Role Reversal [3/5]
anonymous
June 21 2009, 22:45:17 UTC
After some time, England stood - or, more accurately, pushed a hand into the sand and tried to heave himself upwards. He got as far as balancing on two weak knees before, trembling, they collapsed under him. He folded across the sand like a broken doll. Alfred hurried to kneel beside England's head, trying to stroke back his hair, pat his pale skin, anything and everything he had encountered as a comforting gesture, but all he got in return was a snarl.
"Leave it! I'm fine." England drew another harsh breath. "I... I've got to take care of you."
"But-"
"You're... so small... I can... protect you..."
The words disappeared into his frown. He didn't move.
Not until a tiny, warm hand placed itself on his fingers.
England forced his eyes to open and found himself looking at Alfred, America. It was difficult to see, both through his bruised eye and with the darkness closing around them, but he could still make out a shaky smile.
"I'll look after you now, though, ok? Just until you're better."
He brought the candle forwards and nursed it back into health. With a sudden burst of the old stubborn pride, England tried to blow it out, but couldn't gather enough breath to achieve even that. The last thing he noticed, before he drifted into an uneasy sleep, was Alfred huddling into the crook of his arms where he had fallen.
Role Reversal [4/5]
anonymous
June 21 2009, 22:46:15 UTC
Not only was he late for a meeting he himself called, not only was he trying to interfere with foreign politics which really didn't concern him, not only was he asking someone else to clear up the mess he made - he couldn't even make a decent cup of tea.
Arthur eyed the watery substance in his cup with advanced skepticism. If tea had been involved in its preparation, it was only from a distance. Typical. They might share tastes in food - which was gratifying, given how few people ever willingly subjected themselves to Arthur's cooking and the even smaller number who managed not to rush to the nearest bathroom afterwards - but when it came to beverages, Arthur found America completely clueless, and vice versa.
Tea wasn't a drink, it was an art form. The Warming of the Teapot, the Pouring of the Milk, the Presentation of the Biscuits. Every step was integral to the production of a good cup of tea. Bypassing that ritualistic setup was a recipe only for the brown water he now held in front of him. What could anyone hope to achieve by dropping a soggy bag of crap into a cup and pouring scalding water over it? Honestly. Arthur had no idea why he ever put up with it in the first place.
Except that he did know, perfectly well. He needed that tea. It was what kept him going when the stress was piling up yet again. He wasn't the nation he once was, no matter how much he tried to deny it, and a that comfort after a tiring day was sometimes all that convinced him he wasn't going to give in. It gave himself time to reflect upon himself, was something he could appreciate, something which calmed and soothed him when he felt weak. Even if it was made by America. Even if it did sound uncomfortably like a metaphor for his relationship with... well, no one in particular, because he was, of course, entirely independent and would never be lured away from his house in the middle of the night for any reason.
Where was America, anyway?
At some heathen hour of the morning, because time zones were no barrier for a Hero with capital 'H' included, Arthur had received a telephone call. Several, in fact; it had taken five tries to convince him that what he wanted to do, more than anything, right now, including sleep, was go to America's house for an emergency meeting. When he arrived someone had presented him with a cup of coffee. He had tried arguing, demanding to see America and find out why he had been brought there or, in lieu of that, to see a cup of tea. The coffee was swapped for the brown water and he was left to his own devices.
He wrinkled up his nose. There was nothing for it. He was going to have to drink this abomination. He opened his mouth, raised the cup to his lips-
-and heard the door click. He slammed the cup down and jumped to his feet, furious tirade already well underway.
"Where the hell have you been? I come all this way to find you aren't even here! Damn considerate of you, I'm sure. Don't mind me, I'm only got up in the middle of the bloody night to- America?"
Role Reversal [5/5]
anonymous
June 21 2009, 22:47:35 UTC
America dropped heavily into the chair Arthur had recently vacated. His head fell forwards, but not before Arthur saw the scrapes across it and took in how carefully he moved. It was as if his limbs would fall apart if he treated them too harshly. Even more shocking was that he didn't say a word, just raised quivering hands and rested his forehead on them. Arthur paused, then said,
"What happened?"
"Nothing."
With a sniff, America tried to raise his head and deliver his usual bright grin. Instead he grimaced at the stab of pain and let his head fall again. Arthur raised an eyebrow. No one could do this quite so impressively, but, without America watching, the effect was lost.
