Sweethearts Week Day four
Title- In Colour
Rated/warnings- T (shell shock victims, warfare)
Word Count- 2,456
Summary- The war was in colour
a/n- running late, sorry about any mistakes! ):
|In Colour|
At first England doesn't need help.
He has it covered, bosses pressuring each other into peace arrangements that are to be broken within months of them being made and war preparations starting for a war neither side wants to nor believes will happen. Threat after empty threat and promise after fulfilled, terribly fulfilled, promise, England still knows that nothing will come of it. It will be settled- they will lose good nations, good people, to the hands of a force he believes is not but it will be settled, bitterly.
The problem lies when it isn't solved. When threat after empty threat turns into promise, a fulfilled and terrible promise, England is left counting down the hours (only ere hours until the impossible becomes the inevitable) on a large grandfather clock set against the whitewashed wall of his drawing room. France is on the line, muttering words that he does not even attempt to decipher in French (bloody horrid language, but he is distraught and England does not expect him to remember his manners) but he is barely even heard over the deafening ticking of that grandfather clock.
He knows war too well to expect bombs and crashes, gunfire and carnage the second the clock hits time but it still feels so anticlimactic when the hands tick over to eleven fifteen and nothing happens other than his short cough to let France know it is time before the other immediately disconnects from the line and England is glad of it in the end.
It ticks over to eleven sixteen and it almost feels fake.
-
As it turns out, it is, and waiting is blue.
The skies are blue, too blue to be a warzone, as is the sea. England full well knows that the RAF will soon take to the skies and the navy are already patrolling his seas, just watching and waiting. But he can barely believe it- everything looks too blue.
Everyone is buying their time. Not only is England not prepared to go to war over anything, even something as huge as this, but the opposing side thought them cowards and were not prepared for full fledged warfare either. However, they were slightly more prepared which gives them the advantage once the war stops being so fake and tiresome and turns into something far worse- actual war.
But right now, regardless of the tanks being set up and the ill feeling in his gut, England is not angry or prepared. He is blue- like the sky and the seas that will soon be as polluted with carnage and noise, dyed red as they were twenty odd years previously.
-
Everything is purple for a while, anger taking over and blinding him from everything else he could possibly see.
Purple is the colour he sees in blotches and blobs when he closes his eyes and the colour blood mixed with dirt is after he spits it out from another lost tooth. Purple is a far angrier colour than red, the colour of black outs and darkness.
Everywhere falls but England refuses to, purple keeping him going, keeping him angry enough to ignore the destruction around him, destruction that is no longer one party's fault. Purple is the colour of the flashes in front of his eyes when America doesn't even come, just calls on a bad line and tells him 'no' and no one tells England no when he is this angry, purple angry.
'Dulce et decorum est pro patri mori,' he hears someone say and thinks it is right. He dies for himself and everyone else dies for him too. It is fitting and he doesn't stop to think about how disgusting it is that it is fitting, not at all.
-
The colour of anger is usually red but when red takes over purple, England does not feel any more angry or even any less. The object of his emotions however is soon reflected inward.
He's fighting a losing battle, no trenches this time but just as much carnage, and closing his eyes to the red and making him see purple changed nothing but his point of view. The fact still haven't changed- he's losing, badly. He can see it now, surrounded by the wounded, the horrified, the terrified. Some, regardless of having only minor injuries, some can barely stand let alone walk, fight. They're named cowards and if England were a better man he would be able to see that they are traumatised and that not everyone is so terribly used to carnage and meaningless slaughter like he is. But he is not a better man and in a fit of red he calls one a coward to his face and his sightless eyes look straight through him. England does not feel calmed by it.
The injured, the physically wounded, are easier to look at for some reason. England shuts off when they are brought into the makeshift hospital, blood pouring, bounded, air crash victims. It is a wonder they survived but a curse that many of them will not make it through the night and will wish the whole time that they are on their deathbeds that they had died through the flight instead.
They do not know him and England, guiltily, is glad. He does not want them to know that he is what they are fighting for and dying for, who they are losing their sanity to. 'Dulce et decorum est pro patri mori,' now sounds like a dropping hammer, like it did in the Great War, and no longer like a chant but a promise. There is nothing honourable about the way people die and there is less honour in the way England grasps the next shell shocked victim, shaking him to get a rise, to get a blink, to get anything other than an empty stare and a constant shiver.
