Highway Cloudbusting -- Part 10 (10/11)

[stardropdream]

Title: Highway Cloudbusting -- Part 10 (10/11)
Series: Axis Powers Hetalia
Characters: England, USA, mentions of other nations, unnamed American citizens
Pairing: Eventual England/USA
Rating: PG-13 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: "I'm being honest right now." "I know you are."
Notes: Sooo unsure about this chapter. I'm excited to see what you all think; I hope I didn't totally fuck it up. And again, thank you to everyone who's commented and followed this story so far. I never expected to have so many people commenting and I'm just so thankful for everyone's support and encouragement. ♥
Other installments:
Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11


They stood in silence, in the middle of nowhere, somewhere in California, their eyes not leaving one another’s. The air was thick, dry. England’s mouth was dry. His feet were tethered, he couldn’t get away. He couldn’t look away from America’s eyes, painfully quiet. Or just pained. He couldn’t know. He couldn’t tell. He couldn’t understand.

“I have something to tell you,” America said again after the silence stretched on for a long moment. He took a step forward but cringed in pain as he placed too much weight on his tweaked ankle. England told himself he wasn’t sympathetic.

“… Then out with it,” England prompted, out of breath, the air in his lungs constricted and strangling him. He breathed deeply, harshly, greedily swallowing up air and trying to calm his racing insides, the fluttering feelings of adrenaline.

America opened his mouth, worked it a few times as he collected his words, tried to say what he had to say. England, for half a second, felt something shift in his chest but he ignored it, told himself that wishful thinking never did anyone any good. He watched America swallow, and traced the line of his throat before he forced his eyes to look up at America again.

“I was going to kiss you, back at the gas station,” America said seriously, because the true words he wanted to say wouldn’t come. He decided to work his way up, slowly, one revelation at a time, and his words were hushed and hesitant and he looked embarrassed, his face red and his hand shaking.

“I’m well aware of that, you imbecile,” England snapped, agitated and skittish.

America cringed as England crossed his arms protectively over his chest and glared at America, his green eyes darkened and frustrated. He hunched a bit, curling into himself, defensive. He glared at America, unable to let his guard down for a moment.

“I refuse to be a little plaything of yours,” England snapped.

“… Huh?” America asked-startled.

“Something with which you can do what you want and then cast aside whenever you grow bored.”

America stared at him in confusion. “You think I…?”

“You certainly haven’t given me any reason to think otherwise,” England snapped.

“But I…” he started, and then stopped. He stared at England in confusion, blue eyes wide. “But you told me to stop.”

“Of course I did,” England said with a scoff, his glare continuing, hiding the way his heart throbbed in pain. “I don’t want you to do things just because they come to you and you like to indulge in such ridiculousness. I don’t want you to do things and then later regret it-pretend it didn’t even happen.”

America’s eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to speak.

But England wasn’t done yet. He continued, his words catching in his throat, “We both know that-we both know…” He shook his head. “You might be able to easily forget things and act as if they’d never happened, for the sake of your whims-to use people however you damn well please. But I’m not so easily deluded.”

“I’m not deluded,” America said quietly. His expression crumbled slightly.

“You have to be, if you would do something like that-”

“How does it make me deluded?” America asked, feeling annoyed that so easily his feelings were being dismissed, how difficult it was for him to express them at all in the first place. How frustrating it was, to have England be so sure of the truth when it was far from the truth. His heart quivered. He didn’t know what to do. He wanted but didn’t want to want. He needed, but needed not to need. How could this be the case? How could he-

England stared at him, and America tried to read the expression beneath his anger. He couldn’t. England was too guarded, stepping away from him, his arms crossed and his body arched as if in pain. Perhaps there was nothing but anger, now. Perhaps it really was too late.

“I’m not your toy,” England told him seriously. “You can’t-this isn’t how you’re meant to treat a… a friend.” His voice grew quiet on the last word, unresponsive and passive. Thrown in as an afterthought-as a correction. England looked as if he was going to say more. He just shook his head. He whispered, “A friend.”

“But I-” I want to give you more. I don’t want to be your friend.

“You can’t tell me that friendship is the only thing you can give me, and then turn around to give me things that I don’t need, America. I don’t need any of this-I don’t want any of this, if it means that you’ll just discard it once you’re done. You can’t call me a friend and then-”

“I’m sorry!” America shouted, interrupted.

England shook his head. “Do you even know why you’re apologizing? Do you even have any idea what you’ve done?” England shook his head again. “I can’t do this anymore, America. I’m too tired of it. I cannot… I cannot give you what it is you want.”

America looked stricken. “Wait-!”

“I refuse,” England told him, seriously, his expression dark. “I refuse to be a means to rid you of your urges while you continue to deny everything and pretend it hadn’t existed at all. I’ve allowed it, admittedly. It’s my own fault. I shouldn’t have let it come to this.”

“I don’t-!”

“I can’t return to the way things were before, America. I can’t be the ‘normal’ friend you want me to be.”

“Would you fucking stop interrupting me already, goddamn it?” America shouted.

England turned away, uncrossing his arms and walking away.

“Wait, for fuck’s sake!” America shouted and stepped forward. He didn’t make it far before crying out in pain and crumbling to his knees, his ankle jolting in fiery pain. He grasped his ankle, curling into himself and hissing in pain, feeling the smallest beads of tears collecting in the corners of his eyes-frustrating, pain, pain, so much pain-

It was so painful, to watch England walk away, to have England get him wrong and to know he was getting England wrong, that with every step they grew further and further apart-

He didn’t want England to go away. He didn’t want him to misunderstand-

How painful. How painful it was to know the one you love didn’t love you back-

How painful, to know he was walking further and further away and he couldn’t catch up-

He felt a hand touch his shoulder and he jolted his head up, staring at England with wide eyes. He blinked a few times, as if unsure whether to believe England had come back, but there he was. The guarded expression was still there, but now England seemed more concerned than angry.

