The Sun Rising [Canada/England]
Apr. 19th, 2009 02:26 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
roesslyngTitle: The Sun Rising
Characters/Pairing: Canada/England
Rating: 15+
Length: 1300
Summary: The rising sun makes England recall a John Donne poem.
Other: Posted on the Hetalia main comm. (Original entry)
The Sun Rising
The morning sun crept over the horizon. Dawn flexed its fingers, stretched them, and slipped them through the trees. Steadily the sunlight made its way through the greenbelt, across the road, and through the trees again, ever-moving. Finally it reached Canada’s bedroom window and, having sighted its targets, sped through the glass and landed on the bed. It hit the two sleeping men smack in the eyes and woke them. Mission accomplished.
Canada groaned, rolled over, and mumbled “Wsfgl” into his pillow. England stared up at the ceiling, blinked slowly, then muttered, “Bugger”. With a heavy sigh he stretched, yawned, and slipped out of bed, padding bare-footed to the large window to look out.
They had left the thick curtains open during the night. The moon had been full and the beams that filtered their way in through the glass had been more than welcome. In that light the room was bright enough for them to see each other, catching their faces as they moved together; but it was not strong enough to prevent them from drifting to sleep when, exhausted, they finally rested wrapped in each other’s arms.
The sunlight, however, was nothing more than a bother, cheating them out of sleep. England squinted as he looked out the window and frowned. It was bright, much too bright. The world was bursting with colour; the grass was too green, the sky too blue, the trunks of the poplar trees blindingly white. In the yard a male pheasant strutted to and fro. His plumage, too, was far too bright for England’s liking. He snorted and shut the curtains halfway, muttering to himself. “Busy old fool, unruly sun; why dost thou thus through windows and through curtains call on us?”
“Mmnh? What was that?”
The soft murmuring came from the direction of the bed. England smiled faintly. “The Sun Rising,” he said, resting his forehead against the window’s cool glass. “By-“
“John Donne, I know, I know.” England could practically hear Canada rolling his eyes. “One of the greatest poets in English history. I know. You made me memorize dozens of his poems, remember? I wouldn’t forget. But why are you reciting poetry at the window? It’s too early for poetry – ‘specially Donne, of all people.”
England chuckled. “It’s never too early for Donne, boy.”
“Of course it is.” A yawn. “If the sun bothers you, why screw around with poetry? You can just say, ‘Buggeroff, sun, leave me alone; I want to stay in bed with my lover’.”
“Donne said it better.” England turned and smiled at him. The sigh of the younger man rubbing the sleep from his eyes, his hair mussed and falling in his face, warmed something inside of him. He sighed quietly and drifted back to the bed. “Must to thy motions lovers’ seasons run?” he murmured as he sank down onto the mattress. “Saucy pedantic wench, go chide late school-boys and sour prentices.” He lifted a hand to stroke Canada’s hair fondly, combing out the knots with his fingers.
“Mm, go tell court-huntsmen that the king will ride,” Canada murmured sleepily.
“Call country ants to harvest offices,” England added. “Your pronunciation is off.”
“Pff, screw seventeenth-century pronunciation,” was Canada’s reply, grumbling even as he tilted his head to nuzzle the gentle hand. “Ah, whatsit...”
“Love all alike.”
“Right. Love, all alike - no season knows, nor clime, nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.”
“Very good.” After a moment of consideration, England slipped beneath the covers and drew him close. Burying his face in Canada’s sun-touched hair, he breathed in the scents he loved. Soap and pine, and wood-smoke from the fire they had enjoyed in the backyard the evening before. As the light in the room grew brighter, he sighed. There was no good in hoping they could stop the day from coming, though he might try. “Thy beams,” England whispered, “so reverend and strong, why shouldst thou think? I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink, but that I would not lose her - ... er. His, sight so long.”
“You already did.”
“What?”
Canada shifted to look him in the eye, a faint smirk playing over his lips. “You already did,” he repeated. “You got up and closed the curtain. Partly, anyway.”
“Oh, buggeroff.” England rolled his eyes. “Fine, if you’re going to be that way, I won’t continue.” He drew away and rested back, eyes falling shut. For a moment all was still and quiet. Then Canada moved closer, slid his arms around England’s waist, and pressed a light, lingering kiss to his lips.
“Mm...” England’s eyes fluttered open. His lover was smiling.
“If his eyes have not blinded thine,” the younger man whispered, ducking his head to nuzzle by England’s throat, “Look, and tomorrow late, tell me whether both th’Indias of spice and mine be where thou left’st them, or be here with me.” A soft kiss to England’s collarbone. “Your turn.”
“I thought you didn’t want me to.”
“I was just teasing. Your turn.”
“Ask for those kings whom thou saw’st yesterday,” England began, then paused, shivering from the drifting kisses. “Mm... and thou shalt hear, all here in one bed lay.” Another shiver as a slick, clever tongue stroked over his pulse. “Nngh. Damn you and your mouth.”
