Archive of Our Own ^beta

It was hard to say when it started, but it was easy to tell that it had only done so very recently. If America’s shout of surprise was anything to go by, there was no doubt that the boy was more than a little excited by this sudden turn of events. England, having seen over a thousand snows in his long lifetime, merely sighed as he put down his quill pen, knowing that the little bundle of energy would be running in at any moment.

“Engwand! Engwand, Engwand, Engwand!” Ah, there was the lad now, dashing through the halls of their shared home, tiny bare feet pounding on the floorboards. England made a mental note to inspect them later and make sure little America’s strength didn’t punch holes in them – he had already dented the wall last week after he threw a toy a little too hard against it. And it was a stuffed toy as well. “Engwand, look outside! It’s so cool!”

“Is it now?” England asked, brushing the bangs from his face as he turned to face his little brother. He made a mental note to take both himself and America to a barber later – both of their hair was getting too long for his taste. “What’s happening, America?”

“There’s hard rain falling down from the sky!” America said excitedly as he ran over and all but clawed his way into England’s lap. For a boy of such sweet demeanor, he was certainly quite ferocious when it came to his climbing. Once he was settled in England’s lap, the colony grabbed at England’s shirt, tiny hands nearly ripping the fabric apart as he tugged. “C’mon, c’mon! We have to go outside and see the hard rain!”

Despite himself, England chuckled. He had been working for hours drafting a letter to his boss regarding the happenings over in Jamestown. Some upstart or another thought it would be funny to attempt yet another idiotic rebellion. And during Christmas, no less. What sort of idiocy would possess a man to do that? Of course, his little America was blissfully unaware of that, and he certainly was not going to allow America to see how utterly exhausted he was. No, never mind the dark circles under his eyes or the dull quality of his voice; America was here and wanted to be entertained, and that’s all that mattered.

“That ‘hard rain’ is called snow, America,” he said with a small smile as he gently tucked his arms under the small of America’s back and lifted him, cradling the colony against his chest. “When it gets very, very cold, the water hardens and becomes snow. After that, snow falls here instead of rain.” He hummed a little as he carried his colony out of the room, already considering how else to explain to America the magical little thing called snow.

“Snow,” America repeated, turning his attention to the windows, where tiny white flakes were swirling through the air, the ground already covered in a thin layer of white. “Can I drink snow?”

“You can, though I don’t recommend it,” England answered. He was headed towards the living room. “Snow on the ground is still something on the ground. And you and I both know that it’s improper to eat things from the ground.”

He felt America pout against his chest, but paid no heed to it – as much as he loved the boy, he needed the colony alive. And colonies could hardly be kept alive and healthy if they did nothing but run around eating things off the ground. England had seen great men die from that all too often. He placed America on a small chair in the living room before walking over to the cabinet where he stored his finest cutlery – among other things. Where did he put that thing?

“Can I go outside though?” America asked, kicking his legs as he sat. The baptismal gown was getting awfully small on him, England noticed, which meant that sooner or later, he would have to get America some good, proper clothes. Luckily, he had enough foresight to at least get some things. He truly was a good big brother, wasn’t he? “I wanna pway in the snow, Engwand!”

“Yes, children play in the snow quite a lot,” England said, smiling as he turned around. In his hands, he held a wrapped gift, a sight that America knew all too well – the way the boy’s eyes lit up upon seeing it filled England with a rare feeling of joy, as though all the happiness and light in the world had been condensed and gently placed in America’s big blue eyes. The smile that lit up the colony’s face was almost enough to melt the snow that had settled outside their door. “But they have to be properly dressed first. You can get sick if you’re too cold, you know.”

“Maybe I should get sick then, so you can stay and pway with me some more,” America said, laughing as he reached for the present. “Yay! Is it my birthday?”

“No, not your birthday,” England corrected as he stood over America, still holding the present just out of reach. The boy, bless his heart, reached for it with tiny arms, though he did not move from the seat. “But it is a rather important day. Do you know what day it is?”

America frowned, tapping his chin. “… Is it cleaning day?” this was accompanied by a slight quaver in his voice; America hated cleaning day.

“No, it is not,” England smiled as he knelt next to his little brother and placed the present on his lap. “It’s Christmas. Do you remember your lessons about Christmas?”

At the word, America’s face lit up again, a grin spreading over it as he clutched onto the present. “Yeah! It’s when you give pwesents to people you love and eat food and be happy!”

