Scar
Title: Scar
Originally posted: 4/30/09, on wizzard890's journal, as a "you're stressed and I have a couple hours to kill, have some fic" thing.
Length: 1,500 words.
Characters/Pairings: America, England. Implied Russia/America.
Premise: Russia and America's relationship is changing America, and not for the better, as far as England is concerned. America takes a guess at why he's really so upset, and it involves roleplay, possessiveness, and Russia's latest 'gift.'
Time period: It's AU stuff, indefinite future.
Smuttiness: 0/10, unless I get points for ~weird pseudosexual vibes.~
Funnyness: 0/10
Wrist slashiness: 5/10
Lolhistoryness: 0/10
Violence: 0/10
Would I like it?: Russia/America shippers should be pleased. America/England shippers...uh...less so. Those of you who ship both...mixed feelings, I guess? Christ, it's going to be this, and then that scary yandere!England prompt from crosswhisper. I'M SORRY, US/UK FANS! I LIKE ENGLAND REALLY!
---
"It's a farce."
America leaned back in his chair and kicked his feet up onto his desk. He gave England a sour look over the toes of his boots. "Don't tell me," he drawled, "I know that one."
"And this insolent attitude is exactly the sort of thing I'm talking about," England ranted on. He paced across the floor in front of America's desk--America's desk, in America's office, as he would always think of it, for all that there were two desks in this wide room, now, and for all that the plaque of Old Glory had been discretely taken away and replaced by the two-starred flag of the UFRA. "Your 'attendance' of this conference is a joke. You've no interest in anyone else's opinion at all."
"That's not actually true," America interjected brightly.
"Yes, where is your keeper?" England snapped.
"He went to get us dinner." America flipped his pen in the air, caught it, and didn't rise to the bait.
"This is rather my point, America. He's the only one you listen to, anymore--you couldn't make it any clearer. The rest of us hardly know why you bother to attend."
"I don't see any of them lecturing me in my office at seven o'clock at night," America sighed. He tossed his pen again.
"They're afraid of you now." England flung it on the floor between them like a white glove.
America stared at him for a few seconds, then sat up straight. England kept his gaze nailed to the window over Russia's desk. "I haven't done anything," he pointed out. "Unless you call building a house with Russia an aggressive action, which, you all sure act like it was."
The fact that you think it wasn't-- "You've changed," England bit out. He folded his arms, then immediately unfolded them again. He struggled through a pause. "France says you're cold, now."
America didn't say anything for a few seconds. Abruptly, then, "I'm pretty sure that's not a hostile act, either."
"Fifty years ago, you wouldn't have dreamed of letting matters come to this. What happened to your pride in--"
"if you're going to browbeat me, at least look at me while you're doing it," America interrupted.
England froze, and didn't move.
"Or is that what you're really upset about," he went on.
England turned, jaw tight and neck resisting, like he had a bad hinge. America waited for him, lips thinned, but England didn't see him, just the--it wasn't even a scar, yet, it was still red and sunken in. It interrupted his expressions halfway down his face; it caught like a hook at the corner of his mouth and warped all his perfect smiles. America's eyes now were cold when he smiled, and England didn't know if that was new, if that was Russia--or if America had always been further away than he thought, and it had taken Russia breaking those smiles to allow him to see. He didn't know which he was more afraid of.
America regarded him for an interval, then rose and came around his desk. England averted his eyes again.
"It really bothers you, huh." He stopped, close.
"It's disgusting." England's shoulders were rigid. Louder, clearer, then: "You're disgusting, for allowing him to do that to you. Such close allies, you could have stopped him--"
"Why would I want to stop him?" America wondered.
"Disgusting," England repeated. "Incomprehensible."
"…Look at me."
England swallowed back bile and forced himself to oblige, lips thin and eyes veiled. That scar at once drew all his notice.
A little smile teased at the broken edge of America's mouth. "Incomprehensible?" he turned the word over, tested it. England felt inexplicably cold. "Do you know how it happened?"
"Oh, spare me--" he pulled back.
America advanced on him, caught his wrist. The side of Russia's desk bumped against England's hip. "Don't try to tell me you haven't thought about it."
