[Fanfic] Yesterday's Promises
Title: Yesterday's Promises
Author/Artist: me
Character(s) or Pairing(s): Onesided little!America-->England, present day USxUK
Rating: T
Warnings: Mild suggestiveness near the end
Summary: An attempt to clean out his storage room leads England to remember a forgotten promise he made to little!America. He decides to finally make good on his word.
A/N: Oh man, I’ve been dying to take another shot at writing Hetalia, but I feel guilty doing it when I should be working on my other fic. Anyway, I told my guilt to shove it because I’m more interested in Hetalia now than the other fandom. Plus this idea hit me rather suddenly and I wanted to get started on it before I forgot about it.
I hope you can excuse the strangely-placed perspective shift. The story starts out in England’s POV, but the flashbacks are in America’s POV, even though they’re England’s memories. I apologize for any resulting awkwardness, but I just felt that the flashbacks would be more effectively told from America’s POV. That said, I hope you enjoy the fic!
**************
England looked around the huge, cluttered storage room, feeling slightly overwhelmed by the sight of the task that awaited him. It was a lazy Sunday summer afternoon and he had had nothing better to do, so he figured he ought to get caught up on some of the housework he had been putting off. He had already finished the dishes and vacuuming and had been on his way to tidy up his room when he had passed the door to the storage room. It had been quite a while since he’d been in there, but he recalled that it had been a bit disorganized the last time he had ventured inside.
Unfortunately for England, the mess was quite a bit worse than he had remembered. Boxes were piled haphazardly on top of each other, and he could see two or three that had collapsed under the weight of the ones on top of them, their contents spilling forth from the crushed cardboard. A weak spot in the antique roofing had allowed some water damage to the documents and boxes below it, while others were deteriorating with age. Sunlight streamed in through the single dingy little window at the back of the room, revealing the amount of dust in the stale air which was already making England’s nose itch.
The blond man sighed resignedly, setting his cleaning products on a nearby table and tying his pink unicorn apron more securely behind his back. Cleaning this room always brought back a rush of memories, a few of them pleasant, but most of them rather dark and painful. It was best if he did this as quickly as possible. England began to straighten the boxes, figuring that he only really needed to go through the boxes that were damaged to see what was no longer worth keeping.
He had just picked up an older cardboard box when the bottom suddenly gave out, dumping the contents all over the floor. England cursed as he crouched down to gather the items up again. That was when his eyes fell on a fairly sizeable black leather book that he didn’t recognize. Curious, England plopped down on the dusty floor to have a closer look. Judging by the cover and the condition of the pages, he guessed that the book was probably close to 300 years old. He didn’t realize the significance of that until he flipped open the cover.
As soon as he saw what was inside, his stomach plummeted; this was the scrapbook he had made for America when he had still been England’s precious little colony. Those days he had spent with pre-revolutionary America made up some of the sweetest memories in his possession, but they had been tainted by the heartbreak of America’s rebellion. His hand drifted absentmindedly to his now-aching heart. No matter how much time passed, those wounds never seemed to heal completely. Now he couldn’t even relive those treasured moments in his head without feeling a surge of pain and bitterness at the knowledge that the time he had spent with America apparently meant next to nothing to the man.
England told himself to shut the cursed thing and go back to his cleaning or else he would sink into one of those moods which made productivity impossible. But the masochist in him forced him to open his eyes and glance down at the age-yellowed pages before him. His gaze fell on the recipe card that was pasted to the paper, bearing instructions for making the strawberry pie America had adored so much as a child. Surrounding the recipe were sketches of him and America baking the pie together, drawn by England himself. If he closed his eyes, he could hear America’s childish giggling as he licked sweet red strawberry juice from his fingers after having stolen a piece of the fruit from their mixing bowl while England jokingly scolded him. God, he wasn’t aware of just how badly he missed that light, melodic laughter until that moment as he longingly recalled it…
America had been about nine years old when he felt the first stirrings of it. It was a curious, foreign feeling, a warm fluttering sensation that began in his heart and spread to his stomach whenever he spent time with England. The feeling was present when England allowed him to climb into bed with him during a scary thunder storm and tickled his cheek gently until he was able to fall asleep, when England was able to put down his work for an hour or two so that they could play toy soldiers together, and especially when England ruffled his hair and told him he loved him.
