Left Hand, Crown In

It was literally the longest engagement in history.

A score and a half had come and gone before a marriage was even seriously considered. Both of them loved each other, of course, more than the world, but they were too busy, or too politically or economically or martially unstable for such a commitment between two world powers. Wars were won and generations passed, and still they fretted around each other, ignoring the subject at every possible cost. It took thirty five years for anything to really happen.

It was after midnight in an early April in the early fifties. They were twisted around each other with the sheets in between, half asleep collectively. England clutched at the strong arm wrapped around him with one hand, twisting his ring with the other, staring into darklit darkness with wide blind eyes.

"America?" he called into the shadows.

"Mmm?" The voice was deep and at his shoulder, groggy and lovely.

England chewed the inside of his cheek as he thought. "I think it's past time."

"Time for what?" America was still not awake and comprehensive, his fingers kneading his skin like a cat pawing on their owner's stomach.

"It's high time we got married."

America bolted upright, his vice grip pulling England up with him. Grunts of protest fell on deaf ears as he twisted him around to face him, gripping his shoulders harshly. "Are you sure?" Wild, scared eyes, blue and vulnerable. England smiled.

"As sure as I've ever been." He reached up to cup America's face. "I love you, America." His smile grew to a grin. "It's like some people say, you've got to shit or get off the pot."

America laughed like church bells, loud and jubilant. He pulled him close and whispered, "That may have topped my proposal for being the most unromantic and uncouth thing to say." He lost his fingers in the sheets behind England, and they smiled.

Their engagement lasted thirty five years. The plans for the wedding took three months. It wasn't a political arrangement, so nasty paperwork could be virtually ignored, beyond the informing of bosses and whatnot. They didn't even have to buy rings - England had his Claddagh that America would flip, and America had a band made from the first nugget of the gold rush that he had been saving for something important. They didn't match - England's ring was silver, and America's didn't have any design - but they liked it that way. Soon, countries were invited, presents were received, and a cake was ordered.

Five days before the wedding, they eloped to Hawai'i and were married by a local preacher/shaman on the beach.

Of course they had a devil of a time explaining it to those who were invited to the intended wedding, but they still had the party and doubled the alcohol quotientpresent, so everyone ended up happy. It was crazy, and it was perfect, and it was totally worth it.

They were finally married, twisted together after forty years of dancing.

Left Hand, Crown Out

Married life wasn't too different than their engagement. They still spent long weekends alone together, bickered constantly, could never compromise on anything even if they agreed, ached from absence when one left the other to cross the ocean. (Okay, well, the baby boom had to come from somewhere.) They really just flipped a ring, but it was special to them and that was all that mattered.

Now that England's ring had gone through its intended cycle, it seemed to give up. It started to color and rust, if silver could rust, turning green and red. The centuries of some of the most extensive wear and tear finally were beginning to show.

England was standing at the bathroom sink with a bottle of silver polish and a dirty rag when America showed up for his visit. They called to each other through the walls, but England was still furiously wiping at the red and green crusts on his ring.

America finally found him and wrapped his arms around his waist from behind, resting his chin on his shoulder with closed eyes and a sigh. He leaned back into him, closing his eyes as well and melting.

"What're you doing?" he whispered in his ear after a minute of holding and sighing.

"Trying to clean my ring," he whispered back, shaking himself back to consciousness and starting back with scrubbing. It was like the scum came back as soon as the rag swept by. America watched him rub vainly at the old metal for a bit.

"You know, I could always get you a new one," he offered tentatively. England's hands paused in twisting the rag around the inside of the ring. "I know it's got a history for you - and it's beautiful, really it is - but it's falling apart and you know it, love," he went on, sensing the tension in his arms. He squeezed him tighter as his hands fell to rest on the edge of the sink and his head fell to his chest.

"Yeah, I know. It's just..." he trailed off and sniffed. "It's been with me through so much."

"Aw, baby, come here," America cooed, and his hands dropped the ring with the rag threaded through it and he twisted around in the embrace to face him, burying his face into his shirt. America made small comforting noises and rubbed his back in circles, letting him cry. "You've had that thing for, what, three hundred years now?" he asked him when he recovered.

He wiped his eyes. "Four, actually."

"Honey, honey," he coddled, taking his face in his hands and tilting it up to look at red and green eyes. "Jewelry wasn't made to last forever." He let him go and reached around him to the sink, removing the rag and wiping off the extra polish still caked on the design. "Honestly, I'm surprised it's lasted this long. Ireland didn't exactly give you the most finely made ring in the world," he said with a grin, studying the ring. He twirled it between two fingers, then took England's left hand and slid it back on, crown out. "But if you don't want to get a new one, I totally understand. I wasn't gonna force you to anything. Besides, you've had this as long as I can remember. Somehow, it wouldn't be right if you weren't wearing it." He smiled at him again, and he had to smile back.

He looked down at his hand, tips of his fingers still clasped by America, and sighed in sorrow. "It really is falling apart, isn't it?"

He nodded, then his face brightened suddenly and he snapped. "I know! I know a great guy up in New York - fantastic man, really - who loves to work on old stuff. We can give it to him to refurbish or whatever and have it looking like its fresh from Ireland again in no time," he said eagerly, gripping England's hand and bouncing on his heels.

England started in shock for a second, a lopsided smile growing unconsciously. "That'd be nice."

"Sweet!" America cheered and bent down to touch lips only swiftly, but England reached up before he could back away and kissed him hungrily, because it had been almost two weeks and he was being so sweet. America laughed into his mouth and pulled him closer.

He pulled back breathlessly, incomplete as always, still rhythmically touching between words as he said, "What say you" kiss "to giving the ring" kiss "a proper sendoff?" He twisted their positions and backed out of the bathroom, heading towards the bed. America laughed and let himself be led away.

"As you wish, love."

The next day, they took the long way up through the backroads to New York, spending time together to reverie with in the future on the epic journey to clean England's ring. It was married life in its prime; beyond the haze of lust (although lust still factored into the equation), but still in young love, laughing more than frowning and always a comfortable silence. They rode with the windows down and the windshield wipers on, singing along with America's latest rock and roll hits like teenagers. It was worth the chastising they were sure to get for the extra vacation time.

The New York man America mentioned was surprisingly young and hip, but the look in his eyes when he saw England's ring convinced him more than America's exuberant praise that this was the perfect guy for the job. In a few days, almost hours, the Claddagh ring shone brighter than ever. He twisted it around his finger and nodded his approval, and they swore it in much like they had retired the old one. Their celebrations were like alohas; the same act meant 'hello' and 'goodbye.'

Ireland probably thought, on that unimportant birthday half a millennium ago, that England would scoff and throw the ring in some dusty pile in the attic, forgotten like so many other bits of his history. She would have laughed if you told her he would wear it, and die from hysterics if he said it would be his wedding ring, since her country used them for females. That was what defined the relationship, though; doing the unexpected for the sake of doing it and nothing else. Ever twisting.

{A/N: Sorry for the lame ending and distinct lack of any kind of porn. Maybe I'll add another chapter tomorrow. As of now, though, consider it done.}