A/N: For usxuk's Summer Camp event! Technically a day late for America, but still on time for the event!

Day 04: Happy Birthday!

Today's America's birthday, so of course we're going to celebrate. Fanworks should include an American Independence Day theme. It can be during or about the Revolutionary War or it can be a fourth of July long past that/modern. Anything is good as long as it's relevant to the characters and July 4th.

He supposed that, to a (very, very small) degree, but certainly not completely, he was over America's revolution and independence. After all, he likely wouldn't have been blessed (yes, blessed) with the relationship he now had with him. Friends, more-than-friends, lovers, partners; anything. Had things happened differently, England had no idea what it would have been like between them, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know.

Of course … that didn't mean the sorrow and symptoms were totally abated. He still couldn't sleep and if he did, his dreams were filled with horrible, nasty nightmares; memories both actual and made-up. The night previous he'd suffered one of the worst.

In reality, America had glared, and though he'd been angry, England never saw actual hate in his eyes. He'd wanted there to be hate; it would have made everything so much easier, he thought, but then he'd been shown what it would have been in his dreams: America snarling at him and fighting him hand-to-hand. Spitting at him, and doing everything within his power to rip England apart.

He'd awoken with a jolt, his skin shining with sweat and tears sliding down from his eyes, past his temples, and into his hair. He'd taken in his surroundings, nausea stirring up within him as he noted America sleeping soundly next to him, smile on his face as he dreamt away. Glad one of us can enjoy this week… he'd thought. His gut gave a churn, and he hurriedly rushed to the bathroom before he could dirty America's carpet and floors. Once he felt his body deemed him sufficiently weakened and dehydrated, he cleaned up any blood that had accompanied the …rest of what exited his stomach. He saw fit to brush his teeth for almost 15 minutes straight (he'd gone through the 3 tubes of toothpaste he'd brought with him and 2 tubes of America's … kids' sparkle toothpaste … in the few days he'd been in New York) and run himself under a hot shower, trying hard to shove that dream away from his memory. If anything, the steam helped clear his nose and relaxed his body, though he could have really used some tea to replenish his system. Once done in the shower, he dried himself off and dragged himself down the hall and into America's bedroom. What he'd expected was to simply change and get back into bed to hopefully gain at least an hour of decent sleep. What he'd not expected was to enter the room to America sitting up in bed and rubbing his eyes, grinning lazily.

"Hey, handsome."

England froze a little on the inside, kneeling in front of his luggage and pulling out a pair of boxers and a plain t-shirt. "I can't honestly say I feel that way right now. Get back to sleep, America," he softly admonished. Part of him warmed inside while the rest continued to freeze. That damned dream wouldn't leave him. He knew the dream was just that. A dream. It was nothing for him to dwell over, not really. It was just another unfortunate side-effect of his annual July 4th symptoms. "You have a big day ahead of you tomorrow."

"Y-yeah, about that…."

England pulled on his clothing, lugging himself to the bed and crawling into it. He maneuvered his way to America, clinging to him. How odd it was that the one whose past that made him sick to his stomach (though yes, it was his own history, as well) was the one he clung to.

"I know you wanted to go home tomorrow after you give me your gift," he began. A chill frosted up England's spine. All he could blame it on was wanting some sleep. "But … I was kinda hoping…. Maybe you'd stay for the fireworks tomorrow night…. You should be fine by the end of the evening, right?" America's voice was soft and hushed: Something England truly appreciated at the moment, but it also meant that America was being dead serious. America being serious wasn't the issue. The issue was what he was being serious about. It was lucky enough for America that he'd managed to convince England to stay up to the 4th, rather than just give a quick visit. Wasn't he just pushing his luck? Staying through the 4th? For fireworks?

He sighed. "America, not now. Please?"

"Please, England? Pleeease? It will be so awesome!"

"I really don't want to, America…. Can we talk about this tomorrow? I'm really quite tired, and I'm ill; I would like to sleep at least a little."

"Englannnd, pleeeease?"

England groaned, and rolled away from America. "Fuck, fine! I'll go to your blasted fireworks!"

From behind him, England heard America hiss out a, "Yesss!" Just a second later, arms pulled him so that his back was against America's chest. He grinned to himself for just a moment, then remembered what he'd just agreed to and grimaced. It really wasn't how he wanted to spend his 4th of July. He'd planned on leaving so that he might get to read a few pages of an old novel to keep his mind off of the obvious (though he knew deep down it wouldn't work). Instead … in his fatigue he'd promised to see … fireworks.

