[fic] To Ravel and Cross (Part 2)
TITLE: To Ravel and Cross
AUTHOR: Museofepics
RECIPIENT: nutburger
GENRE: Romance/general
RATINGS/WARNINGS: PG. Also, it is unbelievably fluffy.
SUMMARY: America takes up embroidery. Of course, it's all England's fault. (Whether he knows it or not)
NOTES: This is the final part of my Secret Santa fic to nutburger. I hope you enjoy it and forgive me for the tooth-rotting fluff in here!
There was a strange combination of anxiety and anticipation curling up in America’s stomach when the meeting was finally over and nations began gathering their papers and shuffling outside. America patted the area where England’s present was hidden in his jacket, and the package crinkled reassuringly back.
He had worked hard on it; there was no doubt about it. A week of floss, needles and setting embroidery rings on fire (which was how America learned taking sewing materials into the kitchen was an insanely stupid idea) had produced a piece of work that was nowhere near England’s flawless stitches and elaborate detail, but was at the very least complete and not too badly singed and recognizable as embroidery and he hoped England would appreciate the gesture nonetheless.
Right. America took a deep breath and began walking towards England when he finally spotted that familiar head of dirty blond hair, ignoring his scattered thoughts (most of which were panicky and incoherent, though one errant thought did wonder if he could seize this opportunity to possibly ask England out for a coffee afterwards).
“Hey, Engl-“ The greeting quickly died in America’s throat when he saw that England was already talking to a girl with a ribbon placed neatly in her short blonde hair. America was pretty sure it was Switzerland’s sister-Liechtenstein, though he had never really talked to her before.
It looked like she and England were really great friends, though. She was speaking animatedly to him while England looked fondly back, his eyes soft and kind in a way that made America’s gut knot, because England’s eyes would never soften like that for America, not in a million years.
Then Liechtenstein pulled out a brightly, neatly-wrapped package-there was even a shiny red bow tied to it-and gave it to England, who looked surprised, but pleased. And America watched, the lump in chest growing bigger and bigger as England tore the wrapping paper open and pulled out a something soft and long. It was a scarf, white as snow, embroidered with neat green stripes and swirling blue snowflakes with incredible detail, each flake a different pattern. It was a thousand times more beautiful than anything America could have done.
And of course England was delighted with Liechtenstein’s gift. He practically beamed at her, the happiness in his smile so clear and bright it would have made America feel oddly and pleasantly light, if it wasn’t for the twisting feeling building up steadily in his stomach.
Then England pulled (well, seeing as it was England, he awkwardly lifted his arms until the intent to initiate a hug became clear) Liechtenstein into a hug, tentative but genuine, his scarf fluttering in his hand like it was some delicate bird, and all America could seem to do was clench his own present, so hard the paper tore, and think of his own messily tied knots and skewed, lumpy stitches, how his design was large and mismatched and lopsided compared to Liechtenstein’s beautiful snowflakes.
“-Merica?” England’s voice suddenly broke him out of his pity party slash reverie and America jerked his head to find himself catching England’s gaze.
Also, England was standing right in front of him. When the hell did that happen?
“Where’s Liechtenstein?” America asked.
England looked at him for a while before replying, as if surveying America’s mental health. “She just left.” England said slowly. And America noticed he was already wearing Liechtenstein’s scarf; up close, the snowflakes looked even more intricate and gorgeous and the green stripes turned out to be some sort of complicated wavy pattern that must have taken thousands of stitches to get right.
‘Liechtenstein probably handmade that cloth, too.’ America thought miserably. ‘It must be spun with the purest unicorn hair and gold or something.’ How could he have thought that he could have used embroidery to impress England? England, who was like the Jedi Master of embroidery and probably only liked other Jedi Masters. America’s chest clenched unpleasantly, and he suddenly felt like crawling into bed and never leaving until the century was over.
“America, are you alright?” England asked, his eye brows knitted in concern. He wasn’t smiling anymore; his mouth was creased in a frown and England had on an all-too-familiar expression on, like if he was deciding whether to be worried or angry.
“Yeah, I’m fine!” America said far too loudly, abruptly hiding England’s present before his back before England could see it. “Why wouldn’t I be? I was just standing around here because…because I temporarily lost control of my feet. Yeah. Not ‘cause I was waiting for you or anything.”