“That’s the basics of it, yes,” England agreed, making a mental note to review the Christmas traditions later. “And that, America, is your Christmas present from me.” He placed another kiss to the colony’s temple. “Merry Christmas.”

“Yay!” America wasted no time opening the gift, paper flying everywhere as small, greedy hands tore into it. Those hands paused for only a moment to pull out a few small gifts, before tearing into it some more. Once the present was completely opened, America was left holding the gifts England had bought for him: a fine winter coat, a pair of wool gloves, a lovely knitted scarf and hat, a pair of winter boots, and of course, a pair of finely made ice skates. England had written to the Netherlands just for those and imported them here to the New World to be gifted to the boy.

They were a very fine pair, made with wood and iron. Leather straps were attached to these wooden platforms to be tied around America’s new winter boots. A narrow melted, double-edged blade – a newer invention – would allow the colony to easily glide across ice. England himself had spent a large chunk of his time learning how to ice skate in his own country, so that he could return here and teach his colony. It was, after all, high time for the boy to begin ice skating.

“Are these snow cwothes, Engwand?” America asked as he immediately put on the hat. Even with the cap covering almost his entire head, that little bit of hair that always stook up from his head still stuck out from underneath the brim of the hat. England nodded as he helped America into the rest of his clothes, careful to make sure that his little brother was not made too uncomfortable with the new wardrobe. After all, he could just go in and yell at whatever seamstress made this later if the clothes were not to America’s liking.

“Yes. Once we have you all bundled up, we can go outside and go ice skating.”

“Ice skating? What’s that?”

“It’s when you walk on ice,” England answered as he stood up and put on his own coat, hat, and gloves. He took up both America’s new ice skates and his old worn-out ones and opened the door, stepping out into the cold night air. America followed him, shivering slightly as he stepped out of the house for the first time since it started snowing. “It’s quite a lot of fun, but we should both be careful. Sometimes the ice is too slippery so we may slip.”

“I won’t swip, Engwand,” America said proudly, puffing out his tiny chest. They started down the road, walking towards the lake about five minutes away. “I’ll be the bestest ice skater ever!”

“Of course,” England said with a small laugh, slowing a little as they neared the lake. The ice on top of it was perfectly clear, free of any sort of scratches from anyone else skating on it. Perfect. America would have so much fun here. “Now, hold still and let me put these on for you.”

America, as per usual, refused to sit still, even when asked to. Despite that, England could get the skates on the boy’s feet within about twenty minutes, and from there, he quickly tested the ice to make sure it was not too thin, then began skating around, showing America just how graceful and smooth it was. As was the norm with the boy, America tried right away to spin around and leap through the air, though every time he tried, he simply landed flat on his face. No matter. Just like any good big brother, England guided him through the entire process of skating, holding his shoulders when needed to, and allowing America to wobble and writhe on his own when asked.

Soon enough, however, America was gliding across the ice, tiny arms spread wide and flailing slightly as he corrected his balance over and over again. A large smile lit up his tiny face, blue eyes blown wide open as he stared at the world around him, a world moving so quickly, so smoothly. Laughing, he flashed a smile at England as he skated around in a circle, his little body wobbling as his inexperienced feet trace its path into the ice.

“Engwand! Engwand, look! I did it!”

“So you have,” England answered with a small chuckle as he lightly skated after America, keeping a sharp eye on the boy for any signs of a bad fall – or thin ice. Once he was sure that America could keep his balance up for a while and that the ice was safe, he skated ahead to catch America, reaching out for his colony’s hands. America laughed eagerly and took them, gripping onto England’s fingers as together, they skated the edge of the lake.

“Do you want to learn a trick or two, America?” England offered as he let go of one hand so he could skate alongside his little colony. America gasped before blinking up at England, nearly hopping out of his skates in his eagerness.

“Teach me a twick, Engwand!”

And so he did. He started out with something simple: a sweet little turn, no fancy jumps, nothing like that. Merely a quick turn in place, the sort that some of France’s beginning dancers were able to do. America copied it perfectly, as was expected, and of course wanted to immediately graduate to doing it on one foot. Ah, the number of times the poor little colony fell on his rump doing this was almost too much to count. No doubt, little America’s rump was going to be quite bruised tomorrow.

By the time the two were ready to go home, America was already vastly improved; he was now able to do a little spinning hop on his own, but would end up touching the ice with one palm right after that. His pace was slow, as was the norm for all beginners, but at the very least, he only fell about eight times when he started jumping a bit higher. A few more rounds of practice and perhaps America would be able to leap and spin just as gracefully as the rest of the boys in the neighborhood. These were the thoughts in England’s mind as he carried America home that night, the colony snoring softly against his chest.

