[Fanfic] A Christmas Gift
Dec. 24th, 2010 02:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
bersekerTitle: A Christmas Gift
Rating: Free.
Warnings: Some angst. And then fluff.
Summary: England gave him so many things. And he took away so much too, but- gave him so much. It would be nice to give him something, too.
With my eternal gratitude to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
bluemyst19, for beta-reading it for me.
For my dearsakuratsukikage. I love you and I hope you won’t hate me after this ♥
It's Christmas Eve in 1944 and England sits here and looks at America, and America feels invisible.
He doesn't like it, never did. And he remembers that look from before, and back then he would sulk and be noisy or kick something because the unfairness of that look would hurt, until the day England picked him up and sat him on his lap and explained, with that faraway look on his eyes, and soft voice and long pauses as if he wasn't even here, wasn't talking to America at all, that it wasn't about him, he was just sad, or angry or hurting over something else. Something different, that America couldn't understand, and he wouldn't want to explain anyway because it was none of his business so could he please stop acting like a brat and behave?
And back in that day so long ago, a very young America had looked up at this Empire, silent and wide eyes, and ignored everything to focus on the important part, that was the fact that England – England! - was hurting. And that seemed impossible, like there was something very wrong in the universe and the whole world had turned into... another world, an impossible one where crazy things happened and brave, caring, loving people like England got hurt, and that meant he had to do something to restore the order in the universe.
It had been easy, back then. He could find some special bright colored flower to bring him, or convince him to go outside to show him the stars or the snow or just sit quietly by his side. It didn't even take long. It made England sigh, and then pat his shoulder or pet his hair or maybe take him on his arms again, and hold him, and the mere fact that America was there with him would work out the miracle.
That was then.
He can't do that now, not anymore. Now England sits here, and looks at the window, and he's very quiet. And America stands by his side – and he wants to sit too, damn it, his legs are tired, but he's pretending he doesn't care because the other chair is too far away and he doesn't want to make any noise dragging it here, and anyway why would he? He wants to sit, but not here, and not like this. Not staring lifelessly at this stupid window, watching England brood as he tries to come up with something that doesn't sound stupid.
Like the fact that, hey, at least they can open the window. It's something, right? More than what they could do last year, with the threat of the bombings and all. And anyway they should be happy they're here and not at the battlefield, even if this hurts a little because it feels unfair and undeserved, but it's Christmas and it's the perfect time to feel grateful.
There are more, if they look for it. The chair. America knows England loves this chair, it's... well, as stuffy and intimidating as he is, and old, too, so he should be grateful for it. The books, the carpet. The mantelpiece with all the silly, pretty little things England likes to have around, and the fireplace they can light up tonight, or maybe tomorrow or whenever they want. The window itself, because the glass survived the bombings and four years of war now – that's some pretty sturdy glass, right? And England should feel happy about it.
This is what America wants to say. He almost does. But his mouth refuses to open, and England looks at him like that, and he feels invisible, and it's just like that time from back then.
America is older now, and wiser – as much as England denies that, he feels wiser, so there – and now he knows England can hurt, and hurt a lot, too. And he knows that sometimes he sort of maybe deserves it, a little. Because he can hurt people too, America knows that, and some nations know it even better than him and he knows that too, and it happens, shit happens, big deal, let's move on.
Except he can't. Just like back then, just like before. It feels wrong. England should be angry, America can handle anger. Or... frowning and doing that weird British thing of his, looking down on people for not being as proper and annoying as himself or whatever, something that it's not just staring at his city like that, like he's suffering and he's hopeless and like America's presence here doesn't even matter.
America wants to say this too. And maybe shake him. And remind him he should be happy, because it's almost over, the war it's almost over, they're winning and England knows that.
Should know, anyway.
But the silence is too heavy, so he doesn't, and now England just sits and America stands, and doesn't say a thing.
It hadn't been always like that.
