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
Re: Reverse Meltdown [15b/?]
anonymous
November 11 2010, 04:14:58 UTC
Pfft England, you should've seen all the British boyband CDs I used to own...
I'm glad these two are finally (almost) able to confess their true feelings... I love the fluff! And what America says is so true. I love how you put it.
Reverse Meltdown [16a/?]
anonymous
November 16 2010, 06:16:26 UTC
He watches America talk on the phone in a passive manner.
“Yeah. He’s fine. He has to go back in a week or so. Meeting? Oh. Okay. See ya.”
He hangs up with a sigh and England quickly shifts his eyes back to the book he intends to read, pretending he hadn’t eavesdropped on America. “England?”
“Y-yes? What is it?”
“You’re getting better, right?” America wraps his arms around him from behind the couch.
“More or less,”
Recently, England has been recovering quite nicely; his fever is completely gone and his childish abilities have almost completely faded. It’s all thanks to that one person after all.
“Than can you grant me one wish?”
“And that is?”
America puts his face near England’s ear and warmly breathes, “Will you go out with me?”
England takes all his strength to not shiver and nods. America embraces him in an affectionate bear hug. “Thank you,” he whispers.
He might be going crazy.
-~-
“Yes!” America cheers jubilantly.
Even though he knew England wouldn’t refuse, it doesn’t change the fact f how successful he feels. And today… today is their first date. Although, it just has to be in the dead middle of winter, it’s better than nothing later.
There is one thing he’s forgotten however.
He puts on clothes that look a bit better than the normal, like wearing slacks instead of jeans, and doesn’t forget to wrap his Christmas present around his neck. After all, it is made by his one and only.
He runs down the stairs to find England standing at the door waiting for him. He wears his regular, stuffy, old man clothes, but it doesn’t really matter to him. The sweater vest does look a bit cute on him.
He smiles and grabs two coats off the rack: his jacket and a coat for England. He drapes it over England’s shoulders. “It’ll be cold,”
“Obviously,”
England glares at him, but his eyes reflect a tenderness that is unseen by the common person-or country for that matter. He seems to glance and the scarf and blushes, but America can’t be sure. He wears the coat to find that it is a bit too large for him. How cute! America wants to shout, but knows he’ll get throttled for that.
“Shall we go?”
He holds England’s hand and goes out the door.
In the car, England suddenly asks, “You don’t even know where we’re going, huh?”
“No,” America bluntly answers. He decides to go to the movies first.
On the streets, it’s unusually empty on the streets, but horribly crowded on the sidewalks and in bars. He wonders what the special occasion is as he makes sure to check the calendar (though he forgets right after England yells at him to stop at the red light). As soon as he gets to the awaited destinations he finds it mysteriously empty. He spots a piece of paper on the doors saying, “Sorry, closed for today.”
He really needs to see that calendar soon.
“America?”
“Let’s go to the park?”
“Sure,” England groans and he only chuckles. They can waste some time before dinner.
Upon arriving, he immediately ogles the pile of snow in front. “Let’s make a snowman!” he proclaims and runs, dragging England with him.
“Hey, watch it!” he snarls, but then laughs with him.
They then get started on making the snowman. Luckily, England brought the both of them gloves, so their fingers and palms wouldn’t be a red mess. After about an hour of morphing snow, America adds on extra details to the face (like two fuzzy black things he finds on the ground), eventually looking satisfied. “England!”
England peeks up from his creation (a snowunicorn for some odd reason), sees America’s snowman, and sputters. “What? How dare you-Alfred this will be… agh!”
Postponing their sculpting, England creates a snowball and throws it at America. America dutifully counters by throwing another back, forming a snowball fight. This continues until they are both freezing even in their sweaters. America checks his watch to see it’s almost nine p.m., so they finally go to the restaurant.
“I reserved a spot,” he reassured.
“And do you think they’ll keep that spot for two snow buried too-old-to-be-snowball-fighting grown men?”
Reverse Meltdown [16b/?]
anonymous
November 16 2010, 06:21:03 UTC
“I really don’t get you at all,”
Once at the parking lot, he courts England into the restaurant (he decided Italian in order to please both of them somewhat), only to be embarrassed by a drunken stranger telling them to hurry with their sappy scene. England chuckles though, so he guesses it’s all right.
Inside, they both sigh to the pleasuring warmth that envelops the both of them. “May I help you two?”