"Not for an instant, and take your hand off--"
America reached past him, fast as a snake, and secured a pen from next to Russia's keyboard. He forced it into England's hand, and dropped to his knees.
"What are you--" England started.
"Hold the pen," America instructed him.
"I'm not interested in your games--"
America wrapped England's fingers around the pen, and guided his hand to his temple, so the pen cap rested at the top of his scar. "It was like this, right? In your imagination?"
England tried to shake him off. America's arm might as well have been rebar steel. "Let go of me at once."
"Wait--no--" with his free hand, America pulled off his glasses and folded them gently shut on the edge of Russia's desk. He turned those clear, beautiful eyes up at England, and England felt himself fall still. "Like this. You like it when I look younger." America spoke softly. "So you would've pictured it like this…maybe I was wearing a lot less, too, but you can't have everything."
"You flatter yourself," England whispered, and he didn't even sound convincing to himself.
"And then I…asked you not to, right?" America's voice was gentle, and so far away, like he was seeing it, too. "Not…begged, because you know I'm too proud to beg. Just asked, no louder than I'm speaking to you now…right?"
England's fingers flexed a little around the pen.
America wet his lips, unfocused. "And you…would've said something, something about the right of empires…maybe something about how it was my duty to sacrifice, if you asked me to make a sacrifice, for no reason other than because you asked. …Am I getting this right?"
Evidently he could tell by England's rising color and darkening pupils that he was getting close enough, because he kept going. "And I would've…hah…I would've dropped my eyes--" and he did, he lowered those limpid blue eyes to the beige office carpet, so England could just see the flickering rise and fall of lowered eyelashes. "And I would've mumbled some kind of reluctant consent. The reluctance is important, since if I'm excited about this, if I really want it, it kinda takes away from the thrill of...oh, what's that word you like--of wresting it from me, is that how you say that?"
England felt rooted to the spot, heavy-limbed and dry mouthed.
"And once you got tired of that, just looking at me, all shaking and obedient, and dreading what was gonna happen to me next, you'd--" he shifted his grip on England's hand. "Bear down--" and they both gave a quiet intake of breath, and shivered, as America pulled England's hand down the side of his face, and the path of the pen cap turned his red scar white.
"And I'd whimper, and plead with you a little to stop, but you'd know I didn't mean it--"
He wouldn't. He didn't. Couldn't.
"And then--you'd pick up the path, and you'd do it again."
Five times, America drew England's hand down his mutilated cheek. By the last pass America's fingers were barely touching him; they were just a cool light weight against his skin as he dragged the different colors across America's new scar. He couldn't look away--he might not have stopped, either, if America's hands hadn't closed gently around his. He stirred, a little--as little as possible.
"By the time it was over, I'd be crying, a bit. That choked, sniffly, trying-to-hide-it kind of crying." His voice was just a shift in the texture of the air, but England heard every word. "But when you put the knife away--" and he guided England's hand back to his side-- "I might just thank you. For taking what you wanted from me--it's your right, after all, isn't it?--and for…" a delicious, electrifying pause, in which England felt his body tighten around say it; say it. "For letting me be yours again.
"Is that how it goes, England?"
"Yes," he whispered--only he didn't say it, the word was less than a shadow of a shape on his lips. But America understood.
The young nation stood all at once, and took his glasses up and pressed them on again. England blinked at him, startled out of his terrible reverie.
"It wasn't anything like that," America said coldly.
All at once, he couldn't breathe.
"You don't have any idea what it was like. You never could." America rubbed his hand across his cheek, like he was wiping himself clean after England's touch. "Fifty years ago your fucked up little fantasy would've turned me on, too, but lucky for me, I've grown out of that." He went back to his desk, sat down, and jogged his mouse to snap his monitor awake.
England stood in the middle of the floor, still not breathing and not sure if he wanted to.
America waited a few seconds, and then said pointedly, "I don't love you anymore. I want you to leave my office."
A twitch pulled through him. England didn't know what he felt, at that moment, because it wasn't like anything else he'd ever experienced in his life.
"--Now. Before Russia gets back."
England swayed, touched the top of Russia's desk with two fingers to steady himself, and felt less certain than ever that any of this was really happening. He blinked, wide-eyed, staring at the floor, and then he left.
