“England, your breath is horrible. How much did you actually drink?” Was all America asked, pulling England along down an empty, small little hallway.
“No more’n ‘nyone else,” he said, amongst the noise of the extremely crowded pub. “Why’vn’-why’vn’t you’d ‘nyffink t’drink? Yeh’ve all…. All th’reason t’be!”
“I have no idea what you’re saying.”
“’Merica…! You were the hero! Jus’ like y’always wan’ed t’be! Y’happy, now? Y’saved all’ov’Urope!”
America watched on as England sang America’s praises-praises America knew were influenced by the alcohol; just few more sips and he’d be crying and his true feelings would come out. People all around them were partying, celebrating the end of the war-their end, anyway. America still had a few things to settle with Japan and had only stopped in to bid England farewell for now as he had a plane to catch. England’s cheeks were a rosy pink, behind the black and blue injuries and gauze, his eyes glassed over, and a smile plastered itself on his face. America gave a quick glance around the corner to make sure everyone was preoccupied and that no one would be down the hall in the next minute or so.
“Here’s hoping you’re still in the ‘won’t remember’ stage…. If you’re not….” He paused, carefully placing a gloved hand on one of England’s bruised and bandaged cheeks, watching as his eyes grew wider-those beautiful green eyes. America grinned, pressing a light, simple kiss to England’s lips as the clock hit eleven. The dry taste of the alcohol was still on his lips and a hint of tobacco but America paid it no mind, intent on enjoying his sole kiss with England.
Finally he pulled away, finding it much more difficult to end something so intimate with someone he’d just spent months in foxholes with, and several lifetimes getting on, fighting, ignoring, and getting on again. He drew a deep, shuddering breath. “If you’re not,” he repeated. “Don’t hate me.
“Congratulations, England,” he said. “You won the war. You’ll know when I’m home.”
America gave a swift pat on England’s shoulder, refusing to look into his eyes as he turned, straightened his jacket, and left the pub.
England, meanwhile, watched with confused eyes as America left. Not even a, “Goodbye?” He walked slowly, returning to the crowd once his eyes lost America. He nonchalantly approached the counter, calling for another beer.
Forget that, he chastised himself. Forget it. It’s never happening again.
--
Sixty-five years later; December 09, 2010
“Her name’s Anne,” he’d said, tossing over his wallet as he walked into the bathroom to fix his hair. England stood in the hall, trying to affix a new Glade Plug-In. Unfortunately, he could not catch the wallet because of this-not that the plug-in was really cooperating. The wallet hit him lightly in the head, falling open before him as he tossed the blasted home refresher tool down the hall. “She’s the really hot one in the front.”
England could see it. Her. This ‘Anne’ woman. “She looks just like her, too,” he commented.
“Huh? What?”
“Your friend, Anne.” He tried to mask the venom he felt running throughout him. This would be the sixth time America was using England’s home to see this woman. This ‘English’ woman, America was sure to emphasize several times. A week. The first time America asked to come over to get ready at England’s house, sure. The second time, okay. The third time, well, all right. The fourth time, not so sure … fine, ‘Don’t give me that look.’ The fifth time, ‘Why not rent a flat while you’re here?’ And now, the sixth time. He’d been plead with and America begged, then gave him those eyes and England just couldn’t resist those eyes. But this was, ‘The last time, America, I swear.’
[PART 14] Love is Somewhere Between Sleep and Conciousness (2/??)
anonymous
December 7 2010, 03:39:50 UTC
“Who does she look like, y’think?” America asked, walking out. His hair didn’t look much different aside from the fact it was neatly combed and when he crouched down England smelled cologne on him. Such a nice fragrance and if there was anything America ever did just right relating to how suave and neat he could be, it was fragrance. Never too strong, never too weak, just the right scent-England thanked God daily that America had never tried out that eau d’hamburger, or whatever it was called. If England didn’t know better, America was so close like this on purpose to annoy him and make him jealous.
Well. He, Arthur Kirkland, the mighty British Empire, would never admit that such tactics would ever affect him in such a manner.
Out loud, anyway.
“Anne Boleyn.”
“Who?”
“Henry VIII’s whore of a wife. His second, actually. My poorest Catherine. God rest her soul.”
“Okay, you had too many names and numbers in there. Ya lost me. All I got was that Anne’s a whore-which she’s not, thank you very much,” America corrected, snatching his wallet.
England got a whiff of the cologne again as America stood swiftly, almost trying to lean into the smell. Damn it, America! he silently cursed, feeling anger and jealousy grow. America was wrong. This was far more than enough to qualify this new Anne as a whore. Yes, yes, it was wrong and unfair and she was one of his own people but … but-but-well.
“So, how do I look?” America asked.
England looked up, watching as America smiled, turning here and there, showing off his suit. England sighed. Perfectly charming and oh, so dashing, he thought. Just his tie was a little crooked.
“Like a perfect gentleman. America-”
“Hey, I think that’s the first time you’ve actually said that!”
“That’s all well and jolly good but America, I’m worried for you.”
“What for?”
“Well…. America…. We are nations. This Anne is a human.” England stood straight, stepping forward to fix America’s tie.
“Yeah? So … what’s your point…?”
