Highway Cloudbusting -- Part 4 (4/11)
Title: Highway Cloudbusting -- Part 4 (4/11)
Series: Axis Powers Hetalia
Characters: England, USA, mentions of other nations, unnamed American citizens
Pairing: Eventual England/USA
Rating: PG-13 for this chapter (but fic is NC-17 overall)
Warning: Possible cliches and predictability. Also deals with issues of sexuality and coming out, and may have mildly offensive speech in it. Please note that the opinions of the characters are not necessarily those of the author.
Summary: Sick of politics and business as usual, England decides to indulge a rare moment of spontaneity and go on a roadtrip. He should have known that America would want to tag along. And they both should have known that the trip would set them down a path they couldn't turn away from.
Summary for this chapter: (LOL FORGOT TO ADD THIS) The next morning, America has some issues he needs to grapple with, while both of them head towards a boiling point.
Notes: LOL so much for getting this chapter up quickly. Sorry for the delay. I'm a bit unsure about this chapter, so I'm curious to hear what you think. Please be gentle, I apologize in advance if it's not that good. Also: /preemptively ducks from tomatoes over the ending of this chapter
Other installments:
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11
America woke up the next morning, slumped in his bed, the covers pulled up close and his head smushed into the pillow. He woke up without even the slightest trace of a headache. He wasn’t hung-over.
Fuck, was his first coherent thought once he collected his bearings and realized that the world was discernable but not painfully so. He hadn’t been that drunk in the end-
“No, I just bounce back easily,” he whispered to his pillow, clenching his eyes shut to see if perhaps with a little patience the raging headache would come and punch him in the face. But it never came, and with a sigh of defeat, he sat up. He yawned, stretching slightly, and glancing over towards England.
England still faced away from him, sleeping on his side, one arm hanging down off his bed so that the slightest whisper of his fingertips grazed he carpet. America studied his back for a moment. It didn’t smell like barf, which was a good sign. With a sigh, America stood up and padded over to England. He hesitated before approaching. He walked around to the other side of the bed, to look down at his sleeping face before letting out another small sigh and leaning over to examine England’s face, keeping a safe distance. England didn’t even stir; he was sleeping.
He wasn’t even snoring. America realized his face was too close and he pulled away, straightening his back and feeling something coil in his chest. He really needed a distraction, and he needed to stop thinking about England-England, who never made any sense to him.
“I don’t get you,” he whispered. He spoke before he realized what he was saying, and he frowned when he realized it really was true. Even though he’d known England for so long, there were still so many things he didn’t understand. And really, he reasoned, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to understand.
England shifted in his sleep, brow furrowing, but otherwise did not wake.
America opened his mouth, felt as if he was about to say something more, but nothing came out. He stared at England, slightly wide-eyed, as the events from last night returned to the forefront and he, once again, agonized over his-whatever it was. He’d been drunk. He’d been really drunk. He wasn’t hung-over today because he just bounced back really easily.
America retreated, pressing a hand to his face and inhaling sharply, trying to settle the growing pit of shame in his stomach. No matter how hard he tried not to think about it, the more he thought about it. Which was really, really damn inconvenient at the heart of it.
He didn’t want to look into why he did that-he was drunk, and that was it. Beyond that, it was too close. It was something, he decided, better left unknown.
He sighed, irritated, and then wandered away to take a shower. The water was hot and refreshing, and his weak muscles slackened under the steady onslaught of warmed water. He closed his eyes, focusing on the warm water beating against his back until his shoulders turned red, his breath stilted and his mind desperately trying to wander and always navigating back to that one incident.
“Useless,” he muttered. “Stop thinking about it.”
His mind refused to listen to him.
“I don’t even know why you did that, ya know.”
He realized, belatedly, that talking to himself was probably not the sanest thing around, but he was far from caring, presently. It was too early in the morning. He focused on the water for a moment, the feeling of it slipping through his hair and down his back, warming him and cleaning him. He kept his eyes shut and his head bowed.
“I’m not gay,” he said, decisively. “It’s definitely not something like that-and ew, gross, it’s England.” Something in his heart quivered and he wasn’t sure why. Words lodged in his throat but he managed to force them out after a few throat clearings, “Who’d want to kiss him? Definitely not me…” He laughed, loudly, his laughter echoing and booming off the walls and sounding just a little bit fake. “Nah, I just drank too much-did funny things to me, s’all.”
The words sounded hollow in his ears, but he kept repeating it, under his breath, until he could pretend that he agreed. That was definitely the situation. England was an annoying person, who did all this annoying crap and never did anything but be really grumpy. He’d been annoying this entire trip, getting drunk and weepy as if expecting sympathy from him!
And if he’d actually kissed him, America thought, he would probably have bitched about how he was a crappy kisser (even though he wasn’t) and how he lacked any finesse (which was not true).
… Not that he would ever kiss England.
Content for now, he bathed, rinsing his hair and his skin, scrubbing hard and whistling to himself. Slowly the whistling mounted into a full-on song and he swayed in time to the music and to the beat of the water pounding against his back and the floor of the tub.
After a long shower, far longer than he normally would take, he left the bathroom, towel around his waist-only to nearly have a heart attack when he saw England up and not fully dressed yet. Nothing vital was showing, thankfully, but he looked far too casual, his hair a mess, his skin paled, and his shirt unbuttoned and wrinkled. America swallowed. The moment of shock was gone, and he was back to normal soon enough-nothing to report. But then England looked over at him and America felt his heart leap into his throat before crashing back down to his feet-why the hell did it just do that?
England looked at him, momentarily confused by America’s deer in the headlights look, before he turned his attention away. He, at least, looked hung-over.
“Singing The Smiths now, hm?” he asked, voice quiet.
“Huh? Oh, yeah…” America laughed, loudly. “Were you listening?”
“Hm,” England hummed to himself, not looking up from where he was stirring creamer into the coffee he’d made using the coffee machine that came with the hotel room. “It was impossible not to; you sing very loudly, America.”
America made himself laugh. England fixed him with another calculating look that took all of America’s strength not to squirm under.
“I’m surprised, that you wouldn’t bless me with another rendition of one of your country singers.”
“Well, ya know… boner for British stuff,” America joked lamely and instantly regretted it because it sounded fake and he had to look away, feeling embarrassed because of what’d happened-almost happened, he corrected-the night before. Why was he so fixated on this? Why was he so obviously fixated on this? “You only heard me singing, right?”
England gave him a funny look, before lifting up his mug and taking a long drink. He kept his eyes on America, calmed and looking only at him. It was unnerving, to have such undivided attention on him (and he usually jumped at the chance of having someone’s attention, too). He licked his lips when he pulled the mug away and America certainly did not stare back.
“Yes, loathe as I am to hear it so early in this godforsaken morning,” England mumbled into his coffee mug. He rubbed his temple. “America, about last night…”
“I didn’t do anything!” America said abruptly.
England gave him a slightly flabbergasted look before his face closed off into a tensed expression. “America…” he began, in the ‘lecture voice’ again, “What…?”
“Nothing,” America corrected, waving his hand. “How’s your head?”
“Perfectly fine,” England said. He stared down at his coffee for a moment before rolling one shoulder, pensive.
“So, what about last night?” America asked after the silence threatened to stretch on.
“I was rather drunk,” England began.
“Yeah, I kinda noticed…” America interrupted.
England glared at him, eyes narrowed and expression annoyed. “Don’t get cheeky with me, boy.”
“Right, right,” America muttered, sighing. Why would anyone want to kiss him? He’s an asshole.
Why was he still focusing on that?
“I was drunk,” England started again, staring down at his coffee cup. “I don’t remember what I said, but I apologize if anything I said was…”
America waved his hand when England trailed off. “Whatever, I was kinda drunk, too. I don’t remember anything you said.”
It was a lie, and he had a feeling that England knew it just as much as America did. But England, blessedly, did not press it. America looked away. England looked after him, studying his face a moment-America could feel his eyes on him-before turning his face away as well. He drank his coffee, eyes hooded, face flushed.
“Oh,” he said, easily, and it sounded like an understatement, it sounded as if he wanted to say more.
“Really,” America said with a wave of his hand when England said nothing. “Doesn’t suit you to be all thoughtful, England. You look really weird.”
England’s glare increased and he tensed up before closing his eyes and drinking his coffee. When he pulled away, he muttered, “Stupid idiot.”
It’s really easy, isn’t it? To just say you’re drunk and forget anything happened, America thought, and then stared at his bare feet, at the damp spot of the carpet where he was standing. God damn…
He looked up and found that England was watching him. America told himself his face was certainly not red. “Hey,” he said, licking his lips, “I’ll get us breakfast… uh, after I get dressed, at least.”
England nodded, looking away once again. America was getting sick of the way he kept drifting to and away-either choose to look at him, or don’t. He wasn’t sure how he felt about England continually looking away from him.
“Alright,” England said.
“Great,” America said with a grin and stooped to collect his clothing. He hesitated, feeling awkward changing in front of England even though he realized, with renewed dread, that he’d done it plenty of times before. He swallowed, and then moved towards the bathroom. “I’ll just get changed and…”
“Alright,” England said quietly, nodding.
America locked the door behind him.
---
After changing and leaving, America quickly got the food-he just went to the McDonald’s down the road and stopped by the coffee shop, too, because he had a huge craving for a mocha and he couldn’t make mochas in the hotel room. At least getting food, by himself in the car, he felt like he was back his element.
And of course he kept thinking. He hated thinking. If only he could be as stupid as everyone claimed at times, able to shut his mind off at will and keep him from thinking about unnecessary things. But he couldn’t. And he lingered, quite a while, before parking the car. Then he lingered more, sitting in the car, sipping his mocha. Then he couldn’t prolong it any longer and got out of the truck, taking the food with him to get back to England.
When he reentered, England was sitting at the table in the corner of the room, hair still wet from a shower he’d probably just taken, the water dripping down his neck to dampen the collar of his shirt. Wait his-
“T-shirt?” America asked instead of greeting him.
England looked up from where he was looking over something on America’s laptop, which he kept borrowing in the mornings when America’s attentions were elsewhere. America closed the door behind him and moved over towards England. England shut down whatever he was looking at on the computer and closed the lid.
