Title: Red Poppy
Author: satoru_13
Characters/Pairings: America, Australia, England, slight America/England.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Who Australia is to America – and who America is to him.
Warning: None that I can see…
Words: 1449
A/N: This was meant as a birthday present to Australia, but it seems a little too glum for that, somehow… Anyhow, happy 222nd birthday to Australia!!
I'm hoping there are no inaccuracies historically or in characterisation, particularly in something so short; I'd really fail as Australian then, xDD. And hope this isn't as hard to read as everything else I've attempted, orz.
The first time America meets him he is laced up in a dress shirt and tie under a stiff three-piece suit, shoes polished and hair slicked back, little suntanned hands clutching at England's coattails. His head reaches not an inch past England's waist – and that's saying something, since England is plain scrawny. Large green eyes, topped by those massive patches of eyebrow, peek out curiously from behind the man's back; when he finally cracks a grin, he is missing a tooth or three.
The child reminds him of England in a way that is sort-of-but-not-quite (and couldn't face him, like he couldn't face England – but he is not the same person anymore; he can do this now).
It is from curiosity more than anything that America walks over to the pair. It is the child he pats on the head first – a trickle of laughter; the little boy barely topped five or six – before addressing England. "Hello, Arthur. Who's the kid?"
It comes out much more smoothly, confidently, and casually than he feels; much more distantly, uncaringly, and scathingly that he means.
There is a silence, either from the awkward subject or from America's careless greeting – and England's voice is stiff when he replies. "His name is Australia," He says finally, "They found him, down south. Quite a marvellous place, really." The said child smugly puffs out his chest, acting his part.
America pushes up his spectacles; his face is not quite wide enough for them yet, nor his nose tall enough, nor his gaze self-assured enough to make it past the slipping frames. "Your little brother?" It takes him all his self control to prevent "Another one?" from running out of his mouth, and he mentally slaps himself.
"Yes," England says, and America thinks that he sounds choked. "He is…a delightful child. If I may say so myself."
"Indeed." He nods, and when he excuses himself he is thinking, but it hasn't even been that long yet, Arthur. The child's face plagues him and before long instead of the young child smiling at him it is England, a younger England, a memory from when he himself was that child's age. (And then in a flash he is not smiling anymore but tears are streaming down his face; he muses that he has only seen Arthur cry once, only that once.)
"But it hasn't even been that long yet," He murmurs to himself, and wonders if Arthur is really that fickle, or that selfish.
It is a while before he meets the child again; he has seen the boy following England, and he is certain the boy has seen him, but the two have never really met. England is always talking to someone or another from Europe or elsewhere, and in between the spaces he gives the child, probably just about into his teens now, a reassuring smile. The grin that Australia returns is as certain and unwavering as it was when America first met him some number of years ago; the ghosts of the past linger so heavily over the whole situation that America feels sickened.
He wonders if England feels the same crippling sense of déjà vu. (The smile England gives his "brother", it is strangely different, and then America feels a savage sort of satisfaction.)
It happens after a meeting, one of those tiring ones which always seem to go nowhere, when America takes the liberty of sinking into an armchair outside the meeting room; he is worn out, much more than he should be. Before he knows it there is a bright voice and even before his eyes snap open he knows it is the boy; the child is perched lightly on the armchair next to his, and in that fashion, Australia is the one who strikes up the conversation first.
"If I am not mistaken, you would be Mister America?" The young boy smiles and America finds his accent horrendously British.
He pulls himself up a little from the armchair, and straightens his lopsided spectacles. "Nope, not mistaken. And you're Australia, right?"
"Yes. I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mister America. I have heard much of you." The words are delivered in the manner of one who has learnt the phrases back to front. America has only a very vague memory of what he was expected to say – and supposes that England had more success on the topic of education, with his young charge.
The other one. Another one.
"Uh, okay… I…am also, uh, pleased to make your…uh, pleased to meet you." He stumbles on his words, and before he realises it the words slip out, "Do you always speak like this?"
The young nation seems taken aback at the mention of such a topic. "I…am not quite certain of your intentions, Mister America?"
America grimaces. "I'm." He corrects, and when the boy looks back at him with incomprehension scrawled all over his face America grins and elaborates. "Well, 'I'm' is shorter than 'I am', see? It's easier to use."
Australia gives him a wide-eyed look. "But Arthur has never mentioned it!"
The familiarity stings a little.
"That's because he's an old-fashioned priss," America explains, mirth dancing in his eyes despite his mock-solemn face. "He doesn't like new things, see."
There is a silence, and then Australia grins. "I suppose." he says. "Indeed, I wish he would stop dumping all his convicts on me."
America laughs. "Damn right."
When he meets the child for the third time he probably hasn't even reached eighteen, yet he is sitting at the center of the table and laughing with the rest of his platoon. He has a huge beer glass in his grip and quite honestly America wonders what the standing of the law is on this matter, but at this point that boy is already what, a century and…a quarter? The boy lifts up the hefty container and downs the contents in one breath; when he slams it down America swears the thick glass has cracked.
It is quite surprising how different he is now, how different he can be when England is not in close vicinity.
As usual, it is Australia who speaks first, yelling across the room to greet America. "Alfred!" Australia calls, because that is the name he uses now, and America realises that he really is quite a different person from who he first thought of him as, more strong, more friendly, more laid-back, more carefree, more knowing – and much, much less submissive than he would have expected of England's colony. He supposes England is more lax on this child than was on himself, and he can't help but imagine what would have happened, should it have been that America was given the same freedom (and then, he thinks, the same negligence).
And then the room stills and it is not Alfred who the boy is greeting anymore; the uniformed figure steps out from behind him, and it is here that the order is given. The gloom settles over the people, and America feels his heart sinking; he sees Australia stiffening inch by inch with the chilling words.
"You don't have to go," America says, when the officer has left. "Or at least, you don't have to go."
"My place is with my people." Australia replies, and doesn't smile.
(He sees him again, for a short fourth time, just before he is about to step into the ship – he hears his name, turns, and sees America running towards him. "Hello, Alfred." He greets. America's words are almost unintelligible through the rough breathing. "Don't go. Too much could go wrong." He puffs. "People could die. You could die." He sighs."Of course. It is war." He doesn't hear the whispered question on the first time, and then America repeats it – "Are you doing this for England?" There is a pause, and then he corrects, "For Arthur." He sees America's indignant eyes, sees his mouth opening to object – and cuts in, continuing. "It pains him to see you, y'know. It pains him to see me. When he sees me, all I am is you." The bitterness in his voice surprises America; no wonder, because it surprises himself as well. He turns, and begins to embark; in a flash America reaches out, and grabs his shoulder. "But you could…" His voice trails off, not having planned what he was to say when he did stop him. Australia brushes off the hand. "I'm not you, Mister America." He smiles, and steps on.) When America sees him next he is bullet-ridden and bled dry, the brother who he had loved crying over his broken body; and sees a little of the man he could have become.