The mint on America’s breath was sharp and refreshing, mixing well with his cologne.
“You cannot love her-well, you might and may but you cannot grow old with her or have a proper life with her. She will grow old without you as you stay young and she will die. What will happen then? I mean, we certainly feel that pain when a beloved monarch dies-”
“I don’t have a mona-”
“Belt it. A president, then. Or a beloved member of your country; but imagine giving this human, Anne, all of that love.”
America was silent for a moment as England pulled a few twists and turns on America’s tie, straightening it out and placing it correctly at his collar. “The pain would be unimaginable, America.” England made no motion to step away, lost in his own world. His hands still laid on America’s necktie, his knuckles just feeling the warmth of America’s chest through the dress shirt.
America just laughed and England stepped back, finally coming back to himself.
“It’s not like we’re getting married. We’re just fucking.”
England knew this but hearing it didn’t mean it made him feel better. “I figured that out for myself, thanks-but it’s not as though you have any redeeming qualities worth marrying you over.”
“I do too!” America countered. “I’m hot, I have a big apartment in New York, a few houses throughout the US, and she thinks my accent’s sexy as all hell.”
I like it too, you know.
His grin was … no. No, no, no. Stop it! Stop it, now!
“Truly admirable qualities in a husband.”
“I know, I know.”
England rolled his eyes. “When should I expect you back?” he asked.
America shrugged. “Guess around eleven. I don’t wanna actually like … hang around.”
England pursed his lips, nodding as he turned to walk downstairs. “Very well, then. I will be waiting for you. If you’re not back by eleven, the door will be locked.”
[PART 14] Love is Somewhere Between Sleep and Conciousness (3/??)
anonymous
December 7 2010, 03:41:24 UTC
England gave a last glance-over of America before he descended. His heart gave a sad tug, wondering if America would ever do the same for him if they had a relationship-more than just the political appellation they had, of course (well, depending on how one looked at it with America’s new boss’s idea of their ‘unique relationship’); an actual relationship where America would dress up like this, as would he, and they would go out to dinner and maybe the theatre. …If America would even put up with the theatre. Not that he would really have a choice if that’s where England wanted to go.
“Y’sure I look okay?”
He shook his head into focus as he saw America playing with Nantucket and the hem of a sleeve.
“Ravishing.”
“Hm?” America wasn’t paying attention.
“Dashing.”
“Oh-thanks.”
England wasn’t sure what made it happen. Their eyes met and neither turned away. He didn’t miss the flash of America’s eyes and he was sure America didn’t miss the one in his own. It seemed to England that if he dared to break the connection, the rest of his life would be forever miserable.
“You should work on your eyebrows, England.”
…Then again, he’d been forever doomed, anyway.
“Get out!” he ordered, pointing to the door near the foot of the stairs. America snickered, passing by so closely that England wondered if he did so purposefully. Not that England was truly complaining. That extra sniff of that cologne was truly intoxicating.
He stood still at the top of the stairs as America fixed his suit jacket at the foyer. He could just see all of America’s height and his reflection in the mirror.
“Have a good time, America.”
“I will-like I said, she’s pretty hot.”
“Well if all you do with her is meet to shag I suppose that’s all you need.”
“Bingo. All right.” America turned, presumably looking at the clock. “I’m out. I’ll be back by eleven.”
“Don’t be late.”
“I know, Mom, don’t worry.”
“And wear a condom, for God’s sake.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know, can I go now?”
“Oh, get out, you vile, wretched creature.”
America sent England a shiny, white grin then turned towards the door.
The last image England caught before America was out the door was his reflection in the mirror: An almost sad look; disappointment. The door shut and England sighed.
“You forgot to say ‘goodbye’ again.”
England, rather than go down the stairs, walked back near his bedroom where the plug-in lay upon the threshold. Bloody thing…. He sighed, picking it up, and threw it into the rubbish bin. “All of it-absolute rubbish.”
From in his room he grabbed his embroidery ring, looking at the clock. It was almost nine. America planned on being out only for two hours-so he truly did plan on a fuck-and-run, then. It was so insulting! To Anne, to America, and to England.
He hadn’t forgotten-oh no, he had not, at all. That night at the pub on V-E Day? He remembered it perfectly. It certainly wasn’t for lack of trying, though. He had tried to drink himself into oblivion that night though it had only ended in tears and crying-as usual. His people took it as tears of exhaustion and joy (his words had been incomprehensible, thank God) and he’d gone home that night an absolute mess. France, the cheese-eating bastard that he was, of course poked and prodded about the status of their ~Special Relationship~ and the thought of France at the moment angered the Anglo even more, stomping down the stairs with his embroidery in hand. He threw the thoughts of France to the side and went to the kitchen. Tea. Tea was good. It wasn’t the time to be thinking of the past. He had enough on his plate with just normal work and with America staying over it would be triply difficult to get it done.
He filled his kettle, plugging it in and waiting patiently-or not-for it to boil. Well, as the saying went, ‘A watched pot never boils.’ Though, England supposed one could argue that he was not watching a pot, but a kettle. In the end he decided that there was indeed still a point and so turned on his heel, walking back to his parlor to work on his embroidery.