There is nothing honourable about red.
-
The Eagle Squadron is good- not a patch on the RAF of course and there is not nearly enough of them, but they are good and England needs the amount of planes they shoot down to get back on his feet because every single win counts now, no matter how small. It is amazing what can lift your moral when you are losing so very badly.
America doesn't even call any more, because every time he does he starts and ends with the same two words- 'I can't.' It doesn't matter that England gave up asking (he wouldn't beg, not for America, not when he was doing fine and he would survive this) a long time previous. It is almost as if America feels obliged to explain himself, to apologise. England does not expect that and it makes him uncomfortable which is a reason for him being almost glad that he hasn't heard from him.
The Eagle Squadron are gold- not in colour (it would be too noticeable) and not in rank (there are RAF pilots worth far more, at least even). They are just gold and England doesn't know why. Everything has a colour, doesn't it? America is not gold.
No doubt America likes to think that he is gold, but England does not see a colour in him.
Which is why England finds it peculiar to find him flying a plane in a golden squadron, especially without warning and without a call. He races over, because he could never mistake that laugh even if he could mistake the mop of hair and barely worn leather bomber jacket, and America turns to him and smiles. But England can't smile back, all he can do is stare, slightly open mouthed, as America fixes himself into the plane, checking the dials on the front board.
"This radar thing is pretty cool, you know," America says then, turning to grin down at England who is still staring flabbergasted up at him, "Had to come check it out for myself."
It takes England a few minutes to get his speech back and whatever gush of thanks America was probably expecting does not come out when England hisses, "This is not your war."
America stares down before cocking his head to the side. "Is it not?" he says curiously, "My men and planes, even boats, say otherwise."
England pretends he doesn't hear that, doesn't hear that slight, every so slight, tint that is not meant to sound like boasting but it hits England's pride like a knife regardless. "You made damn sure of that," England says lowly and America pulls on his cap, fixing the flaps over his ears before reaching for his goggles.
"I didn't make damn sure of anything," America says as he pulls the goggles over his eyes. They magnify them, making them look bluer than England has seen. "How could I when everything is damn unpredictable?"
England has to stand back then so he cannot retaliate but he knows he would say that he, the war or anything else was not as unpredictable as that damned golden squadron.
-
America didn't have a colour and England can't place why.
England never noticed before, never tried to place a colour on people before and when he realised he could he didn't see the point. But America is an enigma. It was shown in the way he just showed up, out of the blue, and took a spitfire like it was his own. And then left, almost instantly. England hasn't even seen him since.
But then America agrees to enter the war, as a country as opposed to a person, and England doesn't feel he wants nor needs that. His people, however, feel far differently and his boss rejoices at the prospect of an ally in the other nation he was fond of.
America is stony faced when England sees him next but England cannot place grey as a colour that suits him.
-
The war passes in a blur of orange next.
Orange for the markers on each marked flag, showing strategies, codes, bases, everything. Orange for the speed lines and the blurring uniforms of every allied nation, all mushed together like a humongous puzzle that England can't solve. Orange for the glints of a too hot sun off of blonde hair, his own and America's, mingled together in warzone heat.
The sand is orange too, England notes, as he kicks it with the toe of his shoe. America is lying on it, the sun glinting off his hair and the sand in a million variations of the same colour. England stands over his head and sees that America's eyes are closed. He's not asleep though because his eyes are squeezed too tightly shut, like they are trying to block out the sunlight. It's a break and England should try and let him at least attempt to feign sleep but he doesn't and instead nudges him with the toe of his boot.
"Up," he says, demanding. America opens one eye and regards him, his hand covering the other one.
"Do we need to move on?" he asks and his voice isn't sleepy or even weary- just bored.
"Possibly," England says because, to be honest, he doesn't know where he is and maybe sitting in one spot would be useful until they were found or captured.
"Good enough for me, "America replies and England thinks that means he is going to move but instead he rolls on to his front and buries his face in the sand to try and cover his eyes. He sits back up, coughing and sneezing, a few seconds later. "God, what do I have to do to get a bit of shut eye 'round here?"
