Beauty is Relative, Babe. 3/?
Title Beauty is Relative, Babe.
Genre Angst/Hurt/Comfort/Romance
Pairing US/UK
Rating M
Summary When England begins to show signs of illness, will America find the cause in time? And what repercussions are in store for him along the way?
Chapter Rating G for puppy dog eyes and crazy romanticism.
Warnings America is determined and Arthur is flustered.
“Please, please, please?”
England kneaded his temples. And America, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he leaned over the granite countertop of the kitchen island, took this as a good sign. Upon cleaning up the remains of their earlier trip to “bliss,” the two nations deposited themselves (“How is sprawling ungentlemanly? I just wanted to get comfortable.”) onto the small sofa in the sitting room. The small country settled between open legs and strong arms and the younger loved the feel of a steady thrum of a heartbeat beneath his hand. They stayed like that for a while, enjoying the sensation of each other’s presence and touch and life mingling into a beautiful pulse that throbbed through them in a smooth, pleasantly buzzing current with the light drone of the television in the background.
But America’s stomach didn’t agree with the beatific lounge. The loud grumble startled them out of the comfortable haze and the young nation took it upon himself to embark on a campaign of badgering his lover into submission with the plea to eat out.
“Come on, England! It’s the first time in a month that I get to see you,” America moaned, his hands drumming an impatient beat out on the abused countertop. It was the sixth time he brought up this argument. “Seems like a special enough occasion to me!”
“I never said it wasn’t, git.” The island's voice was wound tight as fingers dug a little deeper into the skull.
“Then what’s wrong with wanting to go out to celebrate a little? You’d swear I’m trying to talk you into burning the Chaucer section in your study or something.” He padded around to the other side of the granite island, sliding his arms around the tense shoulders. England gave a slight flinch, but made no other response. America frowned. “England, seriously - help me out here. Is it really that bad to go out to eat with me?”
“No,” came the exasperated reply. “Why is it so very strange for me not to enjoy galavanting about to public restaurants and having to deal with the disgusting eating environments they provide? I’m quite sure I don’t want to hear a couple’s awkward declaration of having herpes behind us; nor would I like to endure a toddler’s fussing over the lumpy apple sauce that was served half a room away.”
“Well that’s certainly a pessimistic view,” America drawled with a chastising tut, but smiled all the same. England sighed.
“Just because you’re so focused on eating whatever variety of slaughtered cow you have in front of you - I swear, you might as well have a sound-proof barrier around your bloody head! - doesn’t mean the rest of society has the luxury of ignoring their surroundings.” The rant faltered slightly toward the end due to a very determined pair of lips kissing at the juncture between neck and shoulder.
“Beef deserves every bit of attention,” America murmured against the skin, reveling in the tiny gooseflesh that responded to the touch. “It’s practically an American pastime. But if you’d rather me devote my attention to you,” He flicked a tongue out. “I can definitely arrange that.”
“America,” England sighed, trying to keep his voice level. “If you think this is going to change my mind, you’re sorely mistaken.”
“Mm. Maybe not. But it’s definitely opening the idea up for discussion, right?” A soft nip encouraged a small moan. America lowered his voice to a sultry whisper. “Come on, babe. Just one night with just the two of us.” He kissed one corner of England’s slightly parted lips. “Just us.” Kissed the other corner. “And good food.” He stopped just short of pressing their lips together, letting soft breaths wash over the flesh as he ran a tongue over his lower lip invitingly.
“Please, America,” England bit out, his hands clenching at the arms resting loosely around his waist. “I don’t want to.”
“But it’ll be so nice, baby.” America’s voice was liquid seduction as he nuzzled his nose along the older nation's, tilting his lips so close to a sweet connection. “We’ll go somewhere private with no distractions.” Hands roamed up and down the backs of slightly trembling thighs. “Someplace with soft lighting and gentle music,” Blue eyes gazed into a hazy green. “and I’ll wear a tie.”
England’s eyes snapped shut. “Fine! We’ll go!”
America smiled and rewarded him with a soft, lingering kiss.
“Awesome!” He guided the slightly dazed nation to the stairway, giving him a gentle push. “You go get ready. I’ll join you soon; I’m going to grab my laptop from the car and make some calls.” He didn’t miss the glare as he strode to the door.
“It had better be a damned fine tie,” England called after him as he turned the handle. America sent a wink over his shoulder and stepped out into the chilled evening air.
“Like I own any other kind.”
~~
With his bank account fairly lighter and dressed in a grey tie with white and black argyle print (“It so isn’t too gaudy, you old man.”), America stepped out of the Bentley (which earned him a sarcastic drawl of, “You never do anything half-classed, do you?” when he presented the rental) and hurried over to open the door for his lover. England flushed and spat out a few more indignant barbs, but accepted the offered hand. He had spent the whole ride over complaining about the last-minute decision and how he was in no mood for America’s games when the other refused to tell him of their destination. But as they rounded the corner and he spotted the infamous logo, the older nation stopped short and gaped.
