[log] you had the power to know [closed]

[keepscalm]

Characters: England, America, Ginger, and maybe Charles?
Location: Various (buildings 49, 58, and 130)
Date: Days 153-155
Summary: Getting back together just in time for Valentine's Day, picking up tea, and then getting horrifically monstered.
Warnings: Mentions of character death; will edit for anything else

[49: A normal single-story house with a kitchen, living room, bathroom, and master bedroom. There's also a second bedroom that has been converted to a craft room; the crafts that have survived are dusty and mostly useless, being along the lines of scrapbooks and fabric cork boards. There's an old-fashioned but still working pedal-powered sewing machine here. A snowman has been built outside. "ALPHONSE ELRIC, STEPH BROWN, MAMI TOMOE, FREYA CRESCENT, EDWARD ELRIC, DAY TWENTY-EIGHT, TRAVELLING NORTH." has been carved into one of the walls.]

[58: A simple single-story building, the snow weighs uneasily on it, and it creaks and groans under the strain at the best of times. It's very dark, and only the kitchen and living room are intact. The kitchen has a back door. Two snowmen have been built outside. A message has been written on the wall in blue ink: "Don't wreck the snowmen! That's super mean!" "ALPHONSE ELRIC, MAMI TOMOE, FREYA CRESCENT, GREED, EDWARD ELRIC, STEPHANIE BROWN, DAY FORTY ONE, TRAVELLING EAST." has been carved into one of the walls. The following has been written on the wall in blue pen: "This is Building 95 97 on the composite map. Contact @CaptSteveRogers for details." Underneath this is a fairly accurate map showing the house in relation to the school and buildings 29, 35, 35, 37, 40, 41, 47, 48, 50, 53. House 34 is labeled "Medical assistance; hot, clean water. Contact Dr. Epps @claytonator". The school is labeled "School. Food available in cafeteria; DO NOT STAY HERE OVERNIGHT." The shed is labeled "Shed".]

[130: A decently-sized pharmacy. It must have once also had a small section for food, but the shelves are empty now. Sometimes medicine can be found here. Four of the floorboards have been pulled up in a corner of the pharmacy, revealing metal beneath. The following is drawn on the wall in blue ink: "This is Building 111 on the composite map. Medication sometimes available here. Contact @CaptSteveRogers for details." Underneath this is a fairly accurate map showing the pharmacy in relation to the hospital and buildings 58, 125, and 126. The hospital is labeled "Hospital; hospital morgue is UNSAFE, DO NOT STAY THERE OVERNIGHT." Building 58 is labeled "Ice tunnel north entrance." Near 126 he draws an arrow pointed southeast, labeled "This way to downtown area."]

Comments

[keepscalm]

I can give you poetry if that's what you want. [In his attempts to be clever, of course, England does not consider the potential consequences of saying something like this.]

[fifty]

[America has to admit the idea of someone reciting poetry for him in a romantic way makes it sound way more enticing than poetry would under any other circumstance.] Okay, do that instead.

[keepscalm]

[England freezes as soon as he realises what he has done. He opens his mouth once to speak, to no avail, before a sheepish chuckle eventually burbles out of him.] I thought that sort of thing bored you.

[fifty]

I won't be bored if it's good. [Come on, England, seduce him with words!]

[keepscalm]

[Suddenly England feels incredibly nervous. It's different when there's a tablet screen between them, or when passion renders England unable to overthink what he's going to say. This is very personal and intimate, and the consequences will be immediate.

He swallows thickly and drags a sonnet kicking and screaming from his memory. His accent changes, reverts back to the original pronunciation of the time of Shakespeare and Elizabeth.] As an unperfect actor on the stage...

[His eyes dart away from America's face, to his own hand where it slowly moves to rest atop America's heart.] Who with his fear is put beside his part—

[He stares at his fingers, pressed flat against the bulk of America's many shirts, and tries not to chew the corner of his lip.] Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage, whose strength's abundance weakens his own heart...

[The pause following this line is longer as England glances back to America's face, silently hoping for his approval thus far.]

[fifty]

[America's eyes are locked on England--following his motions, and looking him in the eye when England looks up at him. America's attention is rapt, caught in a way it rarely is.]

[keepscalm]

[Appropriately, England definitely feels like an actor who has forgotten his lines right now. He's trapped within the confines of their mutual gaze for a moment, trying to remember how to speak, or at least how to breathe.

When he manages a breath, it's deep and steadying. He dips his head down to deliver the next lines to America's neck. The coming segment is far too personal and England doesn't want America looking him in the face for it.] So I, for fear of trust, forget to say...the perfect ceremony of love's rite. And in mine own love's strength seem to decay, o'ercharged with burthen of mine own love's might.

