Highway Cloudbusting -- Part 5 (5/11)
Title: Highway Cloudbusting -- Part 5 (5/11)
Series: Axis Powers Hetalia
Characters: England, USA, mentions of other nations, unnamed American citizens
Pairing: Eventual England/USA
Rating: PG for this chapter (but fic is NC-17 overall)
Warning: Possible cliches and predictability. Also deals with issues of sexuality and coming out, and may have mildly offensive speech in it. Please note that the opinions of the characters are not necessarily those of the author.
Summary: Sick of politics and business as usual, England decides to indulge a rare moment of spontaneity and go on a roadtrip. He should have known that America would want to tag along. And they both should have known that the trip would set them down a path they couldn't turn away from.
Summary for this chapter: Montana skies are the clearest, and driving leaves you restless.
Notes: Just a little under halfway through this story. I hope that everyone's liking it so far. ♥
Other installments:
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11
No words passed between them as they climbed into the truck and left the tourist trap. They drove in silence for about an hour, morose and tensed. The landscape stretched on beyond them, the sky cleared. The truck was thick with tension, with unspoken words. The only sound was the grinding of the engine, the sound of their breathing, the distant sounds of the world outside. England looked out the window and refused to look at America. America drove, his hands clenching the steering wheel until he was sure he would crush the metal beneath his overly large hands.
He let out a long sigh, and hoped it was quiet enough that England wouldn’t notice. But in such a thick silence, even the slightest shift, the slightest breath, was enough to alert the other to movement. America kept his eyes on the road ahead of him, scanning the horizon, unable and unwilling to let his eyes linger on one spot, taking everything in as he drove and navigated the straight highway.
He pursed his lips and when he glanced over at England he saw that England was looking at him, studying his profile. He should go back to looking out the window any minute now, America thought. But England didn’t. Their eyes locked. America startled a moment, almost recoiling, before giving England a slightly strained, unsure look.
Simultaneously, they turned away from one another.
“So…” America began, and then wasn’t sure what it was he wanted to say.
“What?” England asked with a sigh.
It sounded too accusatory, so America sighed, too. “Nothing.”
England scoffed, not looking at him. “Would you stop looking like that?”
“Like what?” America asked.
“Like you’re playing the victim,” England snapped, “again.”
America stiffened up, glaring at England out of the corner of his eye. “I’m not playing the victim, shut up.”
“You always do that-act all high and mighty and then as soon as someone calls you out on your ridiculousness, you play the ‘oh woe is me’ card,” England shot back, ruffling up. It seemed he truly was on the aggressive, unwilling to let their fight go, no matter how much America tried to ignore the tension between them. England suspected he was simply playing the martyr.
“Didn’t I tell you to shut up?” America muttered.
“I don’t let oversized babies, who consider being bossy to be a suitable form of friendship, to order me around, America,” England said calmly, and pretended not to see the way America cringed at the statement.
“I’m not playing the victim,” America protested.
“Certainly not, because pouting like a tantrum throwing toddler after a fight isn’t playing the victim. Looking at me, with that stupidly earnest and puppy dog-eyed face of yours.”
America’s face screwed into a deeper frown. “I said I wanted to drop it, England.”
“Fine,” England huffed.
They drove in silence.
The silence was very unbearable.
“And another thing,” America said suddenly, because apparently he couldn’t follow his own advice. “Like you’re the one to talk about the victim shit-you do it all the time.”
“What I said before had merit,” England said, snippety.
“Same with what I said,” America snapped back. “You just never take anything I say seriously because obviously I’m an idiot.”
“You hardly say anything serious.”
America’s jaw clenched and he looked at England in deathly silence. He waited until England turned to look at him, too, before saying, dead in the eye, “I hate you.”
England recoiled, and this time he was the one to cringe.
America turned back towards the highway, clenching the steering wheel, telling himself that, yes, he hated England. He should have known that tagging along with him was a bad idea, should have known there was no way they could be friends or trust one another or be nice to one another. It was much easier to just fall back on this, to let them fall back into the routine of silently hating one another’s guts with the rare moments of genuine human emotion. If England wanted to think he was an uncultured, unintelligent moron, then so be it. He’d just convince himself that England was nothing but a crotchety old man with no sliver of sympathy beyond his own decaying sense of dignity and propriety.
After that they fell again into the silence, but it seemed all the life had seeped out of England, leaving him staring, rather morose, at the truck’s glove compartment, as if waiting for it to burst open. His shoulders were slumped, and America almost felt bad that his words affected England enough to ruin his posture.
Good.
Except it was a hollow victory, and soon America found himself feeling morose as well. They drove on in silence. A few times he turned towards England, opened his mouth to speak-but no words came out. He watched England, who was angled away from him now, looking out the window. He traced the line of his jaw with his eyes, the slump of his shoulders and the bow of his neck. Again, his words failed him.
He turned back towards the road, concentrated on that because at least the monotony of driving never failed him or changed or became unpredictable-at least, not all the time. Concentrating as he was, he missed the way England turned to look at him occasionally, expression closed off.
“England, I…” America began before he realized what he was saying.
England glanced at him. Cautiously, he asked, “What?”
They exchanged a glance before, wounded, England slanted his eyes away, face pressed into a grim line. America clenched the steering wheel tightly.
“It was a lie,” America muttered. He didn’t hate him.
England’s shoulders sagged but he didn’t say anything for a long moment. He turned away again. “Ah.”
“Yeah…” America began, and then trailed off when no words came to him. England did not respond, and America realized, vaguely, that he desperately wanted England to say something-anything-because he couldn’t stand this unbearable silence. Even fighting was better than this. He couldn’t imagine how things could get any worse-
America sighed, low in his throat, and, feeling rather downcast, didn’t say any more. He was sick of making a fool of himself, especially with someone like England-to think, he’d almost kissed this asshole-and concentrated on driving instead. Except, that only worked for so long.
Because he could feel England looking at him.
Slowly, England turned back towards America and spoke, his voice softer now, almost gentle, so soft in fact that America almost missed it entirely:
“Pull over.”
“Huh?” America asked, eyes on the road and knuckles clenched white on the steering wheel. Something leapt into his throat.
“Just pull over,” England said, licked his lips.
America didn’t. “I’m driving, England.”
England stared at him and added, “Please.”
The request derailed all of America’s annoyance and anger, replacing it with confusion. But that only served to make him annoyed, because he was trying really hard to be annoyed at England-to tell himself that it didn’t upset him, just frustrated him-and such a request, asked kindly, was not something that America was used to hearing. But he did as he was asked, pulling over onto the side of the highway. The engine idled but when England didn’t move right away, America reached out and cut the power entirely with a flip of his wrist. They sat in silence for a long moment.
America slumped a bit, hands in his lap and body tensed, wishing to relax. He glanced over at England through his hair, trying for stealth and nonchalance. He gripped feebly at his anger, but couldn’t deny now that he was more confused and concerned than anything else. England was slumped as well, looking down at the floor of the truck, not moving. America wondered, briefly, if perhaps he was carsick.
“England?” America asked, confusion melting further away to concern, despite himself. “What is it?”
England sucked in a sharp breath, as if weighing words, assessing the situation. But he did not move for a long moment, and he said nothing. He wasn’t looking at America. The annoyance was beginning to return, and America almost spoke.
But then England moved, suddenly, unbuckling his seatbelt. His fingers fumbled, his head bowed so that America could not see his reaction. For a wild moment America thought that England was going to get out of the truck and just walk away-which would be entirely overdramatic, even by America’s standards-though then again, if he was going to throw up, it was better outside than inside the car. America had had far too much experience with drinking with Canada to know that it took months and months to get the smell of vomit out of a car, no matter how many air fresheners and Febreezed you used. But instead of flying from the car in a sickened frenzy, the seatbelt whipped back into its place behind England’s shoulder and the other man turned towards America. He looked at him for a grand total of two seconds before he pushed forward.
And he hugged him.
That, really, hadn’t been what America had expected at all. For a brief moment as England approached him, America wondered if England was going to punch him. This was far from a punch, but had all the impact of one, forcing the air from his lungs and leaving him frozen in shock. England moved stiffly, hesitated for half a moment, before tightening his hold around America’s shoulders. They were separated by their seats and England was turned awkwardly against America but that didn’t change the fact that it was a hug and England was hugging him, something that he hadn’t done (while sober) since the forties.
America froze, and in that instant he knew. This was what he’d wanted.
“Damn it, boy,” England breathed and it was enough to squeeze the words from America’s own chest. Instantly, he froze up again, forgetting his anger momentarily, too stunned to do much of anything else.
He wanted to cling to England, to rock him, to hold him tight. But he remained frozen.
“Well, shit,” America breathed, disbelieving.
“I’m sorry,” England said, and it disarmed America so badly that he was certain at this point that England must have punched his lights out back in South Dakota and he was just having a fabulous dream that he was bound to wake up from soon. But the way England hugged him was almost painful, and he wasn’t awake yet.
“Ah…” America said and found that he hadn’t anything else to say besides that small understatement.
