Such Fragile Lives
Title: Such Fragile Lives
Author: jade_rzeznic
Recipient: jessa_bellee
Genre: Angst, romance
Rating: M
Warnings: language, explicit content
Summary: December 25th, 1776, Washington and the Continental Army crossed the Delaware. December 24th, 1776, America made the crossing first and made his way into the British camp.
Author’s Note: Request asked for angst sex, but I’m not sure it’s as terribly angsty as it could have been. Sorry, I always have to make way for a happy ending, even if it’s in the future. ^^;
Also, we’re assuming America stole a boat or something and crossed the Delaware a night early.
Such Fragile Lives
England wasn’t entirely sure why it was so important for him to be in New Jersey, but Cornwallis was here as well, so he supposed it had to be of some significance. Then again, little seemed significant to England these days if it wasn’t trying to stop America from leaving, and huddling in a drafty tent masquerading as shelter didn’t sound like a productive way to keep America with him. The only fortifying thought was imagining America crouched in a similarly inadequate form of shelter. Perhaps on this rainy, nearly snowy night, the first Christmas they’d spent as enemies in the same country, America was thinking of him.
England didn’t fool himself into believing America might be thinking fondly of him. The boy was much too angry for that. Probably he was remembering the Christmases England hadn’t been able to be there with him and telling himself just how neglectful his guardian had been.
It wasn’t like he’d wanted to be kept in Europe, England thought desperately. He turned over on his mattress, the simply-framed thing a luxury by the banks of the Delaware in the snow. England stared at the makeshift fire across from him and let his imagination transform it into the roaring fireplace of America’s Virginia home.
Christmas had been a lovely ordeal with America, when he’d been able to spend it with his colony. The boy had been overjoyed by the festivities, excited to go to parties with England, happy to indulge in England’s traditions from the mother country, and eager to show off new customs growing in his own lands.
Christmas Eve was the best night of all, when America would snuggle into bed with England without the excuse of fearing monsters. They would fall asleep together, wearing each other out with stories and Christmas wishes and quiet jokes. England would always wake sometime in the night to make sure Finland had been there, and to add his own personal presents to the small pile under the massive tree America insisted upon.
The last few years, England had spent Christmas in London, either stuck in Parliament until the sun had long set or staring down his empty living room and wishing he had America to fill it. The boy was closer to being a man nowadays, but he’d never lost his childish love of Christmas, and the season seemed cheerless without him.
As England had recently discovered, the only Christmas worse than one spent an ocean away from America was a Christmas where the distance between them was built only by America’s hatred. It increased the miserable hollow in England’s chest tenfold and made him curl in on himself and pretend. Pretend that America was with him. Pretend they weren’t in the middle of a freezing war. Pretend it was the 1750’s again and he was the center of America’s world.
Cursing, England scowled at the dying fire and pulled his blankets around his chin. Wishful thinking would get him nowhere. Even on a night like Christmas Eve, wishes were often ignored. He’d learned long ago that Finland, in all his fanciful St. Nicholas-ing, didn’t give out your heart’s desire willy nilly. People received the gifts they deserved more often than not, and it was sometimes more what you needed than what you wanted that wound up wrapped under the tree.
The fire gave a few last pitiful pops, and the flames flickered out. Sighing, England turned over to attempt to fall asleep. The men had been riotous earlier, so England had finally ordered his tent placed further from main camp. But even in the quiet, he hadn’t been able to sleep past thoughts of America. Perhaps with dark and stillness, sleep would finally come.
England didn’t know how much later - long enough to be only halfway conscious - the flap of his tent was opened and frigid winter air rushed in. Groaning, he shoved a hand out of the blankets to wave dismissively at whoever it was.
“Close the bleeding door,” he grumbled, eyes still shut. “S’bloody colder’n a witch’s tit.” He refused to move, not awake enough to act like a gentleman just now. Hopefully the idiot would say what he had to say and get on with it. Thankfully the wintry air had stopped blowing in, and England snuggled into his blankets to recapture his own warmth.
The messenger (it had to be, Cornwallis would have chastised him already) walked further in and England heard the footsteps stop close to his bed. A few seconds later, and the useless sod hadn’t gotten around to the point yet, so England pried his eyes open and shifted to face his visitor so he could snap at him properly.
