You Belong To Me
Something random I wrote last night on a whim. Been a while since I shared something like this on here.
You Belong To Me
When England's phone rings, he almost doesn't believe it.
He looks up from one of the latest bills Parliament is pushing at him to read, blinking in surprise at the rotary phone vibrating in its cradle. He furrows his eyebrows and reaches for the phone, cradling it between his ear and shoulder while he scratches out another rubbish line in the bill.
"Hello, this is Arthur Kirkland speaking." (His policy was never answer the telephone with his actual name, just in case it was a new aide calling who didn't know who he was. Those were never easy conversations.)
It sounds like goats blaring in the background of the other side, mixed with market noise. "Hey, Artie! It's Alfred!"
His grip tightens on the phone enough that his hand starts to hurt. "America?"
"Betcha didn't expect to hear from me today, huh? You wouldn't believe the hell I went through trying to find a phone!" He laughs, staticy and grainy, and it's the best thing England's heard in months - not since he watched America walk away from him and board an aircraft carrier bound for the Persian Gulf. America's prattling on in his ear about the two hour trek through the port city to find a pay phone, only to not have enough change and having to buy a loaf of bread from a street vendor to be able to call. England just clutches the phone and listens, smiling and relaxed for the first time in ages.
America finishes his story and heaves a great sigh. "Anyway. How are you, honey?"
England smiles and draws flowers in the border of the bill in front of him. "Perfectly lovely, now that you've called." He lets a bit of affection slip through accidentally. "I miss you."
America chuckles, and England wishes he could see him smile. "Miss you, too."
England breathes in and imagines he's breathing in America through the phone line. "Do you know when you're coming back?"
"Not sure, really. The ship's got an indefinite stay here, but who knows, they like to make me take off outta nowhere, y'know?" England nods, makes a small noise of consent, and they take a moment to absorb the other's presence, even if it's just audio. "God, I miss you," America says fiercely.
"The sentiment is returned, love." He flexes his fingers around the handle, feeling his muscles start to cramp up from his iron grip. He swallows around a dry throat. "I love you."
"Yeah, I love you, too." He snorts a laugh into the receiver. "Just pretend I'm kissing you right now, okay?"
England laughs, smiles freely. "You're a child."
"Mmm, and you love it." Rustling on the other end. "I'm not sure how much time I've got left on this call - the instructions are all in Arabic, and I could never make out that right-to-left mumbo jumbo, but I'll- I'll call you if I get shore leave again, all right? And if they send me home early, I'll take a detour or something. They'll understand."
"Even if they didn't, you would anyway."
America laughs. "Yeah, probably."
England takes in a shaky breath. "You just come back home to me soon, okay?"
He feels America's soft smile, even though there's no sound. "Don't worry, I can't stay away from you for too long." More rustling. "Shit, my leave's almost up and I have no idea how to get back to the harbor from here. Honey, I'm sorry, but I gotta run."
England clears his throat and sits up straighter from where he's been slumped down over the bill, now covered in flowers, spirals and hearts. He'll have to print a new copy. "Yes, that's quite all right. Thank you-" He has to clear his throat again. "Thank you for calling."
"Of course, sweetheart. I missed hearing you." England blushes, never quite used to America's easy confessions. "I'll be home when I can, okay?"
"Of course. You go save the world from itself." America laughs one last time.
"It's what I do best these days. You take good care of yourself while I'm gone."
England smiles sadly. "I'm pretty good at that myself."
"Of course you are." One more breath of their connection. "Bye, honey. I love you."
"Come home safe, Alfred." He holds the receiver with both hands. "I love you."
"Talk to you soon." The line goes dead, and England sighs, carefully setting the phone back in its cradle and burying his face in his hands for a moment, trying to regain his composure. That boy always runs a truck right through his collected emotions and scattered them everywhere, even when it's in a phenomenally good way.
When he doesn't feel like he's about to tear up, he lifts his face up and looks down at the bill he's been reading, which now looks like it's been the victim of a lovestruck teenaged girl's gel pen. It even has a faint shimmer of wet ink in places.
England picks up the bill and stares at it for a moment, then takes off the paper clip and slides the page free from the pack. He calls for his assistant from outside his office door, slipping the page into his top right drawer for safekeeping on top of a few photographs, letters, a very old telegraph, scattered notes collected through the years. He asks the poor boy for another copy of the page, handing over the half-read bill for reference. When he ducks his head in a nod and scampers off, Arthur rests his forehead on the piles of papers littering his desk, sighs, and smiles where no one can see.