to black out at the best part. Is his life a television show or something? He could’ve sworn America-Alfred would’ve swooped him off his feet with those three magical words. He orders himself to wake up… and he does.
When he opens his eyes, his head feels horribly pained and dizzy, vision groggy, and stomach doing more than enough cartwheels.
“England, are you awake?” he hears America call a second later.
“Yes,” he replies, voice surprisingly scratchy. What had happened to “Arthur?”
America appears from the door, smiling and bubbly and all, yet brighter than normal-if that’s possible. That last thing he needs is his heart doing the same exercises as his stomach.
“You still sound sick,” America comes up face-to-face to him and lands his lips on his forehead “and you’re burning up also,”
“I guess so,” he hoarsely mutters, his heart now doing those damn flips because of America’s cuteness.
“Medicine,”
America grabs pills on the nightstand, while England closes his eyes and widens his mouth a bit. He thinks they’ll be transferred by mouth, only for them to be plopped on his tongue. He immediately snaps his eyes open and snatches the glass of water in America’s hands to gulp them down in shame and disappointment. The bitterness of the capsule had enough time to seep in his taste buds.
“Better go back to sleep now,” America recommends, starting to leave the room.
England crawls back under the sheets.
Maybe he’s had his hopes too high.
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When he wakes up again, he discovers he’s had no dreams. The room stays exactly the same, of course, since he hasn’t moved at all. His throat feels dreadfully itchy and nose is clogged. Not only that, he seems to be the same as if he is a baby, just like before. All those years he had tried to become “normal” again boiled down to one point: he can’t.
It’ll just keep coming back, like that bird he watches everyday passing by his house (he highly doubts that is the same exact bird, but its spawn). That’s when he gets scared, afraid out of his mind, and ready to have a panic attack. His breathing appears irregular.
“Am-er-i-ca,” he huffs, panting shorter and faster.
He might die then and there. Don’t people call him old all the time anyways?
Luckily, America appears to his soft-spoken command. “What is it England?”
He stops to stare at England and almost jumps him, but walks over slowly. He sits (actually not jumping) on the bed and pulls him in his arms. He leads England’s arms over his shoulders and strokes his back. England starts to calm down, his breaths shuddering as if he had cried, but now more natural. He hears America humming some lullaby he cannot pick out, which is probably because it is only American. It’s unlike him-them to be like this, he thinks. Before America had taken care of him, he never would’ve thought to be together, embracing each other in a calming manner. He never would’ve thought to love him either.
He tears up, but holds it back. He doesn’t want to worry America any more. “I’m fine now,” he utters with the most normal voice he could manage.
America pushes back, confused, but shrugs it off. His eyes darken. “England, you’re hiding something from me, aren’t you?”
“I’m not,”
“Yes you are,”
He averts his eyes, so they could avoid the topic altogether, but no avail. Feeling America’s glare, he groans in defeat, “Okay, yes I am,”
He offers him water and he chugs it down before explaining, “I haven’t gotten much better. I’m still… toddler-like, you could say. And… I guess that’s it.”
“Is that all?” England nods. “Then that’s nothing!” America laughs. “We’ll just try again. It worked the first time, right?”
“Yeah… the first time,”
He gets pulled into a bear hug again, though it doesn’t bother him as much it makes him warm. “Don’t worry England,” America sings, “I now know, so I can make it better,”
With America, maybe he can.
It's late out and my vision is getting blurry-- wait what?!
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*Is waiting for the next chapter impatiently.*
Author!non, you are not sick, right? D:
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Actually I am... but it's not that bad! I'm almost through Dx! Just a few sniffles and all... this totally wasn't the reason why I made England sick ffff.
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Hope you get better soon :D
....so that you can continue writing this *shot*
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It’s back to step one.
Not the best ever, but at least it’s not impossible. Plus this time-this time they’re lovers, or at least he believes so. It’s not quite clear to him yet; everything is a blur in his mind. Maybe when he confesses it’ll be different, but that’s the hard part. Whenever he tries, his brain becomes a mess of mush and his face screaming hot, and yet at the same time he wants to wrap England around his arms and shower him with kisses, all in place of those three words. How love works.
He is feeding England medicine again, seeing how he’s still ill, and actually thinking about mouth feeding, but decides against it. He’s sure England wouldn’t oblige.
And while he does this, a lump forms in his throat. He remembers England calling him “bloody bright” sometimes before as an insult, but he takes it as a compliment and truly he isn’t. The one who is truly “bright” is England himself. He is the sun, radiating power at all times. Even in his most vulnerable state, he has been able to get through the clouds. America, on the other hand, shall be his moon and only his. Without him, he doesn’t know how to give a genuine smile or laugh or whatnot. That’s how much he needs him.
