Two Hearts Between Them
Title: Two Hearts Between Them
Genre: Romance/Anst
Pairing(s): (apparently onesided) USUK
Word Count: 1,028
Rating/Warnings: 12
Summary: Done for the ' Valentine's Day' prompt for Sweethearts week. America tackles the storage cupboard again and finds something unexpected.
It was the storage closet again. Sometimes America wondered why he didn't just shut the door and leave it to gather dust as time went on. Some things were just too painful and some memories should stay buried. However there was a stubborn part in him that wanted to prove that he could sort through the room without letting the memories overwhelm him.
He had resolved one day, no particularly special day, that he would tackle that closet and if he did not want to throw anything away, he could at least box it up properly and put it in the attic. That task had seemed doable (try as he might, America could not imagine throwing anything in that room away).
As he opened the door, a cloud of dust and cobwebs greeted him. The dust had managed to settle again since the last time he had attempted to clean it and he had to cough several times to rid his lungs on the thick dust that seemed to cling to him like a magnet. Maybe it was the dust or the memories, but America always felt weighted down every time he came here. It was like there was a small lump in his chest when he recalled how he and England had been when he was younger and how they were now, over two centuries later, and how it seemed like nothing could ever get them back to the same easy, comfortable relationship again.
This time, he steeled himself through packing up the suit and the musket and the rest of the toy soldiers (he would never admit to his favourite one resting in his bedside cabinet) into a cardboard box ready to go in the attic. He packed them all with care and forced down the memories associated with them, even if some of them were good memories. If he ever wanted to tidy this room at least a little bit, then he was going to have be organised and methodical about it.
Even with this thought in mind, he hesitated after packing the first box. He had known what to expect before but now he was drifting into unknown territory and he did not know what surprises would lie in the rest of the boxes. But, with a bravery he didn't know he had, America pulled out the next box. As he flipped open the lid, he braced himself - before letting out a breath. It was just kids' toys, nothing that would inspire particularly taxing memories.
He picked up the rabbit that England had stitched for him, back when America had barely been as tall as his knee and England could swing him up onto his shoulders. America smiled sadly as he ran his thumb over the rough cloth of the bunny's face with his stitched eyes and mouth. England had been practiced at sewing clothes, but sewing a toy for a small, precious boy had been difficult. America really appreciated all the work that England had put in, even if when he tried to show it, the words choked him and pushed out others instead - hurtful, unkind words.
Not wanting the toy to be shut away in a box and trapped in the attic (sometimes Toy Story had a bigger effect on America than he thought) but unable to even think of throwing it away, he put the rabbit to one side gently, stroking its head before moving onto the next item in the box. A wooden horse and even that had memories attached. Memories of England teaching about Troy and Greece and warnings about trusting too soon - even when, in the end, it was England that got his heart broken.
America put the horse next to the rabbit with a choked laugh before looking down at the bottom of the box. The last item seemed to be made of paper and so America removed it carefully, knowing that age was not as kind to items as it was to nations. The paper was yellow and aging but as America blew the dust off, he recognised the mass of ribbons and lace instantly.
His very first Saint Valentine's Day card. Made in the mid 1700s when life had still been relatively uncomplicated and America had been trying to find his feet even as he shot up in growth, taller than his caretaker, who had always been bigger and stronger than America. America had made it when England had spread news of giving cards on Valentine's Day to the one that you loved and America had loved (loves) England so much that he wondered how everyone went about their daily lives without the half-pain, half-joy that being so in love could give you. It had become so common to America that when the hard ball of grief had attached itself to that love, America had carried that around as if it was nothing.
But England had not returned that Valentine's Day. Or the next. And sometimes the jealousy and the pain had eaten America alive on those days and he had shut himself away, for once just being selfish and licking his wounds even as he told himself that he had no right to feel this way.
When England had returned, years later, relations had soured between them and the Valentine's card had been buried in a box far away from England's sight, never to be unearthed again, because giving a hand-made card nowadays, especially when all you can expect is rejection, is stupidity and idiocy to the extreme.
America's sight blurred and he dropped the Valentine to scrub his hand across his face, pushing his glasses up so he could wipe his eyes. Maybe it was better to leave the room be. Carefully, America put the Valentine back in the box as well as the horse and the rabbit before closing it up again. The door was closed on the room with the same finality and America went to find something physically exhausting and mentally taxing to take his mind off the room and the memories and the little paper Valentine.