England wasn’t pulling back but his shoulders were tensed and America realized that he must be waiting. So he lifted his arms and wrapped them around England’s back, drawing him closer. England scrambled closer, his leg propping up and knee resting against America’s thigh as he leaned in closer to hug him.
For a split second, America was only confused, taken aback by the strange clenching in his chest and by England’s sudden turn of mood. But soon thereafter he was taken, quite suddenly, by the ridiculous urge to cry. He wanted to be rocked, to be held gently by someone-by England, the back of his mind whispered. He wanted England to hold him. But he didn’t dare cry, because he wouldn’t be weak. But this… this had been what he’d wanted all along. He hugged him close, shaking slightly.
“I’m sorry… I have been a bastard.” England’s words were soft, apologetic, guilty.
“It’s part of your charm?” America asked, but England didn’t find it funny because he didn’t laugh. America sighed and tightened his hold on him. It felt nice, to hug England-he was scruffy and slender in his arms, but his back was strong and his hold was even stronger.
“Still… the things you said were right,” England muttered against America’s shoulder.
America tried very hard not to feel the way England’s breath breezed so easily and naturally across his neck and how it actually felt good-no, no it didn’t.
America swallowed, and said, “Yeah, well, it’s not like I’ve been acting the best either.”
“Even so,” England said, voice gentle wafts of air against his neck. “I apologize.”
“Apology accepted,” America said, and felt giddy for some reason. He couldn’t help the way his smile returned to his face, the way his blue eyes lit up.
“And,” England said after a pause, still making no move to pull away from America, and America found that he didn’t mind hugging England. “Ah…” He seemed, unexpectedly, to be overcome with some kind of modesty, or embarrassment. He trailed off, but still did not pull away. “I’d never thought to call it this before, but-you are a very dear friend to me, America. Even if I’m… perfectly horrid at… saying it. Or something. Hardly, don’t linger on it. It’s not that big of a deal, or anything, if you choose for something like this to be...”
America inhaled sharply when England trailed off in his embarrassment, high and breathy and almost laughing, and shivered. That hadn’t been what he’d expected to hear and he hadn’t expected to react to it so fiercely. Wordlessly, America tightened his hold on England when he felt like the older nation might try to pull back. He melted into England, shifting so he could rest his forehead against England’s shoulder, holding him close.
“Geez, you’re right about me not being able to make other friends-if a huge jerk like you admitting we’re friends makes me this happy, that’s kinda pathetic huh?” America asked and laughed because it was amusing in its depressing kind of way.
But England didn’t pipe up to make fun of America, and stayed oddly silent. America flushed, embarrassed and pleased, before he tightened his hold once again around England and drew him closer still. He felt the block of ice that had lodged in his chest shift, jarring him from his reverie-cold before burning a hot in a single moment as everything had had happened sank in and he-he was hugging England. When the hell did that ever happen?
Cheeks stinging a pleasant pink and the heat crawling in his chest, he finally pulled away to look at England. England’s expression faltered for a moment when their eyes met, and he looked down and away, staring at the dashboard as if it was the most exciting thing on the planet. He looked so vulnerable that America almost pulled him into another hug but resisted in the end. He wondered if England could hear the loud sound his heart was making, twisting and turning lackadaisically in his chest, as if it was trying to squeeze its way out through his pores. It settled, instead, somewhere in his gut.
He lifted a hand and touched England’s cheek, but that seemed far too intimate so it quickly fell down to clasping England’s shoulder-in a manly manner, America so did hope.
“I don’t think it’s pathetic,” England said at last before America could speak.
America gave him a lopsided, gleeful smile, eyes filled with warmth. “Yeah?”
“Yes,” England said decisively and closed his eyes.
“… I’m sorry, too,” America finally relented and the words felt so foreign-he never apologized, especially not to England who half the time was an ass and deserved everything he got (so he said).
England’s eyes flickered open and looked at him.
I want to kiss him, America realized he was thinking and he almost recoiled again, but realized that doing something like that now would be so unbeneficial that they’d probably just end up fighting again. So, terrified, he forced himself to hold his ground and to ignore that thought.
He did not want to kiss England. There was no way that he wanted something like that. And England would flip out-maybe the reaction would be amusing. But the aftermath wouldn’t be.
England lifted a hand and patted the hand on his shoulder and it sent tendrils of electric heat shooting through America’s veins. But he kept his hand there.
“Apology accepted.” He smiled down at America and America looked up at him, the way England, knee propped up on the emergency break, seemed to take up the entire space of the truck’s cabin.
“Great,” America said with a grin. He felt beside himself with giddiness, and felt ridiculous because of it.
“And,” England said, voice dropping down to a near whisper, the tips of his ears burning pink and the rest of his face soon following. He licked his lips and said, “I… I do trust you.”
America stared at him in alarm for a good, long moment, enough that England had to look away with a rather disdainful scoff, instantly regretting the admission. Genuinely surprised and caught off guard, America stared at England, flabbergasted.
“Thanks, England,” America whispered, his voice surprisingly gentle.
“I mean it,” England muttered. “Don’t sound so disbelieving.”
“I’m just-I’m really happy,” America admitted and flushed with pride.
“Even if you’re never fully honest about some things, you’re too expressive for your own good, boy.” England looked at him and for an alarmed moment America worried that England could read all of America’s thoughts, including the exceedingly awkward ones, but it seemed that England was just studying America’s expression while simultaneously trying to make his look less vulnerable. “You’re overeager and earnest with everything you do-it’s endearing.”
“Endearing isn’t really what I’m going for,” America admitted.
“It’s how it seems to me,” England said, voice light and face still bright red. America knew his face was red, too. “Heaven help me, I must be a masochist-but yes, I trust you. And believe you to be a friend.”
“You’re horrible at showing it,” America said.
England looked away, guilty again.
“But… Me too-I like you, even though you’re a cranky old bastard,” America decided and hoped that England knew he meant a platonic kind of like-obviously not a ‘I want to be with you’ kind of like!
England, of course, did not interpret it that way. Why would he?
“I’ll try not to be quite so much of one from now on,” England muttered. “Understand it’s just because it’s easier to be agreeable, of course! Not because I’m concerned about your feelings.”
For some reason, even that couldn’t make America’s smile fade. He laughed, instead. “And I’ll try not to ruffle your frumpy feathers so much.”
England snorted, but he didn’t seem that insulted. The vulnerable look was gone now, and America was only half-happy to see it gone. It was hard to look at England when he looked like that-it reminded him too much of days long past, days he would often rub in England’s face and only just now realized probably hurt England, on some deep level-even if he’d never admit to it.
“Great! So it’s settled then. I hate fighting.”
“Hm,” England grunted, but it sounded like agreement.
“Hey, I mean it-thanks, England,” America said, seriously. The hand on England’s shoulder shifted before finally pulling away. He missed touching him already-why did he keep thinking like-?
England closed his eyes again. “You’re welcome, though you needn’t thank me. It takes two, for these sorts of things.”
America was glad that England’s eyes were closed so he didn’t see the way that statement made his face heat up.
“Yeah.”
“Shall we continue, then?” England asked.
“Huh? Oh,” America said as he turned his attention away, though watched England resituate himself in the passenger seat, adjusting his seatbelt. America swallowed and turned the ignition until it hummed to life. “Yeah.”
---
They drove along interstate-90, moving up through Wyoming and into Montana. It was dark now, the sun setting in the distance and leaving England and America in silence and darkness. It was just as well. America, for once, didn’t feel like talking.
That is, of course, until he glanced down at the dashboard and cursed, loudly.
Startled out of the hours of silence, England turned towards him. “What is it?”
“I’m almost out of gas,” America muttered. He frowned. “Do you remember the last time we passed a station?”
England shook his head. “I haven’t been paying attention.”
“Well damn,” America said with a frown. He squinted ahead into the darkness, beyond where even the headlights reached. “I wonder how long until we get somewhere. We’re nowhere near Butte yet, I don’t think.”
“Will we make it?” England asked, leaning over to peer at the fuel gauge in the corner of the dashboard.
America frowned. “I dunno. I think so.”
Fifteen minutes later, the car died.
“Fuck!” America shouted and hit his fist against the steering wheel. The truck’s horn blared and America slumped. He glanced at England, expecting anger and found only slight exasperation.
“You hadn’t noticed it go down?”
“I was too upset, earlier,” America muttered. He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel and sighed. “Damned mileage on this thing blows.”
“We can call a tow company,” England suggested.
“Yeah, if they’re even open this late.”
America slumped more.
England cracked a smile in the darkness, a smile that America only saw because the moon was bright in the sky. “It could certainly be worse.”
“You and your morbid outlook on life,” America scoffed.
England snorted. “… I suppose now would be a bad time to mention my phone is dead.”
“Ffffffffffffffffff,” was America’s intelligent response. Then he dug around in his pocket to pull out his. “I have crappy service out here, but I should be able to get through to someone.”
England sat in silence as America dialed the number for the operator-something he hadn’t done in ages-before reaching over towards England and digging around the glove box for his AAA card. His arm brushed over England and England hunched down, searching, too, though he wasn’t quite sure for what he was searching. Their hands brushed momentarily in the glove box and America did a stupendous job of ignoring the fact that he noticed that.
