A/N: Hello, I've decided to write some chapters again. Releasing tensions, actually… real world gets very exhausting. -_- I hope you'll like it.
Note:
-I know Lithuania is introduced to America by England, but here Lithuania is recruited by America himself, for the plot's purpose.
-For some reason, I love it when America calls England "Igirisu." xD Therefore, I've decided he'll call him that way in this story. Sorry for the inconsistencies.
-And apologize for grammatical errors.
Disclaimer: I don't own Hetalia characters.
Recollection
He returned from the Revolutionary War field, drenched, crushed into dust.
He couldn't believe it. He didn't want to believe it.
He was gone. His little one has gone.
England entered his beautifully ornamented mansion with totally empty eyes, as if his soul has been taken, as if he was weightless dandelion drops, floating in the wind without any purpose. His subordinates asked him couple times, with anxious voices, whether he needed something—maybe towels to dry his clothes and to stop the water trickling from his hair. But he barely heard them and only murmured no.
Still with empty eyes, he walked straight into the storage room. He didn't know what he expected: he only wanted to be there, as if the dustiness and ancient feelings of the room would make him better.
But in fact, it didn't.
Once he was there, he suddenly regretted America didn't kill him in the war. It was excruciating, this loneliness … more painful than death.
He stepped slowly to the drawer located in the middle of thousands useless shelves, rustic chandeliers, ancient tapestries, the remains of ammunition. The smell of this room was sweet and sour, the mingling of old blankets and oils. He tried to inhale, but he couldn't. He felt as if some rocks had been built inside his lungs.
He stared at the drawer. He knew the things inside: the stuffs he was sure wouldn't help him shoving away the pