[APH] Bei Segreti [2/3] [USUK]
Title: Bei Segreti
Genre: Romance, angst
Pairing(s): America and England
Rating: T for good measure.
Warnings: England being emo.
Summary: After posing as an Italian to woo America, England and America cross paths as their normal selves the next day, and England is afraid all his chances at love have been blown by "Arturo".
Notes: A respsonse/sequel to the first fic, Bell'Italiano. I'd say it's not super necessary to read the first one but that's kind of a lie, you won't know what the crap is going on. Anyway, this is a thank-you for the overwhelming response I got, and a lot of people wanted to see this explored, so here it is! Maybe more parts will follow?
Bell'Italiano (Part I) | Bell'nizio (Part III)
England lightly traced his finger down the edge of the porcelain tea cup, marveling at its beauty. He had been surprised to receive a tea cup with his tea in the little cafe, considering this was war, and rationing was necessary, especially in Europe. But no, here he was with a beautiful little cup and saucer set, and he was sitting at a wrought iron table outside in the crisp morning.
England crossed one leg over his knee and sat back, staring at the sky. This was the same cafe that he had brought America to the day before, except this time he was England, his sandy hair was a mess and he had his olive green uniform on, belts and boots and all. He had been collecting curious looks all morning, since he wasn't dressed like the Italian or Nazi armies, but he was clearly a military man. But he paid them no heed.
He ran a hand through his hair and groaned, annoyed at how messy it looked. He had quickly washed his face that morning, but he hadn't the time to shower properly considering he wanted to escape the inn before America woke.
And now he was here, waiting for the inevitable discovery. He knew America would come back down this main road to look for him, now that "Arturo" was gone and he was no longer pre-occupied.
England turned to crane his neck down an alleyway, half expecting Germany or even Veneziano or Romano to come barreling down and capture him-
"Eng- Arthur!" a voice called, and England turned, and a beaming America was striding towards him, donned in the impeccable navy blue suit, his hair still damp from bathing. England attempted to feign surprise, and he even jumped back a little bit as America pulled out the chair from across from him and sat down, laying his bag down by the table.
"A-Alfred!" England stammered, and America grinned his trademarked grin. (England was glad America couldn't hear the pounding of his heart through his jacket.) "What are you doing here?"
"Fetching you, of course," America replied simply, and he grabbed at the menu and glanced through it. "Think they have coffee here?"
"Only espresso, which is much stronger than your watered-down trite," England responded cooly, and he saw America frown. Why was he being so crass? Arturo wouldn't have said something so hurtful.
But, alas, he was England now, and England hid behind cross words and scowls, not fancy suits and pretty words.
"Eh, I'll just get orange juice or somethin'," America muttered, and he clasped his hands and looked expectantly at England. England faltered, and the air between them stiffened. Was he going to mention his tryst with Arturo?
"Why are you wearing that?" England asked, as if America were dressed in a ratty t-shirt and old trousers, as opposed to a beautiful made, perfectly fit suit. America rolled his eyes, pushing his glasses back up his nose.
"I'm at least pretending to blend in, unlike you," America said, gesturing to England's coat. "I was walking this way when I heard someone say something about some British guy, and I just connected the dots." England grunted in response.
“Well, Ludwig and Veneziano aren’t here any longer, so I guess it’s best to move on, then,” England suggested, sending his gaze towards the table. Silence pervaded, and normally America would pepper the conversation with useless topics and idle chatter. But today, America was just sitting thoughtfully, hands folded on the table, nodding in response to England. England immediately stood up, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Well? Come on then.” America followed suit and walked with England, one arm around his jacket and bag, the other shoved into his pocket. England desperately wanted to reach out and grasp his hand, curl his fingers around America’s, and never let go. But alas, that was not to be.
“We’re taking a bus, then a very long train ride,” America said after a time. “We can sleep on the train. Have you been injured? Did you have any run-ins?”
“A few,” England admitted. “But I made it out alright, obviously.” Crap, there he went again. America had come all this way to rescue him-and England responds as if American forced him off holiday early. America nodded and walked briskly, and England wondered if his thoughts were preoccupied with Arturo the Italian lover. Would America mention him? England wanted him to, but at the same time, he wasn’t sure his heart could bear America speaking so pleasantly of someone else.
“When did you get here?” England asked tentatively.
“Yesterday morning-ish, I suppose.”
“What took you so long to bloody find me then?” America faltered, sliding his hand out of his pocket and checking his watch. While staring straight ahead, he answered,
“I got pre-occupied.” And the conversation ended there. The rest of the journey to the bus was in silence, and once they passed the border into Switzerland, where they got on the train, the silence fattened and solidified. England couldn’t stop turning America’s words around in his mind, and although he’d barely eaten that day, food looked sour and unappetizing to his twisting stomach.