This feeling probably formed from living together for so long. If someone else had this problem and he had been forced to help, then he may have fallen for that other person. There’s a possibility, but he sure doesn’t want to consider it. Or maybe, just maybe, he had been in love with England all along and it had required this one event to let him realize.
He wonders how long England had liked him.
“America!” England shouts, breaking him from his thoughts. “The water please?”
“Y-yeah,” he rushes and hands him the glass.
He watches as England’s Adam’s apple bobs up and down slowly… little by little…
He doesn’t notice he has been nodding off until he feels a stroke against his cheek. It feels terribly soothing, so he cuddles back and opens his eyes to find the culprit blushing furiously. “You know you love me,” he jokes, about to start a Justin Bieber song.
“Don’t,” England warns, but then laughs.
Of course they can’t be serious with that song; he starts to “emotionally” sing it, “Baby, baby, baby, oh!!!”
He hears England writhing in hilarity of the off-tune and smiles, but then hesitates to say, “…I’d thought you’d always be mine… mine,”
Unfortunately, England hears the tone in his voice. “America?”
Shit. “Uh… nothing. I guess I should stop bashing the guy now,”
“Hey, why do you always have very… high-pitched male artists?”
“Hey! It’s not my fault millions of girls fall in love with them,”
He thinks England just giggle snorted. Is that even possible?
“But,” he continues, “you’ll always be my one, England,”
England’s eyes widen in surprise-wait, is it that shocking? “W-wait what America? Say that again?”
“No! That was just your imagination! N-now go to rest or something. Good night!”
“It’s not even night yet!”
His stupid, blabbering mouth.
-~-
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No words have been said, no feelings have been changed and it makes him awfully worried. He won’t even lie now that he is preoccupied with doubt more than focusing on getting well.
Though, all that’s left in him are a reoccurring cough and a stuffy nose. He’d rather not talk and luckily America understands.
He now practices his penmanship because it’s worse than a kindergartener’s and that’s probably not a good thing, especially when it had been the best months ago. His “A’s” look more like an “H” to him than anything, though somehow in the name of God, America can read everything he writes. He sits right next to him, watching the television with no deep thoughts as if he were alone. It makes England a bit uncomfortable.
He rewrites the alphabet over and over again, but eventually gets dreadfully bored out of his mind. America suddenly looks his way and he twists his head the same direction to avoid eyesight. He’s not quite sure why he did that.
Then, he shivers at a tingle of warmth brushing his right hand, only for it to be completely held by America’s. He glares back at the culprit to receive a smirk. He shifts his gaze downwards to see America is writing with his hand. It starts out as the normal alphabet, but then turns into sentences and into a silent conversation between the two of them like “what’s for dinner tonight?” or “who the hell does she think she is?”
Not only is he a bit more interested, his handwriting actually improves, only by a tiny bit because America’s isn’t the greatest either. Eventually, old habits surface and they argue on a sheet of paper with one pencil and two hands. He doesn’t even know what the topic is and he doubts America knows either.
America bangs his fist on the stumpy coffee table, ending the quarrel. England quickly tries to change the topic and scribbles down, “What does independence mean to you?”
He can shoot himself for that as America stares him down as if he’s a foreign object. He then writes in response, “A lot of things.”
“Like what?”
“Like… freedom.”
“Well, yes that’s part of it’s meaning, but it should mean something specifically to you,”
“Having millions of burgers at my place?” He will point the barrel at America’s head instead. “And me being able to be the hero!”
“Of course.”
“Y-yeah… there’s one more thing,”
“…?”
“Well… you see… because I became independent… I… um…" America turns red rapidly “I love you,”
England stops for a moment to let the heat rise up to his face. “And you can only say it to me if you’re independent?”
“No,” America states vocally “it’s because I became independent, I was able to become your equal. This has nothing to do with confessions,”
Equal. He writes it once or twice before putting down the pencil to regularly hold both of America’s hand, interlocking their fingers. He closes his eyes to only feel the thing in front of him and to wait for the next-second future.
He thinks that is what independence means to him also.
/didn't manage to do homework in the end. Oh well. I'm busy contemplating over putting sex in here or not. Any opinions? xD
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*Cough* Now is the true review... This is awesome. :3 And you should work your homework first! xD
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I'm falling in love with this fill all over again every time you post an update, writernon <3
I thought Biebs is Canadian? Or did I miss the news and he's American now? LOL I don't like him either, so I don't follow news about him.
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