conjure_lass: (Hetalia: America Brilliant Idea!)
[personal profile] conjure_lass
Title: The Way You Do
Character(s) or Pairing(s): UsxUk
Rating: PG
Warnings: Shameless Fluff, Self-Beta
Summary: The smallest things define a complex relationship.



The Way You Laugh

Steam rose in ghostly wisps from the surface of the bathwater, beading up against the mirror to run in tiny rivers down onto the vanity top. The walls, perfect aqua blue tiles, dripped with condensation, pooling onto a floor, making it dangerously slick. The foggy air smelled of lemons and oranges and pomegranates, drifting from the tub to the open doorway and into the adjoining bedroom.

England sat on the toilet, head propped against the wall, calm eyes staring at the ceiling, enjoying the homemade sauna. One arm extended outward, wrist resting against the rim of the bathtub, fingertips brushing against America’s before hooking their index fingers together. He seemed nearly asleep, chest deep in the scented bath, one calf dangling out of the tub, dripping water from his toes onto the bathmat.

“That was the longest, most boring meeting ever,” America murmured, voice drowsy and slurred. He shifted in the water, the sound of sloshing meeting England’s ears. He could hear the grin in America’s voice when he spoke. “I think we should boycott all future meetings unless they offer us complimentary Prozac beforehand.”

England chuckled under his breath, tugging idly at his undershirt with his free hand, feeling the thin fabric peel loudly away from his belly. “That would never work.”

“Why not?” Blue eyes scrutinized him from beneath tawny eyelashes, pearls of sweat running down his temples, wet bangs clinging to his forehead.

“Too weak. For France’s constant molestations we’d need at least Zoloft or Effexor.”

“Mmmm…true.”

Eyes sliding closed, England exhaled, willing each muscle in his body to relax, a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his lips when the tension began to ease. If he hadn’t been sitting on the loo he might have even fallen asleep (not that he hadn’t passed out in the bathroom before) but as things stood he definitely felt peaceful enough. All he could smell was the sharp tang of citrus and the vague hint of sweat and mildew. All he could hear was America humming to himself, some slow melody that England didn’t know, splashing his fingers into the water one by one to his own internal beat.

Or at least he was until he began shrieking like a little girl.

“America?!” England shouted, instantly sitting bolt upright. He opened his eyes just in time to see America’s bare behind streak past him, torrents of water pouring over the rim of the tub to completely soak the mat, the floor, and the front of England’s trousers. Unfortunately, the water on the floor proved to be a bit problematic, and before America could reach the doorway he’d slipped and fallen hard on his bum, clutching at it as he cried out in pain.

“Idiot! What on Earth is the matter with you?” England stood up, looking down at his sodden pants with a frustrated growl. “You’d better have a damn good reason for making such a mess!”

“There’s a spider!” America turned to glance over his shoulder from where he’d pushed himself to his hands and knees, naked butt shining at England for all it was worth. “It’s in the water!”

“What?”

“It’s floating in the water!!”

Lo and behold, there was indeed a rather large, rather imposing spider floating, dead as the proverbial doornail, in the water. England, shoulders shuddering in his attempt to control his laughter, reached over and grabbed a cup from the countertop, wordlessly scooping up the dead arachnid. He dumped it quickly into the toilet bowl, flushing it away with a brush of his hands and turned back to face America.

Then promptly lost all composure whatsoever.

Still facing the door, America had taken up burying his face near the drenched linoleum, hands clutched over his head, both blushing butt cheeks raised high into the air. It was so ridiculous, it was so endearing, it was so delicious, that England soon found himself propped against the rim of the tub, head thrown back with rich laughter, fingers clutching at his stomach as it began to ache.

“If only you could see yourself,” he gasped out, resisting the urge to rush up and take a nibble of those rosy cheeks. “You look like a debauched Water Babies advertisement!”

“I have no idea what you mean…but,” America moved to sit down, a worried expression on his face as he glanced toward the tub, “is it gone?”

“Yes, I assure you it’s quite gone.”

A pause. “Good! Because you’d better not tell anyone about this! Ever!”

“No one would believe it without photographic evidence. Besides…the sight of that bubble butt would probably be too distracting anyway.”

“Okay.” America stood unsteadily, reaching for a nearby towel to dry off his arms and shoulders. Suddenly, his eyes flew open wide and he waggled a finger in England’s general direction.

“HEY!”


The Way You Look

America didn’t know whether to be insulted or flattered. He settled for a strange mix of the two spiked with a healthy dose of arousal.