[PART 14] Love is Somewhere Between Sleep and Consciousness (4/??)
anonymous
December 7 2010, 03:44:52 UTC
But the phone was ringing. Who on earth was calling him at nine at night he had no idea and why he didn’t get rid of this old, blasted phone he had no idea. It had no caller ID which would really be quite nice. He picked it up, answering with a droll, “’Lo?”
“Ah, Angleterre, you are there!”
His luck. He had none. “What the bloody fuck do you want you frog?”
“Oh, non, non, non. I have not bothered you for two weeks! You should be grateful that Big Brother is calling!”
“Newsflash: I’m not. Now get on with it, man, or hang up before I do.” He took a hand to rub at his temple.
“I really have nothing of importance. I simply inquire as to your knowledge of America’s whereabouts.”
Green eyes rolled. “He’s out with some bint, ‘just fucking’.” Ugh, it hurt to speak those words allowed. “Some Anne woman. …Why would you want to know?”
“Auburn hair?”
“Yes, that’s her-Fra-”
“Mon dieu, Angleterre! I never believed any of your women so fetching!”
“Of course I have fetching women! What are you on about!”
“I can see them! They just got off of one of your silly looking buses.”
England was beginning to think that a new law should be enacted-one stating that America wasn’t allowed on any of his double-deckers. …After he figured out what France was up to.
“Are you stalking them?”
“Oui. I was on my way to see you and bother you in person but I caught sight of amber waves of grain-”
“Don’t.” England took a deep breath. “Describe him like that.”
“I saw our dear Amérique with this Anne and decided that they would be more entertaining than you for now.”
“I do so thank you for your flattery.”
“She looks familiar.”
“Boleyn.”
“Oui! Yes! The racoleuse.”
England snickered. “Yes. The racoleuse.”
France was silent for a moment. England could hear the busy streets of London and it … sounded also as if France was sneaking through foliage. “What are they doing now?”
“…Are you sure you wish to know, chérie?”
“Don’t you go calling me that! And yes!” England exclaimed. He felt his heart rate increase. “I want to know.”
“They have just entered a hotel.”
“How ritzy?”
“Indescribably.”
His heart fell deep into his belly. He forced a laugh out. “Well, then! Now we know why his economy is the way it is.”
“Angleterre, I am not an idiot.”
“Yes you are.”
“Sérieusement. Mon frère, I do notice many things about you. I must, if I am to torment every day of your life, after all.”
England let his forehead hit the table.
“Why have you not been more open with our dear petit charge?”
“Former charge. Former! And that would be because I’m not like you, France, who feels the need to roam in the nude when you spot a pretty face! Now tell me: Do you have anything important to say or may I hang up?”
“If you do not act soon he will be gone forever,” France answered quickly. “We may live amazingly longer lives than we desire but we do not have saintly patience, especially one so young as America. He is waiting.”
“America takes what he wants. If he still-” England stumbled. “If it was I he desired he would have made it clear.”
“We all seem to have assumptions about him but he still surprises us every day. He may be shy-”
“If he wanted me then he would have stayed here and not gone out to have a fuck with some random twit of a woman!”
“I am the country of l’amour. I know how these things work.”
“And the cheese in your brain is moulding. Go home before I pull out the stakes again and burn your arse as you’re forced to look at a portrait of your precious Joan! Goodbye, France.”
England slammed his phone down with far more force than necessary.
[PART 14] Love is Somewhere Between Sleep and Consciousness (5/??)
anonymous
December 7 2010, 03:47:34 UTC
Just how did France know what was going on? Granted, as he said, he was the country of love but that didn’t explain how he knew. His supposed ‘observations’ of him? Maybe…. But England thought he was good at keeping his feelings hidden. Keeping a straight face at meetings. Unless France had some kind of emotional x-ray vision, which England could both (disturbingly) see and not see.
Was he really that obvious? Then again, the French generally saw people who fought as lovers-wankers-and those who were calm with each other as … less than lovers. More friends or polite acquaintances.
…France was stupid, anyway.
…Extremely. Why on Earth did England have to ask about what America and his precious Anne and what they were doing? Why did France have to answer?! So America really was just going to screw her and leave? He was being use and he knew it but still he allowed it. What had happened to the strong empire? He never let anyone treat him like rubbish if he could help it at all! Yet he allowed himself to be the mat beneath America’s feet.
Well no more, buddy! Anne could move to America, if she wanted! If she wanted an American so badly-America himself, no less!-then England would be happy to have her leave his island as soon as possible and England was going to let America know!
As soon as England could come to terms with America visiting less often if it happened-visiting at all, really. America had said that they weren’t in a serious relationship. Just that they did the nasty.
Ugh, since when did he care so much about this? Let something this trivial affect him so? This was trash! Absolute garbage! Whether or not it would sadden him when it happened, he was putting his foot down resolutely.
Sure, he was really torn after America’s little stint in the 18th century, but he’d been so downtrodden when America proved himself again in 1814 that he decided to let it go. Of course things would never be the same and by Lord, the boy was nearly grown. It wasn’t what England had wanted-he wanted his precious boy back. Not this … rough-and-tumble young, conceited man. Well, a century after that proved something new entirely but England still refused to acknowledge anything, though he knew it was there, deep down, but then America had to go and ruin it all on V-E Day and the last 65 years had been something close to Hell for poor England.
