War and Things Like It (Part 4/?)
anonymous
November 5 2010, 00:40:36 UTC
War and Things Like It, Part 4/?
“So many people to fight,” he said aloud. So many people to please. America hoped that someday he’d be able to make his own choices regarding who to do what to. He could be all of them, perhaps. Hell, he could speak English, French, Dutch -- even some Algonquian…
First, though, they had to get through this. To win. He was British, first and foremost, by right of law. He needed to earn the right to be an equal partner.
“Fucking incompetents,” England was muttering. When America opened his mouth, England added, “Not you. Not just- Well. Our provincial militias did their part with very little training, I must say.”
America gaped. England had said our, and he’d been almost… complimentary. About the colonial soldiers.
“They totally did, didn’t they?” America crowed. He fisted his hands at his hips, and maybe he thrust out his chest a little. Maybe he thrust it out a lot.
England’s lip quirked the tiniest bit. Then he glanced down at America’s chest, all puffed out like a rooster’s, and his eyebrows drew down. It was a look, a weirdly intent look. His cheeks seemed pinker than they had before. Well, it was a warm day, America thought. Even this far north in New York, August was a very warm month. Very warm indeed. America stared at England, staring back at him. Then England looked away.
“Yes, yes. Well,” he said in a gruff tone. “I meant to say that Monro should never have been given charge of that fort. He wasted all the months he could have spent rebuilding his defenses merely waiting for reinforcements from Fort Edward.”
America shrugged. He was still very warm. “Maybe he thought France wouldn’t bother? I’m not sure why he did. He’ll have to leave soon, anyway, right? We have reinforcements and new commanders coming. Lots.”
“Ah! You are correct. You’ve read the dispatches, have you?” England looked at him again, and smiled a little again, though he would only look at America’s face. “I’m pleased. Surprised and unnerved, perhaps, but pleased.”
America resisted the urge to tell England to drop dead, or to thrust his own bosom out again. But he still felt happier than he had in days. He was smarter than people realized. He was growing up. And England was seeing that, at last.
England stood. He brushed at his remaining clothes as if it would actually help get the muck off - which it didn’t - and looked south, in the direction of Fort Edward and lands behind British lines. “I feel more confident leaving you to it, at the very least. I must away to the continent.”
America jumped to his feet as well. “What? This is a continent, you know. The war is here.”
“It is also in Europe and India. I have many concerns, America.”
“You’re abandoning me again.” America chafed his upper arms with his hands; a breeze had kicked up and the shade had gotten chilly.
“What? You’re an- well, you’ll be fine until I return. You already managed to grow into a bloody behemoth while I was off fighting for Austrian succession, did you not?”
“Whatever,” America said. He started walking down the trail in the opposite direction from Fort Edward. He brushed past England on the way. See if he’d even offer England his shoes - nuh-uh, no way, screw him. “I know you have important things to do.”
England yelled after him. “Dolt! Colonies are all bloody important! And expensive. If you’ve read the dispatches, then you know that Mister Pitt as offered to pay the costs of war in North America. Use the money well! Buy your men some fucking proper uniforms, will you?”
“Right. Bye,” America said, waving behind him. He’d just have to work harder to earn his partnership. And, well - he did need clothes, it was true.
TBC
Fort William Henry was a loss for the British, though they got it back really quickly when France took off north to reinforce Canada. And the Indians suffered terribly for helping the French in these battles; they were hit hard by smallpox.
Re: War and Things Like It (Part 4/?)
anonymous
November 5 2010, 04:59:18 UTC
hnnng loving this. A lot. I really love how all the diolauge really reflects where they are/you know what I mean.. orz It makes this all seem so real and that much more awesome. I can't wait for the next part. <3
War and Things Like It (Part 5/?)
anonymous
November 12 2010, 00:37:52 UTC
Thanks to everyone who’s reading, and I appreciate the comments! This is un-beta-read, so please pardon any mistakes or continuity errors. I have this horrible sinking feeling that I’m making them.
War and Things Like It, Part 5/?
April 1759
England had returned once more. America would see him that very evening, in fact, as England sailed into Halifax Harbor with the admirals who were meeting with the generals to plan a siege on Quebec. America counted the passing seconds in his head, even as he took twice as long as usual to dress, making his every movement as slow and deliberate as possible.
He’d totally fumed for weeks after England had left. He wasn’t completely sure why; he’d discovered that he did just fine without England’s physical presence. Even in this war he’d taken perfectly good care of himself. He’d had the help of British troops and Mister Prime Minister Pitt’s money, of course, but he’d made his own Indian allies, among them the powerful Iroquois. He’d raised more provincial militias and outfitted them. They’d had military successes, taking forts all along the St. Lawrence river into Canada - and boy, had Canada been pissed. He and France had blown up half the forts first, just so the British would get nothing good outta them.
It was just - he’d thought, maybe - if England couldn’t see him, then he couldn’t see how awesome America was becoming, could he?
America had even ordered uniforms for himself using Britain’s money. Regular old suits he didn’t give a crap about, but he could see how military uniforms were different: they served a purpose. They showed that you had purpose.
Different occasions called for different uniforms. America wore the blue coat with red lining when he was marching or camping with the Virginia militias. He wore his green coat and brown buckskins when he was hanging with the rangers. For the upcoming meeting, he was going to wear the uniform that belonged with the First Royal Regiment of Foot, the one that was all patriotic with its red coat and blue facing and white lace.
Throw in white breeches and white under-everything for marching in the mud - the uniforms looked great, but didn’t make much sense. Still, America was oddly proud of his knee-breeches, so perfectly tailored they looked like they’d been sewed onto him. Surely England would find no fault with those! He held his white gaiters and neck-stock up in the weak light coming through the tent-flap, looking to be sure they were pristine.
Once he had white-under-everything on he unfolded his red wool waistcoat. It was nice and warm for cool April days in Canada, and he had to admit he liked the style with its silver-embroidered tails that ended at mid-thigh. His guys had promised him that it was the very latest thing, replacing the older waistcoats that hung to the knees. Maybe England would be impressed by that, too.
“Don’t know why I care what the ol’ jerk thinks of how I look,” America said out loud to himself as he slipped his arms into the matching coat. It was heavy, with all its red wool outside and blue wool inside and silver frogging and buttons. Heavy and purposeful.
He didn’t have a looking-glass in his tent, so he couldn’t give himself the once-over. But he thought he’d cocked his tricorne just right, and hung his hanger-hanging-sword just right, and--
“I totally don’t care,” he said, again aloud.
“He in there?” a voice filtered through from the outside. It was England.
“Fuck!” America said, then covered his mouth. How the Puritans and Quakers would cringe to hear him say that aloud!
England was none too happy about it, either. He pushed into the tent, yanking off his tricorne and looking at America with a tooth-baring grin that went up and eyebrows that went down.
War and Things Like It (Part 6/?)
anonymous
November 12 2010, 00:38:39 UTC
War and Things Like It, Part 6/?
“Is that to be my greeting, America?”
“What are you talking about? Hi, England,” America said. He buckled his shoes and stood, smiling his realest smile. It wasn’t difficult, because he was, to his secret mortification, amazingly happy to see England. To stop his arms from trying to hug anyone he brushed his palms over the blue turn-ups at the hem of his jacket, checking to see that he’d buttoned them correctly.
Then America suffered an acute few seconds as his heart thumped hard twice-- maybe three times-- against his breastbone, so hard he could feel his it all the way from his throat to his stomach. He watched as England’s badger-grin faded and his eyes widened the tiniest bit and he stared at America with That Look, the intent one that made America’s belly feel all warm and twitchy. That was when America realized that this was what he’d missed so very much-- the tiny moments when England saw him, really saw him. When America thought he might have actually affected England in some way.
“I didn’t powder my hair,” America said, too stupid and heart-thumpy to say anything else.