When he’d bought those pink bunny slippers two years ago, England had sworn up and down that he would rather lick every inch of France’s white ass than ever stoop to wearing them. America was inclined to believe him. After all, he had never seen them in England’s bedroom, nor his closet, nor his bathroom, nor his laundry room, nor his coat closet, and certainly not on his perfectly manicured toes. America had eventually assumed that they had found their way to the trashcan, never to be seen again but on some random dumpster diver’s feet in an RV by the river.

He had not assumed that England wore them for…this.

The sunlight was beaming up over the horizon, casting long shadows across the rolling English countryside, catching in the morning dew that clung to the flowers and grass. The chirping of songbirds ringing through the branches, the barking of dogs echoing in nearby yards, and the faintest rattling of cars on the distant road, all signified that the world was waking up around the small patch of private land. But within its hedged and secluded walls everything was still peaceful and calm, cut off from the hustle and bustle of modern life. It was like England’s property, his quiet home in the countryside outside Canterbury, was somehow held suspended in a little bubble of time.

Apparently, that gave rise to scenes like this.

A china blue teacup tinkled against its saucer as England raised it up to his lips, blowing softly over the top, the steam floating away into the faint breeze. He sipped at the liquid delicately, pinky out, eyes trained downwards where a newspaper sat covering his lap.

His naked lap. In fact…everything on England was naked. The growing morning light, softest yellow, was caressing each bare curve, every dip and swell, every amazingly exposed patch of creamy pale skin on England’s completely nude body. He sat in relaxed comfort, reclining gracefully in his wrought iron patio furniture, shoulders strong and straight in the back of the chair, legs crossed to hold the newspaper securely on top of them. Everything was all gorgeous skin and masculine angles…except for one thing.

The slippers. Every inch of him was bare except for those damn, fluffy, cotton candy pink bunny slippers with their beady eyes and happy little smiles.

America might have made his presence known, mentioned this absolutely hilarity, if not for the fact that England chose that particular moment for a really good stretch. Lazily reaching above his head, England’s shoulder blades extended and pulled under his skin, sensual and alive and strong. The motion was accompanied with soft grunting noises, of a few random joints popping in and out of place, and eventually by England sighing in contentment, sliding down a tad bit further in the chair. He pushed his messy bangs out of his eyes and continued with his paper, running a finger along the page to find where he’d left off.

For his part, America was completely dumbfounded. He’d long ago given up on standing and was sitting in the doorway instead, staring and drooling like a peeping tom and not giving a damn. He didn’t want this to end. He wanted to keep staring at England and his nakedness and his newspaper and his teacup and his bunny slippers forever and ever. Stare so long that it was burned into the backs of his eyes and painted into his memory for the rest of eternity.

But…England was a closet pervert. If he knew that America had seen this private moment, he might be too ashamed and humiliated to ever do it again! Unacceptable! A world where England didn’t have tea on his patio in nothing but the bunny slippers that America had bought him wasn’t a world worth living in! It was like a precious rare flower! Like a first edition X-Men comic! Like a baseball signed by Babe Ruth!

So, careful to keep his silence, America rose up and began sneaking backwards into the house, determined to get to his car and sit in it until at least 10:30am when he knew for sure that England would be through with his morning rituals. At least this particular one.

Thankfully, he was so concerned with emulating Mission Impossible that he never noticed the curious glance turn towards the set of double doors, nor the shake of a blond head, nor the muttering of a few affectionate curses. He never noticed England’s small grin, nor the roll of his eyes, nor the way he shrugged and continued with his newspaper, tipping his teacup back to get the last drops of mint flavored tea.

But it was just as well. England wasn’t through with the Food and Drink section anyway.


Knows Me by Heart

The Westminster Chimes rang slightly off-key from the old grandfather clock in the downstairs hallway, followed immediately by the heavy tolling of bells floating throughout the house.

*Bong* *Bong* *Bong*

3am already? America shoved away from the desk and pulled Texas from his nose, pinching and rubbing at the bridge, his eyebrows knit tightly together. He’d been at this for hours, toiling away on some stupid project on the state of American hydroponics that “absolutely had to be” finished by morning. He leaned his head back against the leather chair that England had bought him for Christmas and groaned.

He’d barely even known what hydroponics was when he’d started this five hours ago, now he wanted to go dunk his head into a vat of nutrient rich liquid and drown himself.

A car rumbled past the house, the beam of its headlights illuminating the walls of America’s home office. Delicate watercolors, soft pastels to startling primaries to stark neutrals, hung in every available space, seeming to glow in the temporary light of the vehicle before sinking back into the shadows. Mediocre at best, America kept them hidden from prying eyes, partially out of embarrassment, partially out of some deep need to keep at least some part of him…separate. Apart. Secret. Most things in his life were so exposed; he often needed solitude to maintain his sense of self.

