|
|
Post by England on Mar 25, 2013 19:35:42 GMT -5
England pulled his face out of his hands after a while of self-indulging in his confusion and hurt, reminding himself that America could still see him where he stood, and took a deep breath. The moans of the undead were reverberating in his head, harshly enough to give him a headache. It wasn't a matter of thinking anymore, but a matter of not going back to the safest corner of the roof. Could he even call it the safest? America owned that corner now, and with their tempers as explosive as they were, it couldn't exactly be considered as safe anymore. Perhaps he was better off hanging with the zombies. They made interesting conversation partners.
No they didn't.
"Shut up," England grumbled, leaning his head on his drawn-up knees and staring about hip-height at the undead, at nothing in particular. Just the mass of moving bodies, rotten and falling apart, streaked with blood and dirt and absolutely horrifying. And somehow, they were fascinating to watch. The desperation with which they tried to obtain what they needed was terrifying. England briefly wondered if humans would ever get so terrifying in trying to obtain their needs. And then he realized that his entire life, he'd only seen that, and nothing more.
His mind wandered away from vague philosophy and back to the problem at hand. Obviously, he'd been a bit too raw with his words, but America had asked for it. Had he? England hadn't ever been good at reading emotion. Perhaps America had expected something different from him. Well, obviously, he hadn't expected his response, but he wasn't sure what America wanted from him. He wanted the truth, so England gave him the truth. The painful, uncensored truth.
Oh, maybe that was what went wrong. England being too blunt. But they were all soldiers. Cattle in a slaughterhouse. There was no time to sugar-coat the truth. He didn't know what to do. He wanted to make America happy and comfortable and safe, but he was failing at it over and over again. One can only take so much failure before he becomes frustrated. He needed to ask America was was expected of him. Not to be able to fit into the mould, but to be able to fix what he was doing wrong. What was he doing wrong? What did America want from him?
"Shut up!" he grunted louder, glaring at the zombies, but turning his eyes away when he found that he couldn't stare into their soulless eyes. If he were lesser of a man, he would have begun crying already. Terror, and confusion and hurt spread inside of him, but he did not give in. He would not say sorry. And he would not cry.
|
|
|
|
Post by America on Mar 25, 2013 21:26:07 GMT -5
America couldn't sleep. He closed his eyes and willed himself to fall into a blissful slumber, one without zombies or his fights with England or infections or fevers or nothing to eat but junk food or his desolate country, but everything was overwhelming him. Everything thing was bringing him so much fear. The one thing he thought he could control, the one thing he thought he had a pretty good grasp on, had slipped right through his fingers.
He couldn't even keep a relationship up properly anymore. He couldn't even just love England without screwing everything up.
It wasn't the first time, either. And it was always his fault. England had been trying to tell the truth. England had told the truth, had told it like it was, and America couldn't accept the fact that maybe someone wasn't willing to hold him at that moment and tell him everything was going to be alright. Maybe England just needed some comforting himself. And America had just wanted everything to revolve around him. He wanted to be the sun, and he wanted the other nations to be the planets.
He glanced down at the gun in his arms, wondering what to do next. He still wanted England to cry. He still wanted to feel the sick satisfaction of seeing tears run down the face of his beloved. Tears that pleaded with him to come back, to not fight any longer. And, even then, America wanted to make him painfully wait for his answer.
"Oh my god," he whispered, bringing a fist up to his mouth to keep himself from getting louder than he needed to be. "Oh my god, oh my god." He was awful. He had never hated himself more before in his life. Not even when he had his fling with Norway. That was something that had been stupid, reckless, but not malicious. Never had he meant to hurt England. And now...now he meant it. Now he meant to inflict pain on his boyfriend, to bring him down. Just because of a few harsh words that happened to be true.
He brought the hand down again and gritted his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut. He could ignore those feelings. So long as he didn't act on them, he'd be fine, wouldn't he?
Whatever the case, he curled up in on himself and kept his eyes closed, trying to get in the sleep he so desperately wanted. |
|
|
|
Post by England on Mar 25, 2013 22:43:25 GMT -5
The sun was dying, and so was England. As night slowly but surely crept upon them, he still had not finished battling everything out in his mind. His biggest concern was definitely what he was to do with his relationship with America, because not only would this have long-lasting effects on their bond if not treated right, but would also hurt him on a short term. He was still exhausted and needed to conserve his energy for tomorrow, their probable escape date, and desperately wanted to drown the painful growling of his stomach and the screeching of the zombies in his sleep. And yet he couldn't go back to America now and pretend that nothing had happened.
