Fill 2/?
anonymous
September 10 2011, 00:15:07 UTC
“You know, I’d really like to kiss you.”
That’s how he and England had gotten together, a simple statement from British lips that led to America nodding and allowing him to. And it’s rare even now that England kisses America because he’s never been one for lavish public displays of affection, but he likes to hold America’s hand.
It’s become just another habit, and that’s why it’s not at all reassuring when they stand by the grave together, the body of an American World War Two veteran being lowered into the soil as the Reverend leads the mourners in antiphon.
“I’m sorry,” England whispers. “I know how this feels. I’ve lost so many of them...”
England’s words are of no comfort because America can barely hear England speaking, heartbeat thudding in his ears and drowning out all the noises that surround him. The crunch of fresh earth, the thud of a single rose falling against the coffin lid, the footsteps of grievers walking away as they struggle with their emotions.
The whole thing is filthy and the ceremony is decrepit. It doesn’t seem right, for the remains of a true hero to be concealed within the dirt as though he was nothing, buried like so many other passed souls before him. England’s palm is slightly damp because he’s been clinging to America’s hand for far too long; America snatches his hand away and wipes it against his trousers, ignoring the hurt look on England’s face.He leaves the funeral early and he tells himself it’s because he’s got quite a large amount of work to do. Documents to sign, letters to write; busy busy busy and he hates being kept on his toes. He keeps the lights in the house permanently on.
Weeks are strange things. Seven days in a perfect row, a loop of names that endlessly repeats, year after year after year. Working and toiling and trying to snatch some time to spend with England.
Maybe work is stressing him out; he can hardly concentrate on what he’s meant to be attempting anymore, projects falling into neglect as his motivation and inspiration dries up completely. If he pushes himself too far he’ll get sick and he doesn’t want that to happen.
Every day, someone, somewhere, in the United States passes away. Multiple people do. Now more than ever, America feels them all die.England smiles as he walks into America’s house, a basket of something in one hand and his other shoved into his jacket pocket. “Good to see you again.”
America grins and seizes England’s arm, dragging him into the kitchen and taking the basket from his grip. “What’s this?”
“It’s champagne,” England winks, sitting down at the table. “Thought it would be nice to drink it with dinner...”
Eagerly seizing the bottle, America bounces on his heels and sets it down on the counter. He pauses. And then without warning, his expression changes and his energy drains, turning to England to declare, “I’ve missed you.”
England blinks rapidly in confusion a few times before replying, “You visited me last week, lad. It’s not like we’ve been apart for that long.”
“I know,” America says, “but I still miss you when you’re not here.”
Demeanour softening, England smiles and waves his hand to beckon America over. “C’mere...”
“Why?” America asks, mock-suspicious as he walks to where England is seated anyway.
Once he’s has moved close enough, England reaches up to pull him down by his collar, assaulting him with feather-light kisses against his jaw and running a hand through his hair. “Don’t waste your time missing me; I’m not going anywhere.”
America laughs and lets England continue, taking in the smell of his hair and the warmth of his skin. But when England attempts to press his lips to America’s, America flinches and pulls away.
“Is something wrong?” England says, clearly concerned.
“No,” America says, standing up straight and looking away. “Just... Do you think I look ill?”
“Ill?” England repeats. “No, you don’t look ill at all. Do you feel sick?”
He stands up and tries to rest his hand on America’s forehead in an effort to feel his temperature, but America moves away before he can.
“I’m gonna go get the bottle opener,” America says, his voice quiet. “I left it in the dining room; I’ll be back in a minute...”
That’s how he and England had gotten together, a simple statement from British lips that led to America nodding and allowing him to. And it’s rare even now that England kisses America because he’s never been one for lavish public displays of affection, but he likes to hold America’s hand.
It’s become just another habit, and that’s why it’s not at all reassuring when they stand by the grave together, the body of an American World War Two veteran being lowered into the soil as the Reverend leads the mourners in antiphon.
“I’m sorry,” England whispers. “I know how this feels. I’ve lost so many of them...”
England’s words are of no comfort because America can barely hear England speaking, heartbeat thudding in his ears and drowning out all the noises that surround him. The crunch of fresh earth, the thud of a single rose falling against the coffin lid, the footsteps of grievers walking away as they struggle with their emotions.
The whole thing is filthy and the ceremony is decrepit. It doesn’t seem right, for the remains of a true hero to be concealed within the dirt as though he was nothing, buried like so many other passed souls before him. England’s palm is slightly damp because he’s been clinging to America’s hand for far too long; America snatches his hand away and wipes it against his trousers, ignoring the hurt look on England’s face.He leaves the funeral early and he tells himself it’s because he’s got quite a large amount of work to do. Documents to sign, letters to write; busy busy busy and he hates being kept on his toes. He keeps the lights in the house permanently on.
Weeks are strange things. Seven days in a perfect row, a loop of names that endlessly repeats, year after year after year. Working and toiling and trying to snatch some time to spend with England.
Maybe work is stressing him out; he can hardly concentrate on what he’s meant to be attempting anymore, projects falling into neglect as his motivation and inspiration dries up completely. If he pushes himself too far he’ll get sick and he doesn’t want that to happen.
Every day, someone, somewhere, in the United States passes away. Multiple people do. Now more than ever, America feels them all die.England smiles as he walks into America’s house, a basket of something in one hand and his other shoved into his jacket pocket. “Good to see you again.”
America grins and seizes England’s arm, dragging him into the kitchen and taking the basket from his grip. “What’s this?”
“It’s champagne,” England winks, sitting down at the table. “Thought it would be nice to drink it with dinner...”
Eagerly seizing the bottle, America bounces on his heels and sets it down on the counter. He pauses. And then without warning, his expression changes and his energy drains, turning to England to declare, “I’ve missed you.”
England blinks rapidly in confusion a few times before replying, “You visited me last week, lad. It’s not like we’ve been apart for that long.”
“I know,” America says, “but I still miss you when you’re not here.”
Demeanour softening, England smiles and waves his hand to beckon America over. “C’mere...”
“Why?” America asks, mock-suspicious as he walks to where England is seated anyway.
Once he’s has moved close enough, England reaches up to pull him down by his collar, assaulting him with feather-light kisses against his jaw and running a hand through his hair. “Don’t waste your time missing me; I’m not going anywhere.”
America laughs and lets England continue, taking in the smell of his hair and the warmth of his skin. But when England attempts to press his lips to America’s, America flinches and pulls away.
“Is something wrong?” England says, clearly concerned.
“No,” America says, standing up straight and looking away. “Just... Do you think I look ill?”
“Ill?” England repeats. “No, you don’t look ill at all. Do you feel sick?”
He stands up and tries to rest his hand on America’s forehead in an effort to feel his temperature, but America moves away before he can.
“I’m gonna go get the bottle opener,” America says, his voice quiet. “I left it in the dining room; I’ll be back in a minute...”
Re-taking his seat, England doesn’t reply.
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