Past-Part Fills Post 1 -- CLOSED
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Posted here, despite being Part 8, because I think I would've run out of comment space with how quickly it's filling up tonight. XD;;
Ten Thousand Stitches Crossed
once upon a time
In the following years after the Revolution, there were few memories of England that weren’t tainted by frustration and spite. He would outgrow them in time, but for a while the money was spread too thin and the people had their hands full cleaning up the mess war had left strewn across America’s landscape. The relentless labor, as well as the physical reminders of their enraged clashes, kept America from looking past the layer of bitterness that remained crusted like a scab on his heart. Too often, he had to remind himself, What did I expect? He’d been the one to rip his hand away, after all. And freedom, however roughly hewn, was still freedom. No regrets ( ... )
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“I hate you,” America told the button.
He didn’t mean it. It wasn’t the button’s fault and America loved his jacket too much to be upset with it-the jacket was awesome. If America was honest, this thing about England started way before this, possibly before the jacket even existed, although America didn't know when the boundaries blurred and certain ideas had taken root.
Usually, he could shove it back down. Bite back on the impulse to touch, to reach out. Ignore the weird butterflies in his stomach.
America was having a very rough time doing that now.
“Shit. Why that?” Sewing. Of all the possibilities to corner America into admitting he was screwed, it would be the girly, freaky one. He stuffed another hamburger into his mouth and tried to eat his thoughts into oblivion. It could happen. America did it once. Like, a while ago, but it worked. It might've been a food coma, but it worked ( ... )
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“Oh my god,” said England in horror. “You’ve ruined it.”
America’s face fell. “What?”
“The next meeting is in twelve minutes! What were you doing?!”
“I just… Well, there was this bull…”
“Give that to me,” snapped England, already making for the dress shirt in hideous disrepair. America bashfully stripped it and handed it away. So absorbed in setting to his task was England that he almost missed America’s equally bashful words.
“I really appreciate it, England.”
Oh.
Oh, then. Then. That was just… yes. England ducked over his stitching, heart pounding entirely too loud in his ears, and tried to buckle a smile down. It didn’t belong there when there was so little time to right things.
a basket born of hope Over the next few months, America filled England’s mending basket with more clothes than he actually had in his closet (some were bought just for the sake of The Plan). After a while, he was able to create creative excuses for the holes and tears and split patches. They gradually grew more ( ... )
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It was France that put the thought into England’s head.
“So much wear and tear,” the nation drawled, dipping next to England and getting into his personal space. “He must have a lover, oui?”
“Beg pardon?” The response was immediate and automatic.
“America. I know your work, England, and he’s definitely wearing it.” France snuck him a sly glance, eyelashes lowered coyly. “Though, what work am I speaking of? Did you make the holes and then mend them, or did you mend the holes that someone else made?”
England stared at him.
Then, he turned back to the front of the room where America was exuberantly making plans and-ruining England’s life by merely existing, that bastard-gesturing with sleeves that had been put back to rights by England’s own hands too many times to count. He loved those sleeves. He was proud of them. He’d worked hard on them ( ... )
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For a long time, America didn’t come to his doorstep. With or without something in hand to fix. England wasn’t sure if he was better or worse off for it. In some ways, it was a relief to go back to an existence of certainties (it could have never been the way you wanted it, those selfish and creeping desires, the snowglobe you shook too hard). In other ways, it was much, much worse ( ... )
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England looked up.
Greater men had fallen to lesser forces. England-the British Empire, the pirate, the mystic, the gentlemen, the hopeless-was the kind of fortress most men dreamed about kneeling in front of. Sometimes, instead of moving forward, one has to stop, and still, and see. Defeat is so many different words. The grass at the base of the stone is soft enough to linger in.
America didn’t really care. He just knew that England’s fingernails kept brushing against his hip, and England’s eyes were too much like the sea at high tide, and that he couldn’t spend another day with this all packed up inside of him. It had to come out, and he had to touch, and he had to say something. Anything ( ... )
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And the longing between them...it shone so clearly through the page and made the conclusion all the more heartwarming. To think it all started with a single button...nnngh. This is the kind of fill that reduces me to near-incoherence because I'm just so floored at the vivid emotions and lovely style and everything else, and that is the highest praise I can offer to a fic, anon.
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Thank you for such lovely feedback. <3 I really appreciate it, since I was a bit worried about this one.
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When I clicked on the link, this epic fill was the last thing I expected to read. It was so beautifully written and you could just feel the emotion. I adore your characterisations of them as well. It was awesome~
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Thank you. :)
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Seriously. ♥
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Oh my GOD.
This was...it...it made me want to smile and cry and cheer and all sorts of things! Aah, it seems like forever since a fic made me feel like this...I absolutely love it to pieces! You captured everything so perfectly! ^_^
All my love and more for you, Author!Anon! All of it!
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Just, beautiful, anon. So well paced and built up and such wonderful atmosphere and tension between them the whole time. Gorgeous ♥♥
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