(![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
flyingfortress.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
usxuk Jan. 19th, 2010 06:27 am)
flyingfortress.livejournal.com posting in usxuk Jan. 19th, 2010 06:27 am)Title: Alive with the Glory of Love
Genre: Fluff; humor
Pairing(s): USUK (other pairings implied)
Rating: PG-13 for language
Warning: None.
Summary: A 'brilliant' idea by Poland leads to a sleepover at his house, and he even brings out the microphone and speakers! The Nations all take turns either passing or singing to their heart's desire. But in the middle of the fun, one of our boys captures the stage and plans to serenade the other - but which one will do the singing?
Author's Note: Fastest fanfic ever y/y? /shot.
I hope you liked it, Vele-bby. c: And have a good birthday, too, I might add! I know I tweaked the prompt a bit with Iggy's reaction, but ... I - I heard the sing right as I was writing the ending and I spazzed. > w < it was such a cute mental image that I had to do it.
Thank you all for reading along, and I'll have chapter five of my other fanfic up when it doesn't kill me! This next chapter is gonna be lengthy. Hopefully, I'll have time at school to work on it. = w =
Enjoy the final part!
--
The two of them stood like that, silence settling uncomfortably between the two of them. England didn't have much of an expression on his face, although the blush betrayed his seeming careless outlook. America swallowed and shifted his weight nervously, suddenly wanting to run back downstairs and smack himself with the microphone. He had a bad tendency to do nothing but annoy or piss off the other, and half the time he didn't even mean it. He seemed to have just done that with his confession of a serenade. It was how he showed bits of affection, he just couldn't help it. Maybe England was too sensitive; maybe America wasn't sensitive enough. Maybe -
"It's fairly obvious that you want to talk to me, git."
America's thoughts died in his mind. He brought his head up to look at England, who sighed quietly. The younger watched as the older rose and looked into his eyes. "But. There's not even anything to talk about." Brushing by America, he kept his gaze at the door where he would once again go. "I just needed some tea. I'll see you back down there."
He didn't get far, thought, because America had snatched his wrist and had gently tugged him back to where he had originally been. "No," America said quietly. Normally, he would have whined and pouted, following England wherever he was leaving. But this time, he wanted -- no. "I need to talk to you." He almost sounded desperate. Maybe he was.
England wiggled his wrist free, an obviously frustrated hand on his hip. He scowled up at America and frowned. "About?"
He couldn't believe it. "What do you think I was just doing for five minutes?" America asked, exasperated.
England felt his lips turning down. "Making a bloody fool of yourself, I'd wager," he blurted, sitting back down on the couch. His face was beet red and he covered it with a hand that moved to run through his hair. "You ... you don't just -"
America dropped to a nearby chair and leaned in. "I don't just what, England?" he asked with a frown. "Tell me 'cause it took a lot of guts for me to get up there and make a 'fool' of myself!" America caught England's attention. He sighed and closed his eyes, his head turning to the side for a moment. He looked back up with a stern look in his eyes. "Are you seriously telling me that you don't get it?"
"What's there to get?" England mumbled.
"Everything!" America cried out before he could think. "What's there not to get? Sixty years, England; sixty years and I finally get the guts to tell you and you can't even realize it?!" America didn't bother looking at England now. He stared at the carpet, taking Texas off for a moment to rub the bridge of his nose. "I've been wanting to tell you for a while now but..."
England's attention was now on America. He wanted to hear what he had to say. His face was tickled pink and his heart was beating quickly again, palms becoming slick with sweat just as they had been during the song. It was like he was beginning to fall all over again. "But?" he asked softly.
Shifting uncomfortably, Alfred realized how vulnerable he was making himself. He hated it. God, he hated it so much. But he had to continue. He had to. "Well," he began with a deep sigh. "I know we're definitely a lot closer than we were all those years ago, but ... I still don't think you trust me 100%." He laughed quietly, a somewhat sad chuckle, because he knew it was the truth. "I can't really blame you." He could feel England shift. It was like still talking about it hurt him still. He reached and rubbed his neck with a sigh. "I ... I always thought you wouldn't believe me if I told you, because I always act kind of stupid and mess things up, and I pick on you all the time. And ... because I hurt you so much."
Arthur didn't like hearing Alfred put himself down. Every time he did, he would be there to pick the young Nation up and put him back on the right path. His throat was clenched so tightly, though, that he couldn't retort and tell America to stop being so down on himself. England also didn't want to interrupt because, deep inside of him, he was agreeing with America. But without all of the stupid things he did, and without the way he picked on England, he just wouldn't be America.
Jones lifted his gaze again, a sad smile on his face. America knew he couldn't force England to believe him. Exhaling, he rubbed his neck and laughed. "Well, now I feel like an idiot!" America glanced at the door and then back to the ground. I guess France was lying all along, America thought in dismay. Surely, if England had felt the same, he would have reacted differently. Just thinking that he might have felt the same was what had given America the Hero's courage he needed to get up there and confess not only to him but the world.