So he slowly pushed himself up, and without another word, retreated to the back corner of the roof, facing the door, and sat back down. He could still hear the zombies' cries, not as isolated as in the corner America was occupying, and he briefly regretted not having picked up the earplugs when he had the chance. He wondered if crawling back to get them would make him look weak and desperate, and then decided that even if it didn't, he wouldn't go back and let America win. What a stupid mentality, he told himself as he did exactly that and laid down facing the barrier.
He was shivering, the loss of the sun's warmth turning the tiled roof into a mass of cold concrete. His bare arms had goosebumps running along them, and he crossed them, curling up to try and keep his body heat in. Along with his hunger, thirst, the lovely wailing of the undead not far from him and the heavy thoughts weighing on his mind, England knew that he would be getting no sleep. He tried, though, shutting his eyes and forcing himself to go to sleep, convinced that if he was strong enough to find peace under these conditions, he would be strong enough to survive another day.
But he couldn't. He was too uncomfortable, both physically and mentally, to even consider getting sleep. Nonetheless, he laid there, trembling and eyes closed, curled into a ball, listening to the symphony of death calls around him and trying to pretend that he was okay.
|
|
|
|
Post by America on Mar 26, 2013 5:34:50 GMT -5
Night had fallen and America still hadn't gotten a wink of sleep. He lay there, taunted by his inner demons, taunted by the fact there was no one by his side. All he could hear were the moans and screeches of the zombies, and whenever he pushed himself up for a glance, he could see the form of England, close to the door. Too close. He hadn't ever picked up those earphones, either, had he? America's heart hammered in his chest. Fear gripped him, uncertainty gripped him, and shame gripped him.
It was his fault, after all. He should be ashamed of his conduct. He had driven them to this. And for what? Such a petty wish of being hugged, something that England had done more than enough of.
He sat up once more and glanced over at his lover, heart wrenching. He didn't want to see tears anymore. He wanted to see a smile. He wanted England to smile, be it at him or just in general. With that thought in mind, he picked himself off from the ground, grabbing his jacket and pushing the gun from his arms. He took a deep breath and slowly walked closer to the door, forcing himself to not look at the zombies at all. He couldn't handle staring at them. England had been right:
He couldn't handle fear.
On the way, he located the fallen earplugs with little difficulty. He had thrown them to England, so he might as well let England use them. It was only a few steps further, and America was soon by England's side, hovering awkwardly above him.
"Here," he croaked out, draping his jacket over England's body. "It's really cold out here, huh?" He then dropped the earplugs next to the man and cleared his throat. "I-I'm not gonna use those," he started to explain. "And you're closer to the door, anyways." Was there no way to make England return and sleep with him? If they were together, America might be able to get some shut-eye, but apart like this? It would torture America all night.
Before he turned away, though, he quietly added, "I'd never hate you." He didn't wait to see England's response before hurriedly walking back to his corner (sad that he had to refer it as "his corner" now that England wasn't there) and dropped to the ground, once again curling in on himself, trying to gather as much warmth as possible.
He knew he wouldn't get any without England by his side. |
|
|
|
Post by England on Mar 26, 2013 8:58:51 GMT -5
England had just begun regretting his decision to sleep alone when something was suddenly draped on him. Flinching violently, he twisted, heart leaping in his throat. When he recognized America, though, he relaxed, but only a little. Scanning his eyes, he tried to figure out the motive behind this apology-like move and glanced down at the earplugs innocenty sitting next to him. He did not reply at all, either, letting America explain himself. He only reacted once: when America assured him that he didn't hate him. And that's when nausea crashed upon him like a wave, an he shivered.
He waited for America to leave before making the slightest movement, that of pulling the jacket over his shoulders tighter. It stunk of humidity and was still a bit damp, but it was definitely an upgrade from his sleeveless tunic. It still smelled a little like America, too. Sitting up, he pushed his arms through the holes and zipped the jacket up. It was too big and hung on his smaller frame unflatteringly, but he loved it. It reminded him of someplace he wanted to return to, someplace he could be happy and safe and loved.
His heart ached as he glanced at the opposite side of the roof, to where America's silhouette was detaching and melding continuously in the liquid shadows of the dead city. He looked like he was trying to get some sleep, too, but England could tell that he knew, too, that no sleep would be gotten if they weren't together. What a bother. It looked like quarrels had no place in survival.