“Waste of time,” England mumbled. He glanced away and brushed at his own damp hair with his free hand. When he turned his gaze back to America, he looked more like his old self: haughty, evasive. America felt his heart slow and instantly missed that feeling of physical panic, of awareness in every limb. His human body was becoming greedy for things that he couldn’t have and probably weren’t right to want in the first place.
“What you do you think?” America finally said, waving his coat lapels at England. “Do I look like a proper British officer?”
“You look very fine,” England said, not even looking at him. He was examining his own hat in his hands, the inside of the tent-canvas-- anything but America. “Are you joining me aboard Sutherland or not?”
“Duh,” America said. He let go his lapels and waved at the tent-flap.
As they walked to the boats that would row them out to the Sutherland - at anchor in the harbor - America checked England out. He was pale, but that was nothing new. His red waistcoat was short, the same length as America’s. His breeches and gaiters were too loose, however. America wondered if he should worry, wondered what England’s body looked like under them. Would he be too thin? Was he bruised? Or was he merely worn lean and tight by fighting?
And then America realized that he’d been thinking about England, naked. His face felt like it’d caught fire. So. There was that, too.
America knew what people - humans - did when they were naked. What he didn’t know for sure was whether they did it, too. France had seriously groped him a couple of times and had whispered some very shocking and exciting-sounding things, so America supposed that some of them must.
But England? Stuffy, funny old England?
Then they were at the boats and America had to stop thinking about it. England was back to normal, fussing and griping and ordering people about.
It took longer to row out to the flagship and back than it had taken for them to meet the military heads. What was important was that they’d been there; this was history-making stuff for sure.
Within a few hours he and England were alone again. America’s tent had been set up for their dinner, with several whale-oil lanterns for light, and someone had supplied red wine. Lots of it.
England poured full glasses of wine for both of them. He took a healthy gulp from his glass and then sighed, like he’d been parched for booze. America just sipped at his. It was dry and rich-tasting. He’d gotten used to the crisp beer brewed in Philly and Boston.
War and Things Like It (Part 7/?)
anonymous
November 12 2010, 00:39:27 UTC
War and Things Like It, Part 7/?
With a tap, tap of his fingernail on the edge of his glass, England sank down a little in his camp-chair and sort-of smiled. He pretty much ignored his food.
“So my troops have done very well in my absence,” he said.
“Yeah, we did just fine. Pretty awesome, in fact,” America said, smiling back, a little ashamed to be looking for praise.
But England just took another gulp of wine like he hadn’t heard. “It’s a relief to be across the Atlantic, frankly. Europe is fucked. Prussia blathered constantly about how he was going to punish France, but he can barely hold onto Silesia. At least we’ve managed to reassert British rights to trade in Africa and India.”
“And then Canada,” America said, taking a bite of his pheasant. He thought about his men, surviving on salt pork and rum like England’s regulars.
“And then Canada,” England agreed. He tipped his wine-glass at America, then drained it. His pale cheeks were tinged with color, visible even in the shifting, scarce lamplight. “Things will be different in Canada, lad. Government-wise, that is.”
To forestall any of the expected griping about American assemblies and the assertive independence of England’s American colonists - he’d heard plenty about that already in England’s letters - America smiled in what he thought was an eager way. “We still have to fight Quebec, first, ha ha. We’ll all be doing drills for a while . They said they wanted all the men to learn how to climb up and down the ships, right? Over and over and over and over-”
England snorted. “Someone has to learn the farmers how to make war.”
“We’ve learned pretty well, thanks,” America sighed. He loved England lots, but he was getting tired of being… put in his place, he supposed it was. He wanted acknowledgement. He wanted to be the thing that mattered most, more than punching France and getting trade-rights. He wanted England to touch him with his warm hands and smile at him. He wanted to be an equal. Nothing like wishing for the moon, right?
England poured more wine for himself. The bottle in his hand hovered across the table but jerked short when he saw how little America had been drinking.
America picked up his wine and swirled it in the glass for a few seconds. “Remember when you tried to teach me how to knit?”
That cracked a grin out of England. “Oh, Lord. A wasted enterprise.”
“I know, right?” America sipped his wine to make England even more happy. He sipped a little too much and felt the alcohol fumes trickle up his nose to numb his brain. “France offered to show me how to trap fur, you know. I don’t think he was always talking about beaver. Or maybe he was. I dunno.”
“What?” England pointed at him so violently with his half-full glass that wine sloshed out and onto America’s pheasant. “You tell that fucking France to keep his lessons to himself! You don’t need to learn anything from him.”
“France offered to teach me lots of things,” America said, deliberately wide-eyed. “I told him no, of course!”
England just stared at him with his mouth open.
“There’s more stuff you could teach me, I guess,” America said, trying to cajole the stunned expression off of England’s face.
England picked up his jaw and used it to take another sip of wine. “Hrm. What do you want to learn, America?” His voice was slow and cautious-sounding.
Oh, stuff the Puritans and Quakers don’t want me to know or want anybody to do, really. What it feels like to have someone else to rub the hard and ache-y parts of my body all over, instead of just my hand. You’re the being I care about most out of the whole wide world, so maybe you could show me these things.
“I dunno,” America said aloud, willing himself to say more and failing miserably.
England stared at him in silence, his eyes narrowed as if his eyebrows were pushing his lids to half-mast. His cheeks were pink and his nose was pink and they just got redder the more wine he drank, as if the wine was blood, suffusing him to life. America watched, fascinated.
War and Things Like It (Part 8/?)
anonymous
November 12 2010, 00:40:21 UTC
War and Things Like It, Part 8/?
“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” England said after a while. His voice was low.
“Like what?”
“You’re so very bold, America. You should behave more like … like …”
America wished he was a little bolder, actually. “Like Canada?”
“Yes! Exactly bloody right. Like Canada.” England drained what was left of his wine and poured more. That time he added to add to America’s glass as well. “He has this downcast-eyes sort of thing. Very servile.”
“That’s because Canada has no rights,” America scoffed. He took another decent-sized sip of wine. It got easier to swallow the more he drank. “I have the rights of a British citizen.”
“Hmm. Damned expensive citizen,” England mumbled.
America stayed silent for a bit and thought. It was a little difficult, what with all the brain-numbness creeping up on him. He couldn’t believe that was what England wanted. Downcast eyes? Servility? There was being put in his place, and then there was being … being …
Accommodating? Maybe England actually liked that sort of thing. America decided to try doing it, to try lowering his eyes. They fell on his food. He realized that probably needed to eat because of the booze. He took a bite of wine-soaked pheasant. He could feel England watching him.
“Your uniform fits you very well,” he heard England say.
“Thanks, England!” Screw being servile; America jumped to his feet and lifted his coat- and waistcoat-tails to show off his breeches. “Look at these! I thought you’d like ‘em.”
“Now why would you think that?” England said in his low voice again, crossing his arms and looking away.
“Because you like that kind of thing.”
If it was possible for England’s face to get any redder, then it did. He jumped to his feet as well and grabbed his tricorne from its hanging-hook. “I’d better get back to my cabin aboard the Hawk. As you noted, we have many drills on the morrow.”
America dropped his coat-tails. “But you haven’t eaten anything yet!”
“Nevertheless.” England stepped forward, his head down.
America was blocking the tent-flap exit. Instead of being nice and servile like he’d promised himself to try, he didn’t move out the way, just stared at England. Stared down, at the top of England’s head. “I’m glad you’re back,” he said, wishing he hadn’t but deciding he could blame it on the wine.
England’s shoulders slumped a little, but after a second or two he straightened and looked America in the eye. Then he looked up. Then he reached out and touched a lock of America’s hair.