Although the sensation was unfamiliar to him, it wasn’t unpleasant. Actually, America decided that he kind of liked this feeling and even began to go out of his way to seek it. He wanted to make England happy so that England would smile at him, call him a good boy, and maybe even treat him to a kiss on the forehead. That was what prompted him to go out that day in search of something that would put a smile on the older nation’s face.
“England!” he called, racing across the yard as fast as his short little legs would carry him, a basket swinging wildly from his arm. “England, look what I found!”
England looked up from his gardening with a small smile as America approached him, his young face alight with cheerfulness and excitement. The man stood and brushed the dirt from his hands as his charge skidded to a halt before him. America was a little out of breath, his cheeks mildly sunburned, a few beads of sweat rolling down from his hairline in the warm, early summer sunlight, but none of it seemed to bother him as he held out his basket to show England.
“What’s this?” he asked, peering inside. “Ooh, fresh strawberries?”
“I picked them just for you, England!” America chirped, grinning brightly. England couldn’t help laughing at America’s endearing eagerness to please him. He reached into the basket and selected one of the plump red fruits and tasted it.
“Mm,” he sighed blissfully.
“Do you like ‘em?” America asked.
“They’re perfect,” England assured him. America took a strawberry from the basket and popped it happily into his mouth.
“I know what we can do,” England said with a smile. “Why don’t we make one of those strawberry pies you love so much? I’ll even let you help me.”
America grinned mischievously. “Maybe if I help, England won’t burn it this time.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the older nation sniffed stubbornly. “I rarely burn anything.”
The boy rolled his eyes fondly. “Yeah, ok, England.”
“It’s true, you little rascal!” England scolded playfully, pulling America close so that he could give him a noogie. “Now are you going to help or not?”
“I’ll help!” America replied eagerly. England smiled at him and offered the boy his hand. America’s heart fluttered as England’s warm, gentle fingers closed around his wrist and began to lead him inside.
“Hey England…” America began, his already sunburned cheeks pinking a bit more as he steeled himself for what he was about to say. “Know why I picked those for you?”
“Why’s that?” England asked, humoring the boy. He expected to hear something like “because I love strawberry pie” or “one of my animal friends showed me his secret strawberry patch”. The answer that America gave, however, surprised and touched him.
“It’s… it’s ‘cause I love you, England!”
England stopped walking and turned to face the colony properly. America’s cheeks were flushed and a determined look gleamed in his sky blue eyes as he waited for England’s reply. England, who had virtually no friends, let alone lovers or even caring family members, was so unaccustomed to hearing such words directed at him that all he could do for a moment was stare at the boy in amazement. The lack of response made America uneasy. Why wasn’t England saying anything? Finally, England’s face broke into a warm smile and he leaned down to ruffle America’s hair and kiss his forehead affectionately.
“I love you too, America.”
England sniffled and rubbed his misty eyes. Stupid dust, making his eyes water and his throat tight. He got up from the floor to open the window. It took some effort as the window hadn’t been opened in quite a long time but after a few shoves, he managed to push it out. He leaned out slightly, taking a deep breath of fresh air before pulling back in and returning to the scrapbook. He had to scrub at his still-watering eyes with his sleeve before he could clearly make out the item on the next page. A small pressed bouquet stared back at him, honeysuckles and daisies, the flower stems tied together with a black silk ribbon. He touched the dried, faded petals lightly with trembling fingers. England remembered this bouquet.
“America! Where the blazes have you been?!” England demanded angrily, stomping over to the boy. “Do you have any idea how worried I was when you vanished for so long without telling me where you were going?! And what on earth have you done to yourself?!”
America nervously attempted to dust himself off a little under England’s stern gaze, wincing as he accidentally grazed his skinned knee. “I’m fine, England. I just slipped, is all. But look, I brought you flowers. Honeysuckles and daisies are your favorites, right?”
