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America lay sprawled out on the diamond-shaped rainbow rug in the middle of the floor. He had taken to doing so often. Staring at the ceiling had somehow, taken his mind off things for a bit. He had had an argument with Britain the other day. Britain may have called America some things and America may have said some other stuff. Bottom line was, that at the moment, they were not speaking.
(( I FOUND YOU HI GUUUUURL. 8D BTW if you go to the bar underneath where it says "Thread: USUK {APH} blahblahblah" and click Thread Tools and then subscribe and set it so it email notifies you, you'll know when I post. Not that I won't tell you everday at school. Also I love the way you write eeeee <3 ))
Britain pushed the needle through the canvas again, making a tiny 'x' with the string amongst thousands of others. He didn't know how long he had been working at it; all he knew was that he hadn't really slept. Not well, anyway. He had spent the night sipping decaf tea and sitting in silence, staring at the wall or the ceiling or thinking about watching Doctor Who or doing anything to keep his mind off of America-
He missed with the needle and pricked his finger through the fabric, spitting a "Bloody hell," under his breath as red blossomed from the cut. Damn American, distracting him and making him feel pangs of guilt he shouldn't be feeling when he wasn't even here.
His eyes flickered toward the phone (as he sucked on the cut on his finger, which was something he would never do in the American's precense because it was undignified and ungentlemanly and he didn't want America to think he was either of those things, not that he would ever admit it). He debated calling his former colony, maybe apologizing, maybe getting in another fight. Anything to break the awkward silence that stretched across the Atlantic Ocean, so thick he was confident it could sink the Titanic.
(( Describing things is fun! ))
ring. ring. The phone rung for the fourteenth time. America did not dare pick up the receiver. What if it was Britain? What would he said to him? What if he said something stupid? He couldn't say anything stupid to Britain. He'd laugh at him again. Plus, the phone was just so . . . far . . . away. With a great struggle, America pulled himself off the floor and dragged over to the small, round table the phone sat on. It stood on three legs. One leg was shorter than the others and had two MARVEL comic books shoved underneath it. America stared deeply at the phone as it ceaselessly rang. "answer it," his mind said. "No, I can't. Do it! No! Yes AAAAARRRRRGGGGHH" The ringing stopped.
America dropped back onto the floor. What the hell was wrong with him? He'd always been able to talk to Britain after their fights before. It was easy. America would say he was sorry and that Britain was always right (even if it wasn't true), and everything would be fine. Laying on the floor wasn't helping anymore. America got up and walked to the window.
ring. ring. Not again. America walked over to the table. Then he kicked it so hard, the table and phone went flying across the room.
(( I want a rainbow rug! Also, I STILL MISS YOU ;A; / sobs uncontrollably ))
England waited a few minutes- a few minutes that seemed like hours- and as he pricked his finger again he decided he could wait no longer. He lifted the phone from it's cradle and dialed, calling America's cell that he almost never put down, figuring that he was more likely to answer it than his home phone. The ring, ring of the phone and the accompanying tick, tock from the grandfather clock on the far side of the room stretched the seconds, and England wound his finger around the phone cord, nervous and anxious and trying not to think about what he was going to say if and when America ever picked up.