"Bloody hell," England swore just for the hell of hearing his own voice instead of the loud moaning of the undead. "Be that way."
Getting up and grabbing the earplugs (which were useless now. England was sure that he'd be hearing zombies inside his head during the entire night), England slowly and indecisively made his way to America's corner -their corner?- and sat down next to him. He fumbled a little with his words, and then unzipped the jacket slowly, pulling it off.
"We can share. It won't do if you freeze to death," he mumbled, looking away in embarrassment. "So just take it. We need to sleep." Hesitantly lying down, back to America's, he set the jacket over them and curled back up on himself, staring at the ground. And to give a sense of finality, he couldn't help but add a response to the most important claim America had said so far. "And I wouldn't, either."
|
|
|
|
Post by America on Mar 26, 2013 17:22:26 GMT -5
America didn't expect England to come to him. He knew that they both sometimes needed their space from others, and he wasn't too concerned about the two of them sleeping alone. Upset, sure, but with two people as stubborn as them, there was bound to be some hard feelings for a while. Therefore, he was overly surprised when he heard the zipper, and his head shot up to stare at England.
He only took one sentence of England's to mind; he didn't hate him. England didn't hate him. It somehow seemed like an apology in America's mind, and he laid his head back down and sighed in relief. Thank god, he wanted to say, but he kept quiet, choosing instead to close his eyes and decide his next movements. Despite the harsh words, America still wanted to love England. He still wanted to kiss his boyfriend, to hug him, to whisper sappy sentences in his ears. He didn't care if it was too soon from when they just made up; he wanted to envelop himself in the warmth that was England.
So, he turned around, keeping the jacket over the two of them, and wrapped his arms around England's chest, swallowing nervously, and buried his face into his shirt, taking a few deep breaths. This was how it was supposed to be. This was how they were supposed to be. They weren't supposed to argue. America hated it when they argued, because it meant that something was going wrong.
He hated how that something was typically his fault.
“I didn't mean it,” he whispered. “I love you. I love you more than anything, England, and I didn't mean a word of what I said.” That was all he could say. He wanted to make sure England didn't reject him before continuing. He wanted to make sure that they were okay, that they could put everything behind them and continue forward. |
|
|
|
Post by England on Mar 26, 2013 22:41:32 GMT -5
England hummed in acknowledgement, but didn't say anything for a while. Sometimes, the silence spoke volumes, just like right now, where the silence just let reality sink back into their heads. England was grateful for America's arms around him, letting the anxiety inside of him melt away and let relief flow back into his veins, pumping warmth all over his body and compelling his muscles to relax in what he identified as a strong, reliable grip. He let America catch him and went boneless in his arms.
He was warm, and England immediately found himself sinking into a cocoon of delusions again, where he could lose himself thinking he was safe and happy. The delusions never lasted long, though, as he reminded himself that their relationship was imperfect and held many flaws, many of which would never be fixed. But they were human, weren't they? Just as much as madness could control their minds, imperfect bliss could control their hearts, and ultimately bring their downfall. Oh, the road to downfall was so sweet, though. England wished it could go on forever.
He hadn't completely forgiven America, and was pretty sure that he had yet to be completely forgiven. The gesture, though, said hundreds of words, all of which could be summed up in 'let's not give in'. Not giving in to pressure, not giving in to the enemy, and not giving in to the dementia anchoring its dirty roots through the beating layers of their living hearts. As long as they loved, they still lived.
"And I... I didn't do this because I forgive you," he found himself saying despite his need to make up. "I... I was just cold and wouldn't be able to sleep." Despite the claim, the tangle of their legs was too sensual. The way he turned his head, letting his lips rest a breath away from America's quivering skin, the way he closed his eyes to feel his presence rather than see it, it was too intimate to be anything less than an apology, and forgiveness.
Sometimes, actions spoke louder than words, and the silence, yet again, began speaking volumes.
|
|
|
|
Post by America on Mar 27, 2013 10:09:43 GMT -5
America smiled fondly, nuzzling his nose to England's cheek, enjoying the proximity. Okay, so they hadn't exactly forgiven each other, and America was sure he wouldn't feel completely better until they were able to sit it out and talk through their problems, but at least they were back together. At least they weren't fighting anymore. That was all America could care about at the present moment.
"You were cold, hm?" America asked with a giggle (and later he would deny that he did anything less manly than a slight chuckle). But, hey, at least England admitted that he wouldn't have been able to sleep if they weren't together. And he might be able to blame it on the cold, but when America had given him the jacket, there was more to his transfer of places then just the cold.