Any intention to shout or scold died when England’s eyes lighted on the man standing a few inches from him. England refused to believe America looked good in the cobbled-together outfittings of the Continental Army. However, he couldn’t deny that America looked…older.
For a desperate moment, England hoped it was real. America coming back to him without a fight was- Well, nothing short of a miracle. And on this night he could almost believe his Alfred had been brought to him, not as a country, but as his precious boy.
As soon as the fleeting fantasy passed him, England realized he must be dreaming. Perhaps he ought to take advantage of such a pleasant dream. The moment he sat up, America moved toward him and rested a hand on England’s shoulder, sitting on the edge of his bed. He opened his mouth to question, and America fluttered.
“Shh-shh-shh!” he hushed urgently, eyes darting. “Nobody can know I’m here, okay?” England nodded, watching America look panicked and wondering whether this was going to turn into one of those awkward dreams where America kissed him. He’d had them with frighteningly more frequency since the beginning of this revolt that was becoming a disaster. France, in his own crass way, had joked that England got off on the idea of forbidden romance with not only the enemy but his own pseudo-kin.
Privately, England believed it was because America was becoming worryingly more like a man. And with how very much they disagreed on things, it was hard to feel the bond of brotherhood, which left a hole in his feelings where attraction and begrudging respect was starting to trickle in. It made England realize that when this war was over, he’d have to prepare to let America go for real. Even with the boy back under his care, England wouldn’t be able to treat him the same. And he’d be damned before he took out his own twisted desires on an underling.
America didn’t look much like an underling sitting on his bed, frost in his hair. He looked slightly winded, cold as all hell, but determined and already slipping through England’s fingers. As he lifted a hand to touch England’s cheek, America smiled in a bitter little way that forced England’s heart into overdrive. He needed just a while longer, just a bit more before he was ready, and then America could be set free for England to win back in his own right later.
“You’re awake,” America said bluntly, voice quiet and hard. “You had the fairy face on,” he explained when England gave him a quizzical look. “I’m not a dream though. I’m real. And I’m, um, not supposed to be here.”
It took a second, but when the meaning of the words registered, England frowned, pulling back so America’s freezing fingers weren’t touching his face anymore.
“And what are you doing here, boy?” he demanded, shrugging off America’s other hand on his shoulder as well. “You have three seconds before I raise an alarm and your silly revolt is lost.”
“I wanted to see you for Christmas,” America blurted, looking panicky. “I’m not surrendering or- or coming back to you, but it’s Christmas Eve and…you always taught me it was holy and special and things.”
“This holiday,” England seethed, “is for family. If I recall correctly, you no longer wanted to be a part of mine. And if that is still the case, I see no reason I shouldn’t make every officer within shouting distance awa-”
Apparently this was turning into one of those fantasies where America kissed him. But it was reality this time, and instead of being soft and sweet about it, America had grabbed his face in both hands and smashed them together with all the finesse of the awkward teenager he was. England bit back a whimper, borne more of surprise than anything, and blinked dumbly when America retreated a bit.
“Christmas can be for lovers too, right?”
England watched America bite his lip and mentally examined that question. True, Christmas time was always a favorite of romantics, but…lovers? As in, he and America? Was that what he wanted? And what would that mean for their nations, for this war, if England accepted such a proposition? But then, if he refused, would America ever be willing to have this kind of relationship again?
England imagined how crushed America would be when his rebellion was put down. He remembered how resentful he’d been as a teenager when France had taken control of his lands. He imagined how desperate America would be for freedom when his first bid for it was denied.
And he leaned forward to press his lips to America’s. He’d take what he was offered, just in case his next chance was a long time in coming.
True to his ever-eager form, America surged toward him and clutched at England’s clothes and hair. He was still freezing, though America’s skin had warmed a bit, and the contrast between his hands and the comfortable heat of England’s face and neck made them both shiver. America’s legs swung up onto the bed, surrounding England, and the younger nation pressed forward as his tongue slid along England’s lips.
Tempting though it was to just let the moment carry him away, England somehow dredged up the presence of mind to push America away by the shoulders and speak.
“Am- Alfred,” England corrected himself. “Are you sure this-? Do you want to…?”
America answered him with a pair of kisses across England’s cheeks before he replied.
“Yes.” He sounded awfully sure of himself, and England felt his stomach lurch with that certainty. A man, not a boy. “And I think now’s the right… Christmas is for miracles, right?”
