HETALIA KINK MEME PART 5

Feb 26, 2011 13:29


axis powers
hetalia kink meme
part 5

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Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy (1/?) anonymous July 4 2009, 20:11:38 UTC
Moments such as this were rare. Whenever a fight wasn't in progress, recovery from one was. Neither situation was particularly desirable, yet, in the middle of both, there were occasionally days or even just hours like this where time, temporarily, seemed to stretch out forever. Not exactly a moment of peace, because there was always so much stress just beyond the horizon, but a moment to stop and breathe, to lick wounds and plan the next move.

England had planned this very carefully, urgently in need of a rest. He had dreamed of a chance to pause like this for a long time now; at some points the idea of it had been all that kept him going. No matter what hardships, he promised himself, he would have that idyllic moment suspended from the chaos of everyday life.

He surveyed the room, as planned by himself, and saw that it was good. Sunset light, captured and framed by the window. A cup of tea. Even the rare delight of a scone, on a plate beside the newspaper. He lowered himself into the armchair accompanying this arrangement with reverence. He took the cup of tea, raised it to his lips. He inhaled the bitter fragrance. Perfect.

Nothing would disturb the moment. Nothing.

“England!”

He sighed.

It happened once every few decades or so. Not the shouting, though; that was an everyday occurrence. It would be unusual not to endure the demands that he pay her more attention, leave her alone, stop fighting with various other nations, kick the damn ass of various other nations so that she didn't have to get involved and, on the whole, do exactly the opposite of whatever he was doing at the time.

One thing, of course, was constant. That was the demand that he never, under any circumstance, be sat still doing nothing or, even worse, drinking tea. Easing back into an armchair, armed with newspaper and warm, comforting cup, was boring. There was no higher crime than that. It was also exactly what England was doing and had been waiting to do all week when he heard the latest yell.

“England!”

No. What happened , once every few decades, was that America would find herself caught up in another relationship. At first this had bothered England. He couldn't help but feel a duty to protect America, with all of his embedded instincts for chivalry charging to the fore. All of his favorite legends indicated that it was the job of the knight in shining armour to defend his lady's honor and, no matter what disagreements or outright furious arguments they had, he thought he would always fulfill that role.

It quickly became evident, however, that America did not have the slightest interest in conforming to England's traditional fairytales and mythology. From the outset, she was always in charge. England might think his job was to protect her, but his services were never called for. On the whole, America did a better job than he could of keeping her lovers in line.

Inevitably, the arrangement didn't sit well, in the long term, for her latest interest.

Inevitably, the relationship ended.

England had lost track of America's fleeting romances. He did know that once every few decades, always when he was just settling down for some serious reading of the newspaper, America would storm into his house with no warning and begin to rage about the newest disaster.

“England!”

He sighed and folded his paper carefully, precisely on the crease, and lowered it onto the table. His tea cup clinked into the saucer beside it. He straightened his tie, tried to look authoritative, cleared his throat-

-and before he could open the door or compose himself entirely, America burst in.

“I can't believe him!” she wailed. Both her fists and teeth were clenched. England eyed the ornaments on his mantelpiece nervously as America marched up and down beside them, waving her arms. “I mean, I know it wasn't going great, but we could have worked things out, we could have got it together again. And then he does this!”

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Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy (2/?) anonymous July 4 2009, 20:13:45 UTC
“Er...”

“He said he wasn't sure of himself and he needed time alone, so that he could think about things. He was always on his own anyway! He never paid any attention to me! And then just when I really needed his help he abandons me! I hate him! I never want to see him again! Why did he have to leave me? And by the way, he's probably going to try and beat you up later.”

Up until that point, England had been content to let America vent her rage while he chased after her, saving fragile items from their doom. At these words he paused. One hand propped up a vase of faded flowers, the other had caught an old portrait in a glass frame, but his face took on all of the shock and rage.

“He's what? Who?”

“Oh - Russia.”

The world went dark. Noise wavered in and out of existence. Everything suddenly seemed a hundred miles away. England was fairly sure that, in that instant, his heart stopped and his blood simultaneously froze. It was difficult to force his strangled words out through a throat desperately gasping for air.

“Russia?”

“Don't worry,” said America. England spluttered incoherently and she added with a casual hand wave, “I'll take care of it, ok? You just stay here and drink tea, or whatever it is you do. I can handle it. I'm just so... argh!”

