America x England You
The morning rays of the sun were considerably warm, even for the chilly UK; but the sunlight beaming through the windows was not enough to warm America as he stared coldly at England whom laid beside him in bed. He didn't feel cold because it was autumn in Britain, nor was it because he was naked; he felt cold because of the chills that the scars plastered on England's pale skin gave him.
America reached out and stroked a few of the scars with his fingers, calloused from excessive gaming. He breathed a disapproving sigh as he remembered being younger, happily welcoming England back home, and then gasping as England removed his garments, revealing his bloody, bandaged torso. "Just a flesh wound" he would say, but for America it was an emotional blow. He remembered how his weak fingers used to reach out and stroke that wounded torso, as they were doing now, in the present time.
His fingers moved to caress England's shoulder blades, and he smiled as England emitted a tired groan in the midst of his slumber. America had to resist laughing as he realised that England was drooling; something that America never thought such a dignified and gentleman-like man such as England to do whilst sleeping. And yet here he was, being a completely changed person when unconscious. His large, fluffy eyebrows were no longer knitted together in frustration, but instead were relaxed, making him appear younger; making him look like the young England that had raised him many years ago.
America's wide grin faltered for a moment as he felt awkward bulges on England's usually smooth shoulder blades. What was this? Was something the matter with England a skin condition perhaps that he was too embarrassed to mention? America peered closer, glaring at whatever condition may be causing his lovely England grief, hoping that his cold, icy-blue stare would scare it into retreat, for he was the hero. After a while of glancing over England's pristine (if not slightly injured) skin America let out another sigh, this time one of relief. There was no worrisome condition affecting his beloved England; the bulges on his shoulder blades were simply were England's angel wings were concealed beneath his skin.
The fact that England had wings within him used to creep America out, and there was a point where he used to avoid touching England's back altogether, fearing that his wings were going to burst out and engulf him or something. Now however, America saw England's wings as a beautiful thing; a sign that England was his guardian angel, forgive the cheesiness of it all. He went back to smiling and leant down to land a small, tender kiss on the nearest shoulder blade, inhaling England's scent as he did so.
Tea and aging paper: that's what England smelt of. That unique, familiar smell was one of America's favourites. The scent of tea reminded him of those days spent in England's splendid garden many years ago, playing tea party and pretending to be a gentleman, which America never intended to be (it was far too boring) but always played along with so as to make England happy.
He frowned as aging paper reminded him of the documents that tore them apart, making America an independent country. It was what he had wanted, no doubt about that, but he had made England so sad by becoming independent that it had broken his heart and made him regret his choice. Still, if he had not become independent then they wouldn't be like this right now: lying down side-by-side, stark naked and fine with revealing themselves to each other in such a manner. If he had not become independent then he would just be the little brother forever; always a step behind and never a step ahead, no matter how fast he ran he could not keep up with the stride of England's long, powerful legs.
He jumped up again, letting out a shrill, embarrassed squeak as England stirred in his sleep, moaning incomprehensibly. His elbow rested against the soft pillow, and the rest of his frail arm stood erect in the air, as did his leg before it flopped down onto the bed once more. America had to restrain a laugh once again he wouldn't want to wake England from whatever wonderful dream he was having. And America hoped with all his heart that he was a part of that wondrous dream. To be a part of what was making England drool and giggle slightly and mumble "Oh, stop it, you" to in his dream would make him oh so happy probably the happiest guy in the whole wide world. Yes, he was easily pleased, but was that really such a bad thing? He didn't need flowers or chocolates (though chocolates were appreciated) or promises to be kept or sweet nothings whispered in his ear. All he needed was England beside him for always, and you could consider him one of the luckiest guys ever. Okay, he was getting a bit soppy. But SERIOUSLY! How lucky could one guy get to have such an adorable face to wake up to every morning?
America's transparent blue eyes glistened jovially as a fun idea came to his mind probably not intelligent, but fun for sure. He moved his hand to England's smooth leg, tracing the outlines of his muscles with his index finger. England laughed hysterically in his sleep, his leg kicking out with ticklish glee, before he ceased his laughing, groaning and rolling over to face the opposite way. America could have sworn he heard England mumble "Wanker". He pouted at this. Watching England react to the ticklish sensation was great, but now he couldn't see his gorgeous face (and funny eyebrows). Bummer.
Another brilliant idea arose in America's usually not-very-busy mind. Were all these ideas at once dangerous? Ah, who cared! They were definitely fun and worth it. America popped his finger in his mouth, making sure to cake it in saliva. He then took it out and stuck it into England's pink ear, and then waited for the magic to happen.
Much to his delight, England had an amusing mini spasm again, and turned back over to face America once more. Success! He wondered why the Allies didn't call him a genius more often with such plans as these.