“Yes, they are,” England agreed tersely, “but don’t think you’re getting off scot free because of that. You’re in trouble. Look at you; your clothes are ruined, you’re bleeding… let’s get you to the bath, come on.”
He took the dirty ten-year-old by the hand and began leading him towards the house. America followed reluctantly, a bit of a pout on his young face. Really, after all the trouble he had gone to hunting down and picking England’s favorite flowers and England was punishing him, and with a bath of all things. That was undeservedly harsh, in his opinion.
“You still haven’t told me where you’ve been this whole time,” England reminded him crossly. “I practically tore the house apart looking for you.”
“I just said I was getting you flowers,” America sulked, holding up the bouquet again. “I thought you’d be happy.”
England glanced sideways at him, raising his bushy eyebrow in mild surprise. “How could you get so dirty just picking flowers?”
“The only place I knew where to find honeysuckles was near those high cliffs,” the boy told him. “It’s hard work getting all the way up there, you know! And then I slipped and kind of slid down the hill a little ways…”
“Foolish boy,” England chided. “You know you could have been seriously hurt? What would I do if something bad happened to you?”
America looked down at his feet, dragging them the way children do when they’re irritated and feeling a bit guilty. “…I heard you crying last night, so I just wanted to do something to make you feel better,” he mumbled.
England stopped dead in his tracks. Oh crap. America had heard that? He always tried to put on a happy face for the boy. After all, he knew how America worried when he sensed that England was upset. It was probably best if he denied that the whole thing had ever happened.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the older nation lied, but he could feel his face heating up.
America fixed him with a thoroughly disbelieving look. “C’mon, England. I know you think I’m dumb because I’m just a kid, but you can’t lie about stuff that happened in my own house. You were crying because big brother Spain kicked your butt down in St. Augustine, right?” (1)
“I…I, er…” England stammered. America had hit the nail right on the head. “I may have been a bit… distraught over the whole St. Augustine thing, but I most certainly wasn’t crying! Don’t be daft! It takes a lot more than that to make me cry!”
Even as he said it, England could tell that America wasn’t buying his lie. In fact, the boy looked rather hurt. “Liar. I heard you,” he huffed. “You always get all mad at me if I tell a lie and now you’re doing it!”
England cleared his throat and shifted uneasily. America was quite right, after all. What kind of parental figure was he shaping up to be if he couldn’t even practice what he preached?
“I hate it when you’re sad, England,” America said quietly, his cheeks almost as red as the older man’s as he looked down at his shoes. “Just admit when you are so I can make you feel better right away, ok?”
The blond man cleared his throat awkwardly again, deeply touched by the boy’s offer but still unsure how to react to such a thing. “Right, er… I-I’ll keep that in mind.”
America’s smile reappeared, soft and innocent, as he held out the bouquet to England. England accepted it, noticing only now that America had tied the stems together with his little silk bowtie.
“Let me sleep in your bed tonight, ok?” America requested as he took England’s hand again. “That way if England’s feeling sad again, I’ll be right there to rescue you.”
“…Alright, then.” England couldn’t help smiling, in spite of his embarrassment. How could a guy like him, who was so disliked by his neighbors and family in Europe, have raised such a wonderful, sweet child? America was truly his most precious treasure. That was why his loss to Spain had hurt so much, despite the fact that the casualties hadn’t been all that high and his body hadn’t really been damaged. He wanted to keep sweet little America all to himself, and the thought of that bastard Spain getting his filthy paws on even a piece of him made England’s blood boil.
“I love you, England,” America mumbled.
England’s heart swelled immensely at those words, just as it always did, and he was so distracted by his overwhelming affection for the boy that he didn’t even notice the delicate blush in America’s cheeks as he said it. He ruffled America’s hair fondly.
“I love you, too, America.”
England didn’t realize just how badly the dust was affecting him until a large tear rolled down his cheek and splattered on the scrapbook page before him with a gentle pitter-patter. He sniffled and fished his handkerchief out of his back pocket. Stupid dust! Stupid allergies! England struggled to his feet, forcing his weak knees to support him as he staggered back over to the open window for another breath of fresh air. It was a good thing he wasn’t a sentimental idiot or he would probably be sobbing like a baby right about now. That agonized noise that had just fought its way from his throat had been a cough, of course, no thanks to all this damnable dust. He blew his nose loudly.
Once he had his allergies back under control, England returned to the scrapbook which lied open on the floor. With shaking hands, he picked it up again and turned the page, half dreading the memories that would assault him next. His eyes were met with a crinkled childlike drawing done by an eleven-year-old America. It depicted a large, grinning, muscle-bound blond man, and a smaller, scrawnier but very happy blond man with thick eyebrows. The larger figure was kicking away some dubious characters dressed all in black who had presumably been harassing the smaller man before his hero had shown up. A weak smile appeared on England’s face; even at that age, the boy had been obsessed with heroes. How stereotypically American. He traced the thick, somewhat clumsy lines delicately with his fingertip as memories flooded back to him once more.
“Hey, England, I drew you a picture,” America announced as he pushed his way into England’s study.
The older nation didn’t even look up from his paperwork; it was getting late and he still had so much to do before the day was out. The war with France and the Maratha was seeming less and less like a mere possibility and more like a definite thing, so he had to make sure he was prepared. “That’s nice, America,” England said, sounding a bit more impatient than he had intended. “Have you tidied your room yet?”
America shuffled his feet guiltily. “Um…kind of?”
“Go finish it, then,” England ordered. “You’re a big boy now, I’m sure you’re perfectly capable of cleaning your own room without me looming over your shoulder and pointing out each thing that needs to be picked up.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’ll do it in a minute,” America sighed. “But look at this drawing, England. Look, here’s me, and here’s you and I’m protecting you from the bad guys, just like the knight did for the princess in our bedtime story last night! Isn’t it cool? It took me like six hours.”
England sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I really don’t have time for this now, America. You see this stack here? That’s all the work I have to finish tonight before I can go to bed and already my head feels as if it might split in two. Now please just go and clean your room.”
“You’re not even looking!” America whined, brandishing his drawing. “I spent a long time on it, so at least-”
“I am on the verge of a bloody war here, America!” England snapped (2). “There are a lot of lives and money at stake! It’s a lot more important that a silly child’s drawing which I can look at any time! I don’t have time for you right now! Just do what you’re told for once and clean your damn room!”
The instant the words flew out of his mouth, England felt horrible. What was he thinking, speaking to a child like that? This was not just any child, either; this was his sweet little America who was rarely anything but kind and loving towards him. He meant more to him than anyone else in the world and England had just snarled at him as if he was worthless. Where on earth was the self-control he so prided himself on?
If he thought he felt bad just saying those words, it was nothing to how he felt when he saw America’s reaction. The boy’s face reddened, his sparkling blue eyes brimming with tears that he refused to let fall, his eyebrows furrowing with anger and hurt. Furiously, America crumpled the drawing he had been so proud of just moments before and tossed it at the floor with all his might before turning and stomping away. England finally dropped his quill, scrambling out of his chair and hurrying after his colony.
“America!” he called. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it!”
“Go away, stupid jerk!” America shouted, his voice cracking a bit. “All those times you said you loved me were a lie! I hate you!”
Oh, there it was. The dreaded “h” word that every parent prayed they would never hear their child direct at them. America had never said that to him before. That boy was the only one who ever smiled at him and said he loved him and to now hear him say “I hate you” with the same adorable little mouth, well… As silly as it sounded to be so strongly affected by such a little thing, England could feel his heart breaking.
With England’s longer legs, it didn’t take him long to catch up to the boy. He grabbed the angry little colony around the waist and pulled him into a hug. America flailed and kicked, trying to knock him away, but England held on, enduring the blows he knew he deserved.
“Let…go!” America demanded.
“I’m sorry I was so short with you, America,” England said sincerely. “I swear I didn’t mean a word of it, I was just stressed out. You’re a good boy and I love you. I love you more than anyone.”