Yes, perhaps they would be back here tomorrow.

The cold, biting wind met him as he stepped outside, burying his face even further into his collar to protect his nose. Shivering, England dug through the pockets of his coat for his pipe, but then realized that he had left it back home and cursed – perhaps one of these Hessians had a spare they would allow him to borrow? England considered that possibility for a moment before dismissing it; it was impolite to disrupt a party on a significant holiday such as this, and besides, the mighty British Empire did not go around begging people for a smoke.

Still, a smoke would’ve done wonders for his nerves, frayed as they were; America and this little rebellion of his was beginning to get the better of him. Sure, the Loyalist troops had won many, many battles during this rebellion, but the rebels won their own small victories as well. There was, of course, no way for the rebels to win – nevertheless, England was worried. America was no doubt among these barbaric, pillaging soldiers. Who was to say that the boy wouldn’t be hurt during all of this? Or remain uncorrupted and pure? Washington and his cronies had already poisoned the boy’s mind as it was, turning him against England and inciting this horrid rebellion – how much more would they corrupt his colony without England being there to combat it? The thought was too awful to bear.

He needed to do something, anything, to get his mind off this rebellion. It was said that Washington and his cronies were calling this entire thing a revolution. The Revolutionary War, they were calling it. Ha! More like a rebellion. A silly rebellion led by silly people who did not know their place. Oh, he would show them, alright! They thought the taxes were bad before? Just wait until King George III slammed down taxes equal to those living in the European portion of the empire. Equal rights, equal suffering for all…!

He soon found himself walking down the cobbled streets, boots crunching as he stepped on the newly fallen snow. Sighing to himself, England looked up at the sky, squinting slightly as he stared at the dark clouds above him. No doubt, there would be a winter’s storm tonight – perhaps not one nearly as terrible as he would sometimes get in his homeland, but nonetheless, annoying. And on Christmas night, nonetheless! Ah well, at least the mercenaries were all holed up in the town’s homes, drinking and celebrating. Even during Christmas, war could be put on hold. Besides, regardless of how foolish Washington was, even he would not dare to attack during such a sacred holiday.

The faint sounds of metal scraping on ice snapped England from his thoughts, causing the empire to turn his head. Vaguely, he could make out the barest hint of blue-ish white amid the black and white expanse of snow. Blinking in slight surprise, England realized that there was a small pond near the town and someone was ice skating on it. The scraping sounds were absolutely unmistakable – someone was ice skating on that little frozen pond, and whoever it was seemed to be quite decent at it. Even now, England was able to just barely make out the brief flash of blue and white, as whoever this was glided across the ice.

Realizing that he had neglected to bring his own skates, England scowled and quietly cursed to himself. A round of ice skating was just as soothing to him as a good smoke, and perhaps more enjoyable as well – after all, a smoke would all be used up after a while. Ice skating could last until the ice became too thin to hold him any longer. Besides, it seemed as though whoever this skater was could use some company. As England had learned long ago, it was much more fun to skate with a friend – or a little colony.

Save for the crunching of snow beneath his boots, England made no sound as he approached the frozen lake. The skater seemed not to notice him, as there was no interruption to his skating, no hesitation, no indication that he had been heard. That was just as well; the last thing England wanted to do was to interrupt a man in his art. With a cat’s grace, he nimbly made his way closer to the line of trees that shielded the pond from view, careful not to step on a single twig as he approached. It was not until he was nearly level with the tree line that he realized who this skater was.

There was no mistaking the uniform of the Continental Army; after all, the few soldiers who did own such a uniform often stood out from amongst their fellows, looking very much like ridiculous little Christmas ornaments who did not belong on the field of battle. What was more, many of the uniforms were little more than tattered rags by now, the rebels having lost too many battles and lives to count. England noticed with a small degree of trepidation at the stains that lined the bottom of the blue coat, quietly praying that they were mud stains and nothing more.

America moved with the sort of grace that only a boy of immense talent could move. He was strong, yet flexible, swaying and bending with the movement of his skates, but standing strong so that he would not fall. Enraptured, England could not help but hold back a gasp as his colony seemed to wind up, then leaped through the air like a spring, bringing his arms close to his chest as he performed a midair turn. How many turns was that? Two? Three? The boy was truly skilled.

