Starswept - part 3 (of 4)
Title: Starswept -- Part 3 (3/4)
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: America leaves to clear his head, gets nowhere, and goes back.
Notes: Thank you everyone, again, as always, for being so kind in your comments. Hearing what you think really makes my long, busy weeks worthwhile. ♥
Other installments:
Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four
EDITED to fix the broken html. Sorry about that, everyone!
Fifteen minutes later found America still stomping through the forest, but with a lot less ferocious, self-righteous anger fueling him forward. He was still exhausted. It’d taken all his restraint to not punch a tree (the last time he’d punched a tree, the first President Roosevelt had given him A Look that still haunted him to this day) and instead just filtered all his anger into blatant stomping. No one was around to appreciate his indignation and frustration (and hurt, but he didn’t want to acknowledge that quite yet), but it was still remedying to hear the crunch of leaves and twigs as he traveled blindly through the wooded area. Now, though, his fatigue and sleep-deprivation was catching up to him. He was irritable, sleepy, and exhausted. Once he felt he’d walked far enough to channel some of his anger out of him, he collapsed to his knees and slumped against a tree. The bark pressed against his forehead, but he didn’t move for a long moment, eyes clenched shut.
“Shit,” he cursed, and his voice in the otherwise silent forest almost made him jump. It sounded as if something had shattered.
Now that the adrenaline was draining away, he just felt exhausted. And unhappy. Mostly unhappy.
“Fuck!” he said, but he was far enough away that no one would be able to hear him anyway. He felt like crying, but he was too good for something like that, and resisted. Or something. He pressed his hands to his eyes, just in case.
Why did I say that? he wondered, but did not regret. He had to be honest. He could be honest. He shifted, making himself comfortable. The ground was soft, and far more pleasant than the truck bed’s surface was. The adrenaline was gone, and he just felt tired. Exhaustion. He couldn’t see anything in the darkness.
He fell asleep.
He dozed for a while, though he wasn’t sure for how long once he woke up. He couldn’t read his watch’s face without a light, and there was no way to see the stars and determine that way with all the trees blocking his view. He yawned until his jaw cracked, and he felt groggy. He probably hadn’t slept for long, since he didn’t feel at all refreshed. But it was still with some effort that he stood up and didn’t just doze off to sleep again and find England in the morning. He arched his back until he heard his spine crack and let out a small sigh.
So in the end, it had been partially shame. If he was willing to admit it. But it wasn’t shame over England, it was shame over himself. Over his own actions and beliefs-and his people. He had the issues, he knew. He was willing to work through them. But for fuck’s sake, it’d been a short relationship, barely old enough to justify such intense talks one right after the other.
“Damn it, England.”
What good was it if England didn’t even trust him? Yeah, he made mistakes, but he was-he was bound to make mistakes. It was a whole new thing for him, something he was unsure of, something he didn’t think he’d ever be used to or understand. It would take time. Things were happening so fast, and he wasn’t properly prepared. But he knew that he wanted it, he just had to work through it, work to understand himself and his relationship with England.
“Everything just always has to be completely dramatic, huh?” America muttered to himself, leaned against a tree for a moment to close his eyes and rest. He slumped down on the ground again, drawing his knees to his chest and resisting the urge to yawn so wide that his jaw cracked again. After a few minutes, though, he made himself stand again and keep walking, wandering through the woods. He knew the direction back to the truck, but he wasn’t ready to go back yet. Wasn’t ready to face England and his unhappiness, his disapproval, his misunderstanding. “What good is it if you aren’t willing to trust and understand me, too, England?”
England-
It wasn’t worth it, was it? It’d be better, to keep walking until he found a motel or a bus depot. Better to just go back alone, to avoid England at all costs. It’d been a mistake to fall in love with him, to want to be with him. Maybe he really did have delusions-maybe he didn’t care about England as much as he thought. If England doubted his feelings, then could it be he really was mistaken?
And what was so great about England, anyway? He was crass, loud when he was drunk, uppity, with a stick way up his ass. He was too concerned with the rules unless it served himself to break them. He demanded all these things without ever expressing them, just expecting everyone to know it intuitively. He never said anything, always kept it to himself. He wasn’t that attractive-
But the way his fingers worked at his tie, the way his eyes glowed just right in the dim glow of a television-
He wasn’t that nice to him. In fact, he spent every waking moment it seemed insulting him, or criticizing him, or calling him an idiot or a good-for-nothing-
But the way he whispered the names to him, sweet nothings that made him shiver from head to toe as England pressed up against him-(“my dearest… my lovely… my darling…”)
There was nothing remotely interesting about England. He was as interesting as mud. Only ever wanted to talk about the queen or tea. Or politics and work. That wasn’t exciting at all. He constantly scoffed at America’s ideas, even when they were awesome. There was nothing remotely redemptive about his attitude most of the time-
But the way he touched him, the way he smiled at him, as if he was the only person in the world that mattered, as if he could go his entire life only looking at England’s face and be happy-
He wasn’t anything that he couldn’t find elsewhere. Hell, he could find someone who was kinder to him and probably better in bed, too. If that was all that was important to him. Or people who didn’t demand answers of him and then act like a pissy thing when the answer wasn’t what was wanted. England was just too much work. He was just too much-
But the way he was always there, the way he was always steadily behind him, even if he denied it adamantly. The way America knew, without any question, that England would always have his back and he would always have England’s, and for those brief moments when the entire world was only him and England, he could think clearly and know-
“FUCK!” America shouted, and slammed his head against a tree, forehead digging into the bark. His breathing came out a bit ragged and he clenched his eyes shut, trying to quell his racing thoughts. “Fuck,” he said softer, his breath hushed. “Damn it…”
Warm, callused hands gliding over his skin…
That quiet quirk of his lips, a smile that didn’t fit on his face and yet suited him just right…
Whispered, barely an exhale, I love you, England. And the soft answer, Me too, you daft fool…
America pressed his hands against the tree, as if to push away from it. But his hands ended up resting there, his eyes clenched shut. He bit at his lip, inhaled and exhaled. There was so much that he knew, and yet so little. He wanted to know everything about England. He didn’t want to disconnect. He didn’t want the world to grow quiet, not in that way-only if it meant they were allowed to speak around each other. Fuck the rest of the world. Fuck it all-
He pushed away from the tree, his eyes wide. He swallowed thickly, then turned his face away. He did not know who he was hiding from. He was tired, too tired. He was talking to himself, and yawning every five minutes. But his heart thundered and his feet carried him.
He knew he’d have to go back.
He knew he wouldn’t be able to leave him. The bravest he’d ever been was when he’d faced these things, when he’d been honest with himself. He couldn’t let himself disappear now, couldn’t let England get away.
So, slowly, hesitantly (why did he always hesitate when it mattered?), he made his way back towards the campsite. At least, he hoped that it was the right way. By now, England would probably have fallen asleep, hopefully in the cabin. If not, he’d just carry him into the cabin and deal with his anger once he woke up. He hoped he was sleeping, at least, and hadn’t abandoned him in the forest and stolen his truck to get as far away from him as possible. Then he really would have to hike to a bus depot. Or hitch-hike. None of this seemed ideal, especially since he’d left his bag behind.
He emerged from the woods, feeling a bit calmer, with the clear head he’d set out to find, but his thoughts still running a mile a minute. He had a cooler head, but it didn’t feel clearer, in the long run-if he was honest. He had no idea what he was doing, what to be thinking.
England was sitting in the truck’s bed. He hadn’t moved the truck, and other from the movement of standing to sitting, England himself hadn’t moved. He was curled into himself, elbows resting on his knees, his head bowed. His hands fisted in his hair and he didn’t look up when America approached, probably because he didn’t hear him. America wondered if he was even awake.
He placed his hand on the side of the truck. “Hey, England?”
England instantly snapped his head up and stared at him, eyes wide and-America wanted to look away, but couldn’t, wouldn’t, didn’t. It was too hard to look at him.
“… You came back,” England whispered.
There was so much said there, so much not said. America felt the emotions clog in his throat, but he forced himself to ignore it, to move past it.
“Course I did,” America said, resisted the urge to chew on a thumbnail. He couldn’t look vulnerable right now-not when they were fighting and he was supposed to be angry at England and want to just get away from him (if he was honest with himself, though-). “I left my bag here and we’re in the middle of nowhere.”
England nodded, slowly, then ducked his head again. He shifted, slightly, away from America-as if America wanted to maintain contact, as if he wanted to reach out and grab England. As if. England was too far away. He seemed to shrink away into himself further.
Let it go. Take the cabin and sleep-that’s what he should do. Let England fester in his unhappiness. It didn’t concern America, anymore.
“Hey-” America began and, despite himself, felt his sympathy flare. He knew he shouldn’t, he knew that he shouldn’t give in-or, at least, he didn’t think he should give in. But he couldn’t help it-not when England wasn’t looking at him. He planted both hands on the wall of the truck and hoisted himself up, rolling his way into the truck bed in what he could only hope was a ridiculously heroic fashion. “England-”
It looked as if England was going to say something-anything. But it didn’t come out, and the words choked in his throat. (Did he have the same problem as America-could he not find the words?) He lowered his gaze, seemed to melt away even more. America didn’t know what to do, what to say-what could he say? Everything seemed broken beyond repair. It all seemed too little too late. Grab on, hold on, don’t let go-
Just stay-
America was angry, he was hurt. But it was clear England was hurt, too. He hadn’t wanted this, never this. He just wanted England. And he wanted England to understand that. The day was done, and he had no idea what the hour was. But he felt infinitely older, as if he had aged dramatically. But the feelings hadn’t subsided, and all he wanted, the only thing he wanted-
England…
Why did it have to be this fucking hard?
It’d be so easy, to just step back and disappear. Just let it all go. But if America was honest with himself-if he knew what he refused to acknowledge…
He knew that he didn’t want it to end like this. But that would require saying something, that would require speaking with the person who was so certain of his misdeeds, so certain of his indecision, and so certain of what he wanted. As if England could even know what America wanted. As if England could be so sure of what America was thinking, of what was best for him. The only person who knew that was himself.
