Mother's Day

by Quintessential Antagonist

Every nation has a past. Every nation has a childhood. Every nation has someone they've lost. For England, there's one time of year when he remembers that person, one who raised and cared for him, and fights against memories he'd rather suppress. But when a certain American idiot discovers him alone beside a grave, he realises that sometimes talking can relieve the sadness. USUK

Hello there!

I've decided to undertake that coming-of-age ceremony known as the first fanfic, and what better way to start than with Hetalia? I know that Mother's Day was over a fortnight ago, but I couldn't get access to a computer between now and then, so...I'm uploading it seventeen days late. I only intended for it to be half as long as this, but my writing ran away with me. Awfully sorry if it drags on in parts.

Anyway, onto the disclaimer.

Disclaimer: I don't Hetalia, or...history. Hetalia is the property of Hidekaz Himaruya, and I suppose history belongs to the human race, doesn't it?

---

England had always liked the colour blue.

It was a strong colour, he believed. Reliable. A constant, was blue, unchanging as the sky and sea which seemed to have been dipped in it. Blue didn't waver, remained loyal, like an ancient sentry still thoroughly devoted to his job despite his sagging skin and weary bones. He'd heard of the many things it represented, list as long as the symbolisms were varied. He had some favourites, too. Wisdom. Intelligence. Tranquility. Truth. Blue was the fifth chakra, the sign of communication, the colour shrouded in mystery as it dotted nature with its vibrance and depth. To some, it brought forth a sense of relaxation and peace. To others, it weighed on the soul, stringing it with interlocking depression and melancholy. In Iran, it symbolised immortality.

To England, it symbolised memory, the bitter sweet kind. It smelt sweet as well, he mused, as he inhaled a quick breath of the forget-me-nots, and stepped out of his car, letting the door slam shut behind him.

The sun was beating down on the field, an unusually warm day in the typically rain-drenched archipelago known as the British Isles. He didn't often come to Wiltshire — in recent times, it had become too big a tourist spot for his liking, packed with flashing cameras and motley bodies and idle, meaningless chatter. The crowds unnerved him, the high and gabbling voices drilled his ears, the pastel tank tops and denim shorts burnt his retinas. It was old now, and dry. He'd realised long before this how blasé a way of thinking that was. Phlegmatic had been thrown around, too. Supercilious, even. But he was merely tired, tired of the world and its emptiness. Never had a place so vast been so very lonely. As he gazed up the ring of stones before him — some standing, some broken, some crumbled away — he wondered if this was how she'd felt in the end. Quickly dismissing the thought, he clutched his bouquet of flowers tighter, plastic crinkling, and hastened his stride.

It had taken some pleading, some threatening, and a great deal of dignity lost, but finally he'd convinced his boss to close Stone Henge off to the public, just for the day. That was one small victory, at least, not having those buffoons here to trample her grass and toss rubbish over her ground. The silence was alien, and welcomed. He reveled in it, soaked it up, like some sort of ataraxia-deprived sponge. He stopped beside a standing stone and paused. He'd finally done it. It had been so long, centuries passing in the blink of an eye and the brush of a tear, but here he was and here was he— and he just wasn't sure what to do. What to say. How could he phrase all that he had kept down for so long, secrets and whispers in the dark, murmurs to friends called imaginary — though sometimes, he felt they were the only ones who were real — and creatures she'd loved. Never the ones she'd loved most, of course. His brothers didn't know about these feelings. They thought he had a heart of ice, and truthfully, it was better off that way.

Finally deciding on preserving the silence, England instead opted to reach out a hand and run his fingers along the rough stone. Halfway down he froze, his throat clenching like an iron trap. He swallowed thickly, but the lump didn't move. Curse it. He internally swore, pushing down the emotions that swelled deep within him, attempting to stop the shaking in his hand, which had somehow resolved itself into a fist. Pull yourself together, he berated, furious with his wayward feelings, This is no time for tears, you old fool. You're a nation. An ancient nation. Act like it.

And then he said, "Mum."

It was too mundane a word. Frivolous, tossed around, so unfitting of her. He didn't know how he could fix that, so he ploughed on, "It's — it's been a while. I'm not sure how long. And I know it's terrible of me not to count, but you of all people should know how numeracy and I don't mix." He laughed. It was hollow. "I'm so sorry I didn't visit you earlier. Things have been...complicated the last few decades. Trouble everywhere. I'm not sure how to explain, not really — but I suppose I owe you an attempt, don't I, after all this time? I'll give it a try, then."

He took a breath. "There's been wars, Mum. Big ones. The first World War — I fought in it, in the front lines, and it was truly terrible. And how it started...what did Franz Ferdinand do? They all said he was deplorable. He married a lady-in-waiting, after all. Sophie was her name — such a lovely name. It means wisdom, you know. But all the wisdom in the world couldn't have helped her. She was shot, too. On their wedding anniversary, no less. And I just can't comprehend why — expansion, I suppose, is always the cause. The constant struggle for power and land. I've been in that place, Mum, so many a time, and I'm not proud of it. But it's history now. I can't change that.

"I've gone off topic. Where was I? Oh yes, the war. Now that was deplorable. And then there was the second one — two wars of the world, staring only twenty-five years apart. Can you believe that? Of course, you've fought in quite the few battles yourself. I remember you coming home from your battles with Rome — your clothes were tattered, and you were covered in blood —"

Swords clashing. Silver on silver, gold on gold. Swinging down in an arc of pure light —

England closed his eyes. They burnt like licks of lame leapt beneath his eyelids. Breathe, he thought.

"Anyway, my point is that I'd never seen anything like it. I still have nightmares, you know. I haven't told anyone, but I get bad dreams about all the fights I've been in. The Battle of Britain, the 1916 Rising, the American Revolution —" He cut off, a sudden stabbing pain forming in his chest. He wasn't ready to go there. Not yet. "But I understand that I must keep on moving. That's what you taught me." He let his fingertips brush the silky petals of the forget-me-nots. "Never look back. That's how a true Pritanian lives their life.

