Categories > Original > Drama > Lovely Hallucinations
England burst into the house, desperate not to get himself out of the freezing rain, but to get as far away as possible from that scene. His damp blond hair was plastered to his forehead and sent streaks of rainwater down the slopes of his nose, cheeks, and temples. He stumbled into an armchair in his living room, the one closest to the fireplace, not noticing that there was no actual fire in it. Within moments, the armchair was also drenched, seeing as the Englishman hadn’t had the presence of mind to take off the red coat of his war uniform.
If America were here, he wouldn’t let his caretaker have done such a foolish thing, and risk catching a cold. He would have heard the ruckus the older nation had made coming in. He would have rushed into the living room to see the distraught England. He would have made him take off his soaked garments and start the fire in the hearth. He would have sat with the Brit and whispered comforting words to him until all his hysteria disappeared, and lulled him to sleep in his arms.
“America!” England cried out into the hall, searching for someone he knew wasn’t there out of desperation. “America, come help me right now!” The only answer he received was the booming of thunder from the storm overhead. Tears welled up in the Brit’s tired eyes, not for the first time that night. Before, he had been too exhausted, too emotionally confused to cry. But now, in the comfort of his home, he was able to barely grasp what had happened, and sobs racked his body. He’s gone. He won. He left me. He doesn’t want me anymore.
“I won’t allow it!” the Englishman bellowed, charging at the taller blond with his bayonet pointed straight at him. The American quickly brought up his own weapon to block the attacker, holding his gun at a horizontal angle and pushing it against England’s bayonet for dear life. But the element of surprise aided the older nation, and he sent America’s bayonet spinning out of his hands, and it skidded across the muddy ground until if finally landed far to the right of the battlefield.
Breathing heavily, Britain pointed his weapon straight at his rebellious colony. The taller blonde’s face was devoid of emotion, and it hurt his caretaker to see it that way. Are you not affected at all? Not angry, not sad, nothing? Doesn’t this hurt you? The way it does me?
“Shoot me,” America spoke calmly. His blue eyes stared into England’s with deep intensity, as if could see through the nation’s body straight to his soul, and see all the turmoil that ran amuck.
His eyes. They blended in with the storm clouds in the background perfectly. But that wasn’t important. What was important was how dead they were. They no longer procured the sparkle from his childhood. They didn’t gleam playfully they way they had all those years. These weren’t the eyes of a helpless child. They were the eyes of a country. In that moment, England realized even if he shot the American, it would stop nothing. Internally, he was already independent. There was nothing the Brit could do to bring him back.
Realizing his defeat, the old caretaker of America sank to his knees on the battlefield, the bayonet falling out of his hands and tears rolling down his cheeks. He’s gone, the older nation though in anguish, and he put his head in his hands to mask the sobs. It was a futile attempt. “Dammit,” he cried, “I can’t do it. You win, goddammit!” He looked up through his tears to see the imperturbable American watching him sobbing. If he felt anything, it didn’t show.
For a few minutes, America just stood there, absorbing his hysterical ex-caretaker on his knees, at the newfound nation’s complete mercy, sobbing as if someone had smashed his heart and burned the remains. After he had taken it all in, he snapped out of his supposed stupor, and turned his back to the sniveling nation before him, motioning for his soldiers to follow him as he walked away.
England wanted desperately to follow him, but his legs wouldn’t comply. The best he could do was to silently stretch a hand out toward the nation whose back was turned and wouldn’t see it. He tried to call out, but the only noises he could manage to form were undignified sobs. All Britain could do was cry as he watched everything he cared for walk away from him.
The lonely blonde buried his face in the fabric of the chair, threw his arms around the back as if the piece of furniture were his comforter, and let the sobs overtake him. Heartbreak had never before felt so literal; he could feel the horrible ache in the center of his chest. It was burning through him, and he hated it. He sobbed and sobbed until his body could not physically produce any more tears, and, out of fatigue, he fell into a deep sleep.
But the terrible memories still plagued him, even in his dreams. Flashbacks of America’s childhood, when he was just a wide-eyed boy, the gory battle for the freedom of the taller blonde, deadened, glazed-over, topaz-eyes eyes of a new country… Needless to say, England’s sleep was fitful and uncomfortable. Are you okay, England?…I wish you could come and see me more often…England, I want independence…
England sprang out of his sleep in a cold sweat…or was it just the leftover rainwater? He hadn’t any idea… He rubbed his slick forehead with his palm, and was about to collapse back over the chair when he heard a familiar voice call out his name. “…England?”
No, that wasn’t a familiar voice…it was an impossible voice. A voice that couldn’t exist here. Yet he was so sure…
Just then, a figure clothed in blue shuffled out of the nearest hallway into full view. Britain’s green eyes widened in disbelief.
“…America?”
A/N: And that’s a wrap…for this chapter, anyhow. God, I thought I’d never finished. Who knew Nickelodeon could be that distracting? I got to one thousand words, though, so I’d call that a success. I know this cliffhanger doesn’t really make sense at the moment, but just wait. I just had to get through some exposition here. Then I’ll probably do a couple chapters of complete fluffery before I get to the turning point of the plot, which reminds me… I ACTUALLY HAVE A PLOT PLANNED OUT! Like, this isn’t just random writing that I’m just throwing out there and hoping to turn into a story through magic and ex-machina! WOO! Anyways, see you non-existent readers later! (Or never… life could get in the way. Man, I hate life.)
