#pre-relationship usukus

[alifeasvivid]

What Has Always Been, usukus drabble, rated M

I will never stop trying to convey this concept in a way that finally satisfies my restless soul.

rated M warnings: non-graphic descriptions of sex, so so so so many feels. Oops All Feels. summary: based on a couple of my favorite headcanons--that America has felt his love for England in more or less the same way since he was a child and he doesn't consider what he felt then and what he feels now to be different at its core... and a couple others word count: ~1800

Often, America sleeps like a starfish, splayed out over the bed as if it is necessary for him to touch every part of it--including England--in order to be able to sleep.

But other times, like now for instance, he sleeps curled up into himself--close to England, but not touching him--exactly as he often did when he was a child.

He still is a child, England thinks to himself as he watches America's body breathe and the peaceful expression on his sleeping face.

England furrows his brow, but at himself. What a stupid thing to think about one's lover, especially the morning after an intensely passionate, satisfyingly exhausting night; it is both unnecessarily condescending toward America and a dreadful accusation toward himself.

Because England never--surely, he never thought, even fleetingly, about America in 'that way' until much later, perhaps some time around the Great Wars, perhaps a little bit before, perhaps a little bit after. Quite recently, all things considered. America's behavior might be immature or rash or impulsive at times, but he is definitely not a child. Memories of last night—of America arching beneath him with his solid thighs compressing England's hips while England lost himself inside him; memories of America looking down at him so heatedly as he bent England in half with strength sometimes terrifying to fathom, yet utterly exhilarating, filling him until England felt the shape of him in his chest—will attest to the fact that America is a grown man and England has never desired him to be anything but.

Surely. Yet there he is with the morning light washing over the two of them, sleeping so sweetly that time dilates too far to include memories of sharing a bed with him that pre-date desire and sex and… love.

Do they pre-date love? This kind of love, yes, surely. But not every kind. Not the brotherly affection he once felt, not the possessive, twisted love an empire can feel for its colony. Those feelings dissipated into mist long ago. Perhaps not that long ago… all things considered. Long enough.

England reaches out to brush a strand of hair out of America's face, but suddenly that gesture connects to something too far in the past and he pulls his hand back, frowning. Nausea begins to broil in the pit of his stomach and his eyes burn with confused tears. Is this wrong? Is loving America like this wrong? What another stupid thing to think. They are nations, not humans. Time is different for them. Relationships are different for them. There is no DNA that connects one nation to another--not even those England does consider to be his brothers. And it's not as if there is a great power imbalance between them… and if there was, it would most definitely fall in America's favor.

And the more England thinks about it, the more sure he is that his romantic feelings for America do not pre-date his adulthood. Brotherly affection had been followed by imperial avarice, which had been followed by a forced, cold detachment, which had then been followed by platonic interest and friendship, which had fallen head over heels into the deepest depths of love and longing that England considers himself capable of feeling. Each as its own distinct phase, really. The most overlap had occurred at the beginning.

He reaches out and brushes the strand of hair away, letting his fingers slide through America's hair and then caress his cheek. He can't help but wonder if America has had a similar experience: perhaps loving England as a caregiver, then resenting him as a tyrannical force, then being more concerned with his own self (England knows that sorting out what the "united states" would be had been incredibly difficult), finally perhaps falling in love at around the same time as England had. It seems reasonable.

Love is so rarely reasonable, though.

"Hey," America's sleepy voice drifts in through the fog of England's thoughts.

England smiles softly. "Good morning.”

"Were you watching me sleep, Edward?" America asks with a cheeky grin.

It takes England a moment to locate the reference in the vast library of his mind, but when he does, it pulls him so far into the present that the past almost completely disappears. "Oh! You!" he sputters indignantly. He assaults America's face with annoyed kisses and tickles America's sides, making him laugh until he can't breathe.

America looks up at him, breathless and lovely, and smiles. "I like it when you do that; reminds me of when I was little.”

Whiplash cannot even begin to describe how fast all of England's earlier thoughts snap back into his mind. Had America thought, back then, that England was--?