Search for the card unsuccessful, and the tow company going straight to voicemail left America snapping his phone shut and slipping it back into his pocket. “Looks like we’re stuck out here for tonight.”
“It’s a bit cramped in here,” England admitted.
“Yeah…” America screwed up his face. “S’fine, we can sleep sitting up, right? Did it before in trenches, we can do it now.”
“Yes,” England agreed, voice soft. “I suppose so.”
“Hey, I bet the stars out here are frickin’ awesome,” America said, perking up. He unlocked the driver’s door and scooted out. “Come on, England.”
“I beg your pardon,” England asked, taken aback, but opening his door regardless. He walked out into the night with America, on the other side of the truck. He watched as America hoisted himself up into the bed of his pickup truck and sat down quite happily, leaning against their bags they’d left in the back. The cab of the truck was far too cramped. England rolled his eyes. “What are you doing, you fool?”
“Relaxing,” America said with a grin. “We’re stuck here for a few hours-hope you can handle not being in a motel for one night.”
“I’ll do my best to survive,” England drawled and then heard an animal call in the distance and very quickly scrambled up into the pickup with America. He sat down beside him, leaning against the metal separating the bed of the truck with the cab, using his duffle as an armrest of sorts.
“I was right,” America said, sinking down so that he was lying on his back.
England stared down at him, incredulous. “About what?”
“The stars,” America said and pointed.
England looked up, hesitantly, almost not wanting to take his eyes away from America, because the stars were reflecting in his eyes and off his glasses’ lenses. But America had been right. Sure enough, out in the wilderness and away from all the light pollution, the stars were bright and abundant, almost looking as they had back in the ancient times. England was too dignified to allow for his mouth to flop open, but the urge to go slack-jawed was certainly there. Instead, he silently shifted downwards, lying on his back beside America, hands folded together over his stomach.
“… They’re lovely,” England said at last.
“Yeah,” America agreed, his smile looking a bit dopey. “I love the stars. It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to see them-in the city, it’s like they don’t exist at all. I just… I love them.”
“I know you do,” England admitted. He closed his eyes a moment and found he missed looking up too much. He opened his eyes again, face gentle as he traced the familiar constellations and the constellations from times long past. “You always have, ever since you were a boy.”
America was silent, thinking this over. “I’d spend hours begging you to teach me all the names and you’d always be a jerk and say I had to go to bed instead.”
“I remember,” England told the stars. “You would never stop whining about it, you little brat.” His words lacked bite, and he still watched the stars. “I used to know quite a few names,” England confessed. “Back when we still had to navigate by them.”
America shifted, pushing himself up onto one elbow so he could look down at England, studying his face. England stubbornly refused to look at him and kept his attention on the stars. “You’ve forgotten them?”
“Not all of them,” England confessed, and he saw America flop back down onto his back out of the corner of his eye. “I remember the more popular ones, the ones I would use to navigate for centuries.”
America named a few constellations that he liked, and England listened. When he glanced at America, he felt himself freeze upon spotting America’s expression, captivated and almost surreal in the near darkness, his face bathed in moonlight. The way the blue eyes seemed to reflect all the stars, a perfect, earnest reflection left England speechless. Something stabbed at the inside of his chest and he ignored it. He felt too alien, lying there beside America and yet feeling worlds apart, like they were torn apart. England didn’t understand the use, because he knew that America didn’t feel the same.
“It’s amazing,” England breathed, gazing at America.
“Isn’t it?” America, of course, remained oblivious, merely staring up at the stars, the objects of his fascination millions of years away.
“I meant-that you can actually sound intelligent from time to time, who knew?” England said, feeling awkward at staring at him for so long, for being entirely too vulnerable, but then instantly regretted it when America’s smile faltered just slightly, and his eyes flickered away from the starlight. He never wanted that smile to disappear, not this smile. The blue eyes didn’t have the twinkling reflections in them anymore. England backpedalled, “Ah-I’m sorry. I hadn’t meant-”
“Naw,” America drawled out, shrugging one shoulder before tucking an arm behind his head. He turned his attention back towards the stars. He didn’t say anything, but somehow England thought the smile was too dim now.
“America…” England swallowed. “I’m sorry.”
“Man, I’m not used to you apologizing so much,” America said with a laugh. “It’s fine, England. I know you didn’t mean it like that-I’m tired of fighting.”
England opened his mouth, almost snapped out something about how America’s nature as a country certainly presented an entirely different idea. But he stopped himself. He watched the boy, the young man-just watched him watch something he loved. It was an expression on his face that England had never seen and would, he thought, only ever see when he gazed at the stars. And it was enough to make him want to cry.
“I don’t want to, either,” England admitted.
“So let’s not, then,” America decided. “From now on, let’s just act like we actually are friends, yeah?” He changed the subject. “That one’s my favorite,” America said, pointing. “Always has been.”
“Which one?” England asked.
“There,” he said, gesturing.
England moved, squeezing up to America’s side, trying to see exactly where America was pointing. They ended up pressed cheek to cheek, England’s eyes narrowed in determination and lining up his gaze with America’s arm. America forgot to breathe for a moment, suddenly to have England that close, pressed up against his side, their faces touching.
“That one?” England asked, and raised his hand so that he was pointing beside America’s, their arms in unison with one another, a perfect reflection.
America swallowed thickly, looking to make sure. “Yeah. That one.”
England stared at it, surveyed America’s favorite star-and it somehow felt strangely intimate, to have England gazing at it so directly, scrutinizing it. America held very still, not pulling away from England and ignoring the way his heart pounded at having him so close.
America turned his head slightly, eyes shifting away from the stars to England. England was still looking though he felt the movement and his eyes flickered. America’s breath returned to him in a rush, and it breezed over England’s face, his throat suddenly dry.
“Hey, England?” America asked, because if he didn’t fill the silence with something he was afraid of what he would do, what he would begin to think, with his mouth so close to England’s face, so intimidate and close in the darkness.
England’s eyes met his, and thankfully, unfortunately, he recoiled slightly. They were no longer pressed cheek to cheek, but they were close-so close.
“What?”
“I’m sorry, too,” America said.
England looked rather alarmed by the sudden apology. He could count the number of times America had apologized to him on one hand and still have digits left over. He stared at America, eyes widened in his shock at the sudden choice of words and scraping his mind, trying to decide for what America was apologizing.
“For what? You’ve already apologized once today-hearing it again is rather surprising.”
“Yeah, I guess,” America said, scratching his cheek. “I mean-about not acknowledging you and then taking you for granted… I do do that. A lot more than I should.”
“You shouldn’t do that at all,” England reminded.
“Yeah. Which is why I’m glad that I have a friend like you who’s not afraid to tell me when I’m being a douche.”
“Hm,” England grunted.
“But more importantly,” America continued, now that he’d gotten past a second awkward apology. “I never really thanked you for anything, did I?”
England blew out a hot breath of air and shook his head. “No. You haven’t.”
“Well,” America said slowly, weighing his words though he knew what he was going to say. England suspected part of it could be intentional overdramatic tension. “Thanks.”
“Hm,” England grunted again.
“I mean it,” America said, turning to face England fully, propped up on his side and tucking his arm under his head to be more comfortable. England remained on his back, but he did turn his face towards America, hands still placed idly on his stomach. “Thanks for being my friend and helping me more than you ever have to even though I’m a jerk and never thank you. And thanks for doing this all with me.”
England closed his eyes, and said lightly, “I hadn’t meant what I said, before. Not quite as harshly, at least.”
“Huh?”
“That your company is always obnoxious and unbearable,” England said. “I’m not so much of a masochist that I would allow myself to spend nearly a week with you simply because I didn’t want to hear you whine.”
“Oh…” America said, voice soft and feeling his chest flush with warmth, his heartbeat spreading up. God, was he a preteen again? He hadn’t felt this way since-
He most certainly had never felt this way. At all.
England opened his eyes, watching America. America swallowed and watched as England reached up a hand from his stomach to touch America’s head, to brush back the golden locks away from his eyes and trailing his fingers along his skull idly, as if tucking the hair behind his ear, though it was too short for the gesture. England’s fingers gently combed through America’s hair, messing it up. Then his hand shifted downward, touched America’s face and then slid off completely.
“I enjoy your company,” England admitted, and then seemed to remember himself, remembered his embarrassment and morality even under the cloak of darkness. He took his hand back and looked away, face bright red.
America couldn’t move for a moment. He’d forgotten how to breathe and his skin still tingled from where England touched him.
“I like spending time with you, too, England,” America said, then grinned. “See? I’m being honest!”
England snorted out a laugh, thankful for the way the tension between them seemed to dissipate after such a statement. But America couldn’t forget the way his chest still heaved, the way it felt as if a line had crossed and he couldn’t cross back over again. He swallowed, trying to get used to this feeling and found that he couldn’t. Not entirely.