“I didn’t know if you’d come back,” England muttered after the silence seemed to have stretched on-and America listened to the practiced neutrality, couldn’t make out England’s face but knew that while it was betraying nothing it was betraying everything.
“There’s always gonna be that mystery if you don’t chase after things,” America said with a shrug, settling himself comfortably in the truck bed, stuffing his hands into his pockets and staring at England, who refused to meet his gaze. “I always chase you.”
He let the words hang in the air.
Then he added, quietly, “But you don’t chase me.”
He’d meant to be angry about that, meant for it to come out as an accusation. But it was only resignation. America didn’t let England get away-chased after him, demanded answers, demanded resolution. He didn’t let England get away with the avoidance-usually. If it was a matter between pride and England, it was, admittedly, a difficult struggle for America to overcome and chase after him. And in the end, he didn’t know how long he could keep doing it-
“I did once. Look at what good that got me.” The other nation did not lift his head, even as the words settled, and the echoes shivered up their spines. “I don’t have your courage, America. Not anymore.”
Courage.
What courage?
“Maybe not,” America said, slowly, for once trying to choose his words. A peace offering, a way to reach out and grasp England-a way to make England stay. Please, just stay-
If he was honest with himself-
“Or maybe you just know I’ll always come back.”
England snorted. He shook his head, looking bitterly amused. As if he did not believe the words. Why wouldn’t he just-?
“Saying such pointless things… you really are impossible.” England lifted his head, just slightly, to look off into the middle-distance, his eyes refusing to meet America’s.
For once, America recognized the avoidance for what it was, recognized the way England purposefully tried to displace the attention away from himself and onto someone else. America sat back, leaning against the truck bed, wanting more than anything to crawl over to him, to hold him, to try and actually say something. To work things out. To talk it over.
But they sat in silence, England looking away from him. And there was nothing America hated more than the silence that followed them, that seemed to settle on them no matter what, despite anything America could try and breach the gap that seemed to be ever widening between them.
He should just let it go. It was over. Why did he have to be the one to explain, why did he have to be the one to try to fix things? He hadn’t done anything wrong-he’d been honest. He’d tried, god, how he’d tried, to be okay with everything, to move past everything. But it was still too early. If he was nothing but a fool, if he was impossible, then what did that make England? What good was any of this, if they were stranded in a wasteland, with no words, no thoughts, nothing that could mend things?
“… Sorry,” America said at last. And once the word was past his lips, it was almost painful how easy it’d been to say it. It was remarkably easy, stupidly easy.
The world seemed to meld and warp, moving again to something that maybe he could begin to understand. Humility. If there was one thing he’d learned in their (still new, still short) relationship with England, it was that his bravado and his over confidence got him nowhere. He wasn’t ready to leave them all behind, quite yet, though. They were all he had, most days.
England didn’t move for a moment, and when he lifted his gaze, his expression seemed just a bit too vulnerable, before he seemed to remember himself and closed it off. “We can just let it go now.”
“Wait-but. No!” America said. That was the last thing he wanted. “I-”
“America,” England said, sharply, but softly, and if not for that slight, betraying waver in his voice, America wouldn’t have realized that England wasn’t angry, but rather trying to quash his true feelings. England inhaled sharply. “Just let it go. Go look at the stars or something. We can… just let it go.”
“Why…” America began, then raised his eyebrows, felt his throat constrict as he said, attempting the new tactic, “Why would I want to look at the stars when all I want is to look at you?”
But instead of looking embarrassed or even slightly amused, England only looked pained. “Stop that.”
“No.”
England grunted, and scowled. It was only there for a moment, just a brief moment, so quickly gone that America was sure he was just seeing things-but he thought he saw England’s cheeks turn pink. But then England ducked his head, curling into himself.
“To say something so utterly sappy,” he grumbled into his lap, “you should be a-… ash… ashamed...” He trailed off. He cleared his throat, and whispered, “You shouldn’t say things like that.”
America’s heart lurched again. His throat felt too dry. But his hands felt as if they were going to begin to sweat. He shifted, squirmed, trying to get closer to England, but England gave him a helpless look that arrested all of America’s movement. It was a never-ending cycle. America knew that he would have to break it, knew he would have to explain if he wanted this to work, if he wanted to keep England from running away before they could even start something, before what they had could even truly begin. England glanced at him, just briefly, but that was already more than enough. America could tell by the way England was looking at him, that whatever face England was making, it was perfectly mirrored on America’s own face. And England could see it.
“England,” America said, “Come here.”
“No,” England said at once, and curled into the corner-and everyone called America the stubborn one?
“Then I’m going over there,” America announced. England glared at him, looking slightly pale, but did not move away as America approached, kneeling down in front of him.
“What do you want?” England asked, using his grumpiness as a front, as a lackluster attempt to get America away from him. But America did not leave-not this time.
“England.”
“What?” England snapped.
“No, I mean. I want you, England,” America said.
England stilled up, his expression tensing. “Stop that.”
“But-”
“Stop,” England repeated. “Don’t try to win me over with smooth talking and that stupidly charming smile of yours. It isn’t going to work.”
“Just listen to me,” America demanded, pushing closer, pressing his hands against the back of the truck, trapping England in. England stared at him, impassively, not flinching away but not softening his hardened gaze upon him. He frowned, and America just kept searching his face. “England… just listen to me. That’s all I want.”
England sighed, clenched his eyes shut. He stayed still before, sighing again, he shrugged one shoulder. “What, then?”
Here, America paused. Again. Always.
What did he want?
He had to be honest. He knew he had to.
But honesty was-
He had to.
“I hate the idea… that if we leave it like this, once we get back to New York-you won’t… Look, I know that I’m-” His throat seized up. He didn’t know what to say, how to possibly express anything. He was so angry, so unhappy. How could England think these things, how could he be-
England opened his eyes, staring at him expectantly. Resigned. Counting down the moments until America pulled away from him and that familiar distance could settle between them. It seemed as if everything was fading away-there was nothing else, there was never anything else. Only England. Only America. The stars were fading, the sky was falling, and there was no room to breathe except for where their breath swapped back and forth.
England was everything-the only person he’d ever wanted to wait for, the only person he’d ever wanted to chase after. He was the only one who ever made him feel all this, all this and more. Rolling and falling and tossing. Falling until he burned up in the atmosphere, a falling star swerving out of control. He would crash down and there would be nothing, nothing but that hungry longing that kept him from forgetting, kept him from moving on, kept him from believing that anything but time was on his side. And not even time was with him-the clock ticked away, counting down until the moment they arrived in New York and England left, only to see him for official meetings, never for anything more intimate than a glance between each other and a remember when…? No, it couldn’t be.
England was everything.
And with that, the words came to him. “I hate that at this rate, once we get to New York, you won’t be with me anymore. I want you to always be right there, England.”
“That’s impossible,” England reminded.
“If you were to leave right now, would you come back?”
England stared at him, worked his mouth.
“You’re the one that I want-the only one I’ve ever wanted to find and hang on to. I’m here to talk, England. So don’t run away, don’t make me chase after you.”
England remained silent, but for just one brief moment it did not look as if he was tied to a noose, but rather breathing freely again, staring at him with something that he wasn’t quite ready to say-something that wouldn’t change.
He was so sick of the secrets.
“I know I’m… difficult. But this is-you’re all-England, how can I prove to you that I’m-”
“America, just stop,” England said, quietly, turning his eyes away.
“But-”
“I’m tired, already,” England said, and then seemed to pause. But his words were coming to him, too. “I don’t want for you to always justify, or always proving that you’re okay with our relationship. I know it’s new for you. It’s new for me, too, in many ways. But I’m… I don’t want for you to always feel guilty, to always feel shame and insecurity. I don’t want for you to have to prove anything. Mending your mistakes, forcing you to reassess things about yourself… I’m not strong enough for that. Not with you.”
“… You aren’t breaking up with me in a truck bed, are you?” America asked, eyes wide.
England stared at him, his expression crumbling. “I’m…” he said softly, his voice almost inaudible despite the proximity between the two, “I… don’t know.”
America hadn’t expected that hesitation. He’d expected-wanted-a no. He’d wanted a furious shake of his head, a quiet, No, never, you’re the only one I want, America. Don’t go away. He hadn’t expected any of this, though. This fight. This misunderstanding. The ambivalence, the heartbreak, the everything. Anything but that.
“England…”
“I’m sorry, I-”
“Do you want to break up with me?”
England stared at him. “I…”
“Don’t hesitate like that!” America shouted, his heart thundering against his chest so fiercely. The hands on the truck were shaking, his entire body was shaking. And England was staring at him with wide, uncertain eyes-he was so close, so close and yet so far away. “Don’t-don’t, for the love of God, don’t hesitate like that…”
“America…”
“Do you want me to leave? Do you want to leave? Is all this-f-fuck, is all this not worth it, after all?”
He must have been visibly shaking, because England’s eyes flickered away, and then, with that crushed expression of his, paled and with slanted eyebrows, he lifted a hand and touched America’s cheek, moving hesitantly, as if afraid that America would burn him if he were to touch him.
“I don’t want to,” England said quietly, interrupting the mile-a-minute thoughts roaring through America’s mind. He looked as if ready to shrink away, to run away, but he did not. He held America’s eyes steadily, kept his hand against his cheek. America did not pull away. “I don’t want to.”
“Then why-” America began, choked on nothing, and pressed himself closer to England, pressing his hand against England’s own, keeping the hand there. He wouldn’t burn, he wouldn’t be hurt-just stay, stay, stay…
“Someone could see us, like this,” England reminded, and tried to tug away.
America didn’t let the hand get away. Though his back stiffened and he swallowed thickly he said, softly, “I don’t give a fuck.”
“But you do.”
America clenched his eyes shut. “I’m still learning, ya know. I say to myself, ‘I don’t care what anyone thinks!’ but… it’s easier to say it.”
“Ah…” England murmured.
“I’m not ashamed of you.” America spoke, forcefully, making sure that England understood the words. England just looked at him, then his eyes drifted over his features, and rested on their hands against America’s cheek. “I’m not, England. It’s not you-it’s me.”
England snorted.