America didn’t mention him, England thought to himself as he settled next to America on the locomotive. He didn’t say a word. Isn’t he always talking about the people he meets? Wouldn’t he want to talk about his Italian lover?
Unless.... England felt his chest tighten. Does this happen often with America? How many human lovers has he had over the years? England stole a glance at America, his heart racing. America was leaning back, one elbow on the windowsill, his head in his palms, eyelids fluttering with fatigue. He wasn’t his normal self like he’d been that morning; he seemed tired, and lost in thought. England ran his eyes over the curve of his cheekbones, the way his nose popped out, his wide ears, his long neck, his strong collarbone poking out beneath his suit. His blonde hair was pulled back behind his ears and his blue eyes shone from the light pouring in from the station. His lips were pulled into a neutral expression, and he was tapping his cheek with one slim finger. He was a very very attractive man, and England knew full well that America has bedded other nations before.
In theory, America could get anyone he wanted. He was annoying but charming, childish yet sweet, strikingly handsome, and most of all, powerful. His strength rivaled that of great empires, and he could single-handedly change the outcome of this war. England gulped at the thought, remembering what fighting against America was like...
He’s such a gentle lover, England thought, and for a moment his lips perked up. Well, a gentle lover to strangers. He wouldn’t be that way with me. He glanced at America again and noticed America’s eyes were closed, and his long dark lashes were cascading along his cheeks. England sat back and faced forward, his eyes trained to America.
I wish I was Arturo all the time, England thought soundly as the train pitched forward. America’s eyes opened suddenly and England looked ahead, his hands tightening into fists. America’s leg briefly touched England’s and sent a chill down England’s body. He wanted nothing more than to grab America and re-live the night before, this night and every night. He wanted to learn all about America, everything that had happened from the time of the Revolution until now. He wanted no secrets between them. He wanted love, and happiness, for once. And he wanted it with the only person who ever truly made him happy, whether America was aware of it or not.
“I met someone yesterday,” America said, jarring England out of his thoughts. England turned to America, trying to keep his expression as neutral as possible.
“Oh?”
“Italian guy. British-born. He helped me out, kinda,” America admitted. He was speaking softly, and England had to struggle to hear his voice over the whine of the train. “He helped disguise me more. He was also supposed to help me find you, but, it kinda went wayward.” America glanced at England, his head still in his hand, and gave him a small, tired smile. “He reminded me of you, kind of.”
“Oh really?” England said back. “Why, because he was a foolish old man?”
“No, because he earnestly wanted to help,” America said, his smile fading. “He was an Ally.”
“You can’t be so sure of people you just meet these days,” England muttered. America sighed.
“He was cute, too. Stylish. Kinda wish I had gotten his address or somethin’.” England stiffened, clutching at the edges of his seat. Would America mention the previous night’s activities? “It doesn’t matter now, I guess.” America trailed off and stared out the window, and England stared out the opposite window, over the people in the next seat. It was tense in the air between them, and England squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to fall asleep.
“You’re lucky he wasn’t an enemy,” England murmured. He couldn’t see him but he knew America reacted to that comment. He shifted in his seat, pulling away from England, curling up next to the window.
“I know for sure he wasn’t,” America whispered, but England didn’t hear.
--
About an hour passed before America woke up, the shifting of the train jerking him out of his nap. He unraveled himself from the seat, his legs hurting, and he stretched briefly. Night had fallen by now. Beside him, England was still asleep, sitting up, hands in his lap, head turned to face him. His brows were furrowed and his breathing was shallow. He didn’t look very comfortable at all.
America carefully moved his bag from his lap to the floor, and as slowly and gently as possible, he extended his arm and wrapped it around England, drawing the sleeping man into his arms. He laid England’s head on his shoulder, stroking his cheek and forehead as he went. He gingerly brushed the blonde locks from his forehead, and laid the ghost of a kiss to his forehead. Just enough for there to be contact, but just not enough so England wouldn’t notice. England made a sound, but he continued to sleep. America silently wished that England could look half as peaceful as he had the night before, when he had spend most of the night wrapped up in his arms.
“I love you, Arturo. Arthur,” America whispered. “I just don’t know how to tell you myself...” He wanted to say more but he couldn’t will the words to grow. All day he had been trying to tell England that he knew England was in disguise, he knew that England had flirted with him and he had wooed him so perfectly, like every dream America had ever had, and America wanted to be with him so badly-
England sighed softly in his sleep and America bit his lower lip.
“Maybe... maybe someday."
