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Post by America on Feb 13, 2013 21:32:41 GMT -5
He nervously watched as England checked over the sides of the building, and his heart plummeted multiple times whenever England went to look at a new position. Looking at different views meant that the streets weren't cleared, that the zombies were still hanging around, and that didn't exactly suit well with America. He was cold, his leg hurt whenever he moved it around too much, he was soaking wet, he was getting hungry, and he was terrified of the zombies breaking through the door while he and England slept. On top of it all, he'd probably have to take his clothes off to dry, or he'd have to sleep in drenched clothes.
Things weren't looking all that bright and happy.
Still, once England came and sat back down, America decided to continue to look at the good side- he still had his boyfriend with him. Everything else could go wrong, but they were together and they had a few supplies that might be of slight use while they waited for the zombies to disperse.
"Yeah, they're probably gonna get confused and start leaving since they won't be able to smell any fresh meat," he agreed casually, shrugging his shoulders and smiling at England. "Won't get much sleep like this, I bet. I mean, it's like sleeping underwater, what with how wet we are, and the zombies are the sharks and then there's the fact that there's no way to be comfortable." Once he realized he was complaining, he quickly backtracked and laughed it off. "But I can be your pillow, if you want! I haven't tried it too much, but I think I make a damn good pillow."
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Post by England on Feb 13, 2013 21:53:31 GMT -5
"You're sweet. Maybe I can sleep on your stomach. It should be soft enough." Pinching America's tummy affectionately, England pecked America's cheek, then patted it. "No, but in all seriousness, we can attempt to share the backpack as a pillow. I'm just pissed about the lack of covers. What I wouldn't give for a blanket right now. A warm, dry blanket, that is." The water soaking his clothes was making everything cling to his frame and he hated how small and weak he felt. Like a wet puppy. Though while he was at it, he had to admit that he'd much rather be a cat. A drenched kitty, there.
"They haven't made their way up the staircase yet. A part of me is hoping that they've clogged their way up because too many have gotten stuck and there is no place to move, but that's unlikely. They'd probably just trample one another way too easily if it means that they had more space to climb up the stairs. The clinic is going to be a massacre scene by the time they get up here." He shuddered, not only because he was cold, but also because he could imagine the flickering neon lights of the clinic outlining the trampled dead bodies littering the trail all the way from the back door to the roof. Very fitting reference for an artist that might want to paint or photograph references of the apocalypse. Which made him realize that one day, everything would be over, and this entire ordeal would be just another chapter in history books.
"You know what's going to be funny later on?" he started, sighing sadly. "Once we're all through with this war, people will write about it in history textbooks, and small children will learn about how the zombie apocalypse ravaged their continents. Hell, imagine, maybe mandatory classes will now include a Survival 101 class for kids through middle school and high school. I think the drop-out rate will lessen a lot with that implementation," he quipped, though it didn't really sound funny when he thought of it another way.
He was making fun of an event that had killed over a hundred million people, and that would scar humanity for the rest of its existence. Nobody would forget 2150, and the terrors it had brought. Children would have to be formed to resist similar scenarios from the tender ages of their lives, which was akin to giving obligatory military training to ten year olds. With such militarized states, conflict was sure to erupt between countries. Dealing with the aftermath of the apocalypse would be even harden than dealing with the apocalypse instead.
"You know, I may be talking crazy right now, but..." Sometimes, he wished the apocalypse would not end so that they wouldn't have to face the struggles that laid ahead. He hesitated to say it, though. What an embarrassment to admit that he was afraid. "... Well... Forget it. It's nothing."
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Post by America on Feb 14, 2013 6:30:49 GMT -5
"Yeah, we'll have to use the backpack," America agreed, raising his eyebrows and glancing proudly at England. "'Cause, truth be told, my stomach is as hard as a rock." So maybe he could take all the jokes about his weight and stomach and whatnot if it meant that England loved him and trusted him enough to not start pouting whenever one came around. Plus, he got some kisses out of it, and that was always nice. He did wish England hadn't mentioned the blanket, though, because then America realized just how much he, too, wanted one.
He thought on the clinic, on what it would look like, and shuddered, both from the cold rain and the very idea of seeing just how bad it would be. Of course, everything now was bad. America was so used to seeing the brains pour out of innocent peoples' heads that it nearly frightened him. Before this, he would have never even considered the idea of killing women and children, especially, in such brutal ways. Now it had just become second-nature, and not only to him, but to all the nations. It scared him how normal it was becoming for them all, how nonchalantly they were able to bring down a zombie, even with the knowledge that it used to be an everyday citizen who had never asked for a fight.