The night smelled like cheap coffee and wasted gasoline. Or at least that’s what America’s sweatshirt smelled like. And England just smelled like a frumpy old man, as per usual-though probably not. America drew the line at describing what England smelled like. He may be crossing lines tonight, but he refused to cross any more.
Before anything else in the truck bed could veer further and get anymore Brokeback Mountain on him, America stretched and rolled back onto his back so he wasn’t facing England anymore.
“Never knew ya liked me so much, England!” America crowed, bravado back with a swelling chest and a grinning face.
England released a small sigh and didn’t flail as America had expected and hoped he would. Instead, he said, very quietly, “I never meant to give the impression that I hated you.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” America confessed.
“Perhaps not,” England said, still frowning. “But it’s a sad existence when the person who is closest to you thinks the very opposite of what’s true.”
America stilled, and he couldn’t deny the way his heart leapt up into his throat again. America was starting to suspect he had some kind of heart condition because it kept doing that. He tried to work the words over in his head, trying to pick apart whatever hidden meanings England may have.
But it seemed that, for once, America was overanalyzing things.
England sighed, “I’m not the best at the friendship thing.”
America grinned, feeling hysteric. “Yeah, well, I could have told ya that!”
England slanted a small glare at him, but it lacked the bite his anger had the last few days. America kept grinning because it kept him from saying something stupid or freaking out.
“So hopefully we’ve gone through enough-hmm-roadblocks,” England said at last.
America snorted out a soft laugh and then he couldn’t stop giggling stupidly a moment, before the giggles became full-fledged laughter and England stared at him incredulously a moment before America’s loud, booming, infectious laughter finally won him over and he gave a few soft chuckles to supplement America’s gut-busting.
“You are not allowed to make anymore puns like that ever,” America decided, voice light from laughter and his face crinkled in pleasure.
England rolled his eyes then rolled onto his side, tucking his arm under his head so he could face America. America hesitated, before he, too, rolled to face England. They were looking at one another face to face, though the image was slightly ruined by the fact that America kept biting his lip to keep from chortling out loud again.
“I’ll do my best to survive,” England said.
America’s eyes were shining and England couldn’t take his own eyes away from them.
“Well,” America said, licking his lips because suddenly they felt too dry. “Gotta admit it was kinda awesome.”
“I do have my moments, it would appear,” England drawled. “Though I really hadn’t expected quite that reaction.”
“Haha, it’s probably just nerves,” America said and shrugged. He still felt slightly hysterical, slightly giddy and he couldn’t shake the image of scooting up to England again and wrapping his arms around him and just hugging him. He craved the contact.
“Nerves,” England repeated, disbelieving.
“Yeah, sure.”
“You.”
“Yeah, me.”
“Hmmm,” England hummed, and closed his eyes. America’s mouth flopped open for a moment as he stared at England, shrouded in the darkness save for the starlight and moonlight. When the green eyes flickered open again, they were kinder than America remembered. “You don’t have to be nervous.”
“I’m not nervous,” America stressed. “I just get all goofy sometimes.”
“Yes, certainly only sometimes,” England said, the smirk in his voice completely evident.
“Oh, shut up,” America commanded. “I put a lot of pride on the line, ya know, saying I’m sorry and thank you. Not like me.”
“Hm. No, I suppose it isn’t.”
“But I’ll remember from now on that you like it,” America promised.
“Alright,” England said, eyes shut. “I’ll remember as well. No one ever choked when having to swallow his pride.” Then he paused, and added, “Thank you, America.”
There was a long silence after that, where the two drifted between watching the stars and watching each other and under normal circumstances America would be freaking out over how lying together in the bed of his truck somehow seemed romantic, but with England it just seemed stupidly natural, almost unnaturally natural. Lying together with a hair’s breadth between them, where America could feel England’s warmth and body without actually touching it was comforting, knowing that all he had to do was reach out and they would be connected, and recognizing there was no obligation to do that.
“Hey England?”
“Yes?”
“Are we having a heart-to-heart?”
There was a pause, while England thought this over. Then he laughed, soft and breathless. “Yes, I do believe we are.”
America laughed too, sounding disbelieving for a moment. “It’s nice. We should do it more often.”
---
England woke up hours later and wasn’t sure when, exactly, he’d fallen asleep. He also wasn’t sure when, exactly, he’d somehow managed to squeeze his way on top of America, curled up against him with his arms wrapped around his bulk. What was possibly more disturbing still was the fact that America’s arms were wrapped around England in turn.
He stayed very still after waking, worrying over waking America up and sending him into another fit like in the motel room after the horror movie. He wasn’t sure if he was quite ready to deal with another headache.
So he dropped his head back down, resting it against America’s chest again, eyes closing a moment and listening to his heartbeat. His breathing was deep and even, in the deepest stage of sleep, it seemed. England could feel warm puffs of air breezing through his hair.
England lifted a hand, drifted it over America’s chest before lifting to remove Texas from his nose, folding up the glasses and putting them into America’s bag for him. America didn’t respond, peacefully dreaming the morning away. England cracked a small smile.
“I don’t get you sometimes, my dear lad,” England whispered and his breath drifted across America’s neck.
Slowly, loathed to move, England touched America’s arms and pulled them away from him. Extracting himself from America’s warm body, he shivered as the early morning air touched his flushed skin. He set America’s arms down beside him. He looked strangely out of place, lying there without anything or anyone else. England shrugged out of his coat and draped it over his frame.
Then he leaned over, digging his hand into America’s pocket and pulling out his phone. While the idiot was sleeping, he might as well be productive.
---
America woke up with a crick in his neck and a growling stomach. He sat up, England’s jacket crumbling into his lap. He stared at it a moment, the world fuzzy, before he looked around for Texas.
“Oh, you’re awake,” England said, walking around from the front of the truck, where he’d stood a fair distance away to use America’s phone. “Texas is in your bag.”
America dug around for it and pushed the glasses up the bridge of his nose. He yawned and felt his jaw crack. “How long have you been awake?”
“Not quite an hour,” England said, and handed America’s phone back to him. “Here.”
“Huh?” America asked, intelligently so.
England cracked a smile. “There’s a gas station a few miles west, they’ll send someone over. Heaven knows I’ve had to go through so many people just to have them do that.”
“Good they won’t have to tow, then,” America said, yawning again and massaging his neck to work out the sore muscles.
“Truly,” England agreed.
America held out England’s jacket to him and the other nation took it, eyes downcast. He made a great show of dusting it off and flapping it a bit to let it lose some of the wrinkles before slipping it back on, as if it had been a great sacrifice on his part to give it to America to use as a blanket.
Watching England button himself up, America said, “It’s been a week.”
“Hm?” England asked, eyes still down.
“Since we started this,” America explained.
England’s eyes finally did flicker up, catching America’s gaze and holding firm. “I know.”
“And you don’t mind being here?”
“Here?” England repeated. He glanced sourly at the truck. “I would have preferred to sleep in a bed last night, but…”
“I meant in general,” America insisted but knew that England already knew this.
England looked off to the side, down the road to see if anyone was coming. He shrugged one shoulder, but his blushing face was answer enough.
---
Later that morning found England and America on the road again, navigating through Montana on their way towards Idaho. The truck moved along swiftly now, filled with gasoline to fuel the way, and the ever watchful eye of the former empire to make sure they didn’t have another situation like that again.
America was oddly silent during the ride, which England naturally noticed. He’d been quiet for the last few days and England liked to pretend he wasn’t concerned, but it was atypical to have the American be quite so silent for quite so long, without at least some kind of chortle to himself or a wide, inane grin.
But England didn’t ask, so they drove in silence.
“I never expected us to drive this far,” England finally said, glancing at America.
America didn’t look away from where he was looking at the mountains, expression neutral but eyes bright, reflecting in the window. “Yeah.”
“It’s not bad, I suppose,” England admitted and wanted to keep watching America’s face but had to turn back and actually pay attention to the road they were driving on. The truck bumped along, and even the radio was silent, nothing but fuzz when turned on.
“No,” America said quietly and England couldn’t help but turn back to him, always attracted, always drawn back to him no matter how he tried to pull away. America was smiling. “If we’ve gone this far, might as well make it to the coast, right? It’ll only be a few more days, at our pace.”
“Shall I just stay on this highway, then?”
“Might as well, unless you want to go back to back roads,” America said with a shrug.
“Hmm,” England hummed lightly. “We still would need to drive back, though.”
“Well,” America chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment before saying, “This’ll take us to Seattle. But we can go down south to California and go back that way. If we can go down to L.A. we can take Route 66.”
“… ‘Get your kicks’?” England asked.
This time America’s smile was more of an inane grin, and it was only then that England fully realized how relieved he was to see it there. He nodded. “Yeah! I mean, maybe not all the way since it’ll end up taking us to Chicago again. And it’s really only ‘historical’ now so it might take a while… or something.”
“In either case we’ll both have to find our way back to New York, so we can figure it out as we go along.”
“Well,” America said, leaning back and looking almost smug. “Look at you, being all spontaneous like that.”
“It seems you’ve been rubbing off on me.”
“Next thing you know you’ll want to crash Mexico’s place and do more crazy shit.”
