Starswept - part 2 (of 4)

[stardropdream]

Title: Starswept -- Part 2 (2/4)
Series: Axis Powers Hetalia
Characters: England, USA, mentions of other nations, unnamed American citizens
Pairing: 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: Just because you confess your feelings doesn't mean everything will fall into place from there - and England and America both have things they need to understand and accept about themselves and each other.
Summary for this chapter: The silence throughout the day is almost deafening, neither willing to make that step into "talking about it." When they finally do, it only backfires.
Notes: Murrr. /coherent
Other installments:
Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four


The morning passed in a horrible silence, and they only stopped when America’s growling stomach was so audible, not even England could ignore it and pretend he hadn’t heard anything. But of course, that wasn’t to say they didn’t try to ignore it. Both, at least, seemed keen on finishing their trip and finishing it. They were on the last leg, the home stretch-and at this point, the novelty and the fun of the trip had diminished to nonexistent. America, personally, was shocked that so far England hadn’t pulled over into a bar to drink himself into a stupor. It seemed that his desire to get away from America outbid his (possibly very strong) desire for alcohol. America wasn’t sure how he should feel about that.

With each growl of his stomach, America felt his face flush. He tried to ignore it, and even England seemed keen on ignoring it. But slowly, America, biting back a small whimper, said, “England… um…”

“You’re hungry,” England said, not a question.

“Yeah…”

England sighed, rubbed at the back of his neck in his attempts to work out the crick from earlier that morning. All things considered, America was acting rather shy about the whole ordeal. America felt England should compliment him for his ability to remain so quiet about his hunger. Usually with the first pang of hunger, he was right there whining to England about it and begging him to pull over to some fast food. Here, he’d held out with the hope that the hunger would go away. But he should have known better.

He balled one hand into a fist and pressed it against his stomach, absently, curling into his jacket in his attempt to silence the noise his growling stomach made, or to distract himself from the fact that he was really hungry. But of course England wouldn’t congratulate him on his restraint-he hadn’t really expected it, anyway-but he really did hope that England would pull over to get some food soon.

“… I’ll pull over for the next fast food we see,” England said at last, as if reading America’s mind.

America gave him a small smile, but it quickly rippled and grew into something much larger, goofy like his typical smiles. “Thanks, England.”

“Yes, well…” England said, but didn’t actually seem like he had anything else to say, because he just trailed off, bit his lip, and drummed his fingers along the steering wheel. Tap, tap, tap. His nose crinkled, just a little bit, his brow furrowing. But other than that, nothing else seemed to change in his expression, and America couldn’t quite place his tone, anyway. He hated being unable to read England, sometimes.

But they didn’t pass any fast food places right away. In fact, it was about another twenty minutes before they found one, and by then America was about ready to eat his own shoe rather than wait a moment longer (not really, though). England pulled off the winding road and pulled into the parking lot, cruising towards the drive-thru line. America leaned over, squinting past England to read the menu (even though he’d long since memorized the menu contents of all his fast food chains). He could smell England from this distance-which wasn’t necessarily a good thing, considering England was starting to smell about as sour as his attitude. America probably didn’t smell like roses, either, but he was immune to his own smell. He squinted at the menu, glancing occasionally at England, who looked at the menu in turn.

The voice box chattered at them, a peppy young girl asking for their order. England shifted, just slightly, angling his body away from America even as America leaned in closer to him, looking at the menu one last time before placing his order.

He turned to America, next, looked at him with that painfully neutral expression of his. “What will you get, my lad?”

America chewed on the inside of his cheek, his words arrested for a moment. He just looked at England, who continued to watch him without betraying even the slightest twitch. He told England his order, and England conveyed the message, turning his face away from America, but not before, for just one brief moment, England’s nose brushed against America’s cheek.

America pulled back, made himself comfortable in his seat. He slumped down, the diagonal seatbelt strap pressing against his chin. He folded his legs up, propping his feet up on the seat and resting his knees against the glove compartment and air bag compartment. He didn’t look at England again, and instead stared up at his knees with utter fascination. His fingers fiddled with his shoelaces until they fell away and he just toed his shoes off anyway. Toes wiggling, he fiddled now with the top of his socks, brushing his thumbs over the thick skin where heel melted into Achilles tendon.

“Oh for goodness sake,” England said as he dropped he fast food bag on America’s stomach. “Sit up, you daft fool.”

It felt achingly familiar, but so distant. Too much how it’d felt, before, before he’d actually managed to articulate his feelings to England, before England could admit that he felt the exact same way. It felt too safe, to retreat to a time when he could see America as only an idiot, emotionally distance himself.

He sat up, opened his mouth to speak. But England’s expression flickered, and he shoved a few fries into America’s mouth before America could say anything.

And then he clicked on the radio, turned his attention to the road, and clenched his jaw shut.

America chewed his fries, feeling uncharacteristically moody and unhappy.

But it was clear that England didn’t want to talk. At least, not at the moment. So, frustrated and perhaps a bit sympathetic, America ate his food and tried to curb the urge to speak. But once the urge was there, it was very difficult to ignore it, and more times than not, he felt the words forcing their way up his throat. His face colored, his throat constricted, and he tried to focus on the rise and fall of his breathing to calm himself down from the momentary panic that seized him. Why the fuck was he so scared? Things were supposed to be easy.

