usxuk | [fanfic] Of Dusty Cowboys And Proper Gentlemen

Title: Chapter 5 - A Pair
Author: saramon
Summary: In which England has a hangover, goes swimming, and feels uncomfortable. (None of this is new, except possibly the swimming.) Also, America doesn't talk.
Warnings: Nothing much. Swearing. Exposure of skin.
Notes: Previous chapters --> http://www.fanfiction.net/s/6116659/1/Of_Dusty_Cowboys_and_Proper_Gentlemen

The next day he felt like absolute shit, of course.

That was how these things worked – he'd drink, and maybe he'd have a good time, but the next day he always woke up with his head aching and remembering all the things which now seemed less fun and more embarrassing.

He'd ridden back with America? Bloody fallen asleep on him too, made himself a damn nuisance needing to be rescued. He shouldn't have been rescued by America. That meant he owed America something, and he hadn't even asked for it, damnit! America should have just kept dancing with his dark-haired beauty, not gone and brought England back to the camp! That showed too much…responsibility, or something like that. It was out of character for both of them.

"'Mornin' Arty!" America sung at him, and England winced, wanting to curl up and go back to sleep. The ground wasn't soft though, and even the smell of coffee made his mouth water – well, it would have watered if it wasn't dry as a bone. He could already tell this was going to be one of those throbbing-head, churning-stomach, why-did-I-do-that-last-night days.

"Nngh," he said. It was becoming his traditional morning greeting. Cautiously, he sat up, his head beginning to throb viciously despite his care.

America was making coffee over the campfire.

There was a suspicious lack of wagon, cowboys, or cattle.

"Where is everyone?" England asked a big groggily, thinking in his befuddled state that perhaps they had all slipped off in the night and America hadn't noticed.

"I told 'em to leave." America poured a cup of very strong-smelling coffee and handed it to England. "I wanted to let you sleep."

The coffee, disgustingly bitter though it was, went a long way toward settling England's stomach. "Thank you for that."

It was, in fact, uncharacteristically thoughtful of America to let him sleep in. It was even more thoughtful for America to stay behind himself, although England thought he might actually have preferred another cowboy, because America being thoughtful made him uncomfortable. America wasn't supposed to think of him, only himself.

"I suppose we had better get going then, to catch up with the others," England sighed. The idea of getting on a horse sounded like supreme torture.

America snorted, shaking his head as he stood up with his own cup. "Haven't'cha looked at the sky? It's nearly noon, and I betcha aren't up for any hard ridin' right now." He grinned as England winced. "Thought so. You always get damn awful hangovers. I reckon we'll follow in their trail and maybe catch up at the end of the day."

England didn't know what to say. The thing was, it was awfully kind of America to not only stay behind for him, but spend a whole day catching up because of his, England's, propensity for drinking too much, a propensity which usually earned him scorn rather than sympathy. It was very kind.

It was too kind. America wasn't supposed to be that kind, because he was supposed to be too self-centered to even think of doing something like that. He wasn't supposed to be that kind because he was supposed to not care a whit about England. He wasn't supposed to be that kind because when he was that kind, England felt very peculiar about it.

The very-peculiarness manifested itself in a twisting feeling low in his stomach and general lightheadedness, which could have been symptoms of the hangover but, he knew, were not. He had a feeling he knew what it all meant, but somehow he didn't know what he knew. He couldn't quite reach it – the feeling was slippery.

It probably was the hangover or the vestiges of the whiskey last night.

"Reckon you're ready to hop on'ta Cheerio again?" America called out from where he was now saddling up Liberty.

England sighed and stood, still aching from riding on top of the hangover. A thought occurred to him. "Hang on – I rode back with you, so how did Cheerio get here?" For Cheerio was there, tied to a tree and looking sullen.

"Oh, I went back into town and led her here after droppin' you off," America said nonchalantly. England felt another twist low in his stomach – America didn't seem to mind at all, though he surely must have been inconvenienced even further by returning to town.