America finally stopped struggling so that England could turn him around and hug him properly. He ran his fingers through the soft, golden hair and kissed the top of his head. England heard America sniffling and knew that the boy was trying to be strong and hold back his tears even as he could feel them wetting his shoulder. He began to rub America’s back, trying to soothe him.
“Y-you really mean it, England?” America asked eventually. “About loving me more than anyone?”
“Of course I do,” England cooed, kissing the top of his head again. “I’ve always loved you.”
“Then…” America drew a deep, shuddering breath and pulled away slightly so that he could look the man in the eye. “Will you marry me?”
Ok, England hadn’t been expecting that question. He laughed at the sudden proposal from the child and ruffled America’s hair. “Ok, when do you want to have the ceremony? I think I’m free tomorrow.”
To England’s dismay, America’s face reddened again and his brows tilted downwards in anger and hurt once more. “You’re making fun of me!” he sniffled. “Even though I give you presents and tell you I love you all the time, you still don’t get it! I’m serious! I-I want to be England’s…”
England’s green eyes widened in shock as he took in the blush on the boy’s face and the reforming tears in those unusually serious, ever-determined blue eyes. Oh god, America really wasn’t joking, was he? What did one say in this sort of situation? Of course he couldn’t marry America, but if he said that, he was afraid it would shatter their relationship. The last thing he wanted was to ruin things between him and the only person he loved, even if that love wasn’t the kind that America was seeking from him. He needed to be careful of how he handled this.
“An adult can’t marry a child, America,” he said gently. “It just wouldn’t be right.”
“But if two people love each other, then it’s ok, right?” America insisted. “You said you loved me and I love you, so…”
“The love I have for you is different than what a married couple has,” England explained. “A marriage won’t work the way it’s supposed to if the right kind of love isn’t present. It needs a kind of love that only two adults can have.”
America frowned slightly as he tried to understand what England was telling him. “So… if I wait until I’m a grownup then we can get married?”
“Well, in theory…” England replied uncertainly.
“I’ll do it,” America promised, a fiery determination blazing in his eyes. “I’ll grow up as fast as I can. I’ll even drink all my milk and eat my vegetables. You’ll wait for me, right, England? You won’t get married to anyone else, right?”
Honestly, with how everyone else in the world seemed to treat him, England couldn’t picture himself ever getting married. That promise probably wouldn’t be too hard to keep, even if he was just doing this to humor the colony. “I won’t,” he said.
“You’ll wait for me to get older so we can be together?” the boy asked hopefully. “You mean it?”
England sighed and smiled at him. “Of course, America.”
“Pinky swear, then.” America held out his little pinky and England shook it with his.
“Pinky swear,” England confirmed.
England blushed slightly. Even if he had half forgotten the whole incident, he had certainly kept his word, alright. Even now that his relations with other countries had improved, he still had no marriage prospects. He hadn’t really meant anything special back then when he had made that promise to America, but if America were to try and call in that promise now, well… Well, England wouldn’t take him up on it, of course, because America was no longer the sweet boy he had once been, but a mind-numbingly arrogant asshole.
And he wouldn’t be swayed by America’s dashing good looks, either. Not that England thought that America was especially good looking, but he figured that someone might. After all, he could never fall for that goofy smile, that stupid little Nantucket-hair that stuck up stupidly from his stupid bangs, those clueless, lively blue eyes, those infuriatingly straight, white teeth, that annoying but still somehow slightly endearing little tongue-rolling chirp he made sometimes when he was overflowing with energy, those broad, strong shoulders, that perfect, smooth skin, that selfless desire to serve and improve things for everyone, those large, confident, warm hands… Oh god…
England was frustrated and embarrassed to find that his cheeks were getting increasingly warm the more he thought about America. But he wasn’t blushing because he wanted America or anything! It was anger and betrayal and… oh, who the hell was he kidding? He wanted America, that’s all there was to it. England sighed, gazing sadly down at the scrapbook, wondering if there was even the slightest chance that America might still want him, too.