Unaware of England's inner turmoil, America uncurls himself and drapes one leg over England's hip, pulling him close. He kisses England's face, his neck; contented humming gives way to soft growling and fervent touching. "I don't actually care if you wanna watch me sleep, you know," he murmurs, possibly thinking England's lack of response might be due to actual irritation. "You've always done that.”

England firmly pushes away enough to look in America's eyes. "What do you mean 'I've always done that?'" he asks.

America blinks at him, clearly confused. "What do you mean what do I mean? I mean even when was a little kid, sometimes I'd wake up and you were watching me. It made me happy, made me feel safe.”

England shakes his head trying to clear it so America can stop reading his mind as he seems to be doing. "Why are you saying things like that? Why are you talking about how things were when you were a child?”

America's brows scrunch with concern and he holds onto England as if he's worried England will run away. He might not be wrong. "It's bad to talk about happy memories now, too?" he asks.

He sounds so hurt that England pauses, breathes. "N-no. It's not. Of course. I'm sorry, I just… have wandered a little too far down memory lane, so to speak.”

America pulls him close again and kisses him on the forehead. “Okay, well… wander back now 'cause I wanna give you a blow job.”

England laughs, but it's a puff of air. He wants that too. He wants to put all these thoughts and memories back where they belong, neatly filed and boxed and stored in his mind. But for some reason, they won't fit back in their containers. "America. When was the first time you felt like you wanted to do that?”

America looks even more confused and concerned now. "What? Why does that matter?”

England inhales deeply. "What I want to know… I suppose… is when did you develop… romantic feelings for me?”

America doesn't say anything, just looks bewildered and a little scared, like he’s prey for some trap England is about to spring.

England presses closer to him, to reassure him, and rests his palm gently on the side of America's neck. "Please. It's important to me.”

"I guess I just don't know what that means. I didn't develop them, you know?”

England tries to work through the initial shock of that statement and manages to remain outwardly calm.”No, I don't know. Does that mean you're not in love with me?"

"What?" America responds indignantly. “Are you crazy?" He surges forward and kisses England hard, then fierce, then deep, then slow, then soft until they're just breathing each other. "How could you even ask something like that? I tell you all the time that I love you… more than you tell me, by the way, not that I'm counting, but like!!! Last night! And that's not even an uncommon occurrence, right?”

"You just said that you didn't develop romantic feelings for me," England replies.

"Well yeah, 'cause like… I dunno, they were always there, you know? I've always loved you.”

"Yes, but you once called me your brother and I took care of you and you loved me in that way, correct?”

“Yeah.”

“And then you hated me and wanted your freedom and then we didn't speak for so long—”

America puts his hand over England's mouth. "I never hated you. I loved you even then. I mean I guess if you wanna nail down some kinda timeline, that's probably when I first wanted you. I knew you didn't see me that way, though. I was pissed about that, sure, but I get it now.”

England takes America's hand and laces their fingers together, staring at them. "Even then," he says more to himself than to America. He kisses their intwined fingers. He supposes that it's not completely illogical for America to have desired him even back then and England surmised some time ago that America hadn't really hated him, he had just been trying to carve out his own identity and England had tried to stifle that. Of course America would be angry. "I'm glad," he says quietly, "that you didn't hate me. I didn't hate you either.”

America nods and kisses their intwined fingers too. "Yeah, I know."

“But then we didn't see each other for quite some time."

“Yeah, but I still loved you, even when you weren’t there.”

“Alright yes, but when did you fall in love with me?”

America exhales in frustration. "I didn't. I don't really know how to explain it, okay? Like sure, things have changed on the outside, we've had our ups and downs and I obviously don't show it the same way as I did when I was little, but it's the same feeling. This warm bubble in my chest. When I'm around you, no matter what, I just feel… happy. Even when we were fighting or even if we're just arguing nowadays, I feel like everything's gonna be alright because you're there. That's how it felt from the first moment I saw you and it's never gone away. Just grown; added more things to it. I know it's different for you, but," America pauses and his face turns pensive. "I dunno, England, I loved you since before I even knew you, didn't I? Isn't that why…" he trails off, but presses England's palm flat to his cheek.

"Isn't that why what?”

"Isn't that why I exist in the first place?”