“I’m serious,” America said. “I don’t care if that sounds cliché! It’s not… I just… I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. I’m not perfect, you know that. I’ll do anything, though, to make this work. You just… you just gotta give me time. You gotta give me a chance to get better at this.”
“I don’t…”
“It’s not because of you that I feel so unsure and-”
“Really.”
“Okay-I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing with you. But when I get unsure… when I get uneasy… It’s because I don’t know what others are thinking of me. I can put on a big show about not giving a fuck what people say, I can pretend that I only care about myself, and I don’t care how the rest of the world sees me, or my own people sees me… but I… I’m so tired of people hating me for no reason, or for dumb reasons or for… for any reason. I don’t-I don’t want to give them another reason.”
England said nothing.
“But…” America looked up at him. “You don’t hate me. You… even though I’m a fucking idiot sometimes-a lot of the time with this shit… you still love me.”
“I…”
“You put up with my shit, but you also don’t let me get away with anything. It-it might have taken me for-fucking-ever to figure out that you’re the one that I want-but that’s what you are, England. You were there. You cared when no one else did. Even when you should by all logical counts hate the living bejesus out of me. You don’t.”
England was looking away again, but he’d stopped trying to reclaim his hand.
America let his hand slip, fall around England’s wrist, holding his palm against the butterfly-wing soft skin of the underside of his wrist, listening to the gentle, steady, rapid thud of England’s pulse .
“If the only way I could stay with you would be to shout it out to everyone around me that I love you, I would do it. I would freak the fuck out while doing it, and would probably piss myself-” England made a face, “-but I’d do anything. I would do it. I just want to make it work. I want us to work.”
England’s pulse was racing.
“But… even with my issues… It can’t be, if you don’t trust in me. If you think that I’m going to hurt you, leave you-whatever it is you think I’m gonna do.”
England sighed, a long, gentle sound. It did nothing to soothe America, but America wasn’t looking to be soothed, only to say what he had to.
“There will always be someone sticking their nose into other people’s business,” England said, recalling America’s earlier words, ignoring the way the conversation was turned towards England now. He forcefully turned it back to America when he poked America’s nose in a manner that was almost playful, had the situation been different. “Yourself included.”
“Hey, I-”
“Shush,” England commanded and America fell silent. The older nation paused for a long moment. He looked away, thinking, and then turned his attention back to America. “It’s new for you. I know it is. You’ve never been with another man before-and everyone needs time to adjust, to learn… to understand. I know, America. I know you don’t mean it maliciously, these things-you’re still adapting, and I need to be patient.”
“I’m not ashamed to be with you,” America said again.
“… I know. So you’ve said,” England said with a sigh.
“So why do you think I’ll hurt you?”
England closed his eyes.
America frowned. “You know… I’ve spent far too much time realizing that you’re who I want to be with-that you’re the only one I’ve ever really wanted. There have been others-of course there have been others… but none of them even compare to you. You’re… You’re you, England. You’re-”
Everything.
America swallowed thickly. “And now that I know that… I refuse to let this all go so easily. So tell me. Why do you think that?”
America shifted closer, felt his shoulder joints pop as he leaned in, hesitated, watching England.
England visibly deflated, slumping against the truck bed, staring up at America’s constant face. He licked his lips, swallowed thickly. His eyes flickered, staring at America, tracing his features, memorizing the lines and curves of his face.
“England. Just tell me.”
“… I keep expecting you’ll change your mind.”
“I won’t,” America said at once.
England shook his head, sighing. “I keep thinking-what is it that I can do to make sure to keep you here? What’s to ensure that you’ll… really stay.”
“You want me to stay.”
The older man nodded his head, looked as if he was about to cry. “Of course I do. You don’t even have to ask that…”
America bit his bottom lip.
“Then that’s why I’ll stay.”
“But I can’t help… but think you don’t realize what it is you really want.”
“I can’t prove that to you, England. You just have to trust me.”
“Hm…”
“I know that… I know that I do care, what people think now. But that doesn’t mean it’ll always be that way. I just… I need time.”
“I know.”
“It’s just… it’s…”
“Scary.”
America lifted his head, and nodded. “Yes,” he breathed, feeling just a sliver of tension sink from his body. “Yes, scary. It’s scary… I’m-I’m scared.”
He was so glad when England didn’t scoff. Instead, England simply said, “Me too.”
There was nothing more comforting than those words-nothing else England could have said could have made the weight lift completely from America’s shoulders. Me too. That moment-the moment when he realized, when he found out, that his struggle was also someone else’s struggle… that he was not alone, and that there were others that had been down the same road-England was on the same road-
Me too.
“It’s natural it would be,” England said.
“I guess,” America muttered.
America pulled away, with a quiet sigh, and slumped against the truck’s wall beside England. They sat in a long silence, neither tethering the other, close enough they could touch, but neither breaching that gap.
“It’ll be better, someday. Right?”
“Hm,” England grunted, and stared up at the tops of trees before shifting his gaze over his shoulder, staring out at the sleeping campsites a good ways away. No one seemed to have woken up during America’s and England’s conversation, which was assuring.
“So. That’s that, then?”
England shrugged one shoulder.
“England.”
The other nation sighed, and nodded his head. “I understand, America. I… I don’t like the idea of being without you, now that you’re finally here.”
America felt himself relax, just a little. “Yeah. Me too.”
He needed time, and England needed to trust. They both needed to trust-trust that everything would be okay, that despite the unknown things, despite the fear, as long as they had each other, that was what mattered. It sounded like something that belonged on a greeting card, but it was something that America took to heart. He’d have to trust England, too, and England would need time. They would both need time and trust. It was all still new. But soon, soon, someday, he hoped-he hoped, so badly-everything would be as it was supposed to be. They would be happy. Stable. Together.
America tilted his head, looking over at England. England was still staring off into the middle-distance, but upon feeling America’s gaze on him, he slowly turned his head to look at him. America swallowed thickly, as their eyes met. No words passed between them-but it didn’t feel as if he was choking, as if he was drowning in things left unsaid. America leaned in a bit closer, unsure, watching England. He shifted, felt his elbows locked, as he leaned in close to him, still sitting beside him-an awkward angle, but he wanted to be closer. He didn’t know what England’s reaction would be, though, so he stopped mere moments from England’s face. England studied his face.
“England,” America said softly, but did not move.
England’s expression flickered, and he shifted, too, seeming to both lean towards him and away. But there was just the slightest movement. England’s eyes flickered down to America’s mouth, and then back up to his eyes. England seemed to slump, for a moment. America drew back, holding his breath, trying his hardest, so hard, not to betray anything on his face. England looked up at him, for a split second looking miserable.
And then he lifted a hand, and touched America’s cheek again, drawing him towards him. “That expression doesn’t suit you, my darling.”
The name sent a shiver down his spine, and it was with great relief that America watched England sit up straighter and capture his mouth, kissing him gently, chaste, reacquainting himself with America’s mouth, sharing their breath until they mingled into one. The world slowed down until it really was just the two of them-nothing else beyond them, nothing else beside them but each other. America kissed him, closed-mouth, just moving against England, feeling the way England curled his fingers into America’s hair and drew him closer. America came to him willingly, trying to get as close as he could, feeling himself sink away against England.
England pulled away, slightly, his lips just a whisper against his own as he sucked in a rattling, shaky breath. He paused, then pressed to him again, kissing him, enveloping America’s bottom lip with his teeth, biting and sliding into his mouth, cradling him as he kissed him, slowly-as if he’d never been there before, with him, as if he did not know what to do or what to expect. America opened his mouth to him, sighed, felt himself smooth over. Everything was right again-wasn’t it?
It was hard to concentrate when England’s fingers were drumming unspoken songs against him, and his body moved in tandem with America’s own, absorbing and breathing him in, cradling him, letting himself be taken away. England pulled away, briefly, eyes flickering across his face-nervous, so hesitant. Waiting to draw away, as if burned.
He kissed him again, brushed his lips softly across England’s parted mouth. And when they pulled apart just slightly, America smiled at England, and England even smiled back a little, skewed and awkward-and America loved to look at it.
It was still new-still tentative. They were taking steps together, but it was far from perfect-just because they’d taken steps together didn’t meant they’d left everything behind. But as America leaned closer to kiss England again he felt the quiet thrill bubbling in his throat, the adrenaline pumping-anyone could see them. It didn’t scare him like he thought it would. Instead, he felt rather daring and a thumb drifting over his jaw line as England cupped the side of his head told him that there was nothing to fear. He gave into that thrill, his heart thundering-telling himself it was not fear that made his body hum against England’s, but pleasure. When he pulled away from England’s mouth, he told himself not to look around. And it wasn’t hard to look at only England-the dark enveloped them, cradled them together so that it was only England that he could see. It was all still new, but no matter what America knew he’d never tire of England, never tire of being with him or near him, looking at him or touching him. He just needed to stop being afraid. He just had to trust England, and England had to trust him.
Perhaps England sensed his thoughts, or he simply tired of the distance-because he held open his arm and whispered, “Come here, you.”
And America went to him willingly, let England curl his arms around him and draw him close, wrapping him in his arms in turn. America snuggled into him, into the spot he felt safe, nosing into the dip where neck met collarbone, and if he tilted his head just right, he could hear the murmuring thunder of England’s heartbeat. It was moments like these where America felt the full magnitude of all the stupid, sappy feelings that paraded around inside his head, and he supposed that yes, this is how it’s supposed to feel, when there’s no fear, no shame, no expectations-just the gentle passing of one’s breath and the warmth and protection that comes from being held. How easily this feeling could drift away, but now that he’d had that brief taste, he knew he would never rest until that was all he felt around England. Just happiness. That was all. Even if someone were to leave one of the distant tents, they wouldn’t have been able to see, and even if they could, America wouldn’t see them see. He was being held, and that was what mattered, that was all that mattered. The way to conquer a fear was to face it head on (except with scary movies; it didn’t matter how often he faced those). Even if headlights came, he’d ignore it. That’s what he kept telling himself. But no headlights appeared, and the car campers continued their slumber, oblivious to the two men, who felt completely alone to the world.