England watched desperation cloud his eyes, felt America’s grip around the back of his neck tighten slightly, as if afraid it would all disappear. He leaned up to rest his forehead against America’s.
“I think you’re right.”
For someone who had been worried about them being heard, America made a surprisingly large amount of noise, and it started with a rushing sigh of relief as soon as he’d been given the go-ahead. It was followed immediately by a groan as England wound his arms around America’s shoulders and let his mouth slide open. As clear as it was that America was unversed in such acts, his enthusiasm made up for sloppiness, and the thought that America chose to share this first experience with England made it not matter so much anyway.
With America hovering over him, blankets between them, England kept their kissing going for a long while. He’d rather like to savor this more innocent form of intimacy for as long as it lasted, and America didn’t seem to have any protests. If anything, the boy was unsure of how to make the next step and was waiting for England to push things further.
He didn’t. Simply traded kisses and licks with America, eyes closed and blood singing. Like this, in that hazy place where America wasn’t quite his subordinate, but still not lost to him, this moment was acceptable. And by some miracle, America wanted him. Perhaps not as a colony wanted the guidance of a mother country, but in a different sort of way that made England think of bright futures.
Soothed and warmed at the thought, England swept his hands through America’s hair, ridding it of snow and pulling America closer as their lips slipped apart and America dove for his throat instead. He was still a bit chilled from the freezing outside, and England shivered. America was making soft noises against his skin, half the time kissing and half the time simply breathing as if trying to capture some part of England in his lungs.
By the time England moved to push the blankets away from between them, America’s skin was pleasantly heated and England could be sure his neck was a bit of a mess with marks. No matter, his uniform would hide anything below the jawline and America hadn’t gone that far.
In the scramble to get blankets out of the way, their legs slid together and against each other until just the right angle made America gasp loudly, and suddenly England found himself crushed against the younger man, panting in his ear as America rutted against him for a few brief moments. His own head tipping back distractedly, England raised a hand to pet at America’s head and neck.
“Hush, love,” he murmured, feeling America’s urgency bleed out at the soothing tone. “We’ve all night.”
America stilled at that, and then turned to capture England’s lips with his, thoroughly devouring his mouth and showing off the skills he’d picked up rather quickly. England feared for a moment he’d be lost in simply kissing him again, and rolled, putting America on his back with England astride his hips.
He forced himself to break the kiss and leaned backward, America’s hands on his hips, to retrieve the blankets. Despite how cumbersome they might be, it was simply too cold without them now that the fire was only a banked pile of hot embers. He tossed the blankets over their heads and what natural light had filtered in was suddenly gone.
In pitch blankness, America seemed even louder, but England hardly cared. His men were probably either celebrating too loudly or too passed out drunk to care what noises were coming from their country’s tent. Besides, without being able to see him, the only way England could tell how America felt was by sound and touch. And America was thankfully not being shy with either of those.
England caught his name being chanted quietly as he poked fingers and hands under America’s clothing. He was unfamiliar with the style of coat, and America had to reach up to help him unbutton and be rid of the thing, but when it was gone, the loose peasant’s shirt did little to stop England from exploring America’s body through touch along.
Not quite as broad as he would surely be in later years, America still undoubtedly felt like the man he was becoming. Beneath all that warm skin, England felt muscle shifting restlessly and delighted in how they bunched under his touch. America’s chest and stomach were all soft skin and hard muscle, and under the cover of dark, England leaned down to cover them with kisses and bitemarks that would stay through the morning at least.
England resisted the urge to grin when America’s hands clawed at his pyjamas, and instead shrugged them off in haste. Rather than wait for America to make it to him, England pressed himself down over America’s body, running his fingers up America’s arms and into his hair as they kissed again, fervent. America’s hands, already larger than England’s, rested over his hips and eventually pushed them together, making England gasp into his mouth.
Too much friction too soon would do America in, and England wasn’t sure what his recovery time would be, so he pulled away, breathing harshly into the dark heat around them. America leaned up to him and England used a hand to press him back down before tugging at his own trousers.
“Just a minute, darling,” he said in America’s ear. He went to shove America’s trousers off as well, not bothering with whatever shoes he was wearing and hoping America would simply kick them off himself. But America stopped him, grabbing at the waist of his trousers and using the other hand to cup England’s cheek.