Her voice tailed off into a growl again and she dropped into England's former chair. The way she sprawled across it retained none of England's stiff, awkward dignity. There was, after all, little point in sacrificing personal comfort for archaic and, to be blunt, boring formality.

She blew her hair away from her face. It coiled for a moment in the air then bounced back to exactly where it had started, though this time she ignored it. Her eyes were too troubled with her own thoughts to care about it, or England's hyperventilation in the corner.

“It would be ok if, you know, he'd just been a bit romantic about it,” she said. “But it feels like it didn't mean anything. Actually, he was kind of creepy.”

“You can't... you can't call Russia creepy.”

“Why not?”

“Because I'm the poor sod who'll end up in the middle of the fight!”

“I told you, I know what I'm doing. Calm down!”

It took time for the command to be obeyed, but, as ever, America knew she would have her way. She passed the time by disappearing into the kitchen, to return with a mug of coffee. This did trick, the sight of it returning England to his usual irritable state.

“Bloody hell. You know how to choose them, I suppose,” he said. He sat himself in a wooden chair with his cold cup of tea, wondering where the day had gone wrong.

“I can't help it,” said America, from the armchair. “I don't get all of your romance stuff. Queens and knights and quests and whatever, it all seems so stupid. No wonder you just hang around on your own here in this stuffy, rainy place.”

“I think you've missed the point.”

“Why ride a horse when you could drive? Why not use a gun to kill the monster? And who'd marry someone they'd never seen before? Stupid.”

She watched England roll his eyes, and then look at a blank patch of air. America was used to this. England often ended up consulting his imaginary friends when she criticized him. It was an opportunity which arose often; as far as plotholes went, England's stories were a veritable fishnet.

Even so, she could sense what was coming before it happened. It was how the story went. It was obvious, when you thought about it, that after her rebuke what England would say was...

“All right then, I'll show you.”

“What?” she said, though she could already guess. It was fun to play dumb with England just to see how high his blood pressure would rise before he started stamping off to find a drink.

“You only think it's stupid because you've never been treated... properly.”

On second thought, perhaps the red of his cheeks wasn't annoyance. America frowned. No, there it was, undeniably. England was actually blushing. As his cheeks went scarlet he added,

“It wouldn't mean anything, I only want to prove that it's not stupid. That's all.”

And, of course, America could only answer in one way.

“Okay. Prove there's something in all that stuff.”

“Now?”

“I give you one day. Bet you can't do it.”

“We'll see about that.”

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Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy (3/?) anonymous July 4 2009, 20:15:14 UTC
Fighting words they might have been, but England quickly discovered that he had his work cut out for him so late in the evening. A simple promenade alongside the river at night was his first idea. The fresh spark of the night air, the streetlights glittering on the water - what could possibly go wrong with that? Lonely as England might have been, isolated from everyone, he could tell what ought to win a woman's heart.

At first it seemed to be going well. England insisted that America change clothes, which she agreed to with little reluctance but plenty of snide comments on how cold and damp the air was over here at night. Once she emerged in a dress more appropriate than her usual shirt and skirt, they stepped smartly onto the street. America even managed not to laugh when England offered her his arm. She did pause for a second, staring at it as if it was a foreign object.

“What's that for?”

“You hold it.”

“Why?”

“You just do, all right?”

“Okay, okay...”

She slipped her arm into his. That minor misunderstanding out of the way, England strode down the street. It took a moment to find a pace which suited them both; the unfamiliar long skirt twined itself around America's leg and, rather than stumble helplessly after England, she jerked him back firmly to her side while she tried to untangle herself from her own clothing. Her own embarrassment was more than compensated for by the amusement of watching England trying to find somewhere he could look safely while her legs were exposed. So out of date. She might be out of a relationship, but at least she was going to win this bet.

A working agreement was eventually reached and they resumed the walk. They had, at least, chosen a pleasant evening. The air, dusted with the hint of rain, was cool against their skin and carried a faint trace of some unidentifiable scent. At a lull in the conversation, over the hush of the river, England asked in a suitable low voice,

“Can you smell that?”

America sniffed and shrugged.

“I'm not sure. Is it fries? Sorry, I mean your soggy chip things.”

“What- no! It's roses!”

“Smells more like your fish and chips to me.”

Bickering over the subject filled the five minutes it took to pass the source of the smell.

They passed the fish and chip shop in silence. America smiled broadly, white teeth glinting in the somewhat unromantic light of its neon sign. England made a private vow not to try and strike up another conversation.

Overhead an inky black diffused across the otherwise lilac tint of the sky. Light shivered on the water as a breeze blew over their reflection. America paused on the edge of the path, to lean over and watch the ripples spread outwards. The marble fence was cool to the touch, which in turn only reminded her of the permanent chill. Before she could even think of saying anything, something heavy fell into place around her shoulders.

She turned to find England risking another smile, if a marginally strained one. It was cute, in its own way. He was trying so hard to make this evening work that he had moved through pathetic and into pitiful. There was even something endearing about the way he edged across, leaned on the wall beside her, his arm pressing its heat against hers.

They looked out across the moonlit river in silence for as long as America could keep up the charade. This was approximately twenty seconds.

“I'm cold and bored, and I think it's starting to rain. Can we do something inside?”

“It's not going to start-”

It started to rain. It was only a drizzle, dribbling down from a brief gray cloud against the darker sky, but it was definitely raining. America pulled England's jacket off her shoulders and over her head, leaving his scruff of hair to flop downwards with the weight of the water. Grumbling, he consented that, yes, perhaps it might rain, maybe, and maybe they should think about retreating indoors.

On the way, he offered to lay his coat across a puddle, so that America could avoid getting her feet wet. She pointed out that even if her feet weren't already soaked, she was wearing the coat, and that dipping it in water would defy the point.

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Re: Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy (3/?) anonymous July 4 2009, 21:59:02 UTC
Oh man, I squeed with joy when I saw this fill. Been stalking this request. And yours is AWESOME. I love it all. I love England's reaction to "Oh, Russia's going to try and beat you up" and his dorky attempts to be a gentleman....oh AMERICA you don't know how lucky you are. The jacket thing killed me.

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OP anonymous July 5 2009, 01:52:35 UTC
OK this is just perfect <3

England and all of his romantic gestures and America having boyfriend troubles and then not getting England's romantic gestures AT ALL.

ILU anon,and I await more eagerly <3

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Re: Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy (3/?) anonymous July 5 2009, 05:58:15 UTC
Hahahahaha!
Few modern Americans get the idea of chivarly!

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Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy (4/?) anonymous July 5 2009, 20:56:14 UTC
He should have seen it coming. He really should have. It was romantic, though, it was exactly the sort of thing which might have won America round to his way of thinking, but she hadn't even given him a chance to try it. He had planned it all out as they sprinted through the rain - the dim glow of candles casting a dreamy half-light over a vase of roses, framing, at the center of it all, a lovingly prepared meal, crafted by his own hands.

When he tried proposing this, the scene ran thus.

"I could cook-"

"No."

"But-"

"No."

And that was that.

Adamant as she was that nothing England thought constituted a meal was going to pass her lips, however, America did admit that she was beginning to get hungry. England was forced to come up with another plan quickly and ended up taking a detour into the nearest expensive restaurant.

It was a worthy substitute for the evening he originally had in mind. They were ushered in with minimal fuss, guided across a floor so well polished America couldn't resist deliberately skidding down a good portion of it and eased into leather seats. The table was, yes, candle lit, and bore a tablecloth whiter than any England could have presented. From a distance, a woman caressed the keys of the piano. The music hummed around them.

England hoped America hadn't seen the name of the restaurant. He picked up the menu nervously, looking across at her as her eyes skimmed through each dish. It didn't take long for her to notice and return his staring with her own amused gaze.

"You okay?"

"Yes. Er. Are you?"

"Yeah. I just wondered..."

Ah. England sighed.

"What?"

"Doesn't France own this place? That's cheating."

And there it was. Barefaced lying wasn't usually included in any rulebook for chivalry, but in all fairness the knights of old had engaged in more than a little deceit themselves. England felt justified in saying,

"No! He doesn't! Certainly not!"

"It is! I can see him over there, look - France!"

England dropped his head onto his hands. America, in contrast, had half risen from her seat and was waving energetically. She bounced cheerfully down as France sauntered over. It was definitely sauntering, too, if not verging on a swagger. Heaven forbid that France should ever walk anywhere.

"Oui, mademoiselle?" he smiled, because normal talking was also out of the question. He wasn't quite so obsequious when he saw England, but kept his tone alluring as he addressed America. "Shall I remove le rosbif?"

England opened his mouth for the standard retort, then reconsidered.

He was here to show America what romance was. The definition did not encompass jumping up and throttling people. But, with that said, it did involve defending the honor of the lady. He stood up, eye to eye with France.

"I know you," he began. "Don't you dare-"

He was abruptly cut off by a hand on his shoulder shoving him back into his seat. America stood in his place, with the added bonus of towering over France. The restaurant went silent.

"Do not," she said, "insult him. Not now. Usually, sure, call him all the names you want, he asks for it. But not today or you'll have to deal with me. Okay?"

There was a tense moment. Around them, other diners had paused with their forks halfway to their mouths, the food going cold. France didn't look away from America until, with a grin, he bowed.

"I understand. Enjoy your meal. But, Angleterre?"

"What?"

"How... unsporting of you. Having a lady fight your battles."

With that he was gone, lest America hit him. There didn't seem to be much chance of that, though; as England's face reddened, America laughed loudly, breaking the stunned silence and signaling to the other tables that the cabaret had finished for the evening. England glared down at the table until the food arrived, which he then pushed around his plate without enthusiasm. America, who had taken advantage of his distraction to order a somewhat unromantic and unrefined cheeseburger, paused between mouthfuls.

"What's wrong?"

"I'm supposed to be the one defending your honour and- and all that."

"Oh, be quiet, limey," she laughed. When England's scowl deepened she went on, "That was a joke, okay? Lighten up. You've still got twenty-two hours to convince me."

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Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy (5/?) anonymous July 5 2009, 20:58:29 UTC
Aware that the romantic meal could hardly be salvaged now, the two ended it rather more swiftly than intended. As they left, France waved to America and laughed at England.

This put him in no mood for intricate planning, though the night air, cold as crushed ice and still slightly damp, did cool his temper slightly. America stretched her arms out beside him, then lowered them and tugged at her dress again. She had already commandeered England's jacket before they went outside, leaving him to shiver. As far as she was concerned, it should teach him not to insist that she wear such impractical clothing.

"Where now?" she demanded. She didn't wait for an answer before wandering onwards; England had to hurry after her and grab her hand to redirect her.

"I thought the opera. If you don't object?"

To his surprise, she didn't. Opera hadn't struck him as America's sort of thing. He had assumed that there wouldn't be nearly enough giant robots to grab her attention, but she chattered happily enough - and incessantly enough - as they made their way from streetlamp to streetlamp.

Truth be told, America dreaded this next ordeal and was plotting a way to try and entertain herself. She had made a promise, after all, and there was something about England's stubborn perseverance with the task which was endearing in its own dismal way. His hair still dripped from the earlier rainstorm and his brows were locked in a frown, thinking hard about how he was going to meet the challenge, but she almost wanted to humor him.

Only almost, though. He wasn't proving anything. No knight won the day by looking so miserable that the opposition decided to spare him.

The opera house wasn't on the same terms as the grand, palatial structures boasted in the homes of Italy and Germany, but it was still an impressive sight. The marble pillars which propped up the ornate front were ablaze with light in the middle of the darkness, while the shadows of patrons wavered between them. The babble of crowd noise and the sharp notes of instruments being coaxed towards perfection spilled out onto the street. America looked it up and down before delivering her judgment.

"Wow, that's good. It looks almost as good as one of mine."

"Come on, hurry up, or we won't get in."

She was treated to a rushed slideshow of the steps, the entrance hall, the stunted laughter of over-dressed women drinking crystal flutes of champagne, trailing along with England's hand for guidance. She gripped his fingers tightly, a warning that if he stranded her in the middle of these pretentious people she would break his wrist later, but he only gave her a fleeting glance over his shoulder. If she hadn't known better, she would have thought he was smiling at her.

They were seated before they had a chance to catch their breath, engulfed by the plush seats within one of the boxes. Never one to sit around doing nothing, America leaned forwards to examine the rest of the hall.

The sight of the seats stretching away underneath them was enough to give anyone vertigo and, if they didn't succeed, the amount of grandeur crammed into the decor was overwhelming. Neither caused America any consternation.

"I can see into the orchestra pit from up here."

"Sit down."

"Why? Don't be boring. That curtain's starting to look a bit old, isn't it? You should get a new one. A gold one. Do you think there's an evil masked man lurking in some catacombs underneath us? How long until it starts? Can we get some candy or something?"

She settled down by the start of the performance. As the curtain slithered back and the first bars of the music swelled up to their seat, England focused on the program, expecting to be asked a hundred questions on what was going on and terrified that he would have no clue himself.

