[fanfic] Touch
I know, I know, I'm sorry~!! I should be working on the Frog Prince thing, but I am having SUCH a hard time with the next chapter, you have no idea. I've been trying my hardest, I promise!
In the meantime, to keep you all satisfied, I've written something based on #15 in sakru_writer's lovely, amazing post. I hope you guys enjoy, and thanks for being patient with me!!
Title: Touch
Author: moi
Characters/Pairings: US/UK (surprise)
Rating: PG-13, for Al's mouth
Warnings: Bit of a sensitive topic, angst.
Summary: England missed him already.
It was the twelfth headline in ten days, and he didn’t know if he could take this anymore.
The mess had been cleaned up, so to speak-no fires remained burning on the skyline, and the smoke had long since cleared in the chilly September air.
But the fucking newspapers.
He knew it was a big deal-hell, he knew, he had the bleeding, ragged gashes along his ribcage to prove it, he felt them burning, he knew, goddammit-but he didn’t think it was such a crime to want to forget. For just… one second.
He wanted to focus on something else. On rebuilding (whenever, if ever, that would happen), on worrying about the families, on finding these fuckers and bringing them down.
But every morning, there was a newspaper on his table, the big black print screaming new death toll estimates in his face even before his first coherent thoughts could be heard in his own ears, and it was just about to drive him over the edge.
He couldn’t fight the guilt boiling in his gut and under his sternum as he boarded the plane, and just kept drinking ginger-ale, like there was no fucking tomorrow, hoping it would settle his stomach. For the most part, it didn’t, but he eventually found more calm in watching the clouds below them than wallowing in what he was leaving behind.
He just hoped, to God, that England was home.
--------------------------------------------------------
He was beside himself.
He had already been to America’s house-the news came on at 8:50, he was on a plane by 9:00-but after five days, it was painfully clear that there was, quite literally, nothing he could do. It only took one press conference to convince America’s boss that they were with them all the way on this one, and England was sent home to brood and sulk and wear a hole in the floor where he had taken to pacing.
He found himself glued to the news channels at absurd hours, just watching the video and trying to let it all sink in. Eventually, his natural instincts against masochism would kick in, and he would shut off the telly and go to bed-but even then, the images never left his mind, and they bled into his sleep, coloring his dreams with angry reds and blacks that had him wide awake in the early morning while the sun was still down.
He had no doubt that America had already let it go, and was looking unabashedly into the future, as was his stubborn habit. The fact that he couldn’t only made it all the more frustrating.
When America showed up at his house that one afternoon-without even knocking, looking disheveled, depressed and beyond exhausted-he suddenly felt very stupid.
There was more he could do, but it had nothing to do with press conferences.
He sat with America in the living room, facing him on the couch with one leg folded underneath him, as America stared blankly into the upholstery. He tried to swallow all of his small-talk; now was not the time for it. But without it, he was flailing helplessly in the open air, with no direction and no steering wheel, and he didn’t like the feel of that one bit.
“Want some more tea?”
He had felt guilty giving it to America at first, but he had no coffee in his house, and America had sucked it down like it was the first he’d drank in months.
America shook his head a little, shutting his eyes briefly, then dragging them back open with what looked like a lot of effort. “No, thanks.”
“Alright.”
He was lost. He had experienced disasters such as these before himself, and some many times worse-but he’d had no one to consult with, no one to give him a reassurance that he would be okay, not even as a child. With no instruction manual, he felt desperate like he never had before. Alfred was always easy to please-a little kiss on the scraped knee, a tickle fight, and he was back out in the fields before England could blink. But this… this had him stumped.
“I’m… terribly sorry, Alfred,” he said dumbly.
America looked up at him, and England was startled to see that America’s eyes were suddenly shining and glassy, like marbles. America nodded weakly in acknowledgement, and his head dipped down again as he tried to hide his trembling jaw.
England couldn’t help the pitying little “oh” that escaped him, and he leaned forward to grasp the younger man’s shoulders. This seemed to be all the invitation that America needed, and soon his face was against England’s shirtfront, and England was falling back onto the couch with America’s weight on top of him.
America’s sobs weren’t loud or obnoxious in their severity, but the sheer amount that he was shaking underneath England’s hands was beginning to frighten the older man, and he held on tighter, if not for America’s comfort than to reassure himself that the other would not break into pieces in his arms.