England looked utterly bemused. “Well, if that’s the case-“
“It is the case! Totally.” America said insistently, giving a big, nervous grin that he hoped didn’t look too forced. “And now I have to go do stuff I hope youhaveamerryChristmasEngland!” Saying the last words so quickly they practically tumbled out of his mouth and mixed into an incoherent mess, America turned and left the meeting room as fast as he could, making sure to throw England’s present into the nearest trash can as he left.
________________________________________
America wasn’t sure how long he’d been forlornly sitting on the curb like the dispirited main character of a Christmas movie after some sort of heartbreaking revelation/disappointment (he’d even picked the loneliest, coldest looking lamplight to sit under), but he was dismayed to find that those movies never mentioned how quickly your ass froze when it was planted on an icy cold pavement and snow was slowly and steadily building up on your shoulders and freezing your ears off your head.
But then again, the feeling of his limbs slowly turning numb from cold was a good distraction from dwelling on thoughts of scarves and needles and exactly how he was never going to be able to look England in the fact again ever.
Just thinking about what had happened was enough to produce a fresh hot surge of embarrassment. The babbling, standing there like an idiot with that pathetic excuse for a present…
“The present isn’t half bad, you know.”
America jerked his head up so fast he swore he heard his neck crack. His throat suddenly felt horribly dry.
“En-England!”
“Hallo, America.” And England sat down on the curb without any preamble, seemingly oblivious to the fact that America was currently having an aneurysm right next to him.
He was still wearing Liechtenstein's scarf, some small, miserable part of him noted. It looked like it was very warm.
“You weren’t supposed to hear that.” America said in a rush, all the while cursing his tendency to say his inner thoughts out loud. “And whatever you heard, it had absolutely nothing to do with you at all what are you talking abou-wait where did you get that.”
To America’s horror, England was holding his Christmas present (yes, the one America had just thrown away), being exposed to all its stupid, messily-embroidered glory. But England wasn’t cringing in disgust, as America expected him to; instead, he looked almost contemplative, shifting the present in hand.
“Hmm.” Said England, instead of answering America’s question. Then he unceremoniously shoved America’s arm away when he tried to grab the present from him.
“Dude, didn’t I throw that away?”
“You would do well not to throw brightly colored presents away in front of the person you’re meant to be giving it to, America.”
America opened his mouth to argue, then, after some thought, closed it again.
“Was this really meant for me?” England asked, and he didn’t sound embarrassed or pleased or angry. He just sounded curious, like he really wanted to know.
America flushed and looked down at his shoes. “Maybe.” He muttered.
The firm hand landing on his shoulder caused America to look up again; the corners of England’s lips were curled slightly, and his eyes were surprisingly warm.
“I don’t take back what I said, America.” Said England. “As far as presents go, this is a fine one. And only a bloody tosser like you would think of such a…a design like this.” England blushed slightly as he said this, gesturing to the handkerchief that America had embroidered for him. On it, half of one side was the Union Jack, and half the other was the America flag, and they were both joined messily in the middle, as if they were one entity; one flag.
Hearing England’s words, America’s heart lightened considerably. Maybe the situation was salvageable after all. “I was going to give it to you,” America admitted. “But then I saw Liechtenstein’s scarf, and it was so kick-ass compared to…”
“Liechtenstein is a fine seamstress,” England agreed. And here, he touched the white cloth resting at his throat lightly. “But I think she would also agree that your handkerchief isn’t half bad itself, especially for a beginner. And…” Here, England began fidgeting with the handkerchief. “And the fact that you put some effort and consideration into something, for once, much less something for me,” England hastily averted his eyes, all of a sudden turning very red. “That was very nice of you.” England finished, though it looked like he had wanted to say more. “Thank you.”
‘Do it now,’ Some part of America urged. ‘Now’s the perfect opportunity to ask England to go for a drink, maybe to a movie later, if you’re lucky,’
And America agreed that now was a good time to repair his relationship with England, to go spend some time with him and mark the start of something deeper, but before he can stop himself, America blurted out this instead:
“It’d be really easy to kiss you right now.”
Silence.
