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Post by America on Feb 20, 2013 11:13:39 GMT -5
America bit at his lip in thought, unsure of what exactly to say. He knew the pain made him stronger. He could care for his people better with the knowledge of what they were going through. He was a better leader when he had sympathy and pity. When mistakes happened, they would burn in the back of his mind, and even if he couldn't fix that mistake, he would do everything in his power to make sure it never happened again. If America didn't have all the pain and sorrow, he'd be heartless. Happy, maybe, but that happiness would only go so far as to fulfill his own needs.
He cleared his throat, looking across at the buildings, the rain obscuring his view of seeing farther. He almost wished it was heavy enough to make every other building go out of sight, because he didn't want to be reminded of all they had lost. Buildings meant a civilization, and a civilization meant life, something that wasn't around North America any longer.
"But, I sometimes think," he started. "That being a cold, heartless asshole is better than replaying their deaths in my mind, over and over and over again. I'm sick of closing my eyes and, and seeing them. I wanna forget that I've ever killed these people. I don't mind killing soldiers as much," he added, shaking his head. "I hate it, sure, but that's fair war. They signed up for it, they were prepared to die. They made sacrifices for what they loved.
"None of these people did." He sighed, and realized that his smile had long since evaporated. "They weren't ready to die and have their bodies come back to life. They haven't sacrificed a fucking thing. They were just there, and now I've gotta shoot bullets through their rotting bodies and I don't want to remember that. I don't want to wake up fifty years for now and still see their, their faces and smell them, smell all that stink coming from them, or when I'm burning their flesh, or just...and the feel of them when you touch one, I can't remember that, because they were humans who were just living and now- I mean, I can't..."
He took a deep breath, willing himself not to give into despair too quickly. He needed to stay strong and discuss things without breaking down.
"I can't remember that, England. I wanna sleep it off."
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Post by England on Feb 20, 2013 16:32:58 GMT -5
England's heartstrings felt like they were being tugged at because of America's thoughts, but no matter how sad such a mentality was, England had to admit that it was the truth. At least America wasn't deluding himself.
"I know. The slaughter of the innocent is the most horrible war crime, never mind the fact that war is a crime in itself. Still, we've been here before. All of us have already had times where enormous amounts of civilians have perished in a conflict. No matter how hard we try, families will always be ripped apart by war." He breathed deep through his nose, smelling the humidity in the air, and exhaled softly. "We shouldn't have to think so hard about it, but we do," he mumbled.
Eyes darting to the young man in his arms, he suddenly felt a rush of affection inside of him, warming him up slightly before the rain took it away from him. Oh, but the rain would not take America from him. Nothing would, not other nations, not nature, not the sick and twisted world they had to fight, and certainly not America himself.
"As bad as this sounds... You have to let go of them. Blank out your conscience. Don't give yourself a reason to hate yourself." He bit his lip, and roughly pulled America to his chest, holding onto him as tightly as possible. "Because the dead are gone, and do not feel the repercussions of your emotions. It doesn't matter to them how you feel and how you fight, because they are unresponsive, deceased and walking strictly through unholy methods. Turn your eyes to the rest of the world, though. The dead won't care if you beat yourself up and splinter under the pressure, but the living will." He grasped a fistful of America's shirt and gave himself a moment as his voice cracked. "I will."
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Post by America on Feb 20, 2013 21:13:20 GMT -5
America's hands found purchase on England's arms, and he gripped them as tightly as he dared, still making sure not to use all of his strength. He knew everyone needed a moment of self-pity every so often, but he also knew he couldn't just wallow about in it, especially when all the nations were going through tough times and struggling with their inner demons. Besides, he was supposed to be the hero. He was the one who stood tall despite the odds. He was the one that never gave up or never became broken. Everyone looked towards him as the beacon of hope and strength, and here he was cracking. Here he was letting his true nature be known.
He was just grateful it was with England, not anyone else.
"I'm trying." It was a simple reply, but as England held him, and as he held England, no other intelligent words would come out. Not just yet. He had to give himself a few minutes to recover. He had to give them both a few minutes to recover. America doubted this was any easier on England. He had heard England's concerns and listened to his advice, and for his sake, America was going to take it all in. He was going to prove that he wasn't going to fall to the pressure and pain, that he was going to rise up once more, despite the horrors he had seen and committed.