"That's all over now, of course. Germany, Japan — defeated, like any other seemingly omnipotent force. It makes me wonder, sometimes, about...never mind. Italy joined our ranks, but his heart's always been with Germany. I could see that, even amidst the fighting. They're engaged now — isn't that sweet? We've all known for quite a while, but still, when they made the announcement — his brother nearly through a fit. Personally, I think it's jealously seeping through, since Spain has yet to propose, though the whole world can tell it'll happen any day now. No doubt about it. And Greece and Japan —" He stopped himself, his words only now hitting his ears.

"What the hell am I saying? I'm speaking like a bloody teenage girl, for Christ's sake, blathering on about who fancies who and all that. It's demeaning, that's what it is! Although...I'd never speak to anyone else of this, Mum, so prepare to feel honoured...but sometimes...I enjoy it." He straightened his spine, as though steeling himself, and blurted, "There, I said it! Occasionally, I like to gossip. Is it such a bad thing? I already knit, and sip tea with my pinkie out, so how much effeminate can I become? Is there a certain level of womanliness I'll eventually reach before ceasing to be a gentleman and instead transforming into a rather refined lady?" He shook his head, dirty blond locks flying in his line of vision. "I cannot say anymore, what with the way the world's going. So much advancement — soon we won't need to walk, we'll just zip everywhere on our hovercrafts. It really will be like the film America made with the strange robot and all the obese people. Sorry, that must sound bonkers to you. That's not what I came to talk about. Actually, Mum, in a way...I came to apologise.

"I've— excuse the language — fucked up. Rather royally, I might add. I hurt my brothers — your other sons. Scotland, and Wales — wait, you wouldn't know them as that, would you? Pict and Volcae, then. In the past, I've been a tyrant. I conquered Volcae first. Or rather, Edward I did, but I was behind it. Next was Pict. In the end, he joined the United Kingdom willingly, but I tried to seize control of him prior to that. They've even made a film about it. It's a sodding awful production if you ask me, but Pict seems riveted to it, though that's probably down to the portrayal of William Wallace. He's denied it multiple times, but I saw with my own eyes the way he looked at that man. 'Platonic admiration' my arse.

"Then there's Ireland. Or Gael, should I say. You remember his mother, Éiru? You two were...dreadfully close. He took her name, after she was killed. Became Éiriu. When we were younger, we would play together, and I would always state how, in the future, I would integrate him into my dominion. Well, I did. And he nearly starved because of it. He's got a sister now — Northern Ireland, since he seceded and became a Republic. She remained with me. She's brilliant, Mum. Reminds me so much of you, it sort of aches...you look nothing alike, but there's a fire in her eyes I recall witnessing in yours. It sprung up, just before you went out to face the Roman Empire on the day you were — on the day you left. I'll never forget your face that morning. It was startling, really, how you appeared, spear swinging easily and cloak fluttering in the breeze. There was a sense surrounding you, a sort of...serenity. At least, that's what I first assumed. And then I met your gaze, and realised how wrong I was. Because you weren't going to back down peacefully, were you? And in that moment, you...you looked dauntless."

His lip began to tremble, and he drove his teeth into it, skewering it in place. It hurt, and he tasted blood, but that mattered little. What mattered was the prickling of his eyes, the way he had to sniff to cover up the sobs attempting to force their way out of his throat. The tightness in his chest was such a perplexing feeling, making him wonder how long it had been since he'd cried. Yet this felt more akin to asphyxiation then a release of pent up emotions. Perhaps that was what weeping truly was; a temporary exchange of all the oxygen and fluid in your body for those few moments reprieve of crushing sadness. Switching a substance essential to life for something else just as vital.

But he wasn't going to cry. He'd cried when it had happened, and that hadn't done her any good. So he drew in a lungful of air and let it out again, squaring his shoulders. The weight on them didn't vanish, but did lift somewhat. His hand clenched at his side, steady despite the state his mind was currently in. He let his eyelids flutter closed.

"I've failed you."

The words were soft, susurrant, his tongue barely tipping off his palate as he said them. But still, they struck a chord somewhere within him. He suddenly felt sick. Bile surged into his mouth, forcing him to clamp his lips together, shaking his head like a maddened beast. The world spun like a waltzers at a fun fair. He laid a palm flat against the nearest stone and buried his face in the bouquet, letting the fragrance overwhelm him and cloud his thoughts. For a joyous second he thought it had worked, but then memories drove into him full force, extracting a strangled gasp.

Rain fell, large, fat droplets, striking his face and running down his cheeks, mixing with the salt of his tears. He screamed and kicked, but the soldier's grip on him didn't lessen — in fact, the more he struggled, the tighter their hand seemed to clamp around his arm. Their armour flashed in his peripheral vision, striking his retinas like thunder. And behind them, somewhere on the bloodstained earth she lay, fiery hair pooling around her, face greying, silver death sticking out of her chest —

"Britannia." The man before him smiled. His brown eyes belied amity, but there was something in their depths, hidden, a swirling sort of melancholy. It intensified as they flickered to the land behind him, before returning, composed once more. His smile returned, wide and inviting as it had been during their first meeting. When he'd sold out his homeland for a chat.

A hand reached out, ruffling his already messy locks. "Britannia", the man repeated, his accent dripping lazily over each syllable. It has seemed so cordial before. But now — now it was poison, it was captivity, it was —

"Welcome, little empire."

It was death.

"Yo, England!"

The loud, sudden and obnoxiously American voice pulled him out of his reverie. His head snapped in the direction of the call, to see a young blond man bounding towards him, his runners grass-stained, bomber jacket flapping, sunlight glinting off wire-framed glasses. The boy drew level with him, beaming, and England had to fight down the urge to shield his eyes from that mega-watt smile. As if the other's presence was a rabbit stepping on a snare, the lid on England's emotions snapped shut, his face reverting back to its signature grumpy pout.

"What the bloody hell are you doing here?" he spat by way of greeting. His eyes bore holes into the blond in front of him, but unlike most, America didn't seem fazed by even England's coldest stares. In fact, his grin seemed to widen by the minute.

"I came to visit you, 'course!" he announced cheerfully, as if this was the best gift he could ever bestow upon his former charge. England begged to differ. "I did go to your house, but you weren't there, and when I asked Scottie where you'd got to —"

"It's Scotland, not Scottie, prat. He's not a Star Trek character."

America rolled his eyes. "Fine, whatever. When I asked Scotland where you'd gone, he punched me. In the face." America lifted his glasses, revealing his right eye to be encircled by a shiny black bruise. "It hurt like a bitch, too."