England didn't reply at first. He grappled with the words that America had said to him. Did the boy even realize the momentum of what he had spoken through song? Arthur gently clutched his chest and shut his eyes. Something in him was still scared to believe him, even if it had been two centuries. He knew, no matter how much he denied it, he had gotten over the revolution. He no longer went to bed and cried at the thought of the American. He could look at that bumbling, blue-eyed buffoon and secretly adore him instead of openly loathing him. There were no more resentments, no more feuds, no more nothing.
They had a special relationship now, and Arthur knew that the first step was trust.
Abruptly, England stood and hurried to the door. America turned from his stupor and blinked in surprise, moving to stand. "Engla-"
"Stay here," England firmly articulated, pointing to the boy's seat before disappearing downstairs.
America did as he was told, albeit in confusion. He sat back down and stared at the coffee table before him, left with his thoughts. "I screwed this one up, didn't I?" he asked no one in particular. He had always hoped that Arthur would be the one to fold and confess. Maybe it was because Arthur was older, and Alfred sometimes still looked to the other for a bit of leadership. Sometimes. He hadn't known how to confess to someone; he figured that waiting would get some kind of result from the other. Apparently, that wasn't going to happen.
America stared down and frowned gently. His response didn't exactly hint at that. "Should have known better," he murmured, finger tracing the coffee table before him.
The door reopened not too long after he said this. From below, America could hear what sounded like Korea rapping, or at least trying. He was tempted to run down there and see for himself but he knew better. He knew this had to come first; all jokes had to wait.
Turning his head over his shoulder to the door, he saw England walk back up with something strapped around his shoulder. The Brit kicked the door closed again and continued into the room. Tilting his head, America was about to inquire about it, but as England pushed by him, he saw that it was Spain's guitar. Odd, why did he have that? "England," America murmured, "don't tell me you were so pissed that you went downstairs and beat Spain out of his guitar." Was he really that angry to beat a serenading Spaniard?
England scoffed. How preposterous. "Git, I'm not pissed. And I'm certainly not a pirate anymore. I just asked him for it and he gladly obliged to let me use it." He sat and took the guitar in his hands, quietly tuning it. With England focused on the task at hand, silence settled between them as America watched him work. Those green eyes sometimes looked up from their task and instantly looked away when they saw blue, their owner's face turning scarlet. The blue-eyed man also blushed and rubbed his neck, awkwardly looking away and forcing his focus to go onto the walls of bright pink. Who painted their walls pink? This wasn't the 80s anymore.
"Alright," England murmured after a minute or so, capturing the American's attention once more. He placed his fingers on the neck of the acoustic and hit one note before America had to ask the question that had bugged him for some time.
"What're you doing?"
England sighed and looked at America. "Simple. You wanted to talk," he said quietly, a blush coming to his cheeks, "and so we're talking."
America didn't exactly get it. "But, you have a guitar," he slowly said, his finger pointing feebly at the instrument. "Are you gonna talk with it? And what are we even gonna talk about?" He, clearly, failed at reading between the lines.
Had his hands not been occupied by a guitar, England would have smacked his forehead with his palm. "What were you talking about earlier?!" England sighed in exasperation, honestly perplexed how the younger wasn't getting the hints. "You know what?" With a heavy huff, he held up a hand and looked at America with a warning. "Don't say a word." His hand returned to the guitar neck, and just as he was opening his mouth ...
"Why not? You said we were talking and-"
"America." England's teeth were grit and America knew it was time to shut up.
He drew a zipper across his lips and smiled, gesturing wordlessly with a hand for England to begin. He still didn't understand what he was getting at, but would trust the other nevertheless.
England didn't begin right away. Instead, he looked at the guitar and felt his palms were sweat once again. He sighed once and closed his eyes as if he were debating whether to do this or not. It couldn't be that hard. America had done it on front of the entire world. Pouring his heart out to one person couldn't possibly be the hardest thing he would have had to do, England figured. But he had chosen a much less direct way to say those three words. This sing openly said them; this song wasn't like England. He couldn't express himself well and he knew it. Maybe that's why he was reminded of this song when he heard America's, because it acted like the words he couldn't find himself.
He cleared his throat and shifted to a more comfortable position on the couch, then began with one last shaky sigh. "Who knows how long I've loved you?" His fingers gently, and professionally, hit the notes and chords while his other hand gently plucked at the steel strings of the guitar. His cheeks were already burning red, and America's attention was now completely on Arthur. His jaw was slightly agape and he looked baffled that England was singing that of all things. "You know I love you still. Will I wait a lonely lifetime?" He opened his once closed eyes to look at America. "If you want me to, I will."
.
