"You're not giving yourself time to grieve," America said, his voice soft, almost respectful, but straightforward. He brushed his thumb across her knuckles, the gesture somewhere between soothing and languid. "You want to convince everyone you're tough—and that includes yourself—and it's not working."
England pulled back from America—more specifically, from his suggestion. "I've lost almost twenty-eight thousand soldiers in one battle and gotten over it with little to no grieving at all."
"That's not the same thing," America pointed out quietly.
"Why?" Her voice was starting to rise, almost imperceptibly to anyone who didn't have the ear for it, with emotion. "Those men lost were someone's children, were they not?"
"That's a different kind of grief," America said, thinking briefly of Antietam and the subsequent outpouring of grief. He pushed the thoughts away, took another deep breath, and continued. "Those mothers got to know their child." He reached over and took her hands in his once more. "We didn't get that chance, and no one's going to blame you for grieving for it."
"Was it something I did?" England asked. "Sometimes I feel like if I had—"
"No," he cut off, knowing more or less what was on her mind. "It wasn't anything you did or didn't do."
"Then… why?" She laid her head on his shoulder and, for what America could only guess was the first time, started to quietly cry.
"…I don't know," America admitted, loosely wrapping his arms around her shoulders. Maybe she would push him away, maybe not, but wasn't the point to try to make her feel better? That was one of the things he signed on for when he first said I love you in '46?
Ultimately, she didn't push him away, or pull him closer. She remained where she was and took America up on his suggestion to let herself grieve. Though he didn't say anything on the matter, he knew that England knew he was grieving with her.
Grief Laid Aside [2b/2]
England pulled back from America—more specifically, from his suggestion. "I've lost almost twenty-eight thousand soldiers in one battle and gotten over it with little to no grieving at all."
"That's not the same thing," America pointed out quietly.
"Why?" Her voice was starting to rise, almost imperceptibly to anyone who didn't have the ear for it, with emotion. "Those men lost were someone's children, were they not?"
"That's a different kind of grief," America said, thinking briefly of Antietam and the subsequent outpouring of grief. He pushed the thoughts away, took another deep breath, and continued. "Those mothers got to know their child." He reached over and took her hands in his once more. "We didn't get that chance, and no one's going to blame you for grieving for it."
"Was it something I did?" England asked. "Sometimes I feel like if I had—"
"No," he cut off, knowing more or less what was on her mind. "It wasn't anything you did or didn't do."
"Then… why?" She laid her head on his shoulder and, for what America could only guess was the first time, started to quietly cry.
"…I don't know," America admitted, loosely wrapping his arms around her shoulders. Maybe she would push him away, maybe not, but wasn't the point to try to make her feel better? That was one of the things he signed on for when he first said I love you in '46?
Ultimately, she didn't push him away, or pull him closer. She remained where she was and took America up on his suggestion to let herself grieve. Though he didn't say anything on the matter, he knew that England knew he was grieving with her.