literature

Grass of Leaves

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&independence.




It was perhaps the first time the room - America's room; still America's - had lain quiet. England studied the door, counting the seconds between flashes of lightning and dripping water onto his scuffed wooden floors. His hand slipped twice before he was able to turn the doorknob. The room beyond was dimly washed in grey light, colder than it had seemed before. With halting, uneven steps that had nothing to do with the white heat lacing up his side, England stumbled towards America's unmade bed. For once he didn't care that there were clothes littering the floor, pictures and posters held up by pins that would leave holes in his carefully chosen wallpaper, forgotten soda cans branding discolored rings into the antique dresser England had first put in America's nursery.

Lightning illuminated the drawn shades, and England steeled against the thunder that roared on its heels. It was still too familiar, too similar, and he thought he could almost smell gunpowder in the air. He slipped carefully onto the bed, more delicately than it's previous owner ever had, fitting too well into the concavity America had left in the mattress over time. He'd have to get rid of it, eventually, but right then it was all he could do to disturb the settled wrinkles in the tastefully navy fabric. They'd been his choice, of course. America hadn't cared what color the linens were. The air was hollow around him, far away, and suddenly he felt smaller than he'd felt in a long time. Hands shaking, England pulled the covers around him. He found it impossible to swallow against the lump rising solid and angry in his throat. Even if the room was unwelcoming, It was warm in the humid space he created, familiar in a sense, but his fingers still felt cold under his chin. And ashen, like the dim room, like the sky had been for weeks. He shivered, once, from his teeth to his toes, and curled more tightly against himself. The pillows were only inches above his head, but he made no move to retrieve them. He didn't think about the mud transferring from his boots, or the water that was already soaking through the sheets and into the comforter. England pulled them up to his chin, curling his fingers into the fabric until his knuckles paled, and tried to ignore the hollow fissure pressing under his ribs.

Just yesterday America had been a child, with hair like amber waves of grain and eyes as blue and wondrous as his oceans white with foam. America the beautiful. His poets had gotten than one right. From the second England had laid eyes on the small boy, he'd known America was special. It would take him longer to realize the extent. France, in a scarce moment of transcendent brilliance, had once said to him that they, everyone, were as individual as an artist's palette; some were dipped in flat, some were glossy, some satin. But every once and a while, someone would come along who was iridescent, and they were different from all the rest. They were remarkable. That was America. Only he wasn't just iridescent, he was kaleidoscopic. He was his own spectrum.

"Better?"

America tittered, the corners of his blue eyes crinkling sweetly, and shook his head. His radiant smile seemed to unfurl as he held out his bound index finger, inches away from England's face. The skin was still red around the raised site of the sting.

"Again."

England obliged, gently held America's small hand in both of his and leaned forward to place a kiss across the clean bandage. America wiggled in England's lap, his giggles burbling honeyed and bright across the library's rich carpet. England thought that they made the summer light streaming through the study's windows seem faded and thin. Lackluster; like holding a candle to the sun. America's pinkened cheeks shone wet as he turned his laughing face upward, reminiscent of recent tears that had since pooled in the indentations of his dimples or sunk into the thin fabric of his shirt. Like a passing cloud, his brittle wails had dissipated as quickly as they'd sprung to life.

England raised an eyebrow and America pulled his hand away, twisting around to frame his injured finger in the dark outline of a window's pane.

"It's magic!" America exclaimed, ecstatic, vibrant, as he always was. England didn't even mind that America's bare feet were darkened with dirt, bumping against the leg of England's trousers with every little movement, or that there was already a snag in the hand-made fabric of his brand new shirt. The little boy turned back suddenly and tottered, throwing his arms around England's neck. "This time it's all better," America half-whispered, like an excited secret, like it was meant for England and no one else. He had to reach upwards to plant a kiss on his mentor's cheek, sweet and warm and guileless, which England gladly bent to accept.


Even if he thought America had always been a little too loud, a little too idealistic and individualistic, to England he was still perfect. When it was dark out, and he could steal away from the rest of the world, England would sing to America; Greensleeves and Lilli Burlero, Sweet William and Lavender's Blue. His quiet voice would trickle through the cracked door, into the hallway, a sweet blue sound that settled over the paintings like frost. Sometimes America would hum the tunes he knew, watching England with that bright, brilliant smile of his, but most of the time the small boy would sleep. And England would sing, long after America's eyes closed, reluctant to wander back through his empty, sighing corridors. He would whisper that he loved America, kiss a flower crown into the boy's golden hair and smile, unguarded, so incomprehensibly different, when he would or wouldn't hear that small voice saying that America loved him too. Because the way America's hands fisted warmly into his sleeve, the front of his shirt, the way America's head would nudge under his chin and fit there, said all England needed to hear.