When the urge to speak became too great, he filtered all his attention towards singing along, badly, to the music on the radio. He closed his eyes, playing the air guitar where necessary. Occasionally, when he popped one eye open, he saw what appeared to be an almost smile on England’s face, but it was gone as quickly as he saw it. America resumed his singing, crooning at times, and when the drums became loud enough in the song, he practiced his percussion skills, complete with rim shots, his invisible drumsticks as his tools (or perhaps a fry that wasn’t bogged down with grease). He always did like the drums the best. They were loud and awesome.

His singing skills grew progressively worse as the late morning and early afternoon advanced, partially because America was half-expecting, half-hoping that England would tell him to shut up and then he could start up a conversation. He hated the roundabout way of doing things, but sometimes England was so fucking stubborn and stupid that it was the only way even to begin to breech a subject. In reality, America didn’t even know where to start, or how to start. It was clear that England, too, was doing a lot of thinking, if the slant of his eyebrows was any indication.

But the singing plan only worked for so long, because after the same song played for the third time in the same hour, England’s palm slammed against the volume control button, clicking the radio off. The music cut off suddenly, and the only sound was the warbled, horribly off-key note America was in the middle of wailing to the truck’s ceiling. He cut himself off with a choke, lurching forward slightly as if shoved, his face igniting in color.

“Hey-!”

“I hate that song.”

“You hate all my songs.”

“That one more than the others,” England amended, and there was a brief moment when England’s mouth twitched and it almost looked like he was about to smile. But quickly his face rippled back to its neutral expression, something that was almost a scowl but was lacking the proper, indignant fire.

“Well, fine. There’s nothing I love more than sitting in a really awkward silence.”

“I think the world would benefit from you not speaking, America.”

“Yeah, well. Whatever.” America sighed. “I guess I’ve got nothing to say.”

He watched England’s shoulders stiffen before America turned his expression away, rolling down the window so he could stick his head out in the wind. The air pushed against his face, so quickly that it almost made his eyes water. He blinked a few times, but not even his glasses could protect him from the onslaught of wind. His hair whipped around him, some strands slapping against his cheeks, stinging them despite the warmth of the air outside and the sun beating down on the top of his head. The air was stifling-humid and muggy, despite the rush of wind.

He pulled his head back in, eventually, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes, wiping away the wind-blown tears.

“Geez, wind sure makes you tear up…” he said, as way of disclaimer in case England looked over and thought he was crying or something equally as dumb.

But England wasn’t looking at him. His expression, for just a moment, did crumble though.

America rolled up his window.

England stifled a yawn.

God, this is awful, America thought, hopelessly. How quickly everything descended from Awesome levels to Crap levels. It was his fault, too. At least he could acknowledge that much-that should be good for something, right? He was learning and growing through this relationship with England. But England didn’t want to talk about it, and seemed content to avoid it at all costs. So who was the immature one here?

“… I’m hungry.”

England stared at him in shock.

“You just ate two hours ago,” England said, disbelieving, “And you haven’t done anything other than sit on your arse and sing horribly-how can you possibly be hungry?”

America puffed up his cheeks, pouting slightly in an attempt to make England relent. But, when annoyed with America, such tactics rarely worked on England. And sure enough, the man merely scowled at America and looked away, but not before, for one brief moment, America caught a slight coloring in England’s cheeks.

“Fine, then I’m bored,” America amended, “And I get hungry when I’m bored.”

England sighed, long and irritably and just a bit overdramatically. And America resisted the urge to shout, to sigh, to cry out-Okay, England, I get it. You hate me right now.

America curled his toes until they popped. England twitched.

“We’ll stop, then,” England said.

“Can we go to a sandwich shop or something, instead of fast food? I need to stretch my legs so it’d be nice to stop for a bit.”

“Yes, yes,” England said with another sigh. “It’s not every day that you don’t want fast food…”

America laughed, and shrugged. “Unless you want to sit inside the fast food place.”

“I’ll find the sandwiches.”

As they neared another place for rest, for America to untangle himself from this suffocating silence, America began to squirm in excitement. Relief. Utter relief, to be able to escape the atmosphere, fly away, lock himself away.

What’s keeping me from just saying what I want, fuck what England thinks? he found himself thinking.

But he couldn’t think of an immediate reason, so he let the thought drift away. The miles melted away, twisting and turning and progressing until, finally, England pulled the truck off into a small, locally owned deli’s parking lot.

America popped off his seatbelt before England had even shut off the ignition or put the truck in park. Before they could even spare a glance between each other, America was throwing the door open and practically sprinting into the deli. England stayed behind, and America could only imagine the man sighing angrily in his wake. But America happily entered the deli, listened with delight to the little bell above the door as it chimed sweetly. He inhaled the delicious scents of various different meats and baking breads. He grinned at the few patrons sitting at their tables, eating their meals, then moseyed his way on up to the counter, feeling instantly at ease and at home. With his people, who understood him and didn’t want him to ever shut up or give him death glares (though they seemed plenty content to do all that to each other, at times, and to other people, but that was neither here nor there).

He ordered two sandwiches, one for himself and one for England, should he get hungry later. He leaned against the counter, hip jutting out a bit, glancing back over towards the window, looking out the window and watching as England climbed from the truck. The man shut the door behind him, not a violent slam or even at all forceful. He sighed, slumped slightly, rubbing at the back of his neck and at the small of his back, looking positively old and world-weary from this distance. There were a few girls in the corner of the shop who looked over at England and then giggled to themselves, and America felt a distinct swell of protectiveness in his gut at that, his lips quirking down into a frown. The moment passed, however, as England’s hands dropped away and he looked anywhere but at the deli. He stretched, tilting his head back to stare up at the sky.

