[CHAPTERFIC] You Can't Take the Sky From Me Chapter Seventeen (Axis Powers Hetalia)
Title: You Can't Take the Sky From Me [FF.NET Chapter Seventeen] [ Writing Journal Previous Chapters ]
Pairing: AmericaxEngland, PolandxLithuania, GermanyxItaly, SpainxRomano, Belarus---->Russia. Future pairings: GreecexJapan, HungaryxAustria, SwedenxFinland
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Romance/Humor/Drama/Action+Adventure/Alternate Universe
Word Count: 3.434
Summary: Ace Pilot America is on a mission for the World Military when a chance encounter with a group of Sky-Pirates leads him to team up with their captain, England, against a malevolent group that wants to fill the sky with zeppelins. [USxUK- Steampunk AU]
Chapter Summary: He thought, that he really must have been the biggest fool this side of the Paradi Sea. America was just about the last person who he should have allowed to slip into his heart like this. He was military. A blasted soldier! And had all his hatred and anger toward that meant nothing, when now, just one flash of America’s almost ever present smile caused him to practically forget that he was even part of that institution he so despised?
Author's Note: Sorry for the two week delay. I struggled a lot with getting this chapter done, as it's... quite important. ;) I can't thank abarero and sakuratsukikage enough for their assistance on this chapter. I couldn't have done it without either of you. Also, soubi_tatsumi did some adorable art from chapter sixteen, so do check it out here!
Beads of sweat trickled down England’s brow, and he shielded it, the late-morning sun burning bright on the deck of the ship. Australia couldn’t manage repairing the sails by himself, so the Victoria crew had been recruited to assist him. England was more than willing. He’d offered to help Australia, but had been turned down and told to rest at several points before that morning.
Prussia, Spain, Romano, Liechtenstein, and Sealand were mending the sails, needle and thread weaving back and forth through the sturdy material.
Switzerland, who along with England, was the only member of the Victoria crew that was both uninjured and an adult, was sitting atop the bow, hammer in hand and nails held in between his teeth as he repaired and replaced the splintered wood. Australia was lugging timber aboard the deck.
England held one side of a long saw, the wood handle held tightly in one of his hands. His other hand, his injured hand, grasped it with far less force as it sawed through the thick lumber. Australia had suggested that they replace the back boom entirely as it has suffered substantial damage. That’s what England was working on at the moment, and at the other end of the saw, moving in unison with him, was America.
America’s sleeves were rolled up to his shoulders, revealing his tanned arms and his smooth but still well defined muscles. The sun had already dried his wet pants, and he’d retrieved his boots from the beach. His blue eyes shone behind the frames of his glasses, and England flushed when he ran one sweaty palm through his soft blond hair.
England fluttered a bit at that, and it was made worse when America leveled him with a warm, but still cocksure, grin.
If England wasn’t certain of otherwise, he would swear the other man was flirting with him; or at the very least teasing him by attempting to make himself look as attractive as humanly possible (and being rather successful at it). It would have been foolish for him to have ever denied that America was good-looking, ridiculously so, in fact. He had admitted that to himself long before now. But there was a substantial difference between acknowledging the mere fact that America was handsome and doing what he was doing now. Staring, and taking in every detail of his physique as if he wished to commit it to memory. Doing this, it was new.
England shook his head and averted his eyes down to the saw entirely, so all he could see now was America’s hands; hands he ached to take in his own.
“Thanks,” America’s voice interrupted his musings.
“What?” England asked, glancing halfway up. America let go of the saw, and he did so as well.
America rubbed the nape of his neck. “For the information. I mean, for trusting me with it and stuff…”
England’s eyes widened, and he looked away. After America had pocketed the list of ranked Kosmider members, he’d followed up by informing him of everything else Poland had told him. “It’s… no problem.”
He felt a clap on his shoulder and started, for a moment expecting it to be America. But America was still standing across from him. He sighed to himself, frustrated at his own behavior. He looked up. “Australia.”
“You think your aviator friend can help me out with something?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow.
“Uh, what is it?” America walked over to stand by Australia’s side. England blinked. America had been surprisingly willing to help out with the repairs of the ship. He speculated that he’d say no, giving the excuse that he ‘can’t help fix a pirate ship,’ but instead he’d agreed with a smile and a shrug and a simple ‘sure, why not.’