“You hurt yourself running around like a fool, didn’t you?” England asked, kneeling beside him. He seized America’s hand, pulling it away from his ankle with gentle force to get a look at it.

“It’s because you can’t seem to run in a straight line,” America said, voice hushed and pained. “And you never stop, damn it.”

England pulled America’s pant leg up a bit, examining the ankle. Already it was swelling. “You should go back to the truck, to get the pressure off it.”

“I’m not going back there unless you’re coming back with me,” America vowed, his face contorted in pain and his anger. He grabbed England’s wrist when the older nation tried to retreat, tired to pull his arm away harshly. “I won’t let you get away from me anymore.” England stared at him, his green eyes widened a fraction before he tried, gently this time, to pry America’s hold off him. “England, just fucking listen to what I have to say!” America shouted. “Just listen!”

The older nation paused, and something flickered in his eyes for half a second.

“Haven’t you already said what you came to say?” England asked.

“No,” America said. “I haven’t even begun to say anything.”

England frowned and closed his eyes.

America was tired of waiting. He uncurled from around himself and sat on his knees. England stood up, to try to pull his wrist away, but America refused to budge. With great effort, leaving as much weight as possible off his ankle, America stood up, facing England.

“I…” his throat choked before the words could make their ways out, lodged in his throat and clawing their way back down to the pit of his stomach, where a block of ice was forming and drifting through his chest, leaving him cold.

“You just don’t understand, do you?” England whispered, bowing his head.

“You’re convinced I’m a dumbass anyway, so why don’t you just tell me?”

“You are an idiot,” England agreed, eyes on the ground. He’d stopped trying to get out of America’s grip. His hand went slack as America squeezed his wrist.

“Then tell me,” America pleaded, and hated that he was pleading. “Just tell me. I already know I’ve fucked up big time, England. I’ve messed up. I have. I know I have. And I’ll do everything that I can to make it better, to make it up to you.”

England closed his eyes and didn’t respond right away. America couldn’t read his expression.

“Move on,” England told him.

“Huh?” America asked.

England opened his eyes, looking at him. The sadness there extinguished the fire in his eyes. He looked at America with such hopelessness that America tried to step forward before remembering his ankle and stopping abruptly. England looked away, off into the middle-distance.

“Is it…” America paused. He waited until England’s eyes flickered back to him. “Am I hopeless? Am I too late?”

England stared at him, trying to make sense of the words and refusing himself that small kindling of hope in his chest. He refused. He could only handle so much heartbreak.

“Too late for what?”

America froze, looking at him with wide eyes.

He swallowed.

“England, I-I know that I…”

England said nothing when America trailed off.

America cleared his throat.

“I understand now, I understand a lot more than I did before.” He tried to shift his weight and cringed when he forgot about his ankle. It renewed its painful throbbing and he almost crumbled. England stepped forward, not looking at him, but holding his elbow, supporting him. America swallowed. “I realize all these things-it’s… I can’t stop thinking about it, and no matter how I try I know-I know that I won’t be able to move on. I won’t be able to forget. And most of all… most of all I…”

He let go of England’s wrist and lifted the hand to his own face, pressing it to his face gently, fingers pushing under his glasses to press against his eyelids. He almost expected England to pull away with America’s guard down, but the hold on his elbow tightened and he heard the other nation shift closer with a sigh, the one supporting America now, the one making the contact and not pulling away.

He pulled his hand away, blinking his eyes open to stare down at England, who stared up at him with a carefully guarded, yet curious, expression. He nodded his head, a signal for America to continue.

“I fucked up badly-and I’m-I’m so sorry. I’ll… you have every right to be angry with me. To beat the shit outta me because I’m just… a huge dumbass. But I don’t want to forget. I lied before. I do remember everything. I do-I… I do. Really, England, I-”

Still, England said nothing.

Fear gripped America’s heart, the urge to run away returned. He ignored it. He would no longer be a coward. England had every right to reject him, to hate him forever. He should let England go, let England leave him if that was what he wanted. But he refused to let England go now, not without saying what he had to say, not without being honest.

He closed his eyes again, inhaling sharply. His heart hammered in his chest and he licked his lips, tilting his chin down to look at England better when he opened his eyes.

England was not moving. England said nothing.

“I… I’m not supposed to love you, England. But I…” America whispered. He couldn’t say anything, but he knew he’d said enough. He’d incriminated himself.

England’s eyes widened a fraction of an inch.

America tried to swallow around the lump lodged stubbornly in his throat, his damn Puritanical sensibilities that prevented him from actually saying what he had to say. If he didn’t say it now, England would misunderstand and America would never be able to say it and England would smile that depressing, painful smile that he hated so much to see-that somehow was worse than seeing his anger.

America swallowed. “But I… I do.”

He’d said it. And now that it was out in the open, it felt as if everything had shifted, everything weighing down in his chest, clawing against his throat, evaporated in the air, free from him. Free from his heart, from his insecurities, from everything. He knew England had heard his words. He steeled himself for the rejection.

There was no immediate reaction, and he watched England’s face for anything-any sign of revulsion or surprise… or anything. There was nothing right away, just the slightest further widening of eyes as he stared up into America’s face. Then, soon enough, America realized the hand on his elbow was shaking slightly.

Then England took a step back, dropped his hand away from his elbow, and ducked his head. America made a soft noise of surprise, but had no time to say anything as England turned around and started walking away, his head still bowed.

“W-wait!” America shouted. “England, come back! Don’t leave! Come back!”

England didn’t answer, though he did stop a short ways away. He didn’t turn to look at America but he saw the hand lift to press to his face.