Turning back to his laptop, he ran his fingers through the downy hairs at the base of his neck and sighed. He had already drunk an entire pot of coffee (hazelnut, French vanilla, mocha, that weird peppermint flavor leftover from Christmas) and the caffeine was barely keeping his mind above flat lining. Not to mention the subsequent trips to the bathroom were definitely putting a damper on progress. He needed something more mentally stimulating to wake up his thoughts and get him going again.

Something like…a video game!

Minimizing the file with his project on it, he scanned the screen for the appropriate icon, grinning when he found it amongst the chaos of his desktop. Here was another secret he kept from the world, though this one was for an entirely different reason. If anyone ever found out that he had become hopelessly addicted to World of Warcraft, he’d probably never live it down. Even worse would be if they knew that his avatar was a tiny little female gnome with bright pink hair.

He’d named her Liberty. So cute.

The loading screen was flashing across the display when a subtle buzzing sounded from the pocket of his jacket that lay strew across a nearby rocking chair. Who would be calling him at this time of night? Moving to retrieve his Blackberry, he looked curiously at the message as he sat back behind his desk. A picture from England? What kind of picture? Instantly, his mind flooded with mouthwatering images of his lover, that kinky bastard, in some kind of perverted pose for the camera. Maybe spread-eagled across that big four-poster bed of his or bent over that cherry desk or with his legs splayed wide open in the soft living room recliner. Well, no time like the present to find out!

Excited, America waited the few seconds it took for the picture to download.

Wait…this wasn’t sexy.

England was at his desk, but rather than pouting sexily for the camera as America had hoped, he instead held only a large white sketchpad and a big permanent marker. His tired green eyes peeked above the hand-written note, the dark circles below them evidence that he’d been up all night as well. He was pointing at the letters on the pad written in his loopy, bubbly handwriting.

~Get back to work!!~

Gaping, America ran a shaking hand down his face and cursed (not for the first time) his terrible misfortune in having a lover that knew him so damn well. Sighing wearily, he reluctantly closed the game and pulled the project back up, once more wishing that hydroponics could somehow breed a mutant tentacle plant that would come and choke him to death to save him from this bullshit.

The next message came shortly afterwards as America was pecking childishly at the keyboard, pouting at the sentences that seemed to become one boring blur right before his eyes. Another hand written-note. This one much more to his liking.

~♥U~


Your Tears Fall Right on Cue

This was, quite possibly, the most predictable plot England had ever seen. Wait…that wasn’t exactly right. It was more like he’d seen this particular plot so many times in other movies that he didn’t even need to bother predicting it. It couldn’t possibly end any other way. It was like Dances with Wolves meets Ferngully in space.

Not that he’d ever seen either of those horrid American travesties…he’d just read about them. Of course.

The only thing more predictable than the plot was probably America’s reaction to said plot, the telltale sniffling from the seat beside him that signified that the waterworks had begun. Right on cue. The lead actor and actress had found each other after the big climactic battle scene, tears of joy, la-de-da, let the rejoicing begin. Really, could this be any more cliché?

Well, at least the special effects were good. Not that America needed to hear that.

Speaking of America. England chanced a glance over at him to find that the other man had pulled his long legs towards himself, hugging his knees close so that he could rest his chin upon them. He was crying openly, bright eyes catching the light of the screen and reflecting it back, giving the appearance that his irises were alive with a hundred colors all eddying back on themselves. It was the same expression he’d worn when Bambi’s mother got shot, when Beth died in Little Women, when Rhett left Scarlett, when ET phoned home, and when the aliens had landed in Close Encounters of the Third Kind. Oddly enough, he’d laughed hysterically when Jack froze to death in Titanic…go figure.

It was all so completely predictable. So very America.

“Awww, it’s over,” America whispered as the credits began to roll, reaching up with his sleeve to dry his cheeks. “That was awesome! I can’t wait for it to come out on DVD.”

“Mmm,” England replied noncommittally, watching as the people began to slowly filter out of the theatre. Some remained behind, maybe waiting to see if there would be some kind of special scene after the credits had finished. Wasn’t that Leona Lewis singing? Well, at least this movie had one redeeming feature.

“I’m not going to ask if you liked it.” America poked England’s cheek playfully. England swatted the hand away. “You never like anything I take you to.”

“It wasn’t the worst movie I’ve ever seen. The CGI was rather nice, if a bit over the top,” England admitted, knowing that America was sensitive about whether or not people liked his movies. “And it was a bit long.”

“I know! I’m surprised an old man like you was able to hold your bladder for the entire thing!”