Some time later, when he hadn't received the expected prod in the ribs, he relaxed. If there was a plot going on somewhere, he couldn't find it. It was enough to appreciate the purity of the singing, the breathtaking mechanics and artistry which had sculpted the performance with devoted attention.

When it was nearing its end and he still hadn't heard from America, he looked around. At the same moment, her head lolled sideways onto his shoulder, lost in sleep.

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Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy (6/?) anonymous July 6 2009, 07:21:24 UTC
With a note that shook the rafters, the opera burst into its conclusion. England shook America awake. She blinked, yawned and stretched again. This time she allowed him to take her arm as he lead her out. Typical, really, that the first time a sensitive gesture like that was successful she was still half-asleep and entirely ignorant of it.

England didn't sleep well that night. This was partly because America was sleeping well, and in his bed, but as he tossed and turned on the sofa he tried to work out what he could spend the rest of his time on. The only idea which presented itself by morning was breakfast in bed.

Not long later, a suspicious thread of black smoke unwound itself from the kitchen.

England followed shortly afterwards with a plate full of something black balanced on one hand. This he chucked away, then breathed in deeply, glad of the oxygen.

The other hand held a plate of limp and unimpressive toast.

Unperturbed, he made a cup of tea - something he could do - to promptly discover that America was still asleep. He retreated with the cooking disaster and, hoping it would prove to be a stroke of genius rather than idiocy, prepared another gift less likely to offend the senses. When America still hadn't emerged at midday, as far as he could tell from knocking on her door, he wondered whether even that was worth it.

It was a rose. A single rose.

America's eyes had opened on it not long after England had left. She sat up carefully, quietly, not wanting to summon him right back inside. The flower on her pillow tumbled softly forward.

She picked it up and twirled it back and forth a few times between her fingertips. Its velvet, crimson petals hadn't quite bloomed to their full extent yet, rising instead in graceful curves from the bud. It was exquisite, in its rich opulence, yet young, fresh, color still vivid and untouched by age.

Never before had America seen something quite so... well... romantic. It was clichéd, yes, but sometimes clichés existed for a reason. She didn't even notice a thorn graze her thumb, entranced by the beauty of the flower itself, nor the bead of blood which rolled down into her palm.

It was so like England. No words, no direct confrontation, only a subtle touch which he could deny later if he so chose. Should she ask, it certainly wouldn't be admitted as a heartfelt gesture. Only an idea to try and further his plot to convince her that romanticism had some merit. But America knew how to read a situation, even though she found it almost universally more fun not to do so and then watch the results with interest and, if possible, a bucket of popcorn. This was more than another step in the game between them.

As far as she could remember, despite their arguments and taunts, he had always been there. It was plain, it was simple, but it was dependable. He would criticize everything she did and then turn up anyway to iron out the minor details inevitably overlooked. She could ignore him for years when he needed her help and he would still be grateful when she gave in and rescued him from whatever predicament he had stumbled into. If things did get... complex with Russia, she knew, more in that moment than before, that he would be on her side, despite his protests at being stuck in the middle of the two.

A single rose, left on her pillow.

It was such a small, unoriginal gesture. She didn't understand why she could suddenly feel tears running down her cheeks.

She tried to dab them away, but her eyes were still rimmed with red when England entered the room in the afternoon. He hovered uncertainly in the doorway.

"Er. Bloody hell."

He shuffled his feet. America sniffed.

"Uh... sorry," she mumbled, then tried to force her usual smile. "I'm fine, just tired, really."

England ignored her and strode across the room. He dug awkwardly in his pocket for a moment, only to produce a clean handkerchief. Even as she laughed at how characteristically old-fashioned it was, America, to her irritation, realized that she was crying again. England sat beside her on the bed and put an arm around her shoulders. At first America froze, her instinct being to hide this silly weakness, but it was pointless. She surrendered and, shocked at herself, cried onto England's shoulder.

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Re: Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy (6/?) anonymous July 6 2009, 07:50:15 UTC
Squeeeeeeeeee you updated! And what a lovely chapter - England's attempts at breakfast failed, but the rose~ oh that was lovely. And when America begins to cry because of it.... oh man, can't wait for the next chapter.

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Re: Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy (6/?) anonymous July 6 2009, 09:51:57 UTC
Oh man, I read all of these in one go. England is so cute and made of fail, but this chapter was incredibly adorable! More please!

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Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy (7/?) anonymous July 6 2009, 15:02:29 UTC
The incident was never mentioned again. When America finally disentangled herself from England, she ordered him out of the room while she changed and prepared herself for a day already half over. By the time she was done a mutual understanding had established itself that the morning so far, to all intents and purposes, had not happened.

It was late enough now that rather than wander aimlessly, trying to fill a day with activities which sounded vaguely romantic in theory but failed in practice, England announced the crowning feature of any historical romance worth the crumbling paper it was written on. This time he overruled even the loudest of America's protests.

They were going to a dance, and she was going to like it.

With America dangerously close to beginning a fight, he permitted her to fetch her own lunch and spent the afternoon panicking over what, exactly, he had let himself in for. He was a nervous wreck when he heard a frustrated sigh from inside the bedroom and America shout through the door,

“Okay, I'm ready, and I hope you're happy. I look like an idiot.”

She certainly didn't add much dignity by edging backwards out of the room, still trying to drag a glove down over her elbow, but the graceful folds of the silk gown and the bare sweep of her back still chased all coherent thought out of England's mind, leaving only one or two disjointed syllables.

“I hate your fashion,” said America.

“Um...”

“Am I supposed to dance in this?”

“Er.”

“It's like walking around wrapped in a blanket.”

What England wanted to say was - no, it suits you, it really does. America had the height and shape to pull off a traditional gown, accompanied by an eye for the outrageous trims and beads which were the contemporary height of fashion. What England wanted to say was that he had never imagined her looking so formal, so elegant, and the sight in front of him now took his breath away. What England wanted to say was that she would bring painters to their knees, writers to a cliché, the hearts of bystanders to a dead halt.

What England actually said was,

“Um, er.”

America finally wrenched the glove on fully and spread out her arms, casting a disdainful eye over her attire. The hem of her skirt whispered as it brushed along the floor and the beads draped around her neck chimed against each other.

“This feels so stupid. You know, I think your sense of fashion stalled in the nineteenth century. Never mind, I'm just glad I don't have to wear a ruff. Let's get this over with. Lead on.”

England finally shook himself into something resembling control. He fumbled around the room as he muttered,

“Oh, er, hang on. I got you something.”

America watched him dive into the kitchen, returning with a box in his hands - a box of chocolate bound with a broad, gold ribbon. America waited until she had taken it and, complete with gloves, taken one of the chocolates, before she said,

“If the atmosphere gets any more hackneyed in here I'll suffocate. Anyway, don't you have to parachute off a mountain, swim through a lake of man-eating alligators and scale my wall at night before you can give me these? That's the romantic thing.” She placed one in her mouth and pulled a grotesque face completely at odds with her almost regal clothing. “They're so sweet, too. How can you eat this?”

“You said you wanted candy. There you are. If you don't want it, then you can bloody well give it back.”

For some reason, America declined. She excused herself to stow the chocolate out of sight, where it couldn't be stolen back, then rejoined England.

He was prepared this time. He cleared his throat, took America's gloves hand and kissed her lightly on the fingertips, ignoring her teasing mock swoon. It was still drizzling when they stepped outside; before she could suggest they call the evening off, he drew an umbrella from behind his back in the same way a knight would his sword from its scabbard. Grudgingly, America settled against him under its shelter and for the second time they stepped out together into the evening.

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Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy (8/?) anonymous July 6 2009, 15:04:16 UTC
Needless to say, it did not go as planned.

America couldn't dance. At least, she couldn't dance in any way England understood and couldn't even try properly in a dress so unusual to her, whilst standing at her full height far above him. Any attempts England might have made to correct her faltering steps were cut incredibly short by the presence of her high heels. He didn't dare cross those, and the result was a rather feeble attempt at walking across the room.

Other couples swooped past them in dizzying rainbows of color and fabric. Somehow, everyone except the pair in the corner managed to glide around as if they could hover off the ground, following a precise course without once seeming mechanical. America watched them wistfully over England's shoulder as he tried to stop her falling over for the fifth time in as many minutes.

“I'm sorry,” he said. She leaned back, but he turned his head away.

“That's okay.”

“This isn't working out, is it?”

“We aren't really tripping the light fantastic, no. Just... tripping.”

She gave a physical demonstration of the point. They almost ended up headfirst in a potted fern. England looped his arm more tightly around her waist and tried to move at twice the speed of the music, in a valiant but doomed attempt to catch up with everyone else, only twisting both of them further into confusion.