“That’s not what you said last night,” Canada murmured playfully, lips ghosting. England could feel the smirk on them.
“You were putting it to better use last night,” England replied dryly, then hissed as teeth grazed a particularly sensitive spot, and as the other’s hands slid lower, fingertips trailing in a feather-light touch. “A-ahh. Your turn.”
“Hmm. What was that line?” Leisurely kisses trailed lightly, teasing. It was a ruse; Canada knew the next line, England was sure. Slick brushes over his jaw, teeth gently tugging at his ear. “How did it start?”
“She is all states,” he whispered, struggling to keep his voice even.
“Mm. Yes. But for us, no.” Canada pressed closer, nuzzling, murmuring by his ear, his voice low and husky. “You. You are all states, and all princes, I; nothing else is.” A light nip. “Princes do but play us; compared to this, all honour’s mimic; all wealth’s alchemy.”
“A good line, that,” England murmured. His eyes drifted shut. As Canada continued his ministrations, he whispered the next lines, breath hitching from grazing teeth and wandering hands. “A-ahh. Thou sun art half as happy as we, i-in that the world’s contracted thus; thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be to warm the world, that’s done... oohh. Nngh. That’s done in w-warming us.” More flustered than he would ever admit, he shifted uncomfortably, hands bunching the sheets. “You tease too much,” he grumbled.
“Yes,” Canada admitted. His kisses drifted upward again, brushing his cheeks, his eyelids. “Shine here to us,” he whispered, “and thou art everywhere; this bed thy centre is,” the barest pressure against his lips, light as air, “these walls, thy sphere.”
England’s eyes cracked open. He looked dazedly up at Canada, and Canada looked back, lingering. His hands drifted up, sliding around the form above him, drawing him closer. Once again the distance between them was closed, but this time it was his doing, as he pressed a firm kiss to Canada’s yielding lips. There was no protest, only a content sigh. England used it to his advantage and slipped his tongue inside his mouth, hinting at what was to come as he tasted him.
When they parted again they were both breathless. For a moment they were silent, each watching the other, so close that they could feel the heat from each other’s cheeks. Their breath mixed, and Canada’s hair fell to brush England’s face. Finally, England spoke. “I want you,” he whispered, his hands sliding to rest at Canada’s hips.
“I’m yours,” was Canada’s simple reply. They kissed once more and there were no further words exchanged between them.
In time they moved together and as slim beams of sunlight filtered in through the partially closed curtains it seemed as if, in truth, the old poet’s words had woven their world, the lines composed for them alone.
Characters/Pairing: Canada/England
Rating: 15+
Length: 1300
Summary: The rising sun makes England recall a John Donne poem.
Other: Posted on the Hetalia main comm. (Original entry)
The Sun Rising
The morning sun crept over the horizon. Dawn flexed its fingers, stretched them, and slipped them through the trees. Steadily the sunlight made its way through the greenbelt, across the road, and through the trees again, ever-moving. Finally it reached Canada’s bedroom window and, having sighted its targets, sped through the glass and landed on the bed. It hit the two sleeping men smack in the eyes and woke them. Mission accomplished.
Canada groaned, rolled over, and mumbled “Wsfgl” into his pillow. England stared up at the ceiling, blinked slowly, then muttered, “Bugger”. With a heavy sigh he stretched, yawned, and slipped out of bed, padding bare-footed to the large window to look out.
They had left the thick curtains open during the night. The moon had been full and the beams that filtered their way in through the glass had been more than welcome. In that light the room was bright enough for them to see each other, catching their faces as they moved together; but it was not strong enough to prevent them from drifting to sleep when, exhausted, they finally rested wrapped in each other’s arms.
The sunlight, however, was nothing more than a bother, cheating them out of sleep. England squinted as he looked out the window and frowned. It was bright, much too bright. The world was bursting with colour; the grass was too green, the sky too blue, the trunks of the poplar trees blindingly white. In the yard a male pheasant strutted to and fro. His plumage, too, was far too bright for England’s liking. He snorted and shut the curtains halfway, muttering to himself. “Busy old fool, unruly sun; why dost thou thus through windows and through curtains call on us?”
“Mmnh? What was that?”
The soft murmuring came from the direction of the bed. England smiled faintly. “The Sun Rising,” he said, resting his forehead against the window’s cool glass. “By-“
“John Donne, I know, I know.” England could practically hear Canada rolling his eyes. “One of the greatest poets in English history. I know. You made me memorize dozens of his poems, remember? I wouldn’t forget. But why are you reciting poetry at the window? It’s too early for poetry – ‘specially Donne, of all people.”
England chuckled. “It’s never too early for Donne, boy.”
“Of course it is.” A yawn. “If the sun bothers you, why screw around with poetry? You can just say, ‘Buggeroff, sun, leave me alone; I want to stay in bed with my lover’.”
