Chapter Text
America yawned for the second time in five minutes, with mouth opened wide and the smallest pop of his jaw. He rubbed at his cheek idly, cringing only slightly from the crack.
England eyed him warily from the passenger seat, arms crossed and looking customarily grumpy. “If you fall asleep and crash this car I am never forgiving you.”
“I’m not going to fall asleep, geez,” America whined. “The sun hasn’t even set completely yet. So why would I be tired?”
If looks could kill, England would have killed him on the spot—and then they really would have gotten into a crash and died (except that America would already be dead… his mind was wandering). It was a circular ‘what if’, but America usually thrived with such things—like a brain teaser, or something cool like that. He grinned sheepishly at England, still feeling that weird feeling in the pit of his stomach—giddy, unsure. Thrilled. That strange flop in his belly that he got whenever he looked at England for too long and realized holy crap, we kind of inexplicably like each other. It wouldn’t matter how long that fact was true, it seemed that flop would never rid itself. If England knew that America thought these things, the younger nation had no doubt that the other man would probably laugh in his face, or make fun of him for being so damned ridiculous. And then he’d blush and look out the window—the way he always did when he got embarrassed or cornered into admitting something, like, yes, I inexplicably kind of like you, too, it’s true.
Oh, the giddy feeling was back.
“… What?” England muttered, growing noticeably uneasy with America’s ridiculous, unexplained shit-eating grin.
America’s grin only seemed to widen, and he felt his cheeks flush. “Naw, nothing.”
England rolled his eyes and turned away, but not before America caught the flush on his cheeks—success! England looked out the window, and muttered, “Well, fine.”
They drove in relative silence. They were somewhere in the Midwest, on their way back to New York. Their bosses were waiting for them, and a world meeting was to take place a few days from then. They covered countless miles in one day (countless, because America didn’t want to count the miles down to when they’d have to stop their impromptu road trip), slept, and then continued on. They were slotted to arrive in New York City in a few days, though America joked that with the traffic, it’d be more like a week. Regardless, the two of them rattled through the backcountry of America’s expansive country, their tires kicking up dust and piling up the mileage on America’s old, beat-up red pick-up. Whenever England argued it’d be faster to just take a plane, America acted properly scandalized—how dare England suggest he leave his precious truck behind!
And now, with the sun setting behind them, one of America’s arms slung over the back of the seats, and England giving him his customary ‘if looks could kill’ look, America was feeling rather content. If not bored.
He yawned again.
England gave him a look. “Shall I drive so you can take a nap?”
“I am not going to fall asleep!” America protested, and rolled his eyes, tapping his fingers against his steering wheel and shifting the arm on his seat to shove playfully at the back of England’s head. The reward for his troubles was England mercilessly slapping his hand away and curling his lip up in displeasure. America laughed. “Don’t be so pissed-off looking, England. Riding in a car with me isn’t that bad.”
England’s nose twitched in a way that was actually rather cute, though America wasn’t about to point that out (and risk losing his hand to another savage slap). The other man looked away, turning his chin up in a huffy fashion.
“God, what crawled up your ass and died?” America asked, looking perplexed.
“You’re the only thing that’s been up there, so you tell me,” England said, shockingly prim, and without missing a beat—so quick and so completely nonchalant despite saying something so lewd. It actually made America sputter, which never, ever happened. He sputtered out a few incoherent words and England’s lips twitched again, this time into a victorious smirk.
“Okay—well. Um,” America said, intelligently so. And then stopped talking because he couldn’t think of anything coherent to say. He cleared his throat. “Yeah. Um.”
England straightened his tie—who the hell wears a tie on a road trip?—and seemed completely unruffled by this exchange, which was an odd one because it was usually America saying weird stuff that made England sputter. But England’s expression seemed to soften, just slightly, as the truck descended into a relatively uncomfortable silence. His cheeks flushed pink.
England grabbed America’s hand still draped over the back of the truck’s seat and placed it on the steering wheel along with its companion. “Focus on driving, fool.”
“I can focus one-handed,” America protested.
England quirked a brow. “Oh. I’m sure.”
“I didn’t mean it that way, you sick pervert,” America muttered, puffing up his cheeks, trying to look scandalized. He was not successful.
The sun was almost completely set, though. It was dusk, now, and America clicked on the headlights, driving down the empty highway just a little over the speed limit. He whistled slightly, and all the while he could feel England’s gaze on him. His rendition of “America the beautiful” was cut dramatically short by yet another yawn. He tried to swallow it and it only served in giving him a rather deranged look before the yawn won out and his eyes watered.
“Hm,” England said, and that was all.
America glanced at him and their eyes met. “What?”
England shrugged one shoulder, not taking his eyes off him. The way he was looking at him was quite possibly less than innocent, but America wasn’t prepared to look into that expression. England leaned back, propping his arm up against the window, hand curled and resting slightly against the slope of his jaw. Nonchalant, innocent. Watching him.
The older nation didn’t speak at first, and then said, primly, “I have a suggestion for how to keep you awake.”
“I’m not going to fall asleep,” America protested. “And I’m not giving you the wheel.”
He wasn’t quite sure why he was being stubborn, but England’s insistence that he was tired was aggravating, and having England coddle him was annoying at times, too. (It seemed that his tendency towards protesting everything England said just for the sake of protesting didn’t go away even once their mutual feelings were revealed.) And besides, America was more than capable of driving his own car on his own highway across his own country, thanks kindly. England was a stubborn old man at the heart of it, though, and though he watched him with quiet confidence, there was still that underlying hesitation that had permeated throughout their (tentative, still newly formed) relationship. Afraid to be hurt. And that flicker in his eyes made America suspect he was about to suggest something unorthodox, or at the very least something unlike them.
“But what’s your big idea, anyway?” America finally conceded. “If it’s a good idea maybe I’ll do it.”
England shifted, biting the inside of his cheek—and the earlier, lewd confidence seemed to shift for the quarter of a moment, and for that quarter of a moment it looked as if England would back down.
Instead, the older nation said, “I’ll suck you off.”
The two nations jerked back against their seats as America’s foot slipped on the gas pedal and the truck sped up. Their inertia held them back, and America quickly corrected his mistake. America choked—that had not been what he’d expected to hear at all.
“W-What?” America squeaked out, in a completely manly fashion he hoped.
But England was looking away, face bright red. “Never you mind.”
“No—wait. You—holy shit,” was America’s intelligent reply.
“Forget it,” England muttered, “I must be just as mad as you. Tired. Need to get to a bed and just sleep. Christ.”
“You want—Jesus!” America shouted, still speeding down the highway.
“Would you just drop it?” England barked, whipping his head around to punch at America’s shoulder, his face beat red. “I don’t know what came over me—I’m clearly just as daft as you are!”
It was probably the boldest thing England had ever said to him in their relationship. To be fair, their relationship was still rather young, but it was still rather shocking. America swallowed around the lump in his throat (it felt like dried, scratchy cotton before it went through a gin), scratching at his windpipe and making it fairly impossible for him to say something without an epically distressing voice crack to accommodate his words. Both nations red-faced, America muttered:
“Someone might see us.”
England’s face closed off and he muttered something under his breath, folding his arms against his chest and ducking his head. “The road’s been empty for hours.”
“But—”
“Just drop it!” England barked, sputtering. “I just meant that it could be a way to wake you up—seeing you yawn so much is not comforting as a passenger, I’ll have you know.”
“Wouldn’t you just giving me a blowjob distract me?” America shouted, biting his lower lip. “N-not that I don’t like the idea of getting one from you, ya know—um. Yeah. Just… yeah.”
England muttered more curses under his breath, arms folded against him and curling slightly into himself. America was thankful the sun was almost completely down so that England couldn’t possibly see the way all the blood was rushing to his face (and, shamefully, just a little bit to below the belt as well). They sat in a tensed silence, America continually glancing at England and England pointedly not looking at him.
Making an expression that was a strange cross between a pout and flat-lined gulp, America closed his eyes, gripping the steering wheel for all his life.
“Hey,” England snapped, “Keep your eyes open and on the road, damn it!”
“Okay.”
“Hmph.”
“No… I mean. Okay. Blow me.”
England gave him a deadpanned expression, then his face exploded once again into a dark, beet red.
“I don’t want to anymore!”
“Awwww—come on England, you can’t say shit like that and then leave me high and dry!”
England’s eyes, despite himself, flickered to America’s crotch before snapping back up to America’s face. “You aren’t hard. You’ll live.”
“Englaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand,” America whined, as it’d worked in the past.
“Stop that at once!” England shouted.
“Come ooooon,” America goaded, and this time did pout. “It might keep me awake—I definitely won’t be yawning!”
England scoffed, turning his nose upwards, and looking his self-righteous best. A beat passed between them, and they looked anywhere but at each other. England shifted, then hesitated, looking awkward. The entire situation was awkward—they were awkward. America wasn’t used to the relationship thing—he hadn’t been in a serious one for very long, and not for a long time. And England was the first one who wasn’t a girl—and he definitely hadn’t gotten a BJ in a truck before—probably because if anyone ever caught him in public, America would die of puritanical shock. And he never, ever would have expected England in a million years to ever offer to do something like this in a truck (a truck that England had more than once on this trip deemed unsophisticated). He knew the guy was a pervert—but Jesus Christ! (Or, not Jesus Christ. If he thought about his old pal Jesus for too long he started feeling ill, like his religious right was drop-kicking him in the stomach from the inside out.)
But England wasn’t responding. In fact, he just looked plain moody and unpleasant. The rest of the ride would probably continue in a stilled silence until they reached the motel for the night. America chewed on his lower lip—it wasn’t that he was ashamed of England. He was just awkward around sex, especially when England coddled him (which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing—he liked to be needed). England turned his face away, and his shoulders slumped a little.
America tapped his fingers across the steering wheel and then cleared his throat. His blush furthered—he couldn’t believe he actually wanted it. It was public—at least, semi-public. It was true no one was around, and the truck was high enough off the ground that most cars wouldn’t be able to actually see what England was doing to America, if he would just do it. And god, America realized he really did want England to do it. The blood was draining further southward the more he thought about it, which would quickly lead to the uncomfortable reality of having a boner and yet no one to relieve him of it, despite having his boyfriend (boyfriend?) right there beside him. Maybe he really would have to focus one-handed.
Of course, America was roused from his pathetic, horny musings by the click of England’s seatbelt coming undone and whirling back behind him. America looked to England and found England looking at him. England lowered his eyes.
“Keep your hands on the wheel,” he warned, and then leaned over to his side of the cabin, planting one hand on America’s thigh—his hand was so warm, fingers spread over the soft fabric of his jeans—and the other hand pushing up America’s shirt away from his belt buckle. America’s breath caught—
“Oh Jesus,” America hissed as England very much began to follow up on his offer. He stared down at England (forgetting momentarily about the road) and watched in stilled, aroused fascination as England kissed at his exposed belly, then fiddled with his belt buckle, pulling it away from the snap and zip.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” he heard England mutter, and then watched awkwardly as England pulled him free from his jeans and his boxers, already half-hard. America angled his hips up slightly to help pull them down. England glanced up at him and saw America staring down at him. “Eyes on the road, you idiot—you want to get into an accident? For fuck’s sake.”
“Right, right,” America said, a deep exhalation. His body quivered from expectation but he forced his eyes on the road ahead of him. His body felt tense, poised precariously on the edge of coherency as England’s fingers moved hesitantly over his feverish skin.
England murmured something incoherent, his breath hot and transient against the expanse of his skin. Fingers brushed over his half-hard cock and the breath breezed closer to his cockhead. America almost clenched his eyes shut before he remembered he was supposed to keep his eyes on the road. He bit his lip. It felt strange, to know England was there, but not be able to see him, unless he glanced downwards.
And then England’s mouth incased the head of his cock and America choked slightly in shock, his hips jerking upwards before he could stop them. England’s hands pressed against America’s hips, keeping him in place as his tongue laved at the slit in his cock. America swallowed back another choke and tried to keep his focus on the road. Something shifted in the cellar of America’s stomach, and his entire body seized up and it took his entire strength not to writhe.
“England,” he choked out, just slightly, biting his lip harder and gripping the steering wheel until he worried he would snap it in his hold. His knuckles were white.
He glanced down as England swallowed more of his cock, and England was looking up at him. Through the fringe of his hair, green eyes burned in the dim light of evening, seeming to sparkle and to stare straight up at America. England paused in his ministrations as he gazed up at America, and then slowly, he swallowed more of America, his tongue running along the bottom length of America’s cock. America choked out, and the corners of England’s lips quirked up into a small smile, just slightly, as much as he could with a cock in his mouth.
America was captivated by the stars in England’s eyes, as if they’d always been there and were born to just twinkle in the way that made the bottom of America’s stomach drop out, and make America believe that yes there was nothing else in this world he wanted than to stare into England’s eyes. A hand fell away from the steering wheel and tangled in England’s hair, pushing the hair away from his forehead so he could see those eyes better. England’s expression didn’t change, though there was the slightest moment of a flicker, as his eyes scanned America’s face. And then he seemed to remember that America was staring quite prolonging at him and not at the road. His hand pushed away from America’s hip and took the hand in his hair. He pulled it away, but before placing it on the steering wheel, he took America’s hand to his face, made the back of America’s knuckles brush along his cheek. His lids lowered, so that blinding green was locked from his sight, as England focused on the hand. And then, in that fleeting moment, it was over and England pulled America’s hand back to the steering wheel. His eyes did not flicker up again and focused on the task at hand.
But America had to keep staring at him. It was those moments—those little, insignificant moments that made America believe that everything would be okay, that everything was perfect. Made him believe that for the rest of his life all he wanted was England, only England. It was always England, always would be England. It was those moments, when England’s eyes were completely unguarded, when there was nothing in the world but the two of them that America, too, forgot everything that weighed him down, everything that made him feel crazy. He was without an anchor, floating away, and the only thing to keep him from floating high enough that the atmospheric pressure would make him explode was England. England was like his sandbag—
And how the hell was he thinking up metaphors when England was doing devilish things to his cock with his tongue and lips?
“England,” he choked out again, but managed to keep his eyes on the road.
England hummed around his cock, relaxed his throat to take more of him. The angle was far too awkward for England to even consider deep-throating him, but he took as much of America as he could, keeping his mouth tight and warm, an inexplicably pleasurable heat that made America’s vision burn white for a moment. And it took all he could not to pull over and give his full attention to England, but he knew that England would fly away from him if he were to do that, that in these moments England let his inhibitions drop away, afraid of the moment when they had to return, and let himself love America the way he said he did (and the way America, no matter what, knew was the truth). But there was still a small wall between them, something that they’d started to knock down but still had a long way to go before it could be fully torn away.
England sucked him in further and America choked, clenching his eyes shut before forcing them to open again. He bit his lip, bit the inside of his cheek, would have bitten anything he could get his mouth on to keep from yelling out and saying completely stupid or sappy things, like how much he loved England, how much he loved England sucking him off, how his hair was really soft, his eyes. God, his eyes—
“England,” he said again, looking down at England again before he could stop himself.
The thus named nation looked up at him, the smile still on his mouth, his eyes completely unguarded and opened—and god, those were the moments he lived for. England pulled away though—god, why—and pillowed his lips against the hardened, swollen flesh.
“Eyes on the road, lovely,” he said, and god he would never, ever be tired of England, never be tired of the way he smiled at him, the way his voice grew so soft and gentle in those moments. What he wouldn’t give to always have that. What he wouldn’t do to tear down the wall and let himself love England completely, and make England believe he would never betray him. There was still so much in both their hearts, so much they would have to work through. Baby steps. They would need baby steps. America preferred leaps, but knew he wouldn’t be able to.
“Right, right,” America said softly, letting his gaze linger on England a bit longer. England smiled at him again, a bit lopsided and uneasy as he leaned forward and kissed at America’s panting belly. He drifted downwards, and lifted up a hand to tilt America’s chin away from him.
America tried to focus.
England returned to his ministrations, sucking America off and distracting him (and keeping him very awake) quite successfully, using his mouth and tongue to his advantage. America cried out occasionally, but usually was able to curb his tendency to whimper out incoherent and unwholesomely embarrassing things.
As he neared his orgasm, his entire body was tensing up and humming with pleasure. He knew it would be soon and he would flop into liquid pleasure and maybe England would stay close like this and kiss at his neck or something equally as nice until they found a motel for the night and America could return the favor to England (even if America was still hopelessly clumsy and blocky with things like this, and England seemed stupidly experienced and it took all of America’s know-how not to let on that it bothered him or made him insecure at times). It was promising to be a really nice night.
Which is why the universe decided it was time to break up the nice little illusion America was building up for himself. Instead of a cry of ecstasy as he grew closer and closer, America gave out a muffled shout.
“Oh—fuck!”
And it wasn’t a nice ‘oh—fuck!’ either, but rather one of alarm. England looked up at him in confusion but America’s eyes were on the rear-view mirror. The cabin was flashing with red and blue.
“Oh fuck, oh fuck,” America said and his eyes darted to his speedometer. “England, stop—! Shit, I’m getting pulled over.”
“What?” England asked, pulling his mouth away and staring up at him in shock.
“Fuuuck,” America shouted, his entire face going pale, not because of his speed limit (fifteen miles per hour over the limit) but because: “Shit, he’s going—oh my god I’m still hard! And you’re right there!”
“Relax,” England commanded, in the kind of voice he got in the face of hysteria. His expression slated off to something very determined and composed, despite the situation. “Slow down and pull over.”
“But—!”
England gave him a sharp look and shoved America’s boxers and jeans back up, zipping it up and redoing the belt.
“There.”
“I’m still hard England, and he’s going to notice if suddenly you just sit up like that!” America cried out and, yes, he was becoming quite hysterical.
England narrowed his eyes, his face thinning out. America slowed down, flipping on the blinker to pull over onto the side of the road. The lights continued to alternate behind them, from blue to red. It was making America’s face turn paler still, sweat from the earlier exertion of getting a blowjob clinging to his forehead.
“Darling, you need to rela—”
“Shut up, England, I know,” America whined, staring into the rearview mirror as he put the truck into park and watched the state trooper pull behind him, slowing to a stop. “Oh fuck, I can’t believe this is happening. I’m—”
“Hysterical,” England snapped. “Calm down, America. You haven’t done anything wrong.”
And before America could shout out that they’d totally done something totally wrong and dirty and there was no way he was going to be able to hide his boner, England shifted slightly and from the floor of the passenger’s seat, pulled up his coat. America opened his mouth to say something but England didn’t even pass a glance to his boyfriend before bunching up his coat and draping it over America’s lap, and laying his head there in his lap.
“England, what—”
“I’m napping,” England said, closing his eyes, head pressed in a way that hid America’s hardened cock (but not without some discomfort from America). “Keep your voice down, you idiot.”
America stared down at him flabbergasted, but didn’t say anymore because in the side mirror he watched the state trooper approach. He rolled down the window and waited, biting his lip. When the state trooper came to the window, America realized it was a woman, looking tired and somewhat bored. She tipped her hat back.
“Evening, officer,” America greeted.
“Any idea how fast you were going?” she drawled, her voice a soft but commanding lilt.
England didn’t move in his lap, and his back rose and fell peacefully, as if he’d been slumbering for hours. America swallowed thickly and did his best to calm himself down, his heart was racing (from the pleasure from before, and now more so the adrenaline of almost being caught) and he knew he was sweating and looking in general rather pale. He swallowed again, calming down just slightly when he forced himself to relax the death-grip on his steering wheel. It’d be bad if he aroused suspicion in the officer, and he really, really did not want to leave the truck.
“No, ma’am,” he said, giving her a lopsided smile. “‘Fraid not.”
“Seventy-four,” she said, face hardened and completely uncharmed by America’s devilish good looks. Damn.
“Well shoot,” America said, laughing, “I’m sorry, ma’am. I just wanted to get to a motel as quick as possible so my friend here could get a decent night’s sleep.”
He gestured down to England. The state trooper remained impassive, though she did glance down at the “sleeping” passenger, and damn America had to compliment England for not cracking under the pressure—he looked as peaceful as a kid sleeping. Actually, staring at him gave him the inexplicable urge to pet his hair, but like hell he would ever do that with someone looking, especially an officer.
“He isn’t wearing a seatbelt,” was all the state trooper said, and she seemed even more unimpressed.
America’s one hundred watt smile dimmed just slightly, and he laughed again. “W-well, I guess not…”
“License and registration, please,” she said, holding out her hand.
America sighed and pulled down the sun visor, pulling his registration from the flap. Getting his license was a bit trickier and he spent a good deal of care of moving slowly (so as not to disturb the “sleeper”) and pulling his wallet from his back pocket. He pulled out his fake I.D. (Alfred F. Jones, born in 1987) and handed both things to the officer, who moved away without another word, going to her truck. America breathed out a heavy sigh and slumped, just slightly, his entire body shaking for a moment. She would run through his information and he would be let off with a warning, as he was every time he broke a traffic law. It was something his bosses had set up—he didn’t get taken in or held up. Sometimes he’d get the occasional ticket, but in general when his information came up it was with something akin to “do not hold” and officers figured he was someone really important.
“I can’t believe this,” he told England, but England did not respond, seemingly determined to play out the role of someone sleeping.
The fear of being caught and the shame of being caught had made America’s hard-on virtually disappear, which was enough to make any guy frustrated and America was feeling a bit more than hot and bothered, and ashamed. His face flushed and he ducked his head away from England, looking out at the ground, at the pavement. He would give anything to just sink away into the ground right now and never come back. Or be an ostrich—ostriches were cool, and he could stick his head in the sand and that would be that. It was better than running all the ‘what if’ scenarios in his head—what if the officer had caught them? What if the officer suspected something? What if she thought it was weird for another guy to be sleeping with his head in another guy’s lap? What if she asked something and America stumbled? What if she knew that England was awake and could discern that something nefarious was afoot?
But, of course, none of these things happened. The state trooper returned, handed him back his license and registration, said she was letting him off with a warning, and that he best be careful in the future because not everyone was as nice as she was. He smiled at her, hoping to be charming, and thanked her.
“Thank you, ma’am,” America said, turning the ignition until the truck hummed to life.
“And make him put on his seatbelt,” she said, turned around, and was gone. America watched her return to her car as America pulled away and sailed down the highway (this time at the proper speed limit).
The car followed them for a short while before pulling off onto the closest exit and turning around to return to its earlier speed-trap. America watched the red taillights until they disappeared, like a butterfly into the night.
“She’s gone,” America said.
England sat up at once, collecting his jacket and smoothing out his clothes as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. He snapped his seatbelt back into place. Undoubtedly he’d noticed America had gone soft, too.
“Well, then—” England began.
But the nerves were too much for America, and shaking, he finally let himself go. Maybe he should have restrained himself—he thought in the back of his mind that maybe he should. But he was shaking. It was all too much. “FUCK! She totally almost caught me with a boner and she would have known I was totally gay and—and—and—!”
England looked startled, rearing back away from America from the sudden outburst. “My dear—”
“Fuck!” America shouted, flushing in shame instead of pleasure at the pet name—god, that was not what he wanted now, not ever—“What if she already knew? What if she could tell? Do you think she had gaydar? Does it even work if you’re just sitting there—?”
“She wouldn’t have known,” England soothed. “I was asleep. It’s okay…”
“It’s not okay! What kind of straight guy sleeps on another guy’s lap like that?” America snapped, suddenly furious that England wasn’t properly freaking out, either. “Fuck, England! She must have totally known! Oh god, what if she could tell I had a boner?”
“She didn’t—”
“How can you be so sure?” America insisted.
England’s face closed off, just slightly, and his back went rigid. “America. You’re being ridiculous…”
“I am not!” America protested. “It’s totally—oh god, I knew I shouldn’t have said yes! I should have just pulled over and gotten a coffee or something and god, I think that shaved like seventy years off my life… Fuck! She totally knew.” His face colored and he would have slammed his forehead against the steering wheel if he wasn’t already driving. “She could totally tell I was totally gay for you.”
“Would you just give it a rest?” England shouted, alarmed, and little bit more than annoyed. “She didn’t see anything, so it doesn’t matter!”
“It totally matters—it totally—!”
“America,” England said, and it was in a manner of speaking that commanded all attention and halted America’s string of incoherent and nonsensical ramblings. He glanced at England, and found the man glaring at him, his face completely closed off and scooted as far away from him as he possibly could be and still be in the same car.
“I—”
“I know that being with me must be cause for a great deal of shame, America,” England hissed through gritted teeth. And there it was—that little flicker, the kind of flicker America never wanted to see. The anger in England’s eyes shifted and for half a moment he looked away, looked down at his feet, and it nearly broke America’s heart. He’d promised he would never hurt England, and yet—“But nothing happened.”
“It’s not shame!” America shouted, before he could stop himself, taking his eyes completely away from the road to stare earnestly over at England, trying to convey his feelings without saying so with only his eyes, bright blue and wide-eyed. “But England—we’re in the red states, England! We’re not on the coast, we’re not in San Francisco! We’re in the heart of nowhere! Fuck! People are going to be extra sensitive to those kinds of things, and they’re going to know that I’m totally bent just from something like that—”
But England was not pacified. He stared at America for a long moment before he turned completely away from America, looking out the window. But America could see his reflection, see the way his expression crumbled in time with the slump of his shoulders. Angry, hurt, England whispered, “Fuck you.”
“England, no, I didn’t—”
“Just drive,” England commanded, not turning to face him. America watched him close his eyes in the reflection. He said, softer this time, hopeless, hurt, angry, pained: “I just want to get out of this truck. Please.”
America stared at him, thought about insisting. But England didn’t turn to look at him, didn’t even move. Not right away. Slowly, he watched England slump further, curl into himself just slightly, and rest his head against the window, as if trying to fall asleep despite the early hour. America felt his heart clench, felt as if something was twisting and coiling in his gut, trying to cause him to cry out.
He’d fucked up again.
After that, they drove in an eerie silence. America couldn’t tell if England was actually asleep or not, but the other man made no move to disturb him. And England made no move, didn’t even shift. He just stayed there, slumped against the window, curled into himself (knees to chest, arms crossed over them, body completely angled away from America). It made America’s heart hurt, to look at him, but he didn’t dare reach out to touch him. He wanted to, so badly.
Eventually, when the road curved in just the right way, the momentum from the car caused England to pull away from the window and slump against America. That solved the question of whether or not England had actually fallen asleep or not. His head lolled on America’s shoulder, and unconsciously in his sleep he shifted closer. America’s expression softened, though still pained, and he lifted his arm, curling it around England’s body to take him closer, to keep him warm and at least somewhat comfortable.
“… Sorry,” he muttered, and knew he wouldn’t be able to say it when England woke up.
A few hours later found England still sleeping against him, and America starting to nod off. He’d been on the lookout for a motel for hours, but the back roads meant limited sleeping arrangements, and he hadn’t seen any roadside motel, or even a bed and breakfast. Hell, at this point, America would happily take an abandoned shed. Anything to let England stretch out and sleep peacefully, and maybe in the morning he could try to explain himself, try to force out the apology he was never any good at delivering. He’d made a mess of things, yet again, but at least this time he could recognize that.
He frowned, felt the worry-lines etching into his face as he navigated the dark nighttime landscape. He was in the middle of a wasteland, and just wanted to take them both away, to fly through the night and be back—or rewind time so he could just curb his overreaction, smooth out his nerves, take England’s hand and say, I could never be ashamed of you. I love you.
But of course things didn’t work out that way. And America was an idiot.
His head bobbed and he jerked his attention awake, trying to keep his eyes open. At this rate, he really would fall asleep and crash into something. Then England really would be upset with him, and he’d probably total his car and be in a world of hurt that way, as well. Being scorned by England while he mourned his car was not something America was particularly eager to partake in.
Up ahead was a rest area. That was all he could do. He would snooze for a few hours and set out again to find a motel. It would have to do. He clicked on the truck’s blinker and merged off the highway and towards the rest area. It was small, only a few parking spaces and a bathroom. It would have to do.
America pulled into a spot and cut the ignition. He sat in silence, his arm around England. Then, slowly, he unhooked his seatbelt and opened his door. Pulling away slowly, he cradled England and lowered him slowly so that he was stretched out as best he could be in the truck, spreading the length of the truck’s cabin. America bunched England’s coat up to serve as a pillow and made sure the nation was comfortable, and far enough away from the door so that when America closed it, he wouldn’t get whacked. Shrugging out of his own jacket, America pulled the bomber jacket over the length of England’s body. He loosened England’s tie and brushed his hand through his hair idly.
He felt as if maybe he should say something, but didn’t want to risk waking England up and dealing with an angry boyfriend (boyfriend?). He sighed, softly, and bent down, pushing the hair from England’s forehead and kissing it, letting his lips linger for longer than strictly necessary. Even when he pulled away, to suck in a shaking breath, his mouth stayed close, and how easy it would be to shift up and just kiss England on the mouth. He regarded England’s face, upside down, for a moment before pulling away.
He closed the door, and lingered longer to make sure that England didn’t wake up. England shifted a bit, but otherwise fell away into slumber. America smiled, and trudged off towards the bathroom. He’d sleep in the truck bed.
As he stared at himself in the grungy reflection of the paper towel dispenser in the rest stop’s bathroom a few minutes later, America contemplated calling Canada for some advice, or at least to rant and bitch and moan. He even pulled out his phone. But it was dead, naturally, and the charger was, of course, in the truck. With a sigh, America almost slumped against the bathroom wall before remembering that he was in some gross, sketchy bathroom and slumping against the wall was a stupid, stupid idea.
Cheer up, he thought, but knew he wouldn’t. Chewing on the inside of his cheek, he stuffed his hands into the inside of his pockets and shoved his shoulder up against the door, opening it to the cool night air. A slow nightly breeze drifted through the abandoned rest area, and America kicked at some pebbles as he wandered back towards the truck, contemplated wandering through the grassy area beyond the restrooms, and then drifting back towards the truck. It resulted in a very spiraled walk, filled with indecision.
Eventually the exhaustion caught up with him, though, and he slugged his way back to the truck, climbing up over the tailgate, being as careful as possible not to rattle the truck frame and wake England up from his tentative sleep. He situated himself as comfortably as he could, lying on the truck bed, hands folded together over his stomach, and staring up at the sky. It was a clear night and America enjoyed watching the stars, silently, waiting for a satellite to flicker by across his field of vision. None came, and America just didn’t have the energy to stargaze, or the attention span to properly appreciate them. He couldn’t get comfortable, either, rolling around onto his side, curling into himself, punching at his bag to try and make it a better pillow. None of it was working, and it felt as if hours ticked by at an excruciating pace, when in reality it was probably only a few seconds.
He sighed and sat up, stretching his arms over his head and arching his back until he heard the satisfyingly audible pop. He ruffled at his hair, blew out a long, distracted breath. Rolling his shoulders, he shuffled along the truck bed, propping his duffle up on top of England’s. He leaned against them, his head resting against the window separating him from the truck’s cabin. He drummed his fingers along the wall of the truck bed, wondering if it was possible to sleep sitting up without getting a horrible crick in the neck. Unlikely.
He felt exhausted, but sleep wasn’t coming. And without his jacket, he was starting to feel cold. He stared up at the stars again, traced the familiar constellations and made up his own, until he finally, blissfully felt his eyelids grow heavy.
And he fell asleep.
He didn’t know how long he slept for, but in that sleep-addled way of his, in the distance fringes of consciousness, he knew he was floating between waking and sleeping further, because he could hear movements, the smallest, accented curse. But the world was black, his body was limp yet stiff. He was sleeping. Don’t wake up, don’t wake up—
Perhaps it was a dream, or perhaps it was reality, but he heard a door slam.
But it was definitely reality that woke him, when a jacket hit him in the face from where his cheek was pressed against the lip of the truck’s wall. He jumped and startled himself back into the world of the living. It was still dark, and he had no idea what time it was, but there was England, standing down on the ground and staring up at him as if he was torn between glaring and crying. He’d thrown America’s bomber jacket at him.
He looked stiff, too, and his eyes glanced away for a moment. He did not turn his face away, though, but with the way he was standing it was clear he had an uncomfortable crick in his neck, and probably couldn’t turn it to one side just yet.
Something in America’s chest clenched, as it always did, and his throat bubbled up with things he knew he wouldn’t say but so desperately wanted to. Why didn’t he just say them, why didn’t he just make it easy on himself?
England’s eyes shifted back up to him, and this time it was clear that the passing moments in America’s presence had annoyed him further. His brow was furrowed, his face quirked down into a perpetual scowl.
“Engla—” America began, started but had no idea what it was he was going to say.
“Get in the truck,” England interrupted, coolly, and then held out his hand. “Give me the keys.”
Part of him was glad England had interrupted, to keep him from saying something stupid. But the greater part of him was annoyed at his own inability to, once again, say what he was feeling. But that was just always the way, and despite all his promises to the contrary, America somehow always managed a way to fuck things up.
Regardless, the command made America pause. He frowned, hesitated, but the look in England’s face did not darken, nor did it soften. Tonight, he just wanted to make things work. He hated that, above all things, he always managed to ruin something, always managed to miss a mark. But at the same time, at the same time—
America fumbled in his pocket, felt his throat constrict around the words he was starting to form. It was too much to ask for.
He handed the keys to England, and England took them away without touching America’s fingertips. England did not look at him, just down at the keys a moment, and America tried to read into the way that England’s expression shifted, for just a moment. As quickly as it was there, however, it was gone, and England turned around stiffly and walked the few paces back to the truck, throwing the door open as if it was the door he was furious with, and climbing into the driver’s seat.
England did not look over his shoulder, even as America hesitated, dawdled. He rubbed at his shoulder, stared at England’s back, but England did not turn around. He stared straight ahead, his jaw set, hands gripping the steering wheel like a lifeline.
America shifted his eyes away.
He kicked at the duffle bags, so that they were each on the truck bed and pressed up against the wall, then planted his foot on the truck’s wall and jumped down onto the ground, hands in his pockets. He stared at the ground for a long moment, sucked in a sharp breath of air. He glanced over his shoulder, but England was still staring straight ahead, looking impatient. America closed his eyes, let the night breeze play with his hair, and tipped his head back. He opened his eyes, searching out the moon, searching out familiar stars.
England laid on the horn, still not looking at him, and the sound startled America. He jumped, spun around. America grabbed up his bomber jacket, recently chucked at his head by England, and opened the door to the passenger’s side. He pulled himself up with a small grunt, settled himself in, turning to face England as he did up his safety belt.
“Engla—” he started again.
England turned the ignition in a way that was somehow both terrifying and silencing. America did falter, and his frown deepened. England buckled his seatbelt, smoothed the hair from his face, and started to drive. There was a steady silence.
“Why didn’t you stop at a motel?” England asked after a long pause, and checked the amount of fuel they had to make sure it was not about to run dry.
“… I was getting sleepy,” America admitted, hesitated. Why was he hesitation so much?—he never hesitated.
“You should have woken me up,” England said, and America couldn’t tell what that tone was. He watched as England merged onto the highway and continued their long trek back to the world meetings, reality, and away from each other. Away from—America hated the way his chest clenched at that, because really, it was far too overdramatic. But, there it was. And it was what it was.
“I didn’t mind…” America offered.
England kept his eyes on the road, scowling. Again, America couldn’t tell what the scowl was for, what kind of thoughts were running through England’s head. He was too hard to read, or perhaps America was still incapable of properly reading people. He swallowed thickly, and it took all his heroic restraint not to squirm. His toes curled in his shoes, and he almost said more stupid, impossible things, things that England most likely didn’t want to hear.
“It was okay,” America said, when England did not say anything right away. “It wasn’t uncomfortable. I’ve done it before.”
England still said nothing, still remained silent. But America watched the subtle changes roll over his form—the tension in his shoulders, the way he regripped the steering wheel but still left his knuckles a pale white from his death-grip. Then, slowly, as if unsure whether he wanted America to hear it, England said, almost impossibly quiet: “You could become ill.”
“Naw,” America said, and stifled a yawn behind his hand and completely missing the concern-that-wasn’t-concern in England’s voice. “Besides, there isn’t a motel around here for at least four more hours.”
England stared off into the distance as if willing the universe to drop a motel down from the sky so that he could be spared driving four hours with someone he was not particularly happy with.
“Any bed and breakfasts?”
“If you want to be the one to wake up ol’ mom and pop in the dead of night, be my guest,” America said, and shrugged.
“Then I guess we aren’t stopping for the night,” England said. “We need to get back to New York soon, in any case. We’re already lagging behind.”
America chewed on his bottom lip for a long moment. “I’m tired.”
“Then go back to sleep,” England muttered. “Nothing’s stopping you. I’m awake now. I’ll drive.”
America fidgeted, and chewed on his thumbnail. It was a horrible, horrible habit and England would have said so if he’d been in the mood to lecture. But it was clear he wasn’t. He just wanted to get back to New York, get through the meetings, and go back home—that much, America could tell. He could fly seven hours over the Atlantic, be home, and not have to deal with things like America’s chewing of thumbnails, mixed messages, and… things like that.
America almost bit at the flesh on his thumb, instead of nail. He tried to derail his thoughts or, better yet, not think at all. But it was impossible not to think when England was nearby. He was in a constant state of think-ness when it came to England (and he didn’t care if ‘think-ness’ wasn’t a word; it should be).
America said, matter-of-factly, “You’re probably still tired, too.”
America turned to look out the window at that, finally taking his eyes off England. Which was, naturally, when England twitched, and did chance to look over at America out of the corner of his eye. America’s eyes, meanwhile, couldn’t settle on anything concrete, or for very long. They flickered, shifted. He closed his eyes, but that was dangerous road because he didn’t want to fall asleep now, somehow. Somehow, it seemed wrong, to sleep while England was right there, right there like that. He attempted to smooth his expression out, unsure what it was that he had on his face because America had the worst lying face in the history of lying faces, and pretending he was okay or that they were okay or that he didn’t feel horribly awkward and unsure.
Things were complicated, and America hated that. Weren’t things supposed to get easier? But perhaps he’d relied too much on Hollywood. Scratch that, he knew he relied too much on Hollywood, believed everything would just be peachy keen once the end credits rolled. But then again, America supposed, the credits hadn’t come yet. Or perhaps thinking in movie analogies in general was a really stupid idea. Either way.
They drove in a stilled silence for far longer than America would have liked. England focused on driving and America focused on not falling asleep—because if England fell asleep too and his truck got mashed up, he’d want to cry. Or something that was a bit more manly. Whatever, the point was that he didn’t want both of them to fall asleep, and he definitely didn’t want a sleep-deprived England driving his truck.
America snuggled into the warmth of his bomber jacket, giving England a side-long look and hoping the other nation wouldn’t notice. But as they drove, England’s eyes flickered to America and held, before the two of them looked away from one another.
“Um…” America began, and then trailed off.
England’s hold on the steering wheel tightened and he bit his lip for a moment before he said, in his customary, prim state of speaking: “Yes?”
Part of America wondered if England had been waiting, too. Waiting and wanting to speak, but unsure how to bridge the silence, or communicate what he was thinking. America certainly sucked at communicating anything, even the simplest things. Something as complex as this (or was he just overanalyzing?) was bound to make him completely inarticulate. Especially in comparison to England.
“Do you…” America paused, “um… want to talk about it?”
England stayed silent for a long moment before asking, “Do you?”
“Um…” America said again, intelligently so. He really needed to stop trailing off and sounding so completely dimwitted. England waited, keeping his eyes on the road now.
But the words didn’t come. He wanted to talk about it. But what? Talk about what? What would he seek to communicate, what would he want England to understand? What did he, himself, not understand?
(A lot of things.)
There was a faint spark in the air, as if there was something just about to begin, as if they were both on the verge of something. But it flickered and died before it could truly start.
“I’m not going to stop driving until we get to New York,” England said suddenly when America failed to pick up the torch of conversation.
“We’re still a ways away from New York, though, England,” America protested. “We’ll get tired.”
“You can sleep,” England said. His eyes stayed on the road. “I’ll drive.”
America felt as if there was a flurry of things to say, and settled on, “If you crash my truck…”
“I won’t,” England said, quietly, his hold on the steering wheel tightening further. He repeated, quieter still, as if there was something he, too, wanted to say: “I won’t.”
“England, I…” America began, felt a hiccup of panic burst in his chest and thought unreasonable thoughts like if I don’t say this now, what will—
England shook his head, though, and the truck sped up to the proper speed limit, zooming down the silent old highway, twisting and turning, slower and far more intimate than the interstate highway. It would mean more hours on the road than if they were to go onto the freeway. But America didn’t mind spending more time with England, even if he was unhappy with him at the moment. He wanted to say so, how easy it would be to say those words—it isn’t shame, I want to be with you, I love you, I’m scared, so scared. Why is this so scary for me?
But he remained silent. And England, either not sensing or ignoring America’s turmoil, said nothing more as well.
And it was so stupid because he knew that England wanted to hear it—he could tell from the curve of England’s tensed shoulders, the little moments of tension in his face. The way he was listening to him without revealing that he was. It was remarkable how easy England was to read sometimes (only sometimes), once he took the time to pay attention, once he sat back and recognized the expression mirrored in America’s own features. Long suffering the foot-in-mouth disorder, however, America turned his attention back out the window, chewing on his knuckle absently.
“The sun’s coming up,” America said, for any reason to break the stifling silence.
England nodded, because of course he knew—they were driving east, after all. Or at least northeast. But the sun was going to be shining in their eyes, soon.
“It’ll be a nice day,” America said, though it came out more of a question, and an inane question at that—anything for the sake of speaking.
England looked fully at him now, and had it been the other way around, England would have snapped at America for not paying attention to the road. But America’s eyes tamed England, and he couldn’t place the expression. England looked as if he would say something, and then thought better of it, recollecting his words. America shifted, lifted his hand as if to touch England, but the older nation jerked his head back and returned his attention to the road, chewing on his lower lip. America’s hand went to his own hair, acting casual, trying to fix what he suspected was very bad bed head. He hadn’t intended to touch England, not at all, not if he didn’t’ want to be touched—obviously he’d been going for the hair the entire time.
Obviously.
The silence returned, and America squirmed, trying to find a way to bridge the gap. Why now? Why, after they’d finally managed to meet halfway, did things have to fall away to that strained half-state? America suspected he should be angry, find some reason to be angry, but all he felt was the restraining, bitter emptiness he never wanted to feel. There were so many things he could say, should say, but it all bubbled up inside, threatened to suffocate him, scrape him up from the inside out, leave him bleeding and tired and ambivalent. He wasn’t supposed to be ambivalent about anything. Hadn’t he already established that he shouldn’t care what anyone thought, that he should follow his own heart?
But it was so easy to say that, another thing entirely to hold it to be true. He tried so hard, and he felt torn in two. But it wasn’t shame. It couldn’t be shame.