Written for the Hetalia kinkmeme.
Original Prompt: In the Hetalia fandom, there seems to be a more-or-less generally accepted headcanon that during/after conflicts or alliances, the countries involved have dubiously- or non-consensual sex, usually along the lines of "conqueror" and "conquered." I buy into this headcanon too, and I'd like to see an A!A deal with the emotional ramifications from both sides. Do the countries have a "responsibility" to their government/people/pride to have sex? Do countries see themselves as rapists? What does it mean to forego this "practice?" What does it mean for casual or apolitical sex between countries (if that exists?) Basically, what does "consent" mean to countries in APH?
Warning: Non-explicit rape scene, implied conquering-equals-rape trope
The practice was as ancient as the nations themselves, as ancient as humankind and perhaps even beyond. Humans did it as well, an act they called claiming the spoils of battle. The humans did it for their own selfish enjoyment; nations did as well, but also for something... more. To conquer, and to bind - it was part of their instinct itself.
England knew of it, of course. Had experienced it himself, known what it entailed and its subsequent effects. He had deemed it unnecessarily barbaric, however, an almost animalistic ritual better suited to the fading old world than the New.
That was why he had sworn to bring an end to the cycle, resolved to start afresh in this land unsullied by the old ways. In innocent blue eyes he had seen a new life. To him, America had been more than just a colony. In the younger he had wished for the world - family, friendship, unconditional love.
Perhaps deep down he had envied the simpler ties that humans made. He had craved the things that humans spoke of so often - love, trust, brotherhood.
It had been foolish of him to expect nations to bond like humans did.
He remembered France's words from a lifetime ago, his memories lending them a mocking tone. 'You spoil Amerique too much,' the other nation had scoffed. 'I daresay you've never touched him, have you?'
At that time he hadn't been sure of the French nation had meant the birch or the other, but either way his brows had furrowed in annoyance as he shot back that America was a perfectly well-behaved child even without. Now he just felt sick at his naive optimism.
He should have tied the other to him when he had the chance, instead of relying on something as flimsy as a cheap illusion of human emotions. But now it was too late for even regrets.
He had meant to head down to the kitchen for a late night snack, but his feet brought him instead to where candlelight still crept out into the hallway through a half open door. It was unhealthy for Canada to still be up at this hour, but he paused outside instead heading in to scold the younger about his sleeping habits.
In the scene he saw a metaphor of all he had wished for and deep down still did. He, painted black, hidden in the shadows of the hallway; that boy, bathed in light. The hope for a new way of life in a new land.
Perhaps there was still a chance, after all. He hadn't lost everything that day. This boy had stood by him even as his brother left. Perhaps he had been too quick to dismiss their ability to be human with just one lost cause.
The younger blond was humming as he worked, oblivious to his presence, flipping through papers and occasionally marking something on a page. England smiled as he leaned against the doorframe to watch him. Yes, there was still hope. He let his eyes flutter close, the soft voice washing over him.
He finally recognized the tune and it was that moment that the calm England had settled in well and truly cracked. A French lullaby, one that he had heard himself centuries ago before everything fell apart. An ugly reminder of a fact he had half forgotten.
Canada had been France's, before becoming his. If the frog could pull away America from him so easily, what did that say about his chances with the child he had claimed? A panicked, still stubbornly human part of him cried that Canada didn't belong to anyone, that the boy was his own person, but he drowned it viciously.
He strode forward, blind to how the youth bestowed on him a bright smile that only faded when his hand clamped down on the other's arm in a harsh vice. "Are you going to leave me too?"
"England!? Wha- ow!"
Canada felt his breath whoosh out of him with the impact that he fell on the bed. He barely had time to recover before England had straddled him, pinning his arms to either side of his head.
He shook, fear of the situation warring with the reassurance his mind insisted on that England would never hurt him purposefully. But this was England as he had never seen him before. The other's green eyes were empty yet purposeful, and that probably scared him more than anything else.
"England?" He whispered, hating how his voice trembled.
The island nation paused at the sight of the red uniform the younger hadn't bothered to change out of. Red, the colour of the Loyalists, proof that Canada stood at his side. Canada wondered hopefully if the other had returned to his senses but stifled a whimper as moments later fingers tore through the buttons and catches with practiced deftness.
At some point he had been flipped over, and his hazy eyes tried and failed to focus on the engravings on the headboard. It was a small mercy to not need to face the stranger his guardian had become, but it did nothing to dispel the feeling of cold hands trailing down his sides. His own hands clutched desperately at the sheets, blunt fingernails ripping through the soft cotton of his pillowcase to expose the white feather filling within.
As the candles slowly burnt away, the flickering light their only witness, all Canada could do was bury his face in his ruined pillow and cry.
England silently pulled on his clothes, not even the faintest glimmer of moonlight present to guide his movements. It was frighteningly appropriate, this pitch darkness. The faint tingling in his heart of a created bond that pulled him to the other (no, pulled the other towards him) fed both guilt and twisted satisfaction into his already conflicted feelings. The combined sensation made him feel a tad nauseous and he ran a hand over his face tiredly. He stooped to pick his coat off the floor but didn't put it on, instead fingering the worn material pensively. He sighed.
"For what it matters, lad, I'm sorry. But you have to understand that I had to do this." With that he rose and left the room before any reply could come (he wasn't sure if he could deal with the boy's hatred, not right now), shutting the door quietly beside him.
The figure on the bed stirred, pulling the sheets closer around his body in a cocoon even as he turned. Canada's eyes stared sadly at the door the older nation had left through.
"No, England, you're wrong. Even without this, I would still have stayed."