[Sweethearts Week - To Be Continued] Cold
Title: Cold
Genre: Fluff
Word Count: 1,703
Rating/Warnings: G. Fluff.
Summary: Continuation of the First Night of Disaster strip from "We're Shipwrecked Too!"
During the heat of the day, the breeze off the ocean had been a welcome respite from the blazing rays of the sun, and the burning of the sand under their feet. It caressed their faces and tossed their hair, playing against their hot skin and raising pleasant goose bumps. But once the sun dipped into the ocean, the breeze turned to a wind, crisp and cutting and harsh, and even hidden in the relative shelter of the edge of a clearing, they still felt it blowing over them, taking their precious body heat with it.
At least the sky was pretty, America thought to himself, as he lay on his back in the sweet grass, his fatigue jacket thrown over his body to trap his own heat. They didn’t really have views of the night sky like this back home, at least not in the big cities, where the clouds or light watered them down until they blended in with the darkness. Certainly not in England either, at least not in the places he’d seen. The classic English grime in the London sky had become somewhat clearer lately, but by no means clear enough for the view he had now.
America had always thought of the night sky as darkness with points of light scattered throughout-this sky seemed much closer to a milky soup of light with peppering of black overlain. The stars swept over the panorama in almost-patterns, big sweeping dips and masses where there seemed to be very little dark at all; only the off-white mass of the Milky Way with stars dissolved in its midst. It was breathtaking, and America thought he’d be content with never looking away.
“H-hey, America!”
America, in the middle of pulling his coat a little higher onto himself, looked over to where England was laying beside him, his arm folded under his head. His voice was trembling slightly, and America thought it could be from the cold, but it didn’t seem like it.
Even in the near-darkness, he could see England’s furrowed eyebrows, the classic turn of his frowning mouth.
“Yeah?” he replied quietly.
England swallowed, shifting a bit on the grass and tugging his jacket closer over his shoulder. “It’s hot in the day, but it really cools off at night,” he commented, the casual tone of his voice juxtaposed by the tension in his face.
Still somewhat dazed by the sky, dreamy and far-away, America nodded a little, the grass tickling his face. “I hate to admit it,” he said without snark, “but I have to agree with you.”
England’s eyes roved away, and America saw them turn up towards the sky when they reflected the starlight, shining for a moment like a cat’s in the dark, making him look oddly younger. “Of course,” he said, his mouth hanging open a bit, tasting the cool night air.
America continued to stare at him, unabashedly, fixated on the sky behind England’s partially-silhouetted profile where it melted with the stars into dim light on the horizon, still a slightly warm purple from the remnants of the sun. England’s high cheekbones caught the light, and he looked calmer, the grass all around him twitching and swaying, despite his continually furrowed brow.
He shivered suddenly, as a chill started at his shoulders and traveled down his spine, making him shift sporadically and give a little breathless noise, a low hum of discomfort in his throat. He shoulders hunched in the aftermath, curling in a little, and he mumbled almost silently to the sky.
“…Cold…”
America suddenly and violently realized what England’s comment had been for, and felt a bit of guilt in his gut for not knowing what England had been asking for. America had always been able to keep himself warm-a human furnace, England had called him once when they had huddled under a blanket against a storm in the middle of a New England winter-but England, with his thin limbs, could never be very warm by himself. With the wind blowing over them and only their thin canvas jackets for protection, he imagined England was freezing in the cool grass.
America wondered, somewhat hurt, if England distrusted him enough not to ask. Sure, America had been putting the moves on since they’d crashed-and subtle, for him, he supposed, was far from subtle for England, if the way he’d been cursed out after slipping what he thought was a discreet hand around England’s was any indication-but he didn’t think England had built him up as that much of a pervert in his mind. America shifted a bit, uncomfortably, a nervous little smile coming onto his face.
“I won’t do anything,” he offered, his voice quiet and innocent. Even in the dark, the flush on England’s face was clear, and he abruptly rolled onto his side, presenting his back to America with a huff of indignity that turned into a pathetic little shiver as his skin hit the un-warmed grass.
