She stood before him in the corridor in a state of mild shock, numb with what he had just told her. He was leaving? He was leaving?
"C'mon, Philippines, don't look like that," the United States of America said, shifting his backpack awkwardly over his shoulder at her stricken look. "I'm not exactly happy about this either, you know. But orders are orders."
"So you're just going to leave me?" Philippines protested, finally finding her voice. Her accent became more and more prominent with each word she spoke, charged with fear and anger. "You're going to let Japan have me? You've heard the stories about what happens to the countries he conquers, America! I don't want my people to be next! And they will be if you abandon us!" Her eyes filled with tears, but she refused to let any fall. She did not want to look weak in front of him. Anymore than she already did, anyway.
America sighed, pushing his glasses up and rubbing his eyes tiredly. "I'm not abandoning you, Phil," he told her, using the special nickname that only he could call her without getting corrected.
"Oh, do tell!" she snapped back at him, craning her neck backwards to be able to look him full in the face. "It certainly looks like it to me! Turning tail and running away, leaving the rest of us to-" Philippines broke off with a short gasp and closed her eyes, feeling Japanese bombs tear into her city from another air raid. The large cut on her right shoulder that was Bataan grew slightly wider under the bandage covering it as the ground shook under their feet and the whine of planes over the Malinta Tunnel grew louder.
"You okay, Phil?" America asked worriedly, taking a couple steps toward her, as if afraid she would fall. Oh, nowhe was worried about her, Philippines thought bitterly, but apparently the thought of Japan metaphorically and literally getting his hands on her didn't faze him in the least.
"I'm fine," she told him coldly, keeping her eyes on the patch of dirty concrete just in front of her scraped bare feet. She wasn't going to look at him again. "Just go. I'm sure you have more important things to do than look after helpless little me. So just go."
"Phil…" he started, sounding torn.
"Go," she repeated, shoulders shaking with the effort to not burst into frustrated sobs. No! her heart screamed. Don't go! Please don't leave me! I need you! Tears started to dot the floor of the bunker as she heard him start walking.
This was it, then. She shouldn't be angry at America, she supposed; he wasn't the one who had ordered she be given up after all. But she couldn't bring herself to care. He was abandoningher. And it hurt. It hurt more than she ever thought it could. After all they'd been through… She unconsciously pressed a hand to the burn mark on her left side, a souvenir of the Philippine-American War. She remembered how she had hated him back then. How things change.
She had rebelled against her father figure/big brother Spain to try to gain her independence, and he had gotten into a war with America at the same time. She had lost the rebellion, and Spain had done likewise in his war with America. The former empire's leaders had chosen to sell her to pay off their war debts, which still stung after all this time, even though she supposed she had been asking for it.
She had hoped, having unofficially allying herself with America in her rebellion, that America would grant her independence, as she was sick and tired of being a colony, and wanted to be free. America of all nations would sympathize, right? No, it turned out. Well, yes and no, in a manner of speaking.
Yes in that America did sympathize, and personally was all for giving her independence, no in that America didn't think she was ready for it yet and was trying to ease her into it. Philippines would have none of it, and the two were at each other's throats for about three years, during which time he had given her the burn on her side, though she had given as good as she got when she had knifed him in the shoulder with one of her twin bolo knives.
She remembered when General Malvar had surrendered, how crushed she had been, how defeated and inadequate she had felt, though she had been proud of her people then, and still was now. America had found her then, sitting bloodied and dirty in the burned remains of a small village, tears running down her cheeks. Instead of gloating or condemnation, which she had fully expected from the brash, powerful young nation, he had held out his hand to her and said simply, quietly, "I'm willing to start over if you are. What do you say?" After some deliberation, Philippines said yes and took his hand.
Things weren't always perfect between them, but gradually, Philippines found herself actually warming to her new colonizer and to her surprise, she found herself happier under his rule than she had been for a long time. And he had promised to give her independence, beginning in 1944. But now it looked like all that waiting, hoping, and praying would be for nothing. The tears fell faster. Right then, she felt more alone than she ever had.
Suddenly, through the blur of tears, she caught sight of a pair of scuffed army boots standing in front of her. She felt two large, calloused hands settle on her slim shoulders, and she started in surprise.
"Hey now, Phil, don't cry," she heard America say tenderly. Wait, tenderly? What? "C'mon, look at me." He tapped her chin up with one finger and she slowly raised her head and looked tearfully up at him, even as she wondered what he was still doing here. Didn't he have a boat to catch?