America kissed up England’s throat, over the curve of his chin, and whispered against his mouth, “I’m an idiot.”
England snorted a laugh. “Yes, I know.”
America kissed him again to keep him from laughing outright, but America could feel the curve of a hesitant smile against his mouth regardless. He kissed him harder, tried to give him reason to have confidence, to have reassurance. His fingers curled into England’s hair and he pulled him forward, leaning onto his back so the floor of the truck bed dug into his back and England’s weight pressed down onto him. England followed him willingly, kissing him softly, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth and stroking his jaw line with fingers that England would have argued were only shaking because it was getting cooler.
Light flickered and for a moment America thought it was headlights, until a distant rumble traveled from the distance.
“A storm’s coming,” America said, pulling away rather unwillingly from England’s mouth.
England frowned. “How far away is it?”
America chewed on his lip, knew his lips must be kiss-swollen. “There’s a rule of thumb for it, but you wouldn’t understand since you can’t comprehend miles.”
England scowled. “Are you sure that’s not you with kilometers, you ninny?”
America grinned, laughing a little. On his back, he stared up at England. Beyond him, there were no stars, only clouds-clouds swept out across the night sky. The storm would arrive soon, each cloud bursting and drenching the world below-America’s hand lifted to cup England’s cheek. England’s eyes flickered, then fell shut as he leaned into the touch. Again, in came the urge to blab every single stupid thought, completely unrestrained. But he kept silent, kept still as England sank into him. And this time, the silence didn’t feel quite so heavy, quite so deafening.
England regarded the sky for a moment, but didn’t seem to see anything that interesting, because the gaze only lasted for a few seconds. Green eyes scanned the horizon before drifting back down to America. He quirked a brow at America and America realized belatedly he had been staring at him. He didn’t look away, though, just gave him that sloppy grin. England offered a half-smile in turn, tilting his head to the side and shaking his head.
“Hey,” America said.
“‘Hey’ yourself.” England sighed. “What is it?”
“So… what now?”
England licked his lips. “We’ll have to drive once the rain comes-we can’t sleep out in the open.”
And with those words, England shifted, pulling away from America. England began to sit up, but America kept his hold on him. His hands shifted, and he wrapped his arms around England’s waist, holding him close. England made a small choking sound, from surprise.
“Wait.”
England raised one eyebrow again, looking bemused, if not a little unsure and embarrassed. Lightning flashed in the sky, flickering across the clouds in the distance. It was a long time before America heard the rumble of thunder.
“It’s because light travels faster than sound, that there’s that pause,” America said, helpfully, not quite sure why he found the need to say so. For any excuse to say something, anything, to keep him from saying all the things he probably should say but didn’t yet have the strength to.
“Yes, I know, you silly boy,” England said, and even stroked America’s hair a little. The hands touching his face, just briefly, before passing against his golden hair was enough to make America’s breath catch. He resisted that urge, though. England tried to pull away from America but, again, America did not let go of England. “America…”
America quickly interrupted the reprimand in England’s voice: “It’s still a ways away. The storm, I mean. Stay here.”
“I don’t want to nod off and end up getting drenched because of it,” England said calmly, laying his hands on America’s arms and trying forcefully to push himself away from him.
America clung tight-he didn’t want England to disappear, even for a moment. Stay, stay, stay, don’t go, stay here-
It was a habit, it was something that, in such a short amount of time, America had grown used to. Used to having England near, used to holding England, used to having England. Used to know that, above all his stupidity, his ineptitude, his dumbass attitude, England was there-and wanted to be there. What they needed was to communicate. It always came back to that-and somehow, America always forgot that’s what he needed to do. Or, perhaps, he just failed. It was impossible to tell (or, more likely, America did not want to address it all just yet).
“So, let’s stay awake.” He hoped England wouldn’t make him say it, admit he just wanted to hold him. He wanted to, somehow, reassure England, let England know that, no matter what, he was there. He wasn’t going to pull away, and he wasn’t going to let England pull away, either. But he didn’t want to actually say these things, not if England was going to throw the overtures back in his face, not if England was going to look at him as if he was insane, as if he was deluded, as if his words couldn’t possibly be anything other than lies.
But it seemed England could sense what America was getting at, because with a quiet sigh he sank down against him, clothes to clothes, skin to skin, bones to bones. Despite the weight on him, America felt lighter. He felt as if, maybe, it really was possible to meet halfway, it really was possible to communicate-
To understand.
“Let’s, then,” England agreed with a tone of voice which suggested he was merely humoring the boy. “But only for a little while. The moment it starts raining, I’m going back into the cabin and driving. Whether you’re in there with me or not is your own decision.”
“I’m not going to stay out here and get drenched,” America said, and almost pouted.
And with that, England rested against him, rolling his eyes just slightly-but not before America saw that soft touch of a smile, the brief moment when England’s cheeks flushed. He laid his head against America’s chest, ear pressed against his chest. America blushed, knowing that England would hear, now, the rapid beat of his heart. He wrapped his arms around England, holding him, pressing his face down so that his cheek pressed up against the top of England’s head. But it seemed England preferred to just look grumpy, as if he was some great martyr sacrificing himself for America’s whims. This was fine with America, because it meant that England was still right there anyway, and to celebrate he recaptured England’s mouth, kissing him until the sighs from England’s mouth were not long-suffering, but gentle reassuring breaths drowned out by the distant rolling thunder.
When they pulled apart, England quirked a small smile, a tiny scoff, and then laid his head back down on America’s chest. America closed his eyes, nuzzling his face closer to England’s, felt his nose press against his temple for a moment before he inhaled, swiftly, adjusting himself until he was comfortable, until he felt, just briefly, England’s legs wrap around with his. England’s hand, long, slim fingers, pressed against his chest, smoothed out the fabric of his jacket and shirt. Eyes hooded, England focused on his work, did not look up at America. But this, America hoped, was from embarrassment-if the pink in his cheeks was anything to go by.
“Someone could walk by,” England said, quietly, testing the waters.
America bit his lip. “No way, it’s too late at night. And it’s dark anyway.”
The fingers stopped moving against his chest, but did not pull away. “Hm.”
“You know, someday, I’m gonna pull a soldier with the nurse kiss on you and bend you over backwards while I kiss you in public.”
England snorted. Loudly. “I do not look forward to that day.”
The silence fell again, slightly awkward. America frowned, shifted slightly, fingers curling into England’s hair. He tugged, slightly, until the older nation looked up at him, still frowning.
England sighed and lifted his hand, cupping America’s cheek.
“I know you need time.”
America’s mouth twitched, and England pulled his hand away, sighing, looking away. He seemed to want to get away, to run away again. He shifted, trying to pull away. The hands left America’s chest, and his eyes drifted away from America, away from everything-
So America kept him there. With a hook of his leg and the shifting of his body, England had his back to the truck bed, staring up at the sky-up at America, who crouched over him.
“Wha-”
“Um,” America said.
England went still. America’s hands grasped England’s, planted them next to his head, curling until their fingers intertwined.
“I’ll prove it to you. Someday, I’m going to be okay with everything. I-I’ll be able to do everything right and I’ll make you really happy. I’ll prove it.”
“I don’t want you to prove anything,” England reminded, and closed his eyes. “Just do what makes you happy.”
“I want you to be happy, too.”
England shrugged one shoulder. “I am happy with you, America.”
“Are you, though?”
England shrugged again. “I believe so, yes. Most of the time.”
“Most of the time?” America mimicked, blinking rapidly.
“You’re infuriating half the time. I honestly don’t know why I put up with you,” England said, opening his eyes, and adding, “Masochism, I suppose.”
“Huh?” America muttered.
England tilted his head to the side, gave him that strange smile of his that somehow both suited and didn’t suit him. It looked crooked on his face, as if England wasn’t quite sure how to smile without looking as if he’d cry, his eyebrows slanted. America watched England swallow thickly-watched the way his throat constricted and his adam’s apple bobbed. Then, slowly, England lifted a hand, cupping America’s cheek once again. Every time, there was something strangely intimate about the gesture, as if, silently, England was reminding him that he loved him. Or perhaps that was just sappiness on America’s part.
There were no other words, just that simple pressure. America didn’t move, and England just observed America’s expression in earnest silence. A thumb stroked along his cheekbone, as if mapping out America’s face, as if he didn’t already know every dip, corner, and shadow to America’s body. His eyes flickered, before falling shut, for just a moment.
“It’s okay,” America said, and his jaw shifted against England’s palm. He felt the fingers flex, curl, almost fall away. “It’ll be okay-yeah? We’ll figure it out… um. Together. And shit.”
England snorted a quiet laugh and opened his eyes again, staring up at America. His fingers stroked at America’s jaw line, and then, slowly, two fingers rested against America’s mouth. America sucked in a shaky breath, but did not pull back or pull closer. England just watched him.
They’d been smashed into this shape, they would have to reshape, reform, redevelop. There was only one way to know things, only one way they could be alright. Things were not easy, things were not finished. But it was not the end yet, and America would do what he could to ensure the end would not come.
“Yes,” England agreed, his face still quirked into that strange half-smile of his that turned America’s entire insides to mush. His heart was bleeding.
America leaned in closer, and the fingers fell away from his mouth. America swallowed thickly. “England, I…” he began, hesitated, and felt his cheeks turn red. “You’re the one I want. And… and I’ll make sure that you know that, no matter what. I don’t want everything to go wrong.”
England’s smile slipped from his face, and he looked as if he would have run away, if America didn’t have him caged in, if he wasn’t lying on his back in the back of a truck with America over him.
“I… want to believe that,” England said. “More than anything, I want to believe that-America. I want to believe that you won’t hurt me.”
America studied his face, felt hair slip past his ear and drift in front of his eyes, for just a moment. England’s fingers brushed the strands aside. America felt his heart clench, felt himself lean in closer, and pause. England stared up at him. America watched his expression for any changes, any misgivings, when he said, quietly, a soft breath:
“So believe it.”
There was no big shift, no big jump, from England. He just exhaled, quietly, his entire body seeming to deflate before filling up again as he took in a rattling breath. Fingers snagged in his hair, and pulled, pulling America to him. America went willingly, dipping his head down towards England, as England called to him, brought him home again.
