The birds only sang for us at dawn
I was told to think of it as just a small thing that happened in the side-lines of world history. It apparently had no relevance, because to the public eye I was in a dedicated relationship with England during the time of the second world war, which is of course completely insane since the two of us hadn't even sent each other Christmas cards for the past two centuries. Not that sending Christmas cards was a thing many people did at that time, but I'm just trying to give you an aspect on how badly bruised our relationship actually is. Or was.
When we were alone in the same room the atmosphere was mostly heavy, saddened and tortured by a war that was out of everyone's hands. Somehow my heart never failed to take a fast flutter when I saw one of his rare smiles (I remember trying to make him laugh at all costs because I could see he hadn't slept decently for a week once), but it didn't change the fact that our "romance" was just a bitter fabrication created by our nations' leaders to hold up the Special Relationship. I don't blame them, though. They only wanted to win the war. The war that was against the Axis, against the radical thinkers (who were not radical in a good sense if you ask me) who thought they were doing what was best for their people but were actually only battering them to the ground, making them nearly unable to get up again. Of course now, as I'm finally writing this after over half a century of silence, things are a lot better for those nations. Well, my point was that the war was against Germany. Ah, the root of my problems.
I – or rather we – fell in love well before the world wars. I still don't know how it happened, but it was a strange sensation. We rarely even talked before it happened but when it came to confessing my feelings for him, I was feeling pretty light and just genuinely happy. And really surprised. Not nearly as surprised as Veneziano (he mostly cried while Romano spat out curses in my general direction) or Artie. He didn't say anything outright though. I just received several blank stares and eyebrows lifted halfway across England. I guess he just didn't know what to think about it. I sure as hell didn't. Russia gave out an even weirder air than usually and so I tried to avoid him most of the time.
It was the best time of my life, no matter how cheesy it sounds. My life seems to be a cheesy mess anyway so I've finally given myself the freedom to use clichés however I want to.
Whenever I saw him it became a flurry of rushed breaths, parting lips, clothing flung to the corners of the room, flashes of soft, creamy skin and whispered promises of heroes and forever.
I remember one specific time a lot clearer than anything else. It was the first time we kissed. "You're the first person I've kissed that's taller than me!" The sentence came out as an embarrassingly breathy laugh-slash-whisper. He didn't say anything, just looked at anything but me, his eyes darting along the gray walls of the building we were in.
"America?"
"Hm?"
"Does it matter to you that most of the countries don't approve of us?" It was such a weird question to me. "I didn't think you were that self-conscious, sweetie," I replied, smiling into his embrace. I can still remember how his jacket smelled of liquorice and cheap cologne. I'm not sure if anyone ever noticed that besides me.
"But does it?"
"Of course not. I promise that it won't ever bother me." And it didn't. I never cared about England or the Italies or Prussia sneering at me. It was always only him.
I couldn't keep my end of those promises, though. Heroes don't apparently last forever, it seems. It didn't matter how intensely I stared into his eyes with my own when he was dragged away from me, or how many times I screamed for them to keep us together. My happiness fell apart, crashed on the stone cold floor and became a numbing mess of shards that gave me cuts I'll never heal.
One of the worst men in history rose to the almost literal throne of Germany, and there was no way of saving the country. And so eventually I had to pretend to be in love with someone who had dark circles under his eyes that seemed to creep their way onto my face as well.
I didn't see Germany anymore until after the war. He was already fading away, I could almost see it. Europe, Russia (naturally), some Asian countries and I took bits and pieces of him until he had no land left. His bones broke, he had bruises and cuts and scars that I couldn't kiss away and he seemed to be dying with his brother. Italy tried to stop us, and I still wish he could have.
They didn't die though, not at that point. Germany and Prussia became Ludwig and Gilbert Beilschmidt, mere mortals lost in the flurry of what was left of their country. And of course as mortals, they were fated to die.
I went to see him every day for the rest of his life despite him telling me to leave ("America, it won't do you any good to see me rot away!") and Italy telling me to back off because I was the reason for his death.
On his last day, the last whisper that left his lips was a barely distinguishable "Alfred". And there only two things I wanted to do: either kiss him back to life or die with him, but I could do neither.
Now he haunts my dreams and all of my waking hours. That last whisper, those vibrant eyes which began to dull because of a mistake that he didn't make, the pants and gasps I drew out of him when we were both alive. Now I think we're all dead.
You know how people tell you that when you're in love, the birds will sing and the sky will be even more beautiful than yesterday and you won't ever see sad, rain-filled clouds? Honestly? Those birds only sang for us at dawn.
Short AN: Thank you so much for taking the time out of your life and reading this! Any feed-back, critique and/or grammar-corrections will be greatly appreciated!
This story was my part of The Rare and Under-Appreciated Ship Exchange. I won't yet reveal to whom it's going to because I'm extremely afraid of them reading this before it's published on the blog.