“Yes,” he said, lips thinned into a terse line. “Contrary to your opinions of me, I do not always wear ties.”
“Frumpy,” America teased, grinning, happy that they seemed to have returned to their typical dynamic-being assholes and disingenuous. He could do that.
He handed over the McDonalds food and a chai tea latte.
England took them wordlessly and sipped the tea. He hadn’t asked for it, but he seemed to appreciate it, even if he didn’t thank him.
“You’re welcome,” America said with a wide grin, flopping down easily into the chair on the other side of the table and taking a huge bite out of his second sausage mcmuffin.
“Hm,” England hummed and sipped his tea, eyes hooded. He pushed the laptop back towards America, and picked up the complimentary newspaper the hotel gave guests. He skimmed over it, his green eyes flickering.
America ate, but couldn’t stop staring at England. He kept thinking back, and kept reminding himself that it was nothing. Nothing happened, it didn’t mean anything. He wasn’t attracted to England, especially not England; he wasn’t gay. No way. Just because he’d had a momentary lapse in sanity after drinking and happened to be a breath’s inch away from kissing his friend-colleague-ally-whatever England was to him-didn’t mean anything whatsoever.
God, why was his hair wet like that?
Undoubtedly England must have felt America’s unrelenting gaze on him. England looked up from his newspaper and his face crumbled suspiciously. “What is it?”
America continued staring at him, or, more likely, through him. Chin cushioned in his hand, he stared vacantly off into space. He didn’t hear England’s words. His mind reeled, lingering on things beyond this room, this time.
England’s brows furrowed in frustration. “America?”
America continued to stare, eyes glazed over and staring at England and yet through him. His mind whirled with excuses and justifications. England’s hair looked nice wet. It still stuck up in funny places, clung to his forehead. Water dripped down his neck occasionally, only for him to lift a hand and wipe it away, face always set in concentration so he could function without having to stop reading his newspaper.
England rolled up his newspaper, leaned over, and slapped America upside the head with it.
This shook America from his reverie and he jumped in surprise, grasping his head with a small shout of surprise. “Hey! What the hell, ow!”
“Did you not sleep well, you brat? You’ve been out of it since you woke up,” England said with a frown. “Do you want me to drive today?”
“Huh?” America asked, expression blanked, before England’s words connected with his brain. He realized, deep down inside, somewhere, that maybe England was worried. Maybe he was acting weird. But it was England’s fault.
“Driving,” England said again. “Do you want me to do the driving today?”
“Oh. Yeah. Sure.”
England still looked skeptical, and vaguely concerned, over America’s behavior but America was too busy averting his eyes to care.
---
“I’m thinking about it too much,” he told his reflection in the bathroom of their motel. They were getting ready to leave. Hands braced on either side of the sink, he leaned forward, scrutinizing himself with a critical frown. Blue eyes stared back at him over the rims of his glasses. Mushy, dirty golden hair fell in his eyes and he stubbornly refused to brush them away while scrutinizing-it was a very important art, after all.
England, in his typical fashion, interrupted him by pounding on the door. “America, you’ve been in there for twenty minutes, for fuck’s sake what are-” America released a sigh and wrenched the door open, catching England in mid-rant “-you doi-oh, well then.”
“Hi,” America greeted with a grin. “S’all yours.”
“Yes, well.” England cleared his throat and pushed his way past America, shoulders bumping together as he passed.
America ducked out of the way and retreated to the safety of the motel room. He flopped on his bed, grinning absently up at the ceiling. Tucking his arms behind his head, pillowing them, he focused on not thinking. Which was, for all the times England insulted him about not thinking, surprisingly hard. Because when there was something he didn’t want to think about, he couldn’t help but agonize over it.
When England came back out, America propped his head up, watching England. “Hey, England?”
“Hm?” England asked, not looking up from his bag, where he was replacing his toothbrush and bathroom kit.
“Do you think I’m a homophobe?”
The question must have knocked England completely off guard because he sputtered a moment and dropped his toothbrush. “Do I think you’re what?”
America sat up, frowning, crossing his legs Indian-style. “Cause like on one hand I don’t care what other people do or who they like, ya know? So long as they’re happy or whatever. But I don’t want to do that kinda stuff.”
“America, you daft-” England cut himself off with a shake of his head and a small sigh. He pressed a hand to his face, as if marveling at something too overwhelmingly ridiculous (probably America’s stupidity). And then he almost smiled, which must have been a good sign, though America certainly hadn’t expected the expression. His hand fell away. He looked towards America and zipped up his bag. “No, America. That just means you’re straight.”
“I guess,” America said with a frown. Then why can’t I stop thinking about kissing you?
“You only guess?” England asked and the distinctly amused expression melted away, replaced with the concerned expression from earlier that America also was not too used to seeing. “Did something happen last night?”
“Huh?”
“In the bar, with one of the other people there,” England asked, eyebrows knitted together. “I can’t remember a damned thing from last night but-did someone make a pass at you?”
“Huh?” America almost laughed by the sheer absurdity of the situation, but managed to bite it back. He shook his head, a bit over-enthusiastically. “No, no! Nothing like that… I was just, ha ha, um, wondering?”
England looked unconvinced.
America flapped his hand about, trying to be dismissive like England was with his hand gestures. Instead he only seemed to flail for a moment before his hand flopped back down to his side. “I promise, England. None of the dudes there were hitting on me.”
“Then why the question?” England asked.
America bit his lip. “I was just thinking about it… and I keep thinking about it and I can’t stop thinking about it and I just can’t figure out why I’m thinking about it-”
“Thinking about what?”
America opened his mouth to speak, but quickly restrained himself from the impulse. He stared at England, collecting his words.
“Being a jerk,” America said, frowning. “I don’t want to discriminate against anybody-people, not just mine, do that enough as it is, ya know? Even if policies in place say otherwise sometimes…” He laughed, nervously, realizing he was rambling and half-expecting England to reprimand him for that. But England was silent, sitting down on his own bed and listening to America patiently. America swallowed, and continued, “No matter what, they’re still my people? Or your people, or Canada’s people, or whatever!”
“That’s an admirable stance to have, America,” England said, voice so gentle that it took America off guard. America very pointedly tried to ignore the way a block of ice passed through his chest, making him shiver.
“So you don’t think that I’m…?”
England shook his head, and the gentleness melted away to amusement. “I don’t. Just because you prefer to sleep with women-” America blushed and sputtered slightly at that, but England continued, “-doesn’t mean that you’re discriminating against others. You can still be straight and still give your support. It’s called being an ally.”
“Well, yeah, I know that,” America admitted. He scratched the back of his head, feeling a bit sheepish for this conversation. He didn’t want to be preachy, and he didn’t want to sound stupid, either, or bigoted or-or gay. Which reminded him. “Is it bad then that I don’t want people to think I’m gay? Doesn’t that make it seem like I’m avoiding it because I think it’s a bad thing?”
“People are saying that, America?” England asked, eyebrows raised.
America shook his head. “That isn’t what I meant.”
“What do you mean?”
America flopped down onto the bed and covered his face with his arms. “I dunno. Hypothetically. For future reference? Dunno.”
“I think you do know,” England said, his voice quickly falling back into the ‘lecture voice’, much to America’s chagrin. “But perhaps you don’t wish to say it?”
“I can say it if I want,” America muttered against the fabric of his shirtsleeve.
“Why don’t you?”
America was quiet a moment. Then he spoke. “If I say that I don’t care what they do, that they’ll still be my people no matter what, and how can I blame them for wanting to be who they are-but then I actively do shit because I don’t want people to think I’m not straight and worry that people will get the wrong impression-doesn’t that make me kinda, I dunno, a hypocrite?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve done hypocritical things,” England said gently.
“Shut up,” America grumbled. “You’re not helping me here.”
“I don’t understand where this conversation is coming from,” England admitted, and he, too, sounded a bit unsure. America heard him shifting, heard him lying back on his own bed. America tried not to imagine what he would look like then, but still couldn’t resist taking a peek. England was staring up at the ceiling, face smoothed into thoughtful expression, with only his forehead scrunched up in thought.
“I guess it kinda came outta nowhere,” America confessed.
“Perhaps,” England agreed.
“I just… I dunno.”
“Why do you think you think this way?”
“I mean-I know it’s dumb, and shit, but I just can’t help thinking about all those stupid stereotypes about it. Like what France said before. That if you’re close with another man, that means you want to sleep with him.” America scrunched his face up. “Maybe that’s just France, but, ya know. And just… And I hate that I can let things like that have an effect on me, but, well-I guess it does.”
“Things like that never truly go away. Or, at least, it takes time.”
“Yeah…”
They lapsed into silence.
America, as always, was the one to break it. “Hey, England?”
“Yes, America?” England asked, a sigh in his voice.
America rolled over, face cushioned into his pillow, so that he could look at England. England must have felt his gaze on him, because he turned his head, too. A lock of blond hair fell into his eyes but he didn’t brush it aside. America couldn’t keep eye contact, so he kept his focus on that piece of hair.
“You don’t think I’m a hypocrite now, do you?”
England thought this over, and though America wished he would have just come out and said his thoughts, it also reassured America to know that England was thinking over the question, critically, collecting his words. But it stretched on for such a long silence, such a long time that England’s darkened green eyes stared only at him. America almost wanted to look away, but he remained strong, steadying his eyes on England, holding his gaze.
England licked his lips and America stared at his mouth. But then England started speaking and he had to remember to concentrate on the piece of hair.
“I don’t think so,” England said at last.
America perked up. “Really?”
England shook his head. “Everyone wants to be able to be honest about themselves, without fear of being judged. You should be able to do anything, say anything, without worrying that someone will make a judgment of you based on that.”
“Yeah…” America said, frowning.
“But, even if your country has some laws and rules in place that could be considered bad, and people with attitudes that are less than desirable,” England continued, thinking over his words carefully before speaking, “The ideal of you and your people is still there. As nations, we have so many voices in our heads for our people that it’s impossible to pinpoint one thing solidly. Your people, even if they don’t exactly execute the promise, and your policies, even if they’re not truly democratic… you are founded on ‘equality’ despite the ‘differences’, isn’t it so?”