Two Christmas ago, England was happy. Everything was sort of going to hell on a basket and he had almost died – America still didn't want to think about it, thank you – and he had been alone for so long – ok not alone but without America – but even so he was happy.
Christmas had been... less than perfect, yes, without lights or gifts or anything really festive, but there had been something nice in the way the fireplace would cast light and shadows all over the room, and make the leather of the couch glitter and how the place seemed so warm in contrast with the cold outside. And England's eyes were so soft, that night, and he had smiled, and said things he probably didn't mean, things like how it wouldn't take too long now because America was here – he hadn't say it but he had implied it – and how they were together and how the war would be over in no time, and he went as far as saying they would celebrate together, that next Christmas they would have a huge party just like America wanted, and America's face was growing warm with all that implied praise and when he had said he didn't have any gift to give him, feeling bad because it was Christmas and he should have one, England just smiled and squeezed his shoulder and said he shouldn't worry about it.
… okay, so later he ruined it by giving him a gift, one of the embroiders he loved doing with America's flag and it looked beautiful so America felt guilty anyway, but still. England had said it. Just like that, like he had been thinking about it so much and for so long that the words were already there, ready to spill out.
It hadn't been always like that, either.
Three Christmas ago England had gone all the way to Washington just to call America every bad word he knew, and he knew millions of them, and to tell him he was enjoying this, the war, the whole thing, to say that America liked making him wait and hope and beg – as if he had begged, America thought, but whatever -and the next day he apologized for screaming and for saying improper stuff and England never apologized, ever, so America knew that meant he was absolutely furious.
Five Christmas ago, they hadn't seen each other. America stared at the phone for hours, trying to guess if calling him would end up in another fight or if England would be stiff and cold or what, and in the end he didn't even send him a card, and then he regretted it because England sent him one.
It just said Merry Christmas, and it wasn't warm or friendly or anything and England had probably done it on purpose, but still.
He could go on. Ten years, and then twenty, and then fifty and one hundred, from clothes to books to toys to a set of little wood painted British soldiers that America had never found the, erm, time, yes, the time to throw away. And he could keep going all the way back to the first time England had given him a Christmas gift that was pretty much like giving him Christmas itself, and he had smiled and wished he had thought of making something for him too, something more than sitting next to him watching that quiet, faraway look come into his eyes.
Well.
Right now, the best gift would be to end this war. And America will, he's sure of it, he'll win the stupid thing and then there will be peace and they will have so much to sort out, but it will feel different. Better. Brighter. And the world will be a better place after all this, he's sure of it. So he'll win this war.
Just not today. And not in time for Christmas, as much as it pains him to admit, and that's probably the reason for England's mood. Because he had believed. Two years ago, he thought America would make a difference, but that was then and this is now, and now, after seven hundred days or so they're still fighting, and the epic high from the D-day has faded because Germany's still fighting too and peace looks nowhere near in sight, at least for England, and he-
That's not a nice thought. It makes America feel weird, and a little sick, as if someone just punched him from the inside, but- well.
England is disappointed. In him. Because he had been so happy before, and America didn't live up to his expectations, and-
-and he won't do this. If England wants him to hear it, he will have to say it, because America refuses to do it for him. So there.
And America is tired of seeing him like this, of seeing the energy of the success they had back in June fading more and more, to see England so tired, sitting like that for hours staring at the city from the window, and ignoring America's presence so much that he doesn’t even notices when America leaves the room. Days and days of this, maybe more, and it doesn’t look like he’ll stop anytime soon, and America is tired of being invisible.
It's just that… well. England gave him so many things. And he took away so much too, but- gave him so much. It would be nice to give him something, too. Something for all the times he didn't and England sent him stuff he made himself, something he can put on his mantelpiece and look at whenever he feels down, something to remind him of hope and light and victory and America.
And, you know? He has just the right plan for this.
Now. He just needs to find some wood.