America kept his gaze on him, let his fingers tap against the deli counter absently as he waited for his sandwiches. From the distance, he couldn’t trace England’s features as he normally would under such intense scrutiny. But it was a contented moment, to be able to watch England from afar without anyone suspecting anything and without England himself seeing him and scowling at him. Perhaps England, too, was uncomfortable with the amount of Not Talkingness (totally a word) passing between them, but it was unlikely since he seemed to be the one perpetuating the sinful amount of silence.

England, even when tensed and unhappy and sore, was all grace. The way he pulled his hands above his head, bent at the elbows so his hands pressed against the back of his neck, tilting his body back so that, for one brief moment, there was a little sliver of skin revealed from underneath his shirt, the slight roundness of his belly over a belt buckle. America knew, intimately, the little trail of hair from belly button downward, the distant slope of muscles beneath the soft skin, though he could not see such details from this far away. The girls were giggling in the corner again, behind their hands, and they were far too young for England (centuries and centuries too young, but wouldn’t he be considered too young in comparison to England, too?). And damn if America had never quite realized until recently just how attractive England could be, just how handsome of a person he was. Yes, the eyebrows were a bit daunting but were probably the only thing about England’s face that could be considered a flaw. In reality, England was so damned charming (especially to girls) that any faults he had in his features were quickly forgotten in lieu to that certain charismatic charm England always seemed to exude, even when he was pissed drunk and acting like an idiot (the only time his charm was forgotten was when he was around France). There was something very elegant and almost primal about England’s movements, even in something as simple as stretching and silently bitching about back pains, or when he was wearing something stupid like a sweater-vest and tie combo.

England had finished stretching now, though, and was leaning back against the hood of the truck, staring off into the distance, legs stretched out in front of him as a way to ease the cramped muscles, arms crossed, and his expression almost gentle.

Watching England, America was once again seized by the urge to speak to England. And, once again, he was unsure where to even begin. But he had to clear the air, because the silence was too much, the silence was worse than fighting, because in the long expanses of silence, so many things settled between them, things left unsaid or things left misunderstood. And if only that silence would quit choking him. But it was so much easier to think rather than to say, especially since words never came out the way he wanted them to.

His mouth felt like it was full of cotton. He watched England unfold his arms, stuff them into his pockets, and walk around a little. And he actually kicked at a pebble, watched it skid away from him, and he followed it with his eyes. He almost looked wistful, distant. He was thinking about things, too, America thought. This was confirmed when, for a second, England turned his face and stared at America. Their eyes met through the glass, through the distance. And then England was looking away again, and the girls were giggling again when his eyes settled on them. England smiled at them-see, totally charming-and nodded his head in greeting. But instead of going inside and approaching them as the girls undoubtedly wanted, England turned back towards the truck, popped the door open, and climbed inside.

America would have been content to keep watching him, but he felt the color creeping up his neck, his face, and starting to settle into the tips of his ears. So he turned away, staring at the bags of chips on a rack right next to the cash register. Chips were good. He could handle chips. And there was never anything complicated about buying and eating chips, damn it.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like the sweater-vest and tie-

Chips were great. He should really, really focus on the chips.

There was a little cling from the cash register as the money drawer flew open. The cashier chewed some gum and nodded as America handed over a bill and waited for the resulting change. He stared very closely at the bag of chips, as if they were truly the most fascinating things in the world, and nothing else could possibly compare. But he didn’t buy any.

America fisted his change into his pocket, took the bag of sandwiches from the cashier, and wandered back towards the truck. England’s head was bowed, resting his forehead against the steering wheel. America frowned at him, hesitated, then pulled his door open with a small sigh, climbing up into the passenger seat. The plastic bag of turkey sandwiches rustled and whistled as it breezed across his pant leg and settled between himself and England. England did not lift his head.

He expected England to start up the car and get going, now that America was back and unwrapping his sandwich. But England did not move. America peered over at him, unsure if he should disturb the other nation, until quite suddenly England let out a sigh that sounded suspiciously like a snore. America stared, and England, yet again, did not move. A few moments later he let out another soft snore.

“Told you you’d get tired,” America said as way of reaction. He spoke quietly, not wishing to jar England from his slumber. America slumped again, leaning slightly against the door and slightly against his seat, propping his foot up on the dashboard and watching England as America slumped further until his safety belt tucked under his chin. America ate at his sandwich, chewing as quietly as possible. England slept on, not even shifting on the steering wheel-that couldn’t be comfortable. America wondered if he’d have a funny indent on his forehead once he woke up.

Watching England sleep, though, only made him aware of how tired he also was. His eyelids felt heavy and fluttered slightly. His head started doing that strange head-bobbing thing when he tried to stay awake but he could not control the way his head drifted down and snapped back up again. It sucked, because his sandwich was good and he wanted to enjoy it. He was an idiot for ordering a turkey sandwich-that kind of stuff only made him even more tired!

Clearly he’d just have to focus on how awake he was. He sat up, back straight, gripping his sandwich tightly and frowning down at his hands.

He yawned.

Damn it!

He set his sandwich down, yawning again. He wasn’t quite aware when it happened, or for how long, but the next thing America knew, England was shaking his shoulder gently. America jerked awake, head pillowed against the back of England’s shoulder, and thank god he hadn’t drooled in his sleep. The hand on his shoulder left and briefly touched the back of his head before drawing away completely.

“You fell asleep,” England said, despite it being completely obvious. He had an indent on his forehead.

“So did you,” America said, “S’why I fell asleep, probably. Looking at you just exhausted me.” He rubbed at the back of his neck absently, then straightened completely, eyeing the slightly crushed bag of sandwiches he’d left between them, and had spent the entire nap with his hip buried against. “I bought you a sandwich.”

