Beauty is Relative, Babe. 5/?
Title Beauty is Relative, Babe.
Genre Angst/Hurt/Comfort/Romance
Pairing US/UK
Rating M
Summary When England starts showing signs of illness, will America find the cause in time? And what repercussions are in store for him along the way?
Chapter Rating T for some shameful confessions.
Warnings Toothbrushes are abused and tears are shed.
“England,” he tried once more. The lump in his throat made the words garbled and strained to his ears. “What’s going on?”
All at once the conflicting rage of emotion faded from the green eyes and a sheepish smile formed on vomit-stained lips. A careful composure swept across the drawn face and a new wall erected itself. America felt the sharp bite of bile at the back of his tongue.
“I suppose you were right about the food,” the airy nonchalance in the words was unnerving, “it seems it didn’t settle well with my stomach.”
Something drew tight in America’s stomach (Tighter, tighter, always tighter.) and the sour stench of sick in the air seemed to constrict around his throat and muffle his breath with the force of a pillow pressed to his face; heavy with the intent of suffocation. His mind whirled at a dizzying pace, pivoting memories of bones crushed too closely against the thin boundaries flesh and frightening thoughts of the small island curled into himself in his too-large bed, shivering from the lack of warmth - warmth that such a thin, emaciated body couldn’t provide - until he nearly doubled over in a bout of shock and nausea. But his face held the impassive facade of a man bombarded with too wide a variety of emotions to handle (Too much, too much; I can’t - England -).
He was hardly aware that the other nation was speaking.
“It’s alright, really.” America’s fingers twitched at his side. “I’ve always had a bit of a finicky stomach. I’ll admit that it’s quite a pain, but hardly anything to get riled up over.”
The small island rose to his feet, casually brushing the filth from his fingers onto his trousers and pulling the lever to flush the toilet’s contents into a swirling mass of foaming yellow. The warmth that the green eyes attempted to offer felt artificial; the smile looked distant and forced. Pressure pulled relentlessly tighter at the young nation’s stomach. He was sure he would split in two if it continued.
“Really, America, don’t give me that look,” chided the other. “I can’t really control my body’s reactions, can I? It is a shame, though; that food - as bizarre as it looked - was actually quite tasty. I wonder if -”
“Stop it.” It was hardly a whisper, but there was an intense vehemence behind the command.
A startled silence swallowed the atmosphere whole.
“Pardon?”
“Stop deflecting,” America growled, his voice raising at the response of a thick brow raising in a calm surprise. “Tell me the truth, England. Tell me what’s going on.”
“America, you really need to let this go. I told you, I’m -”
“Liar!”
Toiletries clattered to the floor, scattering across tile from the force of the blow to the counter. England stumbled a few steps back, nearly losing his balance as the backs of his knees collided against the porcelain brim of the bathtub. The cool, collected demeanor was swiftly crumbling into shaking hands and skittish eyes in the face of such a display of anger; America could see his jaw set as the monarchist ground his teeth grind in an effort to regain composure. The younger didn’t give him the opportunity to collect frayed nerves.
“Tell me what’s going on.” He took a step forward, his posture and stance emitting an aura of ferocious vigor.
England flinched violently, but stood his ground. The young nation felt sick.
“America, nothing is going on.” There was a sharp waver in the words. Green eyes locked onto the bright yellow that marred the pure white of the tile.
The slight hitching in taut shoulders was not overlooked.
America lunged, his hands grasping either side of the gaunt face in an almost bruising hold with trembling desperation and helpless anger. He forced wide emerald eyes to meet his, ignoring the feeble attempt to recoil from the touch and dismissing the anguish that seemed to pour from the man that stood before him. England's wall all but crumbled.
“Why are you lying to me?” the younger demanded. His hands shook with the rest of his body. “Why are you hiding?”
“I’m not.” The reply was a breath of fear.
“Stop lying!”
Tears spilled over and green irises hid behind the veil of cinched lids.
“I’m not lying, I’m not - it’s nothing, I promise; I -”
“Stop it, Arthur!”
Powerful, ugly sobs reverberated off the walls and the smaller man collapsed, falling into waiting strong arms. America said nothing as despairing screams interlaced the wet sounds, and did not comment the hands that clutched at his shirt with a despondency that positively frightened him. He simply held the small island, rubbing circles across the bony, trembling spine in what he hoped was a soothing monotony and murmured a steady stream of calming nonsense into silky blonde hair. But try as he might, the burning in his eyes couldn’t be ignored. He cried with his lover.