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: America leaves to clear his head, gets nowhere, and goes back.
Notes: Thank you everyone, again, as always, for being so kind in your comments. Hearing what you think really makes my long, busy weeks worthwhile. ♥
Other installments:
Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four
EDITED to fix the broken html. Sorry about that, everyone!
Fifteen minutes later found America still stomping through the forest, but with a lot less ferocious, self-righteous anger fueling him forward. He was still exhausted. It’d taken all his restraint to not punch a tree (the last time he’d punched a tree, the first President Roosevelt had given him A Look that still haunted him to this day) and instead just filtered all his anger into blatant stomping. No one was around to appreciate his indignation and frustration (and hurt, but he didn’t want to acknowledge that quite yet), but it was still remedying to hear the crunch of leaves and twigs as he traveled blindly through the wooded area. Now, though, his fatigue and sleep-deprivation was catching up to him. He was irritable, sleepy, and exhausted. Once he felt he’d walked far enough to channel some of his anger out of him, he collapsed to his knees and slumped against a tree. The bark pressed against his forehead, but he didn’t move for a long moment, eyes clenched shut.
“Shit,” he cursed, and his voice in the otherwise silent forest almost made him jump. It sounded as if something had shattered.
Now that the adrenaline was draining away, he just felt exhausted. And unhappy. Mostly unhappy.
“Fuck!” he said, but he was far enough away that no one would be able to hear him anyway. He felt like crying, but he was too good for something like that, and resisted. Or something. He pressed his hands to his eyes, just in case.
Why did I say that? he wondered, but did not regret. He had to be honest. He could be honest. He shifted, making himself comfortable. The ground was soft, and far more pleasant than the truck bed’s surface was. The adrenaline was gone, and he just felt tired. Exhaustion. He couldn’t see anything in the darkness.
He fell asleep.
He dozed for a while, though he wasn’t sure for how long once he woke up. He couldn’t read his watch’s face without a light, and there was no way to see the stars and determine that way with all the trees blocking his view. He yawned until his jaw cracked, and he felt groggy. He probably hadn’t slept for long, since he didn’t feel at all refreshed. But it was still with some effort that he stood up and didn’t just doze off to sleep again and find England in the morning. He arched his back until he heard his spine crack and let out a small sigh.
So in the end, it had been partially shame. If he was willing to admit it. But it wasn’t shame over England, it was shame over himself. Over his own actions and beliefs-and his people. He had the issues, he knew. He was willing to work through them. But for fuck’s sake, it’d been a short relationship, barely old enough to justify such intense talks one right after the other.
“Damn it, England.”
What good was it if England didn’t even trust him? Yeah, he made mistakes, but he was-he was bound to make mistakes. It was a whole new thing for him, something he was unsure of, something he didn’t think he’d ever be used to or understand. It would take time. Things were happening so fast, and he wasn’t properly prepared. But he knew that he wanted it, he just had to work through it, work to understand himself and his relationship with England.
“Everything just always has to be completely dramatic, huh?” America muttered to himself, leaned against a tree for a moment to close his eyes and rest. He slumped down on the ground again, drawing his knees to his chest and resisting the urge to yawn so wide that his jaw cracked again. After a few minutes, though, he made himself stand again and keep walking, wandering through the woods. He knew the direction back to the truck, but he wasn’t ready to go back yet. Wasn’t ready to face England and his unhappiness, his disapproval, his misunderstanding. “What good is it if you aren’t willing to trust and understand me, too, England?”
England-
It wasn’t worth it, was it? It’d be better, to keep walking until he found a motel or a bus depot. Better to just go back alone, to avoid England at all costs. It’d been a mistake to fall in love with him, to want to be with him. Maybe he really did have delusions-maybe he didn’t care about England as much as he thought. If England doubted his feelings, then could it be he really was mistaken?
And what was so great about England, anyway? He was crass, loud when he was drunk, uppity, with a stick way up his ass. He was too concerned with the rules unless it served himself to break them. He demanded all these things without ever expressing them, just expecting everyone to know it intuitively. He never said anything, always kept it to himself. He wasn’t that attractive-
But the way his fingers worked at his tie, the way his eyes glowed just right in the dim glow of a television-
He wasn’t that nice to him. In fact, he spent every waking moment it seemed insulting him, or criticizing him, or calling him an idiot or a good-for-nothing-
But the way he whispered the names to him, sweet nothings that made him shiver from head to toe as England pressed up against him-(“my dearest… my lovely… my darling…”)
There was nothing remotely interesting about England. He was as interesting as mud. Only ever wanted to talk about the queen or tea. Or politics and work. That wasn’t exciting at all. He constantly scoffed at America’s ideas, even when they were awesome. There was nothing remotely redemptive about his attitude most of the time-
But the way he touched him, the way he smiled at him, as if he was the only person in the world that mattered, as if he could go his entire life only looking at England’s face and be happy-
He wasn’t anything that he couldn’t find elsewhere. Hell, he could find someone who was kinder to him and probably better in bed, too. If that was all that was important to him. Or people who didn’t demand answers of him and then act like a pissy thing when the answer wasn’t what was wanted. England was just too much work. He was just too much-
But the way he was always there, the way he was always steadily behind him, even if he denied it adamantly. The way America knew, without any question, that England would always have his back and he would always have England’s, and for those brief moments when the entire world was only him and England, he could think clearly and know-
“FUCK!” America shouted, and slammed his head against a tree, forehead digging into the bark. His breathing came out a bit ragged and he clenched his eyes shut, trying to quell his racing thoughts. “Fuck,” he said softer, his breath hushed. “Damn it…”
Warm, callused hands gliding over his skin…
That quiet quirk of his lips, a smile that didn’t fit on his face and yet suited him just right…
Whispered, barely an exhale, I love you, England. And the soft answer, Me too, you daft fool…
America pressed his hands against the tree, as if to push away from it. But his hands ended up resting there, his eyes clenched shut. He bit at his lip, inhaled and exhaled. There was so much that he knew, and yet so little. He wanted to know everything about England. He didn’t want to disconnect. He didn’t want the world to grow quiet, not in that way-only if it meant they were allowed to speak around each other. Fuck the rest of the world. Fuck it all-
He pushed away from the tree, his eyes wide. He swallowed thickly, then turned his face away. He did not know who he was hiding from. He was tired, too tired. He was talking to himself, and yawning every five minutes. But his heart thundered and his feet carried him.
He knew he’d have to go back.
He knew he wouldn’t be able to leave him. The bravest he’d ever been was when he’d faced these things, when he’d been honest with himself. He couldn’t let himself disappear now, couldn’t let England get away.
So, slowly, hesitantly (why did he always hesitate when it mattered?), he made his way back towards the campsite. At least, he hoped that it was the right way. By now, England would probably have fallen asleep, hopefully in the cabin. If not, he’d just carry him into the cabin and deal with his anger once he woke up. He hoped he was sleeping, at least, and hadn’t abandoned him in the forest and stolen his truck to get as far away from him as possible. Then he really would have to hike to a bus depot. Or hitch-hike. None of this seemed ideal, especially since he’d left his bag behind.
He emerged from the woods, feeling a bit calmer, with the clear head he’d set out to find, but his thoughts still running a mile a minute. He had a cooler head, but it didn’t feel clearer, in the long run-if he was honest. He had no idea what he was doing, what to be thinking.
England was sitting in the truck’s bed. He hadn’t moved the truck, and other from the movement of standing to sitting, England himself hadn’t moved. He was curled into himself, elbows resting on his knees, his head bowed. His hands fisted in his hair and he didn’t look up when America approached, probably because he didn’t hear him. America wondered if he was even awake.
He placed his hand on the side of the truck. “Hey, England?”
England instantly snapped his head up and stared at him, eyes wide and-America wanted to look away, but couldn’t, wouldn’t, didn’t. It was too hard to look at him.
“… You came back,” England whispered.
There was so much said there, so much not said. America felt the emotions clog in his throat, but he forced himself to ignore it, to move past it.
“Course I did,” America said, resisted the urge to chew on a thumbnail. He couldn’t look vulnerable right now-not when they were fighting and he was supposed to be angry at England and want to just get away from him (if he was honest with himself, though-). “I left my bag here and we’re in the middle of nowhere.”
England nodded, slowly, then ducked his head again. He shifted, slightly, away from America-as if America wanted to maintain contact, as if he wanted to reach out and grab England. As if. England was too far away. He seemed to shrink away into himself further.
Let it go. Take the cabin and sleep-that’s what he should do. Let England fester in his unhappiness. It didn’t concern America, anymore.
“Hey-” America began and, despite himself, felt his sympathy flare. He knew he shouldn’t, he knew that he shouldn’t give in-or, at least, he didn’t think he should give in. But he couldn’t help it-not when England wasn’t looking at him. He planted both hands on the wall of the truck and hoisted himself up, rolling his way into the truck bed in what he could only hope was a ridiculously heroic fashion. “England-”
It looked as if England was going to say something-anything. But it didn’t come out, and the words choked in his throat. (Did he have the same problem as America-could he not find the words?) He lowered his gaze, seemed to melt away even more. America didn’t know what to do, what to say-what could he say? Everything seemed broken beyond repair. It all seemed too little too late. Grab on, hold on, don’t let go-
Just stay-
America was angry, he was hurt. But it was clear England was hurt, too. He hadn’t wanted this, never this. He just wanted England. And he wanted England to understand that. The day was done, and he had no idea what the hour was. But he felt infinitely older, as if he had aged dramatically. But the feelings hadn’t subsided, and all he wanted, the only thing he wanted-
England…
Why did it have to be this fucking hard?
It’d be so easy, to just step back and disappear. Just let it all go. But if America was honest with himself-if he knew what he refused to acknowledge…
He knew that he didn’t want it to end like this. But that would require saying something, that would require speaking with the person who was so certain of his misdeeds, so certain of his indecision, and so certain of what he wanted. As if England could even know what America wanted. As if England could be so sure of what America was thinking, of what was best for him. The only person who knew that was himself.