With a groan, England fell asleep.

His nose was plugged, his head pounded. He was exhausted, and the only thing that kept him going was the knowledge that this was the bitter end of it all.

England sniffed, then groaned, then let his head fall on to America's shoulder.

"Y'okay…?" America asked tentatively. He wrapped an arm around England's shoulders, and the latter found himself unable to resist cuddling closer into America's warmth. July and summer it may have been in the US, but when sick, one found themselves at either extreme of temperatures. England, for example, was rather cold even though he could feel his dying fever lurking under his shivering skin.

"M'fine…" he grumbled, scooting ever closer. "Just … just sick, is all."

America hesitated a moment, then threw a blanket over the both of them. "I was thinkin' ahead for ya." He fixed it up; making sure it covered England almost completely before fixing it in place as best he could.

They were sitting up on the top of a hill, overlooking a wide expanse of land, and sea. The sun had set just minutes previous, so that the sky still shown a bright pink line on the horizon that quickly faded into a deep indigo, and then the inky, navy blue of night. It was a nice scene, especially as the day had been unnecessarily long and full of horrible things, like having to see other nations like France, and … and France. The ice cream had at least been decent.

"Hm," England grunted. "Is that what you call forcing me to come see you nearly the entire week, and then trick me into seeing your fireworks? You know I'm sick; you're lucky this is the very end of it."

America was quiet for a moment, but as England felt him inhale to respond, another sound caught their attention. The whistle of a firework being shot into the air. The whistle was followed by a burst of light, and a loud, resounding boom that sent a trill through England's body. Beside him, America cheered the start of the fireworks show. England, however, sighed as he watched the pyrotechnics display. He saw fireworks at home, anyway. Fireworks were fireworks, and he saw nothing entirely special about them. Yes, they were fun, and exciting, but the way America was getting worked up was something he'd not seen.

"Oh, did you see that one?" America asked after a particularly large shower.

England yawned, focusing on the sky just in time to see the next burst of sparks. Green and pink dots decorated the end of the firecracker's legs. "When they shoot off a firework in a pattern of your flag, you can let me know."

"Don't be such a downer, dude."

"Don't call me 'dude.' I have a name. Several, actually; I'm sure you'll find one of them to your liking."

"Come on, I invited you to have fun!"

England glanced to America, confused expression set in place as he coughed. Thankfully the blood wasn't quite as prevalent as it had been just the other day. "Fun? America, you've forced me to sit through I day I've hated for 235 years. You expect me to have fun?"

"Uh, yeah? Fireworks are awesome!"

"…You are incorrigible." Shaking his head, England stood up, just a little wobbly. "I'm walking back—"

"No!" America grabbed the hem of England's untucked shirt (yes, untucked, he couldn't find the will to care when he'd been getting ready to tuck it in), tugging down a few times. Miraculously, England found himself able to keep standing. "Please don't," he said. "Please stay. They'll only last a few more minutes, anyway…."

America was giving him that look. The one with the watery eyes and inverted eyebrows. His bottom lip tucked just under his top and, if he looked closely, England could see a slight wibble. The one that England was absolutely weak against. He fell to his knees, but laid his head on America's lap, straightening out a moment later. "I'm only staying because I remember how sick I am! I can't be stumbling around your streets like that." It was this look that settled England's nightmares on most nights.

The other grinned, nodding as he thread his fingers through England's hair. "Got that right."

Several more fireworks went off before America started again. "I didn't defeat you on July 4th."

"Well aware."

"I only declared my independence."

"We're done with this conversation, America."

"Then you should know that these fireworks aren't set off to brag about how I beat you."

"I could have sworn I just mentioned that we were finished with this entire topic."

Unfortunately for England, America had no intention of changing the topic. "The fireworks are how we display how proud we are of being an independent nation—nooo, England, stop rolling away."

England grumbled, unwillingly allowing America to hold him still.

"It's not beating you that makes us proud—well, I guess that, too, I mean, you were like, the greatest empire of all time."

England, in a bout of selfishness, allowed himself a grin.

"And then you were beat by a bunch of farmers with pitchforks!"

England smug expression fell. "That is not how it happened!" he growled.