Maybe he was looking too deep. It had occurred to him before, of course. Maybe America took something like that-a kiss-as a stereotype for every nation of Europe and it was … more or less a congratulatory thing instead of an intimate, “Hey, I’m letting you know I love you,” gesture. …It was entirely possible and now that he thought on it some more, it was almost 78% sure that it was definitely that.
Wonderful. Simply smashing. France knew-then again, x-ray-which meant that Spain and Prussia would soon know, which meant Romano and Germany, then Italy, and then the worst. Hungary.
Then the questions would never end and England would never live it down, especially if his 78% hunch was 100% correct.
…He needed tea. Badly. He remembered his kettle and quickly poured himself a cuppa, trying to take calming breaths back to the parlor where awaited his embroidery. Too bad Flying Mint Bunny was out with the rest of his mystical friends. He would have someone to talk to-who wasn’t France or someone he needed to impress-but they had all deserved their little mini-vacation. Even if … it was in Ireland. …But that opened up a new can of worms that England wanted nothing to do with at the moment so he sat himself down in his chaise and picked up his needlework after taking a nice sip of tea.
[PART 14] Love is Somewhere Between Sleep and Consciousness (6/??)
anonymous
December 7 2010, 03:50:53 UTC
He resumed his pattern but then, after a few minutes he realized-more like remembered-the pattern he was making after pricking his finger with the needle.
The Tudor Rose. Which lead back to that tramp Anne Boleyn which reminded England of this hussy America was currently fucking and it was all full-circle and now he would never be happy and he threw the craft to the floor with a frustrated yell. He slouched in his chair, letting himself slide down as his hands covered his face in exasperation.
“You are truly the picture of what it is to be pathetic, Arthur Kirkland,” he told himself.
With a sigh he grabbed a book and went to the sofa, laying down. He opened to the first page and by the time he was on the third line, he’d drifted off to sleep filled with rose petals and beheadings.
…Maybe he’d revive those when he woke up and met the new age Anne.
--
December 09, 2010; 23:48 (11:48 PM)
Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit…. He’s going to have my head for this, I just know it….
America hurried up the few steps of the stoop, trying to escape the cold.
Please be open, please don’t have been a dick about it…. Not that he, himself, was completely free of being a dick.
America grabbed the handle of the front door, pushing it open with surprising ease. He hadn’t locked it…. England left it open for him.
Yesss! He hurried in and shut the door, locking it with a relieved sigh. He bent down to untie his shoes, taking them off properly before peeling his pea coat from his body and hanging it on the coat hanger.
“Hey, England!” he yelled, stepping further in. He took his suit jacket off, hanging it over his arm. He finished the small journey through the entrance hall and made it to the living room where on the couch lay England.
America stopped to look and after a moment his eyes softened and a gentle grin graced his lips. “You old man….” He laid his jacket now over the arm of the chaise, taking his knees before him. His voice took on a quieter tone as his fingers carefully brushed some of his hair away. “You’ll wake up with a backache like this.” America carefully took the book, setting it on the coffee table, and slid his arms beneath England to carry him upstairs to his room. It was difficult, making sure England’s head didn’t loll back and hit the banister of the staircase or the walls as England seemed to try to shift a lot in his sleep but America did it and finally laid him down on his bed. He resumed his position on his knees, just staring at England. His fingers returned to sweeping his bangs. A sleeping England was the calmest England America had seen in years. No furrowed brow, no scowl. No look of anger in his eyes. Just … relaxation. When America’s hand brushed a small area of skin England’s eyes twitched for a moment, his mouth opening somewhat. America’s heart raced but England made no other motion, thank God.
[PART 14] Love is Somewhere Between Sleep and Consciousness (7/??)
anonymous
December 7 2010, 03:53:14 UTC
Trying to get England under the covers of his always immaculately-made bed would definitely jostle him enough to wake him so instead America settled for throwing the … well, throw … over top of him, this time crouching down. He decided just moments later that for the second time in sixty-five years, America decided to be bold, leaning down and over England to kiss him. This time, though, he didn’t taste of alcohol. Just tea. It made America grin into his lips. He wasn’t sure if it was because he was grinning but he swore he felt England kiss him back. It didn’t deter him in that moment, instead pulling back-just the tiniest bit!-of his own accord, just enough to see England open his eyes just a fraction.
Well, and all this time I never knew I was a prince.
England’s eyes didn’t open much further before exhaling softly, lifting his head a little to kiss America back.
This surprised America. Enough to scurry to stand and leave the room, rushing out right away. Maybe … maybe England would think it was a dream! It seemed like he was in that in-between area of sleep and full consciousness. He rushed downstairs, making sure to lock and turn off all of the lights-he refused to listen to the lecture that would have been sure to come the following morning-and then rushed back upstairs to his ‘room’. He quickly undid his tie with shaking, nervous hands and didn’t bother to take off the dress shirt after unbuttoning it. He washed up for bed really fast and crawled under the soft, laundry-fresh sheets. He fell asleep quickly, dressed only in the shirt and a pair of his favorite American flag boxers. Sleep was difficult to come by-it was only midnight, for goodness’s sake-but come by it he did, falling into one of the worst nights of sleep he’d had in a long while.