England's first impulse was to reach out and run his fingers along America's cheek, to mutter words of succour and perhaps nip off to knock his brother down a few pegs. Instead, he repressed this parental instinct — because what else could it be but some old habit resurfacing on occasion, this spontaneous urge to comfort and protect the younger nation? – and merely raised an eyebrow. "He just did it out of the blue? With no provocation?"

"Well..." America scratched the back of his neck, giving a nervous chuckle. "Not exactly. I may or may not have referred to you as Britain. Again."

"In which case," England said, "that injury is entirely your own fault and I feel not an ounce of pity towards you for it."

America pouted, his lip wobbling like some particularly unstable jelly. "Aw, Iggy." The nickname brought on a wince. One day, England decided, he was going to have some exceptionally strong words with Japan about keeping his infernal language to himself. "Why must you hurt me so?"

"Perhaps because you make it a startlingly simple task?" America snorted; England turned his head away, sighing. "What do you want, America?"

At this, the blond's sunny smile diminished somewhat. He averted his gaze, eyes slipping down to his feet, expression seemingly — guilty? Was that even possible? No, England's mind firmly stated, it was not. It was just his imagination. America didn't have space for any remorseful feelings, especially not pertaining to England. It was probably just a trick of the light.

Still, there was something to the way he shuffled slightly, mouth working, that was at odds with England's theory. "I —" his eyes darted up, locking with the older nation's. America swallowed, and England truly noticed how out of character this sudden bout of nervousness really was. "I came to check up on you," he finished lamely.

England scowled. "Why in God's name would I require 'checking up' on?"

"Well...'cause...I thought you might be lonely, or something."

England tensed. "America, former empires do not get —"

"And since you don't have a mom, and neither do I, and considering what day it is today— well, I thought maybe we could spend it together. You know, as friends." His eyes suddenly fixed on the bouquet of flowers, pupils dilating. "But if you've got other plans —"

"No." The monosyllable passed his lips without his consent. He mentally slapped himself for it. As if he'd ever want to sacrifice his valuable time for this bloody git. Still, he'd already said it now, so there no going back. Might as well try to salvage his reputation while he could. "I mean, you've come all this way now, so there's no point in you leaving so early, and I have no other arrangements scheduled. I was just about to head home, actually."

"Oh. Cool." America's grin returned in all its blinding intensity. "Do you want me to, uh, carry those?" He gestured vaguely to the bouquet.

England shook his head. "No, it's quite alright. I think I'll leave them down by —"

"Are those forget-me-nots?"

The older nation stopped, startled at being interrupted with such a question, by America, no less. He blinked. "You know what these are?"

America nodded, numbly, his head limp. His eyes were all of a sudden fixed on the flowers as if they held a gravitational pull. "True blue," he mumbled, barely audible, reaching out a hand tentatively before letting it fallback to his side. "Faithfulness. Hope. Love. Memories."

England stared at him, failing spectacularly to hide the surprise chalked on his face. It was so unexpected, for America to even know the name of any plants, to recognise them, but to know their meaning...

"Did Canada tell you?" he found himself asking. "He wears them, doesn't he, on 1st July ?"

"Yes," America replied, "He does, but...I already knew. Don't you remember, when I was only a colony, I asked you to get 'em for me?"

England tossed his memory back. He was often accused of being forgetful, but thousands upon thousands of years was a long time to keep a hold of even vignettes of the past. Still, he could recall, somewhere deep within his head, a young boy looking at him imploringly, speaking of disappointment and blue flowers sought after by a friend.

"For Davie," America whispered, so low England almost missed it. He gazed into America's eyes — blue, sky blue, ocean blue, cerulean blue. Forget-me-not blue.

Loyalty, he thought, watching the blend of light and hues against the contours of his face. Tranquility. Wisdom. Truth.

Communication.

"For my mum."

America snapped out of his trance as if the hypnotist who'd instigated it had suddenly up and vanished. He looked at England, questioning. Not asking questions, but radiating them. England was hesitant to answer. But in his mind's eye he could see himself, a younger version, holding the blond boy tight as he sobbed mercilessly into his shirt. A name was repeated, an asking and a plea, and England could do nothing but clutch him, sooth him, spout out meaningless reassurances. America had eventually got that out of his system, but England had kept it pent up for centuries. He'd never grasped anyone and bawled.

Perhaps it was time to change that.

England sucked in air. After all, an explanation had to start somewhere.

"Thousands of years ago," he began, his tone indicating that this was going to be a proper story. He checked to make sure he had America's undivided attention. "At the time of the Celts, my brothers and I were known by different names, based on the tribes living in our areas at the time. Scotland was Pict. Wales was Volcae. And I was Briton. Our mother...she was the entire island of Britain, or Pritani, as it was known back then. She was such a wonderful woman...strong as a mountain, brave as any man, even more so. She was extremely powerful, too. And in the heat of battle, she was deadly. She wielded spears and swords as if killing was child's play, chopping down warriors like blades of grass and vanquishing entire legions in a heartbeat, but she did it for us. So we could grow up in security. And for Ireland, later on, after his mother was killed by the very people who now call Éire their home. Ireland's mum, Éiru...she and my mother had a rather...'unique' relationship. They were attached to each other, and they...well, it wasn't platonic, I can tell you that. It was proper love. So before you ask, yes, this does mean my mother was, as your country oh-so-eloquently phrases it, a dyke."

He shot a look at America, an unspoken challenge, waiting for some form of exclamation or insensitive comment. However, the blond merely inclined his head as a signal for England to go on.

"Anyway, I suppose, in a way, this contributed to her downfall. The Roman Empire found us, as it did everyone. And of course, Rome tried to court her, in the loosest sense of the word. But she didn't want him. She didn't need him. And so a war started between them...which eventually turned into a conquest."

A pain in his chest, tight and constricting, as he gaped, uncomprehending, at the mass of bodies littering the ground. The cloaks, the shields, the tattooed faces — his people lying lifeless as rag dolls, and his body screaming with the agony of the endless dead —

"They invaded. And my mother fought, with everything she had, right down to her last breath."