The light sound of America's laughter was punctuated by the sound of more fireworks. England's eyes returned to see the sparkles in the sky as America continued. "It's not really that, I mean. It's for anything, not just 1776. I know it sounds overused, and like I have a bazillion holidays just for it, but … I think it's just … to remember what we have. But it's more than that! Like, it's a display of unknown power, and you never know what the result of an action is gonna be; the boom can be a small pop, or a huge, really loud kaboom! It's like, no matter what, I'm still gonna come out and be awesome, and shock everyone!"

"Is that so? And was that supposed to make any coherent sense?"

America didn't answer for a moment, instead just absentmindedly rubbing one of England's shoulders. England caught the sparks of another firework shimmering down like crystal rain. His heart gave a tug, especially as he noted the soft look on America's face.

"It's like…." He paused. "Setting off the fireworks means that I've managed to remain me for a whole other year. I've managed to keep myself what I am. It's proof that people still love their country, and though it's very sad, that men and women are willing to die for their country to keep it as it is because they love it so much. Y'know?"

England was no stranger to patriotism. He was a proud nation himself, he would never deny that. He knew what his people felt, and he knew their allegiance, deep in his heart. He could feel it every day, and on St. George's Day he felt it everywhere, and it was a wonderful feeling. He knew perfectly well how proud he was, in turn, of his people, and was saddened that they loved England and the United Kingdom so much to go die to protect it. He knew it well, and he didn't at all doubt that America knew it just as well as he did. What nation in the world didn't know that feeling? No nation knew it more or less than any other nation.

Yet, America spoke with such fondness for his peoples' loyalty. He spoke with a hope and fondness that England never let lay next to his words. They shared the same feelings, England and America. But those were also rather private feelings to England, or maybe that was just his English side coming out. With America, though…. America didn't hide it. Nor did he hide the fear quite as well as he might have thought he had.

England knew that fear. The fear that one day his people would give up on him. That one day they would leave him alone, always alone, and leave him to die and remain only as a memory in the pages of some edited history textbook.

England had experienced that fear, though, in a sense. He'd experienced it every day for little more than 7 years from 1776 to 1783. Seven years of constant stress, and fear, and sorrow, now cumulated into an annual week of illness. He'd raised a colony and let himself fall in love, and suffered as it ripped itself away to leave him alone once more.

Of course, he and America had had The Talk, wherein America (somewhat adorably) bumbled around his reasons for desiring independence, both politically and … personally. England by now was okay with America being his own nation, his own man, but he would be lying if he said that he was over it. He did still miss his colony, even if he wouldn't trade anything in the world to swap America with who he had once been.

England struggled to find his voice. "I do know," he said coarsely. He shuffled around a little in America's lap, watching the fireworks go off. In the explosions he could see all of those things, all of those feelings, putting themselves on display for all Americans to see. Hopes, dreams, fears, sacrifice, risk; unbridled loyalty to a nation still so young and in many cases naïve, yet so brilliant and charming and powerful.

A wave of heat swept over England, as his fever finally began to leave. His headache was still in place, and he was still tired as all Hell, but he was glad that his week of ailing was just about over.

The grand finale had started, and England could feel each loud, resounding boom echo and reverberate in his chest. He could feel his lungs rattle and his heart shake. The last time England remembered feeling his body do this was during the Blitz, but this time…. This time he wasn't in pain. He wasn't feeling his people struggling to put on that stiff upper lip. Instead he felt … pride: The same pride, he dared venture, that America felt in his current euphoria. Maybe it was because of the fact that there were many Anglo-Americans with strong ties to both countries, and felt pride in both. Or maybe it was because he was simply so proud of America that it was more of a natural, human feeling.

Slowly, England reached a hand up to cup America's cheek, gaining his attention. They locked eyes for a moment as fireworks of red, gold, and blue exploded against the black sky, and America broke into a smile as England matched it with a grin of his own.

"I love you, America."

America blinked back, his face glowing pink in the dark. He continued to smile, though, and he released a laugh. "I love you too, England!"

"I'm proud of you," he added. It was quiet, and part of him was wishing that America hadn't heard him, or could read his lips, but the way America reacted was too much for that wish to keep its flame alive for very long.

America grinned back, his eyes soft while his hand moved to take England's. He brought England's hand to his mouth, and pressed a long kiss to his palm, and then an equally long kiss to his knuckles. "Thank you."

England brought their hands down to rest over his heart as they watched the rest of the fireworks, smiling wider with each illumination the light gave to the nations for whom the display was meant.

END