England watches him for a moment before he unties his uniform jacket from around his waist and drops it over America's head, covering his eyes. He doesn't need it- it is sweltering.
"Hey!" America complains for a second before realising that it effectively blocks out the sun. "Or, you know, thanks. I guess."
He lies back down and, seeing they are moving nowhere, England sits by his head, wrapping his arms around his knees. After a while, America's faint breathing turns into the odd snuffled snore and England starts to ramble quietly, to no one in particular, possibly even to himself. It registers with him that he is not making any sense, that he is letting everything get to him and he shouldn't, but he can't help it so he continues to babble.
He notices that America has gotten better at feigning sleep.
-
The closing of the war comes in flashes of yellow; a last minute, last ditch, last hope attempt at a blitzkrieg and then it's over and England has won.
And he can't believe the war even started, let alone finished in his favour.
-
There are parties on the streets and England watches, over in a doorway, as soldiers returning home hug their children, some of which had not even been born when they were deployed, and families and friends with shrieks of delight and ecstasy because it's all over. England doesn't see the injured come home- maybe they've already done so or will come soon.
America stands beside him, fiddling with a device that looks like some sort of transmitter and England can see his face getting pink even though he's watched and America has only drank one glass of the alcoholic beverages that are being snuck around. He has had more which is enough to excuse the heat rising when America turns to look at him awkwardly and then puckers his lips out slightly and England completely misinterprets this and turns his head back so America's lips meet his instead of his cheek.
America is red to his ears when he pulls back, their teeth clinking in the process. "Uhm, alright," he says, a slight stutter, "Congratulations."
England wants the ground to swallow him whole, red and blue, but then America has the palm of his hand pressed flush to England's lower back and it is still painfully awkward but is green for rebirth.
When he finally manages to look up later, his flush dying down a slight bit and trusting himself not to say something ridiculous, America is smiling slightly, not at him but at nothing, and every colour of the brigade is echoing around him, like an aurora around his head. America isn't a colour- he's a spectrum.
-
(And when people show him black and white photos, years upon years later, England smiles politely. If truth be told, they look fake- not as in posed, most of the photos are candid. They are drained. Because England doesn't remember anything in black and white.
Not when it all was so very in colour)
|END|
Rated/warnings- T (shell shock victims, warfare)
Word Count- 2,456
Summary- The war was in colour
a/n- running late, sorry about any mistakes! ):
|In Colour|
At first England doesn't need help.
He has it covered, bosses pressuring each other into peace arrangements that are to be broken within months of them being made and war preparations starting for a war neither side wants to nor believes will happen. Threat after empty threat and promise after fulfilled, terribly fulfilled, promise, England still knows that nothing will come of it. It will be settled- they will lose good nations, good people, to the hands of a force he believes is not but it will be settled, bitterly.
The problem lies when it isn't solved. When threat after empty threat turns into promise, a fulfilled and terrible promise, England is left counting down the hours (only ere hours until the impossible becomes the inevitable) on a large grandfather clock set against the whitewashed wall of his drawing room. France is on the line, muttering words that he does not even attempt to decipher in French (bloody horrid language, but he is distraught and England does not expect him to remember his manners) but he is barely even heard over the deafening ticking of that grandfather clock.
He knows war too well to expect bombs and crashes, gunfire and carnage the second the clock hits time but it still feels so anticlimactic when the hands tick over to eleven fifteen and nothing happens other than his short cough to let France know it is time before the other immediately disconnects from the line and England is glad of it in the end.
It ticks over to eleven sixteen and it almost feels fake.
-
As it turns out, it is, and waiting is blue.
The skies are blue, too blue to be a warzone, as is the sea. England full well knows that the RAF will soon take to the skies and the navy are already patrolling his seas, just watching and waiting. But he can barely believe it- everything looks too blue.
Everyone is buying their time. Not only is England not prepared to go to war over anything, even something as huge as this, but the opposing side thought them cowards and were not prepared for full fledged warfare either. However, they were slightly more prepared which gives them the advantage once the war stops being so fake and tiresome and turns into something far worse- actual war.
But right now, regardless of the tanks being set up and the ill feeling in his gut, England is not angry or prepared. He is blue- like the sky and the seas that will soon be as polluted with carnage and noise, dyed red as they were twenty odd years previously.