He crouched low behind a bush, fearful eyes trained on the figures in front of him. They weaved and spun in a deadly dance, swords flashing, eyes glinting, teeth bared. Her hair swirled like wildfire around her as she ducked, then parried, then dove in for a lunge. The second figure blocked her, sidestepping, before aiming a swing for her shoulder. She wheeled away just in time.

"She fought Rome head-on. I was there to witness. It was so horrible, and so brilliant at the same time. She was always fearless woman, even in the hardest of times. And I...I was only a child."

The man's shoulders heaved as he gasped, his tapered blade dipping as he caught his breath. He reached up and brushed his chocolaty fringe away from his eyes, a scowl gracing his features. It was ill fitting of him. The easy smile he'd worn before was much more suiting, but that had been wiped away long ago. Briton hadn't seen it since the first sword had been unsheathed.

"Britannia." His tone was almost beseeching. "Please."

His mum shook her head forcefully, her grip on the gladius tightening. On the ground beside her lay her spear, snapped cleanly in half. She fixed her stance, the weapon pointed directly at his heart. "My name," she hissed from between clenched teeth, "is Pritani. And this is my country. Leave it, imperial scum!"

Rome closed his eyes, sweat beading on his forehead. "Then I am so sorry. I see you have children, too. But so do I."

"I couldn't fully comprehend it. I knew she was in danger. I'd seen death before, villages left bleeding, red staining my earth, staining my people. But this was my mother. Not even the mighty Rome could defeat her."

His foot darted out, sweeping the ground from beneath her feet before she could even blink. A cry tore itself from her throat as she hit the ground, the stolen sword flying from her fingers. Rome towered above her, his double-edged weapon poised directly above her neck. Briton stared at him, searching for the man he'd met on the beach that day, with his funny sounding voice and his kindly twinkling eyes. There was no trace of that. The eyes had gone hard, all mercy drained.

"And then she was down, and he had the upper hand."

His arms shook, but in a way that was barely noticeable. The tremors could only be detected by the sharpest gaze. Pritani struggled to get up, but he planted a sandaled foot on her chest. She was battered and bruised, weak from exhaustion, but she still met his gaze evenly. She didn't speak. Like an animal, she snarled.

Rome repeated, "I am so sorry."

"And I couldn't move —"

He began to tremble —

"I couldn't save her —"

The sword was raised —

"I was completely useless."

"Mummy!"

"And then she was gone."

It sliced, and it finished.

Briton lunged forward, much too quickly for Pict to grab the back of his cloak. He distantly heard his brothers call his name, but he paid them no heed, stumbling forward, eyes burning and throat raw. Somewhere far off, somebody was screaming. It took him a moment to realise it was him.

"You bastards!"

He flew forwards and collided with the nearest Roman soldier, banging tiny fists against his knees. "Pricks!" he cried. "Murderers! You've killed my mum!"

The soldier looked startled, clearly not having expected to be assaulted by a tiny whirlwind of such rage. He picked Briton up by the scruff of the neck, giving him a critical eye whilst he continued to struggle and spit profanities. He finally put him down, retaining a firm grip on his upper arm, and turned to a fellow centurion, muttering something in a strange and alien language. But Briton didn't have to understand their words — all he had to do was watch their faces, where their eyes flickered to. To the man standing with a bloodied sword, clothed in victory and gold.

Brown eyes.

Wide smile.

"Little empire."

British Empire.

Something dripped onto his face. England brushed off unbidden memories to reach up and wipe his cheek, only to feel the moistness return once he took his hand away. Water traced paths down his face like individual snail trails. He hiccupped a sob, a strange pain forming in his chest, as if some invisible hand was squeezing his heart. No. This wasn't right. He couldn't be crying now — not after all these years.

He began lifting his hand again, only to find another encircling his wrist. America brought his hand down slowly, reaching out a thumb and wiping away a stray tear. He smiled without mirth, which should have looked odd, but there was a gentler emotion there to replace it. The way the sweetness painted his lips, red and full and slightly quirked, awoke something within England. A buzz in his mind, a fluttering in his stomach, a dryness in his mouth. His thoughts were muddled and dissonant. But that face — the lines and contours, the angled cheekbones, the eyes that perfect shade of freedom. He wanted to touch it. He wanted to cup it and bring it down, press his chapped lips against those sweet ones, run his tongue along their outline and press their bodies together until he melted and they merged, two separate entities becoming one whole, complete being, filling the aperture and being worth more than the sum of their parts. He'd wanted that for so long.

"Iggy," America mumbled, letting the backs of his fingers brush England's skin. "Arthur. Don't cry, man."

It was too much.

England tore himself away, slapping America's hand so hard the noise resounded. America yelped. He backed up against a standing stone, seething, brandishing the bouquet as if it were a fencing foil. The other boy's eyes betrayed hurt, but England forced himself to ignore that, pretend he deserved it, and focus purely on his anger. "You tosser!" he yelled. "Who are you to tell me when I can and cannot cry? The entire incident was my fault!"

There was a pause. Somewhere in the distance, a dog was barking. "England." America's face softened, making it ten times worse. The way those lips pouted could drive the older nation insane. "Don't say that. You were only a kid. What could you have done?"

"I could have stepped up earlier," England spat. "I could have stood by her side. I could have not invited those bloody Romans to my country in the first place!"

"What do you —"

"You know nothing about me!" He stormed forward, hurling himself into America's personal space, their noses just tipping. "You. Are. So. Clueless!" Each word was punctuated by a jab to the chest. "She hated them! She bloody well despised empires of any sort! She thought they were dirt! And then one destroyed her, and I thought — I thought if maybe she'd been an empire herself, it could have prevented that. She could have won out. So I allowed them to make me into Britannia, and to strip away every ounce of my heritage. I became an invader, just as low and despicable as those who had killed her. After everything I'd done already — I welcomed them! I was a naive little brat, and I caught sight of them in their shiny clothes with their funny accents arriving in our land, so I just toddled up and tried to make friends. To be good ol' mates. I led them right to her." He flung his arms upwards. "I am the cause of her death!"

A silence settled, the only sound the tweeting of birds, the rustle of leaves, and his heaving in haggard breath. He let his arms fall, pinning America with his sharp gaze. "Still think I'm not to blame?"

