[secret santa] The Persistence of Memory (part 1)
TITLE: The Persistence of Memory (part 1)
AUTHOR: kupodesu/Mandee
RECIPIENT: museofepics
GENRE: Romance, fluff, bits of angst
RATINGS/WARNINGS: PG-13, non-explicit sex.
SUMMARY: In which America promises England the most romantic Christmas he's ever had, provided he gets back in time, and England's dreams are stranger than they seem
NOTES: The original prompt was ;America and England--on storybook endings and romantic surrealism and the things that follow.' ...I can't help but feel like I've deviated from it, but I really, really hope you enjoy it regardless, museofepics ! Thanks to plextral for the brainstorming and late night writings - couldn't have done it without you. The title comes from Salvador Dali's painting of the same name, a pretty well known piece in the Surrealist art movement with its melting clocks. Not entirely relevant, but quite a bit of inspiration did come from it.
Hope you'll all enjoy, and Merry Christmas ♥!
-
-
England opened his eyes to blue skies, the feeling of grass between his fingers, and America pouring tea from a teapot shaped like an apple. They were both seated on the grass. A plate of sandwiches sat beside his hands, and, next to them, a pitcher of lemonade. Tiny cakes and fresh fruits occupied the other plates that take up the space between England and America. It’s a picnic, except the weather was a little too hot and America forgot to bring the picnic blanket.
The tea that he accepts from America tasted bitter. “You left it for too long.” America ignored him and poured himself a cup as well, causing England to frown. “You don’t drink tea.”
“No,” agreed America, smiling brilliantly at him. “But this is coffee.”
He glanced at his cup, and took another sip. It was. He looked back up at America, opening his mouth to say something, but no one was there.
And then England opened his eyes again, properly. He blinked a few times, staring blearily at his white ceiling.
“Rise and shine, old man! Get those creaking bones of yours working and get out of bed already!”
“Nghh, shut up America.”
“Nuh uh, no excuses. C’mon!”
“America…”
“It’s a beautiful day!”
But you’re not here, England thought to himself somewhat childishly as he sat up, groggily pressing the palm of his hand against his forehead. His mobile made a tiny beeping sound. “Rise and shine, old man…”
He reached over and turned off the alarm.
day one.
The day started with a pot of fresh, properly brewed Earl Grey tea and the morning newspaper, which England flicked through restlessly for a total of two minutes before discarding it on the table. The fairies played with the vase of roses in the centre of the table, while he stared at the calendar on the wall. The 25th was circled with a red marker, and large blue letters proclaimed ‘The hero returns!’ along with a childish caricature of America’s face and a scribbled mess that was supposed to be a love heart.
Exactly seven days from now. England looked at the mobile on the table next to him, and told himself that he would not be pathetic. It was only seven days.
God damn it.
-
Their relationship was only a recent one - no, it’d be wrong to say that. Their actual relationship was one that spanned centuries, some more painful than others. The links between the United States of America and the United Kingdom had existed for a long time. But their relationship, the human type that existed between two people who were hopelessly in love, was more recent. Much, much more recent.
It started something like 4 days ago, with America making them a surprisingly nice dinner of grilled fish. He had fidgeted and flushed while England grudgingly admitted that he could grill a mean fish, and then blurted out a declaration of love as England was taking a bite. England had promptly choked on a fish bone. America had panicked, thumping England’s back needlessly until the older nation spit out the bone, turned around, grabbed him and kissed him senseless.
“That wasn’t romantic at all,” England complained later, as they lay together in his king-sized bed. “And these were my favourite sheets.”
America laughed breathlessly, leaning forward to press a kiss to England’s forehead. “Wait till Christmas. I’ll do something so brilliantly romantic that you won’t know what hit you.”
“You’re staying until Christmas?”
“No, the boss is expecting me back home in a few days,” said America. His fingers were tracing light circles on England’s bare back. “But I’ve decided I wanna spend Christmas with you this year.”
England wrinkled his nose in thought. “You can’t just abandon your boss.”