The look on his handsome face as he studied her was one she couldn't place, even as she blushed and looked away. What must he be thinking as he looked at her? She definitely wasn't looking her best right now, hadn't been ever since Japan attacked her four months ago. She felt so ugly right then: a small girl, scrawny from not eating enough for months, looking around sixteen years old, with long, dirty, pitch brown hair falling in loose bedraggled curls into her face, coffee brown eyes too large for her petite face, filthy, creamy brown skin dotted here and there with cuts and bruises, and baggy, muddy, worn blue denim fatigues, donated to her by her troops… Yeah, she was a mess.
"Listen to me, Phil," America was saying. His hand was still warm on her shoulder. "You are nothelpless. You never have been, and you're not now." She looked back up at him disbelievingly, and saw the sincerity is his eyes.
"How can you say that?" Philippines asked desperately, wondering what he was getting at. "Japan's almost here! Your general is going to surrenderin just a few days! I'm just a colony! I can't stand up to Japan all by myself! I…" she trailed off, debating whether to say it. "I need you," she whispered, almost inaudible from the sounds of war coming from just a few feet away out the latched door of the bunker. She hated how weak, how desperate she sounded right then, but she couldn't help it.
"I know that," America told her, reaching down and taking her small, work worn hands in his. "Believe me, I know that. And if it was up to me, I'd stay, in a heartbeat. But England and Canada and the other Allies… they need me too." Philippines bit her lip. He was right; she knew he was, but…
"And how do I know you're not helpless?" he continued before she could say anything. "Because I've fought you before, Philippines, and you're no pushover." He nodded toward the twin bolo knives sitting secure in their sheathes on her belt. "I'm counting on you to give Japan one hell of a fight for me, okay?" His entire face darkened as he mentioned Japan, and Philippines was reminded of the deep burn scar that marred America's right hand under his glove and twisted its way partially up his forearm. Pearl Harbor. He was still bitter about that, and Philippines didn't blame him, what with the shape poor little Hawaii had been after the incident, which had been even worse than his.
"Just hold on 'til I can come back for you, okay?" He brushed a tangled lock of hair out of her face and behind one ear, where a cluster of white sampaguita was normally tucked. She hadn't had one there for what seemed like ages though. Philippines looked away again, trying not to get her hopes up. Would he really come back for her? Or was he just saying that to make her feel better about him leaving?
"Phil… Rita." The sound of her human name surprised her, and made her look up at him again. America rarely used her human name, preferring to just call her Phil. She was fine with that, but it always made her pay attention when he did use her real name. America bent down slightly so he was at eye level with her, and cupped the side of her dirty, pretty face with one hand. "I will return.I promise." Their eyes locked, sky blue with deep brown, and what Philippines saw in their depths both scared and thrilled her at the same time. Her stomach fluttered and her cheeks grew hot.
"Meri," she whispered, not knowing what else to say and unconsciously using her special nickname for him. "I… I…" I love you. Philippines' eyes grew wide.
What? Where did that come from? She didn't love him! The very idea! Why, he was loud, obnoxious, brash, pushy, tactless, and hopelessly naïve, not to mention perpetually hungry. And above all, they were countries. They were immortal, subject to the whims of their leaders and people; international relationships could change in a matter of minutes, and suddenly the person you loved could be your enemy! That wasn't even mentioning falling in love with a normal human, which never ended well. No, out of the question, never, nuh-uh, no, no, no, Philippines was not, could not, nor would ever be in love with America. What was she thinking? And yet…
As she gazed into America's oddly intense eyes, she was reminded of other things: his loyalty, his passion, his generosity, optimism, kindness, and persistence. She remembered all the things he had done for her, a simple colony, things which he certainly wasn't obligated to do, such as reforming her educational systems and improving her economy. Philippines suddenly realized that she hadn't just been the happiest she had ever been under his rule, America was the best friend she had ever had. Sure, they had their disagreements, and there were times when Philippines was so frustrated with him that she wanted to strangle him, but on the whole, she just enjoyed being around him. So when had their friendship turned to… this?
It hasn't!she reminded herself angrily. This would never work, it was crazy, it was… And suddenly America closed the gap between them, his face so close to hers that she could smell him, the smell of leather bomber jacket and rum aftershave, sweat and hamburger grease, gunpowder and rain on wet asphalt, all blended together. Her eyes traveled over his dirty, rugged face, so handsome even when lined by exhaustion and tension, so out of place on that young countenance. She found herself leaning toward him too, so that their lips were barely brushing. And then, as if by mutual assent, they met in a gentle, tender kiss.