England's breath catches and his eyes widen for a moment and then he melts and peace settles in and clears away all the fog. He strokes America's face and kisses his forehead. “Perhaps initially, but you are your own man now, you make your own choices.”

“Choosing you is real easy.”

“I’m very glad. Perhaps the next time you sit down to read, you could choose a book on grammar.” He laughs when America sticks out his tongue at him.

The morning is passed lazily, America eventually morphing into the little spoon to England's big spoon and all worries about who felt what and when are gone, because America is right: they are here now. England settles his nose in America soft hair and, though it is cliche, breathes in spacious skies and amber waves and it's the same as it has always been and in a small way, he understands what America meant.

#usuk #and this is certainly the most *usuk* slanted thing I've done in awhile #but also they're switches XD

[ixiethepixiewrites]

Synesthesia

Rating: G

Warnings: Some existential shit in the beginning, no real warnings, pre-relationship usukus

Summary: The colors had left him, so what would it take to bring them back? Rockstar AU

A/N: I was reading an interview with the lead singer of Panic! At The Disco and his words really resonated with me and pushed this out of my brain shjbjdhsj it started as just me writing my feelings but turned into a fic. Hope you enjoy. A little piece of my soul is in this one.

Colors, words, shapes. Alfred could see them all, and it was beautiful. When a song ended and changed to the next track, new colors appeared, the shapes melted into other forms, and words twisted to become something entirely different. That was how he had always seen the world when he listened to his favorite bands, when he wrote songs on napkins at coffee shops, or when he rode on a bus with headphones in. The music always took him somewhere new, a burst of colors that followed him wherever he went. When he had tried to explain this to his friends, they had looked at him like he was crazy, and he had to laugh it off. Pretending it was a joke hurt him, his insides twisting uncomfortably. No one would be able to understand.

Those long years in high school had turned his colors gray, the shapes vanished, and words no longer came to him. He’d lost all interest in his music, choosing to focus on things that his friends would like better. His guitar sat in his closet, untouched. The drum set he used to bang on? In the garage, gathering dust. Every year, the colors faded even more, and had all but vanished by the time he was graduated. Life had become a chore, nothing brought that same feeling back to him, but at least his friends and family were satisfied. His parents were proud of him for giving up his dreams and going for the dreams they’d picked for him. His friends enjoyed the sports they played together, urging him to play professionally. Naturally, he did as he was told, but all the joy on his face had become fake. His smile was forced, the laughs were hollow, yet no one seemed to notice.

Laying in bed, watching the ceiling fan rotate slowly, Alfred reflected on his life. What was good about it? Others would say he had it all, but was that really true? Did he really have it all if it all felt so empty? The tears started small at first, but as the weeks turned to months, more came out, spilling forth in tidal waves of blue. He wrote the first song in years, a testament to the pain that stabbed at his heart, gut wrenching feelings that awoke within him after so many years of being crushed and put to the side. He tore that paper in half, leaving it in the bottom of his closet with the other remnants of his old joys. It was too painful to look at them anymore, to see that reminder of happier times, when his joy had been real.

TV flickering to life at his command, he numbly watched the news, wanting noise to drown out the words in his mind. Oh but it never worked, they would always be there to haunt him when he went to sleep, stealing the rest from his body and leaving him drained by the time he had to wake up in the morning. The weather rolled by in a blur before something caught his eye. A man in a torn up punk rock style shirt who was flipping off the cameras. Arthur Kirkland, the name scrolled along the bottom of the newscast. Then a miracle happened.

Music played on the TV, video of this man’s concert, and something caught in the corner of Alfred’s vision. There was another flash to the side, and he’d seen it for sure that time! It had been green, he was sure of it! The video clip ended and he desperately waited, hoping that the music would play again, or perhaps the name of the band would be shown. When he had no such luck, Alfred turned to the internet, the saviour of his ignorance. Typing in the name Arthur Kirkland had led to a plethora of interview pages, but one particular name stood out. “Black Rose Tea...”