“Want to see you,” America panted, hips shaking and torso flexed against the urge to just grind up into England’s body. “It’s too dark, too hot. I want…want you.”
England bit his lip to keep in a whimper and crushed his mouth against America’s. The blankets were pooled around their hips in no time, and when he tried again, England found he had help in getting America out of the remainder of his clothes.
All movement stopped there though, and when England looked back at him, it seemed America was transfixed just looking at England’s body. Not sure whether to be flattered, England looked away and reached for the scented oils he kept by his bedside. He froze still leaned awkwardly over as America simultaneously placed both hands over his backside and pressed his tongue to England’s nipple.
Arching into him, England felt America help the move by pulling his lower body forward so his back bent at a more natural angle. He gave up on the oil he’d been going for in favor of murmuring praise as America swept his tongue over England’s skin, leaning him back until America could reach his navel and then nuzzle his cheek against England’s hip bone.
Frankly, England was a bit pleased he was still flexible enough to bend his back completely over with his legs under him like that, but this was hardly the time to congratulate himself on keeping in shape. Rather, it was high time he stop getting lost in America’s mesmerized (and mesmerizing) blue eyes and retrieve that oil he’d wanted a moment ago. With the way America was making his own friction between their aligned hips, he’d better get it now before the opportunity for its use was lost.
After getting distracted by America turning his head for yet another kiss, England blindly grabbed the bottle he was aiming for and then eased America’s upper body back down. America went willingly, but jumped when the cold glass of the bottle touched his arm.
“Is that for, um.” England watched America force himself to say the word preparation, and nodded, making America gulp slightly.
“It’s not for you,” he explained, raising himself up onto his knees over America’s hips. “It’s for me. I’m not going to make you-”
“I can handle it!” America snapped, brows furrowing. “You don’t have to treat me like a kid.”
England resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “I’m not treating you like a child,” he corrected, not wanting to get into a row when this might be his only chance to have America willingly in his bed for years to come. “You’ve just never done this before and I, er, prefer it with this…arrangement. And I want things to go as, erm, smoothly as possible.”
He looked away as America’s jaw dropped slightly. “It’s for both of us to be comfortable, so please don’t turn this into an argument.” England ignored how pink his face must be, knowing the lack of light would hide it anyway, and kissed America’s temple before speaking lowly into his ear.
“I’m trying to love you better than I have.”
For a second, England was under the impression that America was going to cry. His eyes certainly became glassy, but instead of tears, America gave him a flurry of kisses all over his face.
“Okay,” America breathed, a few times over. “Whatever you want tonight.”
England willfully ignored the qualifier in that sentence and instead focused on slathering oil over his fingers. America watched everything with the intensity he gave interesting new lessons, eyes going brighter when England had worked two fingers into himself and felt his breath catch at a particularly pleasant angle. One more, and he was gasping softly, the air around them decidedly heated and sweetly scented oil sliding down onto America’s thighs.
There was a sound, the thunking of two boots hitting the ground, and England paused to look down at America. He’d sat up a bit and his hands were winding around England’s hips, wandering down to where England’s fingers disappeared. Two fingertips brushed the slippery area, and England couldn’t stop his moan fast enough.
“Are you ready yet?” America asked breathlessly, pupils blown and eyes too wide. He was shifting restlessly, muscles jerking and twitching in an effort to keep from doing something too fast or without permission.
England uncorked the bottle of oil and let it run over America’s lower stomach. “Ready as I’ll ever be.” America’s head dropped back when England spread the oil over him, body moving out of his control. It was irresistible to close the few inches between them and kiss around America’s lax, open mouth, coaxing him into returning the kiss while England sat forward and removed his fingers to make way for America.
He gasped hoarsely and thrust up when England started moving down, but a hand on his hip kept America in check so he wouldn’t rush them to a premature finish. Still, he writhed, eyes pinched closed and clearly losing the battle for self-control. Silly, to think he could be his own country when he couldn’t even control himself in bed. Of course he needed England’s guiding hand. Just for a bit longer though, because he wasn’t a boy anymore either. Not by a long shot.
Huffing out his breath, America finally managed to keep still for a few moments and England dropped all the way so that America’s hip bones dug into his thighs a bit. His breath wasn’t entirely steady either, but England wasn’t the one letting his eyes roll into the back of his head, so he decided to take the lead and lifted himself up a few inches before dropping back down.