America pipes up as he explains to the waiter about his reservation and all. Soon after, they are led to a table outside for two. It isn’t as cold as they thought it would be because of the lamp heater overhead. Yet he wonders why the restaurant is incredibly full at this time.
He pulls a chair out for England and of course gets a cute little reply. He sits down the best he can, but is still a bit clumsy and rough, getting a slight scold. Ordering is no problem really; they talk over the menu, but not much. It doesn’t matter what they eat today, just who they eat with. Isn’t that what a date is about? At least between two true lovers it should be.
They talk about random topics that they haven’t come across in the previous days. Complaining about the government and politics is one thing on the list and getting what kind of tattoo is best is another. He finds this date is nothing really special, but more like an excuse to be with him, even if he had seen him 24/7 for the past few days.
Still, he wants this to be special somehow because it’s their first date together. Yes, that makes him a cheesy romantic, but guess what, he likes cheese (especially on hamburgers).
He’s not quite sure.
While eating the pasta (which isn’t quite bad, but of course, since he picked the restaurant), he ponders on how to make the day special. He then notices that England is eyeing him as if he is doing something weird.
He swallows. “What?”
“Nothing!”
England looks down quickly and concentrates on eating. It’s kind of funny because some time ago England couldn’t even pick up a fork and now he’s elegantly eating like his normal fake-gentlemanly, stuffy self. No, actually his presence had still been like that even at the most awkward moments. He stifled a giggle, receiving an eyebrow raise from England.
The two are silent for the whole dinner. By the time it ends, the whole place is empty except for them and some workers. It seems like they don’t care or forgot about them, but the waiter still takes away their dishes and serves them dessert, which consists of some type of cake they both can’t recognize.
“Today,” England breaks the silence, “today wasn’t all that special,”
America felt a twinge of regret. “Yet,” he continues, “it’s because it’s you that made it more extraordinary that it normally should be.”
“Aw, isn’t that sweet of you!”
“Shut up!”
“You could’ve just simply said, ‘it was great,’ but oh well,”
America entwines their fingers across the table.
“You’re not so honest either,”
“Than what if I become honest?”
They slowly move closer, standing up, so their faces can reach beyond the obstruction.
“And what if you do?”
“Then I’ll tell you one thing,”
“Which is?”
“England, Arthur Kirkland, I love you,”
As soon as those words had been lifted off his tongue, they immediately kiss each other chastely, deliberate-
As if.
Suddenly, bursts of sound uproars and they immediately break apart. They avert their vision from one another to see it is fireworks.
Re: Reverse Meltdown [16b/?]
anonymous
November 16 2010, 06:22:36 UTC
“What day is it?” England reads America’s thoughts.
“Er. I’m not sure,”
“I see a calendar right there,”
“It’s the first of January then, if this is really midnight,”
“Bollocks.”
“No, it’s not. It’s very true right now and that means we spent our first date on New Year’s Eve I guess and with no alcohol for you,”
“Well, at least I have something better than booze with me,”
England stares at America with his amazing green eyes that can be clear even on the darkest of nights. They both smirk.
“What is that?”
“Just kiss me already,”
And he does… long and slow with the table pushed to the far ends of the Earth.
He doesn’t need to make the day special after all because it already is.
I still need to do homework. What a bad anon I am. This seems to be ending pretty soon. I hate character limit and there might be sex in the next part. :D
Reverse Meltdown [17a/?]
anonymous
November 21 2010, 01:15:38 UTC
“Let’s have sex,” England announces.
America turns his head away from the television to stare at him if he had asked him to die. It’s not like this is a very special moment. Hell, there’s a jingle about sour cream playing in the background. However, his timing isn’t completely random, since he had been thinking about it all day and hadn’t enough courage until now to confess.
He has made a list of the different things he should say to start it, but decides to be straight out blunt. It doesn’t make much of a difference as long as he gets what he wants.
It blames it on America because he’s been a seductive little bastard ever since the morning after their lovely date. Every little manner-even the way he walks-has attracted him today. Though he tries to shake the thoughts off, it won’t go away. It’s now or never.
“You’re kidding,” America laughs off.
“I’m serious,” England scowls and leans in to kiss America to show it.
America keeps his lips shut and tightened, though England tries to pry it open with his tongue. He gets shoved back. “Are you sure?” America blushes. “I mean, you… you’re not completely better yet,”
“I am,” England lies. He knows he still has some disabilities, but it shouldn’t prevent him from doing this at least. “It’s not like either of us are virgins either,”
“True, true,” America pecks England’s lips, a bit hesitant to continue. England takes charge and smashes their lips together. He takes advantage of America’s open mouth, mumbles a small “sorry,” and flicks his tongue in. America cups a hand at the back of his head, pulling him slightly downward. He responds by grabbing onto America’s hoodie and sleeves. He glides his tongue against America’s teeth and moans due to the friction of not only their tongues, but also the movement of their clothes.