The name echoed in Alfred’s mind as he typed it into a video site, praying for results to show up. Blessedly, the band did pop up, album after album showing under the search results. He chose a song at random, listening to it while he lay on his bed. The colors graced him with their presence, shapes and words joining in and nearly making him cry from the feelings they evoked. He’d found them again, after so many years, his words and colored shapes had returned to him. The feelings within him were overwhelming, but he just kept playing songs, listening to each and every album, desperate to get more of that beautiful imagery flowing before his eyes. At around four in the morning, he ran out of songs to listen to, but that didn’t matter anymore. He had what he needed, and he was ready to give up everything he had to keep a hold of it.

The weeks rolled by as normal, but he now saw the world in a different light. Everything seemed brighter, happier, or maybe that was just him? The colors radiated so strongly, music filling his very soul and making his smiles feel less and less empty. When the news was announced that Black Rose Tea was coming on tour in the USA, Alfred had stayed up for 48 hours straight just to buy VIP tickets for the venue closest to him. He spent all the days before the concert preparing, unable to hold back his excitement, no matter how many odd looks he got from teammates and friends alike.

The night of the show, he was eagerly bouncing on his heels backstage, ready to see the band walk by and to their dressing rooms. What he saw soon after nearly broke his heart. The drummer of the band had walked out, leaving a fuming Arthur and a shell shocked Kiku Honda behind. Did they have a backup? From the looks they were giving each other, and their hushed tones, he figured that it was a no. Biting his lip, Alfred glanced warily at the large bodyguards, before he inched closer to the rope that kept the fans back. When he figured he was close enough, he realized he had no way to get their attention. That was when he remembered what he had brought for Arthur to sign.

Hurriedly, he pulled out the sheet of paper, the one that had the song of his sorrows on it, then scribbled a message on the back and balled it up. With a quick prayer to any diety that would listen, he threw the paper, hitting the singer on the back of the head. Surprised by the sudden hit, Alfred could soon see the glare he received from the rocker. Thankfully, the band’s other member, Kiku, had chosen to pick the paper up and unfolded it carefully. In black ink, the note read: ‘If you need a temporary drummer, I know how to play all your songs.’

Arthur took the note and read it, then he eyed Alfred warily before calling for security to bring him forward, all while the other fans nearby whined. Clearly they had not seen that fight as Alfred had, because they chose instead to complain about the concert being late to start and cutting into their autograph time. Holding up the note, Arthur raised an eyebrow at Alfred skeptically.

“Do you really know them all? Even the most recent release? It’s only been out for a month--”

Alfred nodded his head quickly. “If you give me sticks, I can prove it. I just... I just wanna help. I saw what happened right here and I know all these guys will definitely be upset if you had to cancel just because Francis is being a drama queen.”

That comment earned a snort from Arthur, who was now smirking. “I like you already. Follow me, we’ll see if you have what it takes to handle this job for one night. Can you sing?”

“Uh, I mean, I’m nowhere near as awesome as you, but I think-”

“Flattery gets you nowhere kid, can you sing?”

Alfred felt his cheeks redden in embarrassment. “Dude, you’re only a year and a half older than me, I’m not a kid... and yeah, I can sing.”

As they stepped into a closed off rehearsal room, Kiku politely handed the paper back to Alfred. “You write well. Is this a song?”

“A songwriter, hm?” Arthur snatched the paper before Alfred could, and read it over.

That was it, Alfred’s life was complete, Arthur Kirkland was actually reading his song, oh sweet jeebus have mercy was it hot in here? Face as red as Kiku’s base, Alfred couldn’t help but fiddle with his jacket sleeves. What would Arthur think of his music? Surely it would look amateurish compared to any real singer, but Alfred figured that it at least had feelings to it.

When he was done reading, Arthur’s eyes met Alfred’s, a startling green staring at his own blue with surprise. The words that left his lips caught Alfred off guard.

“You see them too?”

That very same green that filled Alfred’s soul with every song of Arthur’s he’d listened to, it was in his eyes right now. The world had come to a stand still, and Alfred could only numbly nod his head in affirmation. Yes, he did see them, he had for the longest time. “Your music brought them back to me. My whole world had lost color, but when i heard you, I- I could see again.”