Where could he have learned these things? From France? The notion crept into England’s mind briefly before he shook his head, clearing that horrid thought away. England knew France and knew how he moved (much as he would love to deny it), and there was no way in the world that France was capable of moving like this. Yes, France was lithe and graceful as well, but he was sensual; his every movement was made to seduce a man, to bring a woman to her knees. There was beauty in his movement, but always it was marred by an underlying lust.

America’s movements were different. There was something about the way his arms flowed through the air, tracing indistinct yet beautiful shapes as he glided and leaped across the ice. His legs seemed to radiate a raw, delicate power as they propelled him around. His movements were innocent, almost demure. But then, when America lifted one leg up, he gave England a wonderful view of just how finely sculpted it was.

And that was when everything changed.

America opened his arms wide, as though welcoming the world – and England watched as he licked his lips, as though tasting it first. As he made a quick turn at the edge of the pond, he leaned back, as though exposing himself for the sky itself to see. Unable to tear his eyes away, England simply stood there, hands trembling as heat pooled at the bottom of his stomach. America’s eyes were closed, mouth opened slightly, lips flushed a brilliant pink. Even France would swoon at the sight of this. But, just as quickly as that pose had come, it was gone, and America was back to tossing back his golden head, innocent again.

But this innocence was not the same as what England knew of him when he first took America in. No, this sort of innocence had a new, mature quality to it. America’s face was sharp and lined, an obvious product of the rebellion. He was taller now, and incredibly muscular, built like a dancer. Where, oh God where, did he learn to skate like this? And when did he become so… so…

The thought was almost too much for England to bear.

America was skating much faster now, as though flying on the wind. His hands were everywhere, tracing every newly made curve and contour of his body, fluttering over areas where no doubt his pulse was racing. Did he feel as warm as England was feeling right now? England certainly wouldn’t have minded – nor would he have minded another glimpse of that pearl pink tongue passing over slightly chapped, parted lips.

As England’s pulse raced even more, so too did America’s skating – and now he moved with absolute passion, thrusting his body into every single movement, winding and rushing towards every jump. He leaped again, legs splayed, showing off immense flexibility that England didn’t know any country could possibly possess. Sweat rolled off the boy’s body, and with every sharp movement, tiny, shining beads of it were flung into the air. Unconsciously, England licked his lips, unable to tear his eyes away as he watched America skate faster and faster, almost climaxing as he turned those dark, cloudy blue eyes to the sky.

He wasn’t sure when everything ended, but eventually, it did. America stopped in the center of the lake, one arm up in the air, the other wrapped around his middle. He gazed up at his hand briefly, as though taking it in, before lowering it and straightening himself. Then, he turned around… and locked eyes with England.

For a brief moment, neither of them moved. England was too shocked, his feet too rooted into the ground. America, for his part, seemed torn. His face moved quickly between expressions of shock, embarrassment, happiness, and disgust. The latter lingered in England’s thoughts for a long while.

England opened his mouth to speak, though not a sound came out. What was he to say? What did he want to say? He wanted to compliment America’s skating, to be sure. What else? Did he want to ask how America was doing? If he was being fed well? Perhaps beg him to come home with England and forget this foolish rebellion?

A scream shattered the delicate silence between them. This was followed by a shout. Then, the distinctive blast of gunfire. England whirled around immediately, green eyes going wide as he saw smoke billowing from the town where the Hessians were staying. What was happening? How could this be? Wasn’t Christmas supposed to be a time where all soldiers put down their arms and-

When he turned to America for an explanation, the boy was gone, the only evidence of his ever being there a few scrapes all over the frozen little pond.

 How long had this war been going on now? England had already lost count. In his younger days, during the Hundred Years War, he had meticulously kept track of each year that passed, recording little notes about every battle, every single skirmish against the frog and his slimy cronies. But that was when he was still a young, vibrant nation, wide-eyed and ignorant of the workings of the world. He was an old man now, an old nation. His empire was long gone.

He wasn’t quite sure what made him trudge out into the night in the dead of winter, with one hand in his pocket while the other clutched a pair of skates over his shoulder. Perhaps it was the stress of the war and the pressure Germany was placing upon him to surrender. Perhaps it was the relief he felt over his new Prime Minister; Churchill seemed to be the sort of man to get things done, even if he were a bit… eccentric. Or perhaps, in some way, he simply needed to clear his head.

He found the little lake easily enough, and made a beeline for it immediately. He paused for a brief moment to lace up his skates – these were brand new ones, made in one of his very own factories and with only the finest ingredients. These were quite the luxury, considering all the rationing and material saving his country had to do for the war effort, but come now, even England had to spoil himself now and again. Surely Mr. Churchill would understand his need to have some pleasure in this war-torn world.

