Trigger Warning: This story does have violent behavior, though I tried to keep it to a minimum and as none-graphic as possible. This story also mentions self-induced starvation. Please stay safe.
"America, that's enough." England hissed.
"But, England, I—," America started. England squeezed America's jaw, shutting him up.
"America, that's enough. Honestly, why can't you be just as good as Canada?"
"England, please. Just listen—,"
"We're all going through rough times right now, America. You should learn to deal with it. Honestly, you think you could possibly survive without me if you're getting hurt so grieviously just by taxes?"
"We're not asking to leave you. We just want you to stop taxing us so much. It's unfair."
"Oh, really? It's unfair?" England hissed. "America, we fought the war for you. You're what got us into this crap. It's your fault." England sighed. "And I don't want to hear any more of your nonsense. You are not to stay in the colonies now. You are to remain here."
"What? Why?"
"You are severely distracting when you're talking about that. It disrupts my work, and all my work is for you. Your people are suffering because of you. Can't you see that?"
"Because of me? Mr. England, they... it's unfair that you treat us that way. We're not even represented—,"
"Well, now they won't be represented at all. You are not to leave at all. You are not to return to your people until all of you learn your lesson. Understood?"
America didn't know what to say. He looked down. England grabbed him by the shoulders, shaking him. "Is that understood?" He repeated.
"Y-Yes, Mr. England."
"Good. Now, go to your room. I will see you tomorrow, America."
America stayed in his room all night, and the next morning.
He was fine for a few days, until he realized England was serious. He was starting to feel ill, being away from his people so long, and yet England insisted he was malnourished.
"America, it's okay. As long as you're with me, everything is fine. You're safe and tucked away here, away from those people who keep convincing you that I'm doing dastardly things."
As long as I'm with him, everything is fine. America's every breath carried these thoughts, even though he knew it was a lie. Every breath hurt and ached nowadays, and America was always so tired.
And yet, it seemed England was the only reason he was still alive.
"England, am I allowed to go back to my people yet?"
"No."
(I don't know how to do transitions, so here you go. I'm sorry.)
America didn't eat much any more. England tried to get him to eat, but he stubbornly refused. "I-I just wanna go back home. You can't make me stay here forever, y'know?"
"I'll keep you as long as need be," England replied shortly, taking a sip of his tea.
"Right," America muttered, not quite discouraged.
(I don't know how to do transitions, so here you go. I'm sorry.)
That night, America tried to sneak out. Tried. England quickly caught him.
"America, didn't I say you weren't allowed to leave?" England growled, grabbing his wrist. He pulled America back to the house.
"I know, but England, I-I want to go home."
"I don't care. I'm not going to let you leave when you're sick!"
"I wouldn't be sick if I was at home!" America tried to yank his wrist away.
"No, you're sick because you're so stubborn. Come inside and eat something."
America finally managed to free himself by yanking his wrist back suddenly. He started running, only to realize there was nowhere to go.
England wrapped his arms around America's waist, dragging him back.
"Let go of me!" America commanded, but of course England didn't care.
England shoved him into the house. "What were you thinking?" England demanded, pushing America onto a
chair.
"I... I just want to go home." England hit him, leaving a furious red mark on an equally furious America. "Why won't you let me go home?" America demanded.
England didn't respond. He seized America's arm and dragged him to his room instead.
America heard the lock click. He was near tears, with how much everything hurt now. "You can't keep me away from my people, England!"
"I'm going to have bars installed over your windows." England's voice lowered, and he spoke softly. "Of course I can, America. This is all for your own safety. If there was a war, you would die. I would be forced to kill you. I love you very much, America, and that is why I won't let your head be filled with stupid ideas."
America sat on the other side of the door, wiping tears away and sniffling furiously. But I agree with them, America thought, holding back another onslaught of tears.
(I don't know how to do transitions, so here you go. I'm sorry.)
England entered his room, closing the door carefully and opening the window. America's breath was heavy. He was practically a skeleton by now: he had refused to eat anything at all, except for an apple and a roll of bread the maids had brought up for him one time, which meant he hadn't eaten a full-meals worth in a good two weeks.
America was so tired. He blinked at England with bleary, tear-filled eyes. England was carrying a basket of bread, cheese and apples in one hand, and a steaming mug in the other.
England looked down at him, and looked away quickly. "Eat." England said, shoving the basket into America's hands.
"I don't want to."
"America, look at me. Look me in the eyes." England kneeled down. "You are going to eat. You will die soon if you refuse to eat."
America shrugged. His eyelids felt heavy and he was tired. His stomach was cramping from hunger, but he had no appetite.
England pressed a roll of bread into America's hands and took away the basket. "Eat." England repeated gently.
America took a bite of the roll. He hadn't eaten in days, and everything tasted new and eccentric, as if it was the most flavorful, delicious thing in the world. He ate ravenously, quickly devouring the small roll of bread.
England only looked even more worried now. He looked extremely upset, actually, to the point of near-tears. I did this. Damn it. I... my colony... dying?
England wrapped his arms around America. America tensed. He didn't want anything to do with England, not anymore. The roll of bread had only made him realize how severe his hunger was, but he was extremely sick.
America bursted into coughs. Almost instantly, tears came to his eyes. England rubbed his back.
Once the coughing fit had succumbed, England pressed the mug to America's lips. The warm ginger tea soothed the young colony slightly, and he relaxed a little.
"Mr. England?" America asked.
"Yes, America?"
"When will I go home?"
England didn't respond. America started crying, his whole body trembling with the effort.
England was already haunted. Not by ghosts (not yet, anyway). No, America's expression when he had walked into the room horrified him. America... America, looking up at him with the saddest expression: disinterest. It was like he couldn't care what happened to him anymore.