“I’m so sure.”
Series: Axis Powers Hetalia
Characters: England, USA, mentions of other nations, unnamed American citizens
Pairing: Eventual England/USA
Rating: PG for this chapter (but fic is NC-17 overall)
Warning: Possible cliches and predictability. Also deals with issues of sexuality and coming out, and may have mildly offensive speech in it. Please note that the opinions of the characters are not necessarily those of the author.
Summary: Sick of politics and business as usual, England decides to indulge a rare moment of spontaneity and go on a roadtrip. He should have known that America would want to tag along. And they both should have known that the trip would set them down a path they couldn't turn away from.
Summary for this chapter: Montana skies are the clearest, and driving leaves you restless.
Notes: Just a little under halfway through this story. I hope that everyone's liking it so far. ♥
Other installments:
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11
No words passed between them as they climbed into the truck and left the tourist trap. They drove in silence for about an hour, morose and tensed. The landscape stretched on beyond them, the sky cleared. The truck was thick with tension, with unspoken words. The only sound was the grinding of the engine, the sound of their breathing, the distant sounds of the world outside. England looked out the window and refused to look at America. America drove, his hands clenching the steering wheel until he was sure he would crush the metal beneath his overly large hands.
He let out a long sigh, and hoped it was quiet enough that England wouldn’t notice. But in such a thick silence, even the slightest shift, the slightest breath, was enough to alert the other to movement. America kept his eyes on the road ahead of him, scanning the horizon, unable and unwilling to let his eyes linger on one spot, taking everything in as he drove and navigated the straight highway.
He pursed his lips and when he glanced over at England he saw that England was looking at him, studying his profile. He should go back to looking out the window any minute now, America thought. But England didn’t. Their eyes locked. America startled a moment, almost recoiling, before giving England a slightly strained, unsure look.
Simultaneously, they turned away from one another.
“So…” America began, and then wasn’t sure what it was he wanted to say.
“What?” England asked with a sigh.
It sounded too accusatory, so America sighed, too. “Nothing.”
England scoffed, not looking at him. “Would you stop looking like that?”
“Like what?” America asked.
“Like you’re playing the victim,” England snapped, “again.”
America stiffened up, glaring at England out of the corner of his eye. “I’m not playing the victim, shut up.”
“You always do that-act all high and mighty and then as soon as someone calls you out on your ridiculousness, you play the ‘oh woe is me’ card,” England shot back, ruffling up. It seemed he truly was on the aggressive, unwilling to let their fight go, no matter how much America tried to ignore the tension between them. England suspected he was simply playing the martyr.
“Didn’t I tell you to shut up?” America muttered.
“I don’t let oversized babies, who consider being bossy to be a suitable form of friendship, to order me around, America,” England said calmly, and pretended not to see the way America cringed at the statement.
“I’m not playing the victim,” America protested.
“Certainly not, because pouting like a tantrum throwing toddler after a fight isn’t playing the victim. Looking at me, with that stupidly earnest and puppy dog-eyed face of yours.”
America’s face screwed into a deeper frown. “I said I wanted to drop it, England.”
“Fine,” England huffed.
They drove in silence.
The silence was very unbearable.
“And another thing,” America said suddenly, because apparently he couldn’t follow his own advice. “Like you’re the one to talk about the victim shit-you do it all the time.”
“What I said before had merit,” England said, snippety.
“Same with what I said,” America snapped back. “You just never take anything I say seriously because obviously I’m an idiot.”
“You hardly say anything serious.”
America’s jaw clenched and he looked at England in deathly silence. He waited until England turned to look at him, too, before saying, dead in the eye, “I hate you.”
England recoiled, and this time he was the one to cringe.
America turned back towards the highway, clenching the steering wheel, telling himself that, yes, he hated England. He should have known that tagging along with him was a bad idea, should have known there was no way they could be friends or trust one another or be nice to one another. It was much easier to just fall back on this, to let them fall back into the routine of silently hating one another’s guts with the rare moments of genuine human emotion. If England wanted to think he was an uncultured, unintelligent moron, then so be it. He’d just convince himself that England was nothing but a crotchety old man with no sliver of sympathy beyond his own decaying sense of dignity and propriety.
After that they fell again into the silence, but it seemed all the life had seeped out of England, leaving him staring, rather morose, at the truck’s glove compartment, as if waiting for it to burst open. His shoulders were slumped, and America almost felt bad that his words affected England enough to ruin his posture.
Good.
Except it was a hollow victory, and soon America found himself feeling morose as well. They drove on in silence. A few times he turned towards England, opened his mouth to speak-but no words came out. He watched England, who was angled away from him now, looking out the window. He traced the line of his jaw with his eyes, the slump of his shoulders and the bow of his neck. Again, his words failed him.
He turned back towards the road, concentrated on that because at least the monotony of driving never failed him or changed or became unpredictable-at least, not all the time. Concentrating as he was, he missed the way England turned to look at him occasionally, expression closed off.
“England, I…” America began before he realized what he was saying.
England glanced at him. Cautiously, he asked, “What?”
They exchanged a glance before, wounded, England slanted his eyes away, face pressed into a grim line. America clenched the steering wheel tightly.
“It was a lie,” America muttered. He didn’t hate him.
England’s shoulders sagged but he didn’t say anything for a long moment. He turned away again. “Ah.”
“Yeah…” America began, and then trailed off when no words came to him. England did not respond, and America realized, vaguely, that he desperately wanted England to say something-anything-because he couldn’t stand this unbearable silence. Even fighting was better than this. He couldn’t imagine how things could get any worse-
America sighed, low in his throat, and, feeling rather downcast, didn’t say any more. He was sick of making a fool of himself, especially with someone like England-to think, he’d almost kissed this asshole-and concentrated on driving instead. Except, that only worked for so long.
Because he could feel England looking at him.
Slowly, England turned back towards America and spoke, his voice softer now, almost gentle, so soft in fact that America almost missed it entirely:
“Pull over.”
“Huh?” America asked, eyes on the road and knuckles clenched white on the steering wheel. Something leapt into his throat.
“Just pull over,” England said, licked his lips.
America didn’t. “I’m driving, England.”
England stared at him and added, “Please.”
The request derailed all of America’s annoyance and anger, replacing it with confusion. But that only served to make him annoyed, because he was trying really hard to be annoyed at England-to tell himself that it didn’t upset him, just frustrated him-and such a request, asked kindly, was not something that America was used to hearing. But he did as he was asked, pulling over onto the side of the highway. The engine idled but when England didn’t move right away, America reached out and cut the power entirely with a flip of his wrist. They sat in silence for a long moment.
America slumped a bit, hands in his lap and body tensed, wishing to relax. He glanced over at England through his hair, trying for stealth and nonchalance. He gripped feebly at his anger, but couldn’t deny now that he was more confused and concerned than anything else. England was slumped as well, looking down at the floor of the truck, not moving. America wondered, briefly, if perhaps he was carsick.
“England?” America asked, confusion melting further away to concern, despite himself. “What is it?”
England sucked in a sharp breath, as if weighing words, assessing the situation. But he did not move for a long moment, and he said nothing. He wasn’t looking at America. The annoyance was beginning to return, and America almost spoke.
But then England moved, suddenly, unbuckling his seatbelt. His fingers fumbled, his head bowed so that America could not see his reaction. For a wild moment America thought that England was going to get out of the truck and just walk away-which would be entirely overdramatic, even by America’s standards-though then again, if he was going to throw up, it was better outside than inside the car. America had had far too much experience with drinking with Canada to know that it took months and months to get the smell of vomit out of a car, no matter how many air fresheners and Febreezed you used. But instead of flying from the car in a sickened frenzy, the seatbelt whipped back into its place behind England’s shoulder and the other man turned towards America. He looked at him for a grand total of two seconds before he pushed forward.
And he hugged him.
That, really, hadn’t been what America had expected at all. For a brief moment as England approached him, America wondered if England was going to punch him. This was far from a punch, but had all the impact of one, forcing the air from his lungs and leaving him frozen in shock. England moved stiffly, hesitated for half a moment, before tightening his hold around America’s shoulders. They were separated by their seats and England was turned awkwardly against America but that didn’t change the fact that it was a hug and England was hugging him, something that he hadn’t done (while sober) since the forties.
America froze, and in that instant he knew. This was what he’d wanted.
“Damn it, boy,” England breathed and it was enough to squeeze the words from America’s own chest. Instantly, he froze up again, forgetting his anger momentarily, too stunned to do much of anything else.
He wanted to cling to England, to rock him, to hold him tight. But he remained frozen.
“Well, shit,” America breathed, disbelieving.
“I’m sorry,” England said, and it disarmed America so badly that he was certain at this point that England must have punched his lights out back in South Dakota and he was just having a fabulous dream that he was bound to wake up from soon. But the way England hugged him was almost painful, and he wasn’t awake yet.
“Ah…” America said and found that he hadn’t anything else to say besides that small understatement.
England wasn’t pulling back but his shoulders were tensed and America realized that he must be waiting. So he lifted his arms and wrapped them around England’s back, drawing him closer. England scrambled closer, his leg propping up and knee resting against America’s thigh as he leaned in closer to hug him.