"I'm trying to stay strong," he replied, taking a deep breath and holding it in for a few seconds before letting it out, shivering as he did so. "I'm trying to let them all go, and I know I can, but it's just so hard-" because some of those were his children, and he had failed them, as much as England said he didn't, he had failed every single one of them. "-and sometimes I just wanna cry? Like, I wanna fall over and sob. You know what I mean? And I smile for people and I laugh, but then I feel like going to bed and just...crying."
He glanced up at the dark clouds, then down at his own, drenched self, then up at England's serious, upset face, water pouring down his cheeks, dripping off his chin, and catching to his clothes. And, despite himself, America let out a snort of laughter, than a reluctant smile came to his face. "You look miserable," he commented suddenly, reaching over to run his fingers through England's wet hair. "Looks like-" He stopped, shaking his head, keeping that thought to himself.
Looks like how I feel.
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Post by England on Feb 21, 2013 0:33:53 GMT -5
"Looks like what?" England cocked his head, allowing his eyelids to flutter shut as America's fingers massaged his scalp, humming in approval at the fingers threading through his hair. "Like despair? Like hopelessness? Do I look like someone who is breaking under the pressure put on his shoulders? Or the opposite: Standing strong despite the burdens? Maybe you think I look like someone who's given up. Or perhaps someone who's fighting no matter how much he wants to give in. I don't know." And he didn't, to be fair. "I really don't. I'm not sure what I look like, or what I'm even trying to look like." So far, he was only trying to keep himself from falling apart. "I look like whatever you see me."
His heart ached for America, and how he wished he could take the pain away from him. Anything, anything to relieve the weight on his consciousness, anything to relieve him of the nightmares plaguing his every sleeping and waking moment. Why America, of all the nations? He was still so young, so untainted by the horrors of war as compared to some other nations, so why did he have to take the brunt of it all? He didn't deserve it. If America cried, England was sure he'd cry with him.
"You know..." he began, running his tongue thoughtfully over his cracked lips. "It's normal to want to cry... I would be worried if you didn't have the urge to let it all out once in a while. You aren't going through the easiest of times right now. Hardly any nation has ever had to face this kind of trial before, and I'm sure they all admire and support you as you struggle through." It was then his turn to put a hand up and push America's drenched hair behind his ear carefully. "And they know that it's not easy for you. They can see how much you are dying on the inside, no matter how cheerful you appear to be on the outside, and that's why they admire you." Idly repeating the movement, England gave him a tentative smile. "You have strength that only rarely can be found in the rest of us. And we all respect you for trying so hard even when you yourself are even against your actions. We respect your will to continue, and your will not to give in to despair. We admire the way you manage to get up and smile every day, because not everybody has the mental strength to do that."
Leaning in on a whim, he left a gentle kiss on America's forehead, then followed with one on the tip of his nose before drawing back and carefully taking America's hand out of his hair to hold it like it were made of crystal.
"But you don't have to smile all the time. We can all see it, how you're trying not to break, but you know what? You'll break even faster if you don't find time to indulge the pain inside of you." Putting the hand up to his face, he kissed one of his knuckles in an almost reverent fashion. "So let it go. If you will let me, I am willing to help you stay together even as you temporarily fall apart." Another kiss. "Nobody wants to see you break, least of all me." The third kiss was fiercer than usual. "You are accomplishing an extremely difficult task, but... you don't have to make it even harder." He pressed the very last kiss to the fourth knuckle of America's hand, and let himself linger, his lips absorbing the warmth radiating off his body and his nose catching the crystalline scent of rain as it slid off of his skin.
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Post by America on Feb 21, 2013 10:48:19 GMT -5
America shook his head, trying not to give into England's sweet, gentle words, trying not to indulge in the pain. He hated crying. Crying was a weakness, and America had already cried enough since he had come to the warehouse. No matter how much his heart ached to follow what England told him, America wasn't going to let it happen. He was going to stay strong and keep his head up through this, even if it took all of his strength.
"No, I can't just cry," he said, his heart aching to do so even as he said no. "I'm supposed to be the hero, and heroes never cry because they stop others from crying, not vice-versa, so crying wouldn't fit me." Crying would just make him look even more childish than he already was, even more stressed and broken than he already was. Even England, who was there for America through thick and thin, wasn't going to see him cry. He'd see him stand strong and continue being the beacon of hope for everyone else.
Even as America rejected the idea of crying, though, he still felt his breath catching in his throat, felt his shoulders shaking, and, to his horror, he realized that some of the raindrops falling from his cheeks weren't exactly raindrops. Raindrops didn't have that salty taste. Raindrops didn't spill out of his eyes and force him to hold back all the whimpers and whines that were threatening to pour from his mouth. He couldn't be crying, because he had already cried enough, more than enough, and he was supposed to stay strong. He wasn't weak; he wasstrong, and he would prove he was by not crying.
But his emotions seemed to want to listen to England more than anything, and they followed what he had said. They didn't follow America's own wishes. They kept his crying up, and if anything, intensified it. He felt ashamed, horribly ashamed, to fall into the clutches of despair, even if it was just for a few minutes.
"I-I'm not g-gonna cry," he managed to choke out, aware of the blatant lie he was sprouting, and even more aware that England would be able to tell. "I wo-won't cry." He was taking deep breaths to control himself, but he realized it wasn't working. The tears just kept coming and it was growing difficult to hide them away, especially with how he was shuddering and gritting his teeth.
"I'm fine," he said, unsure of who exactly he was trying to convince. "I-I'm fine."
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Post by England on Feb 23, 2013 0:07:35 GMT -5
"Yeah," England nodded, his heart cracking as he looked at America. The same protective feeling he'd had when America was still his colony had come back full force, and ten times stronger, even. He felt the overwhelming urge to wrap America in his arms and press his face into his hair, but held back to respect his distance. The sight was heartbreaking, though. England was not sure if America was crying, but he could see him trembling and could hear his voice catching. It was enough to beat any sense of modesty inside of him and he clutched America as tightly as he could, making comforting circles on his back and arms with renewed vigour, and rocking slightly back and forth.
If he could take America's pain away, he would take it in a heartbeat. It felt immoral to leave the young man to suffer alone. England was sure that any estimate he could come up with would not even come close to how much America was hurting in reality. He'd never gone through anything similar to the situation at hand, so he could not even give America appropriate support. He really felt useless, but for America's sake, held every insecurity in.
He wished they could wander into a safer terrain, carry out a conversation where England would not dread or doubt his every word, but he also did not want to leave the issue lie without tying up loose ends. He wanted America to feel better, but was also afraid that he would not know how to help him. It was a horrible feeling. Being useless and insecure when all that the man he loved needed right now was an anchor to reality. His heart beat faster as shame coursed through his veins.
Nonetheless, he found the strength to keep talking, hoping that by some chance, he would be able to say something that would finally ring home.
"Maybe heroes don't cry. Maybe they do devote their lives to saving others. Of course you'd only see the strong side of them, the side they want you to see so they won't lose their credibility. But you know, hero or not, they're all human somewhere, and do feel emotions. Don't you know the saying? It goes 'even heroes need a hero sometimes'," he licked his lips and pressed a kiss to the side of America's head. "So maybe heroes don't cry..." he sighed, smiling sadly. "But mine does."
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Post by America on Feb 23, 2013 11:17:05 GMT -5
America knew he had to stop. He had to stop those tears from coming, he had to hold all of that sadness and pain in. Sure, England said it was okay, but America knew better. There was a reason no one ever saw the heroes cry; they weren't supposed to. They were supposed to stay strong, and maybe cry when not in the company of others, where no one would be able to accuse them of being weak or what have you. America would have been fine if he was just crying by himself. He didn't believe England would look down on him for this, but he felt so ashamed to be crying.
"I-I shouldn't," he murmured, shaking his head and really liking that hand on his back. Don't stop moving me like that, he wanted to say. Don't let me go. Saying such things would be yet another weakness that he didn't want to shine through. Besides, how come he was the only one receiving comforting? Everyone else was going through the same thing he was, the murder of innocent humans, and how come he was the only one to indulge in his pain? He felt horribly guilty. "Everyone else 'sgotta go through the same thing, a-and how come I'm the only one crying?"
No, he didn't want to cry. He was going to stop. He held in his breath, but, to his horror, the tears kept coming. His own feelings weren't listening to him. They were choosing to follow England's gentle coaxing and England's gentle touches.
He coughed, a mixture of pain and laughter. "I-I can't even co-control my own e-emotions," he choked out. "Th-They're just listening to you." If it weren't for the fact that it was so ridiculous and pathetic, America would have laughed, laughed long and hard. England always told him to be more serious, to pay more attention, to stop being obnoxious, and America had never listened. Now, the one day when he didn't want to be serious, when he didn't want to get rid of his happiness, it actually followed England's command.
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Post by England on Feb 23, 2013 12:26:52 GMT -5
"Not everybody else is going through the very same thing. The closest person to be in the same situation as you is your brother, and I admit I am guilty of not having paid so much attention to him, and so I cannot say how he is coping," he paused for a second, thinking of what to say next. "You two are the only ones who have to go through the inhumane trial of shooting your own citizens in the head. Yes, the rest of us are tasked with slaughtering innocents, but you two are slaughtering innocents that you have a connection with. People are what keep nations alive. You two are the only ones who are slowly but surely being forced to kill yourselves."
Sighing, he closed his eyes and pictured for a moment that they were gone, far away from this place of death and someplace warm and safe where they wouldn't have to shed tears anymore. Did that ideal exist for nations? England so dearly hoped to find it. Maybe then, America would not have to cry, or hold himself back from crying.
"Your thoughts are crying out loud," he whispered numbly. "You try to repress them, but they resist and escape anyway, do you know why?" He closed his eyes again, the softening pounding of rain feeling oddly soothing as it drummed on his eyelids. "Your pain is so deeply ingrained that nothing can hold it back anymore. Why do you try to hold it in? This pain will poison your heart if don't let it go. It will tear you apart, rip your emotions to shreds mercilessly."
To some level, he understood America and his reluctance to cry. England did not like to cry, either, under any circumstances, but sometimes, he just could not hold it in. The humanity inside their inhumane bodies was both a blessing and a curse in that sense. Emotion was a beautiful asset, until it began, with the decades and the centuries, to store all the hurt accumulated throughout the many years of their lives at the forefront of their hearts. And so, they began discovering that there was such a thing as weakness.
Having known nothing but strength, weakness was an enlightening realization, like cool water over a burn. Once they tastes it, they could not stop. England tried to resist, just as America was trying so hard to resist to the temptation of just letting go, but in the end, emotion won over will. The heart always beat the brain. And England was aware of that, and wished that America would stop hurting himself by trying so hard to win a fight he could not win.
"Let it go." Both the tears, and the ridiculous notion that he could somehow fight the primal urge to express anguish. "You'll explode." The last thing they needed on their hands was an emotional wreck. "Or maybe you do not trust me enough to let me share your pained moments and wipe your tears away." He understood that trust could not be gained overnight, and accepted that he didn't have the entirety of America's trust yet, but the knowledge still stung.
He just wanted to hold him close and steal his pain. Was he asking for too much?
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Post by America on Feb 23, 2013 17:28:11 GMT -5
America shook his head, and realized he was also trying to shake off England's words. How he longed to follow what his lover said. He just wanted to let it all go and cry, cry all he wanted. No one would judge him. England would never judge him. And, even if he didn't know it, England had his full trust. "I do trust you," America wanted to say. "I trust you more than anyone." The words weren't coming anymore, though. He gripped England's drenched clothing, the water squeezing between his fingers, and then-
Then he lost his tense posture, the stiff way he had been holding himself, and everything else collapsed along with it. Every inch of his being that told him not to cry, not to show his pain, just fell and gave way to all those raging emotions that were dying to be let out.
He felt ashamed, even as it happened, even as he turned to jelly in England's arms, even as the quiet cries he had originally been giving turned into audible sobs, even as he shook more so than before. His shame, however, did nothing to bypass the relief. Relief that he could finally let everything out and not worry about being judged or holding back or showing how much of a childish crybaby he was. He could cry, he could mourn, he could cling, and no one would think any less of him.
Something, of course, most likely his unreasonable pride and stubbornness, tried snapping some sense into him. He was the hero, and could he even be a hero anymore when he gave into the stress and anguish? Could he be the superpower that all that other nations looked up to. But, oh god, he wasn't a hero anymore, and he wasn't a superpower anymore. He had fallen fast and hard, and there wasn't any way to ever return to his normal state. He had many scars incorporated in his history, but this was the one that would forever mark who he was.
He didn't want to live knowing that he failed everyone, that he couldn't even run a country for a couple hundred years without ruining everything.
Wanting to explain some things, he opened his mouth, but all that escaped was a choked sob, then a gasp for air, and he felt pathetic.
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Post by England on Feb 24, 2013 18:23:00 GMT -5
England was tense, recognizing that he was quickly running out of arguments. He couldn't make America cry, even though he encouraged him to, so he would let it be for now, and let America decide what he wanted by himself. He knew what he needed, and England couldn't impose himself on him.
He quickly realized, though, that America wasn't as dependent as he thought he'd be. He didn't need to tell him what to do. So when America decided what he wanted, England supported him no matter what. Letting a small smile touch his lips, he curled protectively over his boyfriend as much as possible and let the quaking of his shoulders run through his body like a soothing wave.
"You make me so happy," he whispered. "And I want you to be as happy as I am when I am with you, my love." His heart skipped a beat and he vaguely wondered if America had heard it jump. "I wish I could take your pain away. I wish I could protect you forever." From the first time he'd set his eyes on the young boy running around the grassy field, he'd promised to himself that he'd take care of him and love him like none before, for America was a projection of everything had ever wanted to be
He couldn't bear to see him cry, but at the same time, he was glad that he was able to hold him as he cried. Without realizing it, England had begun to hum a soft melody, subsconscious yearning to comfort the boy he'd loved for so long.
"Thine alabaster cities gleam, undimmed by human tears," he kissed his hair and smiled sadly. "God mend thine ev'ry flaw, confirm thy soul in self-control, thy liberty in law."
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Post by America on Feb 24, 2013 22:57:29 GMT -5
America had still been trying to express all the self-loathing he felt for himself. He had still been trying to speak, to let England know that everything was hopeless and ruined. He wanted to say that he couldn't be a hero any longer, that he was useless, in every aspect of the term. What was he good for? He was murdering his people. He was murdering himself.
But then his ears, though ringing with the sound of sorrow and hate, caught the tune of a song he never thought would escape England's lips. Hell, he didn't even think England knew that song. There it was, though, coming out clear enough for America to grab onto every single word and hold it close to him. His sobbing even stopped, momentarily, replaced with surprise and awe. His hands, fastened around a handful of England's shirt, relaxed just slightly.
When the world came rushing back to him, he gave a choked sob, unsure of whether he was crying for the loss of human life or because the song affected him so much. He figured it was a mixture of both. Thankfully, though, he was finally able to speak, having loosened up enough for that. "I-it doesn't apply to m-me anymore."
It wasn't what he meant to say at all. He wanted to say, "thanks," or, "I love you," but something from deep down spoke instead, and he felt disgusting as he let it tumble out. "That so-song is about when I-I was beautiful and, and it doesn't wo-work now." He knew there was a time when people loved him, loved living in his country, loved celebrating his life. There was a time when he was looked up to, when he was the nation of the world. He was never perfect, obviously, no country was, but he was fruitful and lovely and full of life.
And now he was empty. A song like that couldn't work on him anymore.
But he felt guilty for rejecting England's comfort. It was being handed to him on a silver platter, and he wasn't taking it just because he wanted to sit around and feel sorry for himself. "Sorry," he whispered in between the sobs, holding tight to his lover once again. "I-I'm sorry."