Minutes ticked by.
America waited.
At the half-hour mark, England had quieted to tiny hitching breaths and trembling shoulders. The younger nation kissed the tear-stained cheeks, each lid that covered beautiful emerald eyes, and each brow so gently, so lovingly as he tried to push every bit of affection and devotion he held into the tiny gestures. England went slack under the tender ministrations.
“I love you,” America mumbled, ghosting his fingers along a sharp jawline. “I love you so much.”
“I love you.” The answering breathy whisper was so tentative that the younger had to strain to hear.
“Then please,” America’s voice was wet and cracked, “please tell me. Tell me what’s going on. I can’t take this, England. Arthur, I can’t take seeing you like this.”
“Alfred, please don’t.”
“Please, Arthur.”
A slight faltering breath brought a heavy silence.
“I throw up.” America’s head snapped up, catching watery green. A few more tears trickled free into hollowed cheeks.
“You -”
“I... force it.”
A suffocating quiet took the bathroom, squeezing and compressing the air until it seemed to gather and congeal in America’s lungs, making each breath an agonizing ordeal. His hands stilled at the small of the shaking back and lips parted into an expression of conflicting shock and denial. He could feel the growing alarm radiate from the other, from the way the stiffening fingers dug that into his shoulders in a bruising grip to the quivering lips that glittered with tears in the soft light. A small, timid voice broke the silence and America’s heart.
“I’m sorry.”
There was no uncertainty in the crushing embrace that pulled the small nation forward and there was no hesitance in the damp kisses that pressed to the pale flesh of a neck. Though it prompted another round of harsh sobs and miserable moans, America couldn’t stop the hands that stroked through hair or the teary lips that mumbled calming platitudes.
“It’s alright,” he muttered, his mouth pressed to skin. “It’s okay, baby, it’s okay. We’ll get through this. I love you. It’s okay.”
And as he listened to the heart-wrenching sounds of distress and felt the body tremble violently against his own, he promised himself that what he was saying was more than just useless words of comfort.
Genre Angst/Hurt/Comfort/Romance
Pairing US/UK
Rating M
Summary When England starts showing signs of illness, will America find the cause in time? And what repercussions are in store for him along the way?
Chapter Rating T for some shameful confessions.
Warnings Toothbrushes are abused and tears are shed.
“England,” he tried once more. The lump in his throat made the words garbled and strained to his ears. “What’s going on?”
All at once the conflicting rage of emotion faded from the green eyes and a sheepish smile formed on vomit-stained lips. A careful composure swept across the drawn face and a new wall erected itself. America felt the sharp bite of bile at the back of his tongue.
“I suppose you were right about the food,” the airy nonchalance in the words was unnerving, “it seems it didn’t settle well with my stomach.”
Something drew tight in America’s stomach (Tighter, tighter, always tighter.) and the sour stench of sick in the air seemed to constrict around his throat and muffle his breath with the force of a pillow pressed to his face; heavy with the intent of suffocation. His mind whirled at a dizzying pace, pivoting memories of bones crushed too closely against the thin boundaries flesh and frightening thoughts of the small island curled into himself in his too-large bed, shivering from the lack of warmth - warmth that such a thin, emaciated body couldn’t provide - until he nearly doubled over in a bout of shock and nausea. But his face held the impassive facade of a man bombarded with too wide a variety of emotions to handle (Too much, too much; I can’t - England -).
He was hardly aware that the other nation was speaking.
“It’s alright, really.” America’s fingers twitched at his side. “I’ve always had a bit of a finicky stomach. I’ll admit that it’s quite a pain, but hardly anything to get riled up over.”
The small island rose to his feet, casually brushing the filth from his fingers onto his trousers and pulling the lever to flush the toilet’s contents into a swirling mass of foaming yellow. The warmth that the green eyes attempted to offer felt artificial; the smile looked distant and forced. Pressure pulled relentlessly tighter at the young nation’s stomach. He was sure he would split in two if it continued.
“Really, America, don’t give me that look,” chided the other. “I can’t really control my body’s reactions, can I? It is a shame, though; that food - as bizarre as it looked - was actually quite tasty. I wonder if -”
“Stop it.” It was hardly a whisper, but there was an intense vehemence behind the command.