Originally posted: 4/30/09, on wizzard890's journal, as a "you're stressed and I have a couple hours to kill, have some fic" thing.
Length: 1,500 words.
Characters/Pairings: America, England. Implied Russia/America.
Premise: Russia and America's relationship is changing America, and not for the better, as far as England is concerned. America takes a guess at why he's really so upset, and it involves roleplay, possessiveness, and Russia's latest 'gift.'
Time period: It's AU stuff, indefinite future.
Smuttiness: 0/10, unless I get points for ~weird pseudosexual vibes.~
Funnyness: 0/10
Wrist slashiness: 5/10
Lolhistoryness: 0/10
Violence: 0/10
Would I like it?: Russia/America shippers should be pleased. America/England shippers...uh...less so. Those of you who ship both...mixed feelings, I guess? Christ, it's going to be this, and then that scary yandere!England prompt from crosswhisper. I'M SORRY, US/UK FANS! I LIKE ENGLAND REALLY!
---
"It's a farce."
America leaned back in his chair and kicked his feet up onto his desk. He gave England a sour look over the toes of his boots. "Don't tell me," he drawled, "I know that one."
"And this insolent attitude is exactly the sort of thing I'm talking about," England ranted on. He paced across the floor in front of America's desk--America's desk, in America's office, as he would always think of it, for all that there were two desks in this wide room, now, and for all that the plaque of Old Glory had been discretely taken away and replaced by the two-starred flag of the UFRA. "Your 'attendance' of this conference is a joke. You've no interest in anyone else's opinion at all."
"That's not actually true," America interjected brightly.
"Yes, where is your keeper?" England snapped.
"He went to get us dinner." America flipped his pen in the air, caught it, and didn't rise to the bait.
"This is rather my point, America. He's the only one you listen to, anymore--you couldn't make it any clearer. The rest of us hardly know why you bother to attend."
"I don't see any of them lecturing me in my office at seven o'clock at night," America sighed. He tossed his pen again.
"They're afraid of you now." England flung it on the floor between them like a white glove.
America stared at him for a few seconds, then sat up straight. England kept his gaze nailed to the window over Russia's desk. "I haven't done anything," he pointed out. "Unless you call building a house with Russia an aggressive action, which, you all sure act like it was."
The fact that you think it wasn't-- "You've changed," England bit out. He folded his arms, then immediately unfolded them again. He struggled through a pause. "France says you're cold, now."
America didn't say anything for a few seconds. Abruptly, then, "I'm pretty sure that's not a hostile act, either."
"Fifty years ago, you wouldn't have dreamed of letting matters come to this. What happened to your pride in--"
"if you're going to browbeat me, at least look at me while you're doing it," America interrupted.
England froze, and didn't move.
"Or is that what you're really upset about," he went on.
England turned, jaw tight and neck resisting, like he had a bad hinge. America waited for him, lips thinned, but England didn't see him, just the--it wasn't even a scar, yet, it was still red and sunken in. It interrupted his expressions halfway down his face; it caught like a hook at the corner of his mouth and warped all his perfect smiles. America's eyes now were cold when he smiled, and England didn't know if that was new, if that was Russia--or if America had always been further away than he thought, and it had taken Russia breaking those smiles to allow him to see. He didn't know which he was more afraid of.
America regarded him for an interval, then rose and came around his desk. England averted his eyes again.
"It really bothers you, huh." He stopped, close.
"It's disgusting." England's shoulders were rigid. Louder, clearer, then: "You're disgusting, for allowing him to do that to you. Such close allies, you could have stopped him--"
"Why would I want to stop him?" America wondered.
"Disgusting," England repeated. "Incomprehensible."
"…Look at me."
England swallowed back bile and forced himself to oblige, lips thin and eyes veiled. That scar at once drew all his notice.
A little smile teased at the broken edge of America's mouth. "Incomprehensible?" he turned the word over, tested it. England felt inexplicably cold. "Do you know how it happened?"
"Oh, spare me--" he pulled back.
America advanced on him, caught his wrist. The side of Russia's desk bumped against England's hip. "Don't try to tell me you haven't thought about it."
"Not for an instant, and take your hand off--"
America reached past him, fast as a snake, and secured a pen from next to Russia's keyboard. He forced it into England's hand, and dropped to his knees.
"What are you--" England started.
"Hold the pen," America instructed him.
"I'm not interested in your games--"
America wrapped England's fingers around the pen, and guided his hand to his temple, so the pen cap rested at the top of his scar. "It was like this, right? In your imagination?"
England tried to shake him off. America's arm might as well have been rebar steel. "Let go of me at once."
"Wait--no--" with his free hand, America pulled off his glasses and folded them gently shut on the edge of Russia's desk. He turned those clear, beautiful eyes up at England, and England felt himself fall still. "Like this. You like it when I look younger." America spoke softly. "So you would've pictured it like this…maybe I was wearing a lot less, too, but you can't have everything."
"You flatter yourself," England whispered, and he didn't even sound convincing to himself.
"And then I…asked you not to, right?" America's voice was gentle, and so far away, like he was seeing it, too. "Not…begged, because you know I'm too proud to beg. Just asked, no louder than I'm speaking to you now…right?"
England's fingers flexed a little around the pen.
America wet his lips, unfocused. "And you…would've said something, something about the right of empires…maybe something about how it was my duty to sacrifice, if you asked me to make a sacrifice, for no reason other than because you asked. …Am I getting this right?"
Evidently he could tell by England's rising color and darkening pupils that he was getting close enough, because he kept going. "And I would've…hah…I would've dropped my eyes--" and he did, he lowered those limpid blue eyes to the beige office carpet, so England could just see the flickering rise and fall of lowered eyelashes. "And I would've mumbled some kind of reluctant consent. The reluctance is important, since if I'm excited about this, if I really want it, it kinda takes away from the thrill of...oh, what's that word you like--of wresting it from me, is that how you say that?"
England felt rooted to the spot, heavy-limbed and dry mouthed.
"And once you got tired of that, just looking at me, all shaking and obedient, and dreading what was gonna happen to me next, you'd--" he shifted his grip on England's hand. "Bear down--" and they both gave a quiet intake of breath, and shivered, as America pulled England's hand down the side of his face, and the path of the pen cap turned his red scar white.
"And I'd whimper, and plead with you a little to stop, but you'd know I didn't mean it--"
He wouldn't. He didn't. Couldn't.
"And then--you'd pick up the path, and you'd do it again."
Five times, America drew England's hand down his mutilated cheek. By the last pass America's fingers were barely touching him; they were just a cool light weight against his skin as he dragged the different colors across America's new scar. He couldn't look away--he might not have stopped, either, if America's hands hadn't closed gently around his. He stirred, a little--as little as possible.
"By the time it was over, I'd be crying, a bit. That choked, sniffly, trying-to-hide-it kind of crying." His voice was just a shift in the texture of the air, but England heard every word. "But when you put the knife away--" and he guided England's hand back to his side-- "I might just thank you. For taking what you wanted from me--it's your right, after all, isn't it?--and for…" a delicious, electrifying pause, in which England felt his body tighten around say it; say it. "For letting me be yours again.
"Is that how it goes, England?"
"Yes," he whispered--only he didn't say it, the word was less than a shadow of a shape on his lips. But America understood.
The young nation stood all at once, and took his glasses up and pressed them on again. England blinked at him, startled out of his terrible reverie.
"It wasn't anything like that," America said coldly.
All at once, he couldn't breathe.
"You don't have any idea what it was like. You never could." America rubbed his hand across his cheek, like he was wiping himself clean after England's touch. "Fifty years ago your fucked up little fantasy would've turned me on, too, but lucky for me, I've grown out of that." He went back to his desk, sat down, and jogged his mouse to snap his monitor awake.
England stood in the middle of the floor, still not breathing and not sure if he wanted to.
America waited a few seconds, and then said pointedly, "I don't love you anymore. I want you to leave my office."
A twitch pulled through him. England didn't know what he felt, at that moment, because it wasn't like anything else he'd ever experienced in his life.
"--Now. Before Russia gets back."
England swayed, touched the top of Russia's desk with two fingers to steady himself, and felt less certain than ever that any of this was really happening. He blinked, wide-eyed, staring at the floor, and then he left.