[Fanfiction] A Record of the Rare Occurrence Known as British Affection, 1/5

[sakuratsukikage.livejournal.com]

Title: A Record of the Rare Occurrence Known as British Affection
Author/Artist:sakuratsukikage 
Genre: Fluff!
Character(s) or Pairing(s): America, England
Rating: This section--absolutely G, the rest will probably reach a PG for language and make-outs
Warnings: None, really, for this section.
Summary: Five fics on the theme of England expressing affection to America.  Range all over the course of their history together--this one focuses on America as a child.  A request fic for my dear friendottful --I'm so sorry it took so long, dear!  Rest assured, there's a lot more coming.  Crossposted at hetalia and my personal journal.

A Record of the Rare Occurrence Known as British Affection, Part One

Sunlight and Sea Air

The sleeping boy was a warm weight in his arms, and England could measure his steps by the moist puffs of the child's breath feathering against his neck, trapping warm air beneath his collar.  America had been all buoyant energy until the two of them had begun the walk (it was not terribly far, so England had chosen to walk rather than take a carriage) back to the house England was having built for his young colony.  Then the excitement of a day spent running over every nook and cranny of the ship England had arrived in and getting into everything on it seemed to have caught up to America, despite the stubbornness with which the boy had protested he wasn’t sleepy in his broad childish lisp, chubby hands clenching into stubborn fists even as his feet began to drag and he fought obviously against the drooping of his own eyelids.  The third time England had had to catch and steady the small boy trotting along at his side before he swayed enough to trip himself and topple over, England had simply peremptorily hoisted America into his arms with a grunted, “Up you go.”  He’d expected loud protests, and when America had merely cuddled drowsily into England’s shoulder, small hands fisting in England’s waistcoat and collar in warm little brushes of contact against England’s skin, rather than protesting that he wasn’t tired and he was a big enough boy to walk on his own (“I was on my own ‘fore Engwand came,” the boy had said stubbornly earlier in the day), England had known the child to be practically asleep on his feet.

He shifted America slightly to look down into the boy’s sleeping face, as innocent as a child in an idealized painting, which England knew quite well was an illusion—the boy was a furiously inventive troublemaker, and after a day of watching him get into everything he possibly could and everything that a small child should certainly not be exploring, England could only marvel at how little of the mischief contained in that small body was visible on the slumbering features.

England shifted one hand up America’s back to brush the fine flyaway silk of the boy’s hair from his forehead, ruffling his fingers through it gently.  He felt the now familiar tremulous sense of wonder well up within him yet again as he gazed down at that rounded child’s face, all soft and sweet still, not yet completely shed of infancy, and thought that this boy, this wonderful, troublesome, tiring, infinitely precious boy, had chosen him as . . . as an older brother.  Over France, over anyone, and at the thought England’s arms tightened around America’s small but solid body, and he hugged him close before he could tell himself he was being a fool, before he could stop himself.

America stirred against him, making soft sleepy noises, and then his wide sky-blue eyes were propping themselves half-open and he was staring up into England's face.  England looked down at him.  “I’m sorry,” he said.  “Did I wake you?  You can go back to sleep, America."

America blinked owlishly at him.  "Home yet?" he mumbled, after a moment of screwing up his features as if confused.

"No, not yet," England said, “nearly there,” and at the thought, a moment delayed, that America already thought of the house England was building for him as home, England felt his eyes begin to prickle and burn.  He swallowed thickly.

America frowned, and his small forehead creased.  “Engwand?” he said.  “What’re yo’r eyes gettin’ all shiny for?”  He reached up with one hand, working it free of the fabric of England’s waistcoat with a long moment of concentration and pressing small fingers to England’s face.  “Are you sad?"

The innocently worded question sent a sweetly painful ache shuddering through England’s chest, and he sucked in a suddenly trembling breath.  “No, America,” he said, and couldn’t keep himself from giving the boy’s hair another rough, affectionate tousle, barely stopping himself from hugging him close again.  “I’m not sad."

America's forehead knotted up, and he frowned slightly.  “Then why’re you fwowning?” he asked.  His hand coasted clumsily over England’s mouth, poking at his lips.

"Frowning, America," England said.  "Frowning," and America pursed his own lips.

"Frrrowning,” he said.  “If you’re not sad, shouldn’t fro-own, frown?”  England nodded at America’s pronunciation, his throat tight, and America smiled brilliantly up at him.  The boy pressed a finger into the side of England’s mouth, pushing the skin upward.  “Smile!” he commanded with a certain grave severity.  “C’mon, Engwand, smile!"

England's answering smile felt unfamiliar on his lips, almost rusty, and strangely light—not wry or sharp, not the pointed smirk he was accustomed to turning on his opponents, or the occasional arrogant grin, but a real smile, wide and bright and he couldn’t believe how simple it felt, how it settled onto his face like warmth, flushing up his skin toward his eyes.

"'s better," America said, his childish voice approving, and England just smiled down at him, speechlessly, helpless.  How was it even possible that this one small boy, this one little colony of his, could become so precious to him so quickly?  It boggled all imagination.

He bent his head, quickly, and pressed a kiss against America’s forehead, breathed in the scent of boy and sun and warmth.  “Let’s get you home,” he said.

America grinned up at him, suddenly all smiles.  "Home," the boy agreed.

End of part one.