A small, genuine smile was the response, and Alfred swore his heart had stopped in that very moment. Those beautiful eyes stared into his own and he felt a whole new type of color flow through him. It was one of the most glorious feelings Alfred had ever been lucky enough to experience. It may have been only infatuation, but it was a start.

“Come on, lad, we have a concert to perform. What’s your name?”

“Ah-uh, Alfred Jones.”

“Alfred, hm? Welcome to the band.”

Arthur handed the paper back after writing something on the top. It was a single word, one that Alfred had never heard before, and yet he knew what it meant already. A word for the things he saw when he was in the music, feeling it, breathing it, living it. Loving it.

Synesthesia.

Synesthesia is a neurological condition in which a person experiences "crossed" responses to stimuli. It occurs when stimulation of one sensory or cognitive pathway (e.g., hearing) leads to automatic, involuntary experiences in a second sensory or cognitive pathway (e.g., vision).

#hetalia #usuk #ukus #pre-relationship usukus #band au #rockstar au #human au #ixiewroteathing #ixie wrote a piece of her soul and is still sho o k

[ixiethepixiewrites]

We're Goin Down Town

Rating: T

Warnings: Vomit mention, alcohol mention, sex work mention, pre-usuk

Summary:

A/N: lmao idk I'll probably make a second part for this but I'm really tired today.

The world was spinning. At least, it was spinning in Alfred's eyes, and the sight just made his legs wobble as he stumbled from the bar. His fraternity mates had challenged him to a drinking game, and he had gladly accepted the opportunity to show them up. Whether or not he actually won was unclear to him at this point, as he wandered forward blindly. Where had his friends gone? Everyone's faces were blurry, which made him feel around for his glasses. They were missing.

Next thing he knew, there were bright lights and loud honks coming from his left. Those lights soon flashed red and blue, but nothing in his mind had clicked yet. Someone stepped out of the car and began speaking, but he didn't hear them. Instead, Alfred hurled on the pavement.

The figure that had exited the car before spoke into his hand before he got close enough that Alfred could see him. There were some kind of wet wipes in his hand, which he tossed one of on Alfred's face to roughly clean it off. There was an awful smell in Alfred's nose, but the wipe helped a little bit with that as he used it to blow his nose.

“Whozat?” He spoke, his speech slurred.

He could tell now that there was a man in front of him, a man in a blue and black uniform with a shiny badge on his chest. The pieces in Alfred's mind still weren't fitting this all together though. He was being spoken to again, and holy shit this man sounded like an angel.

“Sir, have you been drinking? Do you have a ride home?”

None of that really registered in Alfred's mind, instead he just stared. Those were some really green eyes. Like, nuclear waste glowing green, but in a pretty way. When he didn't give the man a response, he spoke to his hand again. Wait, it was a radio maybe. Alfred couldn't quite tell with all four of them floating around like that. Soon he felt the world spin again, though he wasn't sure why. His legs moved automatically though, which helped a little. Where were they going? Was this guy some kinda pimp?

“Excuse me??” Came an incredulous voice next to his right ear.

Oh, he had said that out loud, hadn't he? The sound of a car door opening caught his attention and Alfred mumbled as he was seated in. “I don wanna be a... a... whatzit?”

“Sir, please, sit still so I can buckle you in.” Came the response from his possible pimp.

Alfred only fell over and groaned. “I can’t... dance n stuff... ‘m a virgin...”

“Sir, I'm a police officer, not a pimp. Now stay quiet while I report this.”

There was a long moment of silence for Alfred after the car door closed. After what seemed like hours, the officer pimp man got into the drivers side and started the car up. Alfred, meanwhile, was counting the streetlamps that passed. Then he asked what was on his drunken little mind.

“Where’w goin?”

“We're going downtown.”

“There's a whatsit... a strip club... down-down down herdilutemriveld... sugar we goin down swingin~”

“There's also a police station, which you will be spending the night in, you inebriated fool.”

The gears in Alfred's mind began actually working, which had him silent for a solid five minutes before one word escaped his mouth.

“Fuck.”

#usuk #pre relationship usukus #ukus #hetalia #police!au #alcohol mention #vomit mention #sex work mention #ixiewroteathing #anon request #if you guess the song I love you