England froze. America froze, wondering what the hell had he done even though what he said was true, that it was impossible seeing England and the elegant curve of his mouth and the tapering slope of his shoulders and the way he was soft and hard at the same time without wanting to cradle his jaw and bring England’s lips to his.
“Erm.” England said intelligently, face just as red as America’s. “Erm, if you want to, I-“ And England brought up his fingers to touch America’s cheek; they were cold but it still sent America’s heart beating painfully. He really wasn’t quite sure who leaned in first, but it didn’t matter because suddenly England-England was kissing him, his mouth warm and soft and inviting, one hand resting in America’s hair and the other still on his cheek, and America felt like his heart just might burst in his chest, because England had never been this close to him before and it felt amazing.
When they broke apart, England still did not take his hand off America’s cheek and for some reason, this made him ridiculously happy. "I'm probably going to keep that handkerchief with me forever, you know." England murmured. "Scarves are only suitable for winter, but in spring or snow or summer, your present will stay in my pocket and never leave."
...Come to think of it, everything England had been doing so far was making America ridiculously happy. America rested his forehead against England and smiled. "I'm glad you like it."
There was another silence, only it was more content and tranquil than the previous one, almost thoughtful, as if to say, 'We've reached this far, where are we going now?'
“We-we could go for coffee, if you want.” America said, very much aware that they were both still breathing rather heavily and that there were better ways to chase the cold from your limbs than drinking coffee.
But England smiled, and used the handkerchief America gave him to wipe some snow off the edge of America’s glasses. “I think,” He said. “It would be better if we went back to my hotel room instead.” Then, catching the look on America’s face, he instantly turned red and spluttered. “No, not for what you think, you and your frightfully dirty mind,” (Shame, because America was thinking of very nice and very inappropriate things) “I-I have my tea there, and my embroidery, and you’re welcome to stay the night if you wish-no, not in that way, wipe that look off your face-“
Spending an evening fiddling over floss wasn’t what America counted as fun, but then America imagined England’s warm hands curled over his as England showed him how to do a proper box stitch and falling asleep with the other man, limbs tangled together and pressing kisses to his temple as they both drifted off, and all of a sudden, embroidery started look a lot more appealing.
AUTHOR: Museofepics
RECIPIENT: nutburger
GENRE: Romance/general
RATINGS/WARNINGS: PG. Also, it is unbelievably fluffy.
SUMMARY: America takes up embroidery. Of course, it's all England's fault. (Whether he knows it or not)
NOTES: This is the final part of my Secret Santa fic to nutburger. I hope you enjoy it and forgive me for the tooth-rotting fluff in here!
There was a strange combination of anxiety and anticipation curling up in America’s stomach when the meeting was finally over and nations began gathering their papers and shuffling outside. America patted the area where England’s present was hidden in his jacket, and the package crinkled reassuringly back.
He had worked hard on it; there was no doubt about it. A week of floss, needles and setting embroidery rings on fire (which was how America learned taking sewing materials into the kitchen was an insanely stupid idea) had produced a piece of work that was nowhere near England’s flawless stitches and elaborate detail, but was at the very least complete and not too badly singed and recognizable as embroidery and he hoped England would appreciate the gesture nonetheless.
Right. America took a deep breath and began walking towards England when he finally spotted that familiar head of dirty blond hair, ignoring his scattered thoughts (most of which were panicky and incoherent, though one errant thought did wonder if he could seize this opportunity to possibly ask England out for a coffee afterwards).
“Hey, Engl-“ The greeting quickly died in America’s throat when he saw that England was already talking to a girl with a ribbon placed neatly in her short blonde hair. America was pretty sure it was Switzerland’s sister-Liechtenstein, though he had never really talked to her before.
It looked like she and England were really great friends, though. She was speaking animatedly to him while England looked fondly back, his eyes soft and kind in a way that made America’s gut knot, because England’s eyes would never soften like that for America, not in a million years.
Then Liechtenstein pulled out a brightly, neatly-wrapped package-there was even a shiny red bow tied to it-and gave it to England, who looked surprised, but pleased. And America watched, the lump in chest growing bigger and bigger as England tore the wrapping paper open and pulled out a something soft and long. It was a scarf, white as snow, embroidered with neat green stripes and swirling blue snowflakes with incredible detail, each flake a different pattern. It was a thousand times more beautiful than anything America could have done.