England felt the full brunt of the mourning hit him like a wall. And he wasn’t just mourning those who had died, who Alfred was crying for. England was mourning the death of the child, who he now felt had finally been bled from Alfred completely; a child who had smiled as he lifted England off the ground, saying “We’ll show them, don’t worry!” as London fell to rubble behind them; a child who had stared him defiantly in the face, knowing that what he was doing was foolhardy but doing it with all the vigor in his body.
England missed him already.
“Right then, love, up you go,” England said softly, coaxing America into a sitting position, pushing his hair off his face and wiping at his tears with calloused thumbs.
America still wobbled slightly, his breathing shaky and labored. Again, England knew not what to do, and continued wiping away the tears as they came, until America rested his fingers against England’s, which were cradling either side of his face, trying to keep him together.
Somehow he knew, even without the spoken words, that America was grateful, and he paused in his wiping to lean forward and peck America’s forehead with uncharacteristic affection, which made him feel good, in a way he hadn’t in a while.
“It’ll get better,” England said finally, as the last of America’s tears slid away.
America looked calmer, as if the crying had helped clear his head, and he half-smiled at England, in a heart-breaking, mournful way that had England questioning the believability of his own words.
“It will,” America said, and England knew that the fact that it had not been a question-“It will, really? D’you promise?”-was a good omen.
A/N:
1) I did not really have time to re-read this thoroughly, seeing as it's quite late where I am right now, so if you see any mistakes, don't be shy and tell me so I can fix them!!
2) I apologize if this butchers anyone's feelings... I didn't really know how to write for something like this, it's still a delicate topic with some people. So, if I upset you, I could NOT be more sorry.
3) An off-note: I think Alfred seems like the kind of person that likes to get away from things that bother him. My head-canon tells me that if something really upsets him, he'll go away from it for a while and come back when he thinks he can emotionally handle it. But that might just be my mind talking...
4) I've started posting these things in my actual journal instead of just on the comm, for your convinience, so you can find things, and for mine, so I don't have to go digging through a million entries in the comm to find my own X3
Like I said, it's really late here, so if any of this isn't making sense, just... let me know. And, as usual, I hope you all enjoy~!
In the meantime, to keep you all satisfied, I've written something based on #15 in sakru_writer's lovely, amazing post. I hope you guys enjoy, and thanks for being patient with me!!
Title: Touch
Author: moi
Characters/Pairings: US/UK (surprise)
Rating: PG-13, for Al's mouth
Warnings: Bit of a sensitive topic, angst.
Summary: England missed him already.
It was the twelfth headline in ten days, and he didn’t know if he could take this anymore.
The mess had been cleaned up, so to speak-no fires remained burning on the skyline, and the smoke had long since cleared in the chilly September air.
But the fucking newspapers.
He knew it was a big deal-hell, he knew, he had the bleeding, ragged gashes along his ribcage to prove it, he felt them burning, he knew, goddammit-but he didn’t think it was such a crime to want to forget. For just… one second.
He wanted to focus on something else. On rebuilding (whenever, if ever, that would happen), on worrying about the families, on finding these fuckers and bringing them down.
But every morning, there was a newspaper on his table, the big black print screaming new death toll estimates in his face even before his first coherent thoughts could be heard in his own ears, and it was just about to drive him over the edge.
He couldn’t fight the guilt boiling in his gut and under his sternum as he boarded the plane, and just kept drinking ginger-ale, like there was no fucking tomorrow, hoping it would settle his stomach. For the most part, it didn’t, but he eventually found more calm in watching the clouds below them than wallowing in what he was leaving behind.
He just hoped, to God, that England was home.
--------------------------------------------------------
He was beside himself.
He had already been to America’s house-the news came on at 8:50, he was on a plane by 9:00-but after five days, it was painfully clear that there was, quite literally, nothing he could do. It only took one press conference to convince America’s boss that they were with them all the way on this one, and England was sent home to brood and sulk and wear a hole in the floor where he had taken to pacing.
He found himself glued to the news channels at absurd hours, just watching the video and trying to let it all sink in. Eventually, his natural instincts against masochism would kick in, and he would shut off the telly and go to bed-but even then, the images never left his mind, and they bled into his sleep, coloring his dreams with angry reds and blacks that had him wide awake in the early morning while the sun was still down.