“You’re pretty strong, right?”
“Of course I am!” America quipped, confidently.
“Brilliant! I need someone to climb up the main mast, to the gaffing.” He pointed up amongst the wood of the ship. “Take a hammer and a few nails, and I’ll tell you what to do when you get up there.”
“I can take care of that Australia…” England cut in.
America shook his head. “Nah. S’okay, I can do it. Your hand’s not healed after all and… I mean it’s easy enough.”
England huffed and crossed his arms, thick eyebrows rising. “You think climbing the blasted mast is easy? I assure you it requires quite a lot of strength to do it.”
America slapped a hand on his bare bicep and smirked, then, most maddening of all, he winked. “I think I can handle it, Captain.” England’s face bloomed red. He thought that America must have been either completely oblivious to what he was doing to him, or totally aware. He scowled and turned away in embarrassment.
--------------------------
America had no trouble climbing the mast, and he crowed his triumph upon reaching the point where the gaff met the mast. “Wow! That was so hard,” he yelled down. “It’s a good thing I’m strong, otherwise I definitely would have--- “
“Oh shut the hell up!” England shouted back, hands on his hips. America chuckled, loud enough that it could be heard down on the deck.
England watched as Australia gave America specific instructions. He wanted the gaff’s connection to the mast to be secured, as it had come loose during the battle with the Kosmider. America followed his instructions easily, but England was paying little attention to that.
He really hated how striking America was, perched on the mast with the sun shining behind him and illuminating him to the point of glowing. That was, coupled with exuding his natural charisma, which could have just as easily been called his natural obnoxiousness. And then there was his rear, which England could see quite well from where he was standing. Well that was undeniably a nice view.
Since he’d woken up that morning, England’s mind had been a jumbled mess. And it just got worse the more time he spent with America. He thought that perhaps, as he registered the first vestiges of consciousness in the morning, that he’d merely come to the conclusion that he was in love with America due to how fatigued he’d been the previous night. It made sense. Lack of sleep did funny things. But then he’d realized that America was touching him, stroking his face, his eyebrows, and the doubt had left his mind. It wasn’t America’s actions that had caused that, but his expression. In the quiet instant before he’d registered that England was awake, before England had spat at him in irritation, there had been something in America’s face that had caused the same warmth to bubble to the surface and explode just as it had done before he’d slipped off into sleep the night before.
England hadn’t the foggiest idea what to do next. He could confront him point blank about it, but that would surely result in disaster. He could pursue America, court him, as old fashioned as that sounded; flowers, moonlit walks, all the lot.
England thought, that he really must have been the biggest fool this side of the Paradi Sea. America was just about the last person who he should have allowed to slip into his heart like this. He was military. A blasted soldier! And had all his hatred and anger toward that meant nothing, when now, just one flash of America’s almost ever present smile caused him to practically forget that he was even part of that institution he so despised?
He recalled less than an hour before, when America had looked at him with conviction as he'd demanded the Kosmider list, not a fleck of doubt in his expression. America had proven himself to England as a man of honor, and yes, a hero, even. He chuckled a bit at that. So all right, even though it made a part of him scream in protest, he could, perhaps, deal with America being a soldier.
But there was still the fact that England was well, a pirate, and he had no idea if America, on the ghost of a chance that he felt the same, could forgive that.
So England decided that he could, and unfortunately to him this seemed like the best idea, merely do nothing and hope that the feelings ebbed, the fire died and cooled into just fondness and friendship. He tried to convince himself that it would probably be better for his sanity if nothing happened between them. It’s not like America would be interested anyway. Maybe there was nothing. Perhaps America would fly off in his plane and they’d not see each other again, or they’d team up against the Kosmider, and then once that was over with, America would go back to his aviation force base and never think of England again. He hated that idea the most.
America was scooting down the mast now, and Australia called for a lunch break. Switzerland hopped off the bow, and the rest of the crew ceased their mending, jumping to their feet and heading to the beach.
----------------------------------------------------
America was going to swim, and no one was going to interrupt him this time. The invigorating blue water, the color of paradise, beckoned him once more, and he slid out of his pants so he could swim in his boxers. His shirt joined his pants, his boots, his watch, his belt, and his socks by the beach, and he ran into the surf once more.
Romano and Spain were sitting in the shallows, letting the cool water run across the pink-red burns on their bodies. Prussia was now joining them, the sea lapping at the wound on his back as he swallowed down a bottle of beer.
America darted past them, splashing as he did so. He stopped when the water was up to his chest and slid his eyes shut; sinking down into the ocean so only his shoulders and head were visible. Being surrounded so closely by a reef, the waves were small, but he rode them anyway, bobbing up and down with their undulations. He dug his toes into the sand, wiggling them, then grinning at the feeling of a fish flicking his leg with a fin as it swam by.
“Awesome,” he said to himself as he began to journey out further, intent on reaching the reef. The water was to his shoulders when he glanced back, and it wasn’t the distance from the shore that caught his eye (he wasn’t more than twenty meters out), but rather the dock. England was sitting on the end of it again, legs hanging over the side and feet dangling in the water. He could make out a book perched in England’s hand, only barely.
“Is this what he does every day?” America grumbled to himself, swimming back against the surf to the shore. Gauging the direction and distance he needed to reach the dock, he slipped underwater and swam toward England, popping up beside the dock and shaking his soaking blond locks as he did so.
England nearly dropped his book. “Fucking hell, America. Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” He closed the book and slammed it down on the wood beside him.
America shrugged, then leaned his elbows on the side of the dock, right beside England. “Do you ever I don’t know… have fun?”
“I do believe I’ve told you, this is fun for me.” He pointedly glared at America.
America sighed, rather dramatically. “Hey England.”
“What is it?”
“You’re lonely,” he replied, his voice small.
England blinked, green eyes expressing his bewilderment. “I spend time alone. It’s different. Again, as I have told you before, it’s by choice.”
“Damn, England,” America gritted his teeth and sent a small splash at him, wetting his rolled up pants.
“Stop that!”
“You’re twenty-two years old and you’re a freakin’ pirate, but you act like some kind of stodgy old man half the time!” America’s bottom lip jutted out in a pout. "It’s stupid.”
“Stupid?” England barked. “Something being ‘stupid’ is rich coming from you.”
At this, America’s eyes flashed and England was very glad he’d put his book down, because America grabbed him around the waist and yanked him into the water.
“Bloody hell!” England shoved at America’s chest, but he held fast. “What in the blazes do you think you’re doing?” The water was up to England’s chest, and the small waves lapped against his white shirt, soaking it even to his shoulders.
“Swimming,” America replied, as if it were obvious. “You?”
“Being forced into the water by an idiot,” England grumbled, crossing his arms as well as he could with America’s grip on his waist. He was sure that the his touch was causing his cheeks to burn.
America just shrugged. “You may not think you’re lonely… but…” He glanced down at the water. “But I know you are!”
“How do you kno-“
“I just do!” America interrupted, tightening his grip on England’s waist. They were still standing quite a bit apart, as America’s arms were long. “So I’ve decided, that I’m going to make it my personal hero’s mission to make sure you’re not!”
“Wha--- “
“Not lonely, of course,” America clarified, and his cheeks were slightly pink. England’s eyes grew large and his breath hitched in his throat. He could hear his heart speed up, and he willed it to slow down, but he knew it wouldn’t.
“So you wish to be my champion?” England finally managed, slight amusement in his voice.
“Huh?” America blinked, nonplussed.
England sighed. “Never mind.” America had still not let go of him, and he found his eyes wandering to his bare chest, taking in the curves and the dips and wanting, truly wanting to touch it. “Fuck,” he said out loud.
America furrowed his brows. “What?” He paused. “Oh, you mean like a knight! Yeah, sure. That’s just another word for hero, after all!” He beamed at England, that smile that he had such trouble tearing his eyes away from.
America’s hands were warm and firm around his waist, so close, and every few seconds, he’d shift, as if running his hands up and down his back; which was surely not the case.
“…All right,” England whispered.
“Ah?”
“I said, all right,” he repeated, cheeks pink. “If you think you can cure my… so called loneliness, who am I to stop you?” It was stupid. America was just on one of his missions of righteousness, but England thought that maybe, perhaps, this was the best chance he was going to get.
America’s grin, if possible, grew. England barely had time to register that though, as he was pulled toward America in a bone crushing hug.
Now there was no space between them. America’s head was resting near his shoulder, and his arms were tight around his mid back.
His naked chest was pressed against England, and his half-bare arms were stiff as they touched the taut skin he’d been eyeing just a moment before.
And America was definitely not wearing his normal pants. England managed to look down enough to see the waistline of a pair of red boxers. Oh. Well…
Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me? England wanted to say, but the words died on his lips. His pants were feeling tighter, and he hoped to everything in the world that America didn’t notice. If he hadn’t already been in cool water, he imagined it would have been worse.
“I’m glad!” America finally said, his breath tickling England’s shoulder as he spoke. And he noticed that America's eyes were closed as he leaned against him, which caused just a bit more blood to rush to his face.
Small waves lapped into and around them, and there was no noise but that, as well as the distant voices of England’s crewmates’ on the shore.
It was America that started to pull away first, and England felt a pang at this. But whether intentional or not, his cheek brushed against England’s as he did so.
They froze, mere centimeters from each other.
America’s eyes had never looked bluer, accentuated by the bright sea they stood in and the sky they both loved and complimented by the dusting of red on his cheeks.
He closed his eyes and leaned in, just that fraction of a breath, and America must have done so as well, because England knew that he hadn’t covered the full space between them before their lips met.
His heart leapt, color burst behind his eyes, and England registered first that America’s lips tasted of salt water. And they were warm just like the rest of him, and soft, and really, he was quite a smashing kisser if he did say so. There were hands running along his back and then through the choppy blond hair that hit the nape of his neck, and those hands could only belong to---
America was kissing him back. The cynic in him, strong as it was, couldn’t form any kind of argument against the fact that America was very much running his fingers through England’s hair and kissing him, so undeniably kissing him. And there was a moment in which America’s tongue flickered forward, although perhaps England had imagined that, but nonetheless, he opened up his mouth slightly and gave purchase, allowing the other man to slide his tongue in and England did the same and entered America’s parted lips and…
Something was forming inside of him, warm and inviting and new, and it was that tenuous thread of hope, now much thicker, much less fragile, although still far from completely solid.
He ran his hands through America’s hair, much like he was doing to him, and he felt that one stubborn piece of hair that he noticed always stood up, and smiled a bit. Even when America’s hair was wet, that chunk was stalwart in its defiance of gravity.
America moved his hands down to England’s shoulders, and England did the same, feeling the solid muscle of the other man’s back and shoulders beneath his grasp.
His pants were feeling quite a bit snugger though, and England cursed inwardly because he knew he would have to let go, lest America see the way in which he was reacting to their contact. A sound of displeasure escaped his throat because of it, and at that, America leapt away.
He’d never seen an expression on America’s face like this before. His eyes were huge and his mouth was agape and his cheeks were red to the point of scarlet. He looked like a child who had just gotten caught doing something terrible, breaking a cookie jar or accidentally destroying his Mum’s favorite rose bush. Not terribly romantic, but… rather adorable.
If America was that flushed, then England assumed that he was probably blushing to his bloody ears.
“S-s-sorry…” America finally managed, voice nary above a whisper.
England merely nodded. “It’s--- it’s fine,” he rushed out the next part, “But I’ve got to go!”
And he leapt up onto the dock, before America could reply. His arousal was begging for release, and he rather hated his very own hormones at that moment, because he’d left America in the water, and left them both with all questions unanswered. It was one thing for them to have snogged; it was another for America to realize he was that into it. America would surely be disturbed, turned off by it. Even if by chance, the kiss did mean something and America did like him back, he certainly wouldn’t be ready to confront this. America, idealistic and quite possibly innocent, America, would surely be horrified. And even though he was well aware that there was nothing unusual about his reaction to someone pressed tight against him, wet and kissing him and--- he wasn’t about to allow his blasted cock to ruin any chance he might have with the other man.
He was halfway to the shore when he nearly ran smack dab into Prussia, who barked out a laugh immediately. “Whoa, party in your pants, England?” England attempted to deck him, but Prussia dodged. “Hey, hey now! What did you and America do that--- “
“Shut.up,” England gritted out, his tone convincingly threatening.
Prussia held up his hands in surrender and let England run past him. “Fine!” he yelled as the captain reached the beach. “I’ll just ask America then!”