America cursed, then hissed in a breath as England kept moving. “Don’t stop,” he muttered, nails digging into England’s sides to bring him down each time. “God…please, don’t stop.”
England grinned, kissed America’s ear. “Never, love.”
True to England’s predictions, America wasn’t to last long, but he gave everything he had to offer in each movement of his body, matching England’s experience with vigor. England lost track of time somewhere along the way, only measuring things in how many times he’d heard America gasp his name, how thick the air became with their breaths, how close he felt to shattering. All he knew was that by the time he’d collapsed onto America in a pile of sated, sweaty limbs, the entire world was quiet and everything was dark as before a false dawn.
America stroked his hair slowly as their breathing returned to normal, seemingly a moment from sleep. England was barely fighting off unconsciousness himself, and hummed against America’s chest in quiet content. Though they’d called each other by human name, neither of them had said anything of love. But then England hadn’t expected America to, and he wouldn’t be the one to say it first. He could wait anyhow.
His sleepy musings were interrupted by America groaning softly in half-sleep. Nuzzling England’s neck for more warmth, America shifted so that they lay side by side, and England pulled America into his arms. He was still not so grown up that he couldn’t fit in England’s embrace, and in his sleep, America accepted it with a subconscious smile.
England fell asleep content, only a small part of him in the back of his mind remembering he still had a war to fight and a colony to keep. It would be devastating for America to have to be dragged back, especially after tonight, but if England had to do it that way, he would. Besides, America would have his precious freedom within a few decades regardless. It wasn’t as if the British Empire couldn’t use the country as a trading partner without having to take care of the messes America made all the time. And personally, England preferred America as his own man than as a child, so long as he had his love in some form.
-
England was awoken by America’s movements, just like many Christmas mornings. However, on this Christmas when he sat up to see America moving about, it was to watch him pulling on his trousers in the chilly morning of a drafty tent.
“Leaving so soon?” England asked in a lilt, already because he knew this was how it would end. Knew America would walk away without a word if he could.
He spun as if surprised. He really shouldn’t have been; sure, England was less than a morning person, but he was used to waking for America. It was second nature to rise at small sounds in war as well.
America rushed to sit near England’s side on the bed, and England kicked thoughts of war to the side for a moment. Despite the fact that America had been trying to sneak off without him noticing, he was going to talk now, and England was going to listen while they were still tenuously civil.
“I’m- I didn’t think you’d want to see me,” America said quietly. His hand reached for England’s cheek, but stalled halfway and dropped. “I’ll be part of the attack today. It’s not really a cuddle time thing I guess.”
England watched America’s eyes refuse to meet his and resisted the urge to sneer. Of course America would end it like this. With frank betrayal. At the very least, England supposed he could give America credit for being honest. He’d stab you in the back when he was sure you saw it coming. Because that was something like being honorable, wasn’t it?
Smiling like it hurt, England put a hand to the back of America’s head and brought him down to place a kiss on his forehead.
“Get out.”
America looked hurt when he opened his eyes, and England laughed. Like he had a right to be hurt. He was the one doing the leaving. After all, America hadn’t even wanted to face England’s reaction before running back to his troops and planning his demise.
“Get out of my tent and go back to your patriots,” he spat, like the word itself was poison. “Before I decide it’d be easier to just kill you myself.”
He shoved at America’s chest, still bare, and pretended he didn’t have the urge to pull him back instead. Pretended his instincts wouldn’t like to trap America here with him until he was done with him and neither of them could move, wrapped in each other and-
He shoved at America’s chest and waited quietly, glaring at his lap while America put the rest of his clothes on. England heard more movement and finally looked over to see America on hands and knees searching for something. His stockings, of course. England shoved a hand under the blankets and retrieved a pair of knee-high stockings to throw them in America’s direction.
They landed across America’s shoulders, and he grabbed them, looking at England in surprise. Rather than avoid him like a child, England met his gaze with narrowed, bitter eyes. America sat heavily and began tugging his stockings on before moving on to his boots.
“Thanks,” he mumbled after he’d put both stockings and boots on and was lifting himself to his feet.
England watched him walk out without one glance behind. He stayed silent a long time before finally replying.
“Happy Christmas.”
-
I'll probably be posting a second one at some point this week to make up for the lateness and just cause that's how I roll. Hopefully the recipient and everyone else liked this one! ^^