England breaks apart when America’s glasses hit his forehead. He’s forgotten about those.
He then finally notices how America is under him, melting against his touch. It makes him delighted to know what pleasure he brings to America. “Upstairs?” America asks as he sits up, still holding onto England.
England nods and hooks his legs around America’s back. He knows it’s dangerous to kiss and walk upstairs the same time, but he can’t help just staying close to the body warmth against him. Along the way, he picks up a white plastic bag, containing the condiments to perfection.
The trip to the bedroom takes an eternity, so when they finally reach the door, England can’t resist but to lock their lips once more. America is still a bit resistant to his disappointment, and when they reach the bed he pulls him on top, hoping it’ll give some kind of lead.
America doesn’t seem quite so needy yet, and England frowns. He moves the hand resting on America’s hair down to the nape of his neck and then cheek. He feels goose bumps forming on America’s skin along the way. America seems to notice England’s worry, since he immediately kisses back.
There is something wrong.
He thinks this should be the best thing he’s done in years, but… he just can’t. The feeling isn’t there. He hurls America off and yells, “This is not what I want!”
America looks stunned. “Do you really love me because this seems like a lie,” England continues with tears forming at the corner of his eyes.
America looks away and gets up, leaving the room.
England is bewildered as he looks up at the ceiling and hears the door close with a click. He tugs on his shirt as if it’ll stop the ache in his heart, but knows nothing will help.
He’s such a mess.
-~-
America paces around back and forth in his backyard, hoping the cold will cool his face off.
“I’m the stupidest man on Earth,” he mutters.
He had just rejected his lover in doing that. No real man does that, does he?
It’s not like he doesn’t want it, but he’s too scared for England. He remembers the vulnerability the man had and believes he is still in that infant-like state. A few kisses are fine, but will he really be able to handle it?
America tells himself not to be a coward and England has proved himself to be fine already. All he needs to do is accept it.
He comes back inside his room to see England packing up. “England?”
“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.
Reply
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?!
Reply
*Is waiting for the next chapter impatiently.*
Author!non, you are not sick, right? D:
Reply
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.
Reply
Hope you get better soon :D
....so that you can continue writing this *shot*
Reply
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.
-~-
Reply
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
Reply
*Cough* Now is the true review... This is awesome. :3 And you should work your homework first! xD
Reply
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.
Reply
I'm glad these two are finally (almost) able to confess their true feelings... I love the fluff! And what America says is so true. I love how you put it.
Reply
“Yeah. He’s fine. He has to go back in a week or so. Meeting? Oh. Okay. See ya.”
He hangs up with a sigh and England quickly shifts his eyes back to the book he intends to read, pretending he hadn’t eavesdropped on America. “England?”
“Y-yes? What is it?”
“You’re getting better, right?” America wraps his arms around him from behind the couch.
“More or less,”
Recently, England has been recovering quite nicely; his fever is completely gone and his childish abilities have almost completely faded. It’s all thanks to that one person after all.
“Than can you grant me one wish?”
“And that is?”
America puts his face near England’s ear and warmly breathes, “Will you go out with me?”
England takes all his strength to not shiver and nods. America embraces him in an affectionate bear hug. “Thank you,” he whispers.
He might be going crazy.
-~-
“Yes!” America cheers jubilantly.
Even though he knew England wouldn’t refuse, it doesn’t change the fact f how successful he feels. And today… today is their first date. Although, it just has to be in the dead middle of winter, it’s better than nothing later.
There is one thing he’s forgotten however.
He puts on clothes that look a bit better than the normal, like wearing slacks instead of jeans, and doesn’t forget to wrap his Christmas present around his neck. After all, it is made by his one and only.
He runs down the stairs to find England standing at the door waiting for him. He wears his regular, stuffy, old man clothes, but it doesn’t really matter to him. The sweater vest does look a bit cute on him.
He smiles and grabs two coats off the rack: his jacket and a coat for England. He drapes it over England’s shoulders. “It’ll be cold,”
“Obviously,”
England glares at him, but his eyes reflect a tenderness that is unseen by the common person-or country for that matter. He seems to glance and the scarf and blushes, but America can’t be sure.