England could only glare at him balefully, before continuing on his way.
Pairing: AmericaxEngland, PolandxLithuania, GermanyxItaly, SpainxRomano, Belarus---->Russia. Future pairings: GreecexJapan, HungaryxAustria, SwedenxFinland
Rating: PG-13
Genre: Romance/Humor/Drama/Action+Adventure/Alternate Universe
Word Count: 3.434
Summary: Ace Pilot America is on a mission for the World Military when a chance encounter with a group of Sky-Pirates leads him to team up with their captain, England, against a malevolent group that wants to fill the sky with zeppelins. [USxUK- Steampunk AU]
Chapter Summary: He thought, that he really must have been the biggest fool this side of the Paradi Sea. America was just about the last person who he should have allowed to slip into his heart like this. He was military. A blasted soldier! And had all his hatred and anger toward that meant nothing, when now, just one flash of America’s almost ever present smile caused him to practically forget that he was even part of that institution he so despised?
Author's Note: Sorry for the two week delay. I struggled a lot with getting this chapter done, as it's... quite important. ;) I can't thank abarero and sakuratsukikage enough for their assistance on this chapter. I couldn't have done it without either of you. Also, soubi_tatsumi did some adorable art from chapter sixteen, so do check it out here!
Beads of sweat trickled down England’s brow, and he shielded it, the late-morning sun burning bright on the deck of the ship. Australia couldn’t manage repairing the sails by himself, so the Victoria crew had been recruited to assist him. England was more than willing. He’d offered to help Australia, but had been turned down and told to rest at several points before that morning.
Prussia, Spain, Romano, Liechtenstein, and Sealand were mending the sails, needle and thread weaving back and forth through the sturdy material.
Switzerland, who along with England, was the only member of the Victoria crew that was both uninjured and an adult, was sitting atop the bow, hammer in hand and nails held in between his teeth as he repaired and replaced the splintered wood. Australia was lugging timber aboard the deck.
England held one side of a long saw, the wood handle held tightly in one of his hands. His other hand, his injured hand, grasped it with far less force as it sawed through the thick lumber. Australia had suggested that they replace the back boom entirely as it has suffered substantial damage. That’s what England was working on at the moment, and at the other end of the saw, moving in unison with him, was America.
America’s sleeves were rolled up to his shoulders, revealing his tanned arms and his smooth but still well defined muscles. The sun had already dried his wet pants, and he’d retrieved his boots from the beach. His blue eyes shone behind the frames of his glasses, and England flushed when he ran one sweaty palm through his soft blond hair.
England fluttered a bit at that, and it was made worse when America leveled him with a warm, but still cocksure, grin.
If England wasn’t certain of otherwise, he would swear the other man was flirting with him; or at the very least teasing him by attempting to make himself look as attractive as humanly possible (and being rather successful at it). It would have been foolish for him to have ever denied that America was good-looking, ridiculously so, in fact. He had admitted that to himself long before now. But there was a substantial difference between acknowledging the mere fact that America was handsome and doing what he was doing now. Staring, and taking in every detail of his physique as if he wished to commit it to memory. Doing this, it was new.
England shook his head and averted his eyes down to the saw entirely, so all he could see now was America’s hands; hands he ached to take in his own.
“Thanks,” America’s voice interrupted his musings.
“What?” England asked, glancing halfway up. America let go of the saw, and he did so as well.
America rubbed the nape of his neck. “For the information. I mean, for trusting me with it and stuff…”
England’s eyes widened, and he looked away. After America had pocketed the list of ranked Kosmider members, he’d followed up by informing him of everything else Poland had told him. “It’s… no problem.”
He felt a clap on his shoulder and started, for a moment expecting it to be America. But America was still standing across from him. He sighed to himself, frustrated at his own behavior. He looked up. “Australia.”
“You think your aviator friend can help me out with something?” he asked, quirking an eyebrow.
“Uh, what is it?” America walked over to stand by Australia’s side. England blinked. America had been surprisingly willing to help out with the repairs of the ship. He speculated that he’d say no, giving the excuse that he ‘can’t help fix a pirate ship,’ but instead he’d agreed with a smile and a shrug and a simple ‘sure, why not.’
“You’re pretty strong, right?”
“Of course I am!” America quipped, confidently.
