sleep soundly, love 2/?
anonymous
January 27 2011, 14:30:00 UTC
I am so screwed up. I don't know why I'm listening to Smoke Gets In Your Eyes as I write this. Good Lord.
America will come for me, he repeats in his head, over and over again. It's his new mantra, he clings on to those five words, hangs on to it desperately, pitifully, clawing at it, trying to convince himself that someone will remember.
No, someone has to remember.
He takes a deep breath and rolls over, resting on his side so he won't have to lean on his arms. His wrists hurt (no, everything hurts) and he wonders if he'll fall asleep soon enough, because there's nothing else better to do apart from waiting. Waiting is painful, because when he's awake, he thinks of things, things that he shouldn't be thinking about, like how he looks at America sometimes and wonders what will happen if they weren't brothers and he tries to push it back all the way, tries to tear the thought into a million pieces but it refuses to disappear and his head hurts, hurts, hurts-
He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to lull himself to sleep by thinking of a lullaby, of France cradling him in his arms, voice low and tender, smooth as velvet sliding over bare skin, singing. It calms him down (just a little) and if he focuses hard enough on the memory, maybe, just maybe, he will be able to feel the soft pads of France's fingertips stroking his cheek gently, running his fingers through his hair...
The sound of a door creaking open slices through his memories, cutting through them perfectly, destroying the sanctuary he had found in them.
Canada doesn't know who it is. He hopes it's America, but the footsteps don't sound familiar, the thud thud thud thud thud sounds different, they are perfectly in time, almost mechanical... He waits with bated breath as it gets louder, louder and louder and the blindfold is torn from him and he keeps his eyes closed, because he doesn't want to know who he is, until the person speaks.
"Open your eyes."
The voice is terribly familiar, but so devoid of emotion, so empty, so, so, so...
Canada's eyes flutter open slowly and he looks up numbly at the figure towering above him.
Oh anon, it's amazing how close you're bringing us to Canada's mental state, and it completely breaks my heart when he longs for America D: More please?
America will come for me, he repeats in his head, over and over again. It's his new mantra, he clings on to those five words, hangs on to it desperately, pitifully, clawing at it, trying to convince himself that someone will remember.
No, someone has to remember.
He takes a deep breath and rolls over, resting on his side so he won't have to lean on his arms. His wrists hurt (no, everything hurts) and he wonders if he'll fall asleep soon enough, because there's nothing else better to do apart from waiting. Waiting is painful, because when he's awake, he thinks of things, things that he shouldn't be thinking about, like how he looks at America sometimes and wonders what will happen if they weren't brothers and he tries to push it back all the way, tries to tear the thought into a million pieces but it refuses to disappear and his head hurts, hurts, hurts-
He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to lull himself to sleep by thinking of a lullaby, of France cradling him in his arms, voice low and tender, smooth as velvet sliding over bare skin, singing. It calms him down (just a little) and if he focuses hard enough on the memory, maybe, just maybe, he will be able to feel the soft pads of France's fingertips stroking his cheek gently, running his fingers through his hair...
The sound of a door creaking open slices through his memories, cutting through them perfectly, destroying the sanctuary he had found in them.
Canada doesn't know who it is. He hopes it's America, but the footsteps don't sound familiar, the thud thud thud thud thud sounds different, they are perfectly in time, almost mechanical... He waits with bated breath as it gets louder, louder and louder and the blindfold is torn from him and he keeps his eyes closed, because he doesn't want to know who he is, until the person speaks.
"Open your eyes."
The voice is terribly familiar, but so devoid of emotion, so empty, so, so, so...
Canada's eyes flutter open slowly and he looks up numbly at the figure towering above him.
"America."
Eep, I hope it's okay so far O:
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More than okay, hon.
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