His green optics closed again, fingers and wrist moving with the changing chords. Apparent by his closed eyes, America knew that England knew the song by heart. It didn't surprise him; it was The Beatles, after all. The young Nation kept his eyes on England as he continued to sing quietly. "For if I ever saw you, I didn't catch your name." He shook his head, a hint of a smile twitching to the corner of his lips. "But it never really mattered; I will always feel the same." Something in America was fluttering and his stomach felt like it was doing flips and spins. He bit his lip and tried to drown out the sound of his own beating heart to hear the words.
"Love you forever and forever," England sang, his tone soft. But the truth was gloriously resounding in his voice, a truth that made both him and America blush. "Love you with all my heart. Love you whenever we're together; Love you when we're apart."
The next verse came in very clear and America almost felt like England had planned to play this all along. He felt like he was meant to play this particular song at this particular moment in endless time, and it brought a smile to his face. The lyrics were so perfect. "And when at last I find you, your song will fill the air." England caught America's smile and couldn't help but smile slightly in return, his green eyes locked on America's baby blues.
"Sing it loud so I can hear you. Make it easy to be near you." America grinned, still watching England carefully as he turned his attention back to the guitar. "For the things you do endear you to me. Oh, you know, I will..." His fingers played the last few notes and as he opened his mouth to sing, America also joined in. It was only two words, but with the two of them it would be the start of an eternity. "I will," they both sang. England looked at America in surprise, and the young Nation only smiled in response.
Quiet settled between them, the guitar notes drifting off into silence. England moved the guitar from his shoulder and rested his arms on his legs, his head hanging but his eyes looking rather shyly at America. He bit his lip and waited for one of them to say something.
America kept his eyes on England's shy figure, his heartbeat slowing and a smile growing on his face slowly. "So," he said quietly, getting the other's attention. Alfred couldn't help but laugh as a blush stained his cheeks and his grin grew quickly. "What happened to not singing, huh?"
Arthur bit his lip and turned red with embarrassment. He should have known he would say something like that - he should have known! "Th - that ...! I - I never said -" America mused at his reaction with a smirk, and England ducked his head down more, the red burning his ears and all over. "I ... I said I wouldn't sing for them." England sunk a bit lower into the couch.
"So?"
He added quickly and quietly, "W - well, I never exactly disagreed to singing to ... to you."
Even as he sank further and tried to hide in the couch, England wasn't safe from America's impending bearhug. The boy was like a puppy; you show him one good thing and he'd on love you. He did just that; with a laugh he, quite literally tackled, England into the couch, hugging him close and smiling as he did so. He ignored England's stammers and disagreeing comments and the way he tried to push himself away.
America only laughed more and held him closer until he finally gave in and allowed his arms to wrap around America jacket-covered back. The response made America's smile turn soft and his eyes open to look at England, who hid his face in America's chest. Alfred couldn't expect Arthur to be as open as he was with affection, after all. But knowing that the rate his heart beat matched Arthur's was good enough for him.
Gently pushing gently away from America's chest, England kept his gaze down but grabbed America's hand somewhat roughly and put it against his chest above his heart. England then looked up with a scowl, scarlet and visibly nervous. "This ..." he murmured, his hand a ghost on top of America's, "I'm trusting it to you. Y - you'd better take good care of it, you git. I know how easily you break things."
At first, America thought England was referring to the sweatervest he insisted on wearing on a casual daily basis. He then wondered how one could break a shirt. But when he felt England's heartbeat speed up, America's cheeks warmed and he looked Arthur in the eye. He opened his mouth to speak but mulled over the words for a moment, instead of just blurting out the first response he could find. "I won't let you down, remember?" he asked with a small smile. He saw England pout deeply and turn even redder. His lips gently kissed the tip of Arthur's nose. How it was possible for the Brit to blush even more was unknown to America, but he had anyway. America smiled, the pink on his cheeks growing as he pulled the other close again. America found himself enjoying how England returned the embrace much quicker this time. "I promise, Arthur," he murmured quietly, "I'll get it right this time around."
He heard a small sniffle and curiously looked down at his newfound beau. "Aw, Iggy; you're crying?" His smile was friendly, but the comment gained England's glare, one America knew, in light of the circumstances, was anything but angry. Now that England was looking up, America gently nuzzled his forehead against the smaller Nation's. "That's so cliche," he commented with a laugh.
"Serenading someone is c - cliche, you dolt," England managed to choke out with a whimper. America's hand brushed away the few tears that had spilled from his eyes. England felt America move his head back, his hands still on his cheeks, and he saw the young Nation's gentle smile. Blushing furiously once more, the Brit moved to hide his face in the safety of America's chest but was stopped when a finger pulled his chin up and his lips were brought against the taller Nation's in a gentle kiss. Sixty years of waiting and America finally kissed him. He was glad that America couldn't see his lips, because they had tugged into a tiny smile as he kissed him in return.