“England?”

The all too familiar voice tore him from his thoughts, causing England to nearly trip as he whirled around, skates only half on. As soon as he met America’s great blue eyes, he hesitated, unsure of what to say. The two had become allies only recently, and it was even more recently still that they had begun speaking civilly again. After decades of deliberately avoiding each other’s gaze, it was almost too awkward having to face the other again. The wound of the Revolutionary War was still fresh for the both of them- and England was much too proud to be the one to attempt mending it.

“Dude, what are you doing out here?” for once, America’s voice was quite soft, almost inaudible, even in the stillness of the night. England hesitated briefly before shaking his head. He was a gentleman, damn it. Gentlemen did not become speechless simply from talking to a… an ally.

“I thought I would take the chance to have a bit of time to myself,” England replied. He stiffly gestured towards the lake, noting that a brand new layer of ice had formed upon it, hiding any skate marks that had been made there throughout the day. “To unwind from the stress of the war.”

His words were met with a breathy laugh, very much unlike the one America often brought to meetings with the other Allied Forces. It was gentle, and rather endearing. And quite musical as well.

“You’re tellin’ me. I came out here to do that to,” America reached into the pocket of his bomber jacket and produced a small box, holding it out to England. The former empire raised a single prodigious eyebrow, noting that America was offering him a pack of cigarettes. “Want one?”

Again, England hesitated. Cigarettes were a rare commodity these days, and as such were much too expensive for anyone – even a country – to afford. The simple fact that America had an entire pack on his person meant that he was either very, very highly regarded, or that Americans were simply swimming in too much tobacco for their own good. Possibly both.

“Mm, perhaps not tonight,” he said finally after a few minutes of silence. He knelt down to tighten his skates, the lake already calling his name. “Skating relaxes me quite a bit as well.”

America exhaled, blowing out a puff of white. “Yeah… used to relax me a ton as well. But I haven’t skated since-“ he hesitated. In this beat of silence, England simply raised his eyebrow again. The words, the memory of that night during the Revolutionary War, hung in the air, holding a delicate balance that neither wished to tilt. Rather than finishing his sentence, America simply shook his head. “Well, yeah. I don’t know how to skate anymore.”

“I see,” England remarked, looking back at the lake. Another beat passed. Two more. He could hear America’s breath quicken, the boy’s feet shuffling a bit in the snow. He was nervous. He was feeling as awkward about this as England was – perhaps even more so.

“I can reteach you, you know,” England said, cutting across America just as the boy opened his mouth to speak more. Before he could change his mind, the former empire pressed on. “It’s quite simple. And you’re a quick learner. Besides, I’m sure that ice skating is much more entertaining than simply standing there alone smoking through an entire ration’s worth of cigarettes.”

Slowly, yet surely, a smile broke over America’s face, his blue eyes twinkling with some unspoken glee. “Really? Wait, shit, hold on, lemme go get my skates!” and with that, he was off, leaving nothing but a swirl of snow behind him.

England simply stood there, arms crossed, awaiting his return. For the first few minutes of his waiting, he found that he was more than a little tempted to simply walk back to his tent and see if he could bum a smoke off of someone. After all, why would America want to speak with him, let alone hang around him? The boy was likely having a good laugh somewhere with his soldier buddies, poking fun at England’s silly hobby. What kind of empire ice skates, for Pete’s sake? Well, England would show him! He would show him what it meant to mess with the British-

America was approaching him, just as promised, with a pair of skates slung over one shoulder. England simply stood there and waited patiently as his former colony knelt and put them on, hoping that his face or mannerisms didn’t give away the thoughts he had been having before. Of course America would keep his promise and come back to be taught by England – after all, he had been raised to at least do that much.

“Be patient with me, okay?” America asked as he hobbled over, his large form unsteady on his skates. “I ain’t too experienced anymore.”

England said nothing, merely offering his hands to the young man as he stepped on the ice. Of course, he would be patient with America. Out of all the countries he knew, he would be the most patient with him. The reason for this was indescribable – or perhaps more accurately, England feared himself too much to describe it.

As soon as America stepped onto the ice, he slipped immediately, causing him to fall forward into England’s arms. Luckily, the older nation was there to catch him, just barely able to maintain his own center of balance. America was quite heavy in his arms, but also quite warm – a beautiful contrast to the light, frosty chill of the snow around them. Experimentally, England gave those arms a light squeeze, marveling at how well-muscled America was under that worn-out bomber jacket. The boy had truly grown, hadn’t he?

