We're Enemies

England PoV:

This time I'm the one who's standing tall. This round is mine.

I had warned you before. I wouldn't go easy on you. Took you hundred and now you're defeated in just seven. It's somewhat funny to see you like this.

Your soft golden locks matted and dirty. Your pretty face covered in small bruises and cuts. You on your knees with your hands bound behind you, too ashamed to look up.

I dismiss my men and get down on one knee in front of you, grabbing your chin to force you to look into my eyes. To make you feel the satisfaction I feel, and to make you feel worse.

Your eyes are glazed over. "Arthur...!" you cry out.

Just what I had been expecting...
hoping for...

I wrap my arms around you and sit down on the floor, pulling you into my lap. You bury your face into the crook of my neck and tears roll down your eyes onto my collar.

I slowly untie your wrists, massaging them as gently as possible to return circulation to them.

You push my hands away and wrap your arms around my body instead. I let you cling onto me as I run my hands over your back.
You finally stop sobbing and just stay still.

"This won't last long, England."

I push you off myself and you pass out on the ground, your cheeks bearing proof of your vulnerability.

"We'll see." I walk out of the tent. I know. Nothing will.

Other than us.

On opposite sides.

We're enemies.