They parted, both still warm-cheeked and looking at one another. England gave off a "hmph" and snuggled a bit closer to America, who gladly accepted the embrace.
"You smiled," America spoke after a few seconds of quiet, breaking the mood and making England smack his arm. "Don't deny it!"
"... Git."
America could only grin down at the straw-haired man.
--
"A - ano, I wonder what they're doing now..."
"They're totally making out!"
"I agree with Poland!"
"Amour! Un si beau son."
If America and England expected their confessions to go without its eavesdroppers, they had another thing coming.
Japan, Poland, Hungary and France were all piled near the door, their ears pressed against the wood and whispering to one another. Sitting behind France was Prussia and then Spain, and Greece lay asleep against Japan's back. Hungary had to keep hitting Prussia away from her; he had only just woken up from his unconscious state and was still unstable. Ever since England had taken the guitar with Antonio's permission, a few countries of the world were trying to hear in on what the two English speaking Nations were up to. There was even a betting pool going around on just what they were up to.
"Wait," Poland suddenly said, hushing the other Nations, "it just got super quiet."
Everyone glanced around in the darkness at everyone else. "Maybe zhey 'ave moved to one of zhe bedrooms?" France suggested with a perverted grin.
"They better not have," Poland guffawed, "I just had the sheets cleaned!"
"I bet they just moved to a different part of the house," Hungary whispered with a nod. "Probably the closet. I heard that guys always like doing it in there."
A chipper voice spoke up. "That's a lie, actually," Spain commented in an much-too friendly manner, all eyes turning to him in curiosity. "It's a long story! See, Romano and I were once visiting Feliciano during the holidays, and-"
"Mi lasci solo!" one Italian called.
"Ve! I heard me! Germany, Germany! Someone mentioned me!~" the other added in.
The Nations at the door all began to talk at once while Sweden and Finland were wrapping up an off-key but nevertheless cute duet of "Beauty and the Beast." Japan had swiftly moved away from the door and had roused his Greek comrade in warning. The Hellican nodded and dragged himself and Japan out of the mass of bodies by the door - and just in time, too. America had opened the door just moments after and light flooded right into the eyes of the bodies by the door.
"... Hey, guys," America said with a clueless headtilt. He wasn't sure what was going on, but he wanted in on it. England was glaring right at everyone, not as ready to make nice.
"Scheibe! Turn out the light!" Prussia cried, yanking on France's hair for the French man to move. However, Francis only shoved Prussia away and watched as the others all disbanded and went back to their seats.
Standing, he accompanied the two Nations back to their seats where Canada was waiting for him. He didn't pry at what happened because he could just tell - he was the country of love, after all, for a reason. Before he could take a seat, England nudge America onward but stopped France in his tracks. "Eh? L'Angleterre, why do you stop me?" he asked with a small smile on his face. He knew what was coming.
England held up two of his fingers. "Two things," he began. "For starters ... I want to, er ..." He kicked the ground and pouted, hating the fact that he was doing this. America had insisted on it, though. "Th - thank you for ... you know." He wouldn't get the pleasantry of knowing why he was being thanked, even though England knew that he understood.
France nodded and winked. "I know 'ow 'ard zhat must be for you to say. I am surprised you do not drop dead where you stand."
England put one finger down and nodded. "And secondly -- " He quickly grabbed France by the shoulders and knee'd the man in the gut. The French man coughed and hunched over, holding his stomach as England stepped back with a delinquent-like smirk on his face. "-- that's for saying I sang like a dying horse." Promptly turning on his heels, he walked back to his seat while the crippled France hobbled to his seat and Canada dotted on him.
America sighed and looked at England with a headshake. "You couldn't resist, could you?" he asked with a chuckle.
England shot America a smirk and shrugged. "He may have helped all of this along but he's still a frog bastard."
As China took the stage and began to sing, America's hand brushed against England's in an all too nonchalant way. He took the hand in his, and shot its owner a gentle smile. The bushy-browed country returned the gaze with color on his cheeks, his hand intertwining their fingers together in a combination that marked the beginning of yet another special relationship; one that didn't involve politics or boundaries, economy or diplomacy.
It only involved Alfred F. Jones and Arthur Kirkland and a love that had lasted sixty patient years.
(Amour, un si beau son; love, such a beautiful sound.
Mi lasci solo; leave me alone.
"Scheibe; shit.)
Genre: Fluff; humor
Pairing(s): USUK (other pairings implied)
Rating: PG-13 for language
Warning: None.
Summary: A 'brilliant' idea by Poland leads to a sleepover at his house, and he even brings out the microphone and speakers! The Nations all take turns either passing or singing to their heart's desire. But in the middle of the fun, one of our boys captures the stage and plans to serenade the other - but which one will do the singing?