Most nations would be okay, England thought, being away from their people for a few weeks. It's just America's weak status as a colony, combined with his people's revolutionary thoughts...
America felt so fragile in his arms, and England didn't even realize he was trying to pull away.
"America, do you really think that taking you back to your people is the only way you can get better?"
America nodded, his eyes shining with hope. "Yeah!"
England sighed. "Well, America... You'll go home on the first ship, okay?" England promised. "I'll get you home as soon as possible. Unfortunately, nobody is leaving for a week. Do you think you can hold on that long?"
America nodded into his shoulder.
"But, America... I know you may not want to, but you have to eat."
America nodded again.
England continued to hold him, half-cradling him and half just generally supporting him.
England wanted to cry. He really did want to cry. He hadn't ever given much thought on what would happen if America died, but now— America lapsed into another coughing fit— now, he was extremely worried. America had starved for two weeks. England wasn't sure if he would be okay again. Chances were that he wouldn't survive the next week.
England decided he wouldn't allow himself to think like that. America was going to survive, and England was going to make up for the torture he had put the young colony through as best as he could. What he had done was unforgivable.
(I don't know how to do transitions, so here you go. I'm sorry.)
Approximately two-hundred-fifty-three years later. July 4th, 2026
What England had done was (almost) unforgivable. America, all these years later, could still remember the emotional pain he was in at the time, which could only be described as his own personal Hell. That had almost distracted from the hunger.
Almost.
America had felt he had lost everything. Days seemed to drag into weeks while he was there— England later informed him that he'd only been there for about four or five weeks, but weeks felt like eternities for colonies.
While he was at England's house, America had been extremely distracted, to the point where he didn't eat, and yet he was constantly aware of his hunger.
And he had starved.
During that time, he had doubted England was ever going to let him go home. He'd lost hope rather quickly, and had starved himself. America couldn't find the will to continue eating if he was going to be extremely sick at the end of the day anyway.
And now, it had been two hundred fifty years since he had become a nation. America ate large quantities of food quite frequently, and he never wanted to leave his country for more than two or three days at a time. The others had chalked the latter up to his being a newer nation ("Younger nations are like that", all of them had murmured from time to time). Only England knew the true reasons for either of these things.
England sat across from him, sipping some tea. America took a sip of his coffee absentmindedly.
"I'm really glad you showed up for my two-hundred-fiftieth year, dude." America said, smiling.
"Yeah." England replied. He was unusually quiet. Apparently, England always got sick or something on America's birthday. But he was with America, so maybe he'd be okay?
Both of them had selected a pastry from the front of the cafe. America bit into the cookie he'd gotten while England stared disdainfully at the scone.
"What's wrong?" America asked.
"Nothing— But your scones are so different. So disgraceful, how different you are."
America frowned for just a moment, before chuckling. A bright smile lit up his face. While England hated to admit it, the happiness was contagious. Yes, England determined, he would finally say what he had been holding back for 250 years.
"Well, obviously my scones are better." America smiled.
"What makes you say that?"
"You can't cook, for one, and for a second thing, everything in America is better," He chuckled some more as England went bright red.
"Supersize doesn't equal better, y'know!"
"And small doesn't equal decent food either. What does size have to do with this?"
England sighed. "You'll never appreciate the quality of moderation."
Once they'd finished their drinks, America was driving back.
"So, America... I wanted to apologize."
"For what?"
"You know when I made you stay in England back when you were a colony?"
America laughed. "It's all good."
"No, it's... I wanted to tell you that I'm sorry, and that I know I always pretend I hate you, that letting you go back was a mistake, and maybe it was a mistake... but if it was, it's the best mistake I've ever made. I loved—love— the fact that I was able to watch you grow up. I don't think I would trade your life or wellbeing for the world. I'm so glad that I let you go, because now I get to see you smile and hear you laugh. If I had forced you to stay, I wouldn't be able to do that." England winced at the end. That was extremely cheesy, and America was looking at him like he was a fool.
America sighed. "I... That's really sweet, Britain. See, the thing is... while I appreciate the gesture, it seems like you've been trying to apologize every time you see me. You always pay for food when I take you out to eat, amongst other things. So really, it's fine. Just let it go. It was just an argument that escalated."
Even if people deemed England's actions unforgivable, America had forgiven him. "Anyway, do you want to go see the fireworks later?"
"Um..." England was about to say no— he felt sick just at the mention of them. "Yes. That would be wonderful, America."
Later on, they did go to see the fireworks. They laid across the grass, looking up at the night sky, gleaming with burning elements.
As soon as it started, England got sick. He spat out blood, frowning, while America said, "Wow! These might be the best fireworks I've seen so far!" So he didn't say anything, and tried to hide it.
America was enjoying himself. England didn't feel like ruining that, so he stayed quiet. But he was damned when America looked over at him and noticed the blood on his sleeve.
"England? Are you okay?"
"Yeah, I'm fi—," England coughed.
America grabbed his keys. "Okay, let's go."
"What? No, I'm fine, America, enjoy your—,"
"I'm not just going to sit there and let you be sick." America hissed. He grabbed England's wrist, pulling him along to the car.
They sat in silence for a good five minutes before America turned on the radio. The music wasn't enough to break the awkwardness; it was playing too quietly, so England went to turn it up. He paused. "I'm sorry, America."
"No worries. If you're sick, you shouldn't be forced to stay. You can stay at my house for tonight and get some rest."
If you're sick, you shouldn't be forced to stay. England winced, before nodding. "Still... you're missing your sestercentennial..."
America shook his head. "Yeah. Well, whatever." He smiled. "You want some tea or something?"