“I know I’m an idiot,” America called out to him, refusing to back down. He wobbled on his one good foot, unsure if he should walk towards England-he didn’t want to make the other man start running again; this time, he wouldn’t be able to catch him if he let him get away. “I know I fucked up a lot and-and it probably didn’t mean anything to you. You keep telling me I should move on, to forget it. And I’ve tried-I’ve tried way too much England and I can’t anymore. I won’t be able to. Even if you don’t feel the same-I’ll do everything I can to make it up to you, no matter what. I’ve fucked up before, and I was a coward. But I’m a hero, and heroes take responsibility for what they’ve done.”

England didn’t respond. He started walking again, and this time America realized his shoulders were heaving.

“Don’t make me run again, England!” America called out but started walking, limping, his way over towards England. He quickened his pace, his heart thundering in his chest and the words, dislodged from his throat, rushing out of him in waves. “-I’d understand if you hated me. But I can’t keep it in anymore, I won’t. I have to tell you. I do.”

England didn’t seem to be moving that quickly anymore, so America caught up to him, laying a hesitant hand on his shoulder. England froze, and America realized, belatedly, that England wasn’t crying, but laughing.

His face was covered, and his muffled words were, “It’s impossible. It’s not possible. Of course you’d say something like this-something like this after I’ve already decided to-”

“It’s not impossible!” America shouted, and forgot that England was so close until the older nation cringed at the volume of his voice.

“You can’t,” England said.

“I do,” America insisted.

England dropped his hand away, the disbelieving laughter gone now, and stared at America with utmost seriousness. The sudden change in demeanor threw America off slightly, but England didn’t say anything right away.

“I’ll say it as many times as I have to before you believe me,” America vowed.

“You don’t have to do that,” England said, looking away.

They stood in a stilled silence. America didn’t know what to do-he wasn’t sure what he’d expected after his confession, but now to be in the aftermath he was unprepared. England still said nothing, staring at the ground with wide eyes, expression twisted and stiffened up in shock.

“I realized it and I… nothing changed. It felt just the same. Except that I think I… I understood more.” He licked his lips now. “I understand now.”

England said nothing for a long moment.

“Won’t you… say something?” America asked.

“What would you have me say?”

“I don’t know,” America admitted. He looked down, too, eyes hooded.

They stood in silence.

America knew what he wanted England to say-what he’d wanted all along. But things weren’t going the way they were meant to go, and he stayed in silence, finally lifting his gaze to stare at England’s profile as the other nation stared at the ground.

“You aren’t just saying so,” England said at last.

“Of course not,” America said, taken aback and feeling insulted by the not-question. “I wouldn’t… you know me, England. I wouldn’t just… say it without meaning it.”

This time, England’s shoulders shook for another reason. America spotted the tears in the corner of England’s eye and reached out a hand, touching his shoulder.

England brushed it off with a shake of his head.

“Don’t, please.”

“England…”

“How can it possibly be like that? You’re… you.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” America asked, insulted.

England met his gaze, and held it firm. America refused to back down, staring into England’s face-Believe me.

The younger nation was in shambles. He’d fallen apart, he’d been blown apart. He’d put himself back together, but it was all wrong. There was so much he understood, so much he struggled to portray-and England was right there. Right there. Yet, so far away.

“England,” America said when England didn’t speak right away. “Talk to me.”

The older nation sighed, and then inhaled quickly, closing his eyes. He composed himself and opened his eyes again, staring at America. His eyes were glassy, but he was doing his best to restrain the tears. The sight was enough to force a rock in America’s own throat that wouldn’t budge, the familiar pressure of tears against the back of his own eyes. He blinked a few times.

He should have been prepared, for the rejection. It’d been what he’d expected, but it in no way made it any less painful. It was painful, a one-sided love. To know that England didn’t feel the same, to know that his emotions would not be returned. As a hero, he should be able to grin and bear it, but America knew in the movies, the hero always got the love of his life. There was no preparation for heartbreak-and it was something America hadn’t felt in a long, long time. He should be used to people hating him, people not wanting him, people finding him annoying-but it was compounded, and so much worse, to think that, to England, he was nothing important.

“Oh, hell,” England breathed, words failing him as well as he stared at America.

“I’m being honest,” America told him, his voice pleading-Believe me.

“… I know,” England said quietly.

America stared at him, silently pleaded with him, but if England could see what America was asking, he did not answer or respond. Instead, he just shook his head, absently, his face heavy with thoughts he wouldn’t share with America.

“So I’ve… said what I needed to say,” America said quietly, when the silence stretched on.

England nodded, absently.

“Maybe if I… I don’t know. Don’t… uh. Don’t think about it or anything,” America said, England’s silent rejection having more of an effect on him than he’d care to admit, leaving him ice cold, shaking, and unsure. His words stuttered and trailed off. “I mean, uh. It’ll probably pass. Who knows… it could be… just a phase or something…” He trailed off, unable to lie. “No. No, it won’t go away. I know it won’t.”

He stared at England, but still England said nothing.

“England,” America said.

England’s eyes flickered up. America held them steadily, feeling his back straighten and his hands curl into fists. He inhaled, and exhaled. His heart hammered, but he didn’t pause to think about how nervous he was.

“It’s okay. I know you don’t feel the same.”

England stared at him, looking startled. “You’re…”

“I, uh. I don’t expect anything from you, or anything. I just… I don’t know what you want.”

“I want…” England began, lifting his hand. He paused, however, and slowly the hand balled into a fist.

America stared at it, waiting for him to throw the punch. He prepared himself, already feeling his jaw ache in pain over the earlier punch. He waited for the punch.

It never came.

“You…” England began, then trailed off. He shook his head, too. “You…”

“What?” America asked. “What about me?”

“If this is just a means to test out something-to try and relieve the battling thoughts in your mind-I won’t allow that to happen again, America. I refuse to let you tug me along on a leash as if I have no feelings or thoughts of my own-you want something one moment, then you backtrack and say you don’t want it. You say we’re friends and then you try to kiss me in public as if that doesn’t bother you at all. Don’t just stand there and say these things-don’t just… assume that I’ll be-”

“I won’t do any of that again. I’m sorry. I’ll say that as many times as I have to, until you believe me. I fucked up. I know I did.”

“You’ve already made it more than clear that the very idea repulses you.” England looked away. “Why would you kiss another man if you’re against the very idea of it? Why would you want to be with another man if it was something that disgusted you? How can you-when the idea of someone even thinking you’re not straight is enough to send you into a fit?”

“Tha-that isn’t it!” America cried.

“Isn’t it?” England leveled him with an angered stare, but America could see he was hurt underneath it. He wanted to touch his face, to smooth his thumbs across his cheekbones. He restrained himself.

“I’m not repulsed by it! I don’t-it’s just-I don’t care what anybody else does I just… I don’t know. I don’t want to be made fun of or treated differently because of something like this.”

“You’re the one treating it differently, first of all.” England was shaking. “And since when do you care what anyone thinks?”

“That isn’t… I don’t,” America said lamely and perhaps for the first time, England truly realized that behind all his bravado, America very much did care what others thought of him and wanted them to like him. America shook slightly. “I just-I didn’t think it’d be something like this. It just takes some getting used to, ya know? I don’t-I didn’t think it’d be like this.”

“Well it is.” He looked away again, not even realizing when his eyes had migrated back to looking at America-only America. Then England added, quietly, realizing he’d, somehow, already accepted America’s confession as the truth, “I suppose.”

“Yeah,” America whispered.

“… What do you intend to do about it?” England asked, after a long, hushed silence between the two of them.

Dusk was creeping across the expanse of land. Night was falling.

“I don’t know,” America cried, taking a step towards England and ignoring the urge to cringe. His hand touched England’s shoulder, and it stayed there now. “I just-I don’t know what to do. I feel weird, it feels weird. But I…”

His other hand reached up to rest on England’s other shoulder. The other nation did not pull away.

His heart hammered in his ears.

England stared at him, expression guarded and yet still managing to be so open-so vulnerable.

He was too conflicted. His chest hurt.

He didn’t know what to do.

He never knew what to do.

“I know what I want. But I also… I don’t know what to do,” America confessed.

England’s eyes flickered to look at him again. He stiffened slightly, unused to hearing America admit to not knowing something, to not have some master, heroic plan to concoct much to the chagrin of all his allies. He didn’t know how to respond to America’s honesty-he’d wanted it, oh how he’d wanted it. And now to have it, to have America openly admitting to his shortcomings, to his mistakes, to his feelings-

England didn’t know what to do, either.

England lifted his hands when America started to shake. He held him up, supported him. America leaned against his hold, taking the weight off his pained ankle. They stayed in silence. America tried to find his words, and England stayed silent in order to listen, waiting for America’s words, for his honesty.

“It hurts,” America said at last.

“… Your ankle?” England asked.

“I guess,” America muttered. He hadn’t meant his ankle. His heart throbbed.

“I’ll take you back to the truck,” England said, and sounded apologetic. He shifted, stepping away and brushing America’s hands off his shoulders. He moved up to America’s bad side, sliding his arm around America’s waist, hand on his hip. America closed his eyes, felt his heart race. England looked up at him, silently, before nudging America.

America draped his arm over England’s shoulders.

“Put all your weight on me,” England commanded.

“But…”

“I can handle it,” England cut him off gently. He turned his attention towards the truck in the distance, where the doors were left wide open from their hasty retreats. In the near darkness, it served as a silent beacon for the two of them. “I can handle your weight, America. It isn’t a burden.”

America hesitated for a second before he did as was asked of him, slumping against England, leaning his entire weight on the nation. He half-expected England to at least crumble a little, for his knees to buckle, but he held on strong. He remained standing, back straight, and moved easily with America leaning against him, guiding him back towards the truck.

“… Thanks,” America whispered, his breath soft in England’s ear.

England nodded. “You worry too much sometimes, my lad.”

They walked in silence for the long walk back towards the truck-only now did America realize just how much distance the two of them had put between themselves and the highway-and only struggled slightly moving up the rise back to the road, where the truck waited for them.

“I hope no one stole our crap,” America said.

“I don’t suppose you even have a first aid kit in your car,” England said, not acknowledging America’s statement.

America shrugged. “I might? I don’t know. We can check under the seat.”

They reached the truck, after a brief struggle up the hill towards the truck, and England shoved the passenger door the rest of the way open. He shifted, moving so America faced him, back to the seat, moving his arm from around America’s side-and how America missed his touch-only to grab his thighs.

“Uh-” America began.

But England ignored him, shoving the boy up and onto the seat, hands on his legs to steady him and make sure he was comfortable. He placed his hands on America’s hips, moving him so he was sitting back on the seat, his legs hanging out of the truck. England stood between his legs, eyes down as he steadily rolled up America’s pant leg, surveying the swollen ankle.

“England…”

“Shush,” England commanded, untying America’s shoelace and slowly, so very slowly, pulling the shoe off for him. His free hand gripped the bottom of his shin, as a means to steady the ankle. He removed the sock in the same way.

He stepped back and America almost reached out his hand to draw him back. He restrained himself and watched as England ducked down, resting one arm on the floor mat and the other gripping the seat cushion, so close to America’s leg, and searching under the seats for any signs of a first aid kit. America watched him as he worked, the way his hair fell over his face, the way his back curved and arched. His heart throbbed again.

“Anything?” America asked, his voice hushed and breathless.

England retreated, straightened, and shook his head. His hand shifted up off the seat cushion, patting America on the hip.

