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27. The Mile-High Club, or, "Wow, This Gives a Whole New Meaning to Flying the Friendly Skies!" |

30_lemons

England insisted that they should be subtle, and since they were both in economy class that had been simple enough. Nobody had really noticed America going to the loo, even though he tripped over an old lady’s knitting needles and sat in a pretty girl’s lap before accidentally swiping off a sleeping man’s toupee. And England had watched the in-flight movie for a while until he had finally taken off his headphones and headed for the second loo to the left and opened it and found nobody in there.

He then opened the loo to the right, and America was crammed inside, all too many elbows and bony knees and gawky grins to fit in the squalid surroundings. England stepped inside and closed the shunted door behind him, blearily adjusting to the dim and unflattering light.

“I told you the second to the left,” England said. “You got it wrong.”

“You’re the one who got it wrong,” America mumbled into his neck, and his hands were tugging loosely at their belts, grasping the edges of England’s jacket and trying to shove it off his arms.

“No, I said it—“ England only stopped for a moment to desperately kiss him, open-mouthed like a savage idiot, shoving both hands so hard against the walls that his knuckles banged against the thin plastic, and he kissed him until he felt like he was sucking and he leaned back, panting, to say, “I said it was the second to the left, and it looked suspicious—“

“Nobody noticed,” America said, and his cold hands were squirming up the bare of his back and he ducked down to nip at the exposed collar, blond hair flying into England’s face until he had to tilt up his neck and stare at the dim light.

“Everybody noticed, you couldn’t be more obvious—“ There wasn’t enough room for them both to be standing, so he shoved America down in a sitting position and straddled him, grasping loosely at the tufts of blond hair to yank back and bite savagely into the skin of the neck.

“You’re such an old man,” and America was fumbling with his buttons but his fingers were too fat and they jabbed the buttons against England’s stomach and his throbbing erection and he bit down hard on America’s neck, a little of a bitter blood mingling with his saliva, and he licked the indentations as he shoved himself against America, putting all his pressure on him while America had to hold one hand on the opposite wall and lean over to pull down his pants and his Superman boxers and he banged his head on the ceiling.

“They’ll talk for ages if they saw us,” England said, and, “Hurry up, you idiot, fuck, hurry, fuck.” He grinded and humped against the dryness of America’s white shirt and loose Mickey Mouse tie and his hot breath was rolling into the smell of America’s deodorant and the plane bumped slightly and he was launched against America and felt America’s larger hand cradle his head and the faint hum of the plane surrounded them and the toilet paper was unraveled and pooling at their feet and he was trying to lift himself.

“Think the stewardess will come?” America’s grip tightened on the small of his back as he pushed into England, slowly at first, breathing heavily onto him as the plane rattled around in the icy depths of the air. “You’d like if she came—or if someone came—or—“

“You talk too much,” and that was all England said and then he moved and America moved until England felt his head bang on the wall and rattle the small partition and he wasn’t saying very much, just feeling the warmth inside him expanding in him the thickness and strength of the hands holding him up and the urgent pleasure center that came from having a cock shoved halfway up him and then all the way up him and then halfway up him again and he felt the intrusion very tightly in his body and he closed his eyes and he thought the world was afloat and they were all floating, and he was suddenly acutely aware that the sun was racing towards them just as the clouds were cold to the touch and they were irrevocably launching into time and onto land and the plane was a rattling body and time was running backwards and when he opened his eyes, America was leaning against him, panting.

England tried to clear his mind and gripped the back of America’s neck as he grinded against him for a while longer, breathing shallowly, until he felt a tightness and then a release, and heaved against America and thought to himself that he should have worn white socks that day.

He started suddenly against him when there was a sudden rapping on the other side of the partition, from the next stall over, and he stalled completely, even as America tried to get up his pants with one hand and find his belt somewhere in the sink when the voice floated over.

“These walls are thin, you know. Some people are trying to shit here.”

England sighed, relaxing and stumbling off America, trying to regain feeling in his numb legs where the muscle had cramped in the stiff position and his neck hurt from being unable to look up without bumping into a wall.

“See? Nobody important noticed,” America whispered, and he smiled so boyishly and with eyes gleaming so brightly that England felt a side of his face twitch.

“It stinks in here,” England said, looping the belt loosely around himself without buckling, “But we’re not doing this again in here.”

America’s face fell, crestfallen.

“We’ll use the blankets in our seats next time,” England said, and he closed the door so he wouldn’t have to listen to America and just stumble back to his own seat, folding himself into the small space and picking up the shopping magazines to ignore the feeling of his heart beating in his burning ears.