He felt sick.
"I'm all for the Survival 101 class," America piped up, swallowing what disgust he could. "Because it could happen again. I mean, it seems crazy to me now that it could happen again, but, hey, this seemed crazy to me." He snorted, ducking his head just a bit to protect his face from the pouring rain. "But I want people to be prepared if it starts up again. And we can't say it won't, because we always said it wouldn't even happen in the first place, and it did." He sighed, rubbing his hands together and glancing over at England, interested as to what he was trying to say.
He figured he could let it go, but he wasn't known to do that.
"And what is it?" he asked. "Come on, you can tell me anything, you know. I'm here to listen to you, babe, and I won't judge you for anything." As if to prove that point, he leaned over and pressed two gentle kisses to the corner of England's lips, smiling. "And, seriously, you can't just say something like that and expect me to forget it!"
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Post by England on Feb 14, 2013 14:30:55 GMT -5
"It sounded like a smart idea to tell you at the time." A minute and a half really was a long time ago. Time stretched endlessly up on the rooftop. Perhaps they'd entered another spacetime by mistake, the fourth dimension, why not, because a minute stuck in place felt like an hour. "I don't think it would do much for my credibility, though, or your esteem of me, so I will refrain from saying it. It wasn't a very pertinent comment anyway," he insisted.
"On a more serious note, though, I am just scared for our children in the future. How young is too young to start wielding a gun? If little boys and girls are going to go around waving their knives and pistols, I'm not sure I can guarantee my sanity," he sighed, eyes downcast. "The worst part is, we will probably have to form a first generation of teachers that will have to teach kids to fear and to be on guard at any moment of the day. Not irrational, as crime rate will definitely be on the rise after this is done, but imagine that." His eyes clouded over. "Children fearing every breath they take. Imagine children living with the same paranoia as us. So many young and creative mind will be crushed under such pressure."
He wasn't sure what was really happening around him, once he thought about it. Was he fighting the apocalypse, or was this just the pre-apocalypse? And did the world have place for a post-apocalyptic era for rebuilding generations upon generations of broken lives?
"I guess it's a rather pessimistic view of the world, but it is going to happen. People are going to be scared and will teach their children to be scared, who will teach theirs, and so on. It's just one huge vicious cycle. Not only that, but how do you function as a society when all its members are on their guard, selfish and refuse to cooperate? How do you do any of these?"
The questions were burning his tongue and the obvious answers were as bleak as the sky above them.
"That's what I was meaning to say. It's a stupid comment, and I know that I don't really mean it- that I can't really mean it-, but... Sometimes, I wish that we never did succeed in beating the outbreak, not when there are even harder challenges up ahead. Right now, we are fighting machines, we have the instinct to kill, mindless and emotionless, but the future brings challenges that require so much more than brute force, and I'm not even sure we'll be able to succeed then."
But then he realized that he was basically condemning the existence of the man next to him: sweet, beautiful America, his ally and lover, the optimistic boy who would stop at nothing to save the broken remnants of his people and be the hero he'd always wanted to be. England suddenly felt nauseous and guiltily hid his face in his hands.
"I'm sorry. It wasn't my place to comment like that," he murmured, unsure if America could even hear him. "I should have kept to myself."
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Post by America on Feb 14, 2013 15:40:23 GMT -5
America chose to instead look at his jeans as he listened, not wanting to catch England's eyes. He watched the rain splatter down on them, watched puddles form in the small folds formed from the way he was sitting, watched everything to keep his mind off of what truly mattered, off of the fears of the future. He didn't want to hear any of it, because the future scared him, as well. Everything scared him. There wasn't a safe haven any longer. There wasn't anyway America could actually escape the dangers, the paranoia, the constant fear.
He didn't want England to feel the same. He didn't want anyone to feel the same. But, as he heeded England's words, he realized that no one would go to bed anymore without first patting a gun they would keep on their bedside table. He sure wouldn't, not anymore. He wouldn't ever feel like he was safe again.
Mentally, he was despairing. He wanted to scream out his frustrations. However, he also knew he couldn't do that. He wasn't going to give up just because everyone would be afraid.
