THAT SILENT PRAYER WHISPERED TO THE WIND
by muffle-kun
"I wish you'd just die!"
The world stopped turning the moment those words left his mouth. Canada stood petrified behind him, gaping. France looked on, disbelieving. The other nations shushed, hearts pounding, expecting.
England visibly stiffened, shocked by America's admission, a fleeting glimpse of pain crossing his features and for a moment, America felt horribly guilty. For a moment, he wished for nothing except the ability to swallow back the words. For a moment, he looked ready to admit he was wrong, but then, England spoke.
"Of course," the green-eyed man murmured as if checking his voice, not meeting anyone's eye. No one attempted to stop him, or answer.
His lips curved into a sneer before he tried again, lifting his head to stare at America properly, who was stunned that England chose not to cry, not to walk away, but to sneer.
"Of course you wish I was dead. That is your greatest regret isn't it? You regret helping me throughout both great wars. You regret not leaving me in Germany's hands to die. You regret not killing me during your revolution."
America jerked at this, his blood boiling with anger.
"That's you, not me!" he cried, held back only by his brother's hand gripping his shoulder tight.
England carried on, apparently unaffected by the younger man's outburst.
"You regret not having the guts to shoot me even though you were already aiming at my face. I was alone, you had me cornered with your army behind you, and my gun wasn't even drawn, why not shoot?"
"BECAUSE I'M NOT LIKE YOU!" America spat.
England didn't hear him once more. Or refused to. Again.
"You didn't even have the guts to face me on your own," the older man's eyes hardened with mock amusement. "You had to ask fucking France AND Spain to help you. How flattering." He smirked.
"YOU-!"
"You won. I lost. And look at you now, sitting on top of the world; on the throne that was once rightfully mine. Rightfully mine," England hissed, "because I worked hard to earn it; my throne of my own blood, my own sweat, and my own tears...only to have you, a mere child, take it away from me. Good work, by the way: snuffing out my entire empire just like that from right under my nose."
It was then that America lost all control.
"YOU DID NOTHING TO DESERVE AN EMPIRE, ENGLAND! YOU DID NOTHING TO DESERVE THE RIGHTS TO ENSLAVE PEOPLE AND HAVE THEM ALWAYS BEGGING FOR YOUR MERCY! YOU DO NOT DESERVE ANYTHING!"
England was struck speechless for the second time, but this time, his face didn't give away anything he might be feeling. He tried to stare at his former ward blankly, but what America left unsaid, his blue eyes screamed: You do not deserve ME.
America watched England nod to himself. Why wouldn't he just scream at him?
"Perhaps all of us do not deserve anything. But that is just how the world turns round; you chase after a dream, you catch it and hold onto it tight, only to realize it is only that: a dream. All that hard work and it was never even meant for you." England's somewhat wistful expression transformed into malice as he looked back into blue, blue eyes.
"Just as you aren't meant to lead the whole world." Just as I wasn't meant to rule the whole world.
The blue-eyed man's insides twisted in morbid anticipation; he wanted to hear the rest of England's speech so he could be so angry he'd have the excuse to punch the older man's face in.
"Just as you weren't supposed to grow up." Just as I wasn't supposed to let you go.
His insides twisted more, but in a whole different way. His stomach suddenly lurched with fear.
"Just as you weren't supposed to choose me." Just as I wasn't supposed to fight for you.
America's heart thundered painfully in his chest, waiting for everything to end.
"Just as we weren't supposed to meet."
Because he knew, deep inside him, he knew that one of them would walk away in a better shape than the other after everything was said and done.
"You are wrong, America."
He knew it wouldn't be him. He realized it only a little too late.
"I deserve something. Just one thing. I deserve the right to WISH I NEVER MET YOU."
"Shit!"
He wobbled through the door, falling on his knees when his hand unsurprisingly misses the doorknob. His head swirled, drowning both in sullen emotion and bland beer, and when he looked down, the floor beckoned to him.
I deserve the right to wish I never met you.
But he never, never got around to exercising that right; never, even in his dreams. He was afraid that Fate would finally look upon him with gentle eyes and make that wish come true.
'What do I truly wish for?' his mind echoed as he lay prone against the cold marble, deliberating. But instead of the ceiling, America's face drifted into his vision.
A lump formed in his throat and he squeezed his eyes shut.
He couldn't remember being drunk when he lashed out at the younger man, so why was his head filled with the illusion of America's wounded look?
'An illusion…only an illusion…' his head screamed and suddenly he couldn't take it anymore.
I wish… I wish…
He closed his eyes.
His dreams masqueraded as memories while he slept. It was always that day, the day when he was left kneeling upon mud and under rain that kept playing in his head. But this time, the England in his dream had uttered a silent prayer to the wind.
He woke up before he could know if the prayer was answered or not, but not before the memory of the prayer itself had faded away.
Remembering the exact words in the dream, (or memory— depending on which he wanted to believe in: his head or his heart) England lay staring blankly at the ceiling, wishing at that moment that he could see straight through it and into the depths of sky and space beyond it.
I wish… I wish…
He slowly got to his feet and accepted his fate.
I wish… I wish…
His hand fumbled inside the small drawer, searching, pushing away unneeded items; a hand of chaos and disorder. He felt around blindly, not even bothering to look at the bloody furniture, making use of only his hand to hunt for the object he required. He couldn't use his eyes even if he wanted to; not with the way they stung with unshed tears.
Finally, clumsy skinny fingers wrapped around a tiny crystal vial, cold against his skin.
…I wish he loved me…
The cap came off with a small pop! and went rolling away; he couldn't care less where.
He took half a step forward, his knees threatened to buckle beneath him and he was forced to use his other hand in an attempt to steady himself, and mustered just the right amount of courage to look at himself in the mirror.
The sight of disheveled blond hair and soulless green eyes made his heart swell just a little; proud at the fact that he exists even now, proud at the fact that it was he who was going to change all that.
He blinked and silently commanded the tears to don't start fucking falling.
Seeing himself triumphant, he rewarded himself with a bitter smile—
… as much as I loved him.
—and raised the small bottle as if in a toast.
"Cheers."
Lord, dear God, if You can hear me,
Make him return to me,
Make him stand once more by my side,
And I swear,
I promise,
I shall grant his every wish…