“The Fat Duck?” was all he could manage after a few tries.
America grinned. “Yeah. I was looking up some fancy restaurants in London and it got a few good reviews. Funny name for a nice place, but figured it would be worth a try.”
“A-a few good reviews?” England sputtered, “America, this restaurant was named best restaurant in the bleeding world five years ago.” America thought he could see the poor nation’s brain spasm as it grasped for words. “It’s not an easily given out honor! To just - just pop in one day - at six in the bloody evening! - how did you even manage it?”
“Aw, you give me too much credit. My cash did most of the work.” It was said with a teasing air, but England balked.
“You - you - you’re in a recession! Shouldn’t you be managing your money a bit more responsibly rather than wasting it on some random dining excursion?”
America shrugged. “Probably. But we’ve never gone out properly,” the last word he attempted in a dignified British accent, “before. I think the best place we’ve gone to was...” He gave a brief pause for thought. “Outback Steakhouse. Not exactly the poster boy for romantic experiences.” At this, he rounded in front of the other and snaked an arm around a thin waist, pulling the body closer and running his fingers through neatly brushed hair. “You deserve better. And you’re getting better.” The pain of not knowing whether England was aware of the depths of his love had left its mark.
The soft pink that dusted England's cheeks flared to a brilliant scarlet and America couldn’t help but kiss those lips that opened and closed helplessly. There was no protest, but it took a bit of persuasion them to respond and for the monarchist's shoulders to lose their rigidity. He knew England was very self-conscious about public displays of affection, but he waited patiently for the walls to lower and the slight answering pressure of the lips beneath his. When he pulled away, England’s eyes looked glassy.
“Well it certainly won’t do to be late, seeing as you’ve already put a well-enough dent in your pocket for this ridiculous night.” The words were terse, but the voice was smooth and embarrassed. He gestured to the building’s entrance. “Lead on.”
America beamed, giving a small peck to a still blushing cheek (Whose bone is still popping out unhealthily, that niggling little whisper prodded.) before strolling over to open the door for the older nation. England shook his head and smiled.
“I made a reservation for two under Jones,” the younger said with his typical charismatic enthusiasm to the maître d’. The man gave a slight start as he looked between the two nations with something akin to shock before falling into a calm smile.
“Yes, I remember taking the call,” he laughed, his voice lilting in a smooth French accent. “It’s hard to forget! This establishment hardly receives calls for reservations made to be arranged sooner than two months. You are the first.” England made a soft choking sound. “Please,” the man gestured behind him, “this way, gentlemen.”
The room was sparsely decorated with a few paintings that stretched along the otherwise plain whitewashed walls in abstract blends of blues and greens and yellows. A deep mahogany wood bordered along the stark walls with an uneven, rough exterior that gave off the illusion of the original tree trunk from which it had been crafted. Pillars that slithered down from the ceiling provided the room with a particularly earthy purity in their tree-like guise. The light streaming in from the windows bathed the room, giving a radiant intensity to simple yet elegant wooden chairs and a brilliant golden hue over the pale tablecloth hanging from circular tables. It was a modern look, but it was peaceful and relaxing.
“Right through here, gentlemen. Please, make yourselves comfortable.”
The maître d’ held open the door as the two stepped in, closing it swiftly behind him and effectively cut off the soft buzz of outside interaction. This room was similar to the one adjacent from it; it was simply at a smaller scale. The only defining piece it had was the small fireplace tucked away along the back wall.
“I wasn’t aware you offered private rooms,” England stated with a questioning quirk of his brow as he took his seat.
“Normally we do not,” the man assured as he set down a pair of menus in front of the two nations. “But Mr. Jones is, once again, an exception tonight.”
“Good Lord,” growled the smaller nation. He turned to America with a scowl. “Just how much money did you hand out tonight?”
“Not nearly enough as you deserve, my dear.” The words were said with such a somber expression that only the laughing twinkle in the blue eyes betrayed.
England snorted. “Come off it,” he snapped. America simply winked. England, in turn, scowled.
The maître d’ coughed quietly from the end on the table. “Would you like to select a pre-dinner champagne from the list?”
America smiled, not bothering to look down at the selection printed on the menu. “Yes, we’d like a glass of Bollinger, Spacial Cuvee.” He didn’t miss slight widening of green eyes as he pronounced the title properly; an inner cheer was made.
“Very good choice, sir,” the man nodded, stepping back to the door. “Your server will be back with your selection soon.” They nodded their thanks and he took his leave.
“You really are a piece of work,” England mumbled as he rested his head into a waiting (Shaking?) palm. The door opened and a waiter strode through, balancing two chilled glasses of champagne on a small elegant tray.