Her lips tingled against his, and the kiss deepened into something rougher, needier. She dimly felt one of his arms encircle her waist as the other moved to cup her wet cheek, even as her own arms moved to wrap themselves around his neck. Hot waves crashed through her and set her body on fire, and she no longer cared about propriety, position, or the possibility that this might never work. All she cared about was him, and she never wanted to let him go.
Time and space seemed to fall away, the world and the war disappeared, and there was no one left on the earth except the two of them. No longer were they the United States of America and the Commonwealth of the Philippines. They were just Alfred and Rita, no more, no less.
Philippines had absolutely no idea how long they stood in that damp, moldy tunnel, locked together in a tight, desperate embrace, but eventually they broke the kiss and stood there, panting slightly. She was instantly struck with the gravity of what she had just done and again looked down at her feet, blushing hotly.
"America, I-" she started, but a leather-gloved finger pressed against her lips stopped any further flow of words. The finger was removed and the hand moved to gently cup her chin, tilting her towards him and bringing her face to within inches of his.
"I love you, Phil," he breathed softly, wonderingly, as if just discovering it himself. "Remember that, okay?" The dam broke, and she threw herself into his strong arms, wrapping her arms around him as far as they could go and grabbing huge fistfuls of his uniform. She burst into sobs and buried her face in his chest, all her fear, uncertainty, and stress flowing out of her like a flooding river.
"I w-won't ask for you not to leave," she managed between sobs, voice muffled by America's chest. "J-just… come b-back to me. P-please, just c-come back for me." Philippines felt America tenderly run his fingers through her matted hair as he whispered that he would, and she cried harder. Why, when they had just discovered their feelings for each other, did they have to separate? It wasn't fair! She knew she was acting like a child, but right then, she didn't care.
Suddenly, the door to the tunnel crashed open and an American soldier stood silhouetted against the dark night outside. "Lt. Jones, sir!" he started, then stopped short upon seeing the scene in front of him. The private appeared rather embarrassed at stumbling upon his commanding officer having a tender moment with a crying Filipino girl dressed in a soldier's uniform three sizes too big for her who was a full foot shorter than him. America did not appear the least bit embarrassed however, and turned to face the soldier, keeping his arms comfortingly around Philippines.
"General MacArthur getting antsy, Pride?" he asked, voice a combination of friendly ease and resignation.
"Um, yes sir," Pride answered, though he still looked somewhat uncomfortable. "He sent me down to get you, sir. The boats are ready to go."
"I'll be right there," America reassured him, then tilted his head to look at Philippines. "Want to come see me off?" he asked softly. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.
The walk down to the docks was a blur in Philippines' mind afterward. All she could remember was holding tightly onto America's arm and desperately trying to keep up with his long strides. As they emerged onto the cold beaches and she saw the four boats waiting to take all the essential personnel to safety, she was struck by just how much America was sacrificing.
"All your men," she said, choking up. "They're not…?" The look on his face was heartbreaking.
"No," he whispered in reply. She could see unshed tears in his eyes, and she knew it must be killing him inside to have to leave this many loyal soldiers behind, not to mention herself and her people. As if reading her thoughts, he added, "I'm sorry, Phil. I'm sorry for everything." She made no reply, except to squeeze his arm tighter as they neared the boats. She wouldn't admit it, but having his soldiers on her soil was somewhat comforting. Their warm, foreign presence was minuscule compared to America's bright sun of an aura, but still, it was something, and it helped to ward off the burning ice enveloping her body that was Japan and his soldiers. She would give all that up in a heartbeat though, if it meant they would be saved being prisoners of war. She wouldn't wish that on anyone, least of all America's brave men.
They came to a halt about ten feet from the first boat, and America and Philippines turned to each other to say their last goodbyes. Their escort thoughtfully gave them some privacy and disappeared inside the third vessel. America exhaled loudly and gave her a tight smile.
"I've never been very good with goodbyes," he began hesitatingly, running a hand through his hair. "But-" A slim finger pressed to his lips silenced him.
"Shh," Philippines said softly. "This isn'tgoodbye, right?" She gazed up at him, love and hope and tears all shining in her eyes.
"You're absolutely right," America responded, pulling her close once again. "I'll be back before you know it, and it'll be like I never left." Philippines gave a watery little laugh that came out as half sob. A chilly wind whipped her hair around her face, and tugged at their clothes while carrying with it the scent of the sea.