“I can search the bags, for something that we can use as a makeshift bandage for now. It’d be best if you had some ice, but that’s out of the question here.”

England took a step away, drawing his hand away from America’s hip. America grabbed England’s hand before he could get away. The other nation stared at him in surprise, blinked once.

“Wait,” America whispered.

“Yes?”

“I still have things I need to say,” America told him.

England frowned at him. “Ah… of course.”

“I’m… I’m going to be honest.”

“Please,” England said with a nod, closing his eyes a moment.

America swallowed. “So… trust me.”

England inhaled. Then he exhaled. He didn’t say anything for a long moment.

“Is that… too much to ask for, now?” America asked.

England shook his head. “I’ll do what I can.”

He shifted closer, not pulling his hand away from America. America felt his heart lodge in his throat, but refused to indulge in the smallest glimmer of hope he felt bubbling in his chest, the small amount of dread he felt. He wanted England to feel the same way about him-more than anything, he wanted England near him, always. It was a feeling he would never be rid of, that he was sure of. He wanted England-he wanted to be with England. And yet-

And yet-

The words caught, once again, in America’s throat. He choked slightly, felt his expression crumble to mimic England’s own-saddened eyes, slackened lips, eyebrows slanted away from one another. He knew his cheeks were red.

America leaned towards him, they were already so close though, and lifted a hand, touched England’s cheek. His thumb pressed along the red blush there, the pad thumbing across soft skin. England’s eyes were on him, opened and blinking slowly as he peered up at him. He knew that America’s eyes must mimic England’s own-uncertain and vulnerable. America wasn’t used to this-

He was terrible with words, he realized, not for the first time, as he tried to collect them in the scrambled remains of his brains. England had promised silence, had promised to listen. And now he struggled to find the things to which England was meant to listen. He was terrible with words, never knew what to say or how to say it-it always came out in a mess, or he relied on things other than words to relay his feelings. Conveying feelings through a look, through a nudge of an elbow, through a laugh or a snort or-or anything. Anything but-

“I haven’t forgotten-that night. I wasn’t drunk.”

England looked as if he were about to speak, but remembered himself and closed his mouth.

“I was kinda tipsy, at least. I dunno. I dunno what I was thinking then-” he swallowed, worked his mouth around the words and stumbled. “I-I thought, hey, if I just do this and get it outta my system, I’ll stop thinking like this about England.” He fidgeted. “Cause I kept thinking about you. I can’t stop it even now.”

England looked disbelieving, green eyes closing off and looking away. America moved both his hands and pushed his palms against England’s cheeks until his face puckered up, lips parted like a fish’s.

“Listen to me!” he demanded.

England glared and squirmed against America’s hold, and he slackened the force of his hold, though did not remove his hands. They rested, his palms, slightly sweaty, against England’s bright red cheeks. England did not recoil, but he didn’t exactly lean into the touch.

At least the vulnerable look was gone.

“I got you drunk. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I took advantage of you-I was a huge, disgusting coward. I pretended to be drunk and got you drunk just so I could try to get shit out of my system. I used you. I shouldn’t have. I did use you-like a toy. But you aren’t. Fuck, England, that isn’t what I wanted. I’m a huge fucking douchebag and I’m… I’m…”

England looked as if he was about to say something.

America couldn’t stand to hear his disgust, to hear his agreement. He said, “And then that night happened and it-it got worse.”

England’s eyes flickered.

America backtracked. “I mean-I couldn’t stop. I kept thinking about you. I said it was a mistake and I-you said I’d leave the room like you were a whore or something. I just… fuck. Fuck. I just left you alone. You said I’d leave you even after I said I wouldn’t-and I-I’m so… And you were right. You know me too well.”

I don’t know you at all, they both thought at the same moment, looking up at each other. Not as much as I want to.

“I wasn’t drunk,” England breathed.

America froze. “Wha-”

“I wasn’t drunk,” England said again. “You didn’t force me to do anything.”

“Oh… fuck,” America hissed, clenching his eyes shut. His hands fell away from England’s face and he covered his own face, bowing into himself. “Fuck me. Just… fuck me.”

“I knew you would regret it, America. I knew from the start what you were trying to do and I-I let you, anyway.”

“But why?” America asked, looking stricken before pressing his hands to his face again.

England didn’t answer. He lifted one hand and stroked America’s hair, keeping his touch soft. He knew, in that instant, that England was comforting him and that was just not right, it couldn’t be right-

He was the one to take advantage of England, to use him and then cast him aside. He was the one who left England confused, and burdened him and annoyed him and pissed him off. He couldn’t stand the idea of England pitying him, of hating him, of anything. He wanted England to love him, to love him just as much as America loved him.

“Stop,” America whispered.

The hand stilled and fell away.

America shook his head, lifting his gaze. “Don’t comfort me-I’m the one that… I’m the one that does all that shit to you and then. God, why aren’t you angry?”

“I am angry,” England said, calmly.

America started.

“But not only at you,” England said, voice quiet. “I’d expected as much to happen, America. I let it happen regardless. I said nothing. I… am far too used to things like this. I should be used to it to the point where it doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“England-”

“Don’t you… understand?” England asked, flickering his eyes up at America again. America squirmed in his seat, wanting to fly down to England’s level, hating how close he was and yet how far away he’d become. England patted his knee. “No,” he said quietly, “Of course you don’t.”

“England-”

England nodded. “I know. I know, my lad.”

“I want to set things right. I’m being honest right now.”

“I know you are.”

“I mean everything I say.”

“I know you do.”

“So, please listen.”

“I am.”

America licked his lips. “I don’t-I don’t want to forget, England.”

“America,” England whispered, unable to keep name from his lips, the slight hitch in his breath, the way his eyes threatened tears. America touched his face again and England ducked his head away with a shake of his head.