He allowed them to lay in peace for a few minutes before clearing his throat. "You, um, said earlier that you might have a plan," he finally said, breaking the silence. "That we could get off the roof tomorrow morning." He hugged England closer to him, but brought one hand up to play with his lover's hair, refusing to meet his gaze. After all, it was because of England's mention of a plan that everything had started. America hadn't wanted false hope, and that's all he had been given.
Or maybe he didn't want to want it, but he did anyway.
"Mind telling me what it is?" He continued as if he hadn't stopped himself to think. "Maybe I can help you out, if you're not finished, uh, figuring everything through." |
|
|
|
Post by England on Mar 27, 2013 12:16:18 GMT -5
“Yes, I do have a plan,” England hummed, not registering what America had actually said for a moment. He was caught up in the moment, his stomach contracting painfully in mixed relief and anxiety. The feeling of America’s fingers through his greasy, dirty, bloody straw hair was comforting, even though it must have been a little gross for America. It didn’t really matter, did it, though? Comfort was more of a psychological action than a physical act. In response, England took the hand left around him in both of his hands and entwined their fingers. It was enough.
And then he decided that it was time to get down to business. Alienating their personal struggles right now was an investment for the future. If they could get back as soon as they could, they’d have more time and comfort to work these kinks out. It would be better to let the tension run for now.
“I know this is going to sound absolutely repulsive to you, but I’ve realized what to do. These bastards think we look and smell appetizing, which is why they pursue us, right?” He glanced at the door for a second and gathered his courage to try and explain his plan to America in a way that wouldn’t elicit disgust and rejection. They couldn’t afford to be picky anymore. “And so what if we didn’t?”
He let the silence hang a little, then licked his lips and continued. “I’m suggesting we kill one or two zombies, tear them apart, and, well… essentially roll around in their guts until we look and smell just like them. And they won’t know we are any different if we behave like them, just limping around the streets until we get the clear to bolt.” Nervousness rose inside of him as he awaited judgement. “It may sound revolting, but I’m absolutely sure it will work.”
|
|
|
|
Post by America on Mar 27, 2013 16:25:46 GMT -5
"What?" America blinked. He was revolted. More then revolted, actually. He felt sickened with the very idea of it. Rolling around in zombie guts wasn't exactly his idea of a good plan. However, what other hope did they have? If he stopped to think logically about it, he knew it could possibly work. The zombies wouldn't be able to smell them, and they would get a quick and clean escape.
Maybe not clean, but at least they wouldn't have to shoot every single zombie they came up against. Just limp around in zombie blood until no more of the creatures were about, then the rest of the way would be clear for them to run without having to act like their undead companions.
Still, rolling in zombie guts? America had a hard enough time with the blood and insides of normal humans. What about a human who had been dead for god knows how long? It was sure to smell and look utterly disgusting, and America wasn't sure if he enact the plan without becoming ill. Just looking at them made his stomach turn. Now he'd get the chance to lather himself with their insides.
Still, there wasn't much else they could do. America bit his lip before resigning himself with a sigh. "Well, I don't got any better plans," he mumbled, kissing England's dirty cheek. "I mean, so long as we'll get showers in the end." |
|
|
|
Post by England on Mar 27, 2013 18:31:24 GMT -5
England let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding and tightened his grip on America's hand. It was surprising how much importance he'd given to his boyfriend's approval. Perhaps he just wasn't in the mood to argue right now. Or ever.
"If it works out, I think we'll be spending hours in those showers," England let out a relieved chuckle, curling up a little to fit better against America. "You can think still, until dawn breaks out, if you want to do this some other way, but I suggest we both get some smooth, dreamless sleep and prepare for tomorrow. Mentally as well as physically. I don't have all the kinks in my plan worked out yet, and so many things could go wrong. We should be ready for those," he advised.
He wasn't too sure how to get the zombies onto the roof in a controlled manner. They shouldn't waste shots, so that meant that one of them had to get close enough to stab all of the zombies at the door without being bitten. The zombies in the back would also try and push through as soon as the ones in the front went motionless, too, so with so much movement, they could lose a lot of accuracy. Afterwards, getting down could be a problem. Scaling the side wall would work, but if they were spotted by even a single zombie in the street, they would be recognized as impostors. Zombies did not climb buildings, as far as all of them were concerned.
