(FIC) Axis Powers Hetalia - EnglandXEveryone, FranceXEveryone, USUK - Love and War (Ending)
Can't fit all in one post XP Warning: lots of USUK ahead!
Running desperately through the entire UN building - and knocking down two aides, three ambassadors, a mahogany table and a really, really late Prussia on his way - America managed to catch up with England outside, just as he was getting into a cab.
“England, wait!” he shouted, making half the street and everyone in the UN building’s hall of entrance turn in his direction.
England, thankfully, was among the people who looked, even if his face turned into a scowl. “Don’t call me that in public!” he hissed, sitting in the cab with the door open. “We’re supposed to use our human names, and - and - and what do you want?!”
America had only half-paid attention to that little speech; he was busy panting from overexertion. “England-” he said, and raised a hand when the Englishman seemed ready to start protesting again, “-England-I want to talk to you.” And, to the cab driver: “Wait just a bit, will you?”
The cab driver shot an annoyed look at him. “I’m going to charge for it.”
America just nodded and waved a hand at him, again turning to England - who, in the meantime, had gotten up and was trying to keep his balance in the small area between the cab and the sidewalk, and, it seemed, doing his hardest not to look him in the eye. “I don’t want to talk to you,” he said, his voice still locked in that stupid hiss. “I don’t want anything from you.”
And it was really stupid, because America had raced all the way down here after him because he thought he had seen something, the gateway to some bridge he could cross, and here was England acting all stuffy and British and the words he’d been thinking on his way over (a speech that didn’t make much sense, but, surprisingly, had just included the word “burger” once) dried up in anger. “It - it wasn’t my - you don’t have the right to do this!”
“The right?” England repeated. “I hardly think you can tell me what I have the right to do or not, you upstart.”
And that made America angrier than ever. “You - you - I have the right to say what I want when you’re the one who’s acting like a - like a friggin’ child! You go on and you - you sleep with all the nations in the map-”
“’All the nations in the map’, only if we’re talking about your stupid maps-”
“-and you get mad at me because I’ve slept with France?! Like, once?! No, England, you don’t have the right!”
He would have said more, but he was distracted by the cloud of blue gloom - who had been until then floating over the cab companionably, and right now was growing in size as England deflated like a punctured air balloon.
“…You’re right, America,” England said, and sighed. Looking more tired than ever, he rubbed his eyes. “I - I was completely out of line. You’re not - you’re not anything of mine - I don’t have the right - I just wanted - I’m sorry.” He did raise his eyes to meet America’s then. “I really am. Tell France I am sorry - I mean, don’t, don’t tell him, but I am sorry. …Can I - can I just go now?”
It would’ve been really easy to just let him go and pretend to forget about it - they had made an art out of that - but the sting of getting so, so close, only to have things return to what they were again left America the kicking-stuff kind of angry. Except he couldn’t really go around kicking stuff right now - because he tended to leave holes in walls, but also because he really didn’t want to back out now.
“No, you can’t, I have to talk to you - I don’t want you to-” He paused, and drove his hands into his hair in frustration. “Why can’t you understand things without me having to say them!”, he raged, and, when England looked confused at him, he took the only possible course of action: he went Hollywood.
Holding England’s face in place with a careful hand, he leaned in and, in one smooth move the Golden Globe winners would die to learn how, pressed his lips against England’s and kissed him very thoroughly.
When they surfaced for breath, America’s irritation kicked away by the way England had quite happily responded to his kiss, the giddiness and light-headedness nudged him to say the most courageous sentence he had ever said: “I want to be something of yours.” And, after a pause: “I want to be on your list.”
For a moment, England just looked at him, his expression open with something vulnerable and, America had to say that no matter how sappy it sounded, beautiful. When he did speak, his voice came out sort of teary: “I - I’d be more than happy to - to add you.”
They entered the cab wet from the rain - the cloud of blue gloom was dissolving -, sharing another intense kiss, hopefully on their way to something better.