Meanwhile, down the hall a bit, England again covered his face with his hands.
“Christ…” he began. He sighed, looking with blank, empty eyes towards his ceiling. “You are a sad picture, Arthur Kirkland. A very sad picture.”
***
A/N: That's all for now--expect more in a couple days! But remember it's finals time and aiyaaa I've never been this busy, gd. captcha: affairs scitati
Re: [PART 14] Love is Somewhere Between Sleep and Consciousness (7/??)
anonymous
December 7 2010, 04:47:01 UTC
God, this is fantastic; this is seriously the best depiction of these two idiot's mutually unrequited love I've ever seen. Great characterization and very believable emotions, too. <3 Although I wonder exactly how long poor France has been waiting for one of these fools to put them both out of their misery and just confess already? Quite probably years and years before V-E Day. OTL
Re: [PART 14] Love is Somewhere Between Sleep and Consciousness (7/??)
anonymous
December 7 2010, 04:49:40 UTC
OH! And I love the kind of conspiratorial way England and France were laughing at their shared opinion of "that racoleuse" together. It's nice to see them depicted as (bad) friends as well as rivals and enemies. After all, I'm pretty sure they get along quite well if you get enough liquor into them. XD
LMFAO I must agree! And yeah--I think France has been waiting ... yearrrrssss. It must get annoying with two superpowers refusing to really admit anything while you're kind of in the fray but not and.... I'll stop there. |D;; Though you flatter me, Anon--I have read some pretty awesome fic before. I mean, I certainly hope I'm doing a good job but I shall keep striving for the top...!
Re: [PART 14] Love is Somewhere Between Sleep and Consciousness (7/??)
anonymous
December 7 2010, 05:05:52 UTC
This is really good! I agree with the above anon, I love their characterizations too. And the last part kind of broke my heart...a simple kiss and America's last line ;___;
Good luck with finals and I hope you update soon! :)
***
May 08, 1945
“England, your breath is horrible. How much did you actually drink?” Was all America asked, pulling England along down an empty, small little hallway.
“No more’n ‘nyone else,” he said, amongst the noise of the extremely crowded pub. “Why’vn’-why’vn’t you’d ‘nyffink t’drink? Yeh’ve all…. All th’reason t’be!”
“I have no idea what you’re saying.”
“’Merica…! You were the hero! Jus’ like y’always wan’ed t’be! Y’happy, now? Y’saved all’ov’Urope!”
America watched on as England sang America’s praises-praises America knew were influenced by the alcohol; just few more sips and he’d be crying and his true feelings would come out. People all around them were partying, celebrating the end of the war-their end, anyway. America still had a few things to settle with Japan and had only stopped in to bid England farewell for now as he had a plane to catch. England’s cheeks were a rosy pink, behind the black and blue injuries and gauze, his eyes glassed over, and a smile plastered itself on his face. America gave a quick glance around the corner to make sure everyone was preoccupied and that no one would be down the hall in the next minute or so.
“Here’s hoping you’re still in the ‘won’t remember’ stage…. If you’re not….” He paused, carefully placing a gloved hand on one of England’s bruised and bandaged cheeks, watching as his eyes grew wider-those beautiful green eyes. America grinned, pressing a light, simple kiss to England’s lips as the clock hit eleven. The dry taste of the alcohol was still on his lips and a hint of tobacco but America paid it no mind, intent on enjoying his sole kiss with England.
Finally he pulled away, finding it much more difficult to end something so intimate with someone he’d just spent months in foxholes with, and several lifetimes getting on, fighting, ignoring, and getting on again. He drew a deep, shuddering breath. “If you’re not,” he repeated. “Don’t hate me.
“Congratulations, England,” he said. “You won the war. You’ll know when I’m home.”
America gave a swift pat on England’s shoulder, refusing to look into his eyes as he turned, straightened his jacket, and left the pub.
England, meanwhile, watched with confused eyes as America left. Not even a, “Goodbye?” He walked slowly, returning to the crowd once his eyes lost America. He nonchalantly approached the counter, calling for another beer.
Forget that, he chastised himself. Forget it. It’s never happening again.
--
Sixty-five years later; December 09, 2010
“Her name’s Anne,” he’d said, tossing over his wallet as he walked into the bathroom to fix his hair. England stood in the hall, trying to affix a new Glade Plug-In. Unfortunately, he could not catch the wallet because of this-not that the plug-in was really cooperating. The wallet hit him lightly in the head, falling open before him as he tossed the blasted home refresher tool down the hall. “She’s the really hot one in the front.”
England could see it. Her. This ‘Anne’ woman. “She looks just like her, too,” he commented.
“Huh? What?”
“Your friend, Anne.” He tried to mask the venom he felt running throughout him. This would be the sixth time America was using England’s home to see this woman. This ‘English’ woman, America was sure to emphasize several times. A week. The first time America asked to come over to get ready at England’s house, sure. The second time, okay. The third time, well, all right. The fourth time, not so sure … fine, ‘Don’t give me that look.’ The fifth time, ‘Why not rent a flat while you’re here?’ And now, the sixth time. He’d been plead with and America begged, then gave him those eyes and England just couldn’t resist those eyes. But this was, ‘The last time, America, I swear.’