Finally, America gave a little sigh, pulled back, and planted a chaste kiss on Philippines' forehead. Turning, he ascended the gangplank and the sailors quickly hauled it in as soon as he set foot on board. The boats all started to shove off. Philippines wrapped her arms around herself as the tears started to fall once again as she was left alone on the desolate beach (she was going to kick herself later for making such a huge fool out of herself tonight, she just knew it). On impulse, she dashed out into the surf up to her knees.
"Meri!" she called out desperately, praying he wasn't too far away to hear. Surprised, he turned around just as he was about to head below deck. "I love you!" Hey, he shouldn't be the only one who got to say it. In the dim light of the moon, she saw him smile, and mouth the words back to her.
She stood there until the boat bearing her hero disappeared over the horizon. She could only hope and pray that the Creator would see fit to bring him back to her.
This was my first ever historical fanfiction, and also my first try at writing romance for this fandom. And good God do I love this pairing to death. Seriously. I can't get enough of it. Himaruya, I swear, if you ever get around to making a character for the Philippines, please, for the love of pancakes, muffins, and maple syrup, make it a girl! You will break hundreds of fangirls' hearts if you don't.
This next part is where I ask you guys for your opinion, because frankly, I have a whole story in the planning stages centered around Philippines in World War II, but I'm not sure I should write it. So is anyone interested, or should I just keep this oneshot as it is and move on?
Notes:
1. It's pure artistic license on my part, but I imagine that after Pearl Harbor, America was just dying to kick Japan's can across the Pacific, and since Japan attacked the Philippines on the 8th of December, he had a convenient excuse to go do some kicking, which is why he wasn't personally present in Europe until much later.
2. In February 1942, as Japanese forces tightened their grip on the Philippines, General Douglas MacArthur was ordered by President Roosevelt to relocate to Australia. A month later, on the night of March 12, 1942, MacArthur and a select group (that included his wife Jean and son Arthur, as well as Generals Sutherland, Akin, Casey, Marshall, Willoughby, Diller, and George) left Corregidor in four PT boats. I took the liberty to make it so that America had to be dragged along for the ride to go over to fight in Europe, since his bosses decided to defeat the Axis Powers in Europe first, and only fight defensively in the Pacific. And if you're basically abandoning your men to surrender, annihilation, and starvation, you certainly don't want the embodiment of your country stuck in the crossfire. (Yeah, Europe always comes first in everything it seems. .)
3. The Philippine-American War was not a fun time, for all parties involved. It was hard to decide where America's angle would be in this, since as previously mentioned, you'd think they were ready. So, I decided that America would gladly give Phil her independence, but he'd be the sort to support someone's independence, and a lot of Americans were opposed to the war and were all for letting the Philippines become independent. However, many people thought that they weren't ready for independence, and America had to help them along until that she would have to wait until she was ready for it, and she did not take kindly to that and metaphorically punched him in the face. Politics. What're you gonna do?
4. Fun Fact: you know the law that contained the first official declaration from the United States that it was going to grant independence to the Philippines? Passed in 1916? You know what it was called? The Jones Law. I freakin' kid you not. It's actually named after Congressman William Jones who was the chair of the U.S. House Committee on Insular Affairs at the time. But still, that is just too funny. And more than a bit weird.
5. The sampaguita is Philippines' national flower. It made sense to me that Philippines would like wearing them in her hair.
6. In my personal head-canon, America looks around, oh, about nineteen or twenty when WWII rolls around. Philippines looks like a mature teenager, because my theory is that colonies and territories don't really start aging until they start becoming "developed," which is to say their industries and economy starts to grow, along with everything that comes with it. When they become full-fledged nations, they start to age even more. Phil is actually as old looking as you can get for a colony, mostly because she's going to become her own nation in a few years, and partially because America did such a good job developing her economically. This isn't always the case however. But I digress.
7. Philippines' human first name, Rita, means "pearl," and the Philippines' nickname is "the Pearl of the Orient." See what I did thar?
8. The title, "Between the Sun and the Stars," references not only the flags of both America and Japan, but also the present day flag of the Philippines. I thought the symbolism was fitting, but also appropriate for her current situation in the fic.
9. Oh, and I apologize if this came off as too sappy. I tried my best, and both America and Philippines have been under an insane amount of stress lately, so if Phil especially seems as if she's riding a violent emotional roller-coaster, well… she kinda is. I assure you she's not like this all the time though. Besides, confessing your love to someone right before they're about to leave and you don't know when you'll see them again probably isn't the best way to maintain composure (Though it sure is romantic. At least, I think so).
APH belongs to Himaruya. Rita de los Santos (Philippines) is mine.