So now it’s Christmas, and England still sits by the window, and looks at America like he's not even here. And America can't guess what he's thinking, but it’s Christmas, and he is here, and England will have to acknowledge that and he can go back to brooding later, if he really wants to.
He won't, of course, but that's not the point. America smiles, and tries to ignore the weird feeling England's glare gives him, and honestly, he should be used to it by now. He tries to ignore the glare, and the feeling, and all the little whispered words going round and round inside his head – saying things like remember how happy he looked then, you're taking too long, he thinks you're useless – and says Merry Christmas, and it sounds way too loud.
It would be nice to have some music here. Maybe they can sing, later.
… okay, maybe not. But still. It would be nice. And England glares some more, but then he relents and sighs:
“Merry Christmas, America.”
“Yeah, that's the spirit! Hey, I have something for you.”
… that’s not what he wanted to say. Not how he wanted to say it. He wanted to make some suspense first, and see if he could make England at least smile a little before, because this way it feels like he'll take a look at the gift and just shrugs and go back to the sad empty space inside his head and that's not what America wants at all, but now it's too late and England is raising his eyebrows and he looks interested, so- it's something?
America gives him a box that suddenly looks very small. And silly. And he still thinks England should appreciate whatever he gets, because it's not like he can just go and find the rights papers for this and bows and stuff but even so he wishes he could.
Still, England sits a little straighter, surprised, and it's like he didn't know America meant it literally and his cheeks are a little red now, and he starts saying things, saying that America shouldn't have, they don't have the money for things like that and shouldn't worry about silly things like gifts and-
Then he stops.
He holds the little soldier with the American uniform – cool pilot leather jacket and all, and that had been a pain to carve- and America's face keeps getting warmer because he feels stupid, honestly, so he starts speaking very fast and really loud:
“Well you see I thought looked a bit, erm, depressed and stuff lately, and it's probably just you being you but you know, I thought you forgot some very important facts, like, the fact that I'm here, and you can't forget that because I am, obviously, so I figured I should make you remember it because it's important, but I said that already, and- what did you say?”
“I didn't forget about you,” England says, a little louder this time, and doesn't comment on America's rambling, he just stares at the little soldier, and his face looks red too so at least there's that, America thinks, and then England says, very softly, “Did you do this yourself?”
He almost says no. He wants to say no. He doesn't want to admit to going to all this trouble, and finding the wood and then carving the stupid thing and hurting his hand and figuring out a way to make the uniform because it's harder than it looks, and then changing his mind a million times in the last two days and now England just sits here and waits with that silly little toy in his hand, and America remembers a different set of little soldiers and how warm England's smile had been back then, and the gleam in his eyes two years ago, and he says:
“I did. I thought you'd like it.”
England nods.
And then nothing, and America waits and tries to figure out something to say now, but he can't think of anything, and then England whispers:
“Well, this is unexpected. I'm sorry, I- well. This is- I didn't have the time to-”
“Oh, it doesn't matter,” America says, hastily, “It's okay, really, I wasn't expecting anything.”
England looks at him. He's smiling, but America can see his lips trembling a little so he gives up, because this is hopeless, he won't make England happy and it's stupid. And useless. And pointless.
He shrugs:
“So yeah, don't worry. I just wanted to give you something, so you'll know I'm still here. That's all.”
England nods again, and he's still holding the toy and he gets up, and it's weird because he's usually... well, not graceful, but collected, and in control or something, and now he looks almost dizzy. And he blinks many times, very fast, and says,
“Well, then. Thank you. I appreciate it.”
America nods too. What a waste of time, he thinks, and whatever, it's not like he-
England holds his shoulder, still not looking at him. And then he squeezes it a little, and it looks like he's going to say something, but then something happens, and America is not sure how but then England's arms are tight around his waist and his shoulder, and England pulls him close (England pulls him close!) and America is happy England can't see his face going red and his eyes going wide and then he remembers he should hug him back because England is holding him and-
“Thank you,” England says, and he's smiling, America can tell by the sound of his voice. He always could.