“I won’t. I’ll be gone, and then back in time to sweep you off your feet with the best Christmas you’ve ever had!”
“That’s a grand claim to be making,” said England dryly. “You have a week to finish everything and get back.”
The younger nation winked. “Don’t miss me too much.”
“I won’t, at all.”
-
He did. Incredibly so. He told this to the fairies. They chittered sympathetically, and one of them pulled a rose out to thread into his hair.
It was stupid. England and America had spent a total of 4 days (4 days!) in some sort of strange, young lovers’ bliss, complete with teapots thrown in frustration and brilliant sex when night time arrived. Just 4 days! And yet, once America had boarded the plane home, England already found himself missing his boisterous presence.
“I should call,” he muttered. “Just to check that he got home safely.” He fumbled with the keypad, having to redial a few times in his haste. Impatiently, he waited and listened as the phone dialled, tapping the table with his free hand. Finally, there was a click.
“Howdy, America here! What’s up?”
England cleared his throat. “A-ah, America! I just wanted to, well, see if you’ve er, arrived. In Washington. Safe.” He cleared his throat again. “U-uh, nothing important, really-“
“Yeah, yeah, whatever!”
He bristled. “R-really now! I should have known better than to be concerned, idiots like you -“
“Haha, just kidding! I’m not here at the moment, leave a message after the beep and the awesome me will call you back! Probably.”
Later, when America listened to the message, he would hear a very impressive splutter laced with some very British curses, and then a brief period of silence that ended with a suspiciously fond-sounding sigh. And that was it.
-
“Sorry for disappearing yesterday,” America murmured into his shoulder. England opened his eyes, adjusting to the light of the television in the otherwise dark room. He craned his neck to look at the other man.
“What?” America had his arms wrapped firmly around England, holding him in his lap as he lazily watched the television. On the screen, Spongebob was placing a star on top of coral which was supposed to serve as a Christmas tree.
“Yesterday. During the picnic?” England’s face remained blank. “Never mind.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the Briton muttered, watching a large group of sea-folk sing in front of the coral tree. Apparently they’re waiting for Santa to arrive.
“It’s okay.” He could feel America smiling into his shoulder. “It doesn’t matter.” England frowned, but said nothing.
They watched the television in silence for a few minutes. “Santa didn’t get there in time for Christmas,” England pointed out, somewhat accusingly.
“Obviously you haven’t watched this episode before,” said America, and turned the TV off.
day two.
He wasn’t sure why, but the first thing England did after he woke up (after listening to America’s voice message alarm a few times - god, he really was pathetic) was turn on the television in his bedroom, and switch to the cartoons channel.
An episode of Spongebob Squarepants was running, a show that he’d always found utterly ridiculous, but for some reason he was glued to the screen. He was strangely disappointed to find that it wasn’t a Christmas special, but then the landline phone rang and he scrambled out of the room to answer the call, almost tripping over his own feet.
It wasn’t America, but England did cheer up considerably after throwing some appropriately scathing remarks at the French bastard on the line. By the time he wandered back into his bedroom, he was distracted by checking his mobile to see if America had called, and the television was showing commercials.
He turned the television off absent-mindedly, berating himself for being so disappointed that America hadn’t so much as texted him. He called the git again, this time leaving a short, meaningless message when America didn’t pick up, and resolved to not spend the day thinking about him.
-
“Man, do I look awesome or what?”
England opened his eyes and glanced to his left. America was staring at him expectantly with a bright smile, wearing a t-shirt that said ‘I’m with stupid’ and an arrow pointing in his direction. England rolled his eyes. “Very charming. Personally I think this one fits you better,” he said, smirking as he pushed a bundle of cloth into the other’s hands.
America held the t-shirt up. Large block letters proclaimed: ‘I’m in shape. Round is a shape.’
“Haha, very funny,” America pouted as the older man snickered. “Your ass looks damn fine in those jeans though.”
England patted down the aforementioned jeans absent-mindedly, a tiny smile on his face. “Yes, well. Someone has to look good in what they wear.”
