[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.
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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