"No, no, it's good to talk and get things off your chest," America assured him, pulling England closer in so they could huddle together for more warmth. "I mean, I guess that's kinda the reality we'll have to face. People just won't feel safe, and they've got a good reason not to. You know, zombies and stuff. Their nightmares have already come alive once, so what'll be next? I get that. I get them. I'll be the same way."
He smiled, trying to ease the tensions settling in the air, trying to bring some more light on their situation. "But we're not gonna lose the future to some silly fear," he continued. "That's dumb." It wasn't dumb at all, and he shared those sentiments, but he wasn't going to let the conversation continue to spiral down. "I mean, people will be afraid, sure. They'll be cautious and they'll teach their children to be cautious. In the future, I don't see parents allowing their children out of their sight for too long. I don't see them allowing them to go do things. I see everyone being protected and shut off to the world."
Shrugging, he said, "And if that's how it'll be, then that's how it'll be. We'll try and comfort them, sure, but not everyone will feel safe. But I think you're wrong on something; it isn't an endless cycle. I thought that was how the Cold War would be. I thought, 'Well, we're all so scared now, and none of us will ever be safe again.' I mean, those were fucking nukes! You can kill zombies, you can beat zombies, but just try shooting at a nuke headed straight for your house. At least we've got a fighting chance with these guys. Nukes? Nah. If I launched one, or if Russia launched one, we'd all be dead. There'd be nothing left of earth.
"So it's different," he emphasized, smiling now. "The children will grow up strong and they'll tell their children of how they survived zombies, and everyone will know how to fight, yeah, but they'll band together for survival, because that's how you survive. They'll learn to rely on and trust one another, and, sure, they might be a little fearful, a little jumpy, but I think they'll soon realize that they just gotta go with the flow. We can help with that. We can make them feel safer, and we can make them stronger, and we'll just be...be there for the people. We've struggled, we understand what they're going through, and I guess we can relate with them and assure them and just...help."
He cleared his throat and nodded, looking ahead of them at the steadily falling rain. "It'll be fine, England. I promise you."
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Post by England on Feb 14, 2013 17:24:48 GMT -5
England wasn't sure what it was that blocked the comfort of America's words from reaching him: the frustrating desperation of their situation, or his own mental barriers. It was hard to look at the future and think so optimistically of it. Once again, England concluded that only America had the talent for being so bubbly when everything indicated he do otherwise. In that sense, America was so much stronger than England, and England envied him.
"I have a hard time believing you on that," he admitted after letting the silence stretch a bit. "I see where you're going, though I'm not sure I can follow. It's going to leave a lasting impact on our lives, for hundreds and hundreds of generations to follow, and I'm not sure I can stomach such a drastic change so quickly. Imagine how buildings will now have a fire extinguisher behind a glass that says 'break glass in case of fire', and right next to it, a glass case with a pistol that says 'break in case of zombie apocalypse'." He couldn't help but chuckle, despite how uncomfortable the image was to him. "Sounds like something someone would find in some senseless American publicity on the telly."
Just as senseless as the rest of America was, anthropomorphism and culture alike.
"You sound so ready to face what's coming, but I'm not convinced. I know we've briefly discussed this already, but I haven't had time to understand your logic yet." He turned his eyes up to America's face, scrutinizing the bright blue eyes as if trying to comprehend something that he would never decipher. "What are you going to do after this? You -and everybody else, really, but you and your brother are my main concern- will have to go through so much to rebuild. Looking around us, I sometimes doubt that it'll even be possible. Our situation right now is so simple: all we have to do is kill. But I can't fathom going back to a world where chaos has a new meaning."
He gulped down, scenarios more unpleasant as they scrolled through his thoughts plaguing his conscience. He'd seen enough violence for a good century or so, and he really did not want to escape one battlefield just to step in another.
"Politics, revolts, poverty, disease... Essentially, we're all going to have a very long battle against the State of Nature and mob rule before we can get anywhere. I must admit that I fear what is coming. I would die if I saw you fall into the hands of tyrants, or anarchists, or someone who would either hurt you, or do nothing to soothe your pain. You, and your brother alike." The two countries meant the world to him, and as a father-figure, a long-time friend and ally, and a lover to one of them, he would never be able to stomach the sight of their broken nations and broken minds. "And I... I feel bad for you two. It's going to take you so much time and effort to get back to where you once stood, and even then, who knows if you'll ever be the same?"