“You always have this … this unruly bit, here,” England said. He was so close that America could smell the wine on his breath. Warm wine warmed by a human body … America had one of those, too. It was pulled tight over every inch of his skin, like all of him was tense, waiting, hot. He touched the silver trim on England’s jacket-cuff, then started to run his fingers over the wool of his sleeve-
“Good night, America,” England said, and America stumbled as he was summarily pushed out of the way. Then England was gone, into the fog of a Halifax evening.
Re: War and Things Like It (Part 8/?)
anonymous
November 12 2010, 03:37:43 UTC
hnnnng the tension is so good. I'm loving the slow build and the little placement of things in England's brain--like that bit about Francis wanting to teach America things. Give that a bit more time and it'll explode, or something, I'm thinking. xD
Re: War and Things Like It (Part 8/?)
anonymous
November 14 2010, 00:12:06 UTC
That was a great scene! The UST, man, the UST. France is really funny, every time he appears is the be a pervertXD. I love exactly how long it took America to thrown out the servile notionXD
Unf, I can't wait to see the next update! It's obvious England feels disgusting and maybe is slightly terrified of his own desire for America...how will America convince him to forget it? He was really good here manipulating the conversation to lead England to that subject...
War and Things Like It (Part 9/?)
anonymous
November 14 2010, 21:30:00 UTC
Thanks so much, so much for reading and commenting. I tried so hard with that UST, and I'm really happy if it worked, hee. Here, it's some RST. Un-beta-read; please feel free to point out any errors or suckiness.
War and Things Like It, Part 9/?
September, 1760
“Come now, England. You are gaining all of North America except for New Orleans. Allow us the honneur de guerre, at least. Let us carry our colors and arms as we take our leave of you.”
As he spoke, France looked tired to America’s eyes, a little scuffed and bruised. Still, he was France, and somehow he managed to be more perfectly tailored and elegant than anyone else in the room, even as he begged for better surrender terms.
Canada, like America, hung back and watched the proceedings, powerless to do anything to change them or even to speak, really. The imperial powers were in charge, here, no doubt about it. America was a little stunned, anyway; it had been an entire year since the bloody battle at Quebec, and he could hardly believe his own war was nearly over. Or that he and England were to take Montreal so easily.
“Not a chance, Frog,” England said, with his most eye-narrowed grin. “You’re lucky we agreed to let you leave at all, and don’t simply blow you into tiny bits. You’re the ones who incited the Indians to savagery-”
“You British are just as savage. Even more so,” France said, visibly angry. “We offered them friendship. You offer them cheap goods and annihilation by smallpox.”
“It’s you French who are poxed, you - you - poxy-”
The meeting was going similarly to the one they’d had with all the generals earlier, and America wondered why France had bothered to push for honors. England had an overwhelming advantage. And he was pissed. Being right wasn’t going to help France at all.
“The Canadian Iroquois has requested a peace meeting with William Johnson,” Canada murmured into the brief silence.
Both France and England- and America, even- stared in shock at Canada. Canada only gave them a vague smile and then bowed his head in that way that England liked. He said no more. France bared his teeth and looked gleeful.
“But Cherokee has attacked a fort in the Carolinas,” America tossed in before France could speak. He wasn’t going to be outdone by his brother, nuh-uh, no way.
And he wasn’t sure if he was proving England’s point or what, just stating the obvious because it affected him more than anyone else. Whatever the case, France grabbed onto it. He gave a very Gallic, slant-shouldered shrug, and smiled.
“See? We do not control them in the slightest. I will leave you to it.” He then sauntered towards the door.
“Leave your arms and flags,” England warned in a low voice.
“We shall see if the generals choose to,” France laughed.
Canada started to stand up, then sat, then stood up halfway. “Should I-?”
France patted his shoulder. “Not until it is official. Come.” Canada managed to stand and together they started to leave. Just as France opened the door, he turned and winked at America. “When we are no longer at war, come to visit me. We shall discuss Rousseau.”
England flushed red; even his eyebrows were red. “You-! You won’t talk to him about anything, bloody Frog! And we’ll search the luggage of every damned French officer if we have to.”
“You offer me great insult,” France said. Then he waved Canada out and was gone, shutting the door behind him.
War and Things Like It (Part 10/?)
anonymous
November 14 2010, 21:30:43 UTC
War and Things Like It, Part 10/?
England sputtered at the closed door for a few moments, then whipped around to glare at America.
“I’ve fought for years to keep him from your borders - my borders. He is the one who offers me an insult. Fucking France.”
America attempted a small grin. He played with his fingers in his lap, wondering why England was so… jealous. He was totally blind in some ways. It was like all of America’s attempts to show England how much he… wanted to remain allied with him just got lost in the fighting.
Or perhaps England had been ignoring them on purpose, like the way he’d avoided sharing winter quarters in Quebec. He still saw America, but not yet as an equal. And as a colony, America could not initiate such… relations. He needed England to show him the way, to let him know unequivocally that it was okay. England would probably never do it, though, and America would remain tense and frustrated forever.
Acting frustrated never worked, so America sighed and leaned his head back against the top of his chair, and stretched out his under-everything-white-clad legs. “But it’s almost over. We’ve won. You punched him like you wanted, right?”
“That I did.” England crossed his arms and took a deep breath. Like America, he seemed to calm down a bit, or at least his face lost some of its red flush. He did look at America’s long legs spread out so, but like always, he was more concerned with winning. “Though he had better leave his arms.”
***
In the end France didn’t. Furthermore, he’d burned his flags so that England could not present them to his king. England and his head general, Amherst, had fumed and cursed and threatened, but eventually they’d just let France go. He was gone from Montreal - all of Canada - and that was the important thing.
And Canada was England’s, too, like America. While their people celebrated in the streets, England sequestered himself with Canada for ‘discussions.’
Thus America didn’t join the party, either; instead, he went to his assigned quarters and caught up on work. He wrote letters to the Ohio Company and to his assemblies and to his Indian allies - why were they called Indians, anyway? They were nowhere near India, at least America didn’t think so - and he did not think at all about how he’d imagined this day of victory to be completely different from how it was turning out.
America was sucking the matted end of a quill pen, thinking about how to pacify Cherokee, when England entered without knocking. “America.”
“Hullo, England,” America said, and set down his quill. He crossed his fingers on the table and looked up.
England stared at him for a moment, then shook his head. “This is a great day. You are being uncharacteristically subdued, America. Like Canada. He doesn’t seem to care who rules him. He’s not losing any rights, I suppose. Only gaining them.”
“I thought you liked that kind of behavior,” America said.
“Hrm. I suppose,” England murmured. He was silent for a few moments. He brushed at his jacket, and tapped his boot on the wooden cabin floor. “Well, I shall… I shall miss you, America. I must take my leave soon.”
America unclenched his fingers and grabbed the edge of the table to squeeze it, hard. “You’re leaving?”
England nodded and swiped his fingers along his red jacket some more. “The Prime Minister has ordered the navy and marines to the Indies now that hurricane season is nearing its end, so that we may take some key French islands there. Spain may join the war against me as well. More spoils for the British, eh?” He gave America a tight, thin grin.
“Oh. Okay,” America said, willing himself to release his visible grip on the table, and failing.
England stretched out his hands, palms open. “So unenthusiastic! Come, America.”
War and Things Like It (Part 11/?)
anonymous
November 14 2010, 21:31:14 UTC
War and Things Like It, Part 11/?
America stood, slowly. England stepped around the table and clasped America’s shoulders. It was the most England had touched him in months and months and months, and America’s heart stopped, then started, with a painful jerk. England looked him directly in the eye and said in his hearty, ‘German King George’ voice, “Take care, America. Wish me luck.”
“Good luck,” America whispered. He kept his hands firmly at his sides, trying not to betray anything by the crazy twitching of his fingers.