Author's Note: Fastest fanfic ever y/y? /shot.
I hope you liked it, Vele-bby. c: And have a good birthday, too, I might add! I know I tweaked the prompt a bit with Iggy's reaction, but ... I - I heard the sing right as I was writing the ending and I spazzed. > w < it was such a cute mental image that I had to do it.
Thank you all for reading along, and I'll have chapter five of my other fanfic up when it doesn't kill me! This next chapter is gonna be lengthy. Hopefully, I'll have time at school to work on it. = w =
Enjoy the final part!
--
The two of them stood like that, silence settling uncomfortably between the two of them. England didn't have much of an expression on his face, although the blush betrayed his seeming careless outlook. America swallowed and shifted his weight nervously, suddenly wanting to run back downstairs and smack himself with the microphone. He had a bad tendency to do nothing but annoy or piss off the other, and half the time he didn't even mean it. He seemed to have just done that with his confession of a serenade. It was how he showed bits of affection, he just couldn't help it. Maybe England was too sensitive; maybe America wasn't sensitive enough. Maybe -
"It's fairly obvious that you want to talk to me, git."
America's thoughts died in his mind. He brought his head up to look at England, who sighed quietly. The younger watched as the older rose and looked into his eyes. "But. There's not even anything to talk about." Brushing by America, he kept his gaze at the door where he would once again go. "I just needed some tea. I'll see you back down there."
He didn't get far, thought, because America had snatched his wrist and had gently tugged him back to where he had originally been. "No," America said quietly. Normally, he would have whined and pouted, following England wherever he was leaving. But this time, he wanted -- no. "I need to talk to you." He almost sounded desperate. Maybe he was.
England wiggled his wrist free, an obviously frustrated hand on his hip. He scowled up at America and frowned. "About?"
He couldn't believe it. "What do you think I was just doing for five minutes?" America asked, exasperated.
England felt his lips turning down. "Making a bloody fool of yourself, I'd wager," he blurted, sitting back down on the couch. His face was beet red and he covered it with a hand that moved to run through his hair. "You ... you don't just -"
America dropped to a nearby chair and leaned in. "I don't just what, England?" he asked with a frown. "Tell me 'cause it took a lot of guts for me to get up there and make a 'fool' of myself!" America caught England's attention. He sighed and closed his eyes, his head turning to the side for a moment. He looked back up with a stern look in his eyes. "Are you seriously telling me that you don't get it?"
"What's there to get?" England mumbled.
"Everything!" America cried out before he could think. "What's there not to get? Sixty years, England; sixty years and I finally get the guts to tell you and you can't even realize it?!" America didn't bother looking at England now. He stared at the carpet, taking Texas off for a moment to rub the bridge of his nose. "I've been wanting to tell you for a while now but..."
England's attention was now on America. He wanted to hear what he had to say. His face was tickled pink and his heart was beating quickly again, palms becoming slick with sweat just as they had been during the song. It was like he was beginning to fall all over again. "But?" he asked softly.
Shifting uncomfortably, Alfred realized how vulnerable he was making himself. He hated it. God, he hated it so much. But he had to continue. He had to. "Well," he began with a deep sigh. "I know we're definitely a lot closer than we were all those years ago, but ... I still don't think you trust me 100%." He laughed quietly, a somewhat sad chuckle, because he knew it was the truth. "I can't really blame you." He could feel England shift. It was like still talking about it hurt him still. He reached and rubbed his neck with a sigh. "I ... I always thought you wouldn't believe me if I told you, because I always act kind of stupid and mess things up, and I pick on you all the time. And ... because I hurt you so much."
Arthur didn't like hearing Alfred put himself down. Every time he did, he would be there to pick the young Nation up and put him back on the right path. His throat was clenched so tightly, though, that he couldn't retort and tell America to stop being so down on himself. England also didn't want to interrupt because, deep inside of him, he was agreeing with America. But without all of the stupid things he did, and without the way he picked on England, he just wouldn't be America.
Jones lifted his gaze again, a sad smile on his face. America knew he couldn't force England to believe him. Exhaling, he rubbed his neck and laughed. "Well, now I feel like an idiot!" America glanced at the door and then back to the ground. I guess France was lying all along, America thought in dismay. Surely, if England had felt the same, he would have reacted differently. Just thinking that he might have felt the same was what had given America the Hero's courage he needed to get up there and confess not only to him but the world.
England didn't reply at first. He grappled with the words that America had said to him. Did the boy even realize the momentum of what he had spoken through song? Arthur gently clutched his chest and shut his eyes. Something in him was still scared to believe him, even if it had been two centuries. He knew, no matter how much he denied it, he had gotten over the revolution. He no longer went to bed and cried at the thought of the American. He could look at that bumbling, blue-eyed buffoon and secretly adore him instead of openly loathing him. There were no more resentments, no more feuds, no more nothing.