Reply
Well. He, Arthur Kirkland, the mighty British Empire, would never admit that such tactics would ever affect him in such a manner.
Out loud, anyway.
“Anne Boleyn.”
“Who?”
“Henry VIII’s whore of a wife. His second, actually. My poorest Catherine. God rest her soul.”
“Okay, you had too many names and numbers in there. Ya lost me. All I got was that Anne’s a whore-which she’s not, thank you very much,” America corrected, snatching his wallet.
England got a whiff of the cologne again as America stood swiftly, almost trying to lean into the smell. Damn it, America! he silently cursed, feeling anger and jealousy grow. America was wrong. This was far more than enough to qualify this new Anne as a whore. Yes, yes, it was wrong and unfair and she was one of his own people but … but-but-well.
“So, how do I look?” America asked.
England looked up, watching as America smiled, turning here and there, showing off his suit. England sighed. Perfectly charming and oh, so dashing, he thought. Just his tie was a little crooked.
“Like a perfect gentleman. America-”
“Hey, I think that’s the first time you’ve actually said that!”
“That’s all well and jolly good but America, I’m worried for you.”
“What for?”
“Well…. America…. We are nations. This Anne is a human.” England stood straight, stepping forward to fix America’s tie.
“Yeah? So … what’s your point…?”
The mint on America’s breath was sharp and refreshing, mixing well with his cologne.
“You cannot love her-well, you might and may but you cannot grow old with her or have a proper life with her. She will grow old without you as you stay young and she will die. What will happen then? I mean, we certainly feel that pain when a beloved monarch dies-”
“I don’t have a mona-”
“Belt it. A president, then. Or a beloved member of your country; but imagine giving this human, Anne, all of that love.”
America was silent for a moment as England pulled a few twists and turns on America’s tie, straightening it out and placing it correctly at his collar. “The pain would be unimaginable, America.”
England made no motion to step away, lost in his own world. His hands still laid on America’s necktie, his knuckles just feeling the warmth of America’s chest through the dress shirt.
America just laughed and England stepped back, finally coming back to himself.
“It’s not like we’re getting married. We’re just fucking.”
England knew this but hearing it didn’t mean it made him feel better. “I figured that out for myself, thanks-but it’s not as though you have any redeeming qualities worth marrying you over.”
“I do too!” America countered. “I’m hot, I have a big apartment in New York, a few houses throughout the US, and she thinks my accent’s sexy as all hell.”
I like it too, you know.
His grin was … no. No, no, no. Stop it! Stop it, now!
“Truly admirable qualities in a husband.”
“I know, I know.”
England rolled his eyes. “When should I expect you back?” he asked.
America shrugged. “Guess around eleven. I don’t wanna actually like … hang around.”
England pursed his lips, nodding as he turned to walk downstairs. “Very well, then. I will be waiting for you. If you’re not back by eleven, the door will be locked.”
“Yeah, yeah, okay.”
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England wanted to go.
“Y’sure I look okay?”
He shook his head into focus as he saw America playing with Nantucket and the hem of a sleeve.
“Ravishing.”
“Hm?” America wasn’t paying attention.
“Dashing.”
“Oh-thanks.”
England wasn’t sure what made it happen. Their eyes met and neither turned away. He didn’t miss the flash of America’s eyes and he was sure America didn’t miss the one in his own. It seemed to England that if he dared to break the connection, the rest of his life would be forever miserable.
“You should work on your eyebrows, England.”
…Then again, he’d been forever doomed, anyway.
“Get out!” he ordered, pointing to the door near the foot of the stairs. America snickered, passing by so closely that England wondered if he did so purposefully. Not that England was truly complaining. That extra sniff of that cologne was truly intoxicating.
He stood still at the top of the stairs as America fixed his suit jacket at the foyer. He could just see all of America’s height and his reflection in the mirror.
“Have a good time, America.”
“I will-like I said, she’s pretty hot.”
“Well if all you do with her is meet to shag I suppose that’s all you need.”
“Bingo. All right.” America turned, presumably looking at the clock. “I’m out. I’ll be back by eleven.”
“Don’t be late.”
“I know, Mom, don’t worry.”
“And wear a condom, for God’s sake.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know, can I go now?”
“Oh, get out, you vile, wretched creature.”
America sent England a shiny, white grin then turned towards the door.
The last image England caught before America was out the door was his reflection in the mirror: An almost sad look; disappointment. The door shut and England sighed.
“You forgot to say ‘goodbye’ again.”
England, rather than go down the stairs, walked back near his bedroom where the plug-in lay upon the threshold. Bloody thing…. He sighed, picking it up, and threw it into the rubbish bin. “All of it-absolute rubbish.”
From in his room he grabbed his embroidery ring, looking at the clock. It was almost nine. America planned on being out only for two hours-so he truly did plan on a fuck-and-run, then. It was so insulting! To Anne, to America, and to England.