“Brilliant! I need someone to climb up the main mast, to the gaffing.” He pointed up amongst the wood of the ship. “Take a hammer and a few nails, and I’ll tell you what to do when you get up there.”
“I can take care of that Australia…” England cut in.
America shook his head. “Nah. S’okay, I can do it. Your hand’s not healed after all and… I mean it’s easy enough.”
England huffed and crossed his arms, thick eyebrows rising. “You think climbing the blasted mast is easy? I assure you it requires quite a lot of strength to do it.”
America slapped a hand on his bare bicep and smirked, then, most maddening of all, he winked. “I think I can handle it, Captain.” England’s face bloomed red. He thought that America must have been either completely oblivious to what he was doing to him, or totally aware. He scowled and turned away in embarrassment.
--------------------------
America had no trouble climbing the mast, and he crowed his triumph upon reaching the point where the gaff met the mast. “Wow! That was so hard,” he yelled down. “It’s a good thing I’m strong, otherwise I definitely would have--- “
“Oh shut the hell up!” England shouted back, hands on his hips. America chuckled, loud enough that it could be heard down on the deck.
England watched as Australia gave America specific instructions. He wanted the gaff’s connection to the mast to be secured, as it had come loose during the battle with the Kosmider. America followed his instructions easily, but England was paying little attention to that.
He really hated how striking America was, perched on the mast with the sun shining behind him and illuminating him to the point of glowing. That was, coupled with exuding his natural charisma, which could have just as easily been called his natural obnoxiousness. And then there was his rear, which England could see quite well from where he was standing. Well that was undeniably a nice view.
Since he’d woken up that morning, England’s mind had been a jumbled mess. And it just got worse the more time he spent with America. He thought that perhaps, as he registered the first vestiges of consciousness in the morning, that he’d merely come to the conclusion that he was in love with America due to how fatigued he’d been the previous night. It made sense. Lack of sleep did funny things. But then he’d realized that America was touching him, stroking his face, his eyebrows, and the doubt had left his mind. It wasn’t America’s actions that had caused that, but his expression. In the quiet instant before he’d registered that England was awake, before England had spat at him in irritation, there had been something in America’s face that had caused the same warmth to bubble to the surface and explode just as it had done before he’d slipped off into sleep the night before.
England hadn’t the foggiest idea what to do next. He could confront him point blank about it, but that would surely result in disaster. He could pursue America, court him, as old fashioned as that sounded; flowers, moonlit walks, all the lot.
England thought, that he really must have been the biggest fool this side of the Paradi Sea. America was just about the last person who he should have allowed to slip into his heart like this. He was military. A blasted soldier! And had all his hatred and anger toward that meant nothing, when now, just one flash of America’s almost ever present smile caused him to practically forget that he was even part of that institution he so despised?
He recalled less than an hour before, when America had looked at him with conviction as he'd demanded the Kosmider list, not a fleck of doubt in his expression. America had proven himself to England as a man of honor, and yes, a hero, even. He chuckled a bit at that. So all right, even though it made a part of him scream in protest, he could, perhaps, deal with America being a soldier.
But there was still the fact that England was well, a pirate, and he had no idea if America, on the ghost of a chance that he felt the same, could forgive that.
So England decided that he could, and unfortunately to him this seemed like the best idea, merely do nothing and hope that the feelings ebbed, the fire died and cooled into just fondness and friendship. He tried to convince himself that it would probably be better for his sanity if nothing happened between them. It’s not like America would be interested anyway. Maybe there was nothing. Perhaps America would fly off in his plane and they’d not see each other again, or they’d team up against the Kosmider, and then once that was over with, America would go back to his aviation force base and never think of England again. He hated that idea the most.
America was scooting down the mast now, and Australia called for a lunch break. Switzerland hopped off the bow, and the rest of the crew ceased their mending, jumping to their feet and heading to the beach.
----------------------------------------------------
America was going to swim, and no one was going to interrupt him this time. The invigorating blue water, the color of paradise, beckoned him once more, and he slid out of his pants so he could swim in his boxers. His shirt joined his pants, his boots, his watch, his belt, and his socks by the beach, and he ran into the surf once more.