“Hm.”

“In case you got hungry,” America said, then grabbed the bag, made sure it was shut, and placed it on the ground to prevent any more surprise squishing.

England nodded, buckled up his seatbelt and started the engine. “Thank you.”

As they pulled out of their parking space, America watched the patrons of the deli shop. He watched the workers as they drove away. They’d most likely seen America battle to stay awake, finally fall asleep, and then slump up against England, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. England was bony and unpleasant to lean again, stout and all corners, but lying against him seemed so normal for him, despite the short amount of time in which it was acceptable for America to do it. But the people in the deli had no reason of suspecting something different (America refused to think “wrong”, just “different”) just because of that. It’d been completely innocent, normal. He’d been asleep, he couldn’t control what he did. And England hadn’t said anything bad about it. It was nothing.

And even if they did suspect something, so what? He was never going to see them again, and-

But just the thought of it-

Why was he such an asshole?

America slumped slightly, and was so sure his expression was rather miserable looking, too. He was never good at hiding those kinds of things, and even if he tried now, he’d probably fail.

As they drove, England unwrapped his sandwich and began to eat. America tried not to stare, but the desire to say something-anything-was bubbling in his chest. But still nothing came of it. He watched instead the way the wax paper around the sandwich crinkled underneath England’s squared, callused fingers. When America’d been a child, England had always hidden his workers hands beneath gloves, not wishing to dissuade his image as an upper class. Years later, as a patriot, he’d accused England of being disconnected, ignored the way those hands felt, rough but gentle, against the skin on his face as he brushed aside a child’s nightmare-induced tears.

He watched England bite into the sandwich, the slight crinkle in his face, the way his jaw moved as he chewed, the way his eyes, steady like a hawk’s, did not flicker away from the road as he pointedly ignored America’s increasingly blatant staring.

This is something like-god, I dunno-word constipation or something.

Though the resulting mental image did little to improve America’s mood, at least he had a name for it now. That didn’t do anything to help though, and just blurting out word vomit would probably only annoy England further. He wished England would just step forward, say something-shatter this insufferable silence, make it clear to America that if he were to speak, England wouldn’t immediate shut him down. He just wanted to hear his words, so he could lie in that sound, bury himself.

But England ate his sandwich, and once he was finished, the only sound was the crinkle of wax paper as he deposited it back in the plastic bag. He wiped his mouth with a napkin. The scenery whipped by-trees, buildings, blue sky, cloudy sky-

And thus their day passed, no words passing between them save for the communication for food and bathroom breaks. They stopped for nothing else, and America occupied himself with Thinking Way Too Much (caps deemed completely necessary), staring out the window and, when England allowed it to be turned on, listening to music on the radio.

America tried to sing without singing too badly, giving up on getting England to talk to him through Nefarious Means. He followed the beat of the songs, sang them, even changed the station when he knew he’d hit a song that England didn’t actually like. Part of him hoped the radio stations would play a song from England so that the guy could stop looking so sour faced, but he of course couldn’t be so lucky. Knowing England anyway, there was no guarantee he’d be more lenient towards his own pop stars than America’s.

They didn’t pass any motels, mostly because at this point they were somewhere out in the boons, and the only stops for miles were campsites, or parking lots to campsites a few miles off the road. They pulled into one, so America could use the bathroom and they could attempt to find some place to get food.

They climbed from the car, locking it, and England zipped up his jacket, stuffing his hands into his pockets. America fell in step beside him as they walked, stretching their legs. They walked in search of food instead of driving simply because, at that point, they’d been in the truck far too long and without any sleep. It was an attempt to regain some energy, or at the very least clear their heads. England looked exhausted, with heavy bags under his eyes and his entire demeanor drooped. America was better at putting on the front, though he was really itching for a coffee or something. Or a bed. A bed would probably be nicer than coffee right now, but that didn’t seem to be on the table.

They walked along the road’s shoulder, looking at the long expanse of trees, some large, some skinny, and some merely stumps in the ground. America kicked at some gravel, looking over his shoulder occasionally to see if there was a car coming. The road was quiet, a small whisper in the singing backcountries of the United States.

‘The way the light’s coming through the trees is really pretty,” America said, and it was the first time in a long while that day he’d spoken to England over something that wasn’t about going to the bathroom or getting food.

England tilted his head up, watching the green leaves shiver in the wind, the way the dusty sunlight filtered through the trees.

He nodded. “It’s lovely.”

“I’m surprised you’d admit things here are pretty,” America confessed, and instantly regretted it when something in England’s eyes twitched. “Cause. Uh.”

“America is quite lovely,” England said, calmly, and America felt his face burn red, all the way to the tips of his ears. Naturally, England noticed, but he didn’t make a comment. He just observed America a moment, took in his face, the red curve of his ears, and then turned his gaze away and kept walking.

“Yeah, well, even I could tell you that!” America said, boisterous, diving into his bravado as a means to save face. He willed the blush to subside, and eventually it did. He grinned, a sloppy, lopsided smile.

“Indeed,” was all England said, then fell again into his morose silence.

“It’s just kind of surprising,” America continued, because he could not leave well enough alone. “That’d you’d even give me a small compliment. Since you kinda hate me right now.”

“I don’t hate you,” England said tensely.