He hadn’t forgotten-oh no, he had not, at all. That night at the pub on V-E Day? He remembered it perfectly. It certainly wasn’t for lack of trying, though. He had tried to drink himself into oblivion that night though it had only ended in tears and crying-as usual. His people took it as tears of exhaustion and joy (his words had been incomprehensible, thank God) and he’d gone home that night an absolute mess. France, the cheese-eating bastard that he was, of course poked and prodded about the status of their ~Special Relationship~ and the thought of France at the moment angered the Anglo even more, stomping down the stairs with his embroidery in hand. He threw the thoughts of France to the side and went to the kitchen. Tea. Tea was good.
It wasn’t the time to be thinking of the past. He had enough on his plate with just normal work and with America staying over it would be triply difficult to get it done.
He filled his kettle, plugging it in and waiting patiently-or not-for it to boil. Well, as the saying went, ‘A watched pot never boils.’ Though, England supposed one could argue that he was not watching a pot, but a kettle. In the end he decided that there was indeed still a point and so turned on his heel, walking back to his parlor to work on his embroidery.
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“Ah, Angleterre, you are there!”
His luck. He had none. “What the bloody fuck do you want you frog?”
“Oh, non, non, non. I have not bothered you for two weeks! You should be grateful that Big Brother is calling!”
“Newsflash: I’m not. Now get on with it, man, or hang up before I do.” He took a hand to rub at his temple.
“I really have nothing of importance. I simply inquire as to your knowledge of America’s whereabouts.”
Green eyes rolled. “He’s out with some bint, ‘just fucking’.” Ugh, it hurt to speak those words allowed. “Some Anne woman. …Why would you want to know?”
“Auburn hair?”
“Yes, that’s her-Fra-”
“Mon dieu, Angleterre! I never believed any of your women so fetching!”
“Of course I have fetching women! What are you on about!”
“I can see them! They just got off of one of your silly looking buses.”
England was beginning to think that a new law should be enacted-one stating that America wasn’t allowed on any of his double-deckers. …After he figured out what France was up to.
“Are you stalking them?”
“Oui. I was on my way to see you and bother you in person but I caught sight of amber waves of grain-”
“Don’t.” England took a deep breath. “Describe him like that.”
“I saw our dear Amérique with this Anne and decided that they would be more entertaining than you for now.”
“I do so thank you for your flattery.”
“She looks familiar.”
“Boleyn.”
“Oui! Yes! The racoleuse.”
England snickered. “Yes. The racoleuse.”
France was silent for a moment. England could hear the busy streets of London and it … sounded also as if France was sneaking through foliage. “What are they doing now?”
“…Are you sure you wish to know, chérie?”
“Don’t you go calling me that! And yes!” England exclaimed. He felt his heart rate increase. “I want to know.”
“They have just entered a hotel.”
“How ritzy?”
“Indescribably.”
His heart fell deep into his belly. He forced a laugh out. “Well, then! Now we know why his economy is the way it is.”
“Angleterre, I am not an idiot.”
“Yes you are.”
“Sérieusement. Mon frère, I do notice many things about you. I must, if I am to torment every day of your life, after all.”
England let his forehead hit the table.
“Why have you not been more open with our dear petit charge?”
“Former charge. Former! And that would be because I’m not like you, France, who feels the need to roam in the nude when you spot a pretty face! Now tell me: Do you have anything important to say or may I hang up?”
“If you do not act soon he will be gone forever,” France answered quickly. “We may live amazingly longer lives than we desire but we do not have saintly patience, especially one so young as America. He is waiting.”
“America takes what he wants. If he still-” England stumbled. “If it was I he desired he would have made it clear.”
“We all seem to have assumptions about him but he still surprises us every day. He may be shy-”
“If he wanted me then he would have stayed here and not gone out to have a fuck with some random twit of a woman!”
“I am the country of l’amour. I know how these things work.”
“And the cheese in your brain is moulding. Go home before I pull out the stakes again and burn your arse as you’re forced to look at a portrait of your precious Joan! Goodbye, France.”
England slammed his phone down with far more force than necessary.
Definitely getting caller ID.
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Was he really that obvious? Then again, the French generally saw people who fought as lovers-wankers-and those who were calm with each other as … less than lovers. More friends or polite acquaintances.
…France was stupid, anyway.
…Extremely. Why on Earth did England have to ask about what America and his precious Anne and what they were doing? Why did France have to answer?! So America really was just going to screw her and leave? He was being use and he knew it but still he allowed it. What had happened to the strong empire? He never let anyone treat him like rubbish if he could help it at all!
Yet he allowed himself to be the mat beneath America’s feet.
Well no more, buddy! Anne could move to America, if she wanted! If she wanted an American so badly-America himself, no less!-then England would be happy to have her leave his island as soon as possible and England was going to let America know!
As soon as England could come to terms with America visiting less often if it happened-visiting at all, really. America had said that they weren’t in a serious relationship. Just that they did the nasty.
Ugh, since when did he care so much about this? Let something this trivial affect him so? This was trash! Absolute garbage! Whether or not it would sadden him when it happened, he was putting his foot down resolutely.
Sure, he was really torn after America’s little stint in the 18th century, but he’d been so downtrodden when America proved himself again in 1814 that he decided to let it go. Of course things would never be the same and by Lord, the boy was nearly grown. It wasn’t what England had wanted-he wanted his precious boy back. Not this … rough-and-tumble young, conceited man. Well, a century after that proved something new entirely but England still refused to acknowledge anything, though he knew it was there, deep down, but then America had to go and ruin it all on V-E Day and the last 65 years had been something close to Hell for poor England.