“Yeah,” America said, and found himself flushing with warmth at finally being understood by someone, even if it was someone like England. “Yeah… that’s right.”
“And you are that embodiment of those ideals and promises, no matter what.” England wasn’t looking at him anymore, but America only realized this when his eyes slanted back to meet with America’s. They kept their gazes locked on one another. England tilted his head slightly as he spoke. “You are those ideals.”
“But there are also my own thoughts, beyond my country’s founding premises, right?” America asked. “Things that belong to ‘me’.”
“We are nations,” England said, which wasn’t an answer.
“Yeah, but you have-uh-desires and needs and wants that are different from what ‘England’ and its ‘people’ want, right? You have thoughts and feelings that have to do with you yourself, don’t you?”
England was very quiet for a moment, so quiet that America wondered if he’d insulted him or said something wrong. He stared at America for a long time, his expression smoothed into a purposefully blank expression. It seemed as if those green eyes were saying something, anchoring him, tugging him ever closer, like an unequivocal, undeniable gravity. America felt something bubble in his chest, the urge to say something, to have England say something to him. He was on the verge of words. His breath wouldn’t leave his lungs, caught and tethered.
But then England shifted back onto his back, staring up at the ceiling, expression unreadable.
“Yes. I do.”
---
The drive that day moved slowly. America kept glancing at the clock, hoping for enough time to pass to justify stopping for the night. England was concerned, but never voiced anything other than a few snippy remarks that only made America want to cringe. America avoided speaking if he could, because he didn’t know what he wanted to say to England, if anything. It was easier to just ignore the situation and pretend it wasn’t there. Because, in the end, it wasn’t even supposed to be that big of a deal, and America’s continued insistence upon it was more than grating. He replied to England in short, clipped sentences which only served to annoy England. He would insult America, then, sometimes passive aggressively, sometimes downright blatantly. America was far too used to being insulted by him. He tried not to think.
It wasn’t that he was a coward, or that he hated the-wait.
He derailed those thoughts quite promptly. He was not thinking about kissing England-never mind that his entire thought process centered around that (insignificant!) thought of his, which he’d had while drunk.
If you’re drunk, it hardly counts for anything, America decided firmly to himself, the cogs in his head turning a mile a minute as America and England passed by the scenery outside at sixty miles an hour. Drinking to get your problems or thoughts sorted out or acted upon is the cowardly way.
His eyes slanted towards England, whose eyes were on the road.
They’d been getting along, lately, too, he thought glumly. At least, as well as they could get along. England was still his snippety self, and never quite being able to get rid of that jerkiness about him that America always hated and always pretended didn’t bother him. They’d been getting along okay on the trip thus far, at least… and even before then, they’d been doing okay. The fighting they exchanged in meetings and in passing had almost become teasing. Before, whenever they met, it was always a little awkward or a little tense or a little unsure-the past, shared history often did that, his boss had told him once, as if he could have had any idea about the feelings and problems of “nations”. And England always held on so tightly to the past, probably just because he was so old.
So what if England was kind of a jerk-always calling America stupid and self-centered? America was not stupid. And it wasn’t like every other country in the world wasn’t concerned about itself, too. But that was beside the point.
America derailed his thoughts again, though this time simply because he didn’t want to think about politics-and he knew that England was only doing all this because he wanted to avoid work. Or to relax. Or whatever it was that he’d wanted to do and that America wasn’t absolutely sure he actually was doing.
And though America tried his hardest to overturn his thoughts, so quickly did they maneuver down the same kind of path again. Why had he almost kissed England?
America knew about the nature of nations, obviously. He understood that “relations” were necessary at times, marriages to create commonwealths and empires, sexual affairs for the sake of solidifying treaties or alliances. America understood things like this. It didn’t mean he liked to think about what other people did, of course. It was their business and if they were happy that was that. America had no qualms whatsoever about what nations, or his own citizens for that matter, did in the privacy of their home.
He just couldn’t help but shift nervously while thinking about it in the case of him. It wasn’t because England was a dude, he reasoned to himself, tried to reason to himself, it was because it was England.
“And who’d ever wanna kiss that?” America crowed loudly, perhaps in a subconscious attempt to break the silence.
England jumped at the sudden breaking of the silence and turned his head towards America briefly, a question in his green eyes before returning his attentions back to the road. America felt himself flush at his own carelessness and cleared his throat.
“What?” England asked, looking annoyed. “What stupidity are you spouting out now?”
“Nothing,” America protested.
England always had too good of a bullshit detector, America thought as England’s eyes narrowed. He looked mildly like an offended bird, ruffling up and puffing up a bit. But then again… that hadn’t been very subtle. At all.
England sucked in a sharp breath, annoyed by America’s failed avoidance, his cheeks puffing up a bit with held breath. America, grinning, leaned over and poked England in the cheek. Hot air rushed out past his slightly puckered lips in a whoosh and America watched the exchange with a forced laugh and an inward reassurance that he was not staring at England’s mouth!
America did not want to interpret anything that’d happen the night before as anything more than a drunken mistake. Nothing had happened, he corrected. Nothing had happened, he’d caught himself and brought himself back to his senses. Pulling himself up by his bootstraps-haha, yeah.
“Fine, if you want to be a fool off in your own mind and not say anything of worth, it’s none of my concern,” England snapped, and was no longer looking at America, thank god. He kept driving, but looked substantially less relaxed than before, and only annoyed and offended. “Perhaps you’re simply too stupid to say what you’re thinking.”
America stiffened up but for the moment preferred England ignoring him to anything else. He bit his tongue, tried his hardest not to say anything. His shoulders sagged. He managed to restrain himself, but he practically strained something doing so.
Face red, he looked away out the window, and thus missed the concerned expression England shot his way.
They drove in silence until they reached the hotel for the night. They didn’t speak. They went to bed early.
---
The next morning they woke up and drove. Upon England’s insistence not to have diner food or McDonald’s for breakfast, they stopped by a bakery. America drove while England periodically handed him bits of a cinnamon roll. America tried very, very hard not to pay attention to the fact that England was feeding him, Jesus Christ.
It was considerably less romantic than it sounded-thank god, America thought-because England spent the entire time bitching about how messy his hands and clothes were getting from the crumbs and the icing on the monstrosity against all things healthy (his words, not America’s). America, at this point, was annoyed at himself and at England so offered no sympathy or condolences to England’s plight, aside from a biting “your life is really hard, huh?” which England found less than comforting. Good.
America hadn’t slept well. He kept tossing and turning, agonizing over England’s words-agonizing over the look he’d given him, the look he couldn’t place and wasn’t sure he wanted to place. He kept going back to that moment when he’d almost ruined everything-where he, America was beginning to think, had already ruined everything. It was all his mind would think about, against all his attempts to do otherwise. And it was leaving him annoyed and irritable, frustrated. He couldn’t stand. That kind of feeling wasn’t something he wanted to experience, and he hated the constant replay of what could have happened, as if it had actually happened.
They drove for several hours in silence, across stateliness and not saying a word. England watched the monotony travel by with a practiced patience he’d acquired after decades of seafaring with only endless water to satisfy his ever-gazing eye.
Several hours passed like this, and America was thankful for the lack of communication-that was what they did best, after all. If he turned the music up far too loud, it drowned out his thoughts and England’s bitching. Best of both worlds.
They were near the state line for South Dakota when America veered off the interstate they’d taken for the last few states. England looked up from his dazed staring out the window to give America a careful expression.
“Are we running low on fuel?” he asked.
“Nah, I just hate that we’ve been on the road for like a week and are halfway across the country and we haven’t even stopped at one tourist attraction.”
England’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t want-”
“Frankly, England, I don’t care if you want to go or not. This is my truck, this is my highway, this is my state, and this is my goddamned tourist attraction. So you can kindly suck it.”
England looked vaguely surprised by the harshness of America’s tone, and recoiled slightly, giving him an exasperated expression that only made America more annoyed. Then England’s thick eyebrows slammed down over his eyes, as they narrowed.
“What the hell’s the matter with you?” England demanded.
“We’re going to Mt. Rushmore and you’re gonna like it,” America insisted instead of answering.
He cranked the music up even louder when England opened his mouth to talk, successfully shutting England up while splitting his eardrums until they felt as if they would bleed. And he just couldn’t bring himself to care.
---
“It’s granite, ya know. Random granite pluton in the mica, s’why the faces themselves are white while they’re in the black hills,” America said absently, leaning forward on the guardrail, arms crossed and face turned towards the immortalized faces of his past presidents. “The magma pooled inside it and ended up freezing like that, and then erosion exposed it.”
England didn’t look at him, and America, glancing at the other nation out of the corner of his eye, watched him roll his eyes heavenward. “Hm.”
America, frankly, didn’t care if England didn’t care. He turned his attention back towards the faces in the distance.
“It’s kind of cool, geology,” America said absently. He was grinning but his eyes were wide and distant, and England realized that something was breaking down.
“I’m shocked you can understand something so complex,” England said, his voice biting and clipped.
America did not cringe, though he wanted to. Instead, he curled his hands into fists. “Believe it or not, I’m actually not a dumbass.”
“You hide your intelligence remarkably well, then,” England said, coolly.
“Shut the fuck up,” America muttered, the words bitter in his mouth. He’d reached his boiling point-all the stress since that damned night, all the annoyance towards England’s attitude-it was too much to hold in.
“Why should I? I’m honestly surprised,” England said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
“You don’t have to say shit like that. I already know you think I’m stupid.”
“You’ve never given me reason to believe otherwise,” the other nation said, snippety.
America flared up, looked ready to say something, but the sag in his shoulders made it clear that what England said hurt him. He pulled away from England, inched so there was more distance between the two of them, and stuffed his hands into his pockets. He glared up at his famous presidents and tried to ignore the way his heart dropped down to his toes, his face flushed with anger.
“I already know you guys all think I’m stupid and loud and obnoxious and too big for my own good,” America snapped suddenly, and fueled on by his aggression whipped his head over towards England, who looked up at him with the condescending look an adult acquires when faced with a tantrum-throwing toddler. This, of course, only fueled America further, “No matter what the fuck I do you’re always going to say that, huh? You’re such an asshole, England.”