“Oh come on, don’t I look dashing?”
“No, you look ridiculous.”
“You’re just jealous,” America teased, entering the change room again and, without bothering to close the door, pulled off his t-shirt to get changed back into his own clothes. England paused before going into his own room, very much appreciating the fine view he was given of America’s toned body as his eyes drank in the deliciously tanned skin. America noticed him staring and grinned, deliberately running a hand through blond hair and striking a pose. “Like what you see?”
He flushed, looking away quickly and stalking into his own change room. “H-hurry up and get changed!”
America laughed but obliged him. As they left the store without purchasing anything, he grabbed England’s hand and spun him around for a kiss. The shorter man closed his eyes for a brief second, leaning into it, before pushing him away. “We’re in public, idiot.”
“I know, but I can’t help it if I want the world to know you’re mine.” America narrowed his eyes. “I so saw that shop assistant checking you out.”
“Who’s the jealous one now?” England said, smirking. America rolled his eyes.
“Obviously her. She’s not the one who gets to see this fine piece of British ass everyday.” He dodged England’s smack expertly, laughing as he led them towards the pet store to coo at the adorable kittens for sale.
day three.
England woke up with a smile on his face. He only listened to the alarm once before he got out of bed for breakfast, his spirits not dampening even when he found no new messages from America. Somehow, he didn’t feel like he missed the git as much today.
England spent the day choosing a present for America. After much consideration, fighting with other customers in the busy rush in the last few days before Christmas, and haggling with irate shopkeepers, he finally staggered home triumphantly with a small gift box clutched in his hands.
He considered packaging the gift and sending it via express post to America because, to be honest, it didn’t seem all that likely that America would be back in London in time for Christmas. His workload was heavy during this time of the year, England knew, and, well, there was an awful lot of snow delaying flights lately.
But then, England remembered the smile that he’d woken up with that morning, and remembered the rush of warmth that had filled him when America promised him the best Christmas yet. So he placed the box underneath the Christmas tree, and even forgot to check his mobile before he went to bed.
-
The first thing England noticed was the smell of salt. Then, the familiar, gentle rocking beneath his feet. He opened his eyes and found himself gazing at a brilliantly starry sky. Sure enough, when he looked down, he was greeted by the sight of the ocean.
“Beautiful night, isn’t it?” England made a sound of agreement, leaning slightly into America on his right.
“It’s been a while,” England murmured after a few moments, taking a sip of wine from the glass in his hand. America glanced at him. “Since I’ve been at sea,” he clarified.
“That’s why we’re here.” America’s voice was soft. The yacht bobbed gently in the still waters, and England smiled fondly as he gazed into the water.
“What’s her name?”
“Huh? The sea?”
“No, of course not. I meant the yacht.”
“Oh!” America grinned. “I call her Liberty.”
Of course, England thought. “It suits her,” he said out loud.
America hummed in agreement, and then gently pulled England away from the rails. Suddenly, England was aware that there was soft music playing, coming from a small set of iPod speakers on the deck. America took both of their wine glasses and placed them on a small table, and then reached his hand out to England. “Dance with me, England?”
Maybe it was the wine, or the music, or maybe it was the very simple fact that he was at sea together with America, but England took his hand. Underneath the moonlight, they swayed and stepped to the music, not really dancing but it was enough for England. He closed his eyes and rested his head against America’s shoulder, feeling remarkably calm and wonderfully content.
“I miss you,” America whispered quietly into England’s ear.
And that was the moment England realised he was dreaming.
day four.
“Rise and shine, old man!”
England woke up. He lay there listlessly as America’s recorded voice washed over him. The ache of longing in his chest was back, made painfully stronger by the realisation that he’d been dreaming of that blasted idiot for the past few days.
He draped his arm across his face, shielding his eyes. “You,” England muttered. “Are hopeless. Truly hopeless.”
“It’s a beautiful day!”
But you’re not here, he thought, not for the first time.
He spent the rest of the day baking. Everything he made tasted like ashes.
There were still no messages.
[to be continued]
AUTHOR: kupodesu/Mandee
RECIPIENT: museofepics
GENRE: Romance, fluff, bits of angst
RATINGS/WARNINGS: PG-13, non-explicit sex.
SUMMARY: In which America promises England the most romantic Christmas he's ever had, provided he gets back in time, and England's dreams are stranger than they seem
NOTES: The original prompt was ;America and England--on storybook endings and romantic surrealism and the things that follow.' ...I can't help but feel like I've deviated from it, but I really, really hope you enjoy it regardless, museofepics ! Thanks to plextral for the brainstorming and late night writings - couldn't have done it without you. The title comes from Salvador Dali's painting of the same name, a pretty well known piece in the Surrealist art movement with its melting clocks. Not entirely relevant, but quite a bit of inspiration did come from it.
Hope you'll all enjoy, and Merry Christmas ♥!
-
-
England opened his eyes to blue skies, the feeling of grass between his fingers, and America pouring tea from a teapot shaped like an apple. They were both seated on the grass. A plate of sandwiches sat beside his hands, and, next to them, a pitcher of lemonade. Tiny cakes and fresh fruits occupied the other plates that take up the space between England and America. It’s a picnic, except the weather was a little too hot and America forgot to bring the picnic blanket.
The tea that he accepts from America tasted bitter. “You left it for too long.” America ignored him and poured himself a cup as well, causing England to frown. “You don’t drink tea.”
“No,” agreed America, smiling brilliantly at him. “But this is coffee.”
He glanced at his cup, and took another sip. It was. He looked back up at America, opening his mouth to say something, but no one was there.
And then England opened his eyes again, properly. He blinked a few times, staring blearily at his white ceiling.
“Rise and shine, old man! Get those creaking bones of yours working and get out of bed already!”
“Nghh, shut up America.”
“Nuh uh, no excuses. C’mon!”
“America…”
“It’s a beautiful day!”
But you’re not here, England thought to himself somewhat childishly as he sat up, groggily pressing the palm of his hand against his forehead. His mobile made a tiny beeping sound. “Rise and shine, old man…”
He reached over and turned off the alarm.
day one.
The day started with a pot of fresh, properly brewed Earl Grey tea and the morning newspaper, which England flicked through restlessly for a total of two minutes before discarding it on the table. The fairies played with the vase of roses in the centre of the table, while he stared at the calendar on the wall. The 25th was circled with a red marker, and large blue letters proclaimed ‘The hero returns!’ along with a childish caricature of America’s face and a scribbled mess that was supposed to be a love heart.
Exactly seven days from now. England looked at the mobile on the table next to him, and told himself that he would not be pathetic. It was only seven days.
God damn it.
-
Their relationship was only a recent one - no, it’d be wrong to say that. Their actual relationship was one that spanned centuries, some more painful than others. The links between the United States of America and the United Kingdom had existed for a long time. But their relationship, the human type that existed between two people who were hopelessly in love, was more recent. Much, much more recent.
It started something like 4 days ago, with America making them a surprisingly nice dinner of grilled fish. He had fidgeted and flushed while England grudgingly admitted that he could grill a mean fish, and then blurted out a declaration of love as England was taking a bite. England had promptly choked on a fish bone. America had panicked, thumping England’s back needlessly until the older nation spit out the bone, turned around, grabbed him and kissed him senseless.
“That wasn’t romantic at all,” England complained later, as they lay together in his king-sized bed. “And these were my favourite sheets.”
America laughed breathlessly, leaning forward to press a kiss to England’s forehead. “Wait till Christmas. I’ll do something so brilliantly romantic that you won’t know what hit you.”
“You’re staying until Christmas?”
“No, the boss is expecting me back home in a few days,” said America. His fingers were tracing light circles on England’s bare back. “But I’ve decided I wanna spend Christmas with you this year.”
England wrinkled his nose in thought. “You can’t just abandon your boss.”