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Post by England on Feb 25, 2013 21:39:48 GMT -5
"Idiot," England rolled his eyes with a fond smile. "I wouldn't have quoted anything I deemed not pertinent. It still does very much apply to you," he kissed his hair. "Your smile is beautiful. When someone feels down on their luck, you have this tendency to go up to them and smile, and even if they don't admit it, it's beautiful, and their world becomes beautiful."
All England had needed was America's smile. From the moment he found him, he wanted to make the little boy happy. Why else would he have continued to make him a wooden toy soldier set even though he'd broken a finger already? He wouldn't have persevered until that second broken finger if he hadn't reminded himself of how beautiful America's smile looked like. And how much he loved him.
"Your eyes are beautiful. When night comes, and all the lights are out, I sometimes see the moonlight reflect off your eyes, and I can't help but think how absolutely gorgeous you are. They're blue like your open skies, blue like your seas, bright blue like the fluttering feeling in my heart that I get every single time I look into your eyes and see the life churning inside of them."
His eyes had always been so bright, so beautiful. It was the first thing England had noticed about America; how wide they were and how innocent the look in them was. How wet, but still so bright, they became when America was on the verge of tears. How clouded, yet still so bright, they were as he looked down on him on the battlefield. How hardened and tortured and weary and desperate they looked, but how bright and full of hope and naivete they were.
"Your heart is beautiful. So young and determined, and so full of emotion, I can hear it burst every time I listen close. I can see how alive and energetic it is because you wear it on your sleeve. You are so innocent still, so easily hurt, but so ready to rise up again and never let anything keep you down."
It was his heart that had thrown them together in the first place. Had America easily been swayed, he definitely would have run to France. But the innocent boy had seen England's tears and was drawn to his pain, in an effort to relieve it. His intentions had been beautiful for he had relieved it indeed. England did not know what he would do without America.
"Your character is beautiful. Your love is beautiful. Your history is beautiful. Your future is beautiful. Your culture is beautiful. Your people are beautiful. Your land is beautiful." England cupped America's face and smiled comfortingly. "America, you are beautiful."
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Post by America on Feb 25, 2013 22:33:38 GMT -5
America could only admit to a few instances where his breath was taken away. He was easily impressed, sure, easily awed, but easily rendered speechless? It hardly ever happened. Even in the worst of times, he always had something to say, and he always wanted to explain himself. It took quite a good amount of effort to actually force him to be silent out of shock, and to stay silent out of shock.
This was one of those times.
He had heard such words to describe him before. His people were typically a patriotic bunch, so it was easy to hear them spin such lovely words about his land and freedom and whatnot. But on a personal level, with someone by his side and describing him- that was something different. That was something America was never going to get used to. People just didn't do that to him. To his land, sure, to his citizens, yeah. But to him, personally, no.
Especially not when he needed it the most.
He stared at England, his eyes wide, wanting to just deny everything, but also wanting to just take in the comfort that, oh god, England thought that much of him. England was now the one spinning those lovely words and making America feel worth a million dollars. He blinked a few times, the rain washing away the tears on his cheeks, then gave a shaky whimper, burying his face into England's neck.
And though he still felt a few tears escape his eyes, he couldn't help but smile. It was a watery one, yes, but he still felt better, just by allowing that smile to come onto his face. "I don't got much anymore," he managed to mutter, his voice trembling. "There should be no-nothing left of me. I mean, maybe I should just be dead, or at least like Prussia."
He sniffled, trying to stop the quivers of his lip, the shaking of his body. "I don't to be beautiful until I can get back up on my feet. I don't deserve it." Not wanting England to feel as if he was disregarding all the kind, amazing compliments, America reached up and gave his lover's cheek a hesitant kiss, drawing back down into his neck as soon as he did so. "I love you. An-And you know how to make me feel s-so much better, no matter what, and I'm real sorry for being a baby and pitying myself, but just...thank you. For being here for me, no ma-matter what."
