First Hetalia fic. Please review?
His appearance isn't shocking. It hasn't changed much since the last time they met; his hair is still short and roguish and maybe his prescription has gotten a little bit stronger, but he's the same height. His nose still has that sharp tip and his jaw cuts the same angles. He's unchanged. It's his presence that's so very different.
England notices it when America steps through the door--his first meeting with the Allies--and sits down across from him. His shoulders still bear that same wide set, but there's a power lurking beneath that drab bomber jacket; it's hiding more than just flab and a smart uniform. There are muscles there, tight and ready; poised for war.
There's an age in his eyes far beyond his relatively young hundred and sixty years, and an unfathomable sadness punctuated by the bright anger lurking there. There are faint lines in his face that developed during his civil war, and England knows he hasn't been the same since then, and it's because of this that he listens with rapt attention as America decries the murderous Japan, promising that he will be swiftly brought to justice.
England watches the points of light in his eyes contract and flare, and he knows the pain there. He knows how much easier it is to fight an external threat than an internal battle, and he wishes America had not met the same fate.
When the meeting is over, he waits for him in the hallway, nodding his goodbyes to Russia and china and grumbling to France as they file past him. America starts too, but England stops him with his words.
"I'm sorry," he says, with a depth that implies it's for more than just the lives lost that cool December morning.
"Thanks," America replies, and he truly is thankful, to have one he had once considered a brother standing behind and beside him now, fighting the same unimaginable evil. England steps closer to him.
"I know what it's like," he says with the wisdom of a nation centuries old, "to lose like this." America pulls from a grip that isn't there.
"I haven't lost. This war has barely begun," he snaps, and England winces.
"I meant your people," he says quietly, and there is a shared moment of silence as the think on it. They have both paid dearly and will continue to do so as the Blitzes continue over London and America sends his youth to fight and die so that they may save thousands of people they may never meet. A heavy weight settles on America's shoulders, and England fears it is one that may not lift for a long time.
"We will triumph," he says softly, "we will fight and we will win, this war, and the next, and all after." He pauses, unfocused eyes adjusting as if seeing the world again for the first time. "Because that's what the American people do," he continues, and there is pride in his voice; the kind of pride all countries hope to feel for their people, "We'll fight for those who can't, and we'll help those who need it, and we'll triumph over those who mean to oppress freedom--because America was built on freedom," and he doesn't show the barest hint of guilt as he locks eyes with his former oppressor, "freedom for everyone."
And England can't help but smile at him; can't possibly hate him for wanting what he thinks everyone deserves. England can't begrudge him that, and for a second, there is no tension between them, and they are brothers again, but in a new sense. They stand on equal footing, facing the same uncertain future, feeling the same hope and fear. America's smile grows.
"Don't worry, England," he says calmly, slapping him on the shoulder with such force that England has to work to keep upright--the man doesn't know his own strength--"we'll win."
England smiles back at him, his touch gentler on America's back, "Yeah. We'll win."