“America-”
“Go to hell,” America snapped, and almost actually snarled. The other visitors to the tourist attraction glanced at the two uneasily before slowly moving away from the arguing men, dragging their children away before America could curse more.
England flared up, as predicted.
It always reverted back to this. It didn’t matter how well they got along for however long, they always ended up fighting one another again-and to think America had actually thought their fights had reverted back to simple teasing. He glared full-on at England, who heatedly returned his gaze with an equally as angered glare.
“So, what? You didn’t want to go to any of my tourist attractions because you think they’re all stupid like me?”
“Yes,” England shot back easily and locked his jaw a moment before releasing a long, aggravated sigh. He threw his hand out towards the mountain, accusing. “They’re perfectly ostentatious, overbearing, and foolish-just like you, just like you’ve always been!”
“Fuck you!”
“That’s so easy to say when you don’t have anything else to say, huh?” England demanded, and actually had the gall to smirk at America, as if he’d already won their argument. He crossed his arms, ruffling up while still managing to look self-satisfied and aggravated in the same expression.
“Why the hell did you want to just drive around in my country if you fucking hate it so much?”
“I hadn’t intended to leave New England and-”
“-Oh, you would only want to stay there-”
“-then I was stuck with you for a companion.”
“If you hate my company so much why the hell am I even here?”
“Because you insisted like the stupid idiot that you are! It was easier just to let you come along than to put up with your pouting and whining over me telling you not to come.”
“God!” America shouted, his voice rising steadily in octave as the argument progressed. He was shaking, eyes narrowed and face contorted in rage. “You are such an asshole!”
“You already said that,” England barked. “Quit repeating yourself like the fool you already are.”
“I don’t know why the fuck I even bothered, either,” America shouted back. “You’ve just been a huge dick this entire time-always bitching and complaining and never saying ‘hey, thanks America, you’re pretty cool’ or ‘Sorry, America, I’m kind of being a huge bastard right now but you’re still pretty cool’!”
“I have not been bitching the entire time,” England protested.
“Yes you have!” America shot back, as if expecting England’s denial and rebutting it without missing a beat after he spoke it. “Christ, I haven’t heard anything but a complaint from you!”
“Well I certainly have a lot to be unhappy about, having to deal with you and-”
“Shut up!” America shouted, his voice booming. “God, fuck you! Just, fuck you, England!”
“That’s all very easy to say isn’t it? Honestly.”
But America was clutching his hair, looking as if ready to pull it out and shaking with rage and, England recognized distantly, hurt. His feelings were hurt, and it was evident all over his face. No matter how hard he tried, America couldn’t hide his feelings that well, if at all.
“I don’t understand why you’re always such a huge asshole, aren’t you supposed to be my friend or something?”
England snorted, loudly, as if the very idea was preposterous.
America was still shaking, and he slanted his eyes away, hands at his sides, curled into fists and shaking just as much as America’s shoulders.
“You’re supposed to be one of the people-nations-closest to me and all you do is insult me,” America insisted, looking stricken and angry. He pointed an accusing finger at England before his hand dropped uselessly to his side again. He repeated, “Aren’t you supposed to be my friend?”
“If it bothers you so much, why don’t you get new friends?”
“Because I-”
“Can’t,” England interrupted. “Because you’re a loud-mouthed, nosy, overzealous, and self-important fool of a child who can’t admit that he isn’t popular right now, so he’s stuck with allies he takes advantage of and then gets insulted when they don’t bend over and suck his-”
“Why the hell,” America interrupted, hurried, “would I want to get on with the world with people who don’t like me? It’s clear enough that if my friends treat me the way you do, there’s no fucking point!”
“And whose fault is it that they treat you like that?”
“I’m sick of every fucking person just hating me-especially when it’s from people like you!”
England tried to ignore it, but he couldn’t help it: he winced. He knew America thought what he was saying was true. America was unhappy, and hurt. He knew that. And England knew that situations like these were his own fault, his own fault that America, someone who he was closet to, someone that he held so dear, was under the impression that England could barely stand him. It was England’s own fault that their friendship revolved around the belief that they hated each other. And really, he certainly wasn’t saying or behaving in a way that suggested otherwise.
“You’re loud, rude, and self-centered. You only care about yourself and what others can do to help you. You’re overbearing and don’t seem to realize when you’re not wanted or needed. You spout off ridiculous things like world peace and protection but as soon as someone doesn’t play by your rules you throw them to the curbside.” England sniffed, disdainful. “And your so-called ‘friends’? Are just people you keep by your side for your own benefit while at the same time refusing to acknowledge or be grateful for all the sacrifices they make.”
“You-”
“I refuse to indulge you,” England said tensely.
“I’m not saying to ‘indulge’ me, fuck!” America cursed. “It’d just be nice for you to be nice for once. I know the world fucking hates me and I know I’m a fucking idiot about a lot of things but that doesn’t mean you need to rub it in my face every chance you get and insult me every second of every day! It’d be nice to have some support, even a little bit.”
“I have given you a lot of support,” England hissed, looking livid. “Or is that, after all the years, not good enough for you? After everything my country and administrations have done for you…”
“I don’t mean politically! Or whatever,” America shouted. “I mean from you,” he shouted as he pointed from England to himself, “to me! As something that isn’t a ‘nation’ but as ‘you’! I’m not saying you need to kiss my ass or whatever-I just want you to be honest with me.”
“As if you’ve given me any reason to be honest,” England snapped.
“What-”
“You never say what you’re thinking.”
“Neither do you!”
“Because you-” England cut himself off with an angry sigh and a shake of his head. “I have no reason to be honest to someone who would just-be you. Laugh, or be insensitive or stupid or dismissive. Why the hell should I be honest to you?”
“Because we’re friends! Fuck!”
“Such an insistence on a mere fabrication!”
“It isn’t a fucking fabrication to me!” America shouted, shaking and looking as if he was about ready to storm away.
There was a long tensed silence and America’s fists uncurled and recurled several times.
“It isn’t…” he said, his voice weaker now but still loud, still an almost shout. “But you just act like you don’t like me all the time.”
“I don’t like you most of the time,” England said and did not elaborate on how long ‘most of the time’ was. He looked away. “In a lot of ways you aren’t very likeable, America.”
America dropped his head a moment, face contorting a bit, before he lifted it again, staring defiantly down at England.
Yet, when he spoke, his response was oddly passive: “Oh.”
“That isn’t the point, though.”
“Then what is the point?” America asked.
“Is there ever a point to anything?” England shot back, and it wasn’t an answer to the question.
America frowned, still looking insulted.
“Oh.” America’s response was once again brief, and England waited for an addendum that never came. England glanced over and found America with his arms crossed over his chest, staring pensively down at the ground.
And then he started walking away, his hands in his pockets and eyes to the ground. The move in itself was surprising, but the way that America almost looked dejected was slightly off-putting for England. England could imagine that there was just the slightest touch of a pout to his expression, but when he moved after America to follow him, he saw the boy’s expression as simply crestfallen and closed-off.
“America…” England began.
“Leave me alone. I’m going back to the car.”
“America-”
“Let’s just drop it.”
“No,” England insisted and sped up so that he could block America’s beeline for the truck. America stopped, hands in his pockets but looking more morose now than heartbroken-why had he looked like that?-and he gave England something of a half-heartedly glare when he tried to sidestep around England and England refused to let him.
America was nothing but trouble, it seemed. He’d been hurting England since before he’d reached England’s shoulder height-he’d been everywhere and nowhere all at once, demanding attention and seeking attention, even bad attention. But he’d forgotten that, behind all the energy, all the bravado, America was just a young child, and a young child who wanted to know he was needed.
Which didn’t excuse the fact that he was being a right moron, of course. But, England supposed upon hindsight, he had been unfriendly the last week, and really, aside from his overbearing nature, America hadn’t done anything wrong. His enthusiasm was part of his charm. Or something.
“I don’t see why this bothers you so much.”
America stiffened, looking away from him. It took a moment of silence from America for England to realize that he was hurt by the comment, as well. It wasn’t that England hadn’t expected it to hurt-he had a habit of making sure the things he said hurt-what he hadn’t expected as how visibly hurt the boy seemed by it.
“My lad…”
“Shut up,” America muttered. “It doesn’t bother me.”
England gave him a skeptical look.
America looked away again. “I just-I try not to let it bother me. But I can’t help it. If it’s from everybody, even my own people, it just builds up or something. I just can’t deal with being insulted and not taken seriously all the god damn time.”
“America…”
“Just shut up,” America snapped. “You don’t have to insult me and if you’re a ‘friend’ just for political reasons, that’s fine-at least be honest about it or something.”
“Aren’t you never honest, either?”
“I am too.”
“About some things perhaps,” England said lightly, though the razor edge of his annoyance still lingered in his words. “But mostly, you say things that’ll get you what you want, or are purposefully misleading. Or you’re just avoidant.” England looked up at him. “Why would I want to be honest to someone who isn’t honest to me?”
“You aren’t honest to me,” America protested.
“Do you trust me?” England asked.
“Do you trust me?” America insisted.
They stared at one another, both refusing to relent first. They stayed like that in a strained silence.
When neither said anything, when neither rose to answer the question, they slowly slipped away from each other, each taking a step back.
America looked away and, as was natural to him, was the one to break the silence. “I’ve done a lot of stuff for you over the years-for your country and government and for ‘you’. Don’t you think I deserve at least a little trust? Damn it.”
“And I for you as well,” England shot back. They started walking, wandering back towards America’s truck. They lapsed into silence for a moment before England added, “I’ve made a lot of sacrifices for you, and for you it’s either not good enough or worthy to forget.”
America paused in his step but England kept walking, so America quickly kept up his pace so that he was walking side by side with England.
“You’ve been a huge jerk this entire trip.”
“I’m tired,” England muttered. “I’d intended for this to be short and simple, enough for me to relax before I flew back home. Having you along was a bump in the road, it would seem. The things you do to my blood pressure, America.”
“Then why not kick me out? Or leave yourself?”
England looked up at him, and then looked away.
They reached the truck without a word.
Series: Axis Powers Hetalia
Characters: England, USA, mentions of other nations, unnamed American citizens
Pairing: Eventual England/USA
Rating: PG-13 for this chapter (but fic is NC-17 overall)
Warning: Possible cliches and predictability. Also deals with issues of sexuality and coming out, and may have mildly offensive speech in it. Please note that the opinions of the characters are not necessarily those of the author.
Summary: Sick of politics and business as usual, England decides to indulge a rare moment of spontaneity and go on a roadtrip. He should have known that America would want to tag along. And they both should have known that the trip would set them down a path they couldn't turn away from.
Summary for this chapter: (LOL FORGOT TO ADD THIS) The next morning, America has some issues he needs to grapple with, while both of them head towards a boiling point.
Notes: LOL so much for getting this chapter up quickly. Sorry for the delay. I'm a bit unsure about this chapter, so I'm curious to hear what you think. Please be gentle, I apologize in advance if it's not that good. Also: /preemptively ducks from tomatoes over the ending of this chapter
Other installments:
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11
America woke up the next morning, slumped in his bed, the covers pulled up close and his head smushed into the pillow. He woke up without even the slightest trace of a headache. He wasn’t hung-over.
Fuck, was his first coherent thought once he collected his bearings and realized that the world was discernable but not painfully so. He hadn’t been that drunk in the end-
“No, I just bounce back easily,” he whispered to his pillow, clenching his eyes shut to see if perhaps with a little patience the raging headache would come and punch him in the face. But it never came, and with a sigh of defeat, he sat up. He yawned, stretching slightly, and glancing over towards England.
England still faced away from him, sleeping on his side, one arm hanging down off his bed so that the slightest whisper of his fingertips grazed he carpet. America studied his back for a moment. It didn’t smell like barf, which was a good sign. With a sigh, America stood up and padded over to England. He hesitated before approaching. He walked around to the other side of the bed, to look down at his sleeping face before letting out another small sigh and leaning over to examine England’s face, keeping a safe distance. England didn’t even stir; he was sleeping.
He wasn’t even snoring. America realized his face was too close and he pulled away, straightening his back and feeling something coil in his chest. He really needed a distraction, and he needed to stop thinking about England-England, who never made any sense to him.
“I don’t get you,” he whispered. He spoke before he realized what he was saying, and he frowned when he realized it really was true. Even though he’d known England for so long, there were still so many things he didn’t understand. And really, he reasoned, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to understand.
England shifted in his sleep, brow furrowing, but otherwise did not wake.
America opened his mouth, felt as if he was about to say something more, but nothing came out. He stared at England, slightly wide-eyed, as the events from last night returned to the forefront and he, once again, agonized over his-whatever it was. He’d been drunk. He’d been really drunk. He wasn’t hung-over today because he just bounced back really easily.
America retreated, pressing a hand to his face and inhaling sharply, trying to settle the growing pit of shame in his stomach. No matter how hard he tried not to think about it, the more he thought about it. Which was really, really damn inconvenient at the heart of it.
He didn’t want to look into why he did that-he was drunk, and that was it. Beyond that, it was too close. It was something, he decided, better left unknown.
He sighed, irritated, and then wandered away to take a shower. The water was hot and refreshing, and his weak muscles slackened under the steady onslaught of warmed water. He closed his eyes, focusing on the warm water beating against his back until his shoulders turned red, his breath stilted and his mind desperately trying to wander and always navigating back to that one incident.
“Useless,” he muttered. “Stop thinking about it.”
His mind refused to listen to him.
“I don’t even know why you did that, ya know.”
He realized, belatedly, that talking to himself was probably not the sanest thing around, but he was far from caring, presently. It was too early in the morning. He focused on the water for a moment, the feeling of it slipping through his hair and down his back, warming him and cleaning him. He kept his eyes shut and his head bowed.
“I’m not gay,” he said, decisively. “It’s definitely not something like that-and ew, gross, it’s England.” Something in his heart quivered and he wasn’t sure why. Words lodged in his throat but he managed to force them out after a few throat clearings, “Who’d want to kiss him? Definitely not me…” He laughed, loudly, his laughter echoing and booming off the walls and sounding just a little bit fake. “Nah, I just drank too much-did funny things to me, s’all.”
The words sounded hollow in his ears, but he kept repeating it, under his breath, until he could pretend that he agreed. That was definitely the situation. England was an annoying person, who did all this annoying crap and never did anything but be really grumpy. He’d been annoying this entire trip, getting drunk and weepy as if expecting sympathy from him!
And if he’d actually kissed him, America thought, he would probably have bitched about how he was a crappy kisser (even though he wasn’t) and how he lacked any finesse (which was not true).
… Not that he would ever kiss England.
Content for now, he bathed, rinsing his hair and his skin, scrubbing hard and whistling to himself. Slowly the whistling mounted into a full-on song and he swayed in time to the music and to the beat of the water pounding against his back and the floor of the tub.
After a long shower, far longer than he normally would take, he left the bathroom, towel around his waist-only to nearly have a heart attack when he saw England up and not fully dressed yet. Nothing vital was showing, thankfully, but he looked far too casual, his hair a mess, his skin paled, and his shirt unbuttoned and wrinkled. America swallowed. The moment of shock was gone, and he was back to normal soon enough-nothing to report. But then England looked over at him and America felt his heart leap into his throat before crashing back down to his feet-why the hell did it just do that?
England looked at him, momentarily confused by America’s deer in the headlights look, before he turned his attention away. He, at least, looked hung-over.
“Singing The Smiths now, hm?” he asked, voice quiet.
“Huh? Oh, yeah…” America laughed, loudly. “Were you listening?”
“Hm,” England hummed to himself, not looking up from where he was stirring creamer into the coffee he’d made using the coffee machine that came with the hotel room. “It was impossible not to; you sing very loudly, America.”
America made himself laugh. England fixed him with another calculating look that took all of America’s strength not to squirm under.
“I’m surprised, that you wouldn’t bless me with another rendition of one of your country singers.”
“Well, ya know… boner for British stuff,” America joked lamely and instantly regretted it because it sounded fake and he had to look away, feeling embarrassed because of what’d happened-almost happened, he corrected-the night before. Why was he so fixated on this? Why was he so obviously fixated on this? “You only heard me singing, right?”
England gave him a funny look, before lifting up his mug and taking a long drink. He kept his eyes on America, calmed and looking only at him. It was unnerving, to have such undivided attention on him (and he usually jumped at the chance of having someone’s attention, too). He licked his lips when he pulled the mug away and America certainly did not stare back.
“Yes, loathe as I am to hear it so early in this godforsaken morning,” England mumbled into his coffee mug. He rubbed his temple. “America, about last night…”
“I didn’t do anything!” America said abruptly.
England gave him a slightly flabbergasted look before his face closed off into a tensed expression. “America…” he began, in the ‘lecture voice’ again, “What…?”
“Nothing,” America corrected, waving his hand. “How’s your head?”
“Perfectly fine,” England said. He stared down at his coffee for a moment before rolling one shoulder, pensive.
“So, what about last night?” America asked after the silence threatened to stretch on.
“I was rather drunk,” England began.
“Yeah, I kinda noticed…” America interrupted.
England glared at him, eyes narrowed and expression annoyed. “Don’t get cheeky with me, boy.”
“Right, right,” America muttered, sighing. Why would anyone want to kiss him? He’s an asshole.
Why was he still focusing on that?
“I was drunk,” England started again, staring down at his coffee cup. “I don’t remember what I said, but I apologize if anything I said was…”
America waved his hand when England trailed off. “Whatever, I was kinda drunk, too. I don’t remember anything you said.”
It was a lie, and he had a feeling that England knew it just as much as America did. But England, blessedly, did not press it. America looked away. England looked after him, studying his face a moment-America could feel his eyes on him-before turning his face away as well. He drank his coffee, eyes hooded, face flushed.
“Oh,” he said, easily, and it sounded like an understatement, it sounded as if he wanted to say more.
“Really,” America said with a wave of his hand when England said nothing. “Doesn’t suit you to be all thoughtful, England. You look really weird.”
England’s glare increased and he tensed up before closing his eyes and drinking his coffee. When he pulled away, he muttered, “Stupid idiot.”
It’s really easy, isn’t it? To just say you’re drunk and forget anything happened, America thought, and then stared at his bare feet, at the damp spot of the carpet where he was standing. God damn…
He looked up and found that England was watching him. America told himself his face was certainly not red. “Hey,” he said, licking his lips, “I’ll get us breakfast… uh, after I get dressed, at least.”
England nodded, looking away once again. America was getting sick of the way he kept drifting to and away-either choose to look at him, or don’t. He wasn’t sure how he felt about England continually looking away from him.
“Alright,” England said.
“Great,” America said with a grin and stooped to collect his clothing. He hesitated, feeling awkward changing in front of England even though he realized, with renewed dread, that he’d done it plenty of times before. He swallowed, and then moved towards the bathroom. “I’ll just get changed and…”
“Alright,” England said quietly, nodding.
America locked the door behind him.
---
After changing and leaving, America quickly got the food-he just went to the McDonald’s down the road and stopped by the coffee shop, too, because he had a huge craving for a mocha and he couldn’t make mochas in the hotel room. At least getting food, by himself in the car, he felt like he was back his element.
And of course he kept thinking. He hated thinking. If only he could be as stupid as everyone claimed at times, able to shut his mind off at will and keep him from thinking about unnecessary things. But he couldn’t. And he lingered, quite a while, before parking the car. Then he lingered more, sitting in the car, sipping his mocha. Then he couldn’t prolong it any longer and got out of the truck, taking the food with him to get back to England.
When he reentered, England was sitting at the table in the corner of the room, hair still wet from a shower he’d probably just taken, the water dripping down his neck to dampen the collar of his shirt. Wait his-
“T-shirt?” America asked instead of greeting him.
England looked up from where he was looking over something on America’s laptop, which he kept borrowing in the mornings when America’s attentions were elsewhere. America closed the door behind him and moved over towards England. England shut down whatever he was looking at on the computer and closed the lid.
“Yes,” he said, lips thinned into a terse line. “Contrary to your opinions of me, I do not always wear ties.”
“Frumpy,” America teased, grinning, happy that they seemed to have returned to their typical dynamic-being assholes and disingenuous. He could do that.
He handed over the McDonalds food and a chai tea latte.
England took them wordlessly and sipped the tea. He hadn’t asked for it, but he seemed to appreciate it, even if he didn’t thank him.
“You’re welcome,” America said with a wide grin, flopping down easily into the chair on the other side of the table and taking a huge bite out of his second sausage mcmuffin.
“Hm,” England hummed and sipped his tea, eyes hooded. He pushed the laptop back towards America, and picked up the complimentary newspaper the hotel gave guests. He skimmed over it, his green eyes flickering.
America ate, but couldn’t stop staring at England. He kept thinking back, and kept reminding himself that it was nothing. Nothing happened, it didn’t mean anything. He wasn’t attracted to England, especially not England; he wasn’t gay. No way. Just because he’d had a momentary lapse in sanity after drinking and happened to be a breath’s inch away from kissing his friend-colleague-ally-whatever England was to him-didn’t mean anything whatsoever.
God, why was his hair wet like that?
Undoubtedly England must have felt America’s unrelenting gaze on him. England looked up from his newspaper and his face crumbled suspiciously. “What is it?”
America continued staring at him, or, more likely, through him. Chin cushioned in his hand, he stared vacantly off into space. He didn’t hear England’s words. His mind reeled, lingering on things beyond this room, this time.
England’s brows furrowed in frustration. “America?”
America continued to stare, eyes glazed over and staring at England and yet through him. His mind whirled with excuses and justifications. England’s hair looked nice wet. It still stuck up in funny places, clung to his forehead. Water dripped down his neck occasionally, only for him to lift a hand and wipe it away, face always set in concentration so he could function without having to stop reading his newspaper.
England rolled up his newspaper, leaned over, and slapped America upside the head with it.
This shook America from his reverie and he jumped in surprise, grasping his head with a small shout of surprise. “Hey! What the hell, ow!”
“Did you not sleep well, you brat? You’ve been out of it since you woke up,” England said with a frown. “Do you want me to drive today?”
“Huh?” America asked, expression blanked, before England’s words connected with his brain. He realized, deep down inside, somewhere, that maybe England was worried. Maybe he was acting weird. But it was England’s fault.
“Driving,” England said again. “Do you want me to do the driving today?”
“Oh. Yeah. Sure.”
England still looked skeptical, and vaguely concerned, over America’s behavior but America was too busy averting his eyes to care.
---
“I’m thinking about it too much,” he told his reflection in the bathroom of their motel. They were getting ready to leave. Hands braced on either side of the sink, he leaned forward, scrutinizing himself with a critical frown. Blue eyes stared back at him over the rims of his glasses. Mushy, dirty golden hair fell in his eyes and he stubbornly refused to brush them away while scrutinizing-it was a very important art, after all.
England, in his typical fashion, interrupted him by pounding on the door. “America, you’ve been in there for twenty minutes, for fuck’s sake what are-” America released a sigh and wrenched the door open, catching England in mid-rant “-you doi-oh, well then.”
“Hi,” America greeted with a grin. “S’all yours.”
“Yes, well.” England cleared his throat and pushed his way past America, shoulders bumping together as he passed.
America ducked out of the way and retreated to the safety of the motel room. He flopped on his bed, grinning absently up at the ceiling. Tucking his arms behind his head, pillowing them, he focused on not thinking. Which was, for all the times England insulted him about not thinking, surprisingly hard. Because when there was something he didn’t want to think about, he couldn’t help but agonize over it.
When England came back out, America propped his head up, watching England. “Hey, England?”
“Hm?” England asked, not looking up from his bag, where he was replacing his toothbrush and bathroom kit.
“Do you think I’m a homophobe?”
The question must have knocked England completely off guard because he sputtered a moment and dropped his toothbrush. “Do I think you’re what?”
America sat up, frowning, crossing his legs Indian-style. “Cause like on one hand I don’t care what other people do or who they like, ya know? So long as they’re happy or whatever. But I don’t want to do that kinda stuff.”
“America, you daft-” England cut himself off with a shake of his head and a small sigh. He pressed a hand to his face, as if marveling at something too overwhelmingly ridiculous (probably America’s stupidity). And then he almost smiled, which must have been a good sign, though America certainly hadn’t expected the expression. His hand fell away. He looked towards America and zipped up his bag. “No, America. That just means you’re straight.”
“I guess,” America said with a frown. Then why can’t I stop thinking about kissing you?
“You only guess?” England asked and the distinctly amused expression melted away, replaced with the concerned expression from earlier that America also was not too used to seeing. “Did something happen last night?”
“Huh?”
“In the bar, with one of the other people there,” England asked, eyebrows knitted together. “I can’t remember a damned thing from last night but-did someone make a pass at you?”
“Huh?” America almost laughed by the sheer absurdity of the situation, but managed to bite it back. He shook his head, a bit over-enthusiastically. “No, no! Nothing like that… I was just, ha ha, um, wondering?”
England looked unconvinced.
America flapped his hand about, trying to be dismissive like England was with his hand gestures. Instead he only seemed to flail for a moment before his hand flopped back down to his side. “I promise, England. None of the dudes there were hitting on me.”
“Then why the question?” England asked.
America bit his lip. “I was just thinking about it… and I keep thinking about it and I can’t stop thinking about it and I just can’t figure out why I’m thinking about it-”
“Thinking about what?”
America opened his mouth to speak, but quickly restrained himself from the impulse. He stared at England, collecting his words.
“Being a jerk,” America said, frowning. “I don’t want to discriminate against anybody-people, not just mine, do that enough as it is, ya know? Even if policies in place say otherwise sometimes…” He laughed, nervously, realizing he was rambling and half-expecting England to reprimand him for that. But England was silent, sitting down on his own bed and listening to America patiently. America swallowed, and continued, “No matter what, they’re still my people? Or your people, or Canada’s people, or whatever!”
“That’s an admirable stance to have, America,” England said, voice so gentle that it took America off guard. America very pointedly tried to ignore the way a block of ice passed through his chest, making him shiver.
“So you don’t think that I’m…?”
England shook his head, and the gentleness melted away to amusement. “I don’t. Just because you prefer to sleep with women-” America blushed and sputtered slightly at that, but England continued, “-doesn’t mean that you’re discriminating against others. You can still be straight and still give your support. It’s called being an ally.”
“Well, yeah, I know that,” America admitted. He scratched the back of his head, feeling a bit sheepish for this conversation. He didn’t want to be preachy, and he didn’t want to sound stupid, either, or bigoted or-or gay. Which reminded him. “Is it bad then that I don’t want people to think I’m gay? Doesn’t that make it seem like I’m avoiding it because I think it’s a bad thing?”
“People are saying that, America?” England asked, eyebrows raised.
America shook his head. “That isn’t what I meant.”
“What do you mean?”
America flopped down onto the bed and covered his face with his arms. “I dunno. Hypothetically. For future reference? Dunno.”
“I think you do know,” England said, his voice quickly falling back into the ‘lecture voice’, much to America’s chagrin. “But perhaps you don’t wish to say it?”
“I can say it if I want,” America muttered against the fabric of his shirtsleeve.
“Why don’t you?”
America was quiet a moment. Then he spoke. “If I say that I don’t care what they do, that they’ll still be my people no matter what, and how can I blame them for wanting to be who they are-but then I actively do shit because I don’t want people to think I’m not straight and worry that people will get the wrong impression-doesn’t that make me kinda, I dunno, a hypocrite?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time you’ve done hypocritical things,” England said gently.
“Shut up,” America grumbled. “You’re not helping me here.”
“I don’t understand where this conversation is coming from,” England admitted, and he, too, sounded a bit unsure. America heard him shifting, heard him lying back on his own bed. America tried not to imagine what he would look like then, but still couldn’t resist taking a peek. England was staring up at the ceiling, face smoothed into thoughtful expression, with only his forehead scrunched up in thought.
“I guess it kinda came outta nowhere,” America confessed.
“Perhaps,” England agreed.
“I just… I dunno.”
“Why do you think you think this way?”
“I mean-I know it’s dumb, and shit, but I just can’t help thinking about all those stupid stereotypes about it. Like what France said before. That if you’re close with another man, that means you want to sleep with him.” America scrunched his face up. “Maybe that’s just France, but, ya know. And just… And I hate that I can let things like that have an effect on me, but, well-I guess it does.”
“Things like that never truly go away. Or, at least, it takes time.”
“Yeah…”
They lapsed into silence.
America, as always, was the one to break it. “Hey, England?”
“Yes, America?” England asked, a sigh in his voice.
America rolled over, face cushioned into his pillow, so that he could look at England. England must have felt his gaze on him, because he turned his head, too. A lock of blond hair fell into his eyes but he didn’t brush it aside. America couldn’t keep eye contact, so he kept his focus on that piece of hair.
“You don’t think I’m a hypocrite now, do you?”
England thought this over, and though America wished he would have just come out and said his thoughts, it also reassured America to know that England was thinking over the question, critically, collecting his words. But it stretched on for such a long silence, such a long time that England’s darkened green eyes stared only at him. America almost wanted to look away, but he remained strong, steadying his eyes on England, holding his gaze.
England licked his lips and America stared at his mouth. But then England started speaking and he had to remember to concentrate on the piece of hair.
“I don’t think so,” England said at last.
America perked up. “Really?”
England shook his head. “Everyone wants to be able to be honest about themselves, without fear of being judged. You should be able to do anything, say anything, without worrying that someone will make a judgment of you based on that.”
“Yeah…” America said, frowning.
“But, even if your country has some laws and rules in place that could be considered bad, and people with attitudes that are less than desirable,” England continued, thinking over his words carefully before speaking, “The ideal of you and your people is still there. As nations, we have so many voices in our heads for our people that it’s impossible to pinpoint one thing solidly. Your people, even if they don’t exactly execute the promise, and your policies, even if they’re not truly democratic… you are founded on ‘equality’ despite the ‘differences’, isn’t it so?”
“Yeah,” America said, and found himself flushing with warmth at finally being understood by someone, even if it was someone like England. “Yeah… that’s right.”
“And you are that embodiment of those ideals and promises, no matter what.” England wasn’t looking at him anymore, but America only realized this when his eyes slanted back to meet with America’s. They kept their gazes locked on one another. England tilted his head slightly as he spoke. “You are those ideals.”
“But there are also my own thoughts, beyond my country’s founding premises, right?” America asked. “Things that belong to ‘me’.”
“We are nations,” England said, which wasn’t an answer.
“Yeah, but you have-uh-desires and needs and wants that are different from what ‘England’ and its ‘people’ want, right? You have thoughts and feelings that have to do with you yourself, don’t you?”
England was very quiet for a moment, so quiet that America wondered if he’d insulted him or said something wrong. He stared at America for a long time, his expression smoothed into a purposefully blank expression. It seemed as if those green eyes were saying something, anchoring him, tugging him ever closer, like an unequivocal, undeniable gravity. America felt something bubble in his chest, the urge to say something, to have England say something to him. He was on the verge of words. His breath wouldn’t leave his lungs, caught and tethered.
But then England shifted back onto his back, staring up at the ceiling, expression unreadable.
“Yes. I do.”
---
The drive that day moved slowly. America kept glancing at the clock, hoping for enough time to pass to justify stopping for the night. England was concerned, but never voiced anything other than a few snippy remarks that only made America want to cringe. America avoided speaking if he could, because he didn’t know what he wanted to say to England, if anything. It was easier to just ignore the situation and pretend it wasn’t there. Because, in the end, it wasn’t even supposed to be that big of a deal, and America’s continued insistence upon it was more than grating. He replied to England in short, clipped sentences which only served to annoy England. He would insult America, then, sometimes passive aggressively, sometimes downright blatantly. America was far too used to being insulted by him. He tried not to think.
It wasn’t that he was a coward, or that he hated the-wait.
He derailed those thoughts quite promptly. He was not thinking about kissing England-never mind that his entire thought process centered around that (insignificant!) thought of his, which he’d had while drunk.
If you’re drunk, it hardly counts for anything, America decided firmly to himself, the cogs in his head turning a mile a minute as America and England passed by the scenery outside at sixty miles an hour. Drinking to get your problems or thoughts sorted out or acted upon is the cowardly way.
His eyes slanted towards England, whose eyes were on the road.
They’d been getting along, lately, too, he thought glumly. At least, as well as they could get along. England was still his snippety self, and never quite being able to get rid of that jerkiness about him that America always hated and always pretended didn’t bother him. They’d been getting along okay on the trip thus far, at least… and even before then, they’d been doing okay. The fighting they exchanged in meetings and in passing had almost become teasing. Before, whenever they met, it was always a little awkward or a little tense or a little unsure-the past, shared history often did that, his boss had told him once, as if he could have had any idea about the feelings and problems of “nations”. And England always held on so tightly to the past, probably just because he was so old.
So what if England was kind of a jerk-always calling America stupid and self-centered? America was not stupid. And it wasn’t like every other country in the world wasn’t concerned about itself, too. But that was beside the point.
America derailed his thoughts again, though this time simply because he didn’t want to think about politics-and he knew that England was only doing all this because he wanted to avoid work. Or to relax. Or whatever it was that he’d wanted to do and that America wasn’t absolutely sure he actually was doing.
And though America tried his hardest to overturn his thoughts, so quickly did they maneuver down the same kind of path again. Why had he almost kissed England?
America knew about the nature of nations, obviously. He understood that “relations” were necessary at times, marriages to create commonwealths and empires, sexual affairs for the sake of solidifying treaties or alliances. America understood things like this. It didn’t mean he liked to think about what other people did, of course. It was their business and if they were happy that was that. America had no qualms whatsoever about what nations, or his own citizens for that matter, did in the privacy of their home.
He just couldn’t help but shift nervously while thinking about it in the case of him. It wasn’t because England was a dude, he reasoned to himself, tried to reason to himself, it was because it was England.
“And who’d ever wanna kiss that?” America crowed loudly, perhaps in a subconscious attempt to break the silence.
England jumped at the sudden breaking of the silence and turned his head towards America briefly, a question in his green eyes before returning his attentions back to the road. America felt himself flush at his own carelessness and cleared his throat.
“What?” England asked, looking annoyed. “What stupidity are you spouting out now?”
“Nothing,” America protested.
England always had too good of a bullshit detector, America thought as England’s eyes narrowed. He looked mildly like an offended bird, ruffling up and puffing up a bit. But then again… that hadn’t been very subtle. At all.
England sucked in a sharp breath, annoyed by America’s failed avoidance, his cheeks puffing up a bit with held breath. America, grinning, leaned over and poked England in the cheek. Hot air rushed out past his slightly puckered lips in a whoosh and America watched the exchange with a forced laugh and an inward reassurance that he was not staring at England’s mouth!
America did not want to interpret anything that’d happen the night before as anything more than a drunken mistake. Nothing had happened, he corrected. Nothing had happened, he’d caught himself and brought himself back to his senses. Pulling himself up by his bootstraps-haha, yeah.
“Fine, if you want to be a fool off in your own mind and not say anything of worth, it’s none of my concern,” England snapped, and was no longer looking at America, thank god. He kept driving, but looked substantially less relaxed than before, and only annoyed and offended. “Perhaps you’re simply too stupid to say what you’re thinking.”
America stiffened up but for the moment preferred England ignoring him to anything else. He bit his tongue, tried his hardest not to say anything. His shoulders sagged. He managed to restrain himself, but he practically strained something doing so.
Face red, he looked away out the window, and thus missed the concerned expression England shot his way.
They drove in silence until they reached the hotel for the night. They didn’t speak. They went to bed early.
---
The next morning they woke up and drove. Upon England’s insistence not to have diner food or McDonald’s for breakfast, they stopped by a bakery. America drove while England periodically handed him bits of a cinnamon roll. America tried very, very hard not to pay attention to the fact that England was feeding him, Jesus Christ.
It was considerably less romantic than it sounded-thank god, America thought-because England spent the entire time bitching about how messy his hands and clothes were getting from the crumbs and the icing on the monstrosity against all things healthy (his words, not America’s). America, at this point, was annoyed at himself and at England so offered no sympathy or condolences to England’s plight, aside from a biting “your life is really hard, huh?” which England found less than comforting. Good.
America hadn’t slept well. He kept tossing and turning, agonizing over England’s words-agonizing over the look he’d given him, the look he couldn’t place and wasn’t sure he wanted to place. He kept going back to that moment when he’d almost ruined everything-where he, America was beginning to think, had already ruined everything. It was all his mind would think about, against all his attempts to do otherwise. And it was leaving him annoyed and irritable, frustrated. He couldn’t stand. That kind of feeling wasn’t something he wanted to experience, and he hated the constant replay of what could have happened, as if it had actually happened.
They drove for several hours in silence, across stateliness and not saying a word. England watched the monotony travel by with a practiced patience he’d acquired after decades of seafaring with only endless water to satisfy his ever-gazing eye.
Several hours passed like this, and America was thankful for the lack of communication-that was what they did best, after all. If he turned the music up far too loud, it drowned out his thoughts and England’s bitching. Best of both worlds.
They were near the state line for South Dakota when America veered off the interstate they’d taken for the last few states. England looked up from his dazed staring out the window to give America a careful expression.
“Are we running low on fuel?” he asked.
“Nah, I just hate that we’ve been on the road for like a week and are halfway across the country and we haven’t even stopped at one tourist attraction.”
England’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t want-”
“Frankly, England, I don’t care if you want to go or not. This is my truck, this is my highway, this is my state, and this is my goddamned tourist attraction. So you can kindly suck it.”
England looked vaguely surprised by the harshness of America’s tone, and recoiled slightly, giving him an exasperated expression that only made America more annoyed. Then England’s thick eyebrows slammed down over his eyes, as they narrowed.
“What the hell’s the matter with you?” England demanded.
“We’re going to Mt. Rushmore and you’re gonna like it,” America insisted instead of answering.
He cranked the music up even louder when England opened his mouth to talk, successfully shutting England up while splitting his eardrums until they felt as if they would bleed. And he just couldn’t bring himself to care.
---
“It’s granite, ya know. Random granite pluton in the mica, s’why the faces themselves are white while they’re in the black hills,” America said absently, leaning forward on the guardrail, arms crossed and face turned towards the immortalized faces of his past presidents. “The magma pooled inside it and ended up freezing like that, and then erosion exposed it.”
England didn’t look at him, and America, glancing at the other nation out of the corner of his eye, watched him roll his eyes heavenward. “Hm.”
America, frankly, didn’t care if England didn’t care. He turned his attention back towards the faces in the distance.
“It’s kind of cool, geology,” America said absently. He was grinning but his eyes were wide and distant, and England realized that something was breaking down.
“I’m shocked you can understand something so complex,” England said, his voice biting and clipped.
America did not cringe, though he wanted to. Instead, he curled his hands into fists. “Believe it or not, I’m actually not a dumbass.”
“You hide your intelligence remarkably well, then,” England said, coolly.
“Shut the fuck up,” America muttered, the words bitter in his mouth. He’d reached his boiling point-all the stress since that damned night, all the annoyance towards England’s attitude-it was too much to hold in.
“Why should I? I’m honestly surprised,” England said, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
“You don’t have to say shit like that. I already know you think I’m stupid.”
“You’ve never given me reason to believe otherwise,” the other nation said, snippety.
America flared up, looked ready to say something, but the sag in his shoulders made it clear that what England said hurt him. He pulled away from England, inched so there was more distance between the two of them, and stuffed his hands into his pockets. He glared up at his famous presidents and tried to ignore the way his heart dropped down to his toes, his face flushed with anger.
“I already know you guys all think I’m stupid and loud and obnoxious and too big for my own good,” America snapped suddenly, and fueled on by his aggression whipped his head over towards England, who looked up at him with the condescending look an adult acquires when faced with a tantrum-throwing toddler. This, of course, only fueled America further, “No matter what the fuck I do you’re always going to say that, huh? You’re such an asshole, England.”
