[England attempts to emulate a turtle again, this time hoping to hide his painfully red face.] Ah.
[That's a bit of a surprise for someone who generally thinks themselves to be pretty detestable as a person, and who specifically has doubted this friendship many times over.
He's got his knees drawn up close to his chest, so it's easy to pretend to pick a bit of dust off of his slacks.] ...it's the same for me.
[America can't hide his surprise; England has grudges older than America, after all. But he doesn't think England is lying. Not that England never lies, but lying about this, in this way, that doesn't seem like England.]
That's--that's really good. I mean, not that it--not that I-- [There's an obvious grasp at normalcy there, but nothing about this conversation is very normal, so he has nothing to hold onto.] ...Thanks.
[England has already admitted a lot more than he planned to when he initiated this conversation. Part of him regrets it, but he has to consider the comfort brought on by being told that America can't hate him. That's a considerable ease on his mind, if it's true. He has his doubts, of course, but it's still a nice thought.]
...we're just too...er, that is, you know... [They've got too much history. They're too close, sometimes. And England can never forget when America adored him like he was the centre of the world.
Eventually, he shrugs, fiddling with some more imaginary lint.] ...I just can't. I don't know that there's any need to thank me.
[He says it in a way that's more bashful than bristly; he doesn't mean to brush off America's gesture, he's just embarrassed at his own vulnerability.]
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[That's a bit of a surprise for someone who generally thinks themselves to be pretty detestable as a person, and who specifically has doubted this friendship many times over.
He's got his knees drawn up close to his chest, so it's easy to pretend to pick a bit of dust off of his slacks.] ...it's the same for me.
no subject
That's--that's really good. I mean, not that it--not that I-- [There's an obvious grasp at normalcy there, but nothing about this conversation is very normal, so he has nothing to hold onto.] ...Thanks.
no subject
...we're just too...er, that is, you know... [They've got too much history. They're too close, sometimes. And England can never forget when America adored him like he was the centre of the world.
Eventually, he shrugs, fiddling with some more imaginary lint.] ...I just can't. I don't know that there's any need to thank me.
[He says it in a way that's more bashful than bristly; he doesn't mean to brush off America's gesture, he's just embarrassed at his own vulnerability.]