America just smiled.
Genre Angst/Hurt/Comfort/Romance
Pairing US/UK
Rating M
Summary When England begins to show signs of illness, will America find the cause in time? And what repercussions are in store for him along the way?
Chapter Rating G for puppy dog eyes and crazy romanticism.
Warnings America is determined and Arthur is flustered.
“Please, please, please?”
England kneaded his temples. And America, bouncing on the balls of his feet as he leaned over the granite countertop of the kitchen island, took this as a good sign. Upon cleaning up the remains of their earlier trip to “bliss,” the two nations deposited themselves (“How is sprawling ungentlemanly? I just wanted to get comfortable.”) onto the small sofa in the sitting room. The small country settled between open legs and strong arms and the younger loved the feel of a steady thrum of a heartbeat beneath his hand. They stayed like that for a while, enjoying the sensation of each other’s presence and touch and life mingling into a beautiful pulse that throbbed through them in a smooth, pleasantly buzzing current with the light drone of the television in the background.
But America’s stomach didn’t agree with the beatific lounge. The loud grumble startled them out of the comfortable haze and the young nation took it upon himself to embark on a campaign of badgering his lover into submission with the plea to eat out.
“Come on, England! It’s the first time in a month that I get to see you,” America moaned, his hands drumming an impatient beat out on the abused countertop. It was the sixth time he brought up this argument. “Seems like a special enough occasion to me!”
“I never said it wasn’t, git.” The island's voice was wound tight as fingers dug a little deeper into the skull.
“Then what’s wrong with wanting to go out to celebrate a little? You’d swear I’m trying to talk you into burning the Chaucer section in your study or something.” He padded around to the other side of the granite island, sliding his arms around the tense shoulders. England gave a slight flinch, but made no other response. America frowned. “England, seriously - help me out here. Is it really that bad to go out to eat with me?”
“No,” came the exasperated reply. “Why is it so very strange for me not to enjoy galavanting about to public restaurants and having to deal with the disgusting eating environments they provide? I’m quite sure I don’t want to hear a couple’s awkward declaration of having herpes behind us; nor would I like to endure a toddler’s fussing over the lumpy apple sauce that was served half a room away.”
“Well that’s certainly a pessimistic view,” America drawled with a chastising tut, but smiled all the same. England sighed.
“Just because you’re so focused on eating whatever variety of slaughtered cow you have in front of you - I swear, you might as well have a sound-proof barrier around your bloody head! - doesn’t mean the rest of society has the luxury of ignoring their surroundings.” The rant faltered slightly toward the end due to a very determined pair of lips kissing at the juncture between neck and shoulder.
“Beef deserves every bit of attention,” America murmured against the skin, reveling in the tiny gooseflesh that responded to the touch. “It’s practically an American pastime. But if you’d rather me devote my attention to you,” He flicked a tongue out. “I can definitely arrange that.”
“America,” England sighed, trying to keep his voice level. “If you think this is going to change my mind, you’re sorely mistaken.”
“Mm. Maybe not. But it’s definitely opening the idea up for discussion, right?” A soft nip encouraged a small moan. America lowered his voice to a sultry whisper. “Come on, babe. Just one night with just the two of us.” He kissed one corner of England’s slightly parted lips. “Just us.” Kissed the other corner. “And good food.” He stopped just short of pressing their lips together, letting soft breaths wash over the flesh as he ran a tongue over his lower lip invitingly.
“Please, America,” England bit out, his hands clenching at the arms resting loosely around his waist. “I don’t want to.”
“But it’ll be so nice, baby.” America’s voice was liquid seduction as he nuzzled his nose along the older nation's, tilting his lips so close to a sweet connection. “We’ll go somewhere private with no distractions.” Hands roamed up and down the backs of slightly trembling thighs. “Someplace with soft lighting and gentle music,” Blue eyes gazed into a hazy green. “and I’ll wear a tie.”
England’s eyes snapped shut. “Fine! We’ll go!”
America smiled and rewarded him with a soft, lingering kiss.
“Awesome!” He guided the slightly dazed nation to the stairway, giving him a gentle push. “You go get ready. I’ll join you soon; I’m going to grab my laptop from the car and make some calls.” He didn’t miss the glare as he strode to the door.
“It had better be a damned fine tie,” England called after him as he turned the handle. America sent a wink over his shoulder and stepped out into the chilled evening air.
“Like I own any other kind.”
~~
With his bank account fairly lighter and dressed in a grey tie with white and black argyle print (“It so isn’t too gaudy, you old man.”), America stepped out of the Bentley (which earned him a sarcastic drawl of, “You never do anything half-classed, do you?” when he presented the rental) and hurried over to open the door for his lover. England flushed and spat out a few more indignant barbs, but accepted the offered hand. He had spent the whole ride over complaining about the last-minute decision and how he was in no mood for America’s games when the other refused to tell him of their destination. But as they rounded the corner and he spotted the infamous logo, the older nation stopped short and gaped.