-
Everything is purple for a while, anger taking over and blinding him from everything else he could possibly see.
Purple is the colour he sees in blotches and blobs when he closes his eyes and the colour blood mixed with dirt is after he spits it out from another lost tooth. Purple is a far angrier colour than red, the colour of black outs and darkness.
Everywhere falls but England refuses to, purple keeping him going, keeping him angry enough to ignore the destruction around him, destruction that is no longer one party's fault. Purple is the colour of the flashes in front of his eyes when America doesn't even come, just calls on a bad line and tells him 'no' and no one tells England no when he is this angry, purple angry.
'Dulce et decorum est pro patri mori,' he hears someone say and thinks it is right. He dies for himself and everyone else dies for him too. It is fitting and he doesn't stop to think about how disgusting it is that it is fitting, not at all.
-
The colour of anger is usually red but when red takes over purple, England does not feel any more angry or even any less. The object of his emotions however is soon reflected inward.
He's fighting a losing battle, no trenches this time but just as much carnage, and closing his eyes to the red and making him see purple changed nothing but his point of view. The fact still haven't changed- he's losing, badly. He can see it now, surrounded by the wounded, the horrified, the terrified. Some, regardless of having only minor injuries, some can barely stand let alone walk, fight. They're named cowards and if England were a better man he would be able to see that they are traumatised and that not everyone is so terribly used to carnage and meaningless slaughter like he is. But he is not a better man and in a fit of red he calls one a coward to his face and his sightless eyes look straight through him. England does not feel calmed by it.
The injured, the physically wounded, are easier to look at for some reason. England shuts off when they are brought into the makeshift hospital, blood pouring, bounded, air crash victims. It is a wonder they survived but a curse that many of them will not make it through the night and will wish the whole time that they are on their deathbeds that they had died through the flight instead.
They do not know him and England, guiltily, is glad. He does not want them to know that he is what they are fighting for and dying for, who they are losing their sanity to. 'Dulce et decorum est pro patri mori,' now sounds like a dropping hammer, like it did in the Great War, and no longer like a chant but a promise. There is nothing honourable about the way people die and there is less honour in the way England grasps the next shell shocked victim, shaking him to get a rise, to get a blink, to get anything other than an empty stare and a constant shiver.
There is nothing honourable about red.
-
The Eagle Squadron is good- not a patch on the RAF of course and there is not nearly enough of them, but they are good and England needs the amount of planes they shoot down to get back on his feet because every single win counts now, no matter how small. It is amazing what can lift your moral when you are losing so very badly.
America doesn't even call any more, because every time he does he starts and ends with the same two words- 'I can't.' It doesn't matter that England gave up asking (he wouldn't beg, not for America, not when he was doing fine and he would survive this) a long time previous. It is almost as if America feels obliged to explain himself, to apologise. England does not expect that and it makes him uncomfortable which is a reason for him being almost glad that he hasn't heard from him.
The Eagle Squadron are gold- not in colour (it would be too noticeable) and not in rank (there are RAF pilots worth far more, at least even). They are just gold and England doesn't know why. Everything has a colour, doesn't it? America is not gold.
No doubt America likes to think that he is gold, but England does not see a colour in him.
Which is why England finds it peculiar to find him flying a plane in a golden squadron, especially without warning and without a call. He races over, because he could never mistake that laugh even if he could mistake the mop of hair and barely worn leather bomber jacket, and America turns to him and smiles. But England can't smile back, all he can do is stare, slightly open mouthed, as America fixes himself into the plane, checking the dials on the front board.
"This radar thing is pretty cool, you know," America says then, turning to grin down at England who is still staring flabbergasted up at him, "Had to come check it out for myself."
It takes England a few minutes to get his speech back and whatever gush of thanks America was probably expecting does not come out when England hisses, "This is not your war."
America stares down before cocking his head to the side. "Is it not?" he says curiously, "My men and planes, even boats, say otherwise."
England pretends he doesn't hear that, doesn't hear that slight, every so slight, tint that is not meant to sound like boasting but it hits England's pride like a knife regardless. "You made damn sure of that," England says lowly and America pulls on his cap, fixing the flaps over his ears before reaching for his goggles.
"I didn't make damn sure of anything," America says as he pulls the goggles over his eyes. They magnify them, making them look bluer than England has seen. "How could I when everything is damn unpredictable?"