Signing Off,
@FabulousFerret
If America were here, he wouldn’t let his caretaker have done such a foolish thing, and risk catching a cold. He would have heard the ruckus the older nation had made coming in. He would have rushed into the living room to see the distraught England. He would have made him take off his soaked garments and start the fire in the hearth. He would have sat with the Brit and whispered comforting words to him until all his hysteria disappeared, and lulled him to sleep in his arms.
“America!” England cried out into the hall, searching for someone he knew wasn’t there out of desperation. “America, come help me right now!” The only answer he received was the booming of thunder from the storm overhead. Tears welled up in the Brit’s tired eyes, not for the first time that night. Before, he had been too exhausted, too emotionally confused to cry. But now, in the comfort of his home, he was able to barely grasp what had happened, and sobs racked his body. He’s gone. He won. He left me. He doesn’t want me anymore.
“I won’t allow it!” the Englishman bellowed, charging at the taller blond with his bayonet pointed straight at him. The American quickly brought up his own weapon to block the attacker, holding his gun at a horizontal angle and pushing it against England’s bayonet for dear life. But the element of surprise aided the older nation, and he sent America’s bayonet spinning out of his hands, and it skidded across the muddy ground until if finally landed far to the right of the battlefield.
Breathing heavily, Britain pointed his weapon straight at his rebellious colony. The taller blonde’s face was devoid of emotion, and it hurt his caretaker to see it that way. Are you not affected at all? Not angry, not sad, nothing? Doesn’t this hurt you? The way it does me?
“Shoot me,” America spoke calmly. His blue eyes stared into England’s with deep intensity, as if could see through the nation’s body straight to his soul, and see all the turmoil that ran amuck.
His eyes. They blended in with the storm clouds in the background perfectly. But that wasn’t important. What was important was how dead they were. They no longer procured the sparkle from his childhood. They didn’t gleam playfully they way they had all those years. These weren’t the eyes of a helpless child. They were the eyes of a country. In that moment, England realized even if he shot the American, it would stop nothing. Internally, he was already independent. There was nothing the Brit could do to bring him back.
Realizing his defeat, the old caretaker of America sank to his knees on the battlefield, the bayonet falling out of his hands and tears rolling down his cheeks. He’s gone, the older nation though in anguish, and he put his head in his hands to mask the sobs. It was a futile attempt. “Dammit,” he cried, “I can’t do it. You win, goddammit!” He looked up through his tears to see the imperturbable American watching him sobbing. If he felt anything, it didn’t show.
For a few minutes, America just stood there, absorbing his hysterical ex-caretaker on his knees, at the newfound nation’s complete mercy, sobbing as if someone had smashed his heart and burned the remains. After he had taken it all in, he snapped out of his supposed stupor, and turned his back to the sniveling nation before him, motioning for his soldiers to follow him as he walked away.
England wanted desperately to follow him, but his legs wouldn’t comply. The best he could do was to silently stretch a hand out toward the nation whose back was turned and wouldn’t see it. He tried to call out, but the only noises he could manage to form were undignified sobs. All Britain could do was cry as he watched everything he cared for walk away from him.
The lonely blonde buried his face in the fabric of the chair, threw his arms around the back as if the piece of furniture were his comforter, and let the sobs overtake him. Heartbreak had never before felt so literal; he could feel the horrible ache in the center of his chest. It was burning through him, and he hated it. He sobbed and sobbed until his body could not physically produce any more tears, and, out of fatigue, he fell into a deep sleep.
But the terrible memories still plagued him, even in his dreams. Flashbacks of America’s childhood, when he was just a wide-eyed boy, the gory battle for the freedom of the taller blonde, deadened, glazed-over, topaz-eyes eyes of a new country… Needless to say, England’s sleep was fitful and uncomfortable. Are you okay, England?…I wish you could come and see me more often…England, I want independence…
England sprang out of his sleep in a cold sweat…or was it just the leftover rainwater? He hadn’t any idea… He rubbed his slick forehead with his palm, and was about to collapse back over the chair when he heard a familiar voice call out his name. “…England?”
No, that wasn’t a familiar voice…it was an impossible voice. A voice that couldn’t exist here. Yet he was so sure…
Just then, a figure clothed in blue shuffled out of the nearest hallway into full view. Britain’s green eyes widened in disbelief.
“…America?”
A/N: And that’s a wrap…for this chapter, anyhow. God, I thought I’d never finished. Who knew Nickelodeon could be that distracting? I got to one thousand words, though, so I’d call that a success. I know this cliffhanger doesn’t really make sense at the moment, but just wait. I just had to get through some exposition here. Then I’ll probably do a couple chapters of complete fluffery before I get to the turning point of the plot, which reminds me… I ACTUALLY HAVE A PLOT PLANNED OUT! Like, this isn’t just random writing that I’m just throwing out there and hoping to turn into a story through magic and ex-machina! WOO! Anyways, see you non-existent readers later! (Or never… life could get in the way. Man, I hate life.)
Signing Off,
@FabulousFerret
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