And the overpriced cab fare? Totally worth it.
Running desperately through the entire UN building - and knocking down two aides, three ambassadors, a mahogany table and a really, really late Prussia on his way - America managed to catch up with England outside, just as he was getting into a cab.
“England, wait!” he shouted, making half the street and everyone in the UN building’s hall of entrance turn in his direction.
England, thankfully, was among the people who looked, even if his face turned into a scowl. “Don’t call me that in public!” he hissed, sitting in the cab with the door open. “We’re supposed to use our human names, and - and - and what do you want?!”
America had only half-paid attention to that little speech; he was busy panting from overexertion. “England-” he said, and raised a hand when the Englishman seemed ready to start protesting again, “-England-I want to talk to you.” And, to the cab driver: “Wait just a bit, will you?”
The cab driver shot an annoyed look at him. “I’m going to charge for it.”
America just nodded and waved a hand at him, again turning to England - who, in the meantime, had gotten up and was trying to keep his balance in the small area between the cab and the sidewalk, and, it seemed, doing his hardest not to look him in the eye. “I don’t want to talk to you,” he said, his voice still locked in that stupid hiss. “I don’t want anything from you.”
And it was really stupid, because America had raced all the way down here after him because he thought he had seen something, the gateway to some bridge he could cross, and here was England acting all stuffy and British and the words he’d been thinking on his way over (a speech that didn’t make much sense, but, surprisingly, had just included the word “burger” once) dried up in anger. “It - it wasn’t my - you don’t have the right to do this!”
“The right?” England repeated. “I hardly think you can tell me what I have the right to do or not, you upstart.”
And that made America angrier than ever. “You - you - I have the right to say what I want when you’re the one who’s acting like a - like a friggin’ child! You go on and you - you sleep with all the nations in the map-”
“’All the nations in the map’, only if we’re talking about your stupid maps-”
“-and you get mad at me because I’ve slept with France?! Like, once?! No, England, you don’t have the right!”
He would have said more, but he was distracted by the cloud of blue gloom - who had been until then floating over the cab companionably, and right now was growing in size as England deflated like a punctured air balloon.
“…You’re right, America,” England said, and sighed. Looking more tired than ever, he rubbed his eyes. “I - I was completely out of line. You’re not - you’re not anything of mine - I don’t have the right - I just wanted - I’m sorry.” He did raise his eyes to meet America’s then. “I really am. Tell France I am sorry - I mean, don’t, don’t tell him, but I am sorry. …Can I - can I just go now?”
It would’ve been really easy to just let him go and pretend to forget about it - they had made an art out of that - but the sting of getting so, so close, only to have things return to what they were again left America the kicking-stuff kind of angry. Except he couldn’t really go around kicking stuff right now - because he tended to leave holes in walls, but also because he really didn’t want to back out now.
“No, you can’t, I have to talk to you - I don’t want you to-” He paused, and drove his hands into his hair in frustration. “Why can’t you understand things without me having to say them!”, he raged, and, when England looked confused at him, he took the only possible course of action: he went Hollywood.
Holding England’s face in place with a careful hand, he leaned in and, in one smooth move the Golden Globe winners would die to learn how, pressed his lips against England’s and kissed him very thoroughly.
When they surfaced for breath, America’s irritation kicked away by the way England had quite happily responded to his kiss, the giddiness and light-headedness nudged him to say the most courageous sentence he had ever said: “I want to be something of yours.” And, after a pause: “I want to be on your list.”
For a moment, England just looked at him, his expression open with something vulnerable and, America had to say that no matter how sappy it sounded, beautiful. When he did speak, his voice came out sort of teary: “I - I’d be more than happy to - to add you.”
They entered the cab wet from the rain - the cloud of blue gloom was dissolving -, sharing another intense kiss, hopefully on their way to something better.
And the overpriced cab fare? Totally worth it.