They stood like that for a few moments, America wobbling a bit as he attempted to catch his balance a bit, England taking deep, slow breaths as he tried his best not to fall as well. His heart hammered against his ribcage, sounding in his ears like the beat of a drum. Could America hear his heartbeat? God, he hoped not – the thought was too embarrassing.

His thoughts were soon broken by a low chuckle, the elder nation blinking himself out of his daze as America pulled away from him, a small, embarrassed smile lighting up his features. “S-Sorry. That was… kinda pathetic, huh?”

England blinked again, then shook his head. “Of course it was not. At the very least, you were able to tell which end of the skate was which. That is much more than what many other people I know can do.”

His words were met with an uneasy smile, which soon transformed into a worried frown as England began moving his feet. After all, how could he teach America how to skate again if they didn’t even move? He started slow, of course: right foot, left foot, lift one, put the other down, gently scrape at the ice. Don’t do anything too wild, not too many sudden movements… it was as though they were empire and colony again, skating on that lake in the middle of snowy Virginia.

America’s eyes slowly slid close as he took a deep breath, the younger nation obviously trying to relax himself. Dimly, England noticed that America’s pulse seemed to be racing where their hands touched. Dare he say it? America’s pulse was racing faster than his?

As time passed, he began slowly but surely quickening his pace. Gripping on to America’s hands, he changed their direction, turning them in a much quicker circle than the pace they had been skating at before. Just as planned, America’s eyes flew open, the younger nation’s expression fearful for a moment before relaxing considerably. He was okay. He was still alive. England was there.

Strangely enough, they shared a smile then, a warm one. The sort of smile they hadn’t shared since America’s colony days. But even this one was different; this one was much softer, much warmer, with an underlying message that both of them understood. Without a word, England stopped suddenly and spun the other nation around, dipping America until his golden locks brushed the ice.

America was completely flushed and panting, as though he had just come back from a long jog in the snow. The younger nation’s skin was white hot to the touch, hot enough, perhaps, to melt even the vast amounts of snow around them. Gripping onto him tightly, England righted America again and stared up at him, searching his expression for any sign of the same disapproval or disgust he saw on that night during the Revolutionary War.

A single heartbeat passed with nothing but America’s blank, dazed expression. This was soon joined by another, then a third. But then, a smile slowly broke out over America’s face, and in those moments, England truly understood why everyone called him America the Beautiful.

There was no stopping them now. England took America in his arms and quickly guided him around the ice, the hammering in his chest giving way to a strong, fiery warmth that spread all over him. He mirrored America’s soft, sweet smile as he brought the other nation close to him until their bodies touched, before lifting the other nation as high as his wiry strength would allow him and spinning around, placing America down only when he knew that the younger man would swoon if he were lifted and spun anymore.

They continued like this, waltzing across the ice, England taking the lead while America slowly but surely regained the same skill on the ice he had back during his Revolutionary War. Soon enough, America was the one guiding him across the ice. The younger nation’s movements were wobbly and hesitant, but full of raw power, the same raw power England saw on that one Christmas night. Gladly, England followed him, eventually pulling himself into leading again, America leaning against his chest as they slowly skated around.

As the night grew colder, the two held each other closer and closer together, until their noses were touching as they glided around the pond. England found himself completely entranced, unable to ear his gaze away from the deep pools of blue before him, gazing at him so lovingly that their warmth nearly melted the ice. America was smiling at him in the same way England often smiled at his retreating back after meetings – warm and inviting, sweet and loving.

A sharp gust of wind gently pressed against his lower back, causing England to rise to his toes – or perhaps he did that all his own. Either way, those beautiful blue eyes were getting closer and closer, until England’s lips reached America’s and they pressed together, England’s eyes sliding shut as he allowed himself to give in to the warmth and beauty and passion and love that America placed into the kiss.

They stood there, holding the kiss for God knows how long. It was only when the two of them were able to breathe no longer that they parted, panting lightly, faces flushed a brilliant pink. Neither said a word – they didn’t need to. England scooped America up into his arms and glided towards the shore, grinning down at the younger man as a pair of strong arms wound around his neck.

They tumbled into bed in a heap of twisting, writhing limbs, of hot kisses and passionate moans. England’s skilled hands worked and fluttered over every crevice of America’s body, his body undulating until the boy saw stars. As America’s first scream pierced the night, England grinned into his lover’s chest; they were together again, at long last.