The Auction
America hopped happily in the fancy corridors of the Christie’s South Kensington saleroom, swinging his suitcase like it was worth nothing. Slight fever was heating up his face and he let his teeth show in a naive grin. The economical crisis that had been going on for the past few years was finally getting its prize. It sure didn’t put America down, no no! The building must have had its floor going up because there was no other way America would catch his breath in front of his destination door. When he was sure he looked just awesome, he knocked.
“Coming!” came an answer and America hopped from one leg to the other because he was just so damn excited! The door opened and in there stood a flushed Englishman with an exhausted look in his eyes. “Ah... hello America. Come in,” he gestured and let America pass. The nation hopped in, turned around and faced the slouching Englishman.
“It’s just so exciting! We’re selling another country, and I mean, I wonder who gets ‘em!” America jumped from one foot to the other. “Last time it was no fun! It was like, obvious that Germany would get Italy over Russia though he did put up a few real scary faces.” America shuddered but continued nevertheless, following England through his apartment. “And like, like, I reaally wonder who’s sold this time!”
England turned around and as if he were in pain, he asked politely: “Would you like some tea?”
“Ah-haha! You’re such a joker, of course not! Some coffee would do good, though.” He winked at England and blinked again as he remembered something. “Oh! Mind if I use the bathroom?” During a low “Suit yourself,” he hopped in a room with a WC sign and locked the door.
When he hopped out, England was nowhere to be seen. (Silly, he was IN England!) He laughed cutely at his joke and hopped through the apartment. He found his coffee sooner than England. Sipping a little, he stepped behind him, put the cup on a table and looked over England’s shoulder to marvel at the evening London too. He was taken aback just a little when he heard a half-hearted sob beside him.
“England what’s wrong?” he asked, thinking about how cool and polite he was and how England’s not gonna scold him and why England would cry and rain at such a great day. Probably just whingeing about the past, he was good at that. “I’m gonna be sold by that auction.” Something about the auction then, huh? Yeah, England was always such a conservative, he really minded just taking freedom away from a whole nation, even with their agreement.
Wait... what?
England sobbed loudly at his side. America’s mouth hung open in a gap of surprise. He put a hand on shoulder that shook and noticed that England’s green sweater was back to front and had a loathsome splotch of black on his shoulderblades. It smelled of fresh blood.
“England?...” England sobbed louder. He bent over and cried, he raised his head and wailed, America’s hand slowly letting go of his shoulder. Then it slipped off the nation’s body entirely and America covered his mouth, suddenly wanting to throw up. Then he turned around and walked out. He left the proud Arthur in his apartment, came in the auction room and stayed there until the auction began.
America rams into the British, covered in sweat, raging with lust. “I will make you mine, England.” The British only gasps, tears in his eyes but not flowing. Just a constant stream of blood pours out of his mouth, ragged and burst by his panting. Small drops of blood. America doesn’t care anymore. “You’re mine now.” He’d take care of him. It didn’t matter if England bled, exhausted and pale. America would shield him.
-You once were mine. Now I’m yours?-
The British lies on white sheets, butt puckered and ridden from the back. He lies quietly, gasping silently. Only screeching of the bed is heard, and America. The British doesn’t even hear that. He knows what’s going on and he focuses on not choking on the people leaving and dying. America grabs him by the shoulders and yanks upward. The British’s head bobs, gargling. Pink bubbles at his blueish lips. Emerald eyes open to see. Beautiful. “Mine, mine, mine. All mine.” America jabbers and hugs the British, still riding his anus. His sinks his had into his blonde hair and sighs and grunts.
-I’m yours. I’m yours.-
England doesn’t care. He’s ridden, he’s stopped, he’s dropped on the sheets. “My England. Mine.” America kisses him, hugs him, makes him warm. A warm pool spreads on the sheet were the Brit’s head lies. It feels like spit but it smells like blood. “Mine.” -- “Yours,” the British mumbles. He’s his now.