“Well done,” England said, and kissed America on one cheek, and then the other. He had warm lips and-
There, it had appeared out of nowhere: England’s move, America’s moment. He grabbed England’s heavy, scratchy, wool- and silver-trim-lapels and shoved his own lips forward against England’s. England’s mouth didn’t move but America didn’t care; he kissed him as fervently, as passionately as he could, trying to make sure England could not possibly misunderstand him.
After a few heavy moments England shoved at America’s shoulders, forcing him away.
“Good God! What are you doing?” England gasped. He was frowning and his eyes were wide, his pupils flicking back and forth as if searching America’s face for an answer.
“What’s it look like?” America said, rolling his eyes. He didn’t let go of England’s jacket.
England’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened, and eventually settled somewhere in between. “That’s not how you do it,” he said, and leaned forward, pressing his lips softly against America’s. America stood stock-still as England’s fingers squeezed his shoulders the tiniest bit, and England tilted his head, moving his lips slowly and with little sighs. America ventured to open his mouth and he felt England slide his tongue between his lips. America gasped, then after a few moments he followed suit.
America could see the advantage in this, totally, yes, because it felt amazing: breathing England, being joined to him so actively and intimately, feeling England’s fingers curl around the back of his head to pull him closer. America slid his hands around England’s back to hold on, because he knew he was trembling like a little kid in the dark.
It was bliss, bliss and then England pulled his tongue out of America’s mouth and bowed his head, hitting America in the chin with his forehead.
“Pardon, America,” he said alongside a hoarse breath. “This is not right.”
“What's wrong?” America said, trying to find England’s mouth with his own lips again.
“Terribly wrong,” England was mumbling. “I can’t deny that… but no. Oh, damnation.”
“What?” America said again. He could feel England’s harsh breaths through his heavy coat, harsh like his own breathing.
England laid his fingers on America’s cheek. “You learn too quickly,” he said, and kissed America again, his hot breath and his tongue and America closed his eyes and settled in for more physical bliss. England did want him, the way he- America wanted to learn; he tilted his head like England did and glided his tongue inside England’s mouth gently, not harshly, because England wouldn’t let him. He sucked at England’s soft, wet lips like England did his, and showed how good it felt, how much he cared.
War and Things Like It (Part 12/?)
anonymous
November 14 2010, 21:31:53 UTC
War and Things Like It, Part 12/?
After a while England became more forceful and America let him, because it felt even better. He stumbled back a step or two and felt his ass hit the edge of the table. So he leaned on it, and then there was the hard table on one side and England on the other and America, sandwiched between them, was made of one big, acute nerve dying for more touch, especially down there. America clenched his thighs around one of England’s legs, arching his hips back and forth, rubbing his ache-iest spots until the tightness in his crotch only grew worse. England was hard, too, like he was; America could feel it on his knee-
“Ouch! Slow down,” England said and pulled away again. America moaned, though he was held still by the look in England’s eyes, so green and close they could not possibly miss him. England’s voice was just as low and intent as his gaze. “Do you know what you are doing?”
“I think so, ha ha. Yeah.” America licked his lips. “Well, maybe not. Please?”
England took a deep breath, more steady than his last few had been. “For me to show you would be to take unconscionable advantage, you know.”
America panicked; he could feel England’s hold on him and around him loosening. “Someone has to! Maybe I’ll just take France up-”
“Fuck France,” England said in an angry voice, and then he was pulling at the buttons on America’s white shirt, and America didn’t waste time complimenting himself on his own cleverness, just shrugged off his red coat, not easy because he was partially sitting on it. England yanked America’s shirt open, then used it to pull him forward off the table.
“Turn around, America,” he said in a low voice, a voice that was not to be disobeyed. America did as he was asked. It was okay because England pressed up along the backside of him and wrapped his arms around him and touched him where his shirt was open, warm hands stroking down his breastbone and touching the sensitive skin of his armpits and along his sides.
“Good Lord,” England whispered against the back of his neck. His voice was hot enough to send chills trembling down America’s spine. Something soft and wet drew along his nape and he realized that England was licking him. His belly was molten and he lost such control of his knees that England had to hold him up. When America was steady again, he saw England’s fingers at the top of his trousers, loosening the knotted strands and buttons that fastened them.
“God, please,” America sighed, not caring what the Puritans would think, only that England’s hand had slid into his drawers and around his cock, squeezing, squeezing the life out of him. “Oh! Oh.”
“Shh,” England murmured into America’s hair. “Do you understand what this entails? What you want?”
“S- sort of. I don’t care. I love you,” America said all at once.
“Oh.” England’s body twitched all over against America’s back. “My dear America.”
After a couple more heavenly physical strokes, England released America’s cock and, indeed, released all of him, stepping back. America moaned, ashamed but aroused so that all he could think was, warm skin on mine, forever and ever. He heard the rustling of clothing that was not his, and England muttering, damn and blast, where is the- oh, there. This should do.
“What? Ha ha,” America said, even though he was hot and cold and half-naked and leaning against the table, because it sounded so… England.
“Calves’ foot jelly. You will thank me.”
“Calves’- what, does your throat hurt, or something?”
“Always. It’s demned dry here,” England said. “Hold still.”
“Okay.” England’s hands were on him again, on his hips, sliding his breeches down and then sliding something wet and cool into the crack of his ass. America had never realized how sensitive that spot was until England touched it.
“Oh, oh,” America said. His heart pounded and he wasn’t sure if he was afraid, or excited, or both.
War and Things Like It (Part 13/?)
anonymous
November 14 2010, 21:35:29 UTC
War and Things Like It, Part 13/?
England chuckled against the back of America’s head, and America felt something - England’s fingers? - nudging inside him. It was weird and yet so intimate; good thing it was England, and not anybody else.
“Lean forward and hold onto the table,” England told him.
“Yes, sir,” America said, trying to sound jaunty, but ashamed at the shakiness in his voice. It was all right, though, because England’s warm skin was pressed against him, soft and yet hard, because England’s cock was hard like his. America felt it when England’s fingers spread his buttocks and pushed his cock inside him.
“Ah-” America said, almost coughing. “That’s- man.”
“Relax. Shh,” England whispered. His fingers trailed up and down America’s hips, distracting him with their fine attention. England pushed into America and pulled his hips back at the same time until America was full, like he had to go, but it wasn’t really unpleasant. It just made him catch his breath until his head spun like he had air bubbles in his brain-box.
Then England moved inside him, rocking back and forth, whispering dear America, dear boy between harsh breaths. It hurt a little, burned like nothing he’d ever felt. America watched his own sweat drip to darken the wood of the table in little specks. It hurt but he loved the feeling of England pressed against him and in him and his hands, one guiding America’s hips and the other stroking his belly, the liquid knot of ache inside him. After a while England’s driving thrusts touched, pounded the ache, and America knew-
“This is what I- Oh, oh,” America said.
At the same time England whispered back, “No one’s ever-”
And America knew then that they were both stupid. So much alike - but oh, dear, he was much stupider, because England was stroking his cock, now hard again, and America’s human body couldn’t stand all the breathing, the closeness and sensation, everything. It jerked him all at once over the edge before he could stop it. He made a stupid noise and spilled his seed, all over England’s hand and the table.
“S’allright. Hold on,” England told him.
America’s body went limp but England only held him more tightly, rocked against and inside him for a while longer before coming to a jerky, huffing halt.
America felt England flop forward onto him, and he sort of slid down to hug the table. He was sore and breathless, but happy. Surely this hadn’t happened and England was leaving- But England was there, more physical and real than America had ever felt him. England was, in fact, muttering against America’s sweaty shirt.
“Oh, lord. I make a terrible b- big br- empire. How are you, America? How was it?” England’s voice trailed up at the end, making him sound more unsure than America had ever heard him sound before.
“Oh, good,” America breathed. He relaxed and thought for a few more seconds, drooling into the table. “Good. Except-”
“Except?” England’s voice had regained its suspicious edge. “Except what?”
“Except, I couldn’t see what you were doing.”
England pushed himself off America, then grabbed America’s neck-stock and hoisted him upwards. America stood and turned. Instead of looking England in the eye, he looked down between them; he was all sticky and gooey and limp, and so was England. America stared down at England’s cock, his blond hair, spellbound.
England put a finger under America’s chin to clap his jaw shut and bring his gaze back up to England-eye-level. It wasn’t a bad view, either; England was all pink and shiny and his hair- even his hair was all messed up. He raised an eyebrow at America’s stare. “You want to see what I’m doing.”
“Yeah. How else am I supposed to-?” America whispered, unable to even bring up teaching or France again. Not after that. He braced his hands back against the table.
“You are much too clever, America,” England sighed, rolling his eyes. He didn’t look angry, though, just sort of flushed and exasperated. “Very well.” He reached up and began to slide America’s wet, sticky shirt off his shoulders, wearing a half-grin as he did it.
“Huzzah,” America cheered, but quietly.
TBC
I angsted over trying to make this a more "equal" sexual relationship, and hope it worked. THANK YOU AGAIN!
“So many people to fight,” he said aloud. So many people to please. America hoped that someday he’d be able to make his own choices regarding who to do what to. He could be all of them, perhaps. Hell, he could speak English, French, Dutch -- even some Algonquian…
First, though, they had to get through this. To win. He was British, first and foremost, by right of law. He needed to earn the right to be an equal partner.
“Fucking incompetents,” England was muttering. When America opened his mouth, England added, “Not you. Not just- Well. Our provincial militias did their part with very little training, I must say.”
America gaped. England had said our, and he’d been almost… complimentary. About the colonial soldiers.
“They totally did, didn’t they?” America crowed. He fisted his hands at his hips, and maybe he thrust out his chest a little. Maybe he thrust it out a lot.
England’s lip quirked the tiniest bit. Then he glanced down at America’s chest, all puffed out like a rooster’s, and his eyebrows drew down. It was a look, a weirdly intent look. His cheeks seemed pinker than they had before. Well, it was a warm day, America thought. Even this far north in New York, August was a very warm month. Very warm indeed. America stared at England, staring back at him. Then England looked away.
“Yes, yes. Well,” he said in a gruff tone. “I meant to say that Monro should never have been given charge of that fort. He wasted all the months he could have spent rebuilding his defenses merely waiting for reinforcements from Fort Edward.”
America shrugged. He was still very warm. “Maybe he thought France wouldn’t bother? I’m not sure why he did. He’ll have to leave soon, anyway, right? We have reinforcements and new commanders coming. Lots.”
“Ah! You are correct. You’ve read the dispatches, have you?” England looked at him again, and smiled a little again, though he would only look at America’s face. “I’m pleased. Surprised and unnerved, perhaps, but pleased.”
America resisted the urge to tell England to drop dead, or to thrust his own bosom out again. But he still felt happier than he had in days. He was smarter than people realized. He was growing up. And England was seeing that, at last.
England stood. He brushed at his remaining clothes as if it would actually help get the muck off - which it didn’t - and looked south, in the direction of Fort Edward and lands behind British lines. “I feel more confident leaving you to it, at the very least. I must away to the continent.”
America jumped to his feet as well. “What? This is a continent, you know. The war is here.”
“It is also in Europe and India. I have many concerns, America.”
“You’re abandoning me again.” America chafed his upper arms with his hands; a breeze had kicked up and the shade had gotten chilly.
“What? You’re an- well, you’ll be fine until I return. You already managed to grow into a bloody behemoth while I was off fighting for Austrian succession, did you not?”
“Whatever,” America said. He started walking down the trail in the opposite direction from Fort Edward. He brushed past England on the way. See if he’d even offer England his shoes - nuh-uh, no way, screw him. “I know you have important things to do.”
England yelled after him. “Dolt! Colonies are all bloody important! And expensive. If you’ve read the dispatches, then you know that Mister Pitt as offered to pay the costs of war in North America. Use the money well! Buy your men some fucking proper uniforms, will you?”
“Right. Bye,” America said, waving behind him. He’d just have to work harder to earn his partnership. And, well - he did need clothes, it was true.
TBC
Fort William Henry was a loss for the British, though they got it back really quickly when France took off north to reinforce Canada. And the Indians suffered terribly for helping the French in these battles; they were hit hard by smallpox.
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War and Things Like It, Part 5/?
April 1759
England had returned once more. America would see him that very evening, in fact, as England sailed into Halifax Harbor with the admirals who were meeting with the generals to plan a siege on Quebec. America counted the passing seconds in his head, even as he took twice as long as usual to dress, making his every movement as slow and deliberate as possible.
He’d totally fumed for weeks after England had left. He wasn’t completely sure why; he’d discovered that he did just fine without England’s physical presence. Even in this war he’d taken perfectly good care of himself. He’d had the help of British troops and Mister Prime Minister Pitt’s money, of course, but he’d made his own Indian allies, among them the powerful Iroquois. He’d raised more provincial militias and outfitted them. They’d had military successes, taking forts all along the St. Lawrence river into Canada - and boy, had Canada been pissed. He and France had blown up half the forts first, just so the British would get nothing good outta them.
It was just - he’d thought, maybe - if England couldn’t see him, then he couldn’t see how awesome America was becoming, could he?
America had even ordered uniforms for himself using Britain’s money. Regular old suits he didn’t give a crap about, but he could see how military uniforms were different: they served a purpose. They showed that you had purpose.
Different occasions called for different uniforms. America wore the blue coat with red lining when he was marching or camping with the Virginia militias. He wore his green coat and brown buckskins when he was hanging with the rangers. For the upcoming meeting, he was going to wear the uniform that belonged with the First Royal Regiment of Foot, the one that was all patriotic with its red coat and blue facing and white lace.
Throw in white breeches and white under-everything for marching in the mud - the uniforms looked great, but didn’t make much sense. Still, America was oddly proud of his knee-breeches, so perfectly tailored they looked like they’d been sewed onto him. Surely England would find no fault with those! He held his white gaiters and neck-stock up in the weak light coming through the tent-flap, looking to be sure they were pristine.
Once he had white-under-everything on he unfolded his red wool waistcoat. It was nice and warm for cool April days in Canada, and he had to admit he liked the style with its silver-embroidered tails that ended at mid-thigh. His guys had promised him that it was the very latest thing, replacing the older waistcoats that hung to the knees. Maybe England would be impressed by that, too.
“Don’t know why I care what the ol’ jerk thinks of how I look,” America said out loud to himself as he slipped his arms into the matching coat. It was heavy, with all its red wool outside and blue wool inside and silver frogging and buttons. Heavy and purposeful.
He didn’t have a looking-glass in his tent, so he couldn’t give himself the once-over. But he thought he’d cocked his tricorne just right, and hung his hanger-hanging-sword just right, and--
“I totally don’t care,” he said, again aloud.
“He in there?” a voice filtered through from the outside. It was England.
“Fuck!” America said, then covered his mouth. How the Puritans and Quakers would cringe to hear him say that aloud!
England was none too happy about it, either. He pushed into the tent, yanking off his tricorne and looking at America with a tooth-baring grin that went up and eyebrows that went down.
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“Is that to be my greeting, America?”
“What are you talking about? Hi, England,” America said. He buckled his shoes and stood, smiling his realest smile. It wasn’t difficult, because he was, to his secret mortification, amazingly happy to see England. To stop his arms from trying to hug anyone he brushed his palms over the blue turn-ups at the hem of his jacket, checking to see that he’d buttoned them correctly.