For a split second, America was only confused, taken aback by the strange clenching in his chest and by England’s sudden turn of mood. But soon thereafter he was taken, quite suddenly, by the ridiculous urge to cry. He wanted to be rocked, to be held gently by someone-by England, the back of his mind whispered. He wanted England to hold him. But he didn’t dare cry, because he wouldn’t be weak. But this… this had been what he’d wanted all along. He hugged him close, shaking slightly.
“I’m sorry… I have been a bastard.” England’s words were soft, apologetic, guilty.
“It’s part of your charm?” America asked, but England didn’t find it funny because he didn’t laugh. America sighed and tightened his hold on him. It felt nice, to hug England-he was scruffy and slender in his arms, but his back was strong and his hold was even stronger.
“Still… the things you said were right,” England muttered against America’s shoulder.
America tried very hard not to feel the way England’s breath breezed so easily and naturally across his neck and how it actually felt good-no, no it didn’t.
America swallowed, and said, “Yeah, well, it’s not like I’ve been acting the best either.”
“Even so,” England said, voice gentle wafts of air against his neck. “I apologize.”
“Apology accepted,” America said, and felt giddy for some reason. He couldn’t help the way his smile returned to his face, the way his blue eyes lit up.
“And,” England said after a pause, still making no move to pull away from America, and America found that he didn’t mind hugging England. “Ah…” He seemed, unexpectedly, to be overcome with some kind of modesty, or embarrassment. He trailed off, but still did not pull away. “I’d never thought to call it this before, but-you are a very dear friend to me, America. Even if I’m… perfectly horrid at… saying it. Or something. Hardly, don’t linger on it. It’s not that big of a deal, or anything, if you choose for something like this to be...”
America inhaled sharply when England trailed off in his embarrassment, high and breathy and almost laughing, and shivered. That hadn’t been what he’d expected to hear and he hadn’t expected to react to it so fiercely. Wordlessly, America tightened his hold on England when he felt like the older nation might try to pull back. He melted into England, shifting so he could rest his forehead against England’s shoulder, holding him close.
“Geez, you’re right about me not being able to make other friends-if a huge jerk like you admitting we’re friends makes me this happy, that’s kinda pathetic huh?” America asked and laughed because it was amusing in its depressing kind of way.
But England didn’t pipe up to make fun of America, and stayed oddly silent. America flushed, embarrassed and pleased, before he tightened his hold once again around England and drew him closer still. He felt the block of ice that had lodged in his chest shift, jarring him from his reverie-cold before burning a hot in a single moment as everything had had happened sank in and he-he was hugging England. When the hell did that ever happen?
Cheeks stinging a pleasant pink and the heat crawling in his chest, he finally pulled away to look at England. England’s expression faltered for a moment when their eyes met, and he looked down and away, staring at the dashboard as if it was the most exciting thing on the planet. He looked so vulnerable that America almost pulled him into another hug but resisted in the end. He wondered if England could hear the loud sound his heart was making, twisting and turning lackadaisically in his chest, as if it was trying to squeeze its way out through his pores. It settled, instead, somewhere in his gut.
He lifted a hand and touched England’s cheek, but that seemed far too intimate so it quickly fell down to clasping England’s shoulder-in a manly manner, America so did hope.
“I don’t think it’s pathetic,” England said at last before America could speak.
America gave him a lopsided, gleeful smile, eyes filled with warmth. “Yeah?”
“Yes,” England said decisively and closed his eyes.
“… I’m sorry, too,” America finally relented and the words felt so foreign-he never apologized, especially not to England who half the time was an ass and deserved everything he got (so he said).
England’s eyes flickered open and looked at him.
I want to kiss him, America realized he was thinking and he almost recoiled again, but realized that doing something like that now would be so unbeneficial that they’d probably just end up fighting again. So, terrified, he forced himself to hold his ground and to ignore that thought.
He did not want to kiss England. There was no way that he wanted something like that. And England would flip out-maybe the reaction would be amusing. But the aftermath wouldn’t be.
England lifted a hand and patted the hand on his shoulder and it sent tendrils of electric heat shooting through America’s veins. But he kept his hand there.
“Apology accepted.” He smiled down at America and America looked up at him, the way England, knee propped up on the emergency break, seemed to take up the entire space of the truck’s cabin.
“Great,” America said with a grin. He felt beside himself with giddiness, and felt ridiculous because of it.
“And,” England said, voice dropping down to a near whisper, the tips of his ears burning pink and the rest of his face soon following. He licked his lips and said, “I… I do trust you.”
America stared at him in alarm for a good, long moment, enough that England had to look away with a rather disdainful scoff, instantly regretting the admission. Genuinely surprised and caught off guard, America stared at England, flabbergasted.
“Thanks, England,” America whispered, his voice surprisingly gentle.
“I mean it,” England muttered. “Don’t sound so disbelieving.”
“I’m just-I’m really happy,” America admitted and flushed with pride.
“Even if you’re never fully honest about some things, you’re too expressive for your own good, boy.” England looked at him and for an alarmed moment America worried that England could read all of America’s thoughts, including the exceedingly awkward ones, but it seemed that England was just studying America’s expression while simultaneously trying to make his look less vulnerable. “You’re overeager and earnest with everything you do-it’s endearing.”
“Endearing isn’t really what I’m going for,” America admitted.
“It’s how it seems to me,” England said, voice light and face still bright red. America knew his face was red, too. “Heaven help me, I must be a masochist-but yes, I trust you. And believe you to be a friend.”
“You’re horrible at showing it,” America said.
England looked away, guilty again.
“But… Me too-I like you, even though you’re a cranky old bastard,” America decided and hoped that England knew he meant a platonic kind of like-obviously not a ‘I want to be with you’ kind of like!
England, of course, did not interpret it that way. Why would he?
“I’ll try not to be quite so much of one from now on,” England muttered. “Understand it’s just because it’s easier to be agreeable, of course! Not because I’m concerned about your feelings.”
For some reason, even that couldn’t make America’s smile fade. He laughed, instead. “And I’ll try not to ruffle your frumpy feathers so much.”
England snorted, but he didn’t seem that insulted. The vulnerable look was gone now, and America was only half-happy to see it gone. It was hard to look at England when he looked like that-it reminded him too much of days long past, days he would often rub in England’s face and only just now realized probably hurt England, on some deep level-even if he’d never admit to it.
“Great! So it’s settled then. I hate fighting.”
“Hm,” England grunted, but it sounded like agreement.
“Hey, I mean it-thanks, England,” America said, seriously. The hand on England’s shoulder shifted before finally pulling away. He missed touching him already-why did he keep thinking like-?
England closed his eyes again. “You’re welcome, though you needn’t thank me. It takes two, for these sorts of things.”
America was glad that England’s eyes were closed so he didn’t see the way that statement made his face heat up.
“Yeah.”
“Shall we continue, then?” England asked.
“Huh? Oh,” America said as he turned his attention away, though watched England resituate himself in the passenger seat, adjusting his seatbelt. America swallowed and turned the ignition until it hummed to life. “Yeah.”
---
They drove along interstate-90, moving up through Wyoming and into Montana. It was dark now, the sun setting in the distance and leaving England and America in silence and darkness. It was just as well. America, for once, didn’t feel like talking.
That is, of course, until he glanced down at the dashboard and cursed, loudly.
Startled out of the hours of silence, England turned towards him. “What is it?”
“I’m almost out of gas,” America muttered. He frowned. “Do you remember the last time we passed a station?”
England shook his head. “I haven’t been paying attention.”
“Well damn,” America said with a frown. He squinted ahead into the darkness, beyond where even the headlights reached. “I wonder how long until we get somewhere. We’re nowhere near Butte yet, I don’t think.”
“Will we make it?” England asked, leaning over to peer at the fuel gauge in the corner of the dashboard.
America frowned. “I dunno. I think so.”
Fifteen minutes later, the car died.
“Fuck!” America shouted and hit his fist against the steering wheel. The truck’s horn blared and America slumped. He glanced at England, expecting anger and found only slight exasperation.
“You hadn’t noticed it go down?”
“I was too upset, earlier,” America muttered. He drummed his fingers against the steering wheel and sighed. “Damned mileage on this thing blows.”
“We can call a tow company,” England suggested.
“Yeah, if they’re even open this late.”
America slumped more.
England cracked a smile in the darkness, a smile that America only saw because the moon was bright in the sky. “It could certainly be worse.”
“You and your morbid outlook on life,” America scoffed.
England snorted. “… I suppose now would be a bad time to mention my phone is dead.”
“Ffffffffffffffffff,” was America’s intelligent response. Then he dug around in his pocket to pull out his. “I have crappy service out here, but I should be able to get through to someone.”
England sat in silence as America dialed the number for the operator-something he hadn’t done in ages-before reaching over towards England and digging around the glove box for his AAA card. His arm brushed over England and England hunched down, searching, too, though he wasn’t quite sure for what he was searching. Their hands brushed momentarily in the glove box and America did a stupendous job of ignoring the fact that he noticed that.