“I… I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not like you, to apologize so much,” England whispered, shaking his head.

“I-”

“I know you’re being honest, America. You’re… I know you are. You’ve hurt yourself running after me. And you…” He looked up, again, suddenly, studying his face. “You never could act that well. You’re really… truly… truly, such an idiot…”

“Hey…” America protested, weakly.

“So don’t apologize anymore,” England said. He sucked in a sharp breath. “Because I’m… I’m sorry as well.”

“Why?”

England shook his head. “We’ve both… done things.”

“But…”

“So it’s alright,” England said. “You’re trying to fix things now, aren’t you? Mr. Hero.”

“Yeah,” America said, voice weak.

“How’s your foot?” England asked, abruptly.

“That’s not important right now,” America said seriously, eyebrows slanting together. He leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees, staring at his companion. “England.”

England sighed, and met his gaze. “Don’t be ridiculous. What if you’ve gone and broken something like the fool you are?”

He touched America’s leg, hand straying over his knee and slipping down, pushing his pant leg back up again and gripping his calf. America’s breath stilled. He shifted, planting his hands behind him so he could lean back, try to get the distance between himself and England, so he wouldn’t fall forward to England, to take him in his arms. He breathed in deeply, tilting his head back to the roof and ignoring the feel of England’s hands on him, the touch of his fingers slipping over his leg, over his knee, and brushing, ever so slightly and ever so briefly, over the barest whisper of his inner thigh as he tucked his jeans under his knee.

And then the pleasure of England’s touch evaporated when one hand gripped his foot and turned it in his hand, testing the range of motion. He hissed in sudden pain, jolting up and shouting out a loud curse. “Fuck!”

The hand on his calf shifted, stroking his skin in apology. “It’s to see how bad it is, America. It won’t take long.”

“Fuuuuuck,” America said, trying to pull his leg from England’s touch. England turned it the other way, trying to keep his touch gentle. It didn’t hurt as much this time until it reached a certain point, and then America jolted again with another strangled shout. “Fucking shit, England-stop that!”

“It’s only a light sprain, it seems,” England said at last, and mercifully released his hold on America’s foot.

“Light sprain my ass, motherfucker,” America cursed, retreating and holding his ankle with both hands to protect them. “Shit!”

England shifted forward, eyes hooded. He covered America’s hands with his own, covering and keeping them there. America fell silent, staring in confusion. England didn’t do anything for a long moment before shifting, looking up at him. When he spoke, his voice was hushed and heavy, and America knew he was speaking on more than just his ankle: “I’m sorry, America.”

“I… well…” America trailed off, still feeling annoyed but feeling the blatant anger evaporate along with the sharp jolts of pain. The throbbing in his ankle echoed faintly through his leg, but it felt distant.

America shifted.

“Uh, thanks.”

“Of course,” England said. “Shall I go see if there’s something we can use to wrap your ankle up now?”

“No… wait,” America whispered.

England paused, stepping back close to America again.

“You keep interrupting me, damn you. There’s… I still need to… I have things I need to say.”

“What else is there to say?”

“That’s…”

“I know you’re sorry… we’ve both made mistakes. You’ve gone and sprained your ankle like a true twit. And you-”

“There’s still a lot left to say!” America said. “I want-”

“Whether you have feelings for me or not,” England said calmly, “You don’t like the idea of being with someone who isn’t a woman. You understand this, America. As do I.”

“That isn’t-shut up!”

England raised one eyebrow at him. “Isn’t that what you were going to tell me?”

America grabbed his shoulders. “You aren’t-I don’t know. You’re-”

“I’m… what exactly?” England breathed, and allowed America to drag him close. He couldn’t stop it, couldn’t stop the way his heart swelled, the way the feelings of hope and insecurity bubbled in the pit of his stomach and he couldn’t deny it. He just couldn’t.

“To me… you are…”

America leaned in close, and this time England did not recoil, this time, he did not tell him to stop. He just watched him, waiting to see what he would do. His breath caught in his throat, his eyebrows slanted away from one another-and in the darkness, where the only light was the soft bathing of the truck’s light behind America’s head, he looked far too vulnerable, far too much like before.

America swallowed, but did not relent, tried not to focus on the look in England’s eyes. His mouth was just inches away from England’s. He could feel him breathing. His eyes sank to half-mast and he stared at England, who wasn’t watching him but seeming to look right through him and his eyes were on his lips, his eyelids fluttering a moment.

He leaned in, he was so close. He could, he-

“Jesus,” America gasped out and had to turn his face away the same time that England recoiled away from him. America’s head sank, and he rested his forehead on England’s shoulders, hands falling away to grip his hips. “Fuck. What am I thinking?”

In the silence that followed, England wondered if America heard his heart break yet again.

“My dear l-” England choked on the last word, and the ‘dear’ stayed in the air like a promise. Despite the fumble, England’s voice soothed gently, and the gentleness of which he spoke was unnerving and disarming to America. He’d expected anger, but it seemed to have all drained away. England lifted his hands, touching the back of America’s head, a gentle comfort that only broke America’s heart and resolve. How could he be like this, how could he be so understanding when he was being so fucking stupid? “You so rarely think.”

A rush of cold surged through America’s veins. He shivered. He couldn’t handle this-he couldn’t. It was too much, and not enough. He wanted to keep England in his arms but also run away. He wanted to kiss England but also avoid those lips.

England’s resignation was worse than his anger.

His smile was too sad.

“I just… I mean I… I just don’t know what to do because I feel this way but when I think about it for too long I just remember all those things that people say and… and I dunno. My conservatives…”

England gave him a slightly strangled look.

America coughed discreetly off to his right, expression bright red and eyes down.