Then America suffered an acute few seconds as his heart thumped hard twice-- maybe three times-- against his breastbone, so hard he could feel his it all the way from his throat to his stomach. He watched as England’s badger-grin faded and his eyes widened the tiniest bit and he stared at America with That Look, the intent one that made America’s belly feel all warm and twitchy. That was when America realized that this was what he’d missed so very much-- the tiny moments when England saw him, really saw him. When America thought he might have actually affected England in some way.
“I didn’t powder my hair,” America said, too stupid and heart-thumpy to say anything else.
“Waste of time,” England mumbled. He glanced away and brushed at his own damp hair with his free hand. When he turned his gaze back to America, he looked more like his old self: haughty, evasive. America felt his heart slow and instantly missed that feeling of physical panic, of awareness in every limb. His human body was becoming greedy for things that he couldn’t have and probably weren’t right to want in the first place.
“What you do you think?” America finally said, waving his coat lapels at England. “Do I look like a proper British officer?”
“You look very fine,” England said, not even looking at him. He was examining his own hat in his hands, the inside of the tent-canvas-- anything but America. “Are you joining me aboard Sutherland or not?”
“Duh,” America said. He let go his lapels and waved at the tent-flap.
As they walked to the boats that would row them out to the Sutherland - at anchor in the harbor - America checked England out. He was pale, but that was nothing new. His red waistcoat was short, the same length as America’s. His breeches and gaiters were too loose, however. America wondered if he should worry, wondered what England’s body looked like under them. Would he be too thin? Was he bruised? Or was he merely worn lean and tight by fighting?
And then America realized that he’d been thinking about England, naked. His face felt like it’d caught fire. So. There was that, too.
America knew what people - humans - did when they were naked. What he didn’t know for sure was whether they did it, too. France had seriously groped him a couple of times and had whispered some very shocking and exciting-sounding things, so America supposed that some of them must.
But England? Stuffy, funny old England?
Then they were at the boats and America had to stop thinking about it. England was back to normal, fussing and griping and ordering people about.
It took longer to row out to the flagship and back than it had taken for them to meet the military heads. What was important was that they’d been there; this was history-making stuff for sure.
Within a few hours he and England were alone again. America’s tent had been set up for their dinner, with several whale-oil lanterns for light, and someone had supplied red wine. Lots of it.
England poured full glasses of wine for both of them. He took a healthy gulp from his glass and then sighed, like he’d been parched for booze. America just sipped at his. It was dry and rich-tasting. He’d gotten used to the crisp beer brewed in Philly and Boston.
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With a tap, tap of his fingernail on the edge of his glass, England sank down a little in his camp-chair and sort-of smiled. He pretty much ignored his food.
“So my troops have done very well in my absence,” he said.
“Yeah, we did just fine. Pretty awesome, in fact,” America said, smiling back, a little ashamed to be looking for praise.
But England just took another gulp of wine like he hadn’t heard. “It’s a relief to be across the Atlantic, frankly. Europe is fucked. Prussia blathered constantly about how he was going to punish France, but he can barely hold onto Silesia. At least we’ve managed to reassert British rights to trade in Africa and India.”
“And then Canada,” America said, taking a bite of his pheasant. He thought about his men, surviving on salt pork and rum like England’s regulars.
“And then Canada,” England agreed. He tipped his wine-glass at America, then drained it. His pale cheeks were tinged with color, visible even in the shifting, scarce lamplight. “Things will be different in Canada, lad. Government-wise, that is.”
To forestall any of the expected griping about American assemblies and the assertive independence of England’s American colonists - he’d heard plenty about that already in England’s letters - America smiled in what he thought was an eager way. “We still have to fight Quebec, first, ha ha. We’ll all be doing drills for a while . They said they wanted all the men to learn how to climb up and down the ships, right? Over and over and over and over-”
England snorted. “Someone has to learn the farmers how to make war.”
“We’ve learned pretty well, thanks,” America sighed. He loved England lots, but he was getting tired of being… put in his place, he supposed it was. He wanted acknowledgement. He wanted to be the thing that mattered most, more than punching France and getting trade-rights. He wanted England to touch him with his warm hands and smile at him. He wanted to be an equal. Nothing like wishing for the moon, right?
England poured more wine for himself. The bottle in his hand hovered across the table but jerked short when he saw how little America had been drinking.
America picked up his wine and swirled it in the glass for a few seconds. “Remember when you tried to teach me how to knit?”
That cracked a grin out of England. “Oh, Lord. A wasted enterprise.”
“I know, right?” America sipped his wine to make England even more happy. He sipped a little too much and felt the alcohol fumes trickle up his nose to numb his brain. “France offered to show me how to trap fur, you know. I don’t think he was always talking about beaver. Or maybe he was. I dunno.”
“What?” England pointed at him so violently with his half-full glass that wine sloshed out and onto America’s pheasant. “You tell that fucking France to keep his lessons to himself! You don’t need to learn anything from him.”
“France offered to teach me lots of things,” America said, deliberately wide-eyed. “I told him no, of course!”
England just stared at him with his mouth open.
“There’s more stuff you could teach me, I guess,” America said, trying to cajole the stunned expression off of England’s face.
England picked up his jaw and used it to take another sip of wine. “Hrm. What do you want to learn, America?” His voice was slow and cautious-sounding.
Oh, stuff the Puritans and Quakers don’t want me to know or want anybody to do, really. What it feels like to have someone else to rub the hard and ache-y parts of my body all over, instead of just my hand. You’re the being I care about most out of the whole wide world, so maybe you could show me these things.
“I dunno,” America said aloud, willing himself to say more and failing miserably.
England stared at him in silence, his eyes narrowed as if his eyebrows were pushing his lids to half-mast. His cheeks were pink and his nose was pink and they just got redder the more wine he drank, as if the wine was blood, suffusing him to life. America watched, fascinated.
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“You shouldn’t look at me like that,” England said after a while. His voice was low.
“Like what?”
“You’re so very bold, America. You should behave more like … like …”
America wished he was a little bolder, actually. “Like Canada?”
“Yes! Exactly bloody right. Like Canada.” England drained what was left of his wine and poured more. That time he added to add to America’s glass as well. “He has this downcast-eyes sort of thing. Very servile.”
“That’s because Canada has no rights,” America scoffed. He took another decent-sized sip of wine. It got easier to swallow the more he drank. “I have the rights of a British citizen.”
“Hmm. Damned expensive citizen,” England mumbled.
America stayed silent for a bit and thought. It was a little difficult, what with all the brain-numbness creeping up on him. He couldn’t believe that was what England wanted. Downcast eyes? Servility? There was being put in his place, and then there was being … being …
Accommodating? Maybe England actually liked that sort of thing. America decided to try doing it, to try lowering his eyes. They fell on his food. He realized that probably needed to eat because of the booze. He took a bite of wine-soaked pheasant. He could feel England watching him.
“Your uniform fits you very well,” he heard England say.
“Thanks, England!” Screw being servile; America jumped to his feet and lifted his coat- and waistcoat-tails to show off his breeches. “Look at these! I thought you’d like ‘em.”
“Now why would you think that?” England said in his low voice again, crossing his arms and looking away.
“Because you like that kind of thing.”
If it was possible for England’s face to get any redder, then it did. He jumped to his feet as well and grabbed his tricorne from its hanging-hook. “I’d better get back to my cabin aboard the Hawk. As you noted, we have many drills on the morrow.”
America dropped his coat-tails. “But you haven’t eaten anything yet!”
“Nevertheless.” England stepped forward, his head down.
America was blocking the tent-flap exit. Instead of being nice and servile like he’d promised himself to try, he didn’t move out the way, just stared at England. Stared down, at the top of England’s head. “I’m glad you’re back,” he said, wishing he hadn’t but deciding he could blame it on the wine.
England’s shoulders slumped a little, but after a second or two he straightened and looked America in the eye. Then he looked up. Then he reached out and touched a lock of America’s hair.
