First Kiss [1/2]
anonymous
March 4 2009, 19:41:09 UTC
Not the anon who promised to write this up there. Just a passing anon who's writing for Hetalia nonstop. Also, apologies to the OP for not having enough fluff or humor. But weird pseudo-fluff and hidden angst-vibes! -- “-and so I hope that you’ll behave yourself this time,” England concluded as he placed the plate filled with scones in front of a pouting America. He had been going on and on about America’s lack of manners and disastrous eating habits while the older nation was not there to keep an eye on him. Not to mention, England had not been around for so long and now that he had come back…he was lecturing America of all things.
America pouted harder.
England raised one bushy eyebrow at that as he poured some tea for them. “That doesn’t work on me, America. Now have some scones.”
America glanced down at the misshapen lump of what could have been a scone. If one stretched his imagination, it could pass for some sort of lump of dough. He poked it with his finger; it did not poke him back and yet, America felt he had gone up against something made of stone and not flour. He was going to have to watch his teeth.
His feet didn’t reach the ground as he sat on the high chair, and England looked all too far away from where he was. Unreachable. Just like the time he left for his home again, leaving America all alone. He fingers slipped on the pristine white tablecloth, raking his nails over it as his mind recalled those times. He ducked his head a bit as his eyes burned. England did not play fair. Not only did he stay away for so long, but he also did not pay the same attention to America as he used to in the past. Now he was always busy, doing this and that…
“What’s the matter?” England inquired. “Do you not like them?” America looked back up and recognized the slightly hopeful expression his guardian had when he made America eat his cooking. The hopeful, vulnerable expression. The one that made America feel funny in his stomach and chest, and prompted him to do anything for England. Even eat his god-awful cooking.
It clenched a bit harder today at his stomach-or maybe it was the scones’ fault-and his chest tightened to the point of hurting really bad. Hastily, he picked up a-a scone, or whatever might be the right term to call it, and slapped butter and jam generously over it. That’d make the swallowing easier. Dreading a bit, he took the first bite, winced inwards as his teeth groaned but he managed to chew and swallow.
“It’s nice,” he said after a few gulps. Took a sip of the Devonshire tea, as England called it and put the half-eaten scone down on his plate.
It never changed, America realized dazedly, the smile of absolute affection and fulfillment that graced England’s lips at times like these. Back when he was just a child, and now that he was a teenager. England hadn’t changed at all, except where he had. Or maybe it was America who had changed.
England’s mood had improved considerably and that brought an idea into America’s mind. He had been meaning to ask a few things from England-that he had learned from France, but found it safer not to admit it-but the mood did not allow it previously.
“Say, England.” He tested the words on his tongue before saying them. “Who was the first person you kissed?”
England choked on his scone. America’s eyes widened in alarm as even his neck turned red, never mind the face and ears. What if England had stopped breathing? Thinking that, he jumped off the chair and began to rush to England, only to be stopped by an upraised hand. England coughed violently a few times and took a few sips of his tea to calm himself down.
After he managed to regain a bit of his dignity, he focused his glare on America and asked a bit angrily, “What do you mean?”
“It’s just a simple question,” America replied, already having seated himself and munching-grinding between his teeth-the rest of the scone. “I heard it was France…”
--
“-and so I hope that you’ll behave yourself this time,” England concluded as he placed the plate filled with scones in front of a pouting America. He had been going on and on about America’s lack of manners and disastrous eating habits while the older nation was not there to keep an eye on him. Not to mention, England had not been around for so long and now that he had come back…he was lecturing America of all things.
America pouted harder.
England raised one bushy eyebrow at that as he poured some tea for them. “That doesn’t work on me, America. Now have some scones.”
America glanced down at the misshapen lump of what could have been a scone. If one stretched his imagination, it could pass for some sort of lump of dough. He poked it with his finger; it did not poke him back and yet, America felt he had gone up against something made of stone and not flour. He was going to have to watch his teeth.
His feet didn’t reach the ground as he sat on the high chair, and England looked all too far away from where he was. Unreachable. Just like the time he left for his home again, leaving America all alone. He fingers slipped on the pristine white tablecloth, raking his nails over it as his mind recalled those times. He ducked his head a bit as his eyes burned. England did not play fair. Not only did he stay away for so long, but he also did not pay the same attention to America as he used to in the past. Now he was always busy, doing this and that…
“What’s the matter?” England inquired. “Do you not like them?” America looked back up and recognized the slightly hopeful expression his guardian had when he made America eat his cooking. The hopeful, vulnerable expression. The one that made America feel funny in his stomach and chest, and prompted him to do anything for England. Even eat his god-awful cooking.
It clenched a bit harder today at his stomach-or maybe it was the scones’ fault-and his chest tightened to the point of hurting really bad. Hastily, he picked up a-a scone, or whatever might be the right term to call it, and slapped butter and jam generously over it. That’d make the swallowing easier. Dreading a bit, he took the first bite, winced inwards as his teeth groaned but he managed to chew and swallow.
“It’s nice,” he said after a few gulps. Took a sip of the Devonshire tea, as England called it and put the half-eaten scone down on his plate.
It never changed, America realized dazedly, the smile of absolute affection and fulfillment that graced England’s lips at times like these. Back when he was just a child, and now that he was a teenager. England hadn’t changed at all, except where he had. Or maybe it was America who had changed.
England’s mood had improved considerably and that brought an idea into America’s mind. He had been meaning to ask a few things from England-that he had learned from France, but found it safer not to admit it-but the mood did not allow it previously.
“Say, England.” He tested the words on his tongue before saying them. “Who was the first person you kissed?”
England choked on his scone. America’s eyes widened in alarm as even his neck turned red, never mind the face and ears. What if England had stopped breathing? Thinking that, he jumped off the chair and began to rush to England, only to be stopped by an upraised hand. England coughed violently a few times and took a few sips of his tea to calm himself down.
After he managed to regain a bit of his dignity, he focused his glare on America and asked a bit angrily, “What do you mean?”
“It’s just a simple question,” America replied, already having seated himself and munching-grinding between his teeth-the rest of the scone. “I heard it was France…”
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