[He presses forward to kiss America's neck a few times, his touch slow and reverent.] O, let my looks be then the eloquence, and dumb presagers of my speaking breast, who plead for love, and look for recompense, more than that tongue that more hath more express'd.

[For years he'd both hoped and feared that America would notice how profoundly England felt for him. It's ironic that America now demands to be romanced in this particular way. He kisses his way up to America's ear and shifts even closer.] O, learn to read what silent love hath writ: To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.

[fifty]

[America's heart flutters in his chest, crashing into his stomach and trying to escape through his throat and slip out through his ribcage like a trapped bird.] England-- [America can't just pull poetry out of his mind, though. He turns his head as he places a hand on England's cheek and moves it just enough that he can look England in the eye.] I love you.

[keepscalm]

[England almost feels nauseous with the anticipation. Why is this so much harder than just complimenting America for a reaction? It's not as if he's any less sincere in those situations, but it does make it easier to claim that he was joking if America reacts terribly.

He fidgets as America tugs him out of hiding, clearly nervous about what he might hear. His eyes widen in surprise when it isn't something dreadful, though it doesn't dissipate his nerves, even with the crooked smile that crosses his face. He's obviously struggling with having such attention put on him, and inevitably, his gaze wanders away to somewhere safer before he speaks.] Yeah. I— love you too.

[fifty]

[England still looks so nervous. America feels nervous, too, but he wants to make England look less like a scared rabbit. He kisses England.] I love you. [And again.] I really, [and again] really, [and again] really love you.

[keepscalm]

[It's rather unfair. England can't really look away while America is kissing him, but at least he can close his eyes. His heart feels like it's going to burst, like a pipe under too much pressure, overwhelmed by the force of America's affections. What has he done to deserve this love, really?

He takes another deep breath and lets it out as a weak laugh. He's trying to play it off like a joke, but it's not his most effective act.] You don't have to say all that.

[It is just out of consideration for America's lack of eloquence, that's all.]

[fifty]

I mean it. [America is insistant.] I can't do poetry, but I mean it.

[keepscalm]

[Even just the idea of America reciting poetry is enough to embarrass England. He purses his lips and tries to ignore the burning blush of his own face. In the interest of perhaps being less pathetic, he grumbles something a bit closer to normal.] Silly git. You'd better mean it.

[fifty]

Would I lie to you? [Maybe a dumb question, being nations, but America would never lie to England about something like this, which is what he means.]

[keepscalm]

[England, being a liar himself, doesn't really know how to handle this question. Certainly, America isn't quite as dishonest of a person as England, but he still has his duplicitous tendencies. And England wouldn't be having so much trouble if he didn't expect everyone to lie.

Achingly aware of his missing sense again, England's gaze falls.] Well, I hope not.

[fifty]

[America frowns a little bit and runs his fingers through England's hair.] I mean I'm not lying.

[keepscalm]

That would be a rather cruel thing to lie about. [And usually America is not the type for cruelty of that sort. England has enough sense to know that.]

[fifty]

Yeah! [It super would be.] So I'm not, so don't worry!

[keepscalm]

[England lets out a sigh that he didn't realise he was holding in.] I don't think you're lying. Just...

[How to say it? England lifts a shoulder in half a shrug.] ...it feels too good to be true, and all that rubbish.

[It's trite, but he doesn't have any more poetry in him for the time being.]

[fifty]

[America doesn't usually think too much about it, since this sort of doubt is normal of England, but this is a reminder he really hates it when England talks like that, or thinks like that, or--believes that about things that happen to him. He hugs England more resolutely, maybe a little too tight.] I'm right here, and so are you. So, like... It's good and it's true at the same time. Or whatever.

[keepscalm]

[It's not exactly a gentle embrace, but England welcomes it and leans into it all the same, grasping for the comfort it offers.] Yeah.

[And then another laugh, dry and tired.] Sorry. I was supposed to be seducing you.

[fifty]

I'm just glad you're back. [America's voice is muffled against England, which is probably why he can say that so directly.]

[keepscalm]

[England strokes his hand over America's back up and down, soothing and slow.] So am I.

[He's at peace with the idea of dying someday, but not here. Not like this. Go figure.

After a pause, England makes an addendum for context, trying to distance himself from the sadness of the fact.] It's not back yet.

[fifty]

{It's easy to relax with England's hand moving like that on his back. His grip becomes less painful.] It'll come back. It'll definitely come back.

[keepscalm]

I know. [They've never heard of someone losing something permanently. Still, being without it at all is torture.] Bit hard to feel like yourself when it's gone.

[Granted, England isn't great at dealing with emotions on his best days, but the stress of missing such a vital part of himself isn't making it any easier.]