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Post by America on Feb 14, 2013 20:35:36 GMT -5
"Huh, real trusting of us, aren't you?" America suddenly snapped, his hands clenching into fists and a frown coming upon his face. He couldn't help it; everything England said struck him hard, and they all risked the possibility of such things happening. "What, you just want me to go ahead and give up right now, England? I guess I should, since you don't seem to think I'll even be able to build up my country once more. I mean, whoa, not like I did it before! Seriously, do you have some sort of problem with me trying to be uplifting? Do you just want to think about bad things so much that you have to tear down everything I say?" He gave a huff and sat in an angry silence for a few seconds before sighing and musing up his own wet hair, mouth still pulled down.
Then he realized that they were in no position for arguments, and America was certainly in no position to fuss at England, especially not when his boyfriend was only trying to help.
"Sorry," he mumbled. "I-I didn't...I'm just...I'm cold." He was cold, yes, but he was cold before, too. He didn't want to admit that England might possibly be right. The task of rebuilding was ridiculously daunting. America didn't even want to imagine trying to restart his country the exact same way. He was going to be subject to change and possible pain and just difference. Everything he stood for could fall at any minute. His country might turn around and do something against his wishes and, being a representation of the people, he, too, would have to turn around and he'd become different.
He shook his head as he thought, knowing they needed to communicate, knowing they had to express their problems. "I don't want to think about that, England, okay? I know...I know all of that. I'm not an idiot." He glanced sadly over at his partner, shrugging his shoulders as he continued. "I'm going to rebuild my nation." His voice was quiet now, contemplating his words before he actually spoke. "It'll take a while, and I'm prepared to work forever, if I have to. I'm going to rise up again, and I'm going to make sure everything's the same, 'cause...oh, god, I know all of that, England."
He suddenly felt like yelling again, like throwing a temper tantrum, like screaming until he was out of breath, but he knew he didn't truly want that. To ease that bubbling anger, he fell silent, turning away from England and taking deep breaths.
He wasn't about to admit that even he found everything completely hopeless.
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Post by England on Feb 14, 2013 23:19:09 GMT -5
England did not say a single thing to contradict America because somewhere deep inside, he knew that he was in the wrong. Yet he'd never been one to delude himself, and the honest, painful truth had come out without any regard to tact. England usually complained that America did not know how to read the atmosphere, but here he was, completely refusing to read the atmosphere even though he could. Perhaps if he weren't so unpleasant, things would have gone a lot smoother. England didn't blame America. He did deserve the anger.
And he did want to apologize, but the words wouldn't come out. Yet again, he hadn't been able to do the right thing. So, letting America's words wash over him, he, too, turned his back to America's, deciding to leave the younger country to his brooding.
Now that he thought of it, he had been slightly insensitive. The poor boy's entire country had fallen apart and he now spent most of his days smashing in the heads of those that had been unlucky enough to fall to the spread of the infection. The rest of his people were now out scattered across Europe, probably dying out in the streets of cities that once used to be so big. And here England was, in what looked like a rather bleary situation, reminding America what kind of a mess they were in. Not just reminding, but rubbing it in his face, too. England deserved the cold shoulder.
Not just the cold shoulder, but the cold rain whipping his face, the cold causing his insides to coil uncomfortably and the cold he knew inhabited his heart. No matter how hard he tried, it seemed like he would never change: he'd always be rude and insensitive to everyone he talked to. Which especially sucked when he tried to discuss things with his boyfriend. If anything, the communication in their relationship was shaky because of him. He needed to brush up on his people skills a bit, and that was an understatement. It wouldn't do to end up at they did, backs turned to one another, every time a delicate subject came up.
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Post by America on Feb 15, 2013 6:46:29 GMT -5
America was happy England didn't say anything, because then he would have to respond, and he didn't quite think he was ready to say anything just then. He didn't know what would come pouring out of his mouth if he spoke. He wasn't sure whether he would be resentful, hating, mean, or if he would be quiet, calm, and so, so scared. Perhaps a mixture of both. He felt both. He felt that hatred and that resentment. England, after all, could say everything so simply. His nation wasn't nearly gone. All he would have to do was to kick the North American citizens out. He didn't have to go through the pain of killing his own citizens.
(It didn't come to America that what he felt was most likely jealousy, because he always believed he was far too good for jealousy.)