Search for the card unsuccessful, and the tow company going straight to voicemail left America snapping his phone shut and slipping it back into his pocket. “Looks like we’re stuck out here for tonight.”
“It’s a bit cramped in here,” England admitted.
“Yeah…” America screwed up his face. “S’fine, we can sleep sitting up, right? Did it before in trenches, we can do it now.”
“Yes,” England agreed, voice soft. “I suppose so.”
“Hey, I bet the stars out here are frickin’ awesome,” America said, perking up. He unlocked the driver’s door and scooted out. “Come on, England.”
“I beg your pardon,” England asked, taken aback, but opening his door regardless. He walked out into the night with America, on the other side of the truck. He watched as America hoisted himself up into the bed of his pickup truck and sat down quite happily, leaning against their bags they’d left in the back. The cab of the truck was far too cramped. England rolled his eyes. “What are you doing, you fool?”
“Relaxing,” America said with a grin. “We’re stuck here for a few hours-hope you can handle not being in a motel for one night.”
“I’ll do my best to survive,” England drawled and then heard an animal call in the distance and very quickly scrambled up into the pickup with America. He sat down beside him, leaning against the metal separating the bed of the truck with the cab, using his duffle as an armrest of sorts.
“I was right,” America said, sinking down so that he was lying on his back.
England stared down at him, incredulous. “About what?”
“The stars,” America said and pointed.
England looked up, hesitantly, almost not wanting to take his eyes away from America, because the stars were reflecting in his eyes and off his glasses’ lenses. But America had been right. Sure enough, out in the wilderness and away from all the light pollution, the stars were bright and abundant, almost looking as they had back in the ancient times. England was too dignified to allow for his mouth to flop open, but the urge to go slack-jawed was certainly there. Instead, he silently shifted downwards, lying on his back beside America, hands folded together over his stomach.
“… They’re lovely,” England said at last.
“Yeah,” America agreed, his smile looking a bit dopey. “I love the stars. It’s been a long time since I’ve been able to see them-in the city, it’s like they don’t exist at all. I just… I love them.”
“I know you do,” England admitted. He closed his eyes a moment and found he missed looking up too much. He opened his eyes again, face gentle as he traced the familiar constellations and the constellations from times long past. “You always have, ever since you were a boy.”
America was silent, thinking this over. “I’d spend hours begging you to teach me all the names and you’d always be a jerk and say I had to go to bed instead.”
“I remember,” England told the stars. “You would never stop whining about it, you little brat.” His words lacked bite, and he still watched the stars. “I used to know quite a few names,” England confessed. “Back when we still had to navigate by them.”
America shifted, pushing himself up onto one elbow so he could look down at England, studying his face. England stubbornly refused to look at him and kept his attention on the stars. “You’ve forgotten them?”
“Not all of them,” England confessed, and he saw America flop back down onto his back out of the corner of his eye. “I remember the more popular ones, the ones I would use to navigate for centuries.”
America named a few constellations that he liked, and England listened. When he glanced at America, he felt himself freeze upon spotting America’s expression, captivated and almost surreal in the near darkness, his face bathed in moonlight. The way the blue eyes seemed to reflect all the stars, a perfect, earnest reflection left England speechless. Something stabbed at the inside of his chest and he ignored it. He felt too alien, lying there beside America and yet feeling worlds apart, like they were torn apart. England didn’t understand the use, because he knew that America didn’t feel the same.
“It’s amazing,” England breathed, gazing at America.
“Isn’t it?” America, of course, remained oblivious, merely staring up at the stars, the objects of his fascination millions of years away.
“I meant-that you can actually sound intelligent from time to time, who knew?” England said, feeling awkward at staring at him for so long, for being entirely too vulnerable, but then instantly regretted it when America’s smile faltered just slightly, and his eyes flickered away from the starlight. He never wanted that smile to disappear, not this smile. The blue eyes didn’t have the twinkling reflections in them anymore. England backpedalled, “Ah-I’m sorry. I hadn’t meant-”
“Naw,” America drawled out, shrugging one shoulder before tucking an arm behind his head. He turned his attention back towards the stars. He didn’t say anything, but somehow England thought the smile was too dim now.
“America…” England swallowed. “I’m sorry.”
“Man, I’m not used to you apologizing so much,” America said with a laugh. “It’s fine, England. I know you didn’t mean it like that-I’m tired of fighting.”
England opened his mouth, almost snapped out something about how America’s nature as a country certainly presented an entirely different idea. But he stopped himself. He watched the boy, the young man-just watched him watch something he loved. It was an expression on his face that England had never seen and would, he thought, only ever see when he gazed at the stars. And it was enough to make him want to cry.
“I don’t want to, either,” England admitted.
“So let’s not, then,” America decided. “From now on, let’s just act like we actually are friends, yeah?” He changed the subject. “That one’s my favorite,” America said, pointing. “Always has been.”
“Which one?” England asked.
“There,” he said, gesturing.
England moved, squeezing up to America’s side, trying to see exactly where America was pointing. They ended up pressed cheek to cheek, England’s eyes narrowed in determination and lining up his gaze with America’s arm. America forgot to breathe for a moment, suddenly to have England that close, pressed up against his side, their faces touching.
“That one?” England asked, and raised his hand so that he was pointing beside America’s, their arms in unison with one another, a perfect reflection.
America swallowed thickly, looking to make sure. “Yeah. That one.”
England stared at it, surveyed America’s favorite star-and it somehow felt strangely intimate, to have England gazing at it so directly, scrutinizing it. America held very still, not pulling away from England and ignoring the way his heart pounded at having him so close.
America turned his head slightly, eyes shifting away from the stars to England. England was still looking though he felt the movement and his eyes flickered. America’s breath returned to him in a rush, and it breezed over England’s face, his throat suddenly dry.
“Hey, England?” America asked, because if he didn’t fill the silence with something he was afraid of what he would do, what he would begin to think, with his mouth so close to England’s face, so intimidate and close in the darkness.
England’s eyes met his, and thankfully, unfortunately, he recoiled slightly. They were no longer pressed cheek to cheek, but they were close-so close.
“What?”
“I’m sorry, too,” America said.
England looked rather alarmed by the sudden apology. He could count the number of times America had apologized to him on one hand and still have digits left over. He stared at America, eyes widened in his shock at the sudden choice of words and scraping his mind, trying to decide for what America was apologizing.
“For what? You’ve already apologized once today-hearing it again is rather surprising.”
“Yeah, I guess,” America said, scratching his cheek. “I mean-about not acknowledging you and then taking you for granted… I do do that. A lot more than I should.”
“You shouldn’t do that at all,” England reminded.
“Yeah. Which is why I’m glad that I have a friend like you who’s not afraid to tell me when I’m being a douche.”
“Hm,” England grunted.
“But more importantly,” America continued, now that he’d gotten past a second awkward apology. “I never really thanked you for anything, did I?”
England blew out a hot breath of air and shook his head. “No. You haven’t.”
“Well,” America said slowly, weighing his words though he knew what he was going to say. England suspected part of it could be intentional overdramatic tension. “Thanks.”
“Hm,” England grunted again.
“I mean it,” America said, turning to face England fully, propped up on his side and tucking his arm under his head to be more comfortable. England remained on his back, but he did turn his face towards America, hands still placed idly on his stomach. “Thanks for being my friend and helping me more than you ever have to even though I’m a jerk and never thank you. And thanks for doing this all with me.”
England closed his eyes, and said lightly, “I hadn’t meant what I said, before. Not quite as harshly, at least.”
“Huh?”
“That your company is always obnoxious and unbearable,” England said. “I’m not so much of a masochist that I would allow myself to spend nearly a week with you simply because I didn’t want to hear you whine.”
“Oh…” America said, voice soft and feeling his chest flush with warmth, his heartbeat spreading up. God, was he a preteen again? He hadn’t felt this way since-
He most certainly had never felt this way. At all.
England opened his eyes, watching America. America swallowed and watched as England reached up a hand from his stomach to touch America’s head, to brush back the golden locks away from his eyes and trailing his fingers along his skull idly, as if tucking the hair behind his ear, though it was too short for the gesture. England’s fingers gently combed through America’s hair, messing it up. Then his hand shifted downward, touched America’s face and then slid off completely.
“I enjoy your company,” England admitted, and then seemed to remember himself, remembered his embarrassment and morality even under the cloak of darkness. He took his hand back and looked away, face bright red.
America couldn’t move for a moment. He’d forgotten how to breathe and his skin still tingled from where England touched him.
“I like spending time with you, too, England,” America said, then grinned. “See? I’m being honest!”
England snorted out a laugh, thankful for the way the tension between them seemed to dissipate after such a statement. But America couldn’t forget the way his chest still heaved, the way it felt as if a line had crossed and he couldn’t cross back over again. He swallowed, trying to get used to this feeling and found that he couldn’t. Not entirely.
The night smelled like cheap coffee and wasted gasoline. Or at least that’s what America’s sweatshirt smelled like. And England just smelled like a frumpy old man, as per usual-though probably not. America drew the line at describing what England smelled like. He may be crossing lines tonight, but he refused to cross any more.