“I won’t. I’ll be gone, and then back in time to sweep you off your feet with the best Christmas you’ve ever had!”
“That’s a grand claim to be making,” said England dryly. “You have a week to finish everything and get back.”
The younger nation winked. “Don’t miss me too much.”
“I won’t, at all.”
-
He did. Incredibly so. He told this to the fairies. They chittered sympathetically, and one of them pulled a rose out to thread into his hair.
It was stupid. England and America had spent a total of 4 days (4 days!) in some sort of strange, young lovers’ bliss, complete with teapots thrown in frustration and brilliant sex when night time arrived. Just 4 days! And yet, once America had boarded the plane home, England already found himself missing his boisterous presence.
“I should call,” he muttered. “Just to check that he got home safely.” He fumbled with the keypad, having to redial a few times in his haste. Impatiently, he waited and listened as the phone dialled, tapping the table with his free hand. Finally, there was a click.
“Howdy, America here! What’s up?”
England cleared his throat. “A-ah, America! I just wanted to, well, see if you’ve er, arrived. In Washington. Safe.” He cleared his throat again. “U-uh, nothing important, really-“
“Yeah, yeah, whatever!”
He bristled. “R-really now! I should have known better than to be concerned, idiots like you -“
“Haha, just kidding! I’m not here at the moment, leave a message after the beep and the awesome me will call you back! Probably.”
Later, when America listened to the message, he would hear a very impressive splutter laced with some very British curses, and then a brief period of silence that ended with a suspiciously fond-sounding sigh. And that was it.
-
“Sorry for disappearing yesterday,” America murmured into his shoulder. England opened his eyes, adjusting to the light of the television in the otherwise dark room. He craned his neck to look at the other man.
“What?” America had his arms wrapped firmly around England, holding him in his lap as he lazily watched the television. On the screen, Spongebob was placing a star on top of coral which was supposed to serve as a Christmas tree.
“Yesterday. During the picnic?” England’s face remained blank. “Never mind.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the Briton muttered, watching a large group of sea-folk sing in front of the coral tree. Apparently they’re waiting for Santa to arrive.
“It’s okay.” He could feel America smiling into his shoulder. “It doesn’t matter.” England frowned, but said nothing.
They watched the television in silence for a few minutes. “Santa didn’t get there in time for Christmas,” England pointed out, somewhat accusingly.
“Obviously you haven’t watched this episode before,” said America, and turned the TV off.
day two.
He wasn’t sure why, but the first thing England did after he woke up (after listening to America’s voice message alarm a few times - god, he really was pathetic) was turn on the television in his bedroom, and switch to the cartoons channel.
An episode of Spongebob Squarepants was running, a show that he’d always found utterly ridiculous, but for some reason he was glued to the screen. He was strangely disappointed to find that it wasn’t a Christmas special, but then the landline phone rang and he scrambled out of the room to answer the call, almost tripping over his own feet.
It wasn’t America, but England did cheer up considerably after throwing some appropriately scathing remarks at the French bastard on the line. By the time he wandered back into his bedroom, he was distracted by checking his mobile to see if America had called, and the television was showing commercials.
He turned the television off absent-mindedly, berating himself for being so disappointed that America hadn’t so much as texted him. He called the git again, this time leaving a short, meaningless message when America didn’t pick up, and resolved to not spend the day thinking about him.
-
“Man, do I look awesome or what?”
England opened his eyes and glanced to his left. America was staring at him expectantly with a bright smile, wearing a t-shirt that said ‘I’m with stupid’ and an arrow pointing in his direction. England rolled his eyes. “Very charming. Personally I think this one fits you better,” he said, smirking as he pushed a bundle of cloth into the other’s hands.
America held the t-shirt up. Large block letters proclaimed: ‘I’m in shape. Round is a shape.’
“Haha, very funny,” America pouted as the older man snickered. “Your ass looks damn fine in those jeans though.”
England patted down the aforementioned jeans absent-mindedly, a tiny smile on his face. “Yes, well. Someone has to look good in what they wear.”