***********************
America didn’t realize until he arrived that he was almost an hour early for the meeting. He made a little whine of frustration as he found his seat and dropped into it, rubbing his eyes sleepily. Hadn’t he learned over and over again that watching scary movies alone at night, especially the night before a world meeting, was a bad idea? He knew that he would keep himself up all night, freaking out over every rustling of leaves and sigh of wind outside his bedroom window, making it impossible for him to get a single wink of sleep until the sun began to rise. What on earth had he been thinking? In his tired daze, he had forgotten that the meeting began at nine, not eight, and had cheated himself out of a whole additional hour of sleep.
America yawned and rested his head on top of his arms on the table. Perhaps he could sneak a little catnap before anyone else arrived. Hardly anyone showed up for these things early, anyway. In fact, the only person he knew to be significantly early on a regular basis was England. The European nation might scold him for sleeping in the conference room and be a general pain in the ass, but at least America was pretty sure he could trust him not try to kill him in his sleep. America allowed his eyes to flutter closed behind his glasses and quickly drifted off.
America had been asleep for no more than five minutes when England arrived. The green-eyed man, having not yet noticed that he was not alone, strolled in at a leisurely pace and made his way to his usual chair. England always preferred to walk to the convention center when he could. It gave him a chance to stretch his legs and get some fresh air before having to be cooped up for hours in these silly, minimally productive meetings. Today’s walk had been especially pleasant, accented with singing birds and a brisk cool breeze, putting England in a relatively good mood.
England’s eyes suddenly fell on America and his good mood evaporated. This was his first time seeing him since he had finally admitted to himself that maybe he did have a tiny little itty-bitty hardly-worth-mentioning thing for America. Facing him was hard enough with America’s endless supply of snark and self-confidence; how was he supposed to do it now that he… Wait a minute. Why wasn’t America running his mouth yet? England had been in the room with him for a full minute and the other man hadn’t uttered a single peep. Perhaps he hadn’t noticed him? The European nation approached him cautiously.
“Er…America?” he tried timidly.
His only response was a soft snore. England sighed with relief, then rolled his eyes. Of course America only shut his gob when he was sleeping. What an idiot. England ducked under the circular table so that he could stand before America. He had every intention of giving him a rude awakening by shouting in his ear. That would teach the lazy fool to fall asleep in the conference room. But for some reason, England couldn’t make himself go through with it. In fact, all he could do was stare at the sleeping figure before him.
The light that managed to fight its way through the blinds from outside landed on America’s golden hair, making it shine brilliantly in the morning light, and bringing a light flush of warmth to his cheeks. If England leaned in a bit closer, he could smell the tangy scent of the American’s citrus shampoo and the light musky hints of his cologne. It was only at this proximity that England noticed how long and luxurious the younger man’s eyelashes were and how soft and inviting those slightly parted lips looked.
He swallowed hard, trying to reign in the sudden urge to find out what those lips might taste like. Instead, he reached out and rested a hand on America’s head, ruffling his hair lightly with his thumb. It was just as silky and downy soft as it had been when America was a child. He hadn’t realized until just now how he had missed the feeling of that hair beneath his fingers. England stroked it slowly, a small smile forming on his lips.
“I wonder if you remember our promise at all,” he murmured quietly to the sleeping man. “I’m still waiting for you, you know.”
America’s brow furrowed slightly in his sleep. England sighed, giving him another fond smile as he ran his fingertips lovingly across America’s cheek, savoring the feeling of his perfect skin. “I’m sure you wouldn’t have the faintest idea what I’m talking about, would you, you oblivious tosser?”
Slowly, hesitantly, England leaned forward and touched a shy kiss to the exposed corner of America’s mouth.
“Mm…England…” America moaned, shifting slightly. The older man nearly jumped out of his skin at the unexpected sound of America’s voice. He was so relieved when he realized that America was still asleep, apparently sleep-talking. “England… I still love you…”
Although the younger man’s words were mumbled horribly, England had no trouble making them out. Those words caused a strange sensation in his heart, warm and sweet and fluttery, but oh-so-fragile. It took him a moment to recognize that feeling as hope, something he hadn’t felt like this in a long time.
