Gone
Title: Gone
Pairing: America/England
Genre: Angst, Drabble
Rating: G
Warnings: angst, extreme shortness
Summary: America wishes he could have England with him again.
America picked up the piece of cloth sitting on England's couch. It was a cross stitch, almost finished. Now it seemed it never would be; at least, not by England. America stared at the neat rows of tiny, perfect x's and imagined all the time and effort England must have put in to get them like that.
As America stared at the cloth in his hands, an urge took him suddenly to kiss it, so he did. It wasn't really like kissing England at all, but it was the closest he could get, for now. He refused to say anything more than "for now", because there was a part of him that still wanted to believe England would come back any day now and berate him for being so needlessly worried. He shifted the cloth so that he could rub it against his cheek, imagining it was England he was rubbing his cheek against. It was moments like this that kept him going now that England was no longer there. Moments like this that kept a glimmer of hope alive that maybe, someday, England would come back to him.
a/n: This just came into my head recently and refused to leave. I have no intention of continuing it, both because I'm not really into this sort of plot and, really, all I know about this world is what's written here. Also, I apologise for how short it is, really.
Pairing: America/England
Genre: Angst, Drabble
Rating: G
Warnings: angst, extreme shortness
Summary: America wishes he could have England with him again.
America picked up the piece of cloth sitting on England's couch. It was a cross stitch, almost finished. Now it seemed it never would be; at least, not by England. America stared at the neat rows of tiny, perfect x's and imagined all the time and effort England must have put in to get them like that.
As America stared at the cloth in his hands, an urge took him suddenly to kiss it, so he did. It wasn't really like kissing England at all, but it was the closest he could get, for now. He refused to say anything more than "for now", because there was a part of him that still wanted to believe England would come back any day now and berate him for being so needlessly worried. He shifted the cloth so that he could rub it against his cheek, imagining it was England he was rubbing his cheek against. It was moments like this that kept him going now that England was no longer there. Moments like this that kept a glimmer of hope alive that maybe, someday, England would come back to him.
a/n: This just came into my head recently and refused to leave. I have no intention of continuing it, both because I'm not really into this sort of plot and, really, all I know about this world is what's written here. Also, I apologise for how short it is, really.