Then he turned back to look at the other nation, frowning. “I just-it’s not something I ever expected. I mean, excluding the fact we’re nations and going out with normal humans would be difficult-being kinda immortal or whatever the hell we are-I always figured that if I was with someone, it would be for political reasons.” He hesitated, then added, “Or, ya know, a girl.”

England looked away.

America forced him to look again.

“I just-I’m not used to it.” He shifted his hands so his fingers curled into the wispy strands of England’s hair. “I don’t understand because I feel this way and when I realized what it probably was-um-yeah-I… nothing changed. I realized this and it was exactly the same, ya know?”

England let out a long rush of air, sagging under America’s hold, seeming to sink into the darkness of the California night.

“How long?” he asked.

“What?”

“How long have you felt ‘this way’?” he whispered.

America shook his head. “A long time. I just was a fucking dumbass and didn’t even realize. The-friendship thing. Or something. The feeling like you can’t-uh-nevermind, don’t make me say it again. It’s too sappy and dumb and shit-but it’s what it feels like. And I’ve thought you were a… a good friend for a while now. And before then, I…”

“Tell me,” England requested again. “How long?”

America spoke, and realized as the words passed his mouth, that was really, truly the way it was. This was the truth. He’d always-

“I’ve always felt this way.”

They stared at one another, letting that confession hang in the air. England was quaking beneath his touch.

“I just… didn’t realize.”

“You so rarely do,” England murmured.

“But I don’t know what to do-because if it’s the truth that-” he swallowed. “I can’t help but feel weird about it. Not because I think it’s wrong-I’d feel strange doing something like this with a woman, too, I think. I just didn’t think that, ya know, I’d be with someone and… uh, not to say we’re gonna be together. Cause you don’t feel the same way. Uh. Assuming shit again, way to go, me. Just. You know, I… Caring about someone-I didn’t expect to feel like I loved someone unless it was my own people or something. Having someone be ‘special’ to me… I didn’t expect it. But I… I’m…”

“You’re having an emotional crisis.”

“Fuck, yes,” America groaned, clenching his eyes shut and gritting his teeth. “I don’t know what to do, England. I’m conflicted. I feel like I’m being torn clean in two here, and it’s not supposed to be a big deal, fuck!”

“America,” England soothed gently, looking surprisingly calm given the situation. “You cannot make everyone happy. You have to do what you think is right, and some people will agree with you and others won’t. It’s impossible to make all your people happy, impossible to make every single person happy.”

“I know that… but…”

“Do what you think is right, what you want to do. Not what is expected of you. There is absolutely no weakness in having someone be precious to you.”

“But…”

“There isn’t,” England commanded, face tight and confident as he spoke. “Having someone be important to you-to love someone-that doesn’t make you weak. Having someone see you vulnerable, having someone care for you no matter what… how could that be weakness? It takes courage, to be with someone. So, do what makes you happy. Do what you want to do, not what is expected of you.”

“… Is that what you do?”

England looked taken aback.

“Are you doing what you want to do? What makes you happy?”

England stared at him, his breath caught. Then slowly, he shrugged one shoulder. “That’s not important right now.”

“But…”

“But nothing,” the other interrupted with a small sigh and a shake of his head. “You have to choose for you, not for what you think will make your people happy or your government or anything. You are more than what you represent.” He pressed a hand to America’s chest, patting just above his heart before dropping his hand away. “Pursue your own happiness.”

“… ‘And the pursuit of happiness’, huh?” America asked, and shifted uneasily.

Something flickered in England’s eyes. “Indeed.”

“I… how can I follow your advice when you don’t even do it for yourself?”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“Are you happy right now?”

England stared at him. Then, very quietly, he said, “No.”

“Exactly.”

“Following what I want is… I’m…”

“You’re the one that said that… that no one ever choked when swallowing their pride.” He grabbed England’s hand, held it tight. “England. Don’t… don’t hold it in anymore. Answer me. I… I… that is.”

He cleared his throat.

England stared at him.

America, very quietly, whispered, “I love you.”

“… I know you do, America,” England murmured after a stilled silence. He lifted a hand, touched America’s jaw, where the bruise from his punch was already blooming across America’s face. He stared into America’s eyes, saw something there that made him shift, and blink rapidly for a few moments. He sucked in a deep breath, his fingers splayed across America’s cheek. He whispered, “I know you do.”

“You believe me, don’t you?”

England closed his eyes, and gave the boy the slightest of watery smiles. “I do.”

“Good.”

“But I also know this is hard for you. You don’t… can’t be with me.” He let the words hang, but America missed it completely-missed the fact that he wasn’t being rejected.

“It isn’t that I don’t want it,” America protested. “I… I don’t know.”

There was a long, heavy silence. America bit his lip, torn. He pulled his hands away.

“I’ve told you everything I was going to say,” he said at length. “I’ve… been honest.”

England was silent for a long moment, so long that America was certain that England wasn’t going to say anything at all. But, presently, England inhaled sharply and took a step forward, close to him but looking uneasy.

“No matter what you say now, England,” America said very quietly. “It won’t change how I feel. I’ll still-I’ll feel this way, no matter what you say. So don’t…”

“Then,” England whispered, cutting America off. “I’ll be honest, as well. I haven’t…anything left to lose.”

“Yeah,” America agreed.

“America understand that-I’m-I want-” it seemed the words were caught in England’s throat, and he choked up before looking away, his face crumbling. He cleared his throat, tried to usher in a semblance of control, of nonchalance. It was so thin even America could recognize it for the farce it was. “You are…” England whispered, his words stuttering, stealing away America’s words before he could think to say them. England shifted his eyes up to America and it was only then that America realized that England hadn’t been looking up at him until that moment. “I’m so… sometimes it’s impossible to breathe, when I look at you.”

They stared at one another.

England dropped his eyes away. “It’s impossible sometimes, because it just… I want you so badly at times.”