However, there was the calmer side of him, too, that understood what England was trying to say, that wanted to listen and talk it through. England just wanted to help. England loved him, and he was just trying to offer his assistance. Oh, but it was so easy for him to do so, wasn't it? America gritted his teeth together, shivering against the cold. It was so easy for England to try and help because England wouldn't feel the pain of going through all of that.
A little voice in the back of America's mind told him he was being stupid, unfair, rude. He was being an awful boyfriend.
He sighed, shakily, breath coming out in puffs against the cold. He had to say something. He had to break the silence that threatened to overwhelm him. He didn't want to be left alone with nothing but his thoughts, thoughts of his ruined nation and dying people, thoughts of the unstable future that lay ahead.
"Can we not talk about it?" he asked quietly, hugging his knees, and still letting England only see his back. "Please? I get it, I do, I know I do, and I'm...I'm working on it, England." Just don't leave me alone in my thoughts, just don't tell me these things when I already know them, don't remind me, don't remind me.
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Post by England on Feb 15, 2013 16:10:59 GMT -5
England's heart clenched as silence draped over them. Far from being soothing anymore, the crashing rain seemed to set his skin on fire and pierce his eardrums. It couldn't compare to the pain of having been pushed aside, though. Contrarily to the rain, though, he embraced this pain and let it course through his veins until he was incoherent, because he deserved every bit of it. America was hurting, a thousand times more than him, and England had no right to resist his share of the agony. Maybe if he hurt enough, he would be able to alleviate his lover's pain.
He tightened his hold on himself to ward off the gusts of wind, but stopped himself when the reflex to seek comfort with his boyfriend arose. America did not want to be approached. America did not want to be touched. Least of all by England. He didn't deserve anything America could give him anyway. He should have known that the younger nation would be touchy about it. After all, he was forced to kill his own citizens in order to survive. What kind of country survived thanks to the death of his inhabitants, though? It went against every instinct of a country to slaughter his people. England hadn't thought about it so in depth, and now that he had, realized that it wasn't the best conversation subject.
He was being insensitive, cold and cruel to the man he'd sworn to cherish and protect. Not only the man that had sworn to do the same to him, but America. Nice, gentle, bright, beautiful, sensitive America. Even after all this time, the boy was still a child in an adult body. He'd grown, yes, but not enough to be able to brush off hurtful comments and topics as easily as some others did. And England, to some degree, wished he would never end up desensitized to pain. America still had such a large part of his humanity in him: that large, goofy smile and the laughter that could brighten up any situation.
But America was not smiling anymore, England reminded himself with a twisting sensation in his heart. He wasn't smiling and it was England's doing.
The rain felt so much colder. And the roof, so much more desolate. Even when America spoke up, the gap that separated them, though their backs were only a foot apart, seemed to widen. England's heart burned with guilt.
"I'm sorry..." he finally whispered, the rain drowning his words and his heart entirely.
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Post by America on Feb 15, 2013 19:05:59 GMT -5
America barely heard the whispered reply, and when he realized what exactly England said, his stomach churned uncomfortably. He knew he shouldn't have gotten so mad. England was trying to just discuss things, to make sure everything would be okay in the future. And now he was just being irresponsible again. He was pushing everything aside. He didn't want to be burdened with problems.
He was a country. He had to be burdened with those problems. It was his duty; it was what he was born to do. And there he was, snapping at England because the very mention of responsibility came up, and he didn't know what to do with it. He didn't know how to repair the situation. It looked hopeless, and he didn't want to deal with anything hopeless.
His attitude was just making things worse.
"Don't," he managed to croak out, taking a deep breath to calm himself down. He couldn't get the fact out of his head that England didn't have to go through all that he had to. England didn't know what it was like to kill his own citizens, to see his own country completely abandoned by people and ravaged by the undead, to have to go through the grueling process of starting all over and dealing with more problems than he had thought possible. All England had to do was kick out the North American citizens and his problems would be over. He knew, he knew with every fiber of his being, that England wouldn't do that, because England helpful and kind and why was America even whining to him? He had no right to complain, not when England was trying.
He felt horrible.
Not quite knowing how to properly apologize, he fumbled about in his mind for the perfect words. Of course, he didn't think for too long. He always had to speak. "No, just don't say that. I know you were trying to help me out, and that's alright. I just don't want-" He stopped himself from saying anything else. He didn't want to responsibility, he knew that, but he didn't want to say that. He didn't want England to know that his boyfriend was a coward who shied away from burdens and duties.