“I didn’t know if you’d come back,” England muttered after the silence seemed to have stretched on-and America listened to the practiced neutrality, couldn’t make out England’s face but knew that while it was betraying nothing it was betraying everything.
“There’s always gonna be that mystery if you don’t chase after things,” America said with a shrug, settling himself comfortably in the truck bed, stuffing his hands into his pockets and staring at England, who refused to meet his gaze. “I always chase you.”
He let the words hang in the air.
Then he added, quietly, “But you don’t chase me.”
He’d meant to be angry about that, meant for it to come out as an accusation. But it was only resignation. America didn’t let England get away-chased after him, demanded answers, demanded resolution. He didn’t let England get away with the avoidance-usually. If it was a matter between pride and England, it was, admittedly, a difficult struggle for America to overcome and chase after him. And in the end, he didn’t know how long he could keep doing it-
“I did once. Look at what good that got me.” The other nation did not lift his head, even as the words settled, and the echoes shivered up their spines. “I don’t have your courage, America. Not anymore.”
Courage.
What courage?
“Maybe not,” America said, slowly, for once trying to choose his words. A peace offering, a way to reach out and grasp England-a way to make England stay. Please, just stay-
If he was honest with himself-
“Or maybe you just know I’ll always come back.”
England snorted. He shook his head, looking bitterly amused. As if he did not believe the words. Why wouldn’t he just-?
“Saying such pointless things… you really are impossible.” England lifted his head, just slightly, to look off into the middle-distance, his eyes refusing to meet America’s.
For once, America recognized the avoidance for what it was, recognized the way England purposefully tried to displace the attention away from himself and onto someone else. America sat back, leaning against the truck bed, wanting more than anything to crawl over to him, to hold him, to try and actually say something. To work things out. To talk it over.
But they sat in silence, England looking away from him. And there was nothing America hated more than the silence that followed them, that seemed to settle on them no matter what, despite anything America could try and breach the gap that seemed to be ever widening between them.
He should just let it go. It was over. Why did he have to be the one to explain, why did he have to be the one to try to fix things? He hadn’t done anything wrong-he’d been honest. He’d tried, god, how he’d tried, to be okay with everything, to move past everything. But it was still too early. If he was nothing but a fool, if he was impossible, then what did that make England? What good was any of this, if they were stranded in a wasteland, with no words, no thoughts, nothing that could mend things?
“… Sorry,” America said at last. And once the word was past his lips, it was almost painful how easy it’d been to say it. It was remarkably easy, stupidly easy.
The world seemed to meld and warp, moving again to something that maybe he could begin to understand. Humility. If there was one thing he’d learned in their (still new, still short) relationship with England, it was that his bravado and his over confidence got him nowhere. He wasn’t ready to leave them all behind, quite yet, though. They were all he had, most days.
England didn’t move for a moment, and when he lifted his gaze, his expression seemed just a bit too vulnerable, before he seemed to remember himself and closed it off. “We can just let it go now.”
“Wait-but. No!” America said. That was the last thing he wanted. “I-”
“America,” England said, sharply, but softly, and if not for that slight, betraying waver in his voice, America wouldn’t have realized that England wasn’t angry, but rather trying to quash his true feelings. England inhaled sharply. “Just let it go. Go look at the stars or something. We can… just let it go.”
“Why…” America began, then raised his eyebrows, felt his throat constrict as he said, attempting the new tactic, “Why would I want to look at the stars when all I want is to look at you?”
But instead of looking embarrassed or even slightly amused, England only looked pained. “Stop that.”
“No.”
England grunted, and scowled. It was only there for a moment, just a brief moment, so quickly gone that America was sure he was just seeing things-but he thought he saw England’s cheeks turn pink. But then England ducked his head, curling into himself.
“To say something so utterly sappy,” he grumbled into his lap, “you should be a-… ash… ashamed...” He trailed off. He cleared his throat, and whispered, “You shouldn’t say things like that.”
America’s heart lurched again. His throat felt too dry. But his hands felt as if they were going to begin to sweat. He shifted, squirmed, trying to get closer to England, but England gave him a helpless look that arrested all of America’s movement. It was a never-ending cycle. America knew that he would have to break it, knew he would have to explain if he wanted this to work, if he wanted to keep England from running away before they could even start something, before what they had could even truly begin. England glanced at him, just briefly, but that was already more than enough. America could tell by the way England was looking at him, that whatever face England was making, it was perfectly mirrored on America’s own face. And England could see it.
“England,” America said, “Come here.”
“No,” England said at once, and curled into the corner-and everyone called America the stubborn one?
“Then I’m going over there,” America announced. England glared at him, looking slightly pale, but did not move away as America approached, kneeling down in front of him.
“What do you want?” England asked, using his grumpiness as a front, as a lackluster attempt to get America away from him. But America did not leave-not this time.
“England.”
“What?” England snapped.
“No, I mean. I want you, England,” America said.
England stilled up, his expression tensing. “Stop that.”
“But-”
“Stop,” England repeated. “Don’t try to win me over with smooth talking and that stupidly charming smile of yours. It isn’t going to work.”
“Just listen to me,” America demanded, pushing closer, pressing his hands against the back of the truck, trapping England in. England stared at him, impassively, not flinching away but not softening his hardened gaze upon him. He frowned, and America just kept searching his face. “England… just listen to me. That’s all I want.”
England sighed, clenched his eyes shut. He stayed still before, sighing again, he shrugged one shoulder. “What, then?”
Here, America paused. Again. Always.
What did he want?
He had to be honest. He knew he had to.
But honesty was-
He had to.
“I hate the idea… that if we leave it like this, once we get back to New York-you won’t… Look, I know that I’m-” His throat seized up. He didn’t know what to say, how to possibly express anything. He was so angry, so unhappy. How could England think these things, how could he be-
England opened his eyes, staring at him expectantly. Resigned. Counting down the moments until America pulled away from him and that familiar distance could settle between them. It seemed as if everything was fading away-there was nothing else, there was never anything else. Only England. Only America. The stars were fading, the sky was falling, and there was no room to breathe except for where their breath swapped back and forth.
England was everything-the only person he’d ever wanted to wait for, the only person he’d ever wanted to chase after. He was the only one who ever made him feel all this, all this and more. Rolling and falling and tossing. Falling until he burned up in the atmosphere, a falling star swerving out of control. He would crash down and there would be nothing, nothing but that hungry longing that kept him from forgetting, kept him from moving on, kept him from believing that anything but time was on his side. And not even time was with him-the clock ticked away, counting down until the moment they arrived in New York and England left, only to see him for official meetings, never for anything more intimate than a glance between each other and a remember when…? No, it couldn’t be.
England was everything.
And with that, the words came to him. “I hate that at this rate, once we get to New York, you won’t be with me anymore. I want you to always be right there, England.”
“That’s impossible,” England reminded.
“If you were to leave right now, would you come back?”
England stared at him, worked his mouth.
“You’re the one that I want-the only one I’ve ever wanted to find and hang on to. I’m here to talk, England. So don’t run away, don’t make me chase after you.”
England remained silent, but for just one brief moment it did not look as if he was tied to a noose, but rather breathing freely again, staring at him with something that he wasn’t quite ready to say-something that wouldn’t change.
He was so sick of the secrets.
“I know I’m… difficult. But this is-you’re all-England, how can I prove to you that I’m-”
“America, just stop,” England said, quietly, turning his eyes away.
“But-”
“I’m tired, already,” England said, and then seemed to pause. But his words were coming to him, too. “I don’t want for you to always justify, or always proving that you’re okay with our relationship. I know it’s new for you. It’s new for me, too, in many ways. But I’m… I don’t want for you to always feel guilty, to always feel shame and insecurity. I don’t want for you to have to prove anything. Mending your mistakes, forcing you to reassess things about yourself… I’m not strong enough for that. Not with you.”
“… You aren’t breaking up with me in a truck bed, are you?” America asked, eyes wide.
England stared at him, his expression crumbling. “I’m…” he said softly, his voice almost inaudible despite the proximity between the two, “I… don’t know.”
America hadn’t expected that hesitation. He’d expected-wanted-a no. He’d wanted a furious shake of his head, a quiet, No, never, you’re the only one I want, America. Don’t go away. He hadn’t expected any of this, though. This fight. This misunderstanding. The ambivalence, the heartbreak, the everything. Anything but that.
“England…”
“I’m sorry, I-”
“Do you want to break up with me?”
England stared at him. “I…”
“Don’t hesitate like that!” America shouted, his heart thundering against his chest so fiercely. The hands on the truck were shaking, his entire body was shaking. And England was staring at him with wide, uncertain eyes-he was so close, so close and yet so far away. “Don’t-don’t, for the love of God, don’t hesitate like that…”
“America…”
“Do you want me to leave? Do you want to leave? Is all this-f-fuck, is all this not worth it, after all?”
He must have been visibly shaking, because England’s eyes flickered away, and then, with that crushed expression of his, paled and with slanted eyebrows, he lifted a hand and touched America’s cheek, moving hesitantly, as if afraid that America would burn him if he were to touch him.
“I don’t want to,” England said quietly, interrupting the mile-a-minute thoughts roaring through America’s mind. He looked as if ready to shrink away, to run away, but he did not. He held America’s eyes steadily, kept his hand against his cheek. America did not pull away. “I don’t want to.”
“Then why-” America began, choked on nothing, and pressed himself closer to England, pressing his hand against England’s own, keeping the hand there. He wouldn’t burn, he wouldn’t be hurt-just stay, stay, stay…
“Someone could see us, like this,” England reminded, and tried to tug away.
America didn’t let the hand get away. Though his back stiffened and he swallowed thickly he said, softly, “I don’t give a fuck.”
“But you do.”
America clenched his eyes shut. “I’m still learning, ya know. I say to myself, ‘I don’t care what anyone thinks!’ but… it’s easier to say it.”
“Ah…” England murmured.
“I’m not ashamed of you.” America spoke, forcefully, making sure that England understood the words. England just looked at him, then his eyes drifted over his features, and rested on their hands against America’s cheek. “I’m not, England. It’s not you-it’s me.”
England snorted.
