Iridescence of a Paperweight [2/13]
anonymous
February 24 2011, 22:07:09 UTC
The outcry of glass shattering against the wall adjacent to England’s nook caused him to jump (or rather, his body attempted to jump, but the cabinets were having none of it, so he did no more than squirm), and he had to resist the urge to chastise America from where he stood. Such a childish thing, that nation was-no sense of, of anything! England wiggled his shoulders, mouth set into a firm frown, and waited. And waited some more, until all he could hear was America’s heavy breathing. Was the lad finished? Well, good-all very well and good. Now he could probably clear his throat and, as dignifiedly as one could manage like this, request assistance.
However, the angered footfalls resumed their quest, and England stilled as they neared him. A mantra of low curses and ill-bred promises was pouring from America’s lips, and, quiet as the voice was, England could hear it clearly. …Just how close exactly was the boy to him? He hoped the idiot wouldn’t do anything rash; goodness knows he may take his rage out on England even once aware of his presence. America wasn’t known for his self-control, after all; it certainly wasn’t that which had gotten him into his current position of power.
England’s eyes trailed wayward, trying to peer between the two cabinets he was squashed between, into the darkness blanketing the (once again quiet) room. He could vaguely distinguish the alignment of chairs where they’d all been seated earlier, a dying potted fern, some nice glass-shaded lamps, a destroyed ball-point pen on the floor nearby, America about to make a grab for that grey filing cabinet England was shoved up against, and- oh.
“Fucking hell,” England choked, fumbling over the carpet as he pressed himself against the cabinet behind him, watching, mortified, as his frontal barrier was lifted from the ground and soon after met harshly with the room’s opposing wall. Cringing from the sharp sound, England crumpled against the file cabinet behind him, fingers clawing at the wall. Oh Jesus, oh shit, oh hell-
“I know you’re hidin’ there, you sonuvabitch Red!”
--oh, fuck. There was no way England wouldn’t be spending the remainder of the conference in a hospital.
America’s hand wrapped itself tightly around England’s wrist, yanking the smaller man from his “hidin’” place, and whipping him against the side of the nearest table. England cried out breathlessly, his ribs rattling in pain from the contact. He slumped to the floor. “America, you little--fuck…”
Strands of moonlight illuminated America’s hellishly pleased grin, glasses glinting, lips curled upward over nacre teeth to reveal a sadistic smile that sat below liquid cobalt orbs, narrowed in spite. England might have considered pissing himself if he wasn’t ready to kill the boy and then ravish him indecently afterward. He looked at the room without really seeing it, but it registered in his mind that the door had been torn clean (well no, not exactly “clean”, seeing as there were bolts and screws littering the nearby floor) off its hinges, a rather expensive-looking vase had been shattered nearby, and there was an absolutely ridiculous dent marring the wall where England’s lovely grey file cabinet had been chucked.
Splendid. Well, it could be worse, he supposed.
“I oughtta take the pipe of yours and shove it so far up your ass you’ll hafta shit out of it through your mouth, Braginski!”
England, patting at his side and determining nothing was broken or punctured, made a face. “You twat, that doesn’t even make sense. If you’re going to be threatening, at least be witty about-oh hell, are you having another hallucinogen phase? Damn all those hippies of y--oi!”
America had gotten a hold on his tie and was tugging at it, lifting England from where he’d been left on the floor. “Sorry, I don’t speak communist. Try again, a little nicer now, and tell me how much better I am than you. Sound good?”
However, the angered footfalls resumed their quest, and England stilled as they neared him. A mantra of low curses and ill-bred promises was pouring from America’s lips, and, quiet as the voice was, England could hear it clearly. …Just how close exactly was the boy to him? He hoped the idiot wouldn’t do anything rash; goodness knows he may take his rage out on England even once aware of his presence. America wasn’t known for his self-control, after all; it certainly wasn’t that which had gotten him into his current position of power.
England’s eyes trailed wayward, trying to peer between the two cabinets he was squashed between, into the darkness blanketing the (once again quiet) room. He could vaguely distinguish the alignment of chairs where they’d all been seated earlier, a dying potted fern, some nice glass-shaded lamps, a destroyed ball-point pen on the floor nearby, America about to make a grab for that grey filing cabinet England was shoved up against, and- oh.
“Fucking hell,” England choked, fumbling over the carpet as he pressed himself against the cabinet behind him, watching, mortified, as his frontal barrier was lifted from the ground and soon after met harshly with the room’s opposing wall. Cringing from the sharp sound, England crumpled against the file cabinet behind him, fingers clawing at the wall. Oh Jesus, oh shit, oh hell-
“I know you’re hidin’ there, you sonuvabitch Red!”
--oh, fuck. There was no way England wouldn’t be spending the remainder of the conference in a hospital.
America’s hand wrapped itself tightly around England’s wrist, yanking the smaller man from his “hidin’” place, and whipping him against the side of the nearest table. England cried out breathlessly, his ribs rattling in pain from the contact. He slumped to the floor. “America, you little--fuck…”
Strands of moonlight illuminated America’s hellishly pleased grin, glasses glinting, lips curled upward over nacre teeth to reveal a sadistic smile that sat below liquid cobalt orbs, narrowed in spite. England might have considered pissing himself if he wasn’t ready to kill the boy and then ravish him indecently afterward. He looked at the room without really seeing it, but it registered in his mind that the door had been torn clean (well no, not exactly “clean”, seeing as there were bolts and screws littering the nearby floor) off its hinges, a rather expensive-looking vase had been shattered nearby, and there was an absolutely ridiculous dent marring the wall where England’s lovely grey file cabinet had been chucked.
Splendid. Well, it could be worse, he supposed.
“I oughtta take the pipe of yours and shove it so far up your ass you’ll hafta shit out of it through your mouth, Braginski!”
England, patting at his side and determining nothing was broken or punctured, made a face. “You twat, that doesn’t even make sense. If you’re going to be threatening, at least be witty about-oh hell, are you having another hallucinogen phase? Damn all those hippies of y--oi!”
America had gotten a hold on his tie and was tugging at it, lifting England from where he’d been left on the floor. “Sorry, I don’t speak communist. Try again, a little nicer now, and tell me how much better I am than you. Sound good?”
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