He had no doubt that America had already let it go, and was looking unabashedly into the future, as was his stubborn habit. The fact that he couldn’t only made it all the more frustrating.
When America showed up at his house that one afternoon-without even knocking, looking disheveled, depressed and beyond exhausted-he suddenly felt very stupid.
There was more he could do, but it had nothing to do with press conferences.
He sat with America in the living room, facing him on the couch with one leg folded underneath him, as America stared blankly into the upholstery. He tried to swallow all of his small-talk; now was not the time for it. But without it, he was flailing helplessly in the open air, with no direction and no steering wheel, and he didn’t like the feel of that one bit.
“Want some more tea?”
He had felt guilty giving it to America at first, but he had no coffee in his house, and America had sucked it down like it was the first he’d drank in months.
America shook his head a little, shutting his eyes briefly, then dragging them back open with what looked like a lot of effort. “No, thanks.”
“Alright.”
He was lost. He had experienced disasters such as these before himself, and some many times worse-but he’d had no one to consult with, no one to give him a reassurance that he would be okay, not even as a child. With no instruction manual, he felt desperate like he never had before. Alfred was always easy to please-a little kiss on the scraped knee, a tickle fight, and he was back out in the fields before England could blink. But this… this had him stumped.
“I’m… terribly sorry, Alfred,” he said dumbly.
America looked up at him, and England was startled to see that America’s eyes were suddenly shining and glassy, like marbles. America nodded weakly in acknowledgement, and his head dipped down again as he tried to hide his trembling jaw.
England couldn’t help the pitying little “oh” that escaped him, and he leaned forward to grasp the younger man’s shoulders. This seemed to be all the invitation that America needed, and soon his face was against England’s shirtfront, and England was falling back onto the couch with America’s weight on top of him.
America’s sobs weren’t loud or obnoxious in their severity, but the sheer amount that he was shaking underneath England’s hands was beginning to frighten the older man, and he held on tighter, if not for America’s comfort than to reassure himself that the other would not break into pieces in his arms.
England felt the full brunt of the mourning hit him like a wall. And he wasn’t just mourning those who had died, who Alfred was crying for. England was mourning the death of the child, who he now felt had finally been bled from Alfred completely; a child who had smiled as he lifted England off the ground, saying “We’ll show them, don’t worry!” as London fell to rubble behind them; a child who had stared him defiantly in the face, knowing that what he was doing was foolhardy but doing it with all the vigor in his body.
England missed him already.
“Right then, love, up you go,” England said softly, coaxing America into a sitting position, pushing his hair off his face and wiping at his tears with calloused thumbs.
America still wobbled slightly, his breathing shaky and labored. Again, England knew not what to do, and continued wiping away the tears as they came, until America rested his fingers against England’s, which were cradling either side of his face, trying to keep him together.
Somehow he knew, even without the spoken words, that America was grateful, and he paused in his wiping to lean forward and peck America’s forehead with uncharacteristic affection, which made him feel good, in a way he hadn’t in a while.
“It’ll get better,” England said finally, as the last of America’s tears slid away.
America looked calmer, as if the crying had helped clear his head, and he half-smiled at England, in a heart-breaking, mournful way that had England questioning the believability of his own words.
“It will,” America said, and England knew that the fact that it had not been a question-“It will, really? D’you promise?”-was a good omen.
A/N:
1) I did not really have time to re-read this thoroughly, seeing as it's quite late where I am right now, so if you see any mistakes, don't be shy and tell me so I can fix them!!
2) I apologize if this butchers anyone's feelings... I didn't really know how to write for something like this, it's still a delicate topic with some people. So, if I upset you, I could NOT be more sorry.
3) An off-note: I think Alfred seems like the kind of person that likes to get away from things that bother him. My head-canon tells me that if something really upsets him, he'll go away from it for a while and come back when he thinks he can emotionally handle it. But that might just be my mind talking...
4) I've started posting these things in my actual journal instead of just on the comm, for your convinience, so you can find things, and for mine, so I don't have to go digging through a million entries in the comm to find my own X3
Like I said, it's really late here, so if any of this isn't making sense, just... let me know. And, as usual, I hope you all enjoy~!