"Yes," he replied immediately. England started. "I mean," America added, looking a little surprised himself, "you were young, and just doing what you thought was right. No one has the right to place fault on you for that, including yourself. Sure, it wasn't exactly avenging her, but from what I heard, you were just trying to learn from it. To prevent it from happening again."

"And in doing so, I oppressed other nations." He scowled, the dark memories of bloodshed and violence and fallen warriors crawling like maggots into his mind. "My brothers. Ireland, my neighbour. I dragged them into my sovereign. And the battle for his sister — Mum had always wished for a female heir. She never said it outright, but I saw it within her. It was North's own choice, of course, but I felt that if I kept her with me, in the United Kingdom...then perhaps I wasn't a complete washout. Then Northie could carry on her lineage."

America shrugged. "Dude, it's family. We all do weird stuff for family, 'specially when we're concerned about 'em."

England shook his head frantically, stepping back and hugging the bouquet to him. His fury had begun to dissipate, replaced by a sort of self-deprecation. "It's not just family though, is it? There was India, and New Zealand, and Canada, and Australia, and Seychelles, and South Africa, and...you. I oppressed you, America. Don't tell me you've forgiven me for that?"

America shuffled awkwardly, his usual cool demeanour thrown. "I don't —"

"When you left, I — I thought you were mad. By that time, I'd managed to convince myself that becoming part of the Empire was the only way to guarantee a country's safety. And then you just walked out. Just like that. And I didn't know what to think. How could I protect you if you weren't within my greatest safeguard? If you were outside the British Empire, then how on Earth would you survive?"

"But I did," he whispered. Or, America's equivalent of whispering, also known as 'A Leap Below Shouting.'

"That's not the point!"

He gasped as America's hand shot out, clamping hard onto his shoulder. The younger man's eyes, crystal clear behind his glasses, had taken on a serious glint that suddenly had England squirming. It unnerved him, that gaze. America wasn't supposed to be sombre. It was like a dog deciding to don a business suit and take a limousine to the park. "We're nations, Iggy. We've all done things we're not proud of."

"But you haven't done anything on a truly terrible scale. You haven't —"

"England." The boy placed a finger on his lips. England jerked back, reddening like a Spanish tomato. Why did America's simplest of movements turn him into an emotional wreck? "Do you remember what came before me? Before the settlers arrived? Who lived on my country first?"

"Native Americans." England's massive eyebrows drew together. "Why?"

America ran his hand through his hair, ruffling Nantucket, sending it into a bobbing frenzy. England's fingers twitched, itching to reach up and pat the cowlick back into place. He fisted them. "Well, I don't look an awful lot like 'em, do I? And they obviously had a representative. It was their home. So...what happened to him?"

England took a moment to process this, nibbling on his lip. It was true, when Finland had first taken them to see the baby America, he'd been somewhat shocked of how little he resembled the New World's original inhabitants. He hadn't thought much of it then, assuming he'd just assimilated to fit the image of the new residents. But now, pondering on it, he realised he'd never heard of a nation doing that before. Why would America be any different?

"Oh, America..."

America ducked behind his sunny locks. "Don't pity me, dude. Pity him. He's the one who vanished 'cause of me. I mean, it's just a theory, but...what else could have happened?" He sighed. The sound tore at England's heart, twisting it into shapes he thought impossible, tearing out feelings he thought mere myths. "But, Iggy, what I'm tryin' to say is...we all made mistakes. Some intentional, some not, and we're probably gonna keep on making 'em. But don't even consider me thinking less of you for it, not even for a second. I know what you've done, and I've seen how much you've changed. You're not the British Empire anymore. You've gone back to being England...my England."

America grabbed England's free hand, running his thumb over the knuckles. England gave it a tug, to no avail. Even after all this time, he still retained his superhuman strength. It made him wonder how he could be so gentle, with soft caresses like this one. How his touch could seem so light and smooth against England's, feathery, soft, enticing. He let himself clutch America's hand, let the blond be his anchor. He damn well didn't have anyone else he'd trust with that position.

"Don't doubt yourself, Arthur," America murmured.

"But if she saw me now —"

"She'd be proud of how much you've grown." America's smile returned, just a flicker at first, then expanding, wide, blinding, beautiful. "Just like I am."

"Git," England grumbled. "That's my line."

America laughed, tossing his head back, teeth flashing white like marble. But England hadn't been joking. He studied him, this golden boy, gleaming in the rare dose of sunlight like a new penny. He recalled the small, innocent child who had hid in tufts of grass and chased rabbits and and played in the fields, the one who'd dashed out to greet him with the force of wild boar, leaping into his arms and begging never to be left alone again. His heart had broken the day he'd arrived and America had not risen off his chair, instead glaring at him with contempt and annoyance, arms crossed, face fuming. He'd watched him grow, beheld the stages of his life, from that lonely little boy to the angsty, rebellious teen to the man he was now. He'd tried so hard to make sure America had the childhood he hadn't, felt the security he'd never experienced, received the love he'd lost too early. And there'd been bumps in the road, and obstacles aplenty, but looking at him now, tall, proud and burning brightly, England thought that maybe he hadn't done so badly after all.

"You never answered my question, you know."

America blinked. "Huh?"

"My question from earlier," England reminded him. As the younger nation continued to stare at him blankly, he clarified, "Have you forgiven me?"

America's eyes dropped down to his runners as if drawn there by magnetic force. He released England's hand and fidgeted, twisting the sleeves of his jacket, appearing — for perhaps the first time in his life — undecided. A slight breeze ruffled his hair, sending the blades of grass around them into a lazy dance. It smelt like rain was coming. America eventually huffed, then shrugged, broad shoulders stretching the material of his clothes. "Have the others?"

"I'm not sure. I highly doubt it."

"Seriously?" He chuckled. "You know, Iggy, for a guy who's supposed to be so high and mighty, you're surprisingly insecure at times. Why wouldn't they have? I mean, you've seen 'em recently; think about it."

He did. He thought about Scotland, his barmy big brother, with his wild curls and his love of weaponry and his many threats to secede. Threats he never carried out. He thought of Wales, his cherubim face and abundance of sheep, his constant grumbling and sly support. He thought of North, the one who'd remained with him through thick and thin, who gave him solace whenever things got too much. He thought of Ireland, the Tayto loving ginger, cracking jokes at his expense and bringing up famines and rebellions and the joys of independence every chance he got, yet still coming over on the nights when the loneliness got too much for the both of them.