“You always have this … this unruly bit, here,” England said. He was so close that America could smell the wine on his breath. Warm wine warmed by a human body … America had one of those, too. It was pulled tight over every inch of his skin, like all of him was tense, waiting, hot. He touched the silver trim on England’s jacket-cuff, then started to run his fingers over the wool of his sleeve-
“Good night, America,” England said, and America stumbled as he was summarily pushed out of the way. Then England was gone, into the fog of a Halifax evening.
TBC
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Unf, I can't wait to see the next update! It's obvious England feels disgusting and maybe is slightly terrified of his own desire for America...how will America convince him to forget it? He was really good here manipulating the conversation to lead England to that subject...
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War and Things Like It, Part 9/?
September, 1760
“Come now, England. You are gaining all of North America except for New Orleans. Allow us the honneur de guerre, at least. Let us carry our colors and arms as we take our leave of you.”
As he spoke, France looked tired to America’s eyes, a little scuffed and bruised. Still, he was France, and somehow he managed to be more perfectly tailored and elegant than anyone else in the room, even as he begged for better surrender terms.
Canada, like America, hung back and watched the proceedings, powerless to do anything to change them or even to speak, really. The imperial powers were in charge, here, no doubt about it. America was a little stunned, anyway; it had been an entire year since the bloody battle at Quebec, and he could hardly believe his own war was nearly over. Or that he and England were to take Montreal so easily.
“Not a chance, Frog,” England said, with his most eye-narrowed grin. “You’re lucky we agreed to let you leave at all, and don’t simply blow you into tiny bits. You’re the ones who incited the Indians to savagery-”
“You British are just as savage. Even more so,” France said, visibly angry. “We offered them friendship. You offer them cheap goods and annihilation by smallpox.”
“It’s you French who are poxed, you - you - poxy-”
The meeting was going similarly to the one they’d had with all the generals earlier, and America wondered why France had bothered to push for honors. England had an overwhelming advantage. And he was pissed. Being right wasn’t going to help France at all.
“The Canadian Iroquois has requested a peace meeting with William Johnson,” Canada murmured into the brief silence.
Both France and England- and America, even- stared in shock at Canada. Canada only gave them a vague smile and then bowed his head in that way that England liked. He said no more. France bared his teeth and looked gleeful.
“But Cherokee has attacked a fort in the Carolinas,” America tossed in before France could speak. He wasn’t going to be outdone by his brother, nuh-uh, no way.
And he wasn’t sure if he was proving England’s point or what, just stating the obvious because it affected him more than anyone else. Whatever the case, France grabbed onto it. He gave a very Gallic, slant-shouldered shrug, and smiled.
“See? We do not control them in the slightest. I will leave you to it.” He then sauntered towards the door.
“Leave your arms and flags,” England warned in a low voice.
“We shall see if the generals choose to,” France laughed.
Canada started to stand up, then sat, then stood up halfway. “Should I-?”
France patted his shoulder. “Not until it is official. Come.” Canada managed to stand and together they started to leave. Just as France opened the door, he turned and winked at America. “When we are no longer at war, come to visit me. We shall discuss Rousseau.”
England flushed red; even his eyebrows were red. “You-! You won’t talk to him about anything, bloody Frog! And we’ll search the luggage of every damned French officer if we have to.”
“You offer me great insult,” France said. Then he waved Canada out and was gone, shutting the door behind him.
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England sputtered at the closed door for a few moments, then whipped around to glare at America.
“I’ve fought for years to keep him from your borders - my borders. He is the one who offers me an insult. Fucking France.”
America attempted a small grin. He played with his fingers in his lap, wondering why England was so… jealous. He was totally blind in some ways. It was like all of America’s attempts to show England how much he… wanted to remain allied with him just got lost in the fighting.
Or perhaps England had been ignoring them on purpose, like the way he’d avoided sharing winter quarters in Quebec. He still saw America, but not yet as an equal. And as a colony, America could not initiate such… relations. He needed England to show him the way, to let him know unequivocally that it was okay. England would probably never do it, though, and America would remain tense and frustrated forever.
Acting frustrated never worked, so America sighed and leaned his head back against the top of his chair, and stretched out his under-everything-white-clad legs. “But it’s almost over. We’ve won. You punched him like you wanted, right?”
“That I did.” England crossed his arms and took a deep breath. Like America, he seemed to calm down a bit, or at least his face lost some of its red flush. He did look at America’s long legs spread out so, but like always, he was more concerned with winning. “Though he had better leave his arms.”
***
In the end France didn’t. Furthermore, he’d burned his flags so that England could not present them to his king. England and his head general, Amherst, had fumed and cursed and threatened, but eventually they’d just let France go. He was gone from Montreal - all of Canada - and that was the important thing.
And Canada was England’s, too, like America. While their people celebrated in the streets, England sequestered himself with Canada for ‘discussions.’
Thus America didn’t join the party, either; instead, he went to his assigned quarters and caught up on work. He wrote letters to the Ohio Company and to his assemblies and to his Indian allies - why were they called Indians, anyway? They were nowhere near India, at least America didn’t think so - and he did not think at all about how he’d imagined this day of victory to be completely different from how it was turning out.
America was sucking the matted end of a quill pen, thinking about how to pacify Cherokee, when England entered without knocking. “America.”
“Hullo, England,” America said, and set down his quill. He crossed his fingers on the table and looked up.
England stared at him for a moment, then shook his head. “This is a great day. You are being uncharacteristically subdued, America. Like Canada. He doesn’t seem to care who rules him. He’s not losing any rights, I suppose. Only gaining them.”
“I thought you liked that kind of behavior,” America said.
“Hrm. I suppose,” England murmured. He was silent for a few moments. He brushed at his jacket, and tapped his boot on the wooden cabin floor. “Well, I shall… I shall miss you, America. I must take my leave soon.”
America unclenched his fingers and grabbed the edge of the table to squeeze it, hard. “You’re leaving?”
England nodded and swiped his fingers along his red jacket some more. “The Prime Minister has ordered the navy and marines to the Indies now that hurricane season is nearing its end, so that we may take some key French islands there. Spain may join the war against me as well. More spoils for the British, eh?” He gave America a tight, thin grin.
“Oh. Okay,” America said, willing himself to release his visible grip on the table, and failing.
England stretched out his hands, palms open. “So unenthusiastic! Come, America.”
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America stood, slowly. England stepped around the table and clasped America’s shoulders. It was the most England had touched him in months and months and months, and America’s heart stopped, then started, with a painful jerk. England looked him directly in the eye and said in his hearty, ‘German King George’ voice, “Take care, America. Wish me luck.”
“Good luck,” America whispered. He kept his hands firmly at his sides, trying not to betray anything by the crazy twitching of his fingers.
“Well done,” England said, and kissed America on one cheek, and then the other. He had warm lips and-
There, it had appeared out of nowhere: England’s move, America’s moment. He grabbed England’s heavy, scratchy, wool- and silver-trim-lapels and shoved his own lips forward against England’s. England’s mouth didn’t move but America didn’t care; he kissed him as fervently, as passionately as he could, trying to make sure England could not possibly misunderstand him.
After a few heavy moments England shoved at America’s shoulders, forcing him away.
“Good God! What are you doing?” England gasped. He was frowning and his eyes were wide, his pupils flicking back and forth as if searching America’s face for an answer.
“What’s it look like?” America said, rolling his eyes. He didn’t let go of England’s jacket.
England’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened, and eventually settled somewhere in between. “That’s not how you do it,” he said, and leaned forward, pressing his lips softly against America’s. America stood stock-still as England’s fingers squeezed his shoulders the tiniest bit, and England tilted his head, moving his lips slowly and with little sighs. America ventured to open his mouth and he felt England slide his tongue between his lips. America gasped, then after a few moments he followed suit.