--
This ran away with me. Again.
Genre: Romance, angst
Pairing(s): America and England
Rating: T for good measure.
Warnings: England being emo.
Summary: After posing as an Italian to woo America, England and America cross paths as their normal selves the next day, and England is afraid all his chances at love have been blown by "Arturo".
Notes: A respsonse/sequel to the first fic, Bell'Italiano. I'd say it's not super necessary to read the first one but that's kind of a lie, you won't know what the crap is going on. Anyway, this is a thank-you for the overwhelming response I got, and a lot of people wanted to see this explored, so here it is! Maybe more parts will follow?
Bell'Italiano (Part I) | Bell'nizio (Part III)
England lightly traced his finger down the edge of the porcelain tea cup, marveling at its beauty. He had been surprised to receive a tea cup with his tea in the little cafe, considering this was war, and rationing was necessary, especially in Europe. But no, here he was with a beautiful little cup and saucer set, and he was sitting at a wrought iron table outside in the crisp morning.
England crossed one leg over his knee and sat back, staring at the sky. This was the same cafe that he had brought America to the day before, except this time he was England, his sandy hair was a mess and he had his olive green uniform on, belts and boots and all. He had been collecting curious looks all morning, since he wasn't dressed like the Italian or Nazi armies, but he was clearly a military man. But he paid them no heed.
He ran a hand through his hair and groaned, annoyed at how messy it looked. He had quickly washed his face that morning, but he hadn't the time to shower properly considering he wanted to escape the inn before America woke.
And now he was here, waiting for the inevitable discovery. He knew America would come back down this main road to look for him, now that "Arturo" was gone and he was no longer pre-occupied.
England turned to crane his neck down an alleyway, half expecting Germany or even Veneziano or Romano to come barreling down and capture him-
"Eng- Arthur!" a voice called, and England turned, and a beaming America was striding towards him, donned in the impeccable navy blue suit, his hair still damp from bathing. England attempted to feign surprise, and he even jumped back a little bit as America pulled out the chair from across from him and sat down, laying his bag down by the table.
"A-Alfred!" England stammered, and America grinned his trademarked grin. (England was glad America couldn't hear the pounding of his heart through his jacket.) "What are you doing here?"
"Fetching you, of course," America replied simply, and he grabbed at the menu and glanced through it. "Think they have coffee here?"
"Only espresso, which is much stronger than your watered-down trite," England responded cooly, and he saw America frown. Why was he being so crass? Arturo wouldn't have said something so hurtful.
But, alas, he was England now, and England hid behind cross words and scowls, not fancy suits and pretty words.
"Eh, I'll just get orange juice or somethin'," America muttered, and he clasped his hands and looked expectantly at England. England faltered, and the air between them stiffened. Was he going to mention his tryst with Arturo?
"Why are you wearing that?" England asked, as if America were dressed in a ratty t-shirt and old trousers, as opposed to a beautiful made, perfectly fit suit. America rolled his eyes, pushing his glasses back up his nose.
"I'm at least pretending to blend in, unlike you," America said, gesturing to England's coat. "I was walking this way when I heard someone say something about some British guy, and I just connected the dots." England grunted in response.
“Well, Ludwig and Veneziano aren’t here any longer, so I guess it’s best to move on, then,” England suggested, sending his gaze towards the table. Silence pervaded, and normally America would pepper the conversation with useless topics and idle chatter. But today, America was just sitting thoughtfully, hands folded on the table, nodding in response to England. England immediately stood up, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Well? Come on then.” America followed suit and walked with England, one arm around his jacket and bag, the other shoved into his pocket. England desperately wanted to reach out and grasp his hand, curl his fingers around America’s, and never let go. But alas, that was not to be.
“We’re taking a bus, then a very long train ride,” America said after a time. “We can sleep on the train. Have you been injured? Did you have any run-ins?”
“A few,” England admitted. “But I made it out alright, obviously.” Crap, there he went again. America had come all this way to rescue him-and England responds as if American forced him off holiday early. America nodded and walked briskly, and England wondered if his thoughts were preoccupied with Arturo the Italian lover. Would America mention him? England wanted him to, but at the same time, he wasn’t sure his heart could bear America speaking so pleasantly of someone else.
“When did you get here?” England asked tentatively.
“Yesterday morning-ish, I suppose.”
“What took you so long to bloody find me then?” America faltered, sliding his hand out of his pocket and checking his watch. While staring straight ahead, he answered,
“I got pre-occupied.” And the conversation ended there. The rest of the journey to the bus was in silence, and once they passed the border into Switzerland, where they got on the train, the silence fattened and solidified. England couldn’t stop turning America’s words around in his mind, and although he’d barely eaten that day, food looked sour and unappetizing to his twisting stomach.