He thought of Canada, shy, sweet and forever overlooked. Australia, always with something to prove and a thousand ways to prove it. New Zealand, his level head, his big heart. Mad, clever India. Bright and bubbly Seychelles. South Africa, with her kindness and her smile and the strelitzia flower in her hair.

And then there was him.

The United States, the nation across the pond, the one he'd raised and doted on, fought with and screamed at, cried over for the first time in centuries. The one who'd walked away, but never left. The one he'd presumed an enemy of all that was noetic, a wanker who had made it top to the top of the world on pure beginner's luck. The one who he looked upon now, who'd just brought him out of his despair with nothing but his slang-ridden words and those delicious, luminescent eyes, showering him with heat and warmth and tranquility. They crinkled, glowing, guiding him through the dark, just as they'd don't countless times before. His hero, in the reverse colours of his heart. "Have you made your decision yet?"

Arthur placed hand on his hip, jutting it out. "Have you?"

There was a dabbling of nervousness to America's expression, and England didn't like it. It made him feel guilty that he'd caused it. But then it seemed to just slip off, washed away by the light that eliminated from the blond, like a miniature sun resided inside his head. He reached out a hand, tenderly cupping England's chin. "Does this answer it?"

And then they kissed.

It was America who instigated it, letting his head drop down, his lips meeting England's, soft and succulent and sharp with desire. England decided to meet his challenge and responded in kind, pressing right back, the bouquet falling to the ground as he locked his arms behind America's neck and brought him closer, moving their lips together in rhythm, tongues flicking out and testing, tasting, exploring. America's arms wrapped around his waist, tugging on the fabric of his jumper, and he crushed them even tighter together, scent and sight whirling as fireworks exploded in their heads. England felt his mind fizz like those can of pop America was so very fond of. His world was heat and noise, and where that noise came from he didn't know — was it the small moans of contentment America was making, or the low hum of pleasure in England's throat? — but it was there, and astounding, and everything was just so sensual. He clutched onto America as if he could physically weld himself to the man, surprised he didn't hear bones cracking, and kissed with even more vigour, letting himself use up all available oxygen and not caring if he suffocated after that. His skin tingled, his body shuddered, and for the first time since his days of 'pioneering', he felt truly alive. It was magical. It was perfect. It was what he'd been waiting for.

And it was over all too quickly.

America broke off, gasping, his chest heaving with the effort. Pink tinged his cheeks, which were puffed out as he tried to accumulate as much air as possible. England drew back. He too was flushed, and breathless, but it mattered very little in the grand scheme of things. And this scheme was not of life, or the universe, or the future, but of here and now and the time that was in it. Of the senses, and the textures, and the presence, and him, gorgeous even beneath the muscles and skin and hair the colour of woven gold.

"Whoa," America managed at length. He shook his head, glasses askew. "I mean, just...whoa."

England found himself in agreement.

Because lawks-a-mercy, America was a particularly skilled kisser, and he wondered if he'd had any experience. The older nation had been with men before — sometimes to try and fill the void, sometimes just for the thrill of the shag — and of course there had been those few times when France had tried to 'educate' him, but those had been composed of pure lust, missing the whiplash of sensation present when America's mouth met his. If he were some silly female romance novelist, cooped up in a flat in suburban New York, he would have used similes to describe the way he felt, like his heart was an aeroplane taking off, soaring up into the vast blue sky that was America's encompassing arms, touching down there, disembarking and refusing to ever make the return flight. But he was not a woman, a writer, nor — gods forbid — American, so none of these descriptions even passed his mind. What did, however, was how beautiful America looked when ruffled, how the planes of his face shifted from surprise to delight to something Arthur couldn't quite name. How the sunlight danced on his skin and brought everything into focus, the scar above his lip, the point of his chin, the angles of his body. How this younger nation's T-shirt was scandalously thin, and he could just stretch out and trace his fingers along that hard torso, the sculpted shape skin and the grooves of his abdominal muscles. How —

— it would be entirely possible. Because both hands were empty.

Panic shot through his mind, a flash of descending lightning, before he noticed the flowers lying only a foot away. He hurriedly snatched them up, scattering petals, which were dispersed by the wind before he could blink. He ran his thumb over the remainders as if he could soothe them, gripping the ribbon tied plastic with all his might.

America looked from him to the flowers and back again, before tilted his head back and whipping out the lazy grin for good measure. "You know, I'm starting think it was worth the five thousand kilometre trip to get here."

England nodded, allowing his lips to tilt upwards just a smidge. "Me too." Something suddenly occurred to him. "How did you discover my location, anyway?"

At this America snorted, tossing his arm around England's shoulders. "Dude, you closed off one of the most popular tourist attractions in Britain. Even I would notice something like that."

"That's debatable."

America laughed, swatting at. him playfully, whilst England ducked and gave him a shove. The blond's cerulean eyes twinkled with mirth before settling on the flowers once more. "So...are you gonna give 'em to her?"

England let his gaze fall to the bouquet also, feeling a little resigned about just depositing it there to be trampled by tourists the next day. It was a silly notion, he knew. He'd bought them specifically to give to his mum, and it was disrespectful to not leave a gift to a woman who'd dedicated so much to him. He swallowed hard, before nodding, dragging his feet across the grass to the centre of the standing stones.

He'd been right earlier. Rain was on the way; he could see it in the distance, brooding grey stormclouds creeping up the horizon. He turned back to the task at hand, setting the bouquet on the ground in front of him. Even more petals broke away, spiralling away on gusts of wind like excitable butterflies. He cleared his throat, tugging awkwardly at his collar, his palms sweating and slippery. It suddenly hit him that he had no idea how to say goodbye.

Something snaked around his waist; it took him a second to register it as a pair of strong arms. America rested his chin on England's head, breathing in the scent of his hair. "You know," he whispered. "There's another meaning for them. Forget-me-nots. One I didn't mention."

"Hm?"

He could feel America's jaw moved as he smiled. His fingers drew patterns on England's hips and stomach. "True love."

His breath hitched; America chuckled, his chest rumbling against England's back. He moved his head to England's shoulder, his breath ghosting across the older nation's face. His heart raced; did that just count as a confession? It couldn't be, could it? Had America really admitted...but why him?