“I’m serious,” America said. “I don’t care if that sounds cliché! It’s not… I just… I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. I’m not perfect, you know that. I’ll do anything, though, to make this work. You just… you just gotta give me time. You gotta give me a chance to get better at this.”
“I don’t…”
“It’s not because of you that I feel so unsure and-”
“Really.”
“Okay-I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing with you. But when I get unsure… when I get uneasy… It’s because I don’t know what others are thinking of me. I can put on a big show about not giving a fuck what people say, I can pretend that I only care about myself, and I don’t care how the rest of the world sees me, or my own people sees me… but I… I’m so tired of people hating me for no reason, or for dumb reasons or for… for any reason. I don’t-I don’t want to give them another reason.”
England said nothing.
“But…” America looked up at him. “You don’t hate me. You… even though I’m a fucking idiot sometimes-a lot of the time with this shit… you still love me.”
“I…”
“You put up with my shit, but you also don’t let me get away with anything. It-it might have taken me for-fucking-ever to figure out that you’re the one that I want-but that’s what you are, England. You were there. You cared when no one else did. Even when you should by all logical counts hate the living bejesus out of me. You don’t.”
England was looking away again, but he’d stopped trying to reclaim his hand.
America let his hand slip, fall around England’s wrist, holding his palm against the butterfly-wing soft skin of the underside of his wrist, listening to the gentle, steady, rapid thud of England’s pulse .
“If the only way I could stay with you would be to shout it out to everyone around me that I love you, I would do it. I would freak the fuck out while doing it, and would probably piss myself-” England made a face, “-but I’d do anything. I would do it. I just want to make it work. I want us to work.”
England’s pulse was racing.
“But… even with my issues… It can’t be, if you don’t trust in me. If you think that I’m going to hurt you, leave you-whatever it is you think I’m gonna do.”
England sighed, a long, gentle sound. It did nothing to soothe America, but America wasn’t looking to be soothed, only to say what he had to.
“There will always be someone sticking their nose into other people’s business,” England said, recalling America’s earlier words, ignoring the way the conversation was turned towards England now. He forcefully turned it back to America when he poked America’s nose in a manner that was almost playful, had the situation been different. “Yourself included.”
“Hey, I-”
“Shush,” England commanded and America fell silent. The older nation paused for a long moment. He looked away, thinking, and then turned his attention back to America. “It’s new for you. I know it is. You’ve never been with another man before-and everyone needs time to adjust, to learn… to understand. I know, America. I know you don’t mean it maliciously, these things-you’re still adapting, and I need to be patient.”
“I’m not ashamed to be with you,” America said again.
“… I know. So you’ve said,” England said with a sigh.
“So why do you think I’ll hurt you?”
England closed his eyes.
America frowned. “You know… I’ve spent far too much time realizing that you’re who I want to be with-that you’re the only one I’ve ever really wanted. There have been others-of course there have been others… but none of them even compare to you. You’re… You’re you, England. You’re-”
Everything.
America swallowed thickly. “And now that I know that… I refuse to let this all go so easily. So tell me. Why do you think that?”
America shifted closer, felt his shoulder joints pop as he leaned in, hesitated, watching England.
England visibly deflated, slumping against the truck bed, staring up at America’s constant face. He licked his lips, swallowed thickly. His eyes flickered, staring at America, tracing his features, memorizing the lines and curves of his face.
“England. Just tell me.”
“… I keep expecting you’ll change your mind.”
“I won’t,” America said at once.
England shook his head, sighing. “I keep thinking-what is it that I can do to make sure to keep you here? What’s to ensure that you’ll… really stay.”
“You want me to stay.”
The older man nodded his head, looked as if he was about to cry. “Of course I do. You don’t even have to ask that…”
America bit his bottom lip.
“Then that’s why I’ll stay.”
“But I can’t help… but think you don’t realize what it is you really want.”
“I can’t prove that to you, England. You just have to trust me.”
“Hm…”
“I know that… I know that I do care, what people think now. But that doesn’t mean it’ll always be that way. I just… I need time.”
“I know.”
“It’s just… it’s…”
“Scary.”
America lifted his head, and nodded. “Yes,” he breathed, feeling just a sliver of tension sink from his body. “Yes, scary. It’s scary… I’m-I’m scared.”
He was so glad when England didn’t scoff. Instead, England simply said, “Me too.”
There was nothing more comforting than those words-nothing else England could have said could have made the weight lift completely from America’s shoulders. Me too. That moment-the moment when he realized, when he found out, that his struggle was also someone else’s struggle… that he was not alone, and that there were others that had been down the same road-England was on the same road-
Me too.
“It’s natural it would be,” England said.
“I guess,” America muttered.
America pulled away, with a quiet sigh, and slumped against the truck’s wall beside England. They sat in a long silence, neither tethering the other, close enough they could touch, but neither breaching that gap.
“It’ll be better, someday. Right?”
“Hm,” England grunted, and stared up at the tops of trees before shifting his gaze over his shoulder, staring out at the sleeping campsites a good ways away. No one seemed to have woken up during America’s and England’s conversation, which was assuring.
“So. That’s that, then?”
England shrugged one shoulder.
“England.”
The other nation sighed, and nodded his head. “I understand, America. I… I don’t like the idea of being without you, now that you’re finally here.”
America felt himself relax, just a little. “Yeah. Me too.”
He needed time, and England needed to trust. They both needed to trust-trust that everything would be okay, that despite the unknown things, despite the fear, as long as they had each other, that was what mattered. It sounded like something that belonged on a greeting card, but it was something that America took to heart. He’d have to trust England, too, and England would need time. They would both need time and trust. It was all still new. But soon, soon, someday, he hoped-he hoped, so badly-everything would be as it was supposed to be. They would be happy. Stable. Together.
America tilted his head, looking over at England. England was still staring off into the middle-distance, but upon feeling America’s gaze on him, he slowly turned his head to look at him. America swallowed thickly, as their eyes met. No words passed between them-but it didn’t feel as if he was choking, as if he was drowning in things left unsaid. America leaned in a bit closer, unsure, watching England. He shifted, felt his elbows locked, as he leaned in close to him, still sitting beside him-an awkward angle, but he wanted to be closer. He didn’t know what England’s reaction would be, though, so he stopped mere moments from England’s face. England studied his face.
“England,” America said softly, but did not move.
England’s expression flickered, and he shifted, too, seeming to both lean towards him and away. But there was just the slightest movement. England’s eyes flickered down to America’s mouth, and then back up to his eyes. England seemed to slump, for a moment. America drew back, holding his breath, trying his hardest, so hard, not to betray anything on his face. England looked up at him, for a split second looking miserable.
And then he lifted a hand, and touched America’s cheek again, drawing him towards him. “That expression doesn’t suit you, my darling.”
The name sent a shiver down his spine, and it was with great relief that America watched England sit up straighter and capture his mouth, kissing him gently, chaste, reacquainting himself with America’s mouth, sharing their breath until they mingled into one. The world slowed down until it really was just the two of them-nothing else beyond them, nothing else beside them but each other. America kissed him, closed-mouth, just moving against England, feeling the way England curled his fingers into America’s hair and drew him closer. America came to him willingly, trying to get as close as he could, feeling himself sink away against England.
England pulled away, slightly, his lips just a whisper against his own as he sucked in a rattling, shaky breath. He paused, then pressed to him again, kissing him, enveloping America’s bottom lip with his teeth, biting and sliding into his mouth, cradling him as he kissed him, slowly-as if he’d never been there before, with him, as if he did not know what to do or what to expect. America opened his mouth to him, sighed, felt himself smooth over. Everything was right again-wasn’t it?
It was hard to concentrate when England’s fingers were drumming unspoken songs against him, and his body moved in tandem with America’s own, absorbing and breathing him in, cradling him, letting himself be taken away. England pulled away, briefly, eyes flickering across his face-nervous, so hesitant. Waiting to draw away, as if burned.
He kissed him again, brushed his lips softly across England’s parted mouth. And when they pulled apart just slightly, America smiled at England, and England even smiled back a little, skewed and awkward-and America loved to look at it.
It was still new-still tentative. They were taking steps together, but it was far from perfect-just because they’d taken steps together didn’t meant they’d left everything behind. But as America leaned closer to kiss England again he felt the quiet thrill bubbling in his throat, the adrenaline pumping-anyone could see them. It didn’t scare him like he thought it would. Instead, he felt rather daring and a thumb drifting over his jaw line as England cupped the side of his head told him that there was nothing to fear. He gave into that thrill, his heart thundering-telling himself it was not fear that made his body hum against England’s, but pleasure. When he pulled away from England’s mouth, he told himself not to look around. And it wasn’t hard to look at only England-the dark enveloped them, cradled them together so that it was only England that he could see. It was all still new, but no matter what America knew he’d never tire of England, never tire of being with him or near him, looking at him or touching him. He just needed to stop being afraid. He just had to trust England, and England had to trust him.
Perhaps England sensed his thoughts, or he simply tired of the distance-because he held open his arm and whispered, “Come here, you.”
And America went to him willingly, let England curl his arms around him and draw him close, wrapping him in his arms in turn. America snuggled into him, into the spot he felt safe, nosing into the dip where neck met collarbone, and if he tilted his head just right, he could hear the murmuring thunder of England’s heartbeat. It was moments like these where America felt the full magnitude of all the stupid, sappy feelings that paraded around inside his head, and he supposed that yes, this is how it’s supposed to feel, when there’s no fear, no shame, no expectations-just the gentle passing of one’s breath and the warmth and protection that comes from being held. How easily this feeling could drift away, but now that he’d had that brief taste, he knew he would never rest until that was all he felt around England. Just happiness. That was all. Even if someone were to leave one of the distant tents, they wouldn’t have been able to see, and even if they could, America wouldn’t see them see. He was being held, and that was what mattered, that was all that mattered. The way to conquer a fear was to face it head on (except with scary movies; it didn’t matter how often he faced those). Even if headlights came, he’d ignore it. That’s what he kept telling himself. But no headlights appeared, and the car campers continued their slumber, oblivious to the two men, who felt completely alone to the world.
America kissed up England’s throat, over the curve of his chin, and whispered against his mouth, “I’m an idiot.”