“Of course you won’t!” he barked, in a tone that said the conversation was over. “Go to sleep, idiot!”
America frowned a little as the “idiot” faltered, England’s voice dimming and trembling slightly as a breeze swept down over them. England pulled his jacket stubbornly around himself, pulling his knees closer into his chest, and America could see the small chills in his back and arms as he went silent.
America knew England was telling him with all of his body language that he didn’t want to be touched, and he knew fully the implications of touching England when this message was being conveyed.
But he couldn’t stand on damn ceremony because England was afraid of being violated-which he wouldn’t be, for Christ’s sake, America wasn’t fucking France-if it was only going to get colder. England would catch pneumonia, at this rate, if he didn’t have something warmer.
America propped himself up onto his elbow, scooting himself across the grass and into the patch of flattened blades that had been left by England before he’d rolled over. The ground was slightly warmer there, and America tossed his jacket over the two of them as his arm made its way around England’s waist, pulling him against America’s chest.
England became stiff for a moment, completely immovable, and then was a flurry of motion, wiggling both towards and away from America desperately.
“Wh-what are you doing?” he gasped, pushing and pulling at America’s arm, trying to get it off. His fingers were like ice as they touched America’s skin, and he shivered himself as they grabbed at him.
“We’ll freeze to death if I don’t,” America said simply, curling up a bit to put his legs beneath England’s, and for a moment England’s bare, frozen toes touched his legs and he nearly gasped at how cold they were.
“It’s… it’s not that cold, you twit,” England snapped weakly, his struggling already losing power.
“It will be, in a few hours,” America argued, putting his other arm under England to surround him with warmth. Their jackets were almost enough to cover them, and America could feel his own heat filling up the space underneath the fabric, between their bodies. England remained stubbornly silent, no longer fighting America but still remaining stiff in his grasp.
America carefully curved his chest around England’s back, the heat emanating off of him seeping into England. England gave a shiver, but it was pleasant, and light, adjusting to the change in temperatures.
“C’mon,” America said softly, in warning, before gently turning England over to face him. England was still scowling, deeply, and his frown only tightened as he was forcibly curled against America’s chest, his head against America’s collarbone. It was warmer under their jackets, warm enough to be comfortable, and America could feel the cold air radiating from the surface of England’s skin.
“Put your hands between your thighs,” America instructed, pulling their jackets a bit to make sure England was covered. He felt a small rush of cold air as he was uncovered slightly in the process, but he dutifully ignored it.
“I beg your pardon?” England said, his voice a scandalized murmur, muffled in America’s t-shirt. America curled his arms back around him, bundling him closer with a roll of his eyes.
“Your hands are frozen,” he explained. “They’ll warm up if you put ‘em in-between your thighs.”
America could feel England frown, but England did so anyway, reluctantly, the change in position giving him no choice in being pulled a bit closer, America’s arms fully around him. America began to rub at his back slowly, running his warm palms over the tightly-coiled, tensed muscles in England’s shoulders, warming them to make them relax. England sighed very slightly as his skin lost its chill, and he went limp against America, his muscles exhausted from shivering and shaking.
America watched the sky absently as his hands ran over England’s shoulders and arms and back, their light and crisp beauty following him even as his eyelids drooped and the motion of his hands began to slow.
England cleared his throat a bit, unobtrusively, but it caught America’s attention, and he looked down; as his face fell under the collar of the jacket over them, he realized his cold his face was from being exposed to the breeze. England’s eyes peered up at him from the dark of the jackets, half-lidded in his exhaustion but reflecting the stars all the same.
“Uh… thank you, I… suppose,” he said quietly, unmoving in America’s arms, unwilling to show his favor of the warmth. America held him closer anyways, and he moved into it slightly, gratefully, closing his eyes in either tiredness or embarrassment.
“Welcome, England,” America hummed, curling his body up around England’s and hugging him close until the rise and fall of England’s chest calmed in its rhythm and England’s breaths were only a faint, warm peppering against his arm.
He turned his face up to the sky one last time, reading it for memorization, his eyes taking in as much of it as they could until at last they slid closed, and the play of gentle light continued across the backs of his eyelids as he slept.