“Yes, well, next time I’ll be sure to bring my adult nappy, you complete prat.”

America laughed then, leaning close to nestle his head on England’s shoulder, his eyebrows coming together as though thinking of something very serious. England knew better. Nonsense was coming. Something that made sense only in the sparkly, shiny, Technicolor world of America’s mind. This was going to be absolutely and utterly…

“Hey, England.” America interrupted England’s train of thought with his soft voice. They looked at each other, America’s expression one of complete seriousness. “If we were in some kind of epic battle, would you ride a giant black cat-thing with enormous teeth to save me?”

See? Completely predictable.


Where I Can Reach the Stars

“I still can’t believe you rented out this entire planetarium just for one silly date.” England fluffed his pillow with a wry smile, situating himself, trying to get more comfortable on the small piece of floor that they’d taken up residence in.

“They owed me a favor anyway.” America waved an airy hand, squeezing England‘s nose as he passed it by. He crossed his arms over his head and rested it there, staring up at the planetarium ceiling, at the animated stars and planets swirling above them in endless nonsense patterns. “Besides, it’s not silly! You said you wanted a date under the stars and well…it’s the middle of January.”

“It could have waited.”

“Naaaah. This is just as good!”

It really wasn’t quite the same, but that didn’t much matter. In truth, England was secretly ecstatic that America had done something so intrinsically romantic without having to be poked and prodded into it. That certainly didn’t happen on a regular basis! Then again, the other nations might have been surprised to discover just how much of a sap America could be when he really put his mind to it. After all, this was the nation that had spawned Hollywood with all its endless romantic drivel.

But he really did have his moments.

Reaching for the open wine that sat between them, England brought the bottle to his lips for a sip (the wineglasses had been forgotten in the car, and they’d had to open the damn bottle with England’s Swiss Army knife) and subtly scooted closer to America. This was nice. The staff had left nearly an hour before, turning the projectors on loop and locking the two of them in with nothing but four pillows, a pan of sticky toffee pudding, and a bottle of surprisingly good Riesling. America, of course, had wanted the show about black holes put on repeat before they left, but England had vetoed that in favor of something a little more traditional.

Just the stars.

“This is nice,” America whispered, unknowingly echoing England‘s thoughts. Suddenly, a mischievous light filled his eyes and he was swiftly on the move, nimbly rolling atop England and securing his arms around him before any protest could be raised. America nodded in a pleased way when they had resituated themselves, as though appraising a hard job well done. He was probably inwardly congratulating himself on being so terribly stealthy. “This is better.”

“An entire hour without jumping me? I’m surprised it took you this long.” England snorted through his nose, abandoning pretense and raising his arms to draw America close. “You realize you won’t be able to see the stars this way though.”

“Sure I can!” Reaching both hands up to England’s face, America pulled his eyes open almost painfully wide, laughing when England began sputtering and struggling to get away without success. America’s subsequent grin was triumphant, something straight out of a Colgate commercial, gleaming and perfectly white.

“See?” America whispered, leaning close to focus on England’s eyes as though searching for something. “I can see the stars in your eyes.”

“That,” England chuckled, trying as hard as he could not to laugh outright at America’s attempts at romance. “Was quite possibly the cheesiest thing you have ever said to me.”

Pressing his lips together, America looked as though he were about to burst into laughter as well. “It was pretty cheesy, wasn’t it?”

“Terribly so.”

“Yeah…well, I bet you still liked it.” A challenging eyebrow.

“Maybe. Just don’t start waxing poetic about my kiss-swollen lips or my glittering emerald eyes and I think we’ll be all right.”

“Jesus Christ, England, I’m not France.”

“Ahhhh, I raised you right.”



Oh, this is TOTALLY based on a 98 degrees song. I'M NOT KIDDING. I'm also UNASHAMED by my bad taste in music.

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX

Cherry

Date: 2010-01-22 12:11 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] cmc42.livejournal.com
I'm not sure why but I absolutely adore the way you look section.

Also the line about France at the end was priceless.

Needs to find/make a hetalia icon. Right now

Date: 2010-01-22 09:53 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] conjure-lass.livejournal.com
There are just TONS of icons in the Hetalia community, though there are also TONS of posts. You'll have to use the tags and start searching. There are lots of pretties.

Date: 2010-01-22 10:17 pm (UTC)

Date: 2010-01-22 05:34 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] omgimsuchadork.livejournal.com
*blink* I did not just read three USUK fics... did I?

Date: 2010-01-22 09:54 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile] conjure-lass.livejournal.com
It's just because I write them so well. *pats self on back* Otherwise you'd hate it.

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