So he starts rambling again:
“You're welcome, England, really, we're going to beat them, you'll see, it will be over soon and then we can do, uh, other stuff, rebuild everything and it will be even better than before, I swear, you'll see, I'm here, and I'll win this war and-”
So on, for what seems like a long time, and he can almost swear England is chuckling, so America holds him as tight as he can without hurting him or anything like that, and England holds him too and listens and see, he liked it, and maybe he still remembers that first set of soldiers from before, and maybe that's why he gave them in the first place. To remember.
“We'll win,” he says, one last time just for emphasis, so England won't forget, “I swear. It will be over by next Christmas.”
“Very well,” England says, and it sounds warmed then his voice sounded in ages. He lets go first, of course, and America let's him go too, and then he looks away because now England's face looks red but so does his, and he tries to cough and act normal but he can't even remember what normal feels like.
England's eyes are soft, even if now he's serious again and he's still holding the little soldier. His mouth looks soft too, like he wants to smile again, so America smiles for both of them.
“I mean it, England, you'll see. That's a hero's promise.”
It hadn't been always like that, no, but this feels good, better than before. Giving him something. Making him smile. Even better than America thought it would be, and that's a whole lot of better-ness there.
So he stands, and now the room is empty, the night outside is clear and there's still a war raging, somewhere (but not for long, he swears, not for long). Next year, there will be lights and nice food and all the nice things in the world. Because by then it will be over.
America smiles. He can't help it, he smiles at the empty room, and feels warm and happy and it's-
Uh, sort of unfair, because if he's feeling that great, it means England gave him something too, in the end. Trust him to be sneaky like that. But.
Still.
He stands there alone and smiles and remembers, and feels the lingering warmth of England’s arms around him, and – war and all – he feels happier than he had felt in years.
~*~
AN:... no author notes. Just one: I love you, darling, and I wish you a Merry Christmas ♥
Rating: Free.
Warnings: Some angst. And then fluff.
Summary: England gave him so many things. And he took away so much too, but- gave him so much. It would be nice to give him something, too.
With my eternal gratitude to
bluemyst19, for beta-reading it for me. For my dear
sakuratsukikage. I love you and I hope you won’t hate me after this ♥It's Christmas Eve in 1944 and England sits here and looks at America, and America feels invisible.
He doesn't like it, never did. And he remembers that look from before, and back then he would sulk and be noisy or kick something because the unfairness of that look would hurt, until the day England picked him up and sat him on his lap and explained, with that faraway look on his eyes, and soft voice and long pauses as if he wasn't even here, wasn't talking to America at all, that it wasn't about him, he was just sad, or angry or hurting over something else. Something different, that America couldn't understand, and he wouldn't want to explain anyway because it was none of his business so could he please stop acting like a brat and behave?
And back in that day so long ago, a very young America had looked up at this Empire, silent and wide eyes, and ignored everything to focus on the important part, that was the fact that England – England! - was hurting. And that seemed impossible, like there was something very wrong in the universe and the whole world had turned into... another world, an impossible one where crazy things happened and brave, caring, loving people like England got hurt, and that meant he had to do something to restore the order in the universe.
It had been easy, back then. He could find some special bright colored flower to bring him, or convince him to go outside to show him the stars or the snow or just sit quietly by his side. It didn't even take long. It made England sigh, and then pat his shoulder or pet his hair or maybe take him on his arms again, and hold him, and the mere fact that America was there with him would work out the miracle.
That was then.
He can't do that now, not anymore. Now England sits here, and looks at the window, and he's very quiet. And America stands by his side – and he wants to sit too, damn it, his legs are tired, but he's pretending he doesn't care because the other chair is too far away and he doesn't want to make any noise dragging it here, and anyway why would he? He wants to sit, but not here, and not like this. Not staring lifelessly at this stupid window, watching England brood as he tries to come up with something that doesn't sound stupid.
Like the fact that, hey, at least they can open the window. It's something, right? More than what they could do last year, with the threat of the bombings and all. And anyway they should be happy they're here and not at the battlefield, even if this hurts a little because it feels unfair and undeserved, but it's Christmas and it's the perfect time to feel grateful.
There are more, if they look for it. The chair. America knows England loves this chair, it's... well, as stuffy and intimidating as he is, and old, too, so he should be grateful for it. The books, the carpet. The mantelpiece with all the silly, pretty little things England likes to have around, and the fireplace they can light up tonight, or maybe tomorrow or whenever they want. The window itself, because the glass survived the bombings and four years of war now – that's some pretty sturdy glass, right? And England should feel happy about it.
This is what America wants to say. He almost does. But his mouth refuses to open, and England looks at him like that, and he feels invisible, and it's just like that time from back then.
America is older now, and wiser – as much as England denies that, he feels wiser, so there – and now he knows England can hurt, and hurt a lot, too. And he knows that sometimes he sort of maybe deserves it, a little. Because he can hurt people too, America knows that, and some nations know it even better than him and he knows that too, and it happens, shit happens, big deal, let's move on.
Except he can't. Just like back then, just like before. It feels wrong. England should be angry, America can handle anger. Or... frowning and doing that weird British thing of his, looking down on people for not being as proper and annoying as himself or whatever, something that it's not just staring at his city like that, like he's suffering and he's hopeless and like America's presence here doesn't even matter.
America wants to say this too. And maybe shake him. And remind him he should be happy, because it's almost over, the war it's almost over, they're winning and England knows that.
Should know, anyway.
But the silence is too heavy, so he doesn't, and now England just sits and America stands, and doesn't say a thing.
It hadn't been always like that.
Two Christmas ago, England was happy. Everything was sort of going to hell on a basket and he had almost died – America still didn't want to think about it, thank you – and he had been alone for so long – ok not alone but without America – but even so he was happy.
Christmas had been... less than perfect, yes, without lights or gifts or anything really festive, but there had been something nice in the way the fireplace would cast light and shadows all over the room, and make the leather of the couch glitter and how the place seemed so warm in contrast with the cold outside. And England's eyes were so soft, that night, and he had smiled, and said things he probably didn't mean, things like how it wouldn't take too long now because America was here – he hadn't say it but he had implied it – and how they were together and how the war would be over in no time, and he went as far as saying they would celebrate together, that next Christmas they would have a huge party just like America wanted, and America's face was growing warm with all that implied praise and when he had said he didn't have any gift to give him, feeling bad because it was Christmas and he should have one, England just smiled and squeezed his shoulder and said he shouldn't worry about it.
… okay, so later he ruined it by giving him a gift, one of the embroiders he loved doing with America's flag and it looked beautiful so America felt guilty anyway, but still. England had said it. Just like that, like he had been thinking about it so much and for so long that the words were already there, ready to spill out.
It hadn't been always like that, either.
Three Christmas ago England had gone all the way to Washington just to call America every bad word he knew, and he knew millions of them, and to tell him he was enjoying this, the war, the whole thing, to say that America liked making him wait and hope and beg – as if he had begged, America thought, but whatever -and the next day he apologized for screaming and for saying improper stuff and England never apologized, ever, so America knew that meant he was absolutely furious.
Five Christmas ago, they hadn't seen each other. America stared at the phone for hours, trying to guess if calling him would end up in another fight or if England would be stiff and cold or what, and in the end he didn't even send him a card, and then he regretted it because England sent him one.
It just said Merry Christmas, and it wasn't warm or friendly or anything and England had probably done it on purpose, but still.
He could go on. Ten years, and then twenty, and then fifty and one hundred, from clothes to books to toys to a set of little wood painted British soldiers that America had never found the, erm, time, yes, the time to throw away. And he could keep going all the way back to the first time England had given him a Christmas gift that was pretty much like giving him Christmas itself, and he had smiled and wished he had thought of making something for him too, something more than sitting next to him watching that quiet, faraway look come into his eyes.
Well.
Right now, the best gift would be to end this war. And America will, he's sure of it, he'll win the stupid thing and then there will be peace and they will have so much to sort out, but it will feel different. Better. Brighter. And the world will be a better place after all this, he's sure of it. So he'll win this war.
Just not today. And not in time for Christmas, as much as it pains him to admit, and that's probably the reason for England's mood. Because he had believed. Two years ago, he thought America would make a difference, but that was then and this is now, and now, after seven hundred days or so they're still fighting, and the epic high from the D-day has faded because Germany's still fighting too and peace looks nowhere near in sight, at least for England, and he-
That's not a nice thought. It makes America feel weird, and a little sick, as if someone just punched him from the inside, but- well.
England is disappointed. In him. Because he had been so happy before, and America didn't live up to his expectations, and-
-and he won't do this. If England wants him to hear it, he will have to say it, because America refuses to do it for him. So there.
And America is tired of seeing him like this, of seeing the energy of the success they had back in June fading more and more, to see England so tired, sitting like that for hours staring at the city from the window, and ignoring America's presence so much that he doesn’t even notices when America leaves the room. Days and days of this, maybe more, and it doesn’t look like he’ll stop anytime soon, and America is tired of being invisible.
It's just that… well. England gave him so many things. And he took away so much too, but- gave him so much. It would be nice to give him something, too. Something for all the times he didn't and England sent him stuff he made himself, something he can put on his mantelpiece and look at whenever he feels down, something to remind him of hope and light and victory and America.
And, you know? He has just the right plan for this.
Now. He just needs to find some wood.
So now it’s Christmas, and England still sits by the window, and looks at America like he's not even here. And America can't guess what he's thinking, but it’s Christmas, and he is here, and England will have to acknowledge that and he can go back to brooding later, if he really wants to.
He won't, of course, but that's not the point. America smiles, and tries to ignore the weird feeling England's glare gives him, and honestly, he should be used to it by now. He tries to ignore the glare, and the feeling, and all the little whispered words going round and round inside his head – saying things like remember how happy he looked then, you're taking too long, he thinks you're useless – and says Merry Christmas, and it sounds way too loud.
It would be nice to have some music here. Maybe they can sing, later.
… okay, maybe not. But still. It would be nice. And England glares some more, but then he relents and sighs:
“Merry Christmas, America.”
“Yeah, that's the spirit! Hey, I have something for you.”
… that’s not what he wanted to say. Not how he wanted to say it. He wanted to make some suspense first, and see if he could make England at least smile a little before, because this way it feels like he'll take a look at the gift and just shrugs and go back to the sad empty space inside his head and that's not what America wants at all, but now it's too late and England is raising his eyebrows and he looks interested, so- it's something?
America gives him a box that suddenly looks very small. And silly. And he still thinks England should appreciate whatever he gets, because it's not like he can just go and find the rights papers for this and bows and stuff but even so he wishes he could.
Still, England sits a little straighter, surprised, and it's like he didn't know America meant it literally and his cheeks are a little red now, and he starts saying things, saying that America shouldn't have, they don't have the money for things like that and shouldn't worry about silly things like gifts and-
Then he stops.
He holds the little soldier with the American uniform – cool pilot leather jacket and all, and that had been a pain to carve- and America's face keeps getting warmer because he feels stupid, honestly, so he starts speaking very fast and really loud:
“Well you see I thought looked a bit, erm, depressed and stuff lately, and it's probably just you being you but you know, I thought you forgot some very important facts, like, the fact that I'm here, and you can't forget that because I am, obviously, so I figured I should make you remember it because it's important, but I said that already, and- what did you say?”
