[2011 Sweethearts Week] Anniversary (Fic)
Title: Anniversary
Genre: Angst/Romance
Rating: PG-13
Word-count: 575
Summary: “They were nations, not people, and so, the idea of romantic anniversaries was something entirely alien to them.” US/UK. Somewhat AU.
Note: For the 2011 Sweethearts Week, “Valentine’s Day.”
They were nations, not people, and so, the idea of romantic anniversaries was something entirely alien to them. Anniversaries were for the people, their people, but they had other days, marked neatly in red on calendars: holidays.
“Valentine’s Day,” America had said.
England looked up from his cup of tea. They were in his study in Sussex, poring over maps of Afghanistan, oil embargo acts for a number of nations.
“We can have Valentine’s Day,” America told him.
Their first Valentine’s Day was spent in conference. There’d been a string of political scandals in London and England had been tired enough by mid-February that he could barely muster up enough enthusiasm to greet America when Air Force One landed. The press sent to cover the President’s arrival cheered politely when the President and Prime Minister shook hands, their nations like shadows, book-ending the photo-perfect picture.
“I want to kiss you where all the world can see.”
“That’s your American love of movies talking. It doesn’t work like that, Alfred.”
The second Valentine’s Day, America and England did not spend together. A hurricane swept the Gulf of Mexico, ravaging parts of Florida and Louisiana. America was thigh-deep in water, helping the desperate townspeople shore up sand bags against an ever rising tide. A tour ship with British passengers had sunk not too far off the coast from thunderous winds. Letters of sympathy were sent.
“I’m sorry,” Alfred said, cradling Arthur.
America was filthy, full of mud-water and sweat, the desperate stench of people who had lost everything and searched every day in hospitals for lost family members.
Arthur closed his eyes.
“I’m sorry, too.”
The third Valentine’s, they did not count.
“It’s only a day,” England said in front of their fireplace, stretched across the Mandarin carpet like a strange golden koi that had found its way to land. His skin glowed in the firelight, in their little cabin in Aspen. His skier had won Winter Olympic gold and his joy was a nation’s joy, Arthur’s joy.
It was the 16th, far too late to be a real Valentine’s, but America came to lie by England and kissed him with wine-sweet lips, breathed a sigh sweeter than Dionysus.
It was the first time that they made love.
It was five years after they had begun to see each other, since the second alliance pact was signed, when England murmured into America’s hair and asked him how many Valentine’s they had actually spent together.
America was warm and content in bed with England and instead of answering, drew a line with his finger down England’s ribcage.
They were rooming in an old farm house in Kentucky, far away from the capital (either of them, both of them) and there was nothing more noisy than the whicker of horses outside their yellow-curtained window.
America loved Kentucky like he loved all his states, but he had a special fondness for Pioneer Country. They reminded him that there was a time before fifty, when what was a nation and what wasn’t was always changing and changeable.
America’s finger continued down, across England’s navel where he was especially sensitive and England laughed. America smiled.
“It’s been seventy-six,” America said.
England hummed, trying to make sense of America’s logic in an uncharacteristically indulgent way.
“How so?” England asked and smoothed down the hair behind America’s ears.
“Because,” America’s eyelids fluttered closed, “every day I get to spend with you is a valentine.”
Genre: Angst/Romance
Rating: PG-13
Word-count: 575
Summary: “They were nations, not people, and so, the idea of romantic anniversaries was something entirely alien to them.” US/UK. Somewhat AU.
Note: For the 2011 Sweethearts Week, “Valentine’s Day.”
They were nations, not people, and so, the idea of romantic anniversaries was something entirely alien to them. Anniversaries were for the people, their people, but they had other days, marked neatly in red on calendars: holidays.
“Valentine’s Day,” America had said.
England looked up from his cup of tea. They were in his study in Sussex, poring over maps of Afghanistan, oil embargo acts for a number of nations.
“We can have Valentine’s Day,” America told him.
Their first Valentine’s Day was spent in conference. There’d been a string of political scandals in London and England had been tired enough by mid-February that he could barely muster up enough enthusiasm to greet America when Air Force One landed. The press sent to cover the President’s arrival cheered politely when the President and Prime Minister shook hands, their nations like shadows, book-ending the photo-perfect picture.
“I want to kiss you where all the world can see.”
“That’s your American love of movies talking. It doesn’t work like that, Alfred.”
The second Valentine’s Day, America and England did not spend together. A hurricane swept the Gulf of Mexico, ravaging parts of Florida and Louisiana. America was thigh-deep in water, helping the desperate townspeople shore up sand bags against an ever rising tide. A tour ship with British passengers had sunk not too far off the coast from thunderous winds. Letters of sympathy were sent.
“I’m sorry,” Alfred said, cradling Arthur.
America was filthy, full of mud-water and sweat, the desperate stench of people who had lost everything and searched every day in hospitals for lost family members.
Arthur closed his eyes.
“I’m sorry, too.”
The third Valentine’s, they did not count.
“It’s only a day,” England said in front of their fireplace, stretched across the Mandarin carpet like a strange golden koi that had found its way to land. His skin glowed in the firelight, in their little cabin in Aspen. His skier had won Winter Olympic gold and his joy was a nation’s joy, Arthur’s joy.
It was the 16th, far too late to be a real Valentine’s, but America came to lie by England and kissed him with wine-sweet lips, breathed a sigh sweeter than Dionysus.
It was the first time that they made love.
It was five years after they had begun to see each other, since the second alliance pact was signed, when England murmured into America’s hair and asked him how many Valentine’s they had actually spent together.
America was warm and content in bed with England and instead of answering, drew a line with his finger down England’s ribcage.
They were rooming in an old farm house in Kentucky, far away from the capital (either of them, both of them) and there was nothing more noisy than the whicker of horses outside their yellow-curtained window.
America loved Kentucky like he loved all his states, but he had a special fondness for Pioneer Country. They reminded him that there was a time before fifty, when what was a nation and what wasn’t was always changing and changeable.
America’s finger continued down, across England’s navel where he was especially sensitive and England laughed. America smiled.
“It’s been seventy-six,” America said.
England hummed, trying to make sense of America’s logic in an uncharacteristically indulgent way.
“How so?” England asked and smoothed down the hair behind America’s ears.
“Because,” America’s eyelids fluttered closed, “every day I get to spend with you is a valentine.”