“Coulda fooled me, England,” America said, and everything in the back of his head screamed that he should shut the fuck up because the way England’s shoulders were tensing up and his face was twisting into a scowl did not invite emotional breakthrough but rather the exact opposite. He wanted to mend things, not make them worse. But once his mouth was open, it was as if the floodgates were thrown open-he’d been too quiet all day, thinking far too hard, trying to analyze everything England did and did not do. “I’m pretty sure you hate me right now. What with what-ya know. You’ve barley said three words to me today and you’ve been all moody and angry at me.”

England twitched. “I don’t hate you.”

“Yeah, but, you’re-”

“Do you want me to hate you, America? Is that what you’re saying? Because if so, by all means, please keep talking,” England snapped, and America was sure that the hands in his pockets were balled into fists.

“Geez, why so defensive?”

“Because you’re making assumptions and I’m too tired to deal with your bullshit, America,” England muttered, staring down at his feet as he walked. “Now leave me be.”

“See, I’m willing to talk about it.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“There-”

“Look, a place to eat,” England interrupted, and sped up his pace to walk past America, heading towards a small diner all by itself in the middle of nowhere. His country had a lot of those, and when traveling alone and through non-major highways it was a godsend, but at the moment America just wanted to hit his head against a tree. England was already well beyond arm’s reach. America heard him say, “I’m damned hungry. Good.”

The diner was dingy and old, probably built back when this highway was the only highway through the area. There were a few other patrons in the diner and the joined bar, all mostly smelling of campfire smoke and worn down flannel. Wayward campers returning from their camping trip and longing for food that wasn’t packaged or freeze-dried. England sat himself at a table near the window, and America followed behind him, sitting across from him. But England did not meet his gaze, and instead gazed out the window. There was nothing interesting out there, just distant trees and wavering grass. After they sat there for a few moments, a car drove by.

Utterly fascinating.

It was clear England was just avoiding his eyes. He stewed in his annoyance as they ordered food and, once it arrived, wolfed it down. England ate, and stifled yawns. It was clear that the man was exhausted, and America was feeling a similar exhaustion even as he tried to drink the black coffee set out in front of him. Once the plates were clear of food and cleared away, they sat in silence at the table, waiting to digest a little before setting off to keep walking back towards the truck.

As they finally set off back towards the truck, the sun was going down. The light through the trees wasn’t as dramatic or archetypically beautiful. The sky was turning dusty colors. America followed beside England, but England seemed determined to stay at least half a stride ahead of America, whereas America was always striving to stay in step with England. Their paces, therefore, kept speeding up and slowing down in alternatives.

Since the walk to the diner, America had been stewing in thought. Now he stepped forward, pivoted, and stopped dead in his tracks right in front of England. England stumbled, pushed against America to keep from running into him, unable to side-step quickly enough.

“For fuck’s sake-”

“Why won’t you talk to me?”

“Because there’s nothing to talk about, America,” England sighed. “I’m not angry at you, I don’t hate you, so let’s just drop it and move on.”

“You are angry, though!”

“Not at you,” England said with a haughty sniff. He tried to step around America, but America followed him. England scowled. “Stop being childish.”

“Aren’t you the childish one, refusing to talk about things like fucking adults?”

England faked left then ducked to his right, under America’s arm, and kept walking.

America squawked in outrage, then grabbed at England’s wrist, jerking him back. “Hey!”

“Ow! Let go of me, you Neanderthal.”

“No!” America snapped, frowning. “Talk to me.”

England was still struggling to get away, so America jerked him closer and then pulled him into a death-grip (which looked suspiciously like a hug but it totally wasn’t).

The other nation huffed, and squirmed a little. Then he muttered around the mouthful of America’s jacket, “Someone could drive by and see us. Doesn’t this look ‘gay’ to you?”

“Shut up,” America said, but did cringe and loosen his grip just slightly. Then he thought better of it, and tightened his hold. “I don’t care!”

“You do care!” England sighed, and slumped in his hold. His forehead rested against America’s shoulder a second, as if tempted to just fall asleep against him. If America tilted his head just right, he could feel England breathing against his neck. “Let go of me.”

America shook his head and tightened his hold. I love you, I love you and I’m scared of that and I’m scared about not knowing what I’m doing or what’s going to happen and I don’t know how I always manage to fuck things up. But I don’t want to let you go, I don’t want you to go away. And I hate that I can’t even say these things to you.

But then England pulled his head up, glaring up at America. “Let go of me. Please.”

America frowned at him.

England frowned back, but his scowl did soften until it eventually smoothed away. “Please, America.”

America shifted his eyes away and let go of England. England stepped back, adjusting his jacket and patting down his hair.

“Much better.”

“England, I…”

“Just let me think,” England interrupted.

America huffed. “You’ve been thinking all day, haven’t you?”

“Yes. But… I need more time.” England looked away again. “Please.”

America sighed, stuffed his hands into his pockets, and began walking, making sure there was a distance between himself and England. He felt England following behind him, and he didn’t have to turn to look over his shoulder to make sure of that. Except that he did look over his shoulder anyway, multiple times. He glanced over his shoulder, hoped there wasn’t any pain or longing in his expression, and watched England walk. England stared up at the ever-darkening sky and as the distance between them grew and the sun sank lower to the horizon, it became harder and harder to make out England’s features. Perhaps it was better that way.

America was far too tired. It’d been a long day, and a frustrating day to boot. America was completely convinced that at this point, England was just being a stubborn asshole and refusing to talk to him out of principle, not because he had to think. What could he possibly be thinking about?

His feet felt heavy, and he was happy when they reached the truck. Of course, it was a passing reassurance when he remembered that despite the levels of exhaustion he felt, he had no bed to crash into, and they were hours away from the nearest hotel or motel or even bed and breakfast. England seemed to have come to the same realization.