“I didn't forget about you,” England says, a little louder this time, and doesn't comment on America's rambling, he just stares at the little soldier, and his face looks red too so at least there's that, America thinks, and then England says, very softly, “Did you do this yourself?”
He almost says no. He wants to say no. He doesn't want to admit to going to all this trouble, and finding the wood and then carving the stupid thing and hurting his hand and figuring out a way to make the uniform because it's harder than it looks, and then changing his mind a million times in the last two days and now England just sits here and waits with that silly little toy in his hand, and America remembers a different set of little soldiers and how warm England's smile had been back then, and the gleam in his eyes two years ago, and he says:
“I did. I thought you'd like it.”
England nods.
And then nothing, and America waits and tries to figure out something to say now, but he can't think of anything, and then England whispers:
“Well, this is unexpected. I'm sorry, I- well. This is- I didn't have the time to-”
“Oh, it doesn't matter,” America says, hastily, “It's okay, really, I wasn't expecting anything.”
England looks at him. He's smiling, but America can see his lips trembling a little so he gives up, because this is hopeless, he won't make England happy and it's stupid. And useless. And pointless.
He shrugs:
“So yeah, don't worry. I just wanted to give you something, so you'll know I'm still here. That's all.”
England nods again, and he's still holding the toy and he gets up, and it's weird because he's usually... well, not graceful, but collected, and in control or something, and now he looks almost dizzy. And he blinks many times, very fast, and says,
“Well, then. Thank you. I appreciate it.”
America nods too. What a waste of time, he thinks, and whatever, it's not like he-
England holds his shoulder, still not looking at him. And then he squeezes it a little, and it looks like he's going to say something, but then something happens, and America is not sure how but then England's arms are tight around his waist and his shoulder, and England pulls him close (England pulls him close!) and America is happy England can't see his face going red and his eyes going wide and then he remembers he should hug him back because England is holding him and-
“Thank you,” England says, and he's smiling, America can tell by the sound of his voice. He always could.
So he starts rambling again:
“You're welcome, England, really, we're going to beat them, you'll see, it will be over soon and then we can do, uh, other stuff, rebuild everything and it will be even better than before, I swear, you'll see, I'm here, and I'll win this war and-”
So on, for what seems like a long time, and he can almost swear England is chuckling, so America holds him as tight as he can without hurting him or anything like that, and England holds him too and listens and see, he liked it, and maybe he still remembers that first set of soldiers from before, and maybe that's why he gave them in the first place. To remember.
“We'll win,” he says, one last time just for emphasis, so England won't forget, “I swear. It will be over by next Christmas.”
“Very well,” England says, and it sounds warmed then his voice sounded in ages. He lets go first, of course, and America let's him go too, and then he looks away because now England's face looks red but so does his, and he tries to cough and act normal but he can't even remember what normal feels like.
England's eyes are soft, even if now he's serious again and he's still holding the little soldier. His mouth looks soft too, like he wants to smile again, so America smiles for both of them.
“I mean it, England, you'll see. That's a hero's promise.”
It hadn't been always like that, no, but this feels good, better than before. Giving him something. Making him smile. Even better than America thought it would be, and that's a whole lot of better-ness there.
So he stands, and now the room is empty, the night outside is clear and there's still a war raging, somewhere (but not for long, he swears, not for long). Next year, there will be lights and nice food and all the nice things in the world. Because by then it will be over.
America smiles. He can't help it, he smiles at the empty room, and feels warm and happy and it's-
Uh, sort of unfair, because if he's feeling that great, it means England gave him something too, in the end. Trust him to be sneaky like that. But.
Still.
He stands there alone and smiles and remembers, and feels the lingering warmth of England’s arms around him, and – war and all – he feels happier than he had felt in years.
AN:... no author notes. Just one: I love you, darling, and I wish you a Merry Christmas ♥