Romano and Spain were sitting in the shallows, letting the cool water run across the pink-red burns on their bodies. Prussia was now joining them, the sea lapping at the wound on his back as he swallowed down a bottle of beer.
America darted past them, splashing as he did so. He stopped when the water was up to his chest and slid his eyes shut; sinking down into the ocean so only his shoulders and head were visible. Being surrounded so closely by a reef, the waves were small, but he rode them anyway, bobbing up and down with their undulations. He dug his toes into the sand, wiggling them, then grinning at the feeling of a fish flicking his leg with a fin as it swam by.
“Awesome,” he said to himself as he began to journey out further, intent on reaching the reef. The water was to his shoulders when he glanced back, and it wasn’t the distance from the shore that caught his eye (he wasn’t more than twenty meters out), but rather the dock. England was sitting on the end of it again, legs hanging over the side and feet dangling in the water. He could make out a book perched in England’s hand, only barely.
“Is this what he does every day?” America grumbled to himself, swimming back against the surf to the shore. Gauging the direction and distance he needed to reach the dock, he slipped underwater and swam toward England, popping up beside the dock and shaking his soaking blond locks as he did so.
England nearly dropped his book. “Fucking hell, America. Are you trying to give me a heart attack?” He closed the book and slammed it down on the wood beside him.
America shrugged, then leaned his elbows on the side of the dock, right beside England. “Do you ever I don’t know… have fun?”
“I do believe I’ve told you, this is fun for me.” He pointedly glared at America.
America sighed, rather dramatically. “Hey England.”
“What is it?”
“You’re lonely,” he replied, his voice small.
England blinked, green eyes expressing his bewilderment. “I spend time alone. It’s different. Again, as I have told you before, it’s by choice.”
“Damn, England,” America gritted his teeth and sent a small splash at him, wetting his rolled up pants.
“Stop that!”
“You’re twenty-two years old and you’re a freakin’ pirate, but you act like some kind of stodgy old man half the time!” America’s bottom lip jutted out in a pout. "It’s stupid.”
“Stupid?” England barked. “Something being ‘stupid’ is rich coming from you.”
At this, America’s eyes flashed and England was very glad he’d put his book down, because America grabbed him around the waist and yanked him into the water.
“Bloody hell!” England shoved at America’s chest, but he held fast. “What in the blazes do you think you’re doing?” The water was up to England’s chest, and the small waves lapped against his white shirt, soaking it even to his shoulders.
“Swimming,” America replied, as if it were obvious. “You?”
“Being forced into the water by an idiot,” England grumbled, crossing his arms as well as he could with America’s grip on his waist. He was sure that the his touch was causing his cheeks to burn.
America just shrugged. “You may not think you’re lonely… but…” He glanced down at the water. “But I know you are!”
“How do you kno-“
“I just do!” America interrupted, tightening his grip on England’s waist. They were still standing quite a bit apart, as America’s arms were long. “So I’ve decided, that I’m going to make it my personal hero’s mission to make sure you’re not!”
“Wha--- “
“Not lonely, of course,” America clarified, and his cheeks were slightly pink. England’s eyes grew large and his breath hitched in his throat. He could hear his heart speed up, and he willed it to slow down, but he knew it wouldn’t.
“So you wish to be my champion?” England finally managed, slight amusement in his voice.
“Huh?” America blinked, nonplussed.
England sighed. “Never mind.” America had still not let go of him, and he found his eyes wandering to his bare chest, taking in the curves and the dips and wanting, truly wanting to touch it. “Fuck,” he said out loud.
America furrowed his brows. “What?” He paused. “Oh, you mean like a knight! Yeah, sure. That’s just another word for hero, after all!” He beamed at England, that smile that he had such trouble tearing his eyes away from.
America’s hands were warm and firm around his waist, so close, and every few seconds, he’d shift, as if running his hands up and down his back; which was surely not the case.
“…All right,” England whispered.
“Ah?”
“I said, all right,” he repeated, cheeks pink. “If you think you can cure my… so called loneliness, who am I to stop you?” It was stupid. America was just on one of his missions of righteousness, but England thought that maybe, perhaps, this was the best chance he was going to get.
America’s grin, if possible, grew. England barely had time to register that though, as he was pulled toward America in a bone crushing hug.
Now there was no space between them. America’s head was resting near his shoulder, and his arms were tight around his mid back.