He wanted to ask America why he was so willing to take care of England – England, who he surely didn't like, who wasn't his friend. He wanted to ask, but it was more difficult than it should have been.

In any case he swallowed the question when America added with that annoying laugh, "And I really did drop you off, you hit the ground like a sack'a bricks. What've you been eatin'?"

England scowled and said, "Beans, just the same as you," and went to go put on Cheerio's saddle.

"Hey, you can't be whinin' about the food," America retorted, swinging himself onto Liberty.

England snorted, kneeing Cheerio in the side so she would exhale, then tightening the belly strap. "You used to love my cooking, I'll have you recall."

"Yeah, but that was before I got taste," America said chuckling.

England turned to glare at him. Anyhow, the intention was a glare, but seeing America on Liberty, in his cowboy getup, softened it. The summer sun shone in his face, turning him to gold and bronze. It was rather ridiculously picturesque. It made him feel weak-kneed. He couldn't imagine why.

(There was a nagging in the back of his mind that told him he could imagine why, but it slid away as soon as he started to look at it.)

Instead he turned away and muttered, "Taste is all subjective," then pulled himself onto Cheerio.

With another grin and a nod, America kicked Liberty into a trot. With a sigh and a creak of joints, England followed.

The heat was getting more bearable, or perhaps England was growing used to it. There were occasional groves of trees now, and the ground rolled into hills instead of stretching on flat for miles. Clouds even drifted over the sun once in a while.

Still, the heat was enough to make him uncomfortable, and the grass still grew in strange, waist-high clumps. When the sun was out, it made his eyes hurt and his head throb with its brightness.

This would have all been acceptable by now, if he had been able to think of a blasted thing to say to America.

England was not someone normally at a loss for words. He was a master of polite conversation as well as mindless bickering, sarcastic bantering, and diplomatic exchanges. He always had something to say, even when he really didn't, because no one likes silence. Everyone has to fill it. The best way to keep someone comfortable is to keep talking, and keep them talking, and so pure manners meant England was a good conversationalist. In proper society, anyhow.

And America – normally he talked too much, so much it made other people exhausted trying to keep up. No barrier between his thoughts and words.

But out here, on the open plain, America seemed content in silence. He sat in silence easily, as comfortable as England had ever seen him. Far more comfortable than in the cities of the coast, where he wore a suit and hat and talked over everyone. The vast plain, the wide grassland, the infinite sky, bluer than America's eyes – these things suited him far more than a top hat ever did. This huge openness, a feeling of the land spreading out forever in every direction, was America.

It was the same way – he remembered now – that gray skies, clouds sagging with rain over electric green hills was him, was England. He'd gotten used to London, to the press of houses and the smoke and stink, but that was a layer over top. Cities were anonymous somehow, mass-produced, their factories all blending together. It was the bones of the land that mattered. Just the clothing again.

(It was funny how quickly they could forget.)

He wanted to tell America – finally something to talk about – but he knew it wouldn't sound right. America would laugh and call him an old fool and to say it would ruin it anyway. Speech filled up the silence, but the silence was only frightening because it made you think.

It was particularly frightening now, when England's thoughts were turning against him. He felt odd, but whenever he tried to think about the oddness, his thoughts slid off, slid away. It was like he was stopping himself from understanding the simmering going on in his mind. It felt new and old together. He knew was it was and he didn't know what he knew.

He thought he might explode soon.

It was halfway into the afternoon when America finally spoke, swinging into conversation as though they'd been talking the whole time. "So when I came through this area once before, I found this great little lake. Wanna go for a swim? It's just up there."

England was startled by the break in the silence, and said, "Well, yes, all right," without really thinking about it.

"Great!" And America cantered off.

The lake was hidden in a valley, and was more of a deep pool really, a wider section of the river. But it sparkled in the afternoon sun, and it was water. Blessed water, he hadn't seen so much together in a week. He could finally rid himself of the dirt caked onto his skin.