He screwed his eyes shut against the cold and the rain, biting at his lip. Finally, his heart resolute, he turned around again and faced forward, keeping his eyes downcast. "I don't want to have to go through any of that, England. I don't want to...to fail. I've already failed them once, and what if I do it again?"
He failed all of his citizens. He hadn't been enough to protect them.
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Post by England on Feb 16, 2013 1:57:23 GMT -5
Since America had turned, England hesitated a bit before doing the same. He certainly did not want to look like he was unwilling to work things out. The worst complication to their current situation would definitely be a quarrel arising.
"That's not true," England mumbled in return, unsure if he should be replying at all. America did not seem to want a good dialogue set upon the subject, so he wasn't sure if he could give himself the permission to speak. And yet he still did. England did a lot of things he wasn't supposed to do. Like hurting America in a manner that was dangerously close to being intentional. "You haven't failed them. In fact, you've only succeeded. Even when life got you down, you still rose back up without fail, and you are fighting for them. If they knew of your existence, and all the things you are doing for them at this very moment, they would be incredibly grateful to you."
Backing off afterward, in order to let America cool down just in case England hadn't been expected to speak up, he turned his head away, staring at the ground. He understood why America was so frustrated and closed about the subject, and wished he could do something -anything- to help him out. He was miserable and cold and angry at himself and hopeless, but he had no right to complain, not when his lover was going through so much worse.
England wasn't the one whose country was in ruins. Sure, he would have enormous amounts of poverty, pollution and overpopulation to consider once the apocalypse was over, but he wasn't the one who was putting bullet holes in the heads of his own citizens- it was America. America, who was too young, who was too precious to have his mind ripped apart by an ordeal such as the one he was living. England would never forgive himself if he let the young man's sanity and bubbly character slip through his fingers, just because he hadn't been supportive. Not just that, but also a complete asshole.
"I swear to you..." he found himself murmuring, eyes glazed over. "I will do everything I can, personally, or otherwise, to help you. I will fight with my every breath, and I will die to ensure that you return to where you were once. You don't deserve any of this, you haven't done anything to deserve atrocities like this, but since it's here now, and the only way to get rid of it is to fight back... Then I will fight. I will put every moment of my day into this fight and I won't stop until you are great once again."
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Post by America on Feb 16, 2013 10:05:02 GMT -5
America could hear the sincerity of England's words, and even if he couldn't, he knew that the island nation wasn't lying, wasn't saying stuff just to have something to say. He was being serious and truthful and that's all he had been being; serious and truthful. And America had brushed him aside and snapped at him and had been overly rude to him, just because he couldn't handle being serious and truthful when it applied to the darker situations. He wanted everything to be okay, and he had to realize that things weren't okay, especially not now. He had to quit being so naive.
He turned his gaze to England, opening his mouth to say something, to say anything. Their relationship had to be built on communication, a concept neither of them seemed to grasp properly, no matter what the circumstances. A topic came up and they argued, they disagreed, they- well, it wasn't they in this case. It was just himself. It was just...America. He always wanted to look at the bright side of things and push the dark side away, but now he had nothing left but the dark side. His country was ruined, his people were dying, and, like England stated, it would take forever to rebuild everything.
He gave a shuddering breath before quickly scooting over and filling up the distance between himself and England, then pulled his boyfriend close to him and nestled his face in the crook of his neck. He was too cold and wet to be apart, anyway. He was too miserable to be apart. He was too scared and unsure and upset to be apart. He sought the comfort and love that only England could give him.
England, who was so strong and certain about things. Who had his back no matter what the costs. Who would love him for the rest of eternity. And America didn't know how to return all the kindness that England was bestowing upon him. He had nothing left to offer, because there was nothing left of him. He was turning into a mindless, killing machine. He was murdering his own citizens. He could have laughed at the absurdity of it all. The one thing he promised never to do, the one thing he couldn't even imagine doing, had come to pass. He was killing the people he considered his children.
"I don't want to be great," he whispered, shivering and curling closer to England. "I just want them to stop dying. I want them to feel safe, to be safe. I want them to live here again and, and just be happy. I don't care about how great I am after this is over." He would never be great again. A country who killed its own people couldn't be great.