Thanks for reading, guys! ^^
Genre: Fluff
Word Count: 1,703
Rating/Warnings: G. Fluff.
Summary: Continuation of the First Night of Disaster strip from "We're Shipwrecked Too!"
During the heat of the day, the breeze off the ocean had been a welcome respite from the blazing rays of the sun, and the burning of the sand under their feet. It caressed their faces and tossed their hair, playing against their hot skin and raising pleasant goose bumps. But once the sun dipped into the ocean, the breeze turned to a wind, crisp and cutting and harsh, and even hidden in the relative shelter of the edge of a clearing, they still felt it blowing over them, taking their precious body heat with it.
At least the sky was pretty, America thought to himself, as he lay on his back in the sweet grass, his fatigue jacket thrown over his body to trap his own heat. They didn’t really have views of the night sky like this back home, at least not in the big cities, where the clouds or light watered them down until they blended in with the darkness. Certainly not in England either, at least not in the places he’d seen. The classic English grime in the London sky had become somewhat clearer lately, but by no means clear enough for the view he had now.
America had always thought of the night sky as darkness with points of light scattered throughout-this sky seemed much closer to a milky soup of light with peppering of black overlain. The stars swept over the panorama in almost-patterns, big sweeping dips and masses where there seemed to be very little dark at all; only the off-white mass of the Milky Way with stars dissolved in its midst. It was breathtaking, and America thought he’d be content with never looking away.
“H-hey, America!”
America, in the middle of pulling his coat a little higher onto himself, looked over to where England was laying beside him, his arm folded under his head. His voice was trembling slightly, and America thought it could be from the cold, but it didn’t seem like it.
Even in the near-darkness, he could see England’s furrowed eyebrows, the classic turn of his frowning mouth.
“Yeah?” he replied quietly.
England swallowed, shifting a bit on the grass and tugging his jacket closer over his shoulder. “It’s hot in the day, but it really cools off at night,” he commented, the casual tone of his voice juxtaposed by the tension in his face.
Still somewhat dazed by the sky, dreamy and far-away, America nodded a little, the grass tickling his face. “I hate to admit it,” he said without snark, “but I have to agree with you.”
England’s eyes roved away, and America saw them turn up towards the sky when they reflected the starlight, shining for a moment like a cat’s in the dark, making him look oddly younger. “Of course,” he said, his mouth hanging open a bit, tasting the cool night air.
America continued to stare at him, unabashedly, fixated on the sky behind England’s partially-silhouetted profile where it melted with the stars into dim light on the horizon, still a slightly warm purple from the remnants of the sun. England’s high cheekbones caught the light, and he looked calmer, the grass all around him twitching and swaying, despite his continually furrowed brow.
He shivered suddenly, as a chill started at his shoulders and traveled down his spine, making him shift sporadically and give a little breathless noise, a low hum of discomfort in his throat. He shoulders hunched in the aftermath, curling in a little, and he mumbled almost silently to the sky.
“…Cold…”
America suddenly and violently realized what England’s comment had been for, and felt a bit of guilt in his gut for not knowing what England had been asking for. America had always been able to keep himself warm-a human furnace, England had called him once when they had huddled under a blanket against a storm in the middle of a New England winter-but England, with his thin limbs, could never be very warm by himself. With the wind blowing over them and only their thin canvas jackets for protection, he imagined England was freezing in the cool grass.
America wondered, somewhat hurt, if England distrusted him enough not to ask. Sure, America had been putting the moves on since they’d crashed-and subtle, for him, he supposed, was far from subtle for England, if the way he’d been cursed out after slipping what he thought was a discreet hand around England’s was any indication-but he didn’t think England had built him up as that much of a pervert in his mind. America shifted a bit, uncomfortably, a nervous little smile coming onto his face.
“I won’t do anything,” he offered, his voice quiet and innocent. Even in the dark, the flush on England’s face was clear, and he abruptly rolled onto his side, presenting his back to America with a huff of indignity that turned into a pathetic little shiver as his skin hit the un-warmed grass.
“Of course you won’t!” he barked, in a tone that said the conversation was over. “Go to sleep, idiot!”