Although, of course, he hadn't really considered that America would be doing the same. When they tied their horses, America ran toward the water, pulling off his shirt as he did so. It stopped England in his tracks. Oh yes. Swimming meant taking off of clothes. One simply didn't do that in front of people. That was, in fact, the taboo of taboos, the prohibition of prohibitions. Bodies were not for flaunting, they were for covering up, every inch below the neck when possible. Skin was something to be ashamed of.

America didn't know or didn't care. He pulled off his boots and chaps, then dove into the water from a ledge, his body making a perfect arc in the air. Surfacing, he shook out his hair like a dog and grinned at England, treading water. "What're you waiting for, Arty? Jump in!"

England was mesmerized by the light glinting gold off America's wet hair, hypnotized by water droplets on his bare skin. It was so very – he didn't understand how America could so easily let go, let free to do what England was itching to do. Without conscious decision, his hands went to his collar, began to undo his shirt, his skin aching to dive into the cool water with America and become golden with him.

America ducked under again, then pulled himself onto the bank, laughing and dripping with water. "C'mon! Afraid t'get wet?"

"Of course not," England snapped, and dodged America's attempt to grab him. Before America could throw him in, before he could think again, he kicked off his boots, tugged off his shirt, and dived into the water himself.

It was delicious, cool and wet, He pushed deeper, down to the dark center, letting the touch of the water cool the strange fire beneath his skin. Down here, alone, life was simple and dark. Nothing could touch him –

He was abruptly grabbed from behind by America, pulled up roughly. Their heads broke the surface, both of them gasping.

"What the devil do you think you're doing?" England demanded, pushing away from America and treading water. The skin on his waist where America had touched him felt hot, the water unable to cool it.

"You were down there a long time," America replied. He looked worried, but England hadn't needed help. "I thought you mighta – "

"Idiot!" England snapped. "Who the hell do you think I am? I can hold my breath for four bloody minutes! I am not going to drown in a pond!"

He hadn't needed to be rescued, especially not by America. He didn't want to be rescued again by America. It made him feel weak, like he needed to be rescued.

It made him want to be rescued.

That was an awkward thought, an uncomfortable thought. He dived down again, surfacing on the other side of the pool. After a moment, America followed him, swimming with a powerful stroke. He stopped next to England, laughing and looking confused. "Look, I'm sorry I touched you. I forgot, no touchin' Arty, okay?"

"I don't need to be saved by you anymore," England said sullenly. I never should have to be saved by you.

"Right, okay. Next time you get drunk I won't pick you up off the floor. Deal?" America stuck out his hand.

England hesitated, then shook once. "And I dare say that's enough swimming for one day," he said severely.

"Yeah, okay. Yeah." America looked awkward, much more unsure now than he had been all day. He reminded England of a chastised child.

They swam back toward the horses. It was disappointing and relieving at the same time. As they dressed, England lapsed back into silence, his back now turned to America, the exposure of his skin making him feel ashamed once more. America, on the other hand, was now talking, babbling on about how long it would take them to catch up to the others and where they were going to be tomorrow and how much the cattle would get them in Abilene.

It struck England then how essentially incompatible they were. He, too used to waistcoats and black smoke for anything else to feel right, a country of green hills and rain and sea always around. And America, at his best diving half-naked into a pool, a country of every landscape imaginable, a country of land forever on every side.

It was no wonder they couldn't get along.

It was no wonder one of them was always leaving.

He dressed and then mounted Cheerio again. America talked, and England replied when it was polite to, but it wasn't really a conversation. It was a relief when the sky grew dark and England spotted a campfire in the distance. The day was nearly over. They could rejoin the rest of the group. They didn't have be together anymore, because he knew now that even when they were together they couldn't really be.

They would never truly be friends, because they didn't fit.

That thought made him feel far worse than anything else this entire damn trip.