"Nothing? I suppose you just walked into a door, then."
"Don't be sarcastic at me. Oh, God..."
"I'll get some help."
"That's not what I'm complaining about. I'm complaining about the fact that someone had to see me like this."
Arthur paused, and then, slowly, eased himself onto the arm of the chair. Even sat down with his head bowed, America was still as tall as him. When had that happened? Where had the years gone? It didn't seem so long ago that he was a rising star and rearing America to follow in his footsteps, just as determined - or bloodyminded, take your pick - but always, very decidedly, behind him. These days, though, he so often found himself in America's shadow...
He suppressed the thought and took America's arm, tending to the gash which tore down it. All the while he tried to come up with something to ease the tense silence. Expressing himself wasn't his strong point at the best of times and, at that moment, there was a lot of unspoken emotional baggage waiting in the wings which had to be skirted around very carefully.
It was the unexpected memory of a young America, peering shyly from the grass at the visitors to his homeland, which presented Arthur with some clue. It was time, just this once, to place the patriotic prejudices aside. He thought of the days when he would turn up on the seashore and find a child running, overjoyed, towards him, the days when he and his small companion would be intrepid explorers in a relatively unknown land, as close as father and son or two brothers. As they both grew older the roles might have changed, and they might have grown apart, but they both shared those memories. Somewhere, they were still, in their own way, family.
The only verbal equivalent to this internal monologue which Arthur could compose was,
"It's all right. I've seen you through a lot."
America snorted, then flinched.
"Ow. No. I've seen you through a lot."
"Shut up when I'm trying to be comforting, you ungrateful bastard."
"I can take care of myself."
"Then why did you call me over? You can't even make a cup of tea."
"Why would I want to?"
The argument went on, all of it irrelevant. It was easier than trying to find an area of conversation which didn't provoke either argument or painful memories. Alfred watched as Arthur wound a bandage around his arm and found, to his surprise, that he welcomed the excuse the argument gave for spending time together. He had forgotten the last time he'd felt smaller than anyone, and didn't intend for it to happen again any time soon, but as they said, it was lonely at the top. Sometimes, in his darker moments, he missed the days when he could rely on England for help, rather than providing it. It had been so long since he was able to sit, peaceful and undisturbed, with Arthur. Far too long.
Re: Role Reversal [5/5]
anonymous
June 21 2009, 23:32:23 UTC
Above author!anon doesn't mind and quite enjoyed reading this :) I really enjoyed that you showed two different moments with the same characters &hearts'
This was adorable, thank you so much. I loved how Arthur is still a bit of a dork in this situation.
Tea wasn't a drink, it was an art form. The Warming of the Teapot, the Pouring of the Milk, the Presentation of the Biscuits. Every step was integral to the production of a good cup of tea.
"Leave it! I'm fine." England drew another harsh breath. "I... I've got to take care of you."
"But-"
"You're... so small... I can... protect you..."
The words disappeared into his frown. He didn't move.
Not until a tiny, warm hand placed itself on his fingers.
England forced his eyes to open and found himself looking at Alfred, America. It was difficult to see, both through his bruised eye and with the darkness closing around them, but he could still make out a shaky smile.
"I'll look after you now, though, ok? Just until you're better."
He brought the candle forwards and nursed it back into health. With a sudden burst of the old stubborn pride, England tried to blow it out, but couldn't gather enough breath to achieve even that. The last thing he noticed, before he drifted into an uneasy sleep, was Alfred huddling into the crook of his arms where he had fallen.
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Arthur eyed the watery substance in his cup with advanced skepticism. If tea had been involved in its preparation, it was only from a distance. Typical. They might share tastes in food - which was gratifying, given how few people ever willingly subjected themselves to Arthur's cooking and the even smaller number who managed not to rush to the nearest bathroom afterwards - but when it came to beverages, Arthur found America completely clueless, and vice versa.
Tea wasn't a drink, it was an art form. The Warming of the Teapot, the Pouring of the Milk, the Presentation of the Biscuits. Every step was integral to the production of a good cup of tea. Bypassing that ritualistic setup was a recipe only for the brown water he now held in front of him. What could anyone hope to achieve by dropping a soggy bag of crap into a cup and pouring scalding water over it? Honestly. Arthur had no idea why he ever put up with it in the first place.