They had a special relationship now, and Arthur knew that the first step was trust.
Abruptly, England stood and hurried to the door. America turned from his stupor and blinked in surprise, moving to stand. "Engla-"
"Stay here," England firmly articulated, pointing to the boy's seat before disappearing downstairs.
America did as he was told, albeit in confusion. He sat back down and stared at the coffee table before him, left with his thoughts. "I screwed this one up, didn't I?" he asked no one in particular. He had always hoped that Arthur would be the one to fold and confess. Maybe it was because Arthur was older, and Alfred sometimes still looked to the other for a bit of leadership. Sometimes. He hadn't known how to confess to someone; he figured that waiting would get some kind of result from the other. Apparently, that wasn't going to happen.
America stared down and frowned gently. His response didn't exactly hint at that. "Should have known better," he murmured, finger tracing the coffee table before him.
The door reopened not too long after he said this. From below, America could hear what sounded like Korea rapping, or at least trying. He was tempted to run down there and see for himself but he knew better. He knew this had to come first; all jokes had to wait.
Turning his head over his shoulder to the door, he saw England walk back up with something strapped around his shoulder. The Brit kicked the door closed again and continued into the room. Tilting his head, America was about to inquire about it, but as England pushed by him, he saw that it was Spain's guitar. Odd, why did he have that? "England," America murmured, "don't tell me you were so pissed that you went downstairs and beat Spain out of his guitar." Was he really that angry to beat a serenading Spaniard?
England scoffed. How preposterous. "Git, I'm not pissed. And I'm certainly not a pirate anymore. I just asked him for it and he gladly obliged to let me use it." He sat and took the guitar in his hands, quietly tuning it. With England focused on the task at hand, silence settled between them as America watched him work. Those green eyes sometimes looked up from their task and instantly looked away when they saw blue, their owner's face turning scarlet. The blue-eyed man also blushed and rubbed his neck, awkwardly looking away and forcing his focus to go onto the walls of bright pink. Who painted their walls pink? This wasn't the 80s anymore.
"Alright," England murmured after a minute or so, capturing the American's attention once more. He placed his fingers on the neck of the acoustic and hit one note before America had to ask the question that had bugged him for some time.
"What're you doing?"
England sighed and looked at America. "Simple. You wanted to talk," he said quietly, a blush coming to his cheeks, "and so we're talking."
America didn't exactly get it. "But, you have a guitar," he slowly said, his finger pointing feebly at the instrument. "Are you gonna talk with it? And what are we even gonna talk about?" He, clearly, failed at reading between the lines.
Had his hands not been occupied by a guitar, England would have smacked his forehead with his palm. "What were you talking about earlier?!" England sighed in exasperation, honestly perplexed how the younger wasn't getting the hints. "You know what?" With a heavy huff, he held up a hand and looked at America with a warning. "Don't say a word." His hand returned to the guitar neck, and just as he was opening his mouth ...
"Why not? You said we were talking and-"
"America." England's teeth were grit and America knew it was time to shut up.
He drew a zipper across his lips and smiled, gesturing wordlessly with a hand for England to begin. He still didn't understand what he was getting at, but would trust the other nevertheless.
England didn't begin right away. Instead, he looked at the guitar and felt his palms were sweat once again. He sighed once and closed his eyes as if he were debating whether to do this or not. It couldn't be that hard. America had done it on front of the entire world. Pouring his heart out to one person couldn't possibly be the hardest thing he would have had to do, England figured. But he had chosen a much less direct way to say those three words. This sing openly said them; this song wasn't like England. He couldn't express himself well and he knew it. Maybe that's why he was reminded of this song when he heard America's, because it acted like the words he couldn't find himself.
He cleared his throat and shifted to a more comfortable position on the couch, then began with one last shaky sigh. "Who knows how long I've loved you?" His fingers gently, and professionally, hit the notes and chords while his other hand gently plucked at the steel strings of the guitar. His cheeks were already burning red, and America's attention was now completely on Arthur. His jaw was slightly agape and he looked baffled that England was singing that of all things. "You know I love you still. Will I wait a lonely lifetime?" He opened his once closed eyes to look at America. "If you want me to, I will."
.
His green optics closed again, fingers and wrist moving with the changing chords. Apparent by his closed eyes, America knew that England knew the song by heart. It didn't surprise him; it was The Beatles, after all. The young Nation kept his eyes on England as he continued to sing quietly. "For if I ever saw you, I didn't catch your name." He shook his head, a hint of a smile twitching to the corner of his lips. "But it never really mattered; I will always feel the same." Something in America was fluttering and his stomach felt like it was doing flips and spins. He bit his lip and tried to drown out the sound of his own beating heart to hear the words.
"Love you forever and forever," England sang, his tone soft. But the truth was gloriously resounding in his voice, a truth that made both him and America blush. "Love you with all my heart. Love you whenever we're together; Love you when we're apart."