And of course England was delighted with Liechtenstein’s gift. He practically beamed at her, the happiness in his smile so clear and bright it would have made America feel oddly and pleasantly light, if it wasn’t for the twisting feeling building up steadily in his stomach.
Then England pulled (well, seeing as it was England, he awkwardly lifted his arms until the intent to initiate a hug became clear) Liechtenstein into a hug, tentative but genuine, his scarf fluttering in his hand like it was some delicate bird, and all America could seem to do was clench his own present, so hard the paper tore, and think of his own messily tied knots and skewed, lumpy stitches, how his design was large and mismatched and lopsided compared to Liechtenstein’s beautiful snowflakes.
“-Merica?” England’s voice suddenly broke him out of his pity party slash reverie and America jerked his head to find himself catching England’s gaze.
Also, England was standing right in front of him. When the hell did that happen?
“Where’s Liechtenstein?” America asked.
England looked at him for a while before replying, as if surveying America’s mental health. “She just left.” England said slowly. And America noticed he was already wearing Liechtenstein’s scarf; up close, the snowflakes looked even more intricate and gorgeous and the green stripes turned out to be some sort of complicated wavy pattern that must have taken thousands of stitches to get right.
‘Liechtenstein probably handmade that cloth, too.’ America thought miserably. ‘It must be spun with the purest unicorn hair and gold or something.’ How could he have thought that he could have used embroidery to impress England? England, who was like the Jedi Master of embroidery and probably only liked other Jedi Masters. America’s chest clenched unpleasantly, and he suddenly felt like crawling into bed and never leaving until the century was over.
“America, are you alright?” England asked, his eye brows knitted in concern. He wasn’t smiling anymore; his mouth was creased in a frown and England had on an all-too-familiar expression on, like if he was deciding whether to be worried or angry.
“Yeah, I’m fine!” America said far too loudly, abruptly hiding England’s present before his back before England could see it. “Why wouldn’t I be? I was just standing around here because…because I temporarily lost control of my feet. Yeah. Not ‘cause I was waiting for you or anything.”
England looked utterly bemused. “Well, if that’s the case-“
“It is the case! Totally.” America said insistently, giving a big, nervous grin that he hoped didn’t look too forced. “And now I have to go do stuff I hope youhaveamerryChristmasEngland!” Saying the last words so quickly they practically tumbled out of his mouth and mixed into an incoherent mess, America turned and left the meeting room as fast as he could, making sure to throw England’s present into the nearest trash can as he left.
________________________________________
America wasn’t sure how long he’d been forlornly sitting on the curb like the dispirited main character of a Christmas movie after some sort of heartbreaking revelation/disappointment (he’d even picked the loneliest, coldest looking lamplight to sit under), but he was dismayed to find that those movies never mentioned how quickly your ass froze when it was planted on an icy cold pavement and snow was slowly and steadily building up on your shoulders and freezing your ears off your head.
But then again, the feeling of his limbs slowly turning numb from cold was a good distraction from dwelling on thoughts of scarves and needles and exactly how he was never going to be able to look England in the fact again ever.
Just thinking about what had happened was enough to produce a fresh hot surge of embarrassment. The babbling, standing there like an idiot with that pathetic excuse for a present…
“The present isn’t half bad, you know.”
America jerked his head up so fast he swore he heard his neck crack. His throat suddenly felt horribly dry.
“En-England!”
“Hallo, America.” And England sat down on the curb without any preamble, seemingly oblivious to the fact that America was currently having an aneurysm right next to him.
He was still wearing Liechtenstein's scarf, some small, miserable part of him noted. It looked like it was very warm.
“You weren’t supposed to hear that.” America said in a rush, all the while cursing his tendency to say his inner thoughts out loud. “And whatever you heard, it had absolutely nothing to do with you at all what are you talking abou-wait where did you get that.”
To America’s horror, England was holding his Christmas present (yes, the one America had just thrown away), being exposed to all its stupid, messily-embroidered glory. But England wasn’t cringing in disgust, as America expected him to; instead, he looked almost contemplative, shifting the present in hand.