“The Fat Duck?” was all he could manage after a few tries.
America grinned. “Yeah. I was looking up some fancy restaurants in London and it got a few good reviews. Funny name for a nice place, but figured it would be worth a try.”
“A-a few good reviews?” England sputtered, “America, this restaurant was named best restaurant in the bleeding world five years ago.” America thought he could see the poor nation’s brain spasm as it grasped for words. “It’s not an easily given out honor! To just - just pop in one day - at six in the bloody evening! - how did you even manage it?”
“Aw, you give me too much credit. My cash did most of the work.” It was said with a teasing air, but England balked.
“You - you - you’re in a recession! Shouldn’t you be managing your money a bit more responsibly rather than wasting it on some random dining excursion?”
America shrugged. “Probably. But we’ve never gone out properly,” the last word he attempted in a dignified British accent, “before. I think the best place we’ve gone to was...” He gave a brief pause for thought. “Outback Steakhouse. Not exactly the poster boy for romantic experiences.” At this, he rounded in front of the other and snaked an arm around a thin waist, pulling the body closer and running his fingers through neatly brushed hair. “You deserve better. And you’re getting better.” The pain of not knowing whether England was aware of the depths of his love had left its mark.
The soft pink that dusted England's cheeks flared to a brilliant scarlet and America couldn’t help but kiss those lips that opened and closed helplessly. There was no protest, but it took a bit of persuasion them to respond and for the monarchist's shoulders to lose their rigidity. He knew England was very self-conscious about public displays of affection, but he waited patiently for the walls to lower and the slight answering pressure of the lips beneath his. When he pulled away, England’s eyes looked glassy.
“Well it certainly won’t do to be late, seeing as you’ve already put a well-enough dent in your pocket for this ridiculous night.” The words were terse, but the voice was smooth and embarrassed. He gestured to the building’s entrance. “Lead on.”
America beamed, giving a small peck to a still blushing cheek (Whose bone is still popping out unhealthily, that niggling little whisper prodded.) before strolling over to open the door for the older nation. England shook his head and smiled.
“I made a reservation for two under Jones,” the younger said with his typical charismatic enthusiasm to the maître d’. The man gave a slight start as he looked between the two nations with something akin to shock before falling into a calm smile.
“Yes, I remember taking the call,” he laughed, his voice lilting in a smooth French accent. “It’s hard to forget! This establishment hardly receives calls for reservations made to be arranged sooner than two months. You are the first.” England made a soft choking sound. “Please,” the man gestured behind him, “this way, gentlemen.”
The room was sparsely decorated with a few paintings that stretched along the otherwise plain whitewashed walls in abstract blends of blues and greens and yellows. A deep mahogany wood bordered along the stark walls with an uneven, rough exterior that gave off the illusion of the original tree trunk from which it had been crafted. Pillars that slithered down from the ceiling provided the room with a particularly earthy purity in their tree-like guise. The light streaming in from the windows bathed the room, giving a radiant intensity to simple yet elegant wooden chairs and a brilliant golden hue over the pale tablecloth hanging from circular tables. It was a modern look, but it was peaceful and relaxing.
“Right through here, gentlemen. Please, make yourselves comfortable.”
The maître d’ held open the door as the two stepped in, closing it swiftly behind him and effectively cut off the soft buzz of outside interaction. This room was similar to the one adjacent from it; it was simply at a smaller scale. The only defining piece it had was the small fireplace tucked away along the back wall.
“I wasn’t aware you offered private rooms,” England stated with a questioning quirk of his brow as he took his seat.
“Normally we do not,” the man assured as he set down a pair of menus in front of the two nations. “But Mr. Jones is, once again, an exception tonight.”
“Good Lord,” growled the smaller nation. He turned to America with a scowl. “Just how much money did you hand out tonight?”
“Not nearly enough as you deserve, my dear.” The words were said with such a somber expression that only the laughing twinkle in the blue eyes betrayed.
England snorted. “Come off it,” he snapped. America simply winked. England, in turn, scowled.
The maître d’ coughed quietly from the end on the table. “Would you like to select a pre-dinner champagne from the list?”
America smiled, not bothering to look down at the selection printed on the menu. “Yes, we’d like a glass of Bollinger, Spacial Cuvee.” He didn’t miss slight widening of green eyes as he pronounced the title properly; an inner cheer was made.
“Very good choice, sir,” the man nodded, stepping back to the door. “Your server will be back with your selection soon.” They nodded their thanks and he took his leave.
“You really are a piece of work,” England mumbled as he rested his head into a waiting (Shaking?) palm. The door opened and a waiter strode through, balancing two chilled glasses of champagne on a small elegant tray.
America just smiled.