“Mm… England… I love you…” America continued. “England… touch me… Nngh, England… England, that unicorn… Do me on the unicorn…Ooh! Ooh, England! Ooh!”
By this time, the older nation was sputtering, beet red, and America could no longer hold back his amusement at his thoroughly satisfying reaction. He sat up and burst into gales of laughter. England, furious and humiliated, whipped his pen at America’s forehead with all his strength, but America was laughing so hard that he hardly seemed to notice it hitting him right between the eyes.
“Really had you going for a minute there, didn’t I, old man?” America grinned.
“You utter wanking twat!” he raged. “H-how long were you awake?!”
“I woke up when you touched my hair,” he answered smugly. “Just couldn’t keep your hands off me, could you? Hey, how far would you have gone if I hadn’t woken up?”
England hissed venomously, whirling around so that he wouldn’t have to face that damn American bastard. He was mortified to feel tears welling up in his eyes, threatening to spill down his burning cheeks, and he knew that America could see him shaking. What he didn’t expect was the sound of America’s chair scooting back and the feeling of strong arms looping around his shoulders to pull him against a warm, solid body.
“Whoa, cool it, England,” America purred smoothly. “I was just having a little fun with you. You don’t have to get so pissy.”
“D-don’t touch me, you arsehole!” England snapped, his stupid, traitorous voice shaking horribly as he elbowed the American in the stomach. “Go back over there!”
America was silent for a moment. He hadn’t meant to make England cry; he’d just wanted to mess with him a bit. It seemed that he had perhaps chosen the wrong thing to tease him about. After all, not everything he had said earlier during his “sleep-talking” had been a joke. America pointedly ignored England’s demand and instead hugged him tighter. “Listen, if it makes you feel better, I remember that promise you were talking about just now.”
“You lie!” England growled, struggling against him with all his strength. “Let go of me, damn it!”
“I mean it,” America pouted. “You’re talking about the promise you made me when I was a kid, right? That you would wait for me to grow up so that we could be together?”
Now it was England’s turn to fall still and silent. To be completely honest, he was shocked to find that America really did remember; he had fully expected him to have forgotten.
“If you remembered, why didn’t you ever say anything?” England demanded. “Why did you have to wait until I made a complete bloody fool of myself?”
America grinned. “I love seeing you make a fool of yourself.”
England elbowed him hard again in the stomach.
“Ow!” America gasped. “Ok, so I didn’t think you were serious about it. I mean, I was just a kid at the time. I figured you’d just said it to shut me up.”
England blushed a little. If he was honest with himself, that was exactly what he had done. He hadn’t actually had any intention of marrying or even dating an older America when he had made that promise. He hadn’t expected America to become so obnoxiously wonderful.
“You didn’t really mean it, did you?” America asked, sounding unusually serious for a moment before breaking into another smirk. “Or are you a closet pedo?”
“I most certainly am not!” England replied indignantly. “Perhaps I didn’t really intend to be with you at the time, but even a promise to a child is still a promise! A gentleman always keeps his word!”
America laughed again softly, in a way that made England shiver and blush. “You mean you ended up falling for the hero’s charm.”
“I…! You…! I never…!”
“Shh, it’s ok,” America purred, nuzzling his nose against England’s neck. “That’s how it’s supposed to work. Anyway…”
He turned England around by the shoulders so that they were facing each other and leaned down to match his height. With surprising care and gentleness, America lifted England’s chin and kissed his lips.
“I waited for you, too, you know,” he finished.
America’s unusually low, smooth voice managed to make England’s heart perspire slightly, though it most certainly didn’t... Oh, hell, who was he kidding? His heart totally melted.
***********************
A/N: Ah, how was it? I’m still not confident about the characterization, or the quality of the story, for that matter…
(1) The Siege of St. Augustine, 1740- England attempted to seize the Spanish fort of St. Augustine in Florida, as well as several others in the area. The Spanish weren’t having any of it, though, and managed to defend their territory.
(2) Carnatic Wars- the first one (there were three) is the one I’m referring to here and it occurred in 1744. The French, English and Marathas fought to see who would get to control India’s eastern coast after the Indian ruler died.
.