You Take Me In (19/?)
anonymous
November 24 2010, 05:47:36 UTC
America paused, but slowly repeated. “My people.”
An uncomfortable silence passed between them. America, at long last, lifted his head up to stare back at England, expression intransigent, but betrayed by that small flicker of... England pondered that look for a moment. It wasn't confusion, exactly. Certainly not doubt...
Certain... It hit England then, a small knowing smile stretching lazily across his face. Uncertainty.
“You don't sound so sure of yourself, America.”
From the way America bit his lip and narrowed his eyes, England knew he hit the nail on the head.
“How can I not be?” challenged the colony, tossing his hair with his head and standing tall, a poor attempt to tower over a nation that was on top of the world. “I know their hearts. I know their hopes, their fears, their desires...” He licked his lips, and England watching them go from dry to moist with a hungry longing to mick the motion. “I can understand them better than you ever could, England.”
“Do you really believe that?” England pressed, taking a step forward and delighting in the way America forced himself to stand firm. “Can you truly call them yours.... regard them as apart from me when we both know that you are merely an extension of myself?”
The tension was heightened to suffocating extremes in the wake of those words, and England could see clearly how it smothered America... made him stumble back, and grit his teeth, but his eyes, those beautiful, round blue eyes were swimming in turmoil.
“I am not you,” America whispered, but his voice rose sharply, as if to make the words clearer. (Clearer to who, was the interesting part.) “I am me! I am my own person! I struggle with my own issues, my own feelings, and those aren't things you could ever understand! Can't you acknowledge that? Can't you acknowledge me?”
The plea hung in the air like echo of a lost traveler in the mountains never crossed... England answered the call with a soft laugh.
“Acknowledge what exactly?”
Something behind those eyes cracked. The last bit of defiance, if England could hazard a guess. America visible shrunk away, this time his back hit the wall hard, knocking a frame over-
That happened the last time they were in this room together only that was England... England after America punched him him the jaw.
England stepped toward him with firm, deliberate strides, didn't stop until he was chest to chest with America, gripping his chin so that the boy would look down while England stared him down.
“When will you acknowledge the facts America?” England wondered, his free hand tracing a strand of golden hair and brushing it out of those distressed, stricken eyes. “What will it take to remind you who you are?”
“I know who I... am,” America trembled, as the hand slid down his face, toughed his neck, tracked it to his shoulder and slowly brushing underneath the fabric of his cotton shirt.
“Who are you?” England asked, prompted, as his fingers danced over warm skin, tanned from the sun and firm from manual labor. If England closed his eyes, the body before him became unmarred from chronic war or strife... the body of a colony untouched by the burdens of nationhood.
America's breath was shallow, harsh, loud against England's ears, but at the same time soft. It was exilerating, and sick, and God he couldn't wait any longer for-
“I...”
If he kept watching England with those eyes, they'd both drown-
An uncomfortable silence passed between them. America, at long last, lifted his head up to stare back at England, expression intransigent, but betrayed by that small flicker of... England pondered that look for a moment. It wasn't confusion, exactly. Certainly not doubt...
Certain... It hit England then, a small knowing smile stretching lazily across his face. Uncertainty.
“You don't sound so sure of yourself, America.”
From the way America bit his lip and narrowed his eyes, England knew he hit the nail on the head.
“How can I not be?” challenged the colony, tossing his hair with his head and standing tall, a poor attempt to tower over a nation that was on top of the world. “I know their hearts. I know their hopes, their fears, their desires...” He licked his lips, and England watching them go from dry to moist with a hungry longing to mick the motion. “I can understand them better than you ever could, England.”
“Do you really believe that?” England pressed, taking a step forward and delighting in the way America forced himself to stand firm. “Can you truly call them yours.... regard them as apart from me when we both know that you are merely an extension of myself?”
The tension was heightened to suffocating extremes in the wake of those words, and England could see clearly how it smothered America... made him stumble back, and grit his teeth, but his eyes, those beautiful, round blue eyes were swimming in turmoil.
“I am not you,” America whispered, but his voice rose sharply, as if to make the words clearer. (Clearer to who, was the interesting part.) “I am me! I am my own person! I struggle with my own issues, my own feelings, and those aren't things you could ever understand! Can't you acknowledge that? Can't you acknowledge me?”
The plea hung in the air like echo of a lost traveler in the mountains never crossed... England answered the call with a soft laugh.
“Acknowledge what exactly?”
Something behind those eyes cracked. The last bit of defiance, if England could hazard a guess. America visible shrunk away, this time his back hit the wall hard, knocking a frame over-
That happened the last time they were in this room together only that was England... England after America punched him him the jaw.
England stepped toward him with firm, deliberate strides, didn't stop until he was chest to chest with America, gripping his chin so that the boy would look down while England stared him down.
“When will you acknowledge the facts America?” England wondered, his free hand tracing a strand of golden hair and brushing it out of those distressed, stricken eyes. “What will it take to remind you who you are?”
“I know who I... am,” America trembled, as the hand slid down his face, toughed his neck, tracked it to his shoulder and slowly brushing underneath the fabric of his cotton shirt.
“Who are you?” England asked, prompted, as his fingers danced over warm skin, tanned from the sun and firm from manual labor. If England closed his eyes, the body before him became unmarred from chronic war or strife... the body of a colony untouched by the burdens of nationhood.
America's breath was shallow, harsh, loud against England's ears, but at the same time soft. It was exilerating, and sick, and God he couldn't wait any longer for-
“I...”
If he kept watching England with those eyes, they'd both drown-
“I am-”
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I love the atmosphere and mood you set throughout the whole chapter.
Can't wait to read more <3
And *hugs* hope everything goes better soon ^^
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