His naked chest was pressed against England, and his half-bare arms were stiff as they touched the taut skin he’d been eyeing just a moment before.
And America was definitely not wearing his normal pants. England managed to look down enough to see the waistline of a pair of red boxers. Oh. Well…
Do you have any idea what you’re doing to me? England wanted to say, but the words died on his lips. His pants were feeling tighter, and he hoped to everything in the world that America didn’t notice. If he hadn’t already been in cool water, he imagined it would have been worse.
“I’m glad!” America finally said, his breath tickling England’s shoulder as he spoke. And he noticed that America's eyes were closed as he leaned against him, which caused just a bit more blood to rush to his face.
Small waves lapped into and around them, and there was no noise but that, as well as the distant voices of England’s crewmates’ on the shore.
It was America that started to pull away first, and England felt a pang at this. But whether intentional or not, his cheek brushed against England’s as he did so.
They froze, mere centimeters from each other.
America’s eyes had never looked bluer, accentuated by the bright sea they stood in and the sky they both loved and complimented by the dusting of red on his cheeks.
He closed his eyes and leaned in, just that fraction of a breath, and America must have done so as well, because England knew that he hadn’t covered the full space between them before their lips met.
His heart leapt, color burst behind his eyes, and England registered first that America’s lips tasted of salt water. And they were warm just like the rest of him, and soft, and really, he was quite a smashing kisser if he did say so. There were hands running along his back and then through the choppy blond hair that hit the nape of his neck, and those hands could only belong to---
America was kissing him back. The cynic in him, strong as it was, couldn’t form any kind of argument against the fact that America was very much running his fingers through England’s hair and kissing him, so undeniably kissing him. And there was a moment in which America’s tongue flickered forward, although perhaps England had imagined that, but nonetheless, he opened up his mouth slightly and gave purchase, allowing the other man to slide his tongue in and England did the same and entered America’s parted lips and…
Something was forming inside of him, warm and inviting and new, and it was that tenuous thread of hope, now much thicker, much less fragile, although still far from completely solid.
He ran his hands through America’s hair, much like he was doing to him, and he felt that one stubborn piece of hair that he noticed always stood up, and smiled a bit. Even when America’s hair was wet, that chunk was stalwart in its defiance of gravity.
America moved his hands down to England’s shoulders, and England did the same, feeling the solid muscle of the other man’s back and shoulders beneath his grasp.
His pants were feeling quite a bit snugger though, and England cursed inwardly because he knew he would have to let go, lest America see the way in which he was reacting to their contact. A sound of displeasure escaped his throat because of it, and at that, America leapt away.
He’d never seen an expression on America’s face like this before. His eyes were huge and his mouth was agape and his cheeks were red to the point of scarlet. He looked like a child who had just gotten caught doing something terrible, breaking a cookie jar or accidentally destroying his Mum’s favorite rose bush. Not terribly romantic, but… rather adorable.
If America was that flushed, then England assumed that he was probably blushing to his bloody ears.
“S-s-sorry…” America finally managed, voice nary above a whisper.
England merely nodded. “It’s--- it’s fine,” he rushed out the next part, “But I’ve got to go!”
And he leapt up onto the dock, before America could reply. His arousal was begging for release, and he rather hated his very own hormones at that moment, because he’d left America in the water, and left them both with all questions unanswered. It was one thing for them to have snogged; it was another for America to realize he was that into it. America would surely be disturbed, turned off by it. Even if by chance, the kiss did mean something and America did like him back, he certainly wouldn’t be ready to confront this. America, idealistic and quite possibly innocent, America, would surely be horrified. And even though he was well aware that there was nothing unusual about his reaction to someone pressed tight against him, wet and kissing him and--- he wasn’t about to allow his blasted cock to ruin any chance he might have with the other man.
He was halfway to the shore when he nearly ran smack dab into Prussia, who barked out a laugh immediately. “Whoa, party in your pants, England?” England attempted to deck him, but Prussia dodged. “Hey, hey now! What did you and America do that--- “
“Shut.up,” England gritted out, his tone convincingly threatening.
Prussia held up his hands in surrender and let England run past him. “Fine!” he yelled as the captain reached the beach. “I’ll just ask America then!”
England could only glare at him balefully, before continuing on his way.