Maybe he was looking too deep. It had occurred to him before, of course. Maybe America took something like that-a kiss-as a stereotype for every nation of Europe and it was … more or less a congratulatory thing instead of an intimate, “Hey, I’m letting you know I love you,” gesture. …It was entirely possible and now that he thought on it some more, it was almost 78% sure that it was definitely that.
Wonderful. Simply smashing. France knew-then again, x-ray-which meant that Spain and Prussia would soon know, which meant Romano and Germany, then Italy, and then the worst.
Hungary.
Then the questions would never end and England would never live it down, especially if his 78% hunch was 100% correct.
…He needed tea. Badly. He remembered his kettle and quickly poured himself a cuppa, trying to take calming breaths back to the parlor where awaited his embroidery. Too bad Flying Mint Bunny was out with the rest of his mystical friends. He would have someone to talk to-who wasn’t France or someone he needed to impress-but they had all deserved their little mini-vacation. Even if … it was in Ireland. …But that opened up a new can of worms that England wanted nothing to do with at the moment so he sat himself down in his chaise and picked up his needlework after taking a nice sip of tea.
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The Tudor Rose. Which lead back to that tramp Anne Boleyn which reminded England of this hussy America was currently fucking and it was all full-circle and now he would never be happy and he threw the craft to the floor with a frustrated yell. He slouched in his chair, letting himself slide down as his hands covered his face in exasperation.
“You are truly the picture of what it is to be pathetic, Arthur Kirkland,” he told himself.
With a sigh he grabbed a book and went to the sofa, laying down. He opened to the first page and by the time he was on the third line, he’d drifted off to sleep filled with rose petals and beheadings.
…Maybe he’d revive those when he woke up and met the new age Anne.
--
December 09, 2010; 23:48 (11:48 PM)
Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit…. He’s going to have my head for this, I just know it….
America hurried up the few steps of the stoop, trying to escape the cold.
Please be open, please don’t have been a dick about it…. Not that he, himself, was completely free of being a dick.
America grabbed the handle of the front door, pushing it open with surprising ease. He hadn’t locked it…. England left it open for him.
Yesss! He hurried in and shut the door, locking it with a relieved sigh. He bent down to untie his shoes, taking them off properly before peeling his pea coat from his body and hanging it on the coat hanger.
“Hey, England!” he yelled, stepping further in. He took his suit jacket off, hanging it over his arm. He finished the small journey through the entrance hall and made it to the living room where on the couch lay England.
America stopped to look and after a moment his eyes softened and a gentle grin graced his lips. “You old man….” He laid his jacket now over the arm of the chaise, taking his knees before him. His voice took on a quieter tone as his fingers carefully brushed some of his hair away. “You’ll wake up with a backache like this.” America carefully took the book, setting it on the coffee table, and slid his arms beneath England to carry him upstairs to his room. It was difficult, making sure England’s head didn’t loll back and hit the banister of the staircase or the walls as England seemed to try to shift a lot in his sleep but America did it and finally laid him down on his bed. He resumed his position on his knees, just staring at England. His fingers returned to sweeping his bangs. A sleeping England was the calmest England America had seen in years. No furrowed brow, no scowl. No look of anger in his eyes. Just … relaxation. When America’s hand brushed a small area of skin England’s eyes twitched for a moment, his mouth opening somewhat. America’s heart raced but England made no other motion, thank God.
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Well, and all this time I never knew I was a prince.
England’s eyes didn’t open much further before exhaling softly, lifting his head a little to kiss America back.
This surprised America. Enough to scurry to stand and leave the room, rushing out right away. Maybe … maybe England would think it was a dream! It seemed like he was in that in-between area of sleep and full consciousness. He rushed downstairs, making sure to lock and turn off all of the lights-he refused to listen to the lecture that would have been sure to come the following morning-and then rushed back upstairs to his ‘room’. He quickly undid his tie with shaking, nervous hands and didn’t bother to take off the dress shirt after unbuttoning it. He washed up for bed really fast and crawled under the soft, laundry-fresh sheets. He fell asleep quickly, dressed only in the shirt and a pair of his favorite American flag boxers. Sleep was difficult to come by-it was only midnight, for goodness’s sake-but come by it he did, falling into one of the worst nights of sleep he’d had in a long while.
Meanwhile, down the hall a bit, England again covered his face with his hands.
“Christ…” he began. He sighed, looking with blank, empty eyes towards his ceiling. “You are a sad picture, Arthur Kirkland. A very sad picture.”
***
A/N: That's all for now--expect more in a couple days! But remember it's finals time and aiyaaa I've never been this busy, gd.
captcha: affairs scitati
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Good luck with finals and I hope you update soon! :)
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Thank you so much! And I hope to update again within the next 2-3 days!
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This is wonderful, Author!Anon! You have a great hold of the characters and you English is simply delicious.
I'll be waiting for more!
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Thank you sooo much, and being told that my English is delicious is just.... The best compliment ever, you have no idea. ♥
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