England snorted a laugh. “Yes, I know.”
America kissed him again to keep him from laughing outright, but America could feel the curve of a hesitant smile against his mouth regardless. He kissed him harder, tried to give him reason to have confidence, to have reassurance. His fingers curled into England’s hair and he pulled him forward, leaning onto his back so the floor of the truck bed dug into his back and England’s weight pressed down onto him. England followed him willingly, kissing him softly, sucking his bottom lip into his mouth and stroking his jaw line with fingers that England would have argued were only shaking because it was getting cooler.
Light flickered and for a moment America thought it was headlights, until a distant rumble traveled from the distance.
“A storm’s coming,” America said, pulling away rather unwillingly from England’s mouth.
England frowned. “How far away is it?”
America chewed on his lip, knew his lips must be kiss-swollen. “There’s a rule of thumb for it, but you wouldn’t understand since you can’t comprehend miles.”
England scowled. “Are you sure that’s not you with kilometers, you ninny?”
America grinned, laughing a little. On his back, he stared up at England. Beyond him, there were no stars, only clouds-clouds swept out across the night sky. The storm would arrive soon, each cloud bursting and drenching the world below-America’s hand lifted to cup England’s cheek. England’s eyes flickered, then fell shut as he leaned into the touch. Again, in came the urge to blab every single stupid thought, completely unrestrained. But he kept silent, kept still as England sank into him. And this time, the silence didn’t feel quite so heavy, quite so deafening.
England regarded the sky for a moment, but didn’t seem to see anything that interesting, because the gaze only lasted for a few seconds. Green eyes scanned the horizon before drifting back down to America. He quirked a brow at America and America realized belatedly he had been staring at him. He didn’t look away, though, just gave him that sloppy grin. England offered a half-smile in turn, tilting his head to the side and shaking his head.
“Hey,” America said.
“‘Hey’ yourself.” England sighed. “What is it?”
“So… what now?”
England licked his lips. “We’ll have to drive once the rain comes-we can’t sleep out in the open.”
And with those words, England shifted, pulling away from America. England began to sit up, but America kept his hold on him. His hands shifted, and he wrapped his arms around England’s waist, holding him close. England made a small choking sound, from surprise.
“Wait.”
England raised one eyebrow again, looking bemused, if not a little unsure and embarrassed. Lightning flashed in the sky, flickering across the clouds in the distance. It was a long time before America heard the rumble of thunder.
“It’s because light travels faster than sound, that there’s that pause,” America said, helpfully, not quite sure why he found the need to say so. For any excuse to say something, anything, to keep him from saying all the things he probably should say but didn’t yet have the strength to.
“Yes, I know, you silly boy,” England said, and even stroked America’s hair a little. The hands touching his face, just briefly, before passing against his golden hair was enough to make America’s breath catch. He resisted that urge, though. England tried to pull away from America but, again, America did not let go of England. “America…”
America quickly interrupted the reprimand in England’s voice: “It’s still a ways away. The storm, I mean. Stay here.”
“I don’t want to nod off and end up getting drenched because of it,” England said calmly, laying his hands on America’s arms and trying forcefully to push himself away from him.
America clung tight-he didn’t want England to disappear, even for a moment. Stay, stay, stay, don’t go, stay here-
It was a habit, it was something that, in such a short amount of time, America had grown used to. Used to having England near, used to holding England, used to having England. Used to know that, above all his stupidity, his ineptitude, his dumbass attitude, England was there-and wanted to be there. What they needed was to communicate. It always came back to that-and somehow, America always forgot that’s what he needed to do. Or, perhaps, he just failed. It was impossible to tell (or, more likely, America did not want to address it all just yet).
“So, let’s stay awake.” He hoped England wouldn’t make him say it, admit he just wanted to hold him. He wanted to, somehow, reassure England, let England know that, no matter what, he was there. He wasn’t going to pull away, and he wasn’t going to let England pull away, either. But he didn’t want to actually say these things, not if England was going to throw the overtures back in his face, not if England was going to look at him as if he was insane, as if he was deluded, as if his words couldn’t possibly be anything other than lies.
But it seemed England could sense what America was getting at, because with a quiet sigh he sank down against him, clothes to clothes, skin to skin, bones to bones. Despite the weight on him, America felt lighter. He felt as if, maybe, it really was possible to meet halfway, it really was possible to communicate-
To understand.
“Let’s, then,” England agreed with a tone of voice which suggested he was merely humoring the boy. “But only for a little while. The moment it starts raining, I’m going back into the cabin and driving. Whether you’re in there with me or not is your own decision.”
“I’m not going to stay out here and get drenched,” America said, and almost pouted.
And with that, England rested against him, rolling his eyes just slightly-but not before America saw that soft touch of a smile, the brief moment when England’s cheeks flushed. He laid his head against America’s chest, ear pressed against his chest. America blushed, knowing that England would hear, now, the rapid beat of his heart. He wrapped his arms around England, holding him, pressing his face down so that his cheek pressed up against the top of England’s head. But it seemed England preferred to just look grumpy, as if he was some great martyr sacrificing himself for America’s whims. This was fine with America, because it meant that England was still right there anyway, and to celebrate he recaptured England’s mouth, kissing him until the sighs from England’s mouth were not long-suffering, but gentle reassuring breaths drowned out by the distant rolling thunder.
When they pulled apart, England quirked a small smile, a tiny scoff, and then laid his head back down on America’s chest. America closed his eyes, nuzzling his face closer to England’s, felt his nose press against his temple for a moment before he inhaled, swiftly, adjusting himself until he was comfortable, until he felt, just briefly, England’s legs wrap around with his. England’s hand, long, slim fingers, pressed against his chest, smoothed out the fabric of his jacket and shirt. Eyes hooded, England focused on his work, did not look up at America. But this, America hoped, was from embarrassment-if the pink in his cheeks was anything to go by.
“Someone could walk by,” England said, quietly, testing the waters.
America bit his lip. “No way, it’s too late at night. And it’s dark anyway.”
The fingers stopped moving against his chest, but did not pull away. “Hm.”
“You know, someday, I’m gonna pull a soldier with the nurse kiss on you and bend you over backwards while I kiss you in public.”
England snorted. Loudly. “I do not look forward to that day.”
The silence fell again, slightly awkward. America frowned, shifted slightly, fingers curling into England’s hair. He tugged, slightly, until the older nation looked up at him, still frowning.
England sighed and lifted his hand, cupping America’s cheek.
“I know you need time.”
America’s mouth twitched, and England pulled his hand away, sighing, looking away. He seemed to want to get away, to run away again. He shifted, trying to pull away. The hands left America’s chest, and his eyes drifted away from America, away from everything-
So America kept him there. With a hook of his leg and the shifting of his body, England had his back to the truck bed, staring up at the sky-up at America, who crouched over him.
“Wha-”
“Um,” America said.
England went still. America’s hands grasped England’s, planted them next to his head, curling until their fingers intertwined.
“I’ll prove it to you. Someday, I’m going to be okay with everything. I-I’ll be able to do everything right and I’ll make you really happy. I’ll prove it.”
“I don’t want you to prove anything,” England reminded, and closed his eyes. “Just do what makes you happy.”
“I want you to be happy, too.”
England shrugged one shoulder. “I am happy with you, America.”
“Are you, though?”
England shrugged again. “I believe so, yes. Most of the time.”
“Most of the time?” America mimicked, blinking rapidly.
“You’re infuriating half the time. I honestly don’t know why I put up with you,” England said, opening his eyes, and adding, “Masochism, I suppose.”
“Huh?” America muttered.
England tilted his head to the side, gave him that strange smile of his that somehow both suited and didn’t suit him. It looked crooked on his face, as if England wasn’t quite sure how to smile without looking as if he’d cry, his eyebrows slanted. America watched England swallow thickly-watched the way his throat constricted and his adam’s apple bobbed. Then, slowly, England lifted a hand, cupping America’s cheek once again. Every time, there was something strangely intimate about the gesture, as if, silently, England was reminding him that he loved him. Or perhaps that was just sappiness on America’s part.
There were no other words, just that simple pressure. America didn’t move, and England just observed America’s expression in earnest silence. A thumb stroked along his cheekbone, as if mapping out America’s face, as if he didn’t already know every dip, corner, and shadow to America’s body. His eyes flickered, before falling shut, for just a moment.
“It’s okay,” America said, and his jaw shifted against England’s palm. He felt the fingers flex, curl, almost fall away. “It’ll be okay-yeah? We’ll figure it out… um. Together. And shit.”
England snorted a quiet laugh and opened his eyes again, staring up at America. His fingers stroked at America’s jaw line, and then, slowly, two fingers rested against America’s mouth. America sucked in a shaky breath, but did not pull back or pull closer. England just watched him.
They’d been smashed into this shape, they would have to reshape, reform, redevelop. There was only one way to know things, only one way they could be alright. Things were not easy, things were not finished. But it was not the end yet, and America would do what he could to ensure the end would not come.
“Yes,” England agreed, his face still quirked into that strange half-smile of his that turned America’s entire insides to mush. His heart was bleeding.
America leaned in closer, and the fingers fell away from his mouth. America swallowed thickly. “England, I…” he began, hesitated, and felt his cheeks turn red. “You’re the one I want. And… and I’ll make sure that you know that, no matter what. I don’t want everything to go wrong.”
England’s smile slipped from his face, and he looked as if he would have run away, if America didn’t have him caged in, if he wasn’t lying on his back in the back of a truck with America over him.
“I… want to believe that,” England said. “More than anything, I want to believe that-America. I want to believe that you won’t hurt me.”
America studied his face, felt hair slip past his ear and drift in front of his eyes, for just a moment. England’s fingers brushed the strands aside. America felt his heart clench, felt himself lean in closer, and pause. England stared up at him. America watched his expression for any changes, any misgivings, when he said, quietly, a soft breath:
“So believe it.”
There was no big shift, no big jump, from England. He just exhaled, quietly, his entire body seeming to deflate before filling up again as he took in a rattling breath. Fingers snagged in his hair, and pulled, pulling America to him. America went willingly, dipping his head down towards England, as England called to him, brought him home again.