The next verse came in very clear and America almost felt like England had planned to play this all along. He felt like he was meant to play this particular song at this particular moment in endless time, and it brought a smile to his face. The lyrics were so perfect. "And when at last I find you, your song will fill the air." England caught America's smile and couldn't help but smile slightly in return, his green eyes locked on America's baby blues.
"Sing it loud so I can hear you. Make it easy to be near you." America grinned, still watching England carefully as he turned his attention back to the guitar. "For the things you do endear you to me. Oh, you know, I will..." His fingers played the last few notes and as he opened his mouth to sing, America also joined in. It was only two words, but with the two of them it would be the start of an eternity. "I will," they both sang. England looked at America in surprise, and the young Nation only smiled in response.
Quiet settled between them, the guitar notes drifting off into silence. England moved the guitar from his shoulder and rested his arms on his legs, his head hanging but his eyes looking rather shyly at America. He bit his lip and waited for one of them to say something.
America kept his eyes on England's shy figure, his heartbeat slowing and a smile growing on his face slowly. "So," he said quietly, getting the other's attention. Alfred couldn't help but laugh as a blush stained his cheeks and his grin grew quickly. "What happened to not singing, huh?"
Arthur bit his lip and turned red with embarrassment. He should have known he would say something like that - he should have known! "Th - that ...! I - I never said -" America mused at his reaction with a smirk, and England ducked his head down more, the red burning his ears and all over. "I ... I said I wouldn't sing for them." England sunk a bit lower into the couch.
"So?"
He added quickly and quietly, "W - well, I never exactly disagreed to singing to ... to you."
Even as he sank further and tried to hide in the couch, England wasn't safe from America's impending bearhug. The boy was like a puppy; you show him one good thing and he'd on love you. He did just that; with a laugh he, quite literally tackled, England into the couch, hugging him close and smiling as he did so. He ignored England's stammers and disagreeing comments and the way he tried to push himself away.
America only laughed more and held him closer until he finally gave in and allowed his arms to wrap around America jacket-covered back. The response made America's smile turn soft and his eyes open to look at England, who hid his face in America's chest. Alfred couldn't expect Arthur to be as open as he was with affection, after all. But knowing that the rate his heart beat matched Arthur's was good enough for him.
Gently pushing gently away from America's chest, England kept his gaze down but grabbed America's hand somewhat roughly and put it against his chest above his heart. England then looked up with a scowl, scarlet and visibly nervous. "This ..." he murmured, his hand a ghost on top of America's, "I'm trusting it to you. Y - you'd better take good care of it, you git. I know how easily you break things."
At first, America thought England was referring to the sweatervest he insisted on wearing on a casual daily basis. He then wondered how one could break a shirt. But when he felt England's heartbeat speed up, America's cheeks warmed and he looked Arthur in the eye. He opened his mouth to speak but mulled over the words for a moment, instead of just blurting out the first response he could find. "I won't let you down, remember?" he asked with a small smile. He saw England pout deeply and turn even redder. His lips gently kissed the tip of Arthur's nose. How it was possible for the Brit to blush even more was unknown to America, but he had anyway. America smiled, the pink on his cheeks growing as he pulled the other close again. America found himself enjoying how England returned the embrace much quicker this time. "I promise, Arthur," he murmured quietly, "I'll get it right this time around."
He heard a small sniffle and curiously looked down at his newfound beau. "Aw, Iggy; you're crying?" His smile was friendly, but the comment gained England's glare, one America knew, in light of the circumstances, was anything but angry. Now that England was looking up, America gently nuzzled his forehead against the smaller Nation's. "That's so cliche," he commented with a laugh.
"Serenading someone is c - cliche, you dolt," England managed to choke out with a whimper. America's hand brushed away the few tears that had spilled from his eyes. England felt America move his head back, his hands still on his cheeks, and he saw the young Nation's gentle smile. Blushing furiously once more, the Brit moved to hide his face in the safety of America's chest but was stopped when a finger pulled his chin up and his lips were brought against the taller Nation's in a gentle kiss. Sixty years of waiting and America finally kissed him. He was glad that America couldn't see his lips, because they had tugged into a tiny smile as he kissed him in return.
They parted, both still warm-cheeked and looking at one another. England gave off a "hmph" and snuggled a bit closer to America, who gladly accepted the embrace.
"You smiled," America spoke after a few seconds of quiet, breaking the mood and making England smack his arm. "Don't deny it!"
"... Git."
America could only grin down at the straw-haired man.
--
"A - ano, I wonder what they're doing now..."
"They're totally making out!"
"I agree with Poland!"
"Amour! Un si beau son."
If America and England expected their confessions to go without its eavesdroppers, they had another thing coming.