"We'll think about it tomorrow. Let's get some more sleep to pally the lack of food and water that should have kept us going through this. I think we both need some rest." Some rest to cool them down after the brief, but heated exchange would do them good, as well as prepare them for the long day ahead.
|
|
|
|
Post by America on Mar 27, 2013 20:29:12 GMT -5
With a groan, America nodded. "Well, since I got you in my arms again, sleep won't be too hard to get, you know?" He closed his eyes, trying to get a better grasp on their plan. Killing zombies through that door wouldn't be the easiest of tasks, what with how many there were. America was sure that would be tedious in and of itself. He wanted to scoff, but decided that would be a bit too rude. After all, at least England had come up with something. America had just been dozing the entire day, unable to conjure any sort of plan.
He had already instantly knocked out the more disgusting and difficult ideas, so it was obvious he never would have thought of doing what England was mentally preparing him to do. He was going to have more and more nightmares after this was over. After all, did anyone cover themselves in the innards of creatures that had been dead for at least a few weeks and come out alright? America gave a slight shudder, burying his face in England's neck.
Common sense told him that they wouldn't be as sane as they once were.
He gave a deep breath, trying to calm himself down, and breathed in England's scent. Well, they weren't very sane to start with. What was wrong with chipping just a little bit more sanity off? Besides, so long as they made it out alive, they would be able to use their talents to make a better life for everyone else. America would trade all of his sanity to make certain that his people could stay sane.
With that comforting thought, he allowed himself to drift off into a rather less than peaceful sleep, aided by the feel of his boyfriend under his arms. |
|
|
|
Post by England on Mar 27, 2013 21:21:50 GMT -5
England blushed, but didn't answer. America could be so sweet sometimes. Did that mean that he was forgiven? If it did, then he was glad. And even if he wasn't forgiven just yet, he was getting there. So, making himself comfortable and letting out a small sigh, he let a small smile touch his face and gave into sleep.
--TIMESKIP--
England woke up to a second morning on the roof full of moans in the air and immediately decided that he wanted to go back to sleep. It was way too early to wake up. Someone should let him sleep and wake him up only when the apocalypse blew over. Every morning was a challenge, some that he was almost eager to give up, but that he went through anyway. The world needed him awake now. He would sleep when he died.
He briefly wondered if America was awake yet, since he couldn't do much without his partner up as well. They had to put their plan into action to get out as soon as possible, but England could definitely not do it on his own. Instead of rushing it, though, he eased back into America's warm arms and closed his heavy eyelids again, waiting for him to wake up on his own so that they could face another day together.
|
|
|
|
Post by America on Mar 28, 2013 6:17:02 GMT -5
America didn't mean to wake up so early. He hadn't wanted to, especially when taking into consideration what their day would entail. Nope, he was going to get as much sleep as possible so that he could further delay the activity (could it even be called an activity?) of rolling around in zombie blood and zombie guts and becoming utterly disgusting.
But the moans seemed to call him, and he woke with a groan to counter the noises the zombies were making. So much for sleeping in late. So much for coming up with a better plan. He buried his face into England's back, trying to catch a whiff of the usual scent that surrounded his boyfriend. Unfortunately, the smell of dirt, sweat, and blood, coupled with the damp clothes, was enough to block off any of the good smells America wanted.
The comforting smells America wanted.
"Mm, morning," he mumbled, hoping England was awake. Otherwise, he'd just be talking to thin air. |
|
|
|
Post by England on Mar 28, 2013 7:54:58 GMT -5
England wouldn't say that he was relieved, but he was extremely relieved to hear America wake up. He didn't want to be alone anymore in such a wasteland, and needed to hear a voice. A voice other than that of the undead, of course, which incessantly permeated the rotten air around them.
"I see you've awaken," he replied in a grumble, his voice hoarse and dry because of the lack of water in his system. He cleared his throat before continuing. "That's good. We can take our time getting started. This definitely won't be the easiest thing we've ever done," he sighed, pushing himself into a sitting position.
Almost as if approving of the fact, a wave of nausea washed over him, making him flop back down to the ground, groaning. His stomach made a scarily loud grumble, bile rising in his throat as he tried to control his stomach.
"Fuck," he swore, holding his stomach tenderly and doubling over just a little. "We should begin by eating our entire stash of treats to build up energy. Even though I feel like I'm going to vomit if i eat anything sweet ever again." Just the thought of cake made him want to retch, and, glancing at the door bursting with rotten arms, he was positive that it wouldn't be the last time of the day.
|
|