England has to stand back then so he cannot retaliate but he knows he would say that he, the war or anything else was not as unpredictable as that damned golden squadron.
-
America didn't have a colour and England can't place why.
England never noticed before, never tried to place a colour on people before and when he realised he could he didn't see the point. But America is an enigma. It was shown in the way he just showed up, out of the blue, and took a spitfire like it was his own. And then left, almost instantly. England hasn't even seen him since.
But then America agrees to enter the war, as a country as opposed to a person, and England doesn't feel he wants nor needs that. His people, however, feel far differently and his boss rejoices at the prospect of an ally in the other nation he was fond of.
America is stony faced when England sees him next but England cannot place grey as a colour that suits him.
-
The war passes in a blur of orange next.
Orange for the markers on each marked flag, showing strategies, codes, bases, everything. Orange for the speed lines and the blurring uniforms of every allied nation, all mushed together like a humongous puzzle that England can't solve. Orange for the glints of a too hot sun off of blonde hair, his own and America's, mingled together in warzone heat.
The sand is orange too, England notes, as he kicks it with the toe of his shoe. America is lying on it, the sun glinting off his hair and the sand in a million variations of the same colour. England stands over his head and sees that America's eyes are closed. He's not asleep though because his eyes are squeezed too tightly shut, like they are trying to block out the sunlight. It's a break and England should try and let him at least attempt to feign sleep but he doesn't and instead nudges him with the toe of his boot.
"Up," he says, demanding. America opens one eye and regards him, his hand covering the other one.
"Do we need to move on?" he asks and his voice isn't sleepy or even weary- just bored.
"Possibly," England says because, to be honest, he doesn't know where he is and maybe sitting in one spot would be useful until they were found or captured.
"Good enough for me, "America replies and England thinks that means he is going to move but instead he rolls on to his front and buries his face in the sand to try and cover his eyes. He sits back up, coughing and sneezing, a few seconds later. "God, what do I have to do to get a bit of shut eye 'round here?"
England watches him for a moment before he unties his uniform jacket from around his waist and drops it over America's head, covering his eyes. He doesn't need it- it is sweltering.
"Hey!" America complains for a second before realising that it effectively blocks out the sun. "Or, you know, thanks. I guess."
He lies back down and, seeing they are moving nowhere, England sits by his head, wrapping his arms around his knees. After a while, America's faint breathing turns into the odd snuffled snore and England starts to ramble quietly, to no one in particular, possibly even to himself. It registers with him that he is not making any sense, that he is letting everything get to him and he shouldn't, but he can't help it so he continues to babble.
He notices that America has gotten better at feigning sleep.
-
The closing of the war comes in flashes of yellow; a last minute, last ditch, last hope attempt at a blitzkrieg and then it's over and England has won.
And he can't believe the war even started, let alone finished in his favour.
-
There are parties on the streets and England watches, over in a doorway, as soldiers returning home hug their children, some of which had not even been born when they were deployed, and families and friends with shrieks of delight and ecstasy because it's all over. England doesn't see the injured come home- maybe they've already done so or will come soon.
America stands beside him, fiddling with a device that looks like some sort of transmitter and England can see his face getting pink even though he's watched and America has only drank one glass of the alcoholic beverages that are being snuck around. He has had more which is enough to excuse the heat rising when America turns to look at him awkwardly and then puckers his lips out slightly and England completely misinterprets this and turns his head back so America's lips meet his instead of his cheek.
America is red to his ears when he pulls back, their teeth clinking in the process. "Uhm, alright," he says, a slight stutter, "Congratulations."
England wants the ground to swallow him whole, red and blue, but then America has the palm of his hand pressed flush to England's lower back and it is still painfully awkward but is green for rebirth.
When he finally manages to look up later, his flush dying down a slight bit and trusting himself not to say something ridiculous, America is smiling slightly, not at him but at nothing, and every colour of the brigade is echoing around him, like an aurora around his head. America isn't a colour- he's a spectrum.
-
(And when people show him black and white photos, years upon years later, England smiles politely. If truth be told, they look fake- not as in posed, most of the photos are candid. They are drained. Because England doesn't remember anything in black and white.
Not when it all was so very in colour)
|END|