America wiped his finger clean on the bed sheets he was sure England wouldn't mind this "gross" behaviour as he called it, as long as he didn't know about it and shifted closer to the Englishman. He relished in the sensation of England's warm breath against his face. His breath smelt a bit like those horrid scones he insisted on cooking, but America could forgive that. He could forgive a lot of England's flaws actually; such as his terrible cooking, and his stubborn attitude, and his critical remarks, and his severe drinking problem, and his weird hallucinations, and his constant complaining. He could forgive them because though his cooking was terrible, his determination to keep trying to cook despite the usual failed results was admirable. Although he had a stubborn attitude, he made sure to say sorry later maybe not with a direct apology, but an implied apology was good enough for America. Though criticism could be tiring, it was also good for America to have authentic feedback so that he could improve on aspects of his culture (like his films for instance). He did indeed have a severe drinking problem, but at least when he drank he was honest about his emotions, and it was a rare treat for America when he actually heard England say "I love you, you hic wanker". The hallucinations were very weird, but also very cute, what with this "Flying mint bunny" that England had made up. Seriously, flying mint bunny! What an adorable name, representing the hidden adorableness in England (Okay, not that hidden. England was always so cute, cute, CUTE). And yes, England did complain far more than what was necessary; but America knew that all those complaints were just to hide his true feelings behind harsh words. Thinking back, didn't Japan once call this kind of character tundra? Tun
dere? Whatever! It was something along those lines anyway.
America sighed again which was unusual for his normally peppy personality as he was unsure of what England thought of him. Did he accept his flaws? Did he remember their times from the past? Did he worship every breath he drew? Did he cherish every dint in his frame? Did he relish in every smile that plastered itself upon his face? Did he indulge himself in every vibration of his voice? Did he care for him at all? England was always, always hiding his true thought pattern (apart from when it came to American films and food), so America was never ever sure if England even liked their relationship. Then again, if he didn't like the relationship then why was he curled up beside America in the same bed? Why did he blush at their physical contact and why did he not protest to it either? Why did he accept kisses but stutter and stumble over his well-revised vocabulary when asking for one? Could these possibly be signs of England loving America in return? America sure hoped so.
He wrapped a muscular arm protectively around England's thin form. Damn, why was he so thin? Had he not been eating enough? Well if he cooked like England did then he sure wouldn't eat either! Maybe he needed to introduce some (delicious) American food to England again? Should he make pancakes? Pancakes were darn tasty, and high in fats, which was what England needed for sure. America smiled. Pancakes it was, just for his little Iggy. He smiled wider yet.
"Iggy, Iggy, Iggy~" He whispered, pleased to be affectionately calling England's nickname without being reprimanded for it. He could accomplish so much when England was asleep; calling his nickname, tickling him, kissing him, and doing many others things that he'd dislike (or pretend to dislike) when conscious.
America laughed silently through his nose, raising a large hand to tussle England's mess of blonde hair lovingly. He pulled away quickly however as England sounded another loud groan. America blushed as he watched England's stunning green eyes gradually flutter open, the sunlight reflecting the emerald tint in them. This was a dazzling sight that America enjoyed seeing every morning without ever tiring of it.
England mumbled again in slight confusion before he finally managed to sort things out in his mind such things as measuring the distance between his and America's faces, which were only a few mere centimetres away from each other. He gasped, his cheeks pinking endearingly, and tried to back away. America's arm stopped his retreat however.
"I-I say! Unhand me, Am-America!" The British man protested, attempting to keep whatever manly pride he still had left (even though that was all lost long ago. Actually, did he ever even have it?). His struggling was useless though, and yet he squirmed even more as America planted a gentle good morning kiss on his forehead.
"Don't call me by that horrid nickname! Let me go!"
America continued to ignore England's protests as England continued to writhe, trapped by the sheets that were tangling his legs and by the arm of his lover. "I planned to make pancakes for breakfast today! Y'know, rather than choking down that stodgy British crap that you call "food". Great idea, huh?" America continued to smile, even as his ears were deflowered by a flood of cussing coming from the Englishman's mouth. Then again, he couldn't really be offended by British curse words such as "Git" and "Twat" since he was American. It was like a fire-type Pokémon using a fire-type move on a water-type Pokémon: not very effective. But America knew a move that would always be super effective on England
"Hey, England! Guess what!"
"Oh, what is it, you wanker?"
America leant in closer yet to England, gazing admirably at the red-rose tint in his cheeks, and his critical-yet-beautiful eyes, and his sexy, crooked teeth. He smiled as he confidently knew that the next words he uttered would be the truth, without a doubt.
"I love you, England."
America took joy in watching as England's face grew redder, and watching as harsh words began to form in his throat, and watching as he quivered in delight slightly at America's confession. He took a moment to absorb the greatness of England; his appearance, his scent, his personality, his reactions, his touch, everything that made England who he was everything that made England the person who America loved.
The swearing went on for a while, as did the yelling (in that rather sexy British accent); but America could get through it. Yes, he definitely could get through anything, as long as England was by his side.
The morning rays of the sun were considerably warm, even for the chilly UK; but the sunlight beaming through the windows was not what was warming America. It wasn't the warmth of the sheets or the pillow on the bed either. No, it was the warmth that lingered around his lover, England, which warmed him through to the core of his heart.