And did he reciprocate it?

His head swam with distant, repressed memories.

Although Briton was young, he wasn't ignorant. He recognised the upcoming peril. He questioned his mother one morning, on what would happen if the Romans took over, if they fell to the enemy, and lost all they stood for. If they lost one another.

She smiled at him, her green eyes as compassionable as ever despite the pain she must have been experiencing. She reached out and drew him onto her lap, fingers threading through his mattered blond locks. "Sweetie, don't say things like that. I'd never let anything happen to you."

"But Mummy, what happens if they win?" Tears collected in the corners of his eyes; he sniffled, trying to prevent them from falling. "Gael's mum disappeared when his country was invaded. I— I don't want to disappear!"

At the mention of Éiru she tensed, though quickly relaxed her posture so as not to worry her son. "I promise you now, those dirty Romans won't touch a hair on your or any of your brother's heads."

"But what about you? Will you be okay?"

She patted his arm. "Of course I will. Mummy's much stronger than any man. And, even if I'm not —" She paused her, her hand lifting off his head and drawing him to her. "Even if I'm not, you have to be strong, okay?"

"No!" He grasped desperately at her cloak, lip wobbling madly. "No, Mummy, you can't! I won't be able to fight them!"

"You won't have to," she assured him, resuming patting his head once more. "If I go down, I'm taking them down with me."

"But— but...then I'll be on my own. I'll die on my own." He buried his pudgy face in her shoulder. "I won't have anyone who loves me."

"Of course you will. You'll have your brothers."

"They hate me!"

"They do not hate you."

"Yes they do!" He pouted, petulant. "Pict even called me a bigot!"

At that, Pritani laughed lightly. "Oh really?" she asked. "And do you know what that means?"

"Uh..." His face scrunched up in thought, eyebrows knitting together. "It has the word 'big' in it...so that means he must be calling me fat, right?" He gasped, eyes widening in comical shock. "I am not fat!"

"Oh no, of course you're not, poppet." He nodded solemnly, making her smile. "Don't pay any attention to them, they're just being silly. But you know, deep down they really do love you."

"Not as much as you." He sniffled, shuffling around to face her. "No one will ever love me that much."

"Briton, they'll be millions upon millions who will."

"But they won't be my Mummy!" He hurled himself at her, wrapping his short arms around her and sobbing pitifully, button nose twitching.

Pritani's heart nearly broke there and then. She held him close, whispering comforts and condolences, feeling his tiny body shake. When he'd finally used up every ounce of energy he had to offer, and his tear ducts had run dry, he sat back, wiping frivolously at his face. "Hush now, love. No more tears. You won't have to find a new Mummy."

"Good," he mumbled.

"You could still find someone who cares very deeply for you, though. Who loves you, but in a different way."

Briton peered at her curiously. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," she said, a devious grin stretching across her face. She poked him in the belly. "Like a girlfriend."

Briton yelped."Mum!"

"Or a boyfriend."

"Mu-um!"

Pritani laughed, holding her palms out in surrender. "Alright, alright, not now, obviously. But in the future. And I promise you, by then, you'll be glad of it."

"Hm." Briton was not convinced. He crossed his arms huffily, staring down at his toes. "And how will I know they love me?"

"Oh, trust me, you will."

"That's not an answer."

"Well, darling, there's no proper way to describe it. It's a gut feeling, sort of abject, and...overwhelming." Her pupils clouded, dilated, eyes focused on something Briton couldn't see, nor comprehend. "When you see them, when you speak to them, it's like you're putting your life on the line for them, and it hurts, but that doesn't faze you. You would cling on to their every word. They're there for you, a constant, even in your darkest moments, for you to lean on when you fall. And you've known it all along, really, even when you finally admit these feelings yourself, that there was only her —" She broke off, face falling, the sadness of her years momentarily etched on her skin. "All along, the only one. Set in stone since time's beginning. And you'd be deluded to go for anyone else."

Briton wasn't certain he understood what she was talking about, but he liked the sound of it. His obstinacy dissipated somewhat. "That...seems nice. For icky romance, that is."

Pritani smirked. "Yes. Yucky, disgusting, grown-up romance. Awhile away for you, I think."

Briton nodded, snuggling into her, suddenly sleepy after his semi-tantrum. He felt drained, sapped, as little children are wont to, and wanted to doze, if only for a little bit. His eyelids were just fluttering shut when he was reminded of what prompted this subject to arise in the first place. He jerked up, horrified.

"Briton?" Pritani's toned was lacquered with concern. "What's wrong, darling?"

"This doesn't mean you're leaving, does it? Just because I find the person you're talking about, doesn't mean that I'll have to give you up...right?"

"No, darling, it doesn't. Don't you worry — Mummy was just babbling earlier." She placed a kiss on his temple. "I'll always be here for you, Briton, my little warrior. You'll have me, and you'll find that special person, too. I know it."

She'd been lying, of course, about the former at least. Even if the Romans hadn't taken them down, she wouldn't have lived forever. Life wasn't interminable, and neither were nations. Even then, it had been a falsehood, something told to him just to keep his morale up. To keep him from fretting and losing hope. And the rest of her speech...how could he test the validity of that?

"When you see them, when you speak to them, it's like you're putting your life on the line for them, and it hurts, but that doesn't faze you. You would cling on to their every word."

Every time England spotted America, even in his peripheral vision, time froze. That drawl drizzled over his skin like honey. He greedily drank up every sound and sight, a parched man showered with water, and knew he could never match them with his own. It was why he spat, and griped, and lashed out, his responses always clipped and hurtful, so as not to reveal any petty facet of himself that would pale horribly in comparison to America. It seemed there was an ache whenever vowels spilt out of his mouth, a pain which those consonants brought upon him, each syllable like an individual slap in the face. His voice hooked in England's chest, yanked him forward, and it was all he could do to dig his heels into the ground to keep in place.

"They're there for you, a constant, even in your darkest moments, for you to lean on when you fall."