The brandy at the back of his throat was almost enough to distract from the ache that had lingered there for months. England sat at his desk, both hands wrapped around his half-empty glass, staring into the amber contents vacantly as they swirled and settled. He coughed, ragged and hoarse, and his pallid features tightened into a tired grimace. It made his head hurt, even more than usual. England hunched over the worn table, pressing his cool crystal tumbler to his temple.

When the pain behind his eyes ebbed again, he braced an elbow on the desk, sinking sideways and scanning the documents strewn across the tabletop. The New Model Army was winning, it appeared, and England feared for his monarchy. Charles hardly seemed his anymore. The Royalists had begun to dwindle. The Committee was faltering. He sighed, a stale sound, and quickly swallowed what remained in his glass.

"England?"

His head rose slowly, and he blinked at the child clutching at the doorframe, taller and aware and not the pudgy toddler he'd been that morning.

"America?" England glanced at the clock. "It's late. What are you doing up?"

America padded across the study, not waiting for an invitation to climb clumsily onto England's lap. "Are you gonna be okay? " America's blue eyes searched England's face. He was warmth against England's chest.

"Of course I will. It isn't as if I've never been badly off before." He felt less of a liar by following an assumption with a documented fact.

The small boy's head dipped. "Why would the king leave then?" It was slow, mumbled, like America knew it was something he wasn't supposed to have known. His small hand traced unseen patterns into the edge of the desk before him.

England frowned, following America's fingers as they danced over stained cherrywood. France, he supplied; America must have overheard France talking about his wars.

There was a labored pause, strained by their combined lack of breathing. America exhaled, all one breath and too quickly, his chest sinking beneath the crisp white nightgown England had procured for him that fall. He laced his fingers delicately in his lap as he'd been taught years before. Then, just when the silence seemed about to tear at the seams, "I'll never leave."

It was barely louder than the dull ringing in England's ears. His shoulders slumped and he sunk against the small boy, the smell of soap and cotton and crushed grass mingling with that of sea salt and oiled leather and tea. England buried his face in that head of golden hair before him.

Held him closer.


America, his sweet, golden America, had grown. He still smiled at England with as much light as before, still sat in the parlor with him and talked when it would rain and he would visit. But those smiles lacked what used to shine so brightly, something England couldn't put his finger on, and their conversations always seemed to end in disagreement. England would stand alone at the kitchen sink, telling himself that America's preoccupation with independence was only a phase as he washed dishes. But he could almost see America slipping through his fingers. His chest would feel tight, his breaths shorter, and he would hide his shaking hands underneath the film of snowy soap hovering atop the basin of water.

England had begun to yell more, and he'd stopped singing long ago. Sometimes it was still good, and America would curl up next to England on the couch or sit at the dining table and talk while England made breakfast. But most of the time England would argue and America would retaliate, throwing around words England had never assumed he knew. For every one step away that America took, England tried to pull him back two. He enforced new rules when he felt he was losing control, laws that were supposed to keep America as he was even if deep down England himself agreed they probably weren't fair. Even if he knew change was always imminent.

His fingers dug against either arm, crossed so tightly they'd begun to hurt his chest. He wanted to be mad, he was mad, he was exasperated, irate. So why did his throat feel so tight?

America was staring him down from across the desk. Not glaring, but- that glint in his too-blue eyes. He could hear his heart drumming in his ears. America had been so small once. Maybe. It was hard to find that same little boy in the young man before him. "What am I going to do with you?" The words fell like stones through thin ice. England let out a breath he'd forgotten he was holding. He had to tilt his chin upward to meet America's eyes anymore.

"You can't keep doing this." America, for once, seemed to have grasped the rhetorical nature of England's question. Then, anticipating his next inquiry, "Taxing my people for everything. Everything, England!" He braced both hands hard against the edge of the aging desk, leaning forward. Once upon a time, America had sat on the other side of that same desk and traced patterns into the grain and promised that he would never leave. Now the coffee-stained surface looked tired beneath America's golden skin, and with a cold pang England wondered if he was so different. "I'm trying to be something here, but you won't let me. I'm not a kid anymore."

"And you supposed that an unorganized ransacking would be the way to prove that point?" England's voice never wavered from it's composed course. He noticed there were still faint shadows of paint on either of America's cheeks. White and red- but not blue. That was higher, almost glaring, it was so clear and present. "You'll still pay me for your tea." He smoothed a crease that had begun to form across the sleeve of his uniform, watching America's face bloom with red from the corner of his eye.

"What?" America's voice rose quickly, like thunder that was too close. "No. No way. I don't want it, okay? I never wanted it!"