He wears the coat to find that it is a bit too large for him. How cute! America wants to shout, but knows he’ll get throttled for that.
“Shall we go?”
He holds England’s hand and goes out the door.
In the car, England suddenly asks, “You don’t even know where we’re going, huh?”
“No,” America bluntly answers. He decides to go to the movies first.
On the streets, it’s unusually empty on the streets, but horribly crowded on the sidewalks and in bars. He wonders what the special occasion is as he makes sure to check the calendar (though he forgets right after England yells at him to stop at the red light). As soon as he gets to the awaited destinations he finds it mysteriously empty. He spots a piece of paper on the doors saying, “Sorry, closed for today.”
He really needs to see that calendar soon.
“America?”
“Let’s go to the park?”
“Sure,” England groans and he only chuckles. They can waste some time before dinner.
Upon arriving, he immediately ogles the pile of snow in front. “Let’s make a snowman!” he proclaims and runs, dragging England with him.
“Hey, watch it!” he snarls, but then laughs with him.
They then get started on making the snowman. Luckily, England brought the both of them gloves, so their fingers and palms wouldn’t be a red mess. After about an hour of morphing snow, America adds on extra details to the face (like two fuzzy black things he finds on the ground), eventually looking satisfied. “England!”
England peeks up from his creation (a snowunicorn for some odd reason), sees America’s snowman, and sputters. “What? How dare you-Alfred this will be… agh!”
Postponing their sculpting, England creates a snowball and throws it at America. America dutifully counters by throwing another back, forming a snowball fight. This continues until they are both freezing even in their sweaters. America checks his watch to see it’s almost nine p.m., so they finally go to the restaurant.
“I reserved a spot,” he reassured.
“And do you think they’ll keep that spot for two snow buried too-old-to-be-snowball-fighting grown men?”
“Sure, why not?”
Reply
Once at the parking lot, he courts England into the restaurant (he decided Italian in order to please both of them somewhat), only to be embarrassed by a drunken stranger telling them to hurry with their sappy scene. England chuckles though, so he guesses it’s all right.
Inside, they both sigh to the pleasuring warmth that envelops the both of them. “May I help you two?”
America pipes up as he explains to the waiter about his reservation and all. Soon after, they are led to a table outside for two. It isn’t as cold as they thought it would be because of the lamp heater overhead. Yet he wonders why the restaurant is incredibly full at this time.
He pulls a chair out for England and of course gets a cute little reply. He sits down the best he can, but is still a bit clumsy and rough, getting a slight scold. Ordering is no problem really; they talk over the menu, but not much. It doesn’t matter what they eat today, just who they eat with. Isn’t that what a date is about? At least between two true lovers it should be.
They talk about random topics that they haven’t come across in the previous days. Complaining about the government and politics is one thing on the list and getting what kind of tattoo is best is another. He finds this date is nothing really special, but more like an excuse to be with him, even if he had seen him 24/7 for the past few days.
Still, he wants this to be special somehow because it’s their first date together. Yes, that makes him a cheesy romantic, but guess what, he likes cheese (especially on hamburgers).
He’s not quite sure.
While eating the pasta (which isn’t quite bad, but of course, since he picked the restaurant), he ponders on how to make the day special. He then notices that England is eyeing him as if he is doing something weird.
He swallows. “What?”
“Nothing!”
England looks down quickly and concentrates on eating. It’s kind of funny because some time ago England couldn’t even pick up a fork and now he’s elegantly eating like his normal fake-gentlemanly, stuffy self. No, actually his presence had still been like that even at the most awkward moments. He stifled a giggle, receiving an eyebrow raise from England.
The two are silent for the whole dinner. By the time it ends, the whole place is empty except for them and some workers. It seems like they don’t care or forgot about them, but the waiter still takes away their dishes and serves them dessert, which consists of some type of cake they both can’t recognize.
“Today,” England breaks the silence, “today wasn’t all that special,”
America felt a twinge of regret. “Yet,” he continues, “it’s because it’s you that made it more extraordinary that it normally should be.”
“Aw, isn’t that sweet of you!”
“Shut up!”
“You could’ve just simply said, ‘it was great,’ but oh well,”
America entwines their fingers across the table.
“You’re not so honest either,”
“Than what if I become honest?”
They slowly move closer, standing up, so their faces can reach beyond the obstruction.
“And what if you do?”
“Then I’ll tell you one thing,”
“Which is?”
“England, Arthur Kirkland, I love you,”
As soon as those words had been lifted off his tongue, they immediately kiss each other chastely, deliberate-
As if.
Suddenly, bursts of sound uproars and they immediately break apart. They avert their vision from one another to see it is fireworks.
Reply
“What day is it?” England reads America’s thoughts.
“Er. I’m not sure,”
“I see a calendar right there,”
“It’s the first of January then, if this is really midnight,”
“Bollocks.”
“No, it’s not. It’s very true right now and that means we spent our first date on New Year’s Eve I guess and with no alcohol for you,”
“Well, at least I have something better than booze with me,”
England stares at America with his amazing green eyes that can be clear even on the darkest of nights. They both smirk.
“What is that?”
“Just kiss me already,”
And he does… long and slow with the table pushed to the far ends of the Earth.
He doesn’t need to make the day special after all because it already is.
I still need to do homework. What a bad anon I am. This seems to be ending pretty soon. I hate character limit and there might be sex in the next part. :D
Reply
Reply
x3 You are awesome for this chapter~ Keep up the good work~ :3
Reply
America turns his head away from the television to stare at him if he had asked him to die. It’s not like this is a very special moment. Hell, there’s a jingle about sour cream playing in the background. However, his timing isn’t completely random, since he had been thinking about it all day and hadn’t enough courage until now to confess.
He has made a list of the different things he should say to start it, but decides to be straight out blunt. It doesn’t make much of a difference as long as he gets what he wants.
It blames it on America because he’s been a seductive little bastard ever since the morning after their lovely date. Every little manner-even the way he walks-has attracted him today. Though he tries to shake the thoughts off, it won’t go away. It’s now or never.
“You’re kidding,” America laughs off.
“I’m serious,” England scowls and leans in to kiss America to show it.
America keeps his lips shut and tightened, though England tries to pry it open with his tongue. He gets shoved back. “Are you sure?” America blushes. “I mean, you… you’re not completely better yet,”
“I am,” England lies. He knows he still has some disabilities, but it shouldn’t prevent him from doing this at least. “It’s not like either of us are virgins either,”
“True, true,” America pecks England’s lips, a bit hesitant to continue. England takes charge and smashes their lips together. He takes advantage of America’s open mouth, mumbles a small “sorry,” and flicks his tongue in. America cups a hand at the back of his head, pulling him slightly downward. He responds by grabbing onto America’s hoodie and sleeves. He glides his tongue against America’s teeth and moans due to the friction of not only their tongues, but also the movement of their clothes.
England breaks apart when America’s glasses hit his forehead. He’s forgotten about those.
He then finally notices how America is under him, melting against his touch. It makes him delighted to know what pleasure he brings to America. “Upstairs?” America asks as he sits up, still holding onto England.
England nods and hooks his legs around America’s back. He knows it’s dangerous to kiss and walk upstairs the same time, but he can’t help just staying close to the body warmth against him. Along the way, he picks up a white plastic bag, containing the condiments to perfection.
The trip to the bedroom takes an eternity, so when they finally reach the door, England can’t resist but to lock their lips once more. America is still a bit resistant to his disappointment, and when they reach the bed he pulls him on top, hoping it’ll give some kind of lead.
America doesn’t seem quite so needy yet, and England frowns. He moves the hand resting on America’s hair down to the nape of his neck and then cheek. He feels goose bumps forming on America’s skin along the way. America seems to notice England’s worry, since he immediately kisses back.
There is something wrong.
He thinks this should be the best thing he’s done in years, but… he just can’t. The feeling isn’t there. He hurls America off and yells, “This is not what I want!”
America looks stunned. “Do you really love me because this seems like a lie,” England continues with tears forming at the corner of his eyes.
America looks away and gets up, leaving the room.
England is bewildered as he looks up at the ceiling and hears the door close with a click. He tugs on his shirt as if it’ll stop the ache in his heart, but knows nothing will help.
He’s such a mess.
-~-
America paces around back and forth in his backyard, hoping the cold will cool his face off.
“I’m the stupidest man on Earth,” he mutters.
He had just rejected his lover in doing that. No real man does that, does he?
It’s not like he doesn’t want it, but he’s too scared for England. He remembers the vulnerability the man had and believes he is still in that infant-like state. A few kisses are fine, but will he really be able to handle it?
America tells himself not to be a coward and England has proved himself to be fine already. All he needs to do is accept it.
He comes back inside his room to see England packing up. “England?”
Reply
Leave a comment