“I don’t know about you, but I don’t feel like driving.”

“Indeed,” England said.

“So I guess we’re staying here for the night!”

“These are campgrounds.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m not stupid, England.”

“We don’t have a tent, you idiot!” England snapped back, and pressed the heel of his palm against his forehead, looking even more exhausted now than he did three seconds ago. In the dying light, America could still make out England’s baggy eyes.

America frowned over the expanse of car-campers, the SUVs and trailers, the multitude of colored tents.

“Sleep in the cabin,” America said, patting at the driver’s door, then tilting his head towards the truck bed. “I’ll sleep in the back. I did it before, so it’s fine.”

England’s expression was withering, and could have frozen fire. “You are not sleeping out here.”

“And neither are you. You’re exhausted,” America said, and chewed on the inside of his cheek. If England could be stubborn, so could he. And no one could out-stubborn America. He had stubbornness in spades.

“I’m not sleeping in there if you’re sleeping out here,” England said, firmly, and slammed the door shut when America tried to open it and usher England inside. He looked annoyed, but there was that flicker in his eyes and America dared to hope that England was actually concerned for him. England shoved America’s hand away, turned on his heel, and stomped to the rear end of the truck, hoisting himself up and swinging himself effortlessly over the tail gate, settling himself down in the truck bed with a look that just dared America to try and drag him out. He even crossed his arms.

He was settled in the backmost corner, arms crossed, knees drawn to his chest, curling into his jacket to keep warm as the night progressed. It was almost completely dark now. With a heavy sigh, America walked over to England, leaning against the truck and staring up at him in the truck bed. England pointedly ignored him.

“England-”

“Nothing you say will make me sleep peacefully in there while you’re out here.”

America sighed, hands on his hips. He leaned against the truck still, and turned his attention away from England and out towards the camping sites in the distance. There were some campfires, but otherwise no one was paying any attention to the stupid stubborn idiot in the back of the truck.

“You’re impossible sometimes, England.”

“Tch,” was England’s reply.

“We’ll probably get into New York tomorrow,” America said, wondering if that would spark a conversation between them.

“Good,” said England, and said nothing more.

America sighed again. “Damn it.”

“If you’re just going to stand there, leave me be. I want to sleep. And you should try to sleep, too.”

America straightened, taking his back off the truck, and walking towards the trail gate.

England gave him a weary look. “In the cabin.”

“I don’t think so,” America said, and watched England scowl. America climbed up into the truck bed, standing over England before striding to the front of the truck bed, leaning against the outside wall of the truck’s cabin. “Looks like we’re both sleeping here tonight.”

He arranged the bags to serve as a backrest, and watched England from the opposite end of the truck.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” England muttered. “Go sleep where it’s more comfortable.”

“I’ve slept in worse places,” America said with a dismissive shrug. England’s scowl increased in magnitude and general unattractiveness.

“You’re…” England began, seeming unable to find a proper word to describe America adequately. He ended up looking away again, but not before America saw his expression soften just a fraction. “Ridiculous,” he settled on, voice quiet. “Utterly ridiculous.”

America almost grinned, almost said something cheeky, but no words came. As always.

“Will you talk to me now?” America asked.

England refused to look at him, drumming his fingers against his arms, still crossed over his chest. “Stop pestering me.”

America’s frown returned, all signs of the earlier almost-grin gone. He sighed, irritably.

“And you’re calling me the ridiculous one. What, are you waiting for me to apologize? Cause I am. Sorry, you know?”

England said nothing, but his expression did thin out for a moment. Then he licked his dry lips, still not looking to America. He said, slowly, “It’s not an apology I’m after. I know you’re sorry, America. Anyone can see that… though…” He glanced at him before looking away yet again. “It’s not often you’ll admit to such.”

“Yeah, but…”

“Let me sleep first,” England said, and did look completely exhausted. “I’m dead on my feet over here.”

“… Fine,” America said, but looked completely unhappy.

England nodded his thanks and then shifted, lying on his side, back to America, facing the tailgate, and curling into himself. America frowned at him, and just felt cold looking at him.

“If you move me while I’m asleep I’ll kick you in the face, by and by,” England told the tailgate, but America heard him loud and clear.

America snorted. “Whatever. I won’t touch you, kay?”

England didn’t answer, and America supposed that was some kind of wary acceptance to the annoyance in America’s voice. Sure enough, it only took a while before England was sleeping peacefully-or as peacefully as one could sleep in a truck’s bed. America watched the rise and fall of his back as he slept, curled into the fetal position, protective of himself. America contemplated just picking him up and putting him in the cabin, because America was stronger than England and even a kick to the face wouldn’t hurt as much as it would if America was the one doing the kicking. But that wasn’t to say that England wasn’t a strong bastard. He let him be, though when England did shiver, America shrugged off his jacket again and shifted over to him, on his knees, draping his bomber jacket over his form. England grunted in his sleep but otherwise did not stir.

America settled back to his original position, watching England. The annoyance was growing inside him-he wanted to fucking talk to England. He was taking responsibility or some bullshit and England was being an avoidant, cryptic asshole about it all. And the worst part was that America was fucking tired and he couldn’t even fall asleep properly. He couldn’t tell what England was on about, and it was starting to really grate on his nerves. If the tables were turned, England would be throttling him by now for being an inconsiderate, stubborn little child.

He just wanted to sleep. He wished he was in a bed, holding England. Fuck. He wished he could rewind the last day and just redo it, and not speed down an abandoned highway while in the middle of the most amazing blowjob ever. Seriously. Ever. And why the hell did the state trooper pull him over when it was the middle of the night and they were in the middle of nowhere and no one was around to suffer from his “reckless” driving? And he shouldn’t have acted the way he had, afterward, because he’d overreacted. It’d been embarrassing, though, and shouldn’t England understand that?

It wasn’t shame. It couldn’t be shame. How could he be ashamed of England when he loved England so much and just wanted to be with him, regardless of how strange he felt about the entire situation? He couldn’t be ashamed to be with England, or to want to be with England. It had to be something different.

His mind racing, reeling, backpedaling, and justifying, America’s head eventually slumped down against his shoulder and he fell asleep sitting up, head lolling against the back window of the truck.

When he woke again, it was because he heard England shifting and cursing. He cracked his eyes open and almost jumped to see England so close to him, kneeling in front of him.

England looked surprised, too, but he quickly hid his blushing face by shoving his bomber jacket against his chest.

“You twit, quit giving me your coat when you’re the one that needs it.”

“You’re the one that needs it,” America protested, wiping the sleep from his eyes with the back of his hand, and trying to shove the jacket back. But England refused, continuing to shove it back towards him in turn. “According to you, I’m a fat idiot so obviously the extra layers will keep me warm. You’re a skinny motherfucker, seriously. You’re all bones and angles. Take my jacket, already, will ya?”

“I refuse,” England said, and tried to shove harder.

“Don’t be an idiot.”

“You’re the idiot.”

“Just cut it out, god damn it!” America said, and shoved harder, hard enough that England stumbled back, bomber jacket over him. He didn’t move, and for a moment America feared he’d knocked him out or something, but England just didn’t move, staring up at the sky.

England sighed, his entire body seeming to deflate.

“Sorry,” America said, grabbing England’s wrist and tugging him up into a sitting position. England snatched his wrist back and flung the bomber jacket at America’s face.

“It’s fine,” he said, tensely.

“You just looked cold,” America muttered.

“I don’t want you to be cold, too,” England said, looked away, and then stood up. He retreated to his end of the truck bed, and America wished he could call him back.

“You should worry about yourself.”

England grunted, and curled into himself, looking off into the middle-distance. They sat in an uncomfortable silence, and America slumped slightly, trying to adjust himself until he was at least a bit comfortable. He shrugged on his jacket, bundled into its warmth-England’s warmth-and tried to swallow around what felt like a wad of cotton clutching at his throat. England cleared his throat a few times, but no words passed.

“It’s my fault, really,” England said abruptly.

“Huh?” America asked. “The jacket?”

“No, you imbecile,” England said, deadpanned expression scathing.

“Oh,” America said, “you mean-”

“Yes. Obviously.”

America laughed. “But-wait, what? How could it be your fault?”

“I shouldn’t have done what I did,” England said. “I got ahead of myself.”

“Wait, huh?”

If looks could kill, the look England was giving America would have killed him twice over.

“What, England?”

England straightened his back, tried to look less cold and pathetic. He bit his lip, for just a moment. “It’s still something new for you… This relationship. You haven’t had as much time to think about things like this as I have, and even more so you’re still… you.”

“Wait-” America began, “What do you-”

“You need time. It hasn’t been that long since we…” He shook his head. “And more than all that, you’re still dealing with a lot of internal issues.”

“So you’re saying that…”

“I’m sorry,” England said, softly, and then looked away towards the tents beyond them. There was no movement, but it really wasn’t what he was looking at. He was looking in their direction, and seeing nothing. His expression was one of forced neutrality, feigned indifference. That’d been simple for him to say, by all means, once he actually went out and said it, America thought-it just slipped out easily once working past the block. Had that been what he’d been mulling over the entire day? England was taking the blame, taking responsibility. It could easily be left at that, water under the bridge. But it didn’t sit right with America. There was something off.

England sighed in the silence when America didn’t say anything straight away, and he seemed to slump into himself. He did up the buttons of his jacket with shaking fingers, attempting to make himself seem nonchalant. He shifted, as if to go back to sleep. He’d roll onto his side, his back to America, and he would sleep and they would never speak of this again, after this. England would undoubtedly make sure of that.

America shifted, almost squirmed.

“What you’re saying is…”

“It’d be much easier for you, if you were with a woman.”

“Wh-”

“Wouldn’t it?”

“It’d be just the same!” America protested.

England finally turned his attention back to America, his expression wry. The smile he gave him was not one of amusement, or even ironic wit that England was usually so fond of. It just looked pained, forced.

“No,” he said, “it wouldn’t.”

“England, I would have freaked the fuck out over someone catching me doing anything having to do with sex, and it doesn’t matter if it’s with a guy or a girl.”

“I know you, America,” England said. “If you were in a relationship with a woman, properly, you’d be holding her hand, kissing her any time you could, holding her. It wouldn’t matter if it was in public.”

“Do you want me to do those things?” America asked, flustered.

“No,” England said, with no hesitation. “That’s not the point.”

“Then what the fuck is your point, England?”

England slanted his eyes away, and shook his head.

“Okay, so maybe if I was with a girl I’d hold her hand and shit but-but that doesn’t matter, cause I’m with you!”

“Is that really what you want?”

America sputtered, then felt his anger skyrocket. “What are-how can you ask me that? Haven’t we already established that I kinda really want to be with you?”

England shook his head, eyes still turned away from him. “I don’t know if you know what you want, America.”

“For fuck’s sake, England! Don’t act this way because I flipped my shit over a blowjob!”