Except that he did know, perfectly well. He needed that tea. It was what kept him going when the stress was piling up yet again. He wasn't the nation he once was, no matter how much he tried to deny it, and a that comfort after a tiring day was sometimes all that convinced him he wasn't going to give in. It gave himself time to reflect upon himself, was something he could appreciate, something which calmed and soothed him when he felt weak. Even if it was made by America. Even if it did sound uncomfortably like a metaphor for his relationship with... well, no one in particular, because he was, of course, entirely independent and would never be lured away from his house in the middle of the night for any reason.
Where was America, anyway?
At some heathen hour of the morning, because time zones were no barrier for a Hero with capital 'H' included, Arthur had received a telephone call. Several, in fact; it had taken five tries to convince him that what he wanted to do, more than anything, right now, including sleep, was go to America's house for an emergency meeting. When he arrived someone had presented him with a cup of coffee. He had tried arguing, demanding to see America and find out why he had been brought there or, in lieu of that, to see a cup of tea. The coffee was swapped for the brown water and he was left to his own devices.
He wrinkled up his nose. There was nothing for it. He was going to have to drink this abomination. He opened his mouth, raised the cup to his lips-
-and heard the door click. He slammed the cup down and jumped to his feet, furious tirade already well underway.
"Where the hell have you been? I come all this way to find you aren't even here! Damn considerate of you, I'm sure. Don't mind me, I'm only got up in the middle of the bloody night to- America?"
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"What happened?"
"Nothing."
With a sniff, America tried to raise his head and deliver his usual bright grin. Instead he grimaced at the stab of pain and let his head fall again. Arthur raised an eyebrow. No one could do this quite so impressively, but, without America watching, the effect was lost.
"Nothing? I suppose you just walked into a door, then."
"Don't be sarcastic at me. Oh, God..."
"I'll get some help."
"That's not what I'm complaining about. I'm complaining about the fact that someone had to see me like this."
Arthur paused, and then, slowly, eased himself onto the arm of the chair. Even sat down with his head bowed, America was still as tall as him. When had that happened? Where had the years gone? It didn't seem so long ago that he was a rising star and rearing America to follow in his footsteps, just as determined - or bloodyminded, take your pick - but always, very decidedly, behind him. These days, though, he so often found himself in America's shadow...
He suppressed the thought and took America's arm, tending to the gash which tore down it. All the while he tried to come up with something to ease the tense silence. Expressing himself wasn't his strong point at the best of times and, at that moment, there was a lot of unspoken emotional baggage waiting in the wings which had to be skirted around very carefully.
It was the unexpected memory of a young America, peering shyly from the grass at the visitors to his homeland, which presented Arthur with some clue. It was time, just this once, to place the patriotic prejudices aside. He thought of the days when he would turn up on the seashore and find a child running, overjoyed, towards him, the days when he and his small companion would be intrepid explorers in a relatively unknown land, as close as father and son or two brothers. As they both grew older the roles might have changed, and they might have grown apart, but they both shared those memories. Somewhere, they were still, in their own way, family.
The only verbal equivalent to this internal monologue which Arthur could compose was,
"It's all right. I've seen you through a lot."
America snorted, then flinched.
"Ow. No. I've seen you through a lot."
"Shut up when I'm trying to be comforting, you ungrateful bastard."
"I can take care of myself."
"Then why did you call me over? You can't even make a cup of tea."
"Why would I want to?"
The argument went on, all of it irrelevant. It was easier than trying to find an area of conversation which didn't provoke either argument or painful memories. Alfred watched as Arthur wound a bandage around his arm and found, to his surprise, that he welcomed the excuse the argument gave for spending time together. He had forgotten the last time he'd felt smaller than anyone, and didn't intend for it to happen again any time soon, but as they said, it was lonely at the top. Sometimes, in his darker moments, he missed the days when he could rely on England for help, rather than providing it. It had been so long since he was able to sit, peaceful and undisturbed, with Arthur. Far too long.
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This was adorable, thank you so much. I loved how Arthur is still a bit of a dork in this situation.
Tea wasn't a drink, it was an art form. The Warming of the Teapot, the Pouring of the Milk, the Presentation of the Biscuits. Every step was integral to the production of a good cup of tea.
♥ ♥ ♥
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