“Oh come on, don’t I look dashing?”
“No, you look ridiculous.”
“You’re just jealous,” America teased, entering the change room again and, without bothering to close the door, pulled off his t-shirt to get changed back into his own clothes. England paused before going into his own room, very much appreciating the fine view he was given of America’s toned body as his eyes drank in the deliciously tanned skin. America noticed him staring and grinned, deliberately running a hand through blond hair and striking a pose. “Like what you see?”
He flushed, looking away quickly and stalking into his own change room. “H-hurry up and get changed!”
America laughed but obliged him. As they left the store without purchasing anything, he grabbed England’s hand and spun him around for a kiss. The shorter man closed his eyes for a brief second, leaning into it, before pushing him away. “We’re in public, idiot.”
“I know, but I can’t help it if I want the world to know you’re mine.” America narrowed his eyes. “I so saw that shop assistant checking you out.”
“Who’s the jealous one now?” England said, smirking. America rolled his eyes.
“Obviously her. She’s not the one who gets to see this fine piece of British ass everyday.” He dodged England’s smack expertly, laughing as he led them towards the pet store to coo at the adorable kittens for sale.
day three.
England woke up with a smile on his face. He only listened to the alarm once before he got out of bed for breakfast, his spirits not dampening even when he found no new messages from America. Somehow, he didn’t feel like he missed the git as much today.
England spent the day choosing a present for America. After much consideration, fighting with other customers in the busy rush in the last few days before Christmas, and haggling with irate shopkeepers, he finally staggered home triumphantly with a small gift box clutched in his hands.
He considered packaging the gift and sending it via express post to America because, to be honest, it didn’t seem all that likely that America would be back in London in time for Christmas. His workload was heavy during this time of the year, England knew, and, well, there was an awful lot of snow delaying flights lately.
But then, England remembered the smile that he’d woken up with that morning, and remembered the rush of warmth that had filled him when America promised him the best Christmas yet. So he placed the box underneath the Christmas tree, and even forgot to check his mobile before he went to bed.
-
The first thing England noticed was the smell of salt. Then, the familiar, gentle rocking beneath his feet. He opened his eyes and found himself gazing at a brilliantly starry sky. Sure enough, when he looked down, he was greeted by the sight of the ocean.
“Beautiful night, isn’t it?” England made a sound of agreement, leaning slightly into America on his right.
“It’s been a while,” England murmured after a few moments, taking a sip of wine from the glass in his hand. America glanced at him. “Since I’ve been at sea,” he clarified.
“That’s why we’re here.” America’s voice was soft. The yacht bobbed gently in the still waters, and England smiled fondly as he gazed into the water.
“What’s her name?”
“Huh? The sea?”
“No, of course not. I meant the yacht.”
“Oh!” America grinned. “I call her Liberty.”
Of course, England thought. “It suits her,” he said out loud.
America hummed in agreement, and then gently pulled England away from the rails. Suddenly, England was aware that there was soft music playing, coming from a small set of iPod speakers on the deck. America took both of their wine glasses and placed them on a small table, and then reached his hand out to England. “Dance with me, England?”
Maybe it was the wine, or the music, or maybe it was the very simple fact that he was at sea together with America, but England took his hand. Underneath the moonlight, they swayed and stepped to the music, not really dancing but it was enough for England. He closed his eyes and rested his head against America’s shoulder, feeling remarkably calm and wonderfully content.
“I miss you,” America whispered quietly into England’s ear.
And that was the moment England realised he was dreaming.
day four.
“Rise and shine, old man!”
England woke up. He lay there listlessly as America’s recorded voice washed over him. The ache of longing in his chest was back, made painfully stronger by the realisation that he’d been dreaming of that blasted idiot for the past few days.
He draped his arm across his face, shielding his eyes. “You,” England muttered. “Are hopeless. Truly hopeless.”
“It’s a beautiful day!”
But you’re not here, he thought, not for the first time.
He spent the rest of the day baking. Everything he made tasted like ashes.
There were still no messages.
[to be continued]