That hadn’t been what America had expected-somehow, somehow he hadn’t expected that at all. He’d expected disgust, dismissal, proclamations of America’s stupidity, delusions, contradictions, selfishness. Mostly, he’d expected a quiet, apologetic rejection. His mouth flopped open momentarily, in his shock, before he whispered, “I never realized.”

The older nation looked amused a moment, shaking his head absently. “I didn’t intend for you to notice. And your head’s always too far up in the clouds to have noticed anything like that. You’re too busy looking at the stars, or playing the hero. Thinking about yourself. Why would you notice something you don’t wish to see?”

“I never… I didn’t…” America said and hated how his words failed, hated how passive and foolish he felt and looked.

“The things I said… while I was drunk,” England offered, still not looking at him. “Perhaps I hadn’t said it in the way I would have hoped. But I said what I said, and I meant it, as well.” He glanced up at America, and actually smiled. America was floored, staring at that smile, painfully resigned and calm. Gentle. “I didn’t intend for you to know, especially if you’d react like this. I don’t want for you to feel ashamed or lesser because of it, or because of whatever stereotypical obscenities you’ve filled your head with.”

“England, I…”

“It isn’t what I want,” England breathed.

All the air rushed from America’s lungs in a rush. “I… it isn’t like that.”

He was still smiling and it was both heartbreaking and infuriating and beautiful to look at. Still floored, America tried to summon up the words to say what he was feeling, what he was thinking. He hurt all over.

“How is it, then?” he asked.

America, again, could not find the words. His brow furrowed and he frowned, deeply.

“Okay,” he said slowly, “I just gotta man up and say it.”

England gave him a look.

America cleared his throat. “So listen carefully.”

“I am listening,” England said softly.

“I want you,” America said firmly. England, despite expecting a statement like that, still looked startled. America cleared his throat again. “I want to be with you. But…”

England took a step away.

“I understand.”

America realized England was retreating, and didn’t want him to. He leaned forward, grasping his wrist and keeping him there.

“You don’t understand!”

England’s hand was shaking. America stared at it.

He seemed to realize something in that moment.

He looked up at England. England let him look, and looked back at him, eyes uncertain.

“England… do you,” America paused, licked his lips, felt his entire body seize with fear at the answer, “do you love me, too?”

England’s eyes widened and he stared straight at America. There was no immediate reaction, but slowly, America watched the way the blush crept steadily up England’s neck and over his face and finally settling on the tips of his ears.

When he didn’t answer right away, America whispered, “Do you?”

The way he was looking at him-with wide eyes-and the fact he hadn’t come out and said no right away-it left America to think, that maybe it was true. It left him to hope, unrestrained and unrelenting.

“Don’t-no,” England said, his voice lifting higher than usual, taken aback. “Don’t be-don’t be ridiculous. As if I could-as if you were someone that I-”

And America wasn’t sure why, exactly, that thought made him want to sink into the ground, to throw himself over England and demand that he think differently. Except he knew exactly why. And he stared at England with wide, stricken eyes, his entire body tensed and the ridiculous urge to cry returning to battle against the back of his eyes. He blinked rapidly.

But England choked on his words upon seeing America’s face and he stuttered to a halt. He stared up at America’s face and, truly, for the first time, realized that America wasn’t lying, that his words were true. He realized, belatedly, that he was staring up at someone who loved him back.

“England…” America whispered, voice broken and small.

England lifted his hands, touching America’s cheeks. He opened his mouth, felt his entire face crumble into one of infinite sadness and disbelief. He stroked America’s skin, trying to calm him, to commit the feel of him to his memory.

“Are you…” America said quietly, recalling their entire conversation since he’d twisted his ankle for the first time, running over every word, trying his best to understand. He stared at England, refused to let the hope die. The little glimmers sparked in his chest. He swallowed. “You’re… lying, aren’t you?”

“I-” England began. He bit his lip and closed his eyes. He inhaled sharply, not saying anything for a long moment. “I… I am.”

“England?” America prompted. “You love me, don’t you?”

“All you ever do… is demand such compromising things from me,” England whispered. “It’s all you do-leave me feeling vulnerable as you selfishly demand information as if you were only asking for the time of day. This entire trip-all you’ve done is think about yourself, you selfish little brat, and everything surrounding you. And you don’t even think about how I-how I’m affected. And yet you never stop asking these things of me-of asking things that maybe I-maybe I… I hardly…”

“England…?”

England trailed off, and looked up into America’s eyes.

And then he nodded. He mouthed the words, though no sound came out.

There was a long silence, as the action sank into the contours of America’s mind. And then systematically exploded every rational thought into smithereens.

“You really are dense, if you have to ask me that,” England whispered. “Even through all this, all you can do is think about yourself. You never realize what others are trying to tell you, do you?”

“What? Hey…” America protested, but it sounded weak.

England’s eyes shut when he spoke again, his voice calmed, resigned: “I have always loved you, America.”

The words exploded again-to hear it-and America stared in shock. The words exploded, with barely any spare moments for it to settle. It struck America to his core and made everything shatter. Into infinitesimal pieces.

America swallowed, suddenly feeling as if there was cotton in his throat. He tried to work his way around it, but he stumbled.

“F-fuck,” America cursed and hated himself for the stutter. He leaned forward, nearly tripping out of the truck and falling on top of England in his haste. “Fuck, oh my fucking God.”

“What a mouth you have tonight,” England muttered, embarrassed.

“Fuck it. Just-fuck it,” America cursed, “Fuck everything-you… you love me.”

“Yes, I’m well aware of that,” England muttered, red-faced. “Now shut your mouth.”

America started to speak but jumped as England curled his fingers into the front of America’s shirt and pressed upwards. The words choked in his throat and America stopped speaking all together so that he could lean down and just kiss England already.