“Donne said it better.” England turned and smiled at him. The sigh of the younger man rubbing the sleep from his eyes, his hair mussed and falling in his face, warmed something inside of him. He sighed quietly and drifted back to the bed. “Must to thy motions lovers’ seasons run?” he murmured as he sank down onto the mattress. “Saucy pedantic wench, go chide late school-boys and sour prentices.” He lifted a hand to stroke Canada’s hair fondly, combing out the knots with his fingers.
“Mm, go tell court-huntsmen that the king will ride,” Canada murmured sleepily.
“Call country ants to harvest offices,” England added. “Your pronunciation is off.”
“Pff, screw seventeenth-century pronunciation,” was Canada’s reply, grumbling even as he tilted his head to nuzzle the gentle hand. “Ah, whatsit...”
“Love all alike.”
“Right. Love, all alike - no season knows, nor clime, nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time.”
“Very good.” After a moment of consideration, England slipped beneath the covers and drew him close. Burying his face in Canada’s sun-touched hair, he breathed in the scents he loved. Soap and pine, and wood-smoke from the fire they had enjoyed in the backyard the evening before. As the light in the room grew brighter, he sighed. There was no good in hoping they could stop the day from coming, though he might try. “Thy beams,” England whispered, “so reverend and strong, why shouldst thou think? I could eclipse and cloud them with a wink, but that I would not lose her - ... er. His, sight so long.”
“You already did.”
“What?”
Canada shifted to look him in the eye, a faint smirk playing over his lips. “You already did,” he repeated. “You got up and closed the curtain. Partly, anyway.”
“Oh, buggeroff.” England rolled his eyes. “Fine, if you’re going to be that way, I won’t continue.” He drew away and rested back, eyes falling shut. For a moment all was still and quiet. Then Canada moved closer, slid his arms around England’s waist, and pressed a light, lingering kiss to his lips.
“Mm...” England’s eyes fluttered open. His lover was smiling.
“If his eyes have not blinded thine,” the younger man whispered, ducking his head to nuzzle by England’s throat, “Look, and tomorrow late, tell me whether both th’Indias of spice and mine be where thou left’st them, or be here with me.” A soft kiss to England’s collarbone. “Your turn.”
“I thought you didn’t want me to.”
“I was just teasing. Your turn.”
“Ask for those kings whom thou saw’st yesterday,” England began, then paused, shivering from the drifting kisses. “Mm... and thou shalt hear, all here in one bed lay.” Another shiver as a slick, clever tongue stroked over his pulse. “Nngh. Damn you and your mouth.”
“That’s not what you said last night,” Canada murmured playfully, lips ghosting. England could feel the smirk on them.
“You were putting it to better use last night,” England replied dryly, then hissed as teeth grazed a particularly sensitive spot, and as the other’s hands slid lower, fingertips trailing in a feather-light touch. “A-ahh. Your turn.”
“Hmm. What was that line?” Leisurely kisses trailed lightly, teasing. It was a ruse; Canada knew the next line, England was sure. Slick brushes over his jaw, teeth gently tugging at his ear. “How did it start?”
“She is all states,” he whispered, struggling to keep his voice even.
“Mm. Yes. But for us, no.” Canada pressed closer, nuzzling, murmuring by his ear, his voice low and husky. “You. You are all states, and all princes, I; nothing else is.” A light nip. “Princes do but play us; compared to this, all honour’s mimic; all wealth’s alchemy.”
“A good line, that,” England murmured. His eyes drifted shut. As Canada continued his ministrations, he whispered the next lines, breath hitching from grazing teeth and wandering hands. “A-ahh. Thou sun art half as happy as we, i-in that the world’s contracted thus; thine age asks ease, and since thy duties be to warm the world, that’s done... oohh. Nngh. That’s done in w-warming us.” More flustered than he would ever admit, he shifted uncomfortably, hands bunching the sheets. “You tease too much,” he grumbled.
“Yes,” Canada admitted. His kisses drifted upward again, brushing his cheeks, his eyelids. “Shine here to us,” he whispered, “and thou art everywhere; this bed thy centre is,” the barest pressure against his lips, light as air, “these walls, thy sphere.”
England’s eyes cracked open. He looked dazedly up at Canada, and Canada looked back, lingering. His hands drifted up, sliding around the form above him, drawing him closer. Once again the distance between them was closed, but this time it was his doing, as he pressed a firm kiss to Canada’s yielding lips. There was no protest, only a content sigh. England used it to his advantage and slipped his tongue inside his mouth, hinting at what was to come as he tasted him.
When they parted again they were both breathless. For a moment they were silent, each watching the other, so close that they could feel the heat from each other’s cheeks. Their breath mixed, and Canada’s hair fell to brush England’s face. Finally, England spoke. “I want you,” he whispered, his hands sliding to rest at Canada’s hips.
“I’m yours,” was Canada’s simple reply. They kissed once more and there were no further words exchanged between them.
In time they moved together and as slim beams of sunlight filtered in through the partially closed curtains it seemed as if, in truth, the old poet’s words had woven their world, the lines composed for them alone.
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