Japan, Poland, Hungary and France were all piled near the door, their ears pressed against the wood and whispering to one another. Sitting behind France was Prussia and then Spain, and Greece lay asleep against Japan's back. Hungary had to keep hitting Prussia away from her; he had only just woken up from his unconscious state and was still unstable. Ever since England had taken the guitar with Antonio's permission, a few countries of the world were trying to hear in on what the two English speaking Nations were up to. There was even a betting pool going around on just what they were up to.
"Wait," Poland suddenly said, hushing the other Nations, "it just got super quiet."
Everyone glanced around in the darkness at everyone else. "Maybe zhey 'ave moved to one of zhe bedrooms?" France suggested with a perverted grin.
"They better not have," Poland guffawed, "I just had the sheets cleaned!"
"I bet they just moved to a different part of the house," Hungary whispered with a nod. "Probably the closet. I heard that guys always like doing it in there."
A chipper voice spoke up. "That's a lie, actually," Spain commented in an much-too friendly manner, all eyes turning to him in curiosity. "It's a long story! See, Romano and I were once visiting Feliciano during the holidays, and-"
"Mi lasci solo!" one Italian called.
"Ve! I heard me! Germany, Germany! Someone mentioned me!~" the other added in.
The Nations at the door all began to talk at once while Sweden and Finland were wrapping up an off-key but nevertheless cute duet of "Beauty and the Beast." Japan had swiftly moved away from the door and had roused his Greek comrade in warning. The Hellican nodded and dragged himself and Japan out of the mass of bodies by the door - and just in time, too. America had opened the door just moments after and light flooded right into the eyes of the bodies by the door.
"... Hey, guys," America said with a clueless headtilt. He wasn't sure what was going on, but he wanted in on it. England was glaring right at everyone, not as ready to make nice.
"Scheibe! Turn out the light!" Prussia cried, yanking on France's hair for the French man to move. However, Francis only shoved Prussia away and watched as the others all disbanded and went back to their seats.
Standing, he accompanied the two Nations back to their seats where Canada was waiting for him. He didn't pry at what happened because he could just tell - he was the country of love, after all, for a reason. Before he could take a seat, England nudge America onward but stopped France in his tracks. "Eh? L'Angleterre, why do you stop me?" he asked with a small smile on his face. He knew what was coming.
England held up two of his fingers. "Two things," he began. "For starters ... I want to, er ..." He kicked the ground and pouted, hating the fact that he was doing this. America had insisted on it, though. "Th - thank you for ... you know." He wouldn't get the pleasantry of knowing why he was being thanked, even though England knew that he understood.
France nodded and winked. "I know 'ow 'ard zhat must be for you to say. I am surprised you do not drop dead where you stand."
England put one finger down and nodded. "And secondly -- " He quickly grabbed France by the shoulders and knee'd the man in the gut. The French man coughed and hunched over, holding his stomach as England stepped back with a delinquent-like smirk on his face. "-- that's for saying I sang like a dying horse." Promptly turning on his heels, he walked back to his seat while the crippled France hobbled to his seat and Canada dotted on him.
America sighed and looked at England with a headshake. "You couldn't resist, could you?" he asked with a chuckle.
England shot America a smirk and shrugged. "He may have helped all of this along but he's still a frog bastard."
As China took the stage and began to sing, America's hand brushed against England's in an all too nonchalant way. He took the hand in his, and shot its owner a gentle smile. The bushy-browed country returned the gaze with color on his cheeks, his hand intertwining their fingers together in a combination that marked the beginning of yet another special relationship; one that didn't involve politics or boundaries, economy or diplomacy.
It only involved Alfred F. Jones and Arthur Kirkland and a love that had lasted sixty patient years.
(Amour, un si beau son; love, such a beautiful sound.
Mi lasci solo; leave me alone.
"Scheibe; shit.)
Tags:
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
From:
no subject
From:
no subject
You have an awesome writing style, and I loved the story!
From:
no subject
When I read the 3rd part, I was thinking, oh, Arthur should have sang to Alfred, but anyway...
But here, it became true!
The end is so sweet XD
From:
no subject
Anyways awesome :)))))
From:
no subject
That said, THIS WAS AMAZING! I loved it. Your detailing was amazing! Good job!
From:
no subject
From:
no subject
From:
no subject
From:
no subject
I was dying with impatience all day today, because I was so excited to get to read this.
And, the entire thing was just so perfect! Iggy's reaction and the song you chose for him to sing and the way everybody else had to eavesdrop .. it was amazing. = w =
Like I said earlier (I think? If I didn't, shame on me), this is the best present ever. <3
From:
no subject
To sum it all up: This fic makes me so happy. This chapter is just the slightest bit angsty at the start and then gets to be super adorable!
From:
no subject
From:
no subject
From:
no subject
There's no way France would get away unharmed haha...
awesome fic :Db
From:
no subject