A startled silence swallowed the atmosphere whole.
“Pardon?”
“Stop deflecting,” America growled, his voice raising at the response of a thick brow raising in a calm surprise. “Tell me the truth, England. Tell me what’s going on.”
“America, you really need to let this go. I told you, I’m -”
“Liar!”
Toiletries clattered to the floor, scattering across tile from the force of the blow to the counter. England stumbled a few steps back, nearly losing his balance as the backs of his knees collided against the porcelain brim of the bathtub. The cool, collected demeanor was swiftly crumbling into shaking hands and skittish eyes in the face of such a display of anger; America could see his jaw set as the monarchist ground his teeth grind in an effort to regain composure. The younger didn’t give him the opportunity to collect frayed nerves.
“Tell me what’s going on.” He took a step forward, his posture and stance emitting an aura of ferocious vigor.
England flinched violently, but stood his ground. The young nation felt sick.
“America, nothing is going on.” There was a sharp waver in the words. Green eyes locked onto the bright yellow that marred the pure white of the tile.
The slight hitching in taut shoulders was not overlooked.
America lunged, his hands grasping either side of the gaunt face in an almost bruising hold with trembling desperation and helpless anger. He forced wide emerald eyes to meet his, ignoring the feeble attempt to recoil from the touch and dismissing the anguish that seemed to pour from the man that stood before him. England's wall all but crumbled.
“Why are you lying to me?” the younger demanded. His hands shook with the rest of his body. “Why are you hiding?”
“I’m not.” The reply was a breath of fear.
“Stop lying!”
Tears spilled over and green irises hid behind the veil of cinched lids.
“I’m not lying, I’m not - it’s nothing, I promise; I -”
“Stop it, Arthur!”
Powerful, ugly sobs reverberated off the walls and the smaller man collapsed, falling into waiting strong arms. America said nothing as despairing screams interlaced the wet sounds, and did not comment the hands that clutched at his shirt with a despondency that positively frightened him. He simply held the small island, rubbing circles across the bony, trembling spine in what he hoped was a soothing monotony and murmured a steady stream of calming nonsense into silky blonde hair. But try as he might, the burning in his eyes couldn’t be ignored. He cried with his lover.
Minutes ticked by.
America waited.
At the half-hour mark, England had quieted to tiny hitching breaths and trembling shoulders. The younger nation kissed the tear-stained cheeks, each lid that covered beautiful emerald eyes, and each brow so gently, so lovingly as he tried to push every bit of affection and devotion he held into the tiny gestures. England went slack under the tender ministrations.
“I love you,” America mumbled, ghosting his fingers along a sharp jawline. “I love you so much.”
“I love you.” The answering breathy whisper was so tentative that the younger had to strain to hear.
“Then please,” America’s voice was wet and cracked, “please tell me. Tell me what’s going on. I can’t take this, England. Arthur, I can’t take seeing you like this.”
“Alfred, please don’t.”
“Please, Arthur.”
A slight faltering breath brought a heavy silence.
“I throw up.” America’s head snapped up, catching watery green. A few more tears trickled free into hollowed cheeks.
“You -”
“I... force it.”
A suffocating quiet took the bathroom, squeezing and compressing the air until it seemed to gather and congeal in America’s lungs, making each breath an agonizing ordeal. His hands stilled at the small of the shaking back and lips parted into an expression of conflicting shock and denial. He could feel the growing alarm radiate from the other, from the way the stiffening fingers dug that into his shoulders in a bruising grip to the quivering lips that glittered with tears in the soft light. A small, timid voice broke the silence and America’s heart.
“I’m sorry.”
There was no uncertainty in the crushing embrace that pulled the small nation forward and there was no hesitance in the damp kisses that pressed to the pale flesh of a neck. Though it prompted another round of harsh sobs and miserable moans, America couldn’t stop the hands that stroked through hair or the teary lips that mumbled calming platitudes.
“It’s alright,” he muttered, his mouth pressed to skin. “It’s okay, baby, it’s okay. We’ll get through this. I love you. It’s okay.”
And as he listened to the heart-wrenching sounds of distress and felt the body tremble violently against his own, he promised himself that what he was saying was more than just useless words of comfort.