“Hmm.” Said England, instead of answering America’s question. Then he unceremoniously shoved America’s arm away when he tried to grab the present from him.
“Dude, didn’t I throw that away?”
“You would do well not to throw brightly colored presents away in front of the person you’re meant to be giving it to, America.”
America opened his mouth to argue, then, after some thought, closed it again.
“Was this really meant for me?” England asked, and he didn’t sound embarrassed or pleased or angry. He just sounded curious, like he really wanted to know.
America flushed and looked down at his shoes. “Maybe.” He muttered.
The firm hand landing on his shoulder caused America to look up again; the corners of England’s lips were curled slightly, and his eyes were surprisingly warm.
“I don’t take back what I said, America.” Said England. “As far as presents go, this is a fine one. And only a bloody tosser like you would think of such a…a design like this.” England blushed slightly as he said this, gesturing to the handkerchief that America had embroidered for him. On it, half of one side was the Union Jack, and half the other was the America flag, and they were both joined messily in the middle, as if they were one entity; one flag.
Hearing England’s words, America’s heart lightened considerably. Maybe the situation was salvageable after all. “I was going to give it to you,” America admitted. “But then I saw Liechtenstein’s scarf, and it was so kick-ass compared to…”
“Liechtenstein is a fine seamstress,” England agreed. And here, he touched the white cloth resting at his throat lightly. “But I think she would also agree that your handkerchief isn’t half bad itself, especially for a beginner. And…” Here, England began fidgeting with the handkerchief. “And the fact that you put some effort and consideration into something, for once, much less something for me,” England hastily averted his eyes, all of a sudden turning very red. “That was very nice of you.” England finished, though it looked like he had wanted to say more. “Thank you.”
‘Do it now,’ Some part of America urged. ‘Now’s the perfect opportunity to ask England to go for a drink, maybe to a movie later, if you’re lucky,’
And America agreed that now was a good time to repair his relationship with England, to go spend some time with him and mark the start of something deeper, but before he can stop himself, America blurted out this instead:
“It’d be really easy to kiss you right now.”
Silence.
England froze. America froze, wondering what the hell had he done even though what he said was true, that it was impossible seeing England and the elegant curve of his mouth and the tapering slope of his shoulders and the way he was soft and hard at the same time without wanting to cradle his jaw and bring England’s lips to his.
“Erm.” England said intelligently, face just as red as America’s. “Erm, if you want to, I-“ And England brought up his fingers to touch America’s cheek; they were cold but it still sent America’s heart beating painfully. He really wasn’t quite sure who leaned in first, but it didn’t matter because suddenly England-England was kissing him, his mouth warm and soft and inviting, one hand resting in America’s hair and the other still on his cheek, and America felt like his heart just might burst in his chest, because England had never been this close to him before and it felt amazing.
When they broke apart, England still did not take his hand off America’s cheek and for some reason, this made him ridiculously happy. "I'm probably going to keep that handkerchief with me forever, you know." England murmured. "Scarves are only suitable for winter, but in spring or snow or summer, your present will stay in my pocket and never leave."
...Come to think of it, everything England had been doing so far was making America ridiculously happy. America rested his forehead against England and smiled. "I'm glad you like it."
There was another silence, only it was more content and tranquil than the previous one, almost thoughtful, as if to say, 'We've reached this far, where are we going now?'
“We-we could go for coffee, if you want.” America said, very much aware that they were both still breathing rather heavily and that there were better ways to chase the cold from your limbs than drinking coffee.
But England smiled, and used the handkerchief America gave him to wipe some snow off the edge of America’s glasses. “I think,” He said. “It would be better if we went back to my hotel room instead.” Then, catching the look on America’s face, he instantly turned red and spluttered. “No, not for what you think, you and your frightfully dirty mind,” (Shame, because America was thinking of very nice and very inappropriate things) “I-I have my tea there, and my embroidery, and you’re welcome to stay the night if you wish-no, not in that way, wipe that look off your face-“
Spending an evening fiddling over floss wasn’t what America counted as fun, but then America imagined England’s warm hands curled over his as England showed him how to do a proper box stitch and falling asleep with the other man, limbs tangled together and pressing kisses to his temple as they both drifted off, and all of a sudden, embroidery started look a lot more appealing.