“How long do I have left?” he asked, exasperated. America, who had spent half the time trying to lead anyway, forced him to circle past an ornate grandfather clock, ticking away on one side of the hall. They took their time reaching it, as the heel of America's shoe stabbed into her skirt and pinned her to the floor for a second, but even when she read the crystal dial she wasn't sure exactly what the limit had been.

“An hour?” she guessed. “Something like that. Why, getting nervous?”

England grunted a reply. She sighed and placed her chin on his shoulder again as they moved in silence.

For a second, she thought about Russia. He had never taken her dancing because their entire relationship had been a dance, eying each other warily but insisting that everything was fine, wonderful, absolutely. No problems anywhere in sight. They got on perfectly. Right?

The thoughts didn't last long. She was sure it was worrying which had given her morning its... emotional start. Breaking down now, in public, while England was still nearby, was not an option. It would be rather difficult to hide it, pressed against him, so close that she could smell the rain, tea and distant, long faded scent of rum which still clung to him. It wasn't an unpleasant smell, as such. It was familiar, distinctly England, and as such it was... comforting.

Thoughts elsewhere, she stumbled again, and England stood back. She tried not to look annoyed, without even knowing why she would be, and took the opportunity to brush down her dress and rearrange the scarf hanging from her arms. He said,

“Shall we move on? I don't have much time left and... all right, I'll be honest, you were right. This is a bloody waste of time.”

“I told you so,” she teased, but found that her heart wasn't in it. After all, loathe as she was to admit it, he had been right, too.

No one did treat her tenderly, because she was America, she picked her own fights and could fend for herself. Every time she thought she might be getting close to someone, they developed a nervous look in their eyes when they noticed her, found excuses to run out of the room at top speed. There was no use trying to court her emotions, because she would only indulge others when she felt like it, but all the same - it would be nice if people tried on occasion. No matter how much she laughed at them, the past day, or two evenings, had shown her a world she hadn't known existed and still didn't understand. Her natural curiosity didn't want it to end.

England didn't notice how preoccupied his dance partner was as they slipped out of the room. One awkward silence was much like another, and the entire challenge so far had been awkward silences interspersed with sarcastic criticisms.

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Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy (9/10) anonymous July 6 2009, 17:45:20 UTC
The rain had eased off when they got outside, but America insisted they shelter on a bench under a tree anyway to be on the safe side. The street lamp was a fuzzy halo of orange in the misty drizzle. Her skirt trailed through a puddle and stuck to her ankles, like seaweed, while she leaned against some graffiti scrawled across the bench. A more dismal end to the evening couldn't be imagined.

England dropped onto the other end of the seat. He scraped his hair back from where it was plastered against his forehead and raised up his arms, in the international gesture of defeat.

“That's it.”

“That's what?”

“That's it,” he said. “All I can think of now is Shakespeare, and I know-”

“Oh, please, not-”

“-And I know you'll say 'oh, please, not Shakespeare'.”

Anyone who doubted the power of reverse psychology would have done well to witness that moment as, within the space of two seconds, America's expression shifted from bored beyond expression to idly curious. She rested her elbows on the back of the bench.

“Try me, then. You might as well. We've got nothing better to do now.”

“Really? Well, all right...”

England coughed into a hand. He had spent most of the morning, while believing America to be asleep, reading through his most beloved, precious book, with a premonition that he would be forced into his last resort before the evening was over. Inwardly, he cursed Shakespeare for the first time in his life, wondering whether the playwright had ever had to contend with the sour aftermath of a rainfall and a solely disinterested audience of one.

Outwardly, he recited,

“One fairer than my love? The all-seeing sun ne'er saw her match since first the world begun.”

“Romeo and Juliet?” America pulled another face. “They ended up killing themselves, didn't they? Not that I blame them, if they went around talking like that all the time.”

“Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?”

America stared at the sky in a pointed manner. England looked up, and had a raindrop splash from the boughs of the tree into his eyes. It was not, perhaps, the most ideal quotation he could have chosen.

“This is a summer's day to you,” said America, clearly in agreement. “I might take that as an insult. And I think the rain's getting heavier again, by the way.”

“Love comforteth like sunshine after rain?”

“You're not getting anywhere. Sorry.”