“It’s not about the blowjob!” England yelled back, face flushed as he shouted a bit louder than he’d intended. America, too, felt his face burn red. But he was too busy feeling dignified outrage to really worry too much about it.

“Then what the flying fuck IS it about?” America shouted.

“You’re ashamed to be with me!” England snapped, and before America could open his mouth to protest, England added, “Don’t pretend you aren’t! Don’t pretend it’s some-some timidity about being in a relationship! I’m not denying that may be partly it, but I’m not an idiot, America.”

“It’s not-!”

“Admit it,” England demanded. “Don’t sugarcoat it, don’t try to delude yourself. How do you actually feel, America?”

“I actually think that I don’t give a fuck what other people think-!”

“You’re wrong!”

America stared at him, panting from the exertion of the sudden shouting. His eyes flickered to the tents, to make sure their fight hadn’t woken anyone out. And he froze, and he thought. His body felt as if it was shaking. He just wanted to rewind, pretend none of this had ever happened. He stared at England, who was progressively looking more and more like a cornered animal. It couldn’t be shame-anything but shame. But it was true-he didn’t hold England’s hand or anything like that. Part of that was that he knew England wasn’t big on the public displays of affection, anyway, but… if he was a woman…

But that kind of stuff didn’t matter-his feelings for England weren’t delusion. He wanted to be with him. But being with him-

America’s shoulders slumped. “A little.”

England stiffened up. “What?”

“… Maybe… maybe there’s a little bit of shame. But it’s-”

But England didn’t let him finish, because he stood up suddenly, and America jumped to his feet, too. They stared at each other, and England’s eyes were wide, frightened, and still looking almost primal. He tried to speak, tried to say something, but he just looked away, his complete strong façade crumbling. It seemed that, despite the demanding, he hadn’t properly been prepared for the affirmative. His shoulders, in turn, slumped. With his head bowed, America couldn’t make out his expression.

“Fuck you.”

“Hey!” America said. “Let me finish! It’s not-”

“I don’t need you to finish! It’s shame, of course it’s shame! I’m not so deluded to think-how could I have-”

“What are-”

“I should have known this would happen-”

“What the fuck do you mean?”

England shook his head, turned his body away from America.

“England!”

“It doesn’t matter… either way, at some point… you’d hurt me. Break my heart.”

“W-what?” America said, and hated himself for the stutter. He walked over to England, gripped his elbow, but England shoved him back, tried to jump out of the truck bed, but America kept him close. “England-!”

“Don’t touch me.”

“You made me say it-!”

“I didn’t make you say anything! You said that all on your own!”

“But you won’t let me explain!”

“What’s to explain? Let go of me!” He tried to wrench his hand back.

America sputtered, the words flying between them and America unable to pin down what he wanted and, most of all, needed to say. The words escaped him, and he desperately clung to England, trying to keep him near even as he struggled.

“What the hell do you mean-break your heart? I’m not!”

“How can you possibly know?” England snapped, and turned to glare at him, and this close up America could finally realize-all those times today when England had an expression he couldn’t place, an expression he couldn’t understand, it was because he’d been trying to suppress tears. He saw them, then, that close to him, glimmering at the corner of his eyes, so small it was easy enough to miss from far away.

“It’s not intentional! It’s not-I’m trying here, England! It’s kind of a huge fucking deal to go a good chunk of your life thinking you’re straight and then-and then suddenly realizing-realizing that’s not the case at all! What the fuck do you want from me? What, do you think it’ll be this big revelation, and suddenly there won’t be any issue for me?”

“Let go of me!” England shouted.

“But I do know that-that I… I do know that despite all my issues and my-um-my insecurities,” god he hated to use that word, hated to admit he was scared and unsure and ambivalent, “I want to be with you!”

England struggled to get out of his hold. America refused to let him get away.

England tensed up, tried to keep his gaze away. There was a long silence, a long moment when England stopped struggling, stopped trying to get his arm back. But America did not loosen his hold.

“Don’t you believe me?” America asked, but the words were not soft, imploring. He was angry, so angry.

England didn’t answer. And that only made America angrier.

“Damn it, England!” America snapped, shook England a little. The man’s head rattled, back and forth, but he still refused to shift his eyes up to look at England. His entire body was tense, and he didn’t seem to be breathing. He held his breath in, tried to squash the tears. “You think I’m going to break your heart? You think that I’m going to be so ashamed of you that I’ll run away from you or something? Fuck you, you know me better than that!”

England gave him a sharp look, but didn’t say anything.

But America couldn’t control his anger now. “I’m sorry this relationship hasn’t been perfect so far for you-that you think I’m going to just decide it’s not worth it or something! That’s just it, England, how can you expect it to be perfect? How can any relationship be perfect, even when it first starts? Are you willing to give it up before we even gave it a chance-just because I’m… I’m kind of dumb sometimes? It’s flawed, we’re flawed! You never fail to point out that I’m flawed, but god damn it, don’t push me away because you’re afraid that I’ll always fuck up and never get better! I will get better, you just-please, you just need to trust me. You need to give me time.”

His words rattled against the truck bed, and echoed slightly, before fading away. But still England did not move. He did not say anything. He didn’t even look at England.

“You know what, fuck it,” America said, let go of England and threw up his hands. “I can’t deal with this right now.”

He turned on his heels and marched to the side of the truck, planting his foot on the wall and jumping down onto the ground.

“Where are you-”

“Off to clear my head,” America snapped, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Don’t follow me.”

And he stormed off into the woods, leaving England alone in the truck bed.