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Post by England on Feb 25, 2013 23:27:50 GMT -5
"Let's be having none of that, now, love," England hushed his worries with a couple of strokes of his hair. "You are beautiful. Perhaps your country and your people are in ruins, but you have the will to survive. You have this infinite supply of courage and determination that nobody knows the origin of, and you use it every day to persevere even though everything is telling you to give up and fall to your knees. That's what makes you beautiful. Sure, you can look at the broken cities and its broken people, and think that you are looking at a broken country, but truth is... All I see in front of me right now is a tired, but still-fighting nation who is as beautiful as he's ever been."
England punctuated the claim with fluttering kisses that he hoped would heat America's freezing skin up, wanting to stay in this position forever, but not wanting to, either, considering the weather. Which seemed to be lighting up a little. The cloud had almost passed, something for which England was grateful. America didn't need to be even more miserable than he was now. Poor thing seemed to be freezing inside out already.
"Everybody needs to cry at some point, don't you worry. Just let it all out, so you can clear your head and your heart at last. Pitying yourself is a normal sentiment, too, just be sure not to do it all the time. As much as I love you, too, I'd much rather help you by eliminating the threat invading your territory than by wiping snot off your nose every five second," he quickly caught up with himself, though, when he realized what he'd said. "Not that I mind doing it, it's just... You know, we can't really afford to indulge ourselves too much."
Fidgeting, and feeling increasingly awkward now that his attempted 'words of gold' had run out, he tried to keep going to put America at ease, though he was quickly losing the train of the conversation.
"There will always be something for you, some part of you that will survive through anything. Do you know why Prussia is still alive? He has lost his territory, after all, and has merged with Germany. And yet, he still lives and breathes today, because people still believe in him. They still claim that their great-great-great-great-grandfathers are of Prussian descent, and have Prussian blood inside of them, which is why Prussia still exists. And you do, too, because on the other side of the pond, spending every night out on the streets, assailed by misery and hunger and plenty of other problems... People still believe in you."
"They believe that their country will pull through, and they are proud to be survivors of this country. Until the last American dies, or is assimilated, you will still be alive. And with your stubborn people, I don't think that's likely to happen," he chuckled. "So don't you worry. You will survive through anything. All that remains is to just help you pick yourself up, and... bring you back to life."
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Post by America on Feb 26, 2013 16:04:37 GMT -5
"I do have some stubborn people, don't I?" America asked, laughing softly. His tears were slowly drying up, and the need to cry wasn't as strong anymore. He didn't have anything left to shed. He felt better, more relieved, less burdened, and as he finished off his pity party with a few more snivels and clearing of the throat, he realized that it was thanks to England. England made him release all that tension, and England helped bring back the optimism that America had come to cherish so much.
After giving a few deep breaths, he picked his head off of England's shoulder, rubbing at his eyes. He looked miserable, and he didn't even need a mirror to discover that much. If he felt so miserable, he was bound to look the same. His eyes were heavy, his mouth hurt from so much frowning, he was getting hiccups, his clothes were sticking to his body, and he really hoped that he didn't have snot on his nose. Just to make sure, he swiped an arm across his face. Hopefully, that would help a little bit. England was the only one there, sure, and England knew he had been crying, but he still hated wearing the remains of the sorrow he had been in on his face.
"I hope you're right, though. I mean, sure, I got some stubborn-ass citizens, but what if I never become a country again? What if it just doesn't happen, or, like, some other nation comes over and steals what I have left? Then my people will grow up and have children, and their children will have children, and so on, you know, and what if they forget that they're American? What if they start calling themselves something else, and-"
He snorted when he realized how awful he sounded, and with another hiccup, shook his head. "Never mind. Doubt that'll happen. I'm too strong for anyone to try and bring down, and I think I've got you and Canada on my side. Along with a fair amount of my stubborn-ass citizens who have shown many times just how awesome they can be when it comes down to their country. God, I'm so proud of them for living through all of this." He gave a fond smile, and reached over to move England's bangs out of his face. "When I can, I'm gonna hold a huge picnic for them. We'll have fireworks and hamburgers and music, and it'll go all night long."
He smirked. "You're invited, of course. You know, as thanks for, um, letting me cry on your shoulder." Overcome with both guilt and affection, his smirk fell into a concerned expression, swallowing nervously. "I didn't mean to break down like that and, uh...you mind, like, keeping it to ourselves?"
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