They didn't say anything more. Though only the length of the bench was between them, they could have been in two separate worlds. Somewhere in the night, a clock chimed. The cold toll, slicing through the darkness, marked the end of the challenge's time limit. It was undeniably a failure for England. They had ended up sat on a bench, in the rain, in silence. Far from proving himself right, he had created what was possibly the least romantic situation in the history of men, women and a desire to have a little more courtship than dragging the opposite sex into one's cave.

He stood up and raised the umbrella again. Rivers of rain streamed over the edge until the supports began to creak and bend., leaving America to dodge the torrent as she dove for shelter alongside him. She was smiling. England guessed that this was because she had won her bet and didn't feel any more cheerful for the knowledge. One chance to prove to her that traditional could, on occasion, be best, and he had blown it.

His only consolation prize was that he seemed to have lifted her from her melancholy, but even that wasn't entirely reassuring. He would still have Russia to deal with in the future, because he knew the man would never take such an insult lying down. England was going to live in fear of that friendly, helpful smile for a long time to come.

In the meantime, the absence of taunts from America was somewhat disconcerting, but England couldn't be bothered to investigate. He trudged onwards under the umbrella staring at the ground with dull, baleful eyes.

He didn't notice when his footsteps suddenly became the only ones which echoed down the street - not until, in a quiet voice, America said,

“Look - the rain's stopped.”

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Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy (10/10) anonymous July 6 2009, 17:47:41 UTC
England paused, then froze at a light, cool touch on his arm. He half turned, to find America's hand resting there. She was still smiling.

“You can see the stars,” she said.

Hesitatingly, he lowered the umbrella to his side and folded it up, then raised his head. America was right. The black space formerly shrouded by clouds was now, in contrast to their luck so far, dusted with stars reflected in the puddles around their feet. America slid her hand around his shoulders until, unless England was much mistaken, she was embracing him. She didn't move away despite the shock which must have been obvious on his face.

“What's up with you? I thought you were bored with this. You haven't even gloated that you won.”

“Did I?” she asked. England couldn't believe it. She sounded as if she was about to laugh - about to laugh, even though her clothes were soaked through with rain, her hair ragged and her feet sore from her dancing shoes.

“I did sort of assume that being soaked to the skin in the middle of a cold street at night translated into me losing. Do correct me if I'm wrong.”

“I've been thinking, and don't interrupt saying that that makes a change. I was thinking about all of the other people I've known, and it sort of... made me realize, I guess.”

“Realise what?”

“Romance, even traditional romance... it doesn't have to be about dancing and gifts and really boring poetry. It's about being with the other person. That's all.”

For the first time, the silence wasn't awkward. England had no desire to break it, not when he could stand in the now crystal clear air with America against his side. Her touch kept the cold from him and, more importantly, supported him, because he was sure that he would otherwise have collapsed at her last speech.

When he finally found words to talk, he said,

“Even when the other person is boring?”

“It hasn't been boring. You've shown me new stuff, and even if it wasn't my sort of thing you tried. You tried really hard, and for me. What could be more romantic than that?”

Now, England knew, his mouth was hanging open. Shocked, on second thought, didn't even begin to cover it. Nor did gobsmacked and flabbergasted, the alternatives his mental thesaurus was throwing up. This was unbelievable. Then again, America always had liked to deny convention. She grinned.

“But don't let it get to your head, okay? Like you said, it doesn't mean anything. You were only proving it's not stupid, right?”

His disbelief reached its highest point as she leaned down, kissed him - and was gone.

She kicked off her dancing shoes and, barefoot, skipped ahead. She took England's hand and pulled him into her own dance. Finally managing to move in unison, they danced through the puddles to the sound of nothing but their own laughter, scattering raindrops filled with the mirror image of stars. Painfully hackneyed, absolutely insane - and what better definition was there of romance?

The moment trapped in the raindrops was a perfect moment. Unlike England's solitude with his tea and the newspaper, there really was nothing which could disturb it. Nothing.

--

Thanks for all the comments, guys, they're really appreciated. I hope this is all right, OP!

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Re: Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy (10/10) anonymous July 6 2009, 22:33:00 UTC
The scene with America emerging in a dress and striking England dumb - while NOT NOTICING and complaining bitterly every step of the way - is perhaps the most lolworthy part. My favorite at any rate. But the ending - that was d'awwwwwww, with her admitting he showed her something, and dancing in the rain, awwwwww.

(Also, the part where she remembers that no one tries to be tender with America, that everyone starts getting wild-eyed if she gets too close, was heartugging)

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