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Post by England on Feb 16, 2013 15:34:33 GMT -5
England sharply inhaled when America put his arms around him, and hesitated before returning the gesture. He still wasn't sure what America was expecting of him, but until specified, he would do what he thought would be best. If America had come to him, then England would let him stay as long as he needed. Almost on reflex, he started running his hands up and down his back, fingers catching on the wet fabric of his clothes, hoping somehow that the futile movement would help in any way. He didn't know what else he could possibly do.
"I know, love," he whispered solemnly, setting his cheek against America's head. "I know..." America sounded and looked so despaired. England wished he could have been more helpful than to just stand there and do nothing to help him out. He wasn't sure what he was expected to do, though. He wanted to soothe America's pain, but he was confused. Deciding to let America make his own path to recovery, and spare himself the embarrassment of looking ridiculous, or doing the wrong thing and making things worse, England pressed a small kiss to America's head and threaded his fingers into his dripping hair.
"Things will get better, I promise. We are immortal, we have all the time in the world to get better." That didn't necessarily mean that it was a good thing. The number of nations that had probably wished for mortality at some point in time was surprisingly -and worryingly- high. Still, it meant that they would heal in time, and that they would see things pick themselves up one day. It wouldn't be fair to lose hope now, especially if hope hadn't been lost before. In America's case, hope had definitely been synonymous to his name. England could not recall a single moment when America had given into despair, and he did not want to see him start now.
"You will stand. You will be strong. You will be a model for all nations, of how nothing can ground an entire country, how nothing can destroy a cultural identity and how nothing can exterminate a nationality. People, even if they aren't aware of your existence, will definitely be iffy about you for a while, but then they will love you, and they will be so proud of you." England gripped a fistful of America's hair and gritted his teeth as a weird mix of emotions welled up in his heart. "Just like how I am so very proud of you..." For having fought and lasted so long, for having shouldered the guilt and pain, for never having given up hope and for having kept composed for so long.
It was time to let go, and England embraced the moment of weakness as it was a proof of America's humanity. The America he knew would definitely change, but he would never die.
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Post by America on Feb 16, 2013 16:31:15 GMT -5
America stayed in England's arms for a little while longer. He wanted to continue being comforted and held. He wanted to stay lost in this feeling of security and love. Once he pulled away, once he looked around, he would have to be reminded again of how hopeless everything was. America didn't know whether or not to fully trust England on all he said, but trusting and listening to England was a better option than trusting and listening to himself.
He did know, though, that at this point, he honestly didn't care who hated him. Hell, they could hate him all they wanted, so long as they were alive and free and happy. And he would be proud. He would be pleased that they hated him, because that meant they were alive, and they could hate him. Of course, he did put his trust in England, his trust in the fact that maybe, just maybe, his people would actually love him again. He imagined the day, when this was all over, where he would drive down the streets and see American flags waving beneath a gorgeous, blue sky, neighbors talking to neighbors, children playing hide-n-go-seek, and god, he just wanted that day to come.
With a sigh, he drew back and smiled nervously at England, shrugging his shoulders. "Guess so," he muttered, deciding to hold onto that image and focus on achieving that goal. It would be long and hard work, but he'd do it. He'd succeed, especially with England's help, and then he'd show England down those beautiful streets, he'd let England meet the wonderful people, and he'd let England know that everything was there thanks to his help.
He leaned forward and gently kissed England's lips, blinking the rain out of his eyes. "You're right. Damn, you're always right." He laughed shakily at that, wanting to forget the fact that he had been despairing over their situation. "Just gotta keep on going, you know? Can't let the idea of hard work bring me down." He just had to remember that all the hard work was for an even greater idea. "And, I'd...I'd really like for your help. After you're done building your country back up, I mean. Just-just whenever you're able to get some time. I mean, we...Mattie and I, we've-" He struggled with the words to say, than rolled his eyes. "To hell with it," he grumbled. He'd already looked stupid and helpless enough today, and it was just England, and England wouldn't judge him. So to hell with his stubborn pride, because that had long since been broken.
"What I mean is, I'm not sure if I can do it by myself. Like, at all. I can try, but there's just so much work to be done, and I'd have to rebuild, both physically and mentally. I mean, I gotta make sure my government's in order and the people have their needs fulfilled and buildings and infrastructure and, you know, the whole economic situation, gotta figure out how to do that, and just...just everything." He gave a small grin, searching England's green eyes for some sort of judgment in there, some sort of irritation. "I don't know how I can finish it by myself."
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