A decade before, America wouldn't have retaliated.

England sniffed, speaking in that tone of voice he reserved for drunks and small children. "Don't be ridiculous. You love tea."

"I hate tea! The only reason I drank it all those years is because you practically forced me to! Because back then-" America threw his hands up, shifting as if to move. "This isn't even about the tea, England."

A breath, sharp and dry against England's throat. "Then what is it about, pray tell?"

"It's everything! All of this!" America whisked his arm in a wide arc, indicating the room and the town beyond. Boston."You're always trying to control what I do, right down to what I buy and who I talk to and how I live, eat, act, speak- I don't need your help!"

The turn of England's jaw tightened. He made his way carefully around the table. By the time he was close enough to feel America's breath, his colony had begun to fidget. "You wouldn't have stood a fighting chance against France if it hadn't been for me." He could hear the clipped ping of his own voice. "If you'd asked anyone else for help, do you honestly think they'd have come? Spent all that money on a war that wasn't theirs? Quid pro quo, America. But I've been providing for you all along. If it weren't for me-"

"I didn't ask for you to do all that stuff!" America straightened, leaned away from England, almost. He was still too loud, but his gaze had plummeted to his scuffed boots. "Yeah, I mean, I asked you for help then, but." America bit the curve of his lip. "I''m fine now.You- you never let me do things for myself." A flicker of something, orange and wincing and barely there but England had seen it. America still didn't look at him, but his eyes flitted swervingly around the angles of England's face, his hair, his neck; anywhere but where he wanted America to look. Wanted to make him look. "I don't need you anymore."

It wasn't the first time England had slapped America, but it might as well have been. The colony staggered back a half-step, a small sound tearing from his throat. For an instant he stood frozen. A betrayed glint sparked to life in his wide eyes. England wished, he wished just please, that America would hold the side of his face, or storm off, or yell at him, because the reddening handprint he'd left was so blatant. Red like coats and flags and blood they'd lived to see shed. The little bastard wasn't even fighting back anymore.

A pause opened between them. Then, barely audible, "I'm sorry." America's hands clenched and unclenched at his sides.

I'm sorry.

England tried to think of something, anything, to add, but what he'd intended to say was gone. So he left America standing in the middle of the room, silent and silenced and stricken, and boarded a ship.


Canada, still so young, was crying in the next room. England could hear him, even though he knew he wasn't supposed to, because it was the only sound besides the rain. He was sobbing, so quietly it sounded like whispers. Those were there too, lacing in between shaking breaths, horrible laments that he couldn't understand even if he'd ever really tried because he wasn't France. Canada was as different from America as day to night, but the outward resemblance- And even if he knew that Canada couldn't be America, had always known that nobody could be America, the way France had held his wide-eyed child before passing him to England, the concept that they were even, then, finally, made it almost worthwhile.

At night, England would cradle Canada against him, sing to him the songs he knew by heart, kiss flower crowns into the child's golden hair and wait for his eyes to close. But they almost never did, and Canada would never hum the tunes he knew, or watch England's face when he sang, or curl his small fingers into England's sleeve. So England would keep singing, until his voice crawled from his throat, and even if Canada wasn't asleep by then he'd tuck the boy in and tell him goodnight, and Canada would murmur into his pillow before England turned off the light and retired quietly to his own room. He knew after all those years of wishing for a moment of silence, he should be grateful that it was so often now. But he never was.

It was raining. And cold, but that was only him. Because the air was too heavy and pressing to be cold. It had been raining in Yorktown, too.

This time, America hadn't been sorry.

England's blunt nails cut into either palm, and he choked around the realization that America was no longer his. It burned, curled tight in his chest, against the back of his throat, behind his eyes. He buried himself in the dampened covers, breathing in the familiar scent of dry summer grass and steel, clinging to what was left of his America. Always his America.

Yield closer and closer, and give me the best you possess.
Uh. Uhhh. I wanted to get this on DA, so sorry if you've seen it before on lj hurhurr. I wrote something that actually got finished finally lol. A very dear friend of mine, who's been having some big troubles with medical issues, asked if I would write her a platonic usuk ficlet. So that's what I attempted to do c,:

Kinda failed. But hey-ho. If you'd like to know more about the events that cameo'd in this, go look at my LJ, I have a lazy list of links to the stuff I put in there.

And I've had a few people bring the last paragraph to my attention, saying that I said one thing then immediately went against it (the whole 'was no longer his/always his'). I actually meant to do that, kind of as a testament to england's inability to accept what's just gone down.


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InvaderSquall5558's avatar
Simply EXCELLENT.

Description, emotion, everything's here. :thumbsup::thumbsup: