January 7th, 2014 - Winter Wonderland

ARTIST: fauxreblogsthings

AUTHOR: starry-climes

January 7th, 2014 - Winter Wonderland

England watched the snow slide off the branch. It had snowed all last night and the night before. The whole vacation destination ‘where no one can bother us’ had been one of America’s hair brained schemes. It had started pleasant, if not cold, in one of Alfred’s Northern Midwest states, and then had turned into a nightmare.

England didn’t know what to make of the car ride that had led them here. It had been treacherous. He had stared into the dark night with white flakes layered upon each other, backdrop so thick one could only see a few feet ahead of the car. The whole time America did not speak as he drove. That had been eerie, the silence that permeated the car, the only noise had been the windshield wipers making a sickening noise as the ice accumulated on them barely pulled away the gathering snow. America had turned off the lights at one point, and England had turned to see white knuckles gripping the steering wheel. When England asked (slightly terrified) what the hell America was doing, the answer came in monotone that he was following the faint edges of the road.

A snowstorm. They had made through the snow and ice, America groping his keys with frozen hands to unlock the door of the cabin and let them inside.

England had built the fire in the wood burning stove and America wearily had brought in the luggage. They had trod upstairs, England’s hope of a fun night blighted by the sleep that nipped their heels.

America had slept in. Apparently 3 hours driving in a blizzard made one tired.

Now, England watched the boy make toast. The relative chilliness of the cabin warmed up at the sight of Alfred’s low slung sweatpants, boxers sticking out above in red fold.

“'Ou waun sum?” America turned, his bed head hair endearing, and wife beater shirt outlining every muscle on his well toned chest.

Arthur only scowled despite being charmed. “Proper gentlemen do not speak with their mouth full.”

America swallowed and gave a cheeky grin and wink, “Good thing I’m not a proper gentleman.”

“Not been since Lexington.” England mumbled under his breath, trying to stay annoyed than embrace the fool.

America took the bait, “sheesh,” it came out accompanied with an eye roll, “ not this again.”

England eyed him as a cat would his prey. America grinned and put his head close to England so that blue eyes met green straight on.

“America, you have morning breath..,” England said desperately,  and if you listened to m…“

Warm lips were on his own. Chapped and warm they just brushed his own, the heat making England push to add to the kiss. Parting with one small final kiss, America shot back as he left the quaint kitchen. "Deal with it old man.”


America was curled up on the couch. He was reading John Green and every so often his feet would twitch. It was so quiet. When England had asked why there was no TV America had shrugged and told him he thought England was too old for it.

(England would never admit how many nights he would fall asleep with his feet propped up and reading glasses on with the Telly blaring.)

“It reminds me of those first winters.”

America just groaned.

“It’s not like you remember lad.”

“I only remember being cold and hungry.”

'This is not why we came here’ was written in those sky blue eyes staring at from across the room.

England returned to his cross stitch.

“This is nice.” He said quietly, as if no one could hear, his voice seeping under the slight draft of the door out into the wilderness and across the frozen lake. 

It’s not their usual. England smiles as America stands up stretching, sweater rising and exposing his navel, and flops down on England’s couch, uncaring of the sharp object in England’s hand. America rests his head on England’s lap, hand still holding the book curled around England’s hip. 

England just gently pets America’s hair, running his fingers through it.

All of a sudden it had clicked. America was doing this for him. Giving up his video games and Teevo for him. A little misguided, but sweet. England gives a soft hum of approval at America’s hidden flush, reddening his cheeks and his ears.

“I guess we’ll be staying awhile.”

America nods and England combs through the golden tresses as a cardinal and his mate land on the bush by the window. The snow is white and fluffy. The week seemed full of possibilities–snowmen, snow ball fights, and snow angels. America would love it. For now, England sat, weariness finally taking over him, a nap sounded perfect.

He barely felt himself being covered by a quilt and kissed on the forehead. America had laughed softly though, and he fell into dreams of ice skating on the Thames.