America frowned a little as the “idiot” faltered, England’s voice dimming and trembling slightly as a breeze swept down over them. England pulled his jacket stubbornly around himself, pulling his knees closer into his chest, and America could see the small chills in his back and arms as he went silent.
America knew England was telling him with all of his body language that he didn’t want to be touched, and he knew fully the implications of touching England when this message was being conveyed.
But he couldn’t stand on damn ceremony because England was afraid of being violated-which he wouldn’t be, for Christ’s sake, America wasn’t fucking France-if it was only going to get colder. England would catch pneumonia, at this rate, if he didn’t have something warmer.
America propped himself up onto his elbow, scooting himself across the grass and into the patch of flattened blades that had been left by England before he’d rolled over. The ground was slightly warmer there, and America tossed his jacket over the two of them as his arm made its way around England’s waist, pulling him against America’s chest.
England became stiff for a moment, completely immovable, and then was a flurry of motion, wiggling both towards and away from America desperately.
“Wh-what are you doing?” he gasped, pushing and pulling at America’s arm, trying to get it off. His fingers were like ice as they touched America’s skin, and he shivered himself as they grabbed at him.
“We’ll freeze to death if I don’t,” America said simply, curling up a bit to put his legs beneath England’s, and for a moment England’s bare, frozen toes touched his legs and he nearly gasped at how cold they were.
“It’s… it’s not that cold, you twit,” England snapped weakly, his struggling already losing power.
“It will be, in a few hours,” America argued, putting his other arm under England to surround him with warmth. Their jackets were almost enough to cover them, and America could feel his own heat filling up the space underneath the fabric, between their bodies. England remained stubbornly silent, no longer fighting America but still remaining stiff in his grasp.
America carefully curved his chest around England’s back, the heat emanating off of him seeping into England. England gave a shiver, but it was pleasant, and light, adjusting to the change in temperatures.
“C’mon,” America said softly, in warning, before gently turning England over to face him. England was still scowling, deeply, and his frown only tightened as he was forcibly curled against America’s chest, his head against America’s collarbone. It was warmer under their jackets, warm enough to be comfortable, and America could feel the cold air radiating from the surface of England’s skin.
“Put your hands between your thighs,” America instructed, pulling their jackets a bit to make sure England was covered. He felt a small rush of cold air as he was uncovered slightly in the process, but he dutifully ignored it.
“I beg your pardon?” England said, his voice a scandalized murmur, muffled in America’s t-shirt. America curled his arms back around him, bundling him closer with a roll of his eyes.
“Your hands are frozen,” he explained. “They’ll warm up if you put ‘em in-between your thighs.”
America could feel England frown, but England did so anyway, reluctantly, the change in position giving him no choice in being pulled a bit closer, America’s arms fully around him. America began to rub at his back slowly, running his warm palms over the tightly-coiled, tensed muscles in England’s shoulders, warming them to make them relax. England sighed very slightly as his skin lost its chill, and he went limp against America, his muscles exhausted from shivering and shaking.
America watched the sky absently as his hands ran over England’s shoulders and arms and back, their light and crisp beauty following him even as his eyelids drooped and the motion of his hands began to slow.
England cleared his throat a bit, unobtrusively, but it caught America’s attention, and he looked down; as his face fell under the collar of the jacket over them, he realized his cold his face was from being exposed to the breeze. England’s eyes peered up at him from the dark of the jackets, half-lidded in his exhaustion but reflecting the stars all the same.
“Uh… thank you, I… suppose,” he said quietly, unmoving in America’s arms, unwilling to show his favor of the warmth. America held him closer anyways, and he moved into it slightly, gratefully, closing his eyes in either tiredness or embarrassment.
“Welcome, England,” America hummed, curling his body up around England’s and hugging him close until the rise and fall of England’s chest calmed in its rhythm and England’s breaths were only a faint, warm peppering against his arm.
He turned his face up to the sky one last time, reading it for memorization, his eyes taking in as much of it as they could until at last they slid closed, and the play of gentle light continued across the backs of his eyelids as he slept.
Thanks for reading, guys! ^^