America wavered then hesitantly slid over towards England, carefully feeling his way around the dark room. When he got next to England he kneeled down. “England?” he whispered but got no reaction. He slowly reached forward and wrapped his fingers around England’s wrists, drawing his hands away from his ears. England screamed again, shocked and terrified. This close, America could see England’s eyes snap open, pupils blown wide in the dim light, but he knew England didn’t see him at all. England struggled against him, trying to pull away but America just held on and slowly pulled England closer until the older nation was nearly in his lap, pressed against his chest. “It’s alright.” He breathed against England’s hair, ignoring the weak jerks England gave as he tried to get away.
When lightning hit again, closer this time, the thunder like a gunshot, England jumped and immediately pressed against him, huddling in the circle of his arms.
After a few minutes the lights finally, finally, flickered back on. England immediately went lax in his arms, breathing out slowly in a warm rush against his neck.
“England?” he asked carefully. England tried to jerk away once; the next time he tried, America let him go. England immediately stood up and walked away. America watched him disappeared around the corner, listened as his footsteps picked up into a run, and the front door slammed open.
The last part made him stand up hurriedly, casting an uneasy glance out the window at the still raging storm. “England!” he shouted and raced after him. He stopped just inside the house, staring out the open front door at England. The older nation had stopped a few feet outside and was just standing there, staring at the city around them, seemingly uncaring of the rain pounding against him.
America fidgeted in the doorway, repeatedly calling England’s name, but getting no response. England didn’t even seem to hear him. He glanced around anxiously, wondering if he should call someone. But who? England would hate him if he called the Prime Minister and made the man worry about his nation. England would hate him more if he called France, and really, who else would know what to do with a freaked out England?
And really, since when had England been afraid of storms? It seemed pretty dumb, considering the island’s reputation for rain. But, no, England hadn’t been bothered by the storm before, just annoyed he’d gotten wet. He hadn’t frozen until the lights went off.
England was afraid of the dark?
He was about to throw the thought away when England just… collapsed, falling to his knees like he didn’t have the strength to stand anymore. America cursed and spotted the umbrella leaning against a table leg next to the door. He snatched it up and ran outside, not even bothering to put his shoes on.
England looked up slowly when the rain stopped falling, staring with dull incomprehension at the umbrella held above him. After a long few moments, he turned his head slightly to look at the nation holding the umbrella. America nearly shouted with relief when, for the first time since the lights went out, England’s eyes focused on him and really saw him. “America?” he asked, sounding lost and confused.
Blackout 2/5
When lightning hit again, closer this time, the thunder like a gunshot, England jumped and immediately pressed against him, huddling in the circle of his arms.
After a few minutes the lights finally, finally, flickered back on. England immediately went lax in his arms, breathing out slowly in a warm rush against his neck.
“England?” he asked carefully. England tried to jerk away once; the next time he tried, America let him go. England immediately stood up and walked away. America watched him disappeared around the corner, listened as his footsteps picked up into a run, and the front door slammed open.
The last part made him stand up hurriedly, casting an uneasy glance out the window at the still raging storm. “England!” he shouted and raced after him. He stopped just inside the house, staring out the open front door at England. The older nation had stopped a few feet outside and was just standing there, staring at the city around them, seemingly uncaring of the rain pounding against him.
America fidgeted in the doorway, repeatedly calling England’s name, but getting no response. England didn’t even seem to hear him. He glanced around anxiously, wondering if he should call someone. But who? England would hate him if he called the Prime Minister and made the man worry about his nation. England would hate him more if he called France, and really, who else would know what to do with a freaked out England?
And really, since when had England been afraid of storms? It seemed pretty dumb, considering the island’s reputation for rain. But, no, England hadn’t been bothered by the storm before, just annoyed he’d gotten wet. He hadn’t frozen until the lights went off.
England was afraid of the dark?
He was about to throw the thought away when England just… collapsed, falling to his knees like he didn’t have the strength to stand anymore. America cursed and spotted the umbrella leaning against a table leg next to the door. He snatched it up and ran outside, not even bothering to put his shoes on.
England looked up slowly when the rain stopped falling, staring with dull incomprehension at the umbrella held above him. After a long few moments, he turned his head slightly to look at the nation holding the umbrella. America nearly shouted with relief when, for the first time since the lights went out, England’s eyes focused on him and really saw him. “America?” he asked, sounding lost and confused.