[The reference to them as a unit brings tension to England's shoulders. It's easier when it's not about him, of course. He can give advice as long as he doesn't think it means he'll look invested.
He gives in and starts worrying the sleeve of his windbreaker between two of his fingers. All the same, he doesn't have the heart to reject America's olive branch (and truthfully, he doesn't want to).]
...we will. [Worrying turns to plucking with his fingers as he bows his head slightly.] We— you know, we're allies. So it's...all right, I mean, if you need to...
[He folds his arms a little tighter, giving the impression of a turtle gradually retreating into its shell.] It's, er, better to support each other. That's what makes a strong alliance.
Yeah, friends work together. [That's not what an alliance is and America knows it, but England is his friend on top of being his ally, and that's important to him. Here, especially, when everything is more frightening than it has every right to be.] We should probably get some sleep, huh?
[Since in the end he, England, and Sealand are all going to end up tumbled together on the couch for warmth anyway. But that's kind of nice, too, in spite of the circumstances.]
[England feels a morbid gratitude for Norfinbury's gutted electrical systems when he realises there's not enough light to illuminate his changing complexion. He didn't expect such an easy return of his attempted gesture. They don't exactly make a habit of talking about their friendship, or whatever it is this decade.]
...right.
[He tentatively unfolds his arms, though his fingers still occasionally brush the cuffs of his sleeves with restless energy.] I think that would be wise.
[England lifts his hand, then, just a small margin into the air. But he reconsiders whatever he was reaching for and lets his hand fall again, and only after it rests at his side does he look America in the face.] We'll get home. Don't you worry about that.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
He gives in and starts worrying the sleeve of his windbreaker between two of his fingers. All the same, he doesn't have the heart to reject America's olive branch (and truthfully, he doesn't want to).]
...we will. [Worrying turns to plucking with his fingers as he bows his head slightly.] We— you know, we're allies. So it's...all right, I mean, if you need to...
[He folds his arms a little tighter, giving the impression of a turtle gradually retreating into its shell.] It's, er, better to support each other. That's what makes a strong alliance.
no subject
[Since in the end he, England, and Sealand are all going to end up tumbled together on the couch for warmth anyway. But that's kind of nice, too, in spite of the circumstances.]
no subject
...right.
[He tentatively unfolds his arms, though his fingers still occasionally brush the cuffs of his sleeves with restless energy.] I think that would be wise.
[England lifts his hand, then, just a small margin into the air. But he reconsiders whatever he was reaching for and lets his hand fall again, and only after it rests at his side does he look America in the face.] We'll get home. Don't you worry about that.