America could see the advantage in this, totally, yes, because it felt amazing: breathing England, being joined to him so actively and intimately, feeling England’s fingers curl around the back of his head to pull him closer. America slid his hands around England’s back to hold on, because he knew he was trembling like a little kid in the dark.
It was bliss, bliss and then England pulled his tongue out of America’s mouth and bowed his head, hitting America in the chin with his forehead.
“Pardon, America,” he said alongside a hoarse breath. “This is not right.”
“What's wrong?” America said, trying to find England’s mouth with his own lips again.
“Terribly wrong,” England was mumbling. “I can’t deny that… but no. Oh, damnation.”
“What?” America said again. He could feel England’s harsh breaths through his heavy coat, harsh like his own breathing.
England laid his fingers on America’s cheek. “You learn too quickly,” he said, and kissed America again, his hot breath and his tongue and America closed his eyes and settled in for more physical bliss. England did want him, the way he- America wanted to learn; he tilted his head like England did and glided his tongue inside England’s mouth gently, not harshly, because England wouldn’t let him. He sucked at England’s soft, wet lips like England did his, and showed how good it felt, how much he cared.
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After a while England became more forceful and America let him, because it felt even better. He stumbled back a step or two and felt his ass hit the edge of the table. So he leaned on it, and then there was the hard table on one side and England on the other and America, sandwiched between them, was made of one big, acute nerve dying for more touch, especially down there. America clenched his thighs around one of England’s legs, arching his hips back and forth, rubbing his ache-iest spots until the tightness in his crotch only grew worse. England was hard, too, like he was; America could feel it on his knee-
“Ouch! Slow down,” England said and pulled away again. America moaned, though he was held still by the look in England’s eyes, so green and close they could not possibly miss him. England’s voice was just as low and intent as his gaze. “Do you know what you are doing?”
“I think so, ha ha. Yeah.” America licked his lips. “Well, maybe not. Please?”
England took a deep breath, more steady than his last few had been. “For me to show you would be to take unconscionable advantage, you know.”
America panicked; he could feel England’s hold on him and around him loosening. “Someone has to! Maybe I’ll just take France up-”
“Fuck France,” England said in an angry voice, and then he was pulling at the buttons on America’s white shirt, and America didn’t waste time complimenting himself on his own cleverness, just shrugged off his red coat, not easy because he was partially sitting on it. England yanked America’s shirt open, then used it to pull him forward off the table.
“Turn around, America,” he said in a low voice, a voice that was not to be disobeyed. America did as he was asked. It was okay because England pressed up along the backside of him and wrapped his arms around him and touched him where his shirt was open, warm hands stroking down his breastbone and touching the sensitive skin of his armpits and along his sides.
“Good Lord,” England whispered against the back of his neck. His voice was hot enough to send chills trembling down America’s spine. Something soft and wet drew along his nape and he realized that England was licking him. His belly was molten and he lost such control of his knees that England had to hold him up. When America was steady again, he saw England’s fingers at the top of his trousers, loosening the knotted strands and buttons that fastened them.
“God, please,” America sighed, not caring what the Puritans would think, only that England’s hand had slid into his drawers and around his cock, squeezing, squeezing the life out of him. “Oh! Oh.”
“Shh,” England murmured into America’s hair. “Do you understand what this entails? What you want?”
“S- sort of. I don’t care. I love you,” America said all at once.
“Oh.” England’s body twitched all over against America’s back. “My dear America.”
After a couple more heavenly physical strokes, England released America’s cock and, indeed, released all of him, stepping back. America moaned, ashamed but aroused so that all he could think was, warm skin on mine, forever and ever. He heard the rustling of clothing that was not his, and England muttering, damn and blast, where is the- oh, there. This should do.
“What? Ha ha,” America said, even though he was hot and cold and half-naked and leaning against the table, because it sounded so… England.
“Calves’ foot jelly. You will thank me.”
“Calves’- what, does your throat hurt, or something?”
“Always. It’s demned dry here,” England said. “Hold still.”
“Okay.” England’s hands were on him again, on his hips, sliding his breeches down and then sliding something wet and cool into the crack of his ass. America had never realized how sensitive that spot was until England touched it.
“Oh, oh,” America said. His heart pounded and he wasn’t sure if he was afraid, or excited, or both.
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England chuckled against the back of America’s head, and America felt something - England’s fingers? - nudging inside him. It was weird and yet so intimate; good thing it was England, and not anybody else.
“Lean forward and hold onto the table,” England told him.
“Yes, sir,” America said, trying to sound jaunty, but ashamed at the shakiness in his voice. It was all right, though, because England’s warm skin was pressed against him, soft and yet hard, because England’s cock was hard like his. America felt it when England’s fingers spread his buttocks and pushed his cock inside him.
“Ah-” America said, almost coughing. “That’s- man.”
“Relax. Shh,” England whispered. His fingers trailed up and down America’s hips, distracting him with their fine attention. England pushed into America and pulled his hips back at the same time until America was full, like he had to go, but it wasn’t really unpleasant. It just made him catch his breath until his head spun like he had air bubbles in his brain-box.
Then England moved inside him, rocking back and forth, whispering dear America, dear boy between harsh breaths. It hurt a little, burned like nothing he’d ever felt. America watched his own sweat drip to darken the wood of the table in little specks. It hurt but he loved the feeling of England pressed against him and in him and his hands, one guiding America’s hips and the other stroking his belly, the liquid knot of ache inside him. After a while England’s driving thrusts touched, pounded the ache, and America knew-
“This is what I- Oh, oh,” America said.
At the same time England whispered back, “No one’s ever-”
And America knew then that they were both stupid. So much alike - but oh, dear, he was much stupider, because England was stroking his cock, now hard again, and America’s human body couldn’t stand all the breathing, the closeness and sensation, everything. It jerked him all at once over the edge before he could stop it. He made a stupid noise and spilled his seed, all over England’s hand and the table.
“S’allright. Hold on,” England told him.
America’s body went limp but England only held him more tightly, rocked against and inside him for a while longer before coming to a jerky, huffing halt.
America felt England flop forward onto him, and he sort of slid down to hug the table. He was sore and breathless, but happy. Surely this hadn’t happened and England was leaving- But England was there, more physical and real than America had ever felt him. England was, in fact, muttering against America’s sweaty shirt.
“Oh, lord. I make a terrible b- big br- empire. How are you, America? How was it?” England’s voice trailed up at the end, making him sound more unsure than America had ever heard him sound before.
“Oh, good,” America breathed. He relaxed and thought for a few more seconds, drooling into the table. “Good. Except-”
“Except?” England’s voice had regained its suspicious edge. “Except what?”
“Except, I couldn’t see what you were doing.”
England pushed himself off America, then grabbed America’s neck-stock and hoisted him upwards. America stood and turned. Instead of looking England in the eye, he looked down between them; he was all sticky and gooey and limp, and so was England. America stared down at England’s cock, his blond hair, spellbound.
England put a finger under America’s chin to clap his jaw shut and bring his gaze back up to England-eye-level. It wasn’t a bad view, either; England was all pink and shiny and his hair- even his hair was all messed up. He raised an eyebrow at America’s stare. “You want to see what I’m doing.”
“Yeah. How else am I supposed to-?” America whispered, unable to even bring up teaching or France again. Not after that. He braced his hands back against the table.
“You are much too clever, America,” England sighed, rolling his eyes. He didn’t look angry, though, just sort of flushed and exasperated. “Very well.” He reached up and began to slide America’s wet, sticky shirt off his shoulders, wearing a half-grin as he did it.
“Huzzah,” America cheered, but quietly.
TBC
I angsted over trying to make this a more "equal" sexual relationship, and hope it worked. THANK YOU AGAIN!
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