America didn’t mention him, England thought to himself as he settled next to America on the locomotive. He didn’t say a word. Isn’t he always talking about the people he meets? Wouldn’t he want to talk about his Italian lover?
Unless.... England felt his chest tighten. Does this happen often with America? How many human lovers has he had over the years? England stole a glance at America, his heart racing. America was leaning back, one elbow on the windowsill, his head in his palms, eyelids fluttering with fatigue. He wasn’t his normal self like he’d been that morning; he seemed tired, and lost in thought. England ran his eyes over the curve of his cheekbones, the way his nose popped out, his wide ears, his long neck, his strong collarbone poking out beneath his suit. His blonde hair was pulled back behind his ears and his blue eyes shone from the light pouring in from the station. His lips were pulled into a neutral expression, and he was tapping his cheek with one slim finger. He was a very very attractive man, and England knew full well that America has bedded other nations before.
In theory, America could get anyone he wanted. He was annoying but charming, childish yet sweet, strikingly handsome, and most of all, powerful. His strength rivaled that of great empires, and he could single-handedly change the outcome of this war. England gulped at the thought, remembering what fighting against America was like...
He’s such a gentle lover, England thought, and for a moment his lips perked up. Well, a gentle lover to strangers. He wouldn’t be that way with me. He glanced at America again and noticed America’s eyes were closed, and his long dark lashes were cascading along his cheeks. England sat back and faced forward, his eyes trained to America.
I wish I was Arturo all the time, England thought soundly as the train pitched forward. America’s eyes opened suddenly and England looked ahead, his hands tightening into fists. America’s leg briefly touched England’s and sent a chill down England’s body. He wanted nothing more than to grab America and re-live the night before, this night and every night. He wanted to learn all about America, everything that had happened from the time of the Revolution until now. He wanted no secrets between them. He wanted love, and happiness, for once. And he wanted it with the only person who ever truly made him happy, whether America was aware of it or not.
“I met someone yesterday,” America said, jarring England out of his thoughts. England turned to America, trying to keep his expression as neutral as possible.
“Oh?”
“Italian guy. British-born. He helped me out, kinda,” America admitted. He was speaking softly, and England had to struggle to hear his voice over the whine of the train. “He helped disguise me more. He was also supposed to help me find you, but, it kinda went wayward.” America glanced at England, his head still in his hand, and gave him a small, tired smile. “He reminded me of you, kind of.”
“Oh really?” England said back. “Why, because he was a foolish old man?”
“No, because he earnestly wanted to help,” America said, his smile fading. “He was an Ally.”
“You can’t be so sure of people you just meet these days,” England muttered. America sighed.
“He was cute, too. Stylish. Kinda wish I had gotten his address or somethin’.” England stiffened, clutching at the edges of his seat. Would America mention the previous night’s activities? “It doesn’t matter now, I guess.” America trailed off and stared out the window, and England stared out the opposite window, over the people in the next seat. It was tense in the air between them, and England squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself to fall asleep.
“You’re lucky he wasn’t an enemy,” England murmured. He couldn’t see him but he knew America reacted to that comment. He shifted in his seat, pulling away from England, curling up next to the window.
“I know for sure he wasn’t,” America whispered, but England didn’t hear.
--
About an hour passed before America woke up, the shifting of the train jerking him out of his nap. He unraveled himself from the seat, his legs hurting, and he stretched briefly. Night had fallen by now. Beside him, England was still asleep, sitting up, hands in his lap, head turned to face him. His brows were furrowed and his breathing was shallow. He didn’t look very comfortable at all.
America carefully moved his bag from his lap to the floor, and as slowly and gently as possible, he extended his arm and wrapped it around England, drawing the sleeping man into his arms. He laid England’s head on his shoulder, stroking his cheek and forehead as he went. He gingerly brushed the blonde locks from his forehead, and laid the ghost of a kiss to his forehead. Just enough for there to be contact, but just not enough so England wouldn’t notice. England made a sound, but he continued to sleep. America silently wished that England could look half as peaceful as he had the night before, when he had spend most of the night wrapped up in his arms.
“I love you, Arturo. Arthur,” America whispered. “I just don’t know how to tell you myself...” He wanted to say more but he couldn’t will the words to grow. All day he had been trying to tell England that he knew England was in disguise, he knew that England had flirted with him and he had wooed him so perfectly, like every dream America had ever had, and America wanted to be with him so badly-
England sighed softly in his sleep and America bit his lower lip.
“Maybe... maybe someday."
--
This ran away with me. Again.