England was not the only one with a broken heart.
Genre: Romance/Anst
Pairing(s): (apparently onesided) USUK
Word Count: 1,028
Rating/Warnings: 12
Summary: Done for the ' Valentine's Day' prompt for Sweethearts week. America tackles the storage cupboard again and finds something unexpected.
It was the storage closet again. Sometimes America wondered why he didn't just shut the door and leave it to gather dust as time went on. Some things were just too painful and some memories should stay buried. However there was a stubborn part in him that wanted to prove that he could sort through the room without letting the memories overwhelm him.
He had resolved one day, no particularly special day, that he would tackle that closet and if he did not want to throw anything away, he could at least box it up properly and put it in the attic. That task had seemed doable (try as he might, America could not imagine throwing anything in that room away).
As he opened the door, a cloud of dust and cobwebs greeted him. The dust had managed to settle again since the last time he had attempted to clean it and he had to cough several times to rid his lungs on the thick dust that seemed to cling to him like a magnet. Maybe it was the dust or the memories, but America always felt weighted down every time he came here. It was like there was a small lump in his chest when he recalled how he and England had been when he was younger and how they were now, over two centuries later, and how it seemed like nothing could ever get them back to the same easy, comfortable relationship again.
This time, he steeled himself through packing up the suit and the musket and the rest of the toy soldiers (he would never admit to his favourite one resting in his bedside cabinet) into a cardboard box ready to go in the attic. He packed them all with care and forced down the memories associated with them, even if some of them were good memories. If he ever wanted to tidy this room at least a little bit, then he was going to have be organised and methodical about it.
Even with this thought in mind, he hesitated after packing the first box. He had known what to expect before but now he was drifting into unknown territory and he did not know what surprises would lie in the rest of the boxes. But, with a bravery he didn't know he had, America pulled out the next box. As he flipped open the lid, he braced himself - before letting out a breath. It was just kids' toys, nothing that would inspire particularly taxing memories.
He picked up the rabbit that England had stitched for him, back when America had barely been as tall as his knee and England could swing him up onto his shoulders. America smiled sadly as he ran his thumb over the rough cloth of the bunny's face with his stitched eyes and mouth. England had been practiced at sewing clothes, but sewing a toy for a small, precious boy had been difficult. America really appreciated all the work that England had put in, even if when he tried to show it, the words choked him and pushed out others instead - hurtful, unkind words.
Not wanting the toy to be shut away in a box and trapped in the attic (sometimes Toy Story had a bigger effect on America than he thought) but unable to even think of throwing it away, he put the rabbit to one side gently, stroking its head before moving onto the next item in the box. A wooden horse and even that had memories attached. Memories of England teaching about Troy and Greece and warnings about trusting too soon - even when, in the end, it was England that got his heart broken.
America put the horse next to the rabbit with a choked laugh before looking down at the bottom of the box. The last item seemed to be made of paper and so America removed it carefully, knowing that age was not as kind to items as it was to nations. The paper was yellow and aging but as America blew the dust off, he recognised the mass of ribbons and lace instantly.
His very first Saint Valentine's Day card. Made in the mid 1700s when life had still been relatively uncomplicated and America had been trying to find his feet even as he shot up in growth, taller than his caretaker, who had always been bigger and stronger than America. America had made it when England had spread news of giving cards on Valentine's Day to the one that you loved and America had loved (loves) England so much that he wondered how everyone went about their daily lives without the half-pain, half-joy that being so in love could give you. It had become so common to America that when the hard ball of grief had attached itself to that love, America had carried that around as if it was nothing.
But England had not returned that Valentine's Day. Or the next. And sometimes the jealousy and the pain had eaten America alive on those days and he had shut himself away, for once just being selfish and licking his wounds even as he told himself that he had no right to feel this way.
When England had returned, years later, relations had soured between them and the Valentine's card had been buried in a box far away from England's sight, never to be unearthed again, because giving a hand-made card nowadays, especially when all you can expect is rejection, is stupidity and idiocy to the extreme.
America's sight blurred and he dropped the Valentine to scrub his hand across his face, pushing his glasses up so he could wipe his eyes. Maybe it was better to leave the room be. Carefully, America put the Valentine back in the box as well as the horse and the rabbit before closing it up again. The door was closed on the room with the same finality and America went to find something physically exhausting and mentally taxing to take his mind off the room and the memories and the little paper Valentine.
England was not the only one with a broken heart.