His empire hadn't fallen; more like disengaged. He remembered it clear as day, each country leaving a little bit of him ripped away. From India to Hong Kong, it was all so vivid. And then there was the Suez Crisis, his most embarrassing moment to date. He'd blamed America. Of course he had. He'd been humiliated, his pride burnt at the stake, reduced to cinders and scattered at his feet. And as he'd been ranting and monologuing and tearing very innocent pieces of decorative funiture to smithereens, the younger nation had crept into his house, looking sheepish but firm. He'd apologised, yet he'd never really said sorry. It was because he hadn't believed his actions were erring. England had known, and screamed at him for it. Thrown wayward projectiles at his head. He'd exhausted himself until no words of odium were left to utter, and then his body had given out, and he'd collapsed then and there. He struggled to recall what had occurred between those two events. Spinning, puzzlement, a blur of senses and mind, something supporting him, though what he could never quite put his finger on. Whatever it had been, it had been strong. Solid. Perhaps it had even lifted him. And then he'd awoken on the settee the next morning, his head pounding, eyes bleary, body wrapped up in a blanket. Woolen, tricoloured, decorated. Stripes and stars.

"And you've known it all along, really, even when you finally admit these feelings yourself, that there was only her —"

Only him. When had he realised? When the war broke out, the First, the Second, the Cold? When their 'Special Relationship' had taken off? When they'd faced off on a bloody battlefield, guns aimed at one another, lives forever shattered in two?

"There's no point in firing, is there?"

There never had been. He'd just be shooting himself.

England made his decision.

He grabbed America's wrists and carefully unwound the man's arms from his waist, before stooping down in front of the azure bouquet. The colour was still dazzing, an ocean gathered up and condensed into a tiny blossom. Their scent wafted over him, and he breathed it in one last time, committing it to memory even though he knew it would eventually fade. Then, gentle as a mother lifting her newborn child, he plucked a single flower from the mass. He kept his voice low, crouching further, and whispered, "I'll try, Mum."

He meant it, too.

Then England turned to the man behind him, a deluge of giddiness suddenly striking him. He fought against it, telling himself he was being silly. America's eyes were trained on him, his mouth closed for once, uncharacteristicly still. Steeling his nerve, England lifted the forget-me-not, carefully tucking it into the space between America's jacket and shirt, just below his collar.

"All along, the only one."

"America —"

"Set in stone since time's beginning."

"Alfred —"

"And you'd be deluded to go for anyone else."

He smiled. "True love."

He wasn't sure whether it was an announcement, a name, or just plain repetition, but honestly, it didn't matter. America stroked the petals tenderly before returning his gaze to England. He took his arm and pulled him in for another round of lip locking, this one quick and soft but full of unspoken passion. His grin was a half-moon, the centrepiece of the night sky, and the part England had always found most alluring. The small laugh he emitted made his head spin. "Does this make us official, then?"

England tilted his head. "I suppose it does."

"Are we gonna have to come out to 'em at the next meeting?"

"I think the general consensus is that we've been shagging in secret for quite a while now."

America raised an eyebrow. "France?"

"France."

He smirked, looping his arm around England to pull him in closer. "Well, he can spread as many rumoured as he likes, but I'm still gonna be making the announcement that lovely Arthur Kirkland is now the sole property of the US of A."

"You wish, prat," England said, giving him a shove. "If anything, Alfred F. Jones now belongs, for all intents and purposes, to the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. Or England specifically."

America nipped playfully at his neck, making England blush no matter how hard he tried to conceal it. "Oh, we'll see about that, Iggy." He let his hand slip to encircle England's, then cast a glance behind them. "Do you...uh, need more time?"

England mulled it over for a minute, then shook his head. "No. I've said all I had to." He gave America's hand a squeeze. "Let's spend the rest of the day together, eh?"

And then they began to walk, fingers entwined, pulses racing and heart beats syncing. In England's mind, he was still that mercurial, ill-tempered, foul-mouthed old empire that was about as interesting as philately. He had no idea how America could love him for that. He'd been great, he'd been powerful, and at times he actually missed those days, but he'd become venerable. Too big for his britches. Still, if this one man with his soft caresses, his delicate face, his valiant heart, believed he'd changed, then maybe England could too. If one of the bravest, strongest, most selfless people he knew could fall for him, and he fall back, then perhaps there was hope amidst his mistakes.

His mum would understand. After all, it was she who had brought them here today. This could be her, telling him, slowly but surely, he was on his way. He'd risen, he'd fallen, and he'd got back up again, ready to start anew.

There could have been some truth to America's words. As he was now, she might have been proud of him.

And he couldn't help thinking, as he and the younger nation argued over what beverage to acquire, and who would be driving, and whether or not it was acceptable to display copious amounts of romantic affection in a modest little corner cafés, out of all the things he could have done in her honour, this would have made her the proudest.

---

And voilà! My first fanfic, all wrapped up. I'm proud in a sad little person sort of way, even though it's just a one-shot, but it took a while. The fluffiness sort of assaulted me at the end, but oh well. For England and America, it's well worth it.

Historical Notes:

Pritani= the Celtic name for what is now Great Britain. I've seen many a fic where England's mum is Britannia, and I can see the idea behind it, but I got to thinking about that and I wondered what would have come before. Obviously, the original nation wouldn't have just bowed down and become part of the Roman Empire, seeing how the Celts were a strong and stubborn people, so...this was born.

Picti= the Celtic tribes who occupied the area now known as Scotland.

Britons= the Celtic tribes who occupied the areas now known as England and Wales.

Volcae= Although the Welsh tribes were technically Britons, I wanted England and Wales to be separate entities as children. Volcae was the Roman name for one of the Welsh tribes.

Gael= An area covering most of what is now Ireland, where the people spoke a specific type of Gaelic which is the foundation of modern-day Irish (it's not called Gaelic anymore.) Can also be applied to a person who lived there.

Éiriu= The old name for Ireland.

Éiru= A fairy in Irish mythology, said to be the personification of Old Ireland. According to legend, when humans came to Ireland and raged a war against the Tuatha Dé Danann, she was killed. As she lay dying, she asked that the island be named in her honour, as a reminder to the humans of who inhabited their land first.

Non-historical notes:

Tayto= A brand of crisps extremely popular in Ireland. Sort of the Irish version of Walkers. Until recently, it was the only good type of crisp available, and due to that, the name is now synonymous for the snack. They really are delectable, though.

So, that's that, then. I don't want to say it. I'm really trying to restrain myself, but — read and review? If you feel like it, of course, but I'd love to hear your thoughts.