America fidgeted. He felt as though he had covered the lower half of his face with honey, and then tried to rub noses with a number of unruly hens. His chin was a mess of short, coarse hairs that stuck out oddly and made him itch. Touching them was like petting a hedgehog. He knew his way around a knife, but a razor blade meant for shaving he had never used.
England would take care of it. There wasn't a thing he couldn't handle.
England stood behind him in the bathroom, quietly instructing him on the application of the cream. It was foamy and soft, like slush near the rapids, and he grinned as he clumsily pressed the brush to his cheek. He watched the mirror, where England was raising his eyebrows.
"Carefully," England warned as America returned the brush to its place and lifted the razor.
"I'll be fine," America said confidently, though he was feeling nervous. Holding the blade awkwardly, brow furrowed at his gangly, frothing reflection, he scraped it down up his cheek from his chin, and looked at the blade. It was covered in shaving cream. He glanced at his reflection, and scowled. He had removed all the shaving cream on his right cheek without having cut a single hair.
"Alfred," England began, but America waved him off.
"I got it!"
A moment later, America sucked in air with a hiss, and England took the razor from him. "I told you to be careful," he said, dabbing at the blood on America's cheek with a wet towel.
"Sorry," America mumbled, eyes downcast.
"That's all right. I'll take care of it for you."
And he did.
England washed the wet, bloody shaving cream from America's face, applied another coat, and held his face up by the chin. He was fully intent on his work and America, unable to concentrate on anything but England completely concentrated on him, began to blush.
"Be still," England murmured, relieving another bit of skin of the hold of peach fuzz with a swift flick of his wrist. America tensed.
England's fingertips were slightly rough. There was once a time when England was always patting America's hair, or tilting up his chin to look him over. They used to hold hands, or rather, America used to grab England's hand and go running off to show him something.
Either way, it had been a while since he had been touched much at all, and he was reacting rather strangely.
America fidgeted. He shut his eyes. He wanted England to keep running the pads of his fingers over his face, to continue to look at him so intently. He had missed being the center of England's world, his attentions. He had missed how willingly England would do the most ridiculous things for him, simply because it got the older nation to stay nearby just a little bit longer. He gave a short gasp before England drew away.
"You're all done," England told him, patting his cheek dry and stepping back to examine his work. America's cheeks were rosy and smooth, the way he remembered them when he first saw the boy, and on impulse, England leaned in to steal a quick kiss.
At that point, America fainted, and had to be carried to bed by a very confused England.
Precision
England would take care of it. There wasn't a thing he couldn't handle.
England stood behind him in the bathroom, quietly instructing him on the application of the cream. It was foamy and soft, like slush near the rapids, and he grinned as he clumsily pressed the brush to his cheek. He watched the mirror, where England was raising his eyebrows.
"Carefully," England warned as America returned the brush to its place and lifted the razor.
"I'll be fine," America said confidently, though he was feeling nervous. Holding the blade awkwardly, brow furrowed at his gangly, frothing reflection, he scraped it down up his cheek from his chin, and looked at the blade. It was covered in shaving cream. He glanced at his reflection, and scowled. He had removed all the shaving cream on his right cheek without having cut a single hair.
"Alfred," England began, but America waved him off.
"I got it!"
A moment later, America sucked in air with a hiss, and England took the razor from him. "I told you to be careful," he said, dabbing at the blood on America's cheek with a wet towel.
"Sorry," America mumbled, eyes downcast.
"That's all right. I'll take care of it for you."
And he did.
England washed the wet, bloody shaving cream from America's face, applied another coat, and held his face up by the chin. He was fully intent on his work and America, unable to concentrate on anything but England completely concentrated on him, began to blush.
"Be still," England murmured, relieving another bit of skin of the hold of peach fuzz with a swift flick of his wrist. America tensed.
England's fingertips were slightly rough. There was once a time when England was always patting America's hair, or tilting up his chin to look him over. They used to hold hands, or rather, America used to grab England's hand and go running off to show him something.
Either way, it had been a while since he had been touched much at all, and he was reacting rather strangely.
America fidgeted. He shut his eyes. He wanted England to keep running the pads of his fingers over his face, to continue to look at him so intently. He had missed being the center of England's world, his attentions. He had missed how willingly England would do the most ridiculous things for him, simply because it got the older nation to stay nearby just a little bit longer. He gave a short gasp before England drew away.
"You're all done," England told him, patting his cheek dry and stepping back to examine his work. America's cheeks were rosy and smooth, the way he remembered them when he first saw the boy, and on impulse, England leaned in to steal a quick kiss.
At that point, America fainted, and had to be carried to bed by a very confused England.