“America-”
“Go to hell,” America snapped, and almost actually snarled. The other visitors to the tourist attraction glanced at the two uneasily before slowly moving away from the arguing men, dragging their children away before America could curse more.
England flared up, as predicted.
It always reverted back to this. It didn’t matter how well they got along for however long, they always ended up fighting one another again-and to think America had actually thought their fights had reverted back to simple teasing. He glared full-on at England, who heatedly returned his gaze with an equally as angered glare.
“So, what? You didn’t want to go to any of my tourist attractions because you think they’re all stupid like me?”
“Yes,” England shot back easily and locked his jaw a moment before releasing a long, aggravated sigh. He threw his hand out towards the mountain, accusing. “They’re perfectly ostentatious, overbearing, and foolish-just like you, just like you’ve always been!”
“Fuck you!”
“That’s so easy to say when you don’t have anything else to say, huh?” England demanded, and actually had the gall to smirk at America, as if he’d already won their argument. He crossed his arms, ruffling up while still managing to look self-satisfied and aggravated in the same expression.
“Why the hell did you want to just drive around in my country if you fucking hate it so much?”
“I hadn’t intended to leave New England and-”
“-Oh, you would only want to stay there-”
“-then I was stuck with you for a companion.”
“If you hate my company so much why the hell am I even here?”
“Because you insisted like the stupid idiot that you are! It was easier just to let you come along than to put up with your pouting and whining over me telling you not to come.”
“God!” America shouted, his voice rising steadily in octave as the argument progressed. He was shaking, eyes narrowed and face contorted in rage. “You are such an asshole!”
“You already said that,” England barked. “Quit repeating yourself like the fool you already are.”
“I don’t know why the fuck I even bothered, either,” America shouted back. “You’ve just been a huge dick this entire time-always bitching and complaining and never saying ‘hey, thanks America, you’re pretty cool’ or ‘Sorry, America, I’m kind of being a huge bastard right now but you’re still pretty cool’!”
“I have not been bitching the entire time,” England protested.
“Yes you have!” America shot back, as if expecting England’s denial and rebutting it without missing a beat after he spoke it. “Christ, I haven’t heard anything but a complaint from you!”
“Well I certainly have a lot to be unhappy about, having to deal with you and-”
“Shut up!” America shouted, his voice booming. “God, fuck you! Just, fuck you, England!”
“That’s all very easy to say isn’t it? Honestly.”
But America was clutching his hair, looking as if ready to pull it out and shaking with rage and, England recognized distantly, hurt. His feelings were hurt, and it was evident all over his face. No matter how hard he tried, America couldn’t hide his feelings that well, if at all.
“I don’t understand why you’re always such a huge asshole, aren’t you supposed to be my friend or something?”
England snorted, loudly, as if the very idea was preposterous.
America was still shaking, and he slanted his eyes away, hands at his sides, curled into fists and shaking just as much as America’s shoulders.
“You’re supposed to be one of the people-nations-closest to me and all you do is insult me,” America insisted, looking stricken and angry. He pointed an accusing finger at England before his hand dropped uselessly to his side again. He repeated, “Aren’t you supposed to be my friend?”
“If it bothers you so much, why don’t you get new friends?”
“Because I-”
“Can’t,” England interrupted. “Because you’re a loud-mouthed, nosy, overzealous, and self-important fool of a child who can’t admit that he isn’t popular right now, so he’s stuck with allies he takes advantage of and then gets insulted when they don’t bend over and suck his-”
“Why the hell,” America interrupted, hurried, “would I want to get on with the world with people who don’t like me? It’s clear enough that if my friends treat me the way you do, there’s no fucking point!”
“And whose fault is it that they treat you like that?”
“I’m sick of every fucking person just hating me-especially when it’s from people like you!”
England tried to ignore it, but he couldn’t help it: he winced. He knew America thought what he was saying was true. America was unhappy, and hurt. He knew that. And England knew that situations like these were his own fault, his own fault that America, someone who he was closet to, someone that he held so dear, was under the impression that England could barely stand him. It was England’s own fault that their friendship revolved around the belief that they hated each other. And really, he certainly wasn’t saying or behaving in a way that suggested otherwise.
“You’re loud, rude, and self-centered. You only care about yourself and what others can do to help you. You’re overbearing and don’t seem to realize when you’re not wanted or needed. You spout off ridiculous things like world peace and protection but as soon as someone doesn’t play by your rules you throw them to the curbside.” England sniffed, disdainful. “And your so-called ‘friends’? Are just people you keep by your side for your own benefit while at the same time refusing to acknowledge or be grateful for all the sacrifices they make.”
“You-”
“I refuse to indulge you,” England said tensely.
“I’m not saying to ‘indulge’ me, fuck!” America cursed. “It’d just be nice for you to be nice for once. I know the world fucking hates me and I know I’m a fucking idiot about a lot of things but that doesn’t mean you need to rub it in my face every chance you get and insult me every second of every day! It’d be nice to have some support, even a little bit.”
“I have given you a lot of support,” England hissed, looking livid. “Or is that, after all the years, not good enough for you? After everything my country and administrations have done for you…”
“I don’t mean politically! Or whatever,” America shouted. “I mean from you,” he shouted as he pointed from England to himself, “to me! As something that isn’t a ‘nation’ but as ‘you’! I’m not saying you need to kiss my ass or whatever-I just want you to be honest with me.”
“As if you’ve given me any reason to be honest,” England snapped.
“What-”
“You never say what you’re thinking.”
“Neither do you!”
“Because you-” England cut himself off with an angry sigh and a shake of his head. “I have no reason to be honest to someone who would just-be you. Laugh, or be insensitive or stupid or dismissive. Why the hell should I be honest to you?”
“Because we’re friends! Fuck!”
“Such an insistence on a mere fabrication!”
“It isn’t a fucking fabrication to me!” America shouted, shaking and looking as if he was about ready to storm away.
There was a long tensed silence and America’s fists uncurled and recurled several times.
“It isn’t…” he said, his voice weaker now but still loud, still an almost shout. “But you just act like you don’t like me all the time.”
“I don’t like you most of the time,” England said and did not elaborate on how long ‘most of the time’ was. He looked away. “In a lot of ways you aren’t very likeable, America.”
America dropped his head a moment, face contorting a bit, before he lifted it again, staring defiantly down at England.
Yet, when he spoke, his response was oddly passive: “Oh.”
“That isn’t the point, though.”
“Then what is the point?” America asked.
“Is there ever a point to anything?” England shot back, and it wasn’t an answer to the question.
America frowned, still looking insulted.
“Oh.” America’s response was once again brief, and England waited for an addendum that never came. England glanced over and found America with his arms crossed over his chest, staring pensively down at the ground.
And then he started walking away, his hands in his pockets and eyes to the ground. The move in itself was surprising, but the way that America almost looked dejected was slightly off-putting for England. England could imagine that there was just the slightest touch of a pout to his expression, but when he moved after America to follow him, he saw the boy’s expression as simply crestfallen and closed-off.
“America…” England began.
“Leave me alone. I’m going back to the car.”
“America-”
“Let’s just drop it.”
“No,” England insisted and sped up so that he could block America’s beeline for the truck. America stopped, hands in his pockets but looking more morose now than heartbroken-why had he looked like that?-and he gave England something of a half-heartedly glare when he tried to sidestep around England and England refused to let him.
America was nothing but trouble, it seemed. He’d been hurting England since before he’d reached England’s shoulder height-he’d been everywhere and nowhere all at once, demanding attention and seeking attention, even bad attention. But he’d forgotten that, behind all the energy, all the bravado, America was just a young child, and a young child who wanted to know he was needed.
Which didn’t excuse the fact that he was being a right moron, of course. But, England supposed upon hindsight, he had been unfriendly the last week, and really, aside from his overbearing nature, America hadn’t done anything wrong. His enthusiasm was part of his charm. Or something.
“I don’t see why this bothers you so much.”
America stiffened, looking away from him. It took a moment of silence from America for England to realize that he was hurt by the comment, as well. It wasn’t that England hadn’t expected it to hurt-he had a habit of making sure the things he said hurt-what he hadn’t expected as how visibly hurt the boy seemed by it.
“My lad…”
“Shut up,” America muttered. “It doesn’t bother me.”
England gave him a skeptical look.
America looked away again. “I just-I try not to let it bother me. But I can’t help it. If it’s from everybody, even my own people, it just builds up or something. I just can’t deal with being insulted and not taken seriously all the god damn time.”
“America…”
“Just shut up,” America snapped. “You don’t have to insult me and if you’re a ‘friend’ just for political reasons, that’s fine-at least be honest about it or something.”
“Aren’t you never honest, either?”
“I am too.”
“About some things perhaps,” England said lightly, though the razor edge of his annoyance still lingered in his words. “But mostly, you say things that’ll get you what you want, or are purposefully misleading. Or you’re just avoidant.” England looked up at him. “Why would I want to be honest to someone who isn’t honest to me?”
“You aren’t honest to me,” America protested.
“Do you trust me?” England asked.
“Do you trust me?” America insisted.
They stared at one another, both refusing to relent first. They stayed like that in a strained silence.
When neither said anything, when neither rose to answer the question, they slowly slipped away from each other, each taking a step back.
America looked away and, as was natural to him, was the one to break the silence. “I’ve done a lot of stuff for you over the years-for your country and government and for ‘you’. Don’t you think I deserve at least a little trust? Damn it.”
“And I for you as well,” England shot back. They started walking, wandering back towards America’s truck. They lapsed into silence for a moment before England added, “I’ve made a lot of sacrifices for you, and for you it’s either not good enough or worthy to forget.”
America paused in his step but England kept walking, so America quickly kept up his pace so that he was walking side by side with England.
“You’ve been a huge jerk this entire trip.”
“I’m tired,” England muttered. “I’d intended for this to be short and simple, enough for me to relax before I flew back home. Having you along was a bump in the road, it would seem. The things you do to my blood pressure, America.”
“Then why not kick me out? Or leave yourself?”
England looked up at him, and then looked away.
They reached the truck without a word.