Before anything else in the truck bed could veer further and get anymore Brokeback Mountain on him, America stretched and rolled back onto his back so he wasn’t facing England anymore.
“Never knew ya liked me so much, England!” America crowed, bravado back with a swelling chest and a grinning face.
England released a small sigh and didn’t flail as America had expected and hoped he would. Instead, he said, very quietly, “I never meant to give the impression that I hated you.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” America confessed.
“Perhaps not,” England said, still frowning. “But it’s a sad existence when the person who is closest to you thinks the very opposite of what’s true.”
America stilled, and he couldn’t deny the way his heart leapt up into his throat again. America was starting to suspect he had some kind of heart condition because it kept doing that. He tried to work the words over in his head, trying to pick apart whatever hidden meanings England may have.
But it seemed that, for once, America was overanalyzing things.
England sighed, “I’m not the best at the friendship thing.”
America grinned, feeling hysteric. “Yeah, well, I could have told ya that!”
England slanted a small glare at him, but it lacked the bite his anger had the last few days. America kept grinning because it kept him from saying something stupid or freaking out.
“So hopefully we’ve gone through enough-hmm-roadblocks,” England said at last.
America snorted out a soft laugh and then he couldn’t stop giggling stupidly a moment, before the giggles became full-fledged laughter and England stared at him incredulously a moment before America’s loud, booming, infectious laughter finally won him over and he gave a few soft chuckles to supplement America’s gut-busting.
“You are not allowed to make anymore puns like that ever,” America decided, voice light from laughter and his face crinkled in pleasure.
England rolled his eyes then rolled onto his side, tucking his arm under his head so he could face America. America hesitated, before he, too, rolled to face England. They were looking at one another face to face, though the image was slightly ruined by the fact that America kept biting his lip to keep from chortling out loud again.
“I’ll do my best to survive,” England said.
America’s eyes were shining and England couldn’t take his own eyes away from them.
“Well,” America said, licking his lips because suddenly they felt too dry. “Gotta admit it was kinda awesome.”
“I do have my moments, it would appear,” England drawled. “Though I really hadn’t expected quite that reaction.”
“Haha, it’s probably just nerves,” America said and shrugged. He still felt slightly hysterical, slightly giddy and he couldn’t shake the image of scooting up to England again and wrapping his arms around him and just hugging him. He craved the contact.
“Nerves,” England repeated, disbelieving.
“Yeah, sure.”
“You.”
“Yeah, me.”
“Hmmm,” England hummed, and closed his eyes. America’s mouth flopped open for a moment as he stared at England, shrouded in the darkness save for the starlight and moonlight. When the green eyes flickered open again, they were kinder than America remembered. “You don’t have to be nervous.”
“I’m not nervous,” America stressed. “I just get all goofy sometimes.”
“Yes, certainly only sometimes,” England said, the smirk in his voice completely evident.
“Oh, shut up,” America commanded. “I put a lot of pride on the line, ya know, saying I’m sorry and thank you. Not like me.”
“Hm. No, I suppose it isn’t.”
“But I’ll remember from now on that you like it,” America promised.
“Alright,” England said, eyes shut. “I’ll remember as well. No one ever choked when having to swallow his pride.” Then he paused, and added, “Thank you, America.”
There was a long silence after that, where the two drifted between watching the stars and watching each other and under normal circumstances America would be freaking out over how lying together in the bed of his truck somehow seemed romantic, but with England it just seemed stupidly natural, almost unnaturally natural. Lying together with a hair’s breadth between them, where America could feel England’s warmth and body without actually touching it was comforting, knowing that all he had to do was reach out and they would be connected, and recognizing there was no obligation to do that.
“Hey England?”
“Yes?”
“Are we having a heart-to-heart?”
There was a pause, while England thought this over. Then he laughed, soft and breathless. “Yes, I do believe we are.”
America laughed too, sounding disbelieving for a moment. “It’s nice. We should do it more often.”
---
England woke up hours later and wasn’t sure when, exactly, he’d fallen asleep. He also wasn’t sure when, exactly, he’d somehow managed to squeeze his way on top of America, curled up against him with his arms wrapped around his bulk. What was possibly more disturbing still was the fact that America’s arms were wrapped around England in turn.
He stayed very still after waking, worrying over waking America up and sending him into another fit like in the motel room after the horror movie. He wasn’t sure if he was quite ready to deal with another headache.
So he dropped his head back down, resting it against America’s chest again, eyes closing a moment and listening to his heartbeat. His breathing was deep and even, in the deepest stage of sleep, it seemed. England could feel warm puffs of air breezing through his hair.
England lifted a hand, drifted it over America’s chest before lifting to remove Texas from his nose, folding up the glasses and putting them into America’s bag for him. America didn’t respond, peacefully dreaming the morning away. England cracked a small smile.
“I don’t get you sometimes, my dear lad,” England whispered and his breath drifted across America’s neck.
Slowly, loathed to move, England touched America’s arms and pulled them away from him. Extracting himself from America’s warm body, he shivered as the early morning air touched his flushed skin. He set America’s arms down beside him. He looked strangely out of place, lying there without anything or anyone else. England shrugged out of his coat and draped it over his frame.
Then he leaned over, digging his hand into America’s pocket and pulling out his phone. While the idiot was sleeping, he might as well be productive.
---
America woke up with a crick in his neck and a growling stomach. He sat up, England’s jacket crumbling into his lap. He stared at it a moment, the world fuzzy, before he looked around for Texas.
“Oh, you’re awake,” England said, walking around from the front of the truck, where he’d stood a fair distance away to use America’s phone. “Texas is in your bag.”
America dug around for it and pushed the glasses up the bridge of his nose. He yawned and felt his jaw crack. “How long have you been awake?”
“Not quite an hour,” England said, and handed America’s phone back to him. “Here.”
“Huh?” America asked, intelligently so.
England cracked a smile. “There’s a gas station a few miles west, they’ll send someone over. Heaven knows I’ve had to go through so many people just to have them do that.”
“Good they won’t have to tow, then,” America said, yawning again and massaging his neck to work out the sore muscles.
“Truly,” England agreed.
America held out England’s jacket to him and the other nation took it, eyes downcast. He made a great show of dusting it off and flapping it a bit to let it lose some of the wrinkles before slipping it back on, as if it had been a great sacrifice on his part to give it to America to use as a blanket.
Watching England button himself up, America said, “It’s been a week.”
“Hm?” England asked, eyes still down.
“Since we started this,” America explained.
England’s eyes finally did flicker up, catching America’s gaze and holding firm. “I know.”
“And you don’t mind being here?”
“Here?” England repeated. He glanced sourly at the truck. “I would have preferred to sleep in a bed last night, but…”
“I meant in general,” America insisted but knew that England already knew this.
England looked off to the side, down the road to see if anyone was coming. He shrugged one shoulder, but his blushing face was answer enough.
---
Later that morning found England and America on the road again, navigating through Montana on their way towards Idaho. The truck moved along swiftly now, filled with gasoline to fuel the way, and the ever watchful eye of the former empire to make sure they didn’t have another situation like that again.
America was oddly silent during the ride, which England naturally noticed. He’d been quiet for the last few days and England liked to pretend he wasn’t concerned, but it was atypical to have the American be quite so silent for quite so long, without at least some kind of chortle to himself or a wide, inane grin.
But England didn’t ask, so they drove in silence.
“I never expected us to drive this far,” England finally said, glancing at America.
America didn’t look away from where he was looking at the mountains, expression neutral but eyes bright, reflecting in the window. “Yeah.”
“It’s not bad, I suppose,” England admitted and wanted to keep watching America’s face but had to turn back and actually pay attention to the road they were driving on. The truck bumped along, and even the radio was silent, nothing but fuzz when turned on.
“No,” America said quietly and England couldn’t help but turn back to him, always attracted, always drawn back to him no matter how he tried to pull away. America was smiling. “If we’ve gone this far, might as well make it to the coast, right? It’ll only be a few more days, at our pace.”
“Shall I just stay on this highway, then?”
“Might as well, unless you want to go back to back roads,” America said with a shrug.
“Hmm,” England hummed lightly. “We still would need to drive back, though.”
“Well,” America chewed on the inside of his cheek for a moment before saying, “This’ll take us to Seattle. But we can go down south to California and go back that way. If we can go down to L.A. we can take Route 66.”
“… ‘Get your kicks’?” England asked.
This time America’s smile was more of an inane grin, and it was only then that England fully realized how relieved he was to see it there. He nodded. “Yeah! I mean, maybe not all the way since it’ll end up taking us to Chicago again. And it’s really only ‘historical’ now so it might take a while… or something.”
“In either case we’ll both have to find our way back to New York, so we can figure it out as we go along.”
“Well,” America said, leaning back and looking almost smug. “Look at you, being all spontaneous like that.”
“It seems you’ve been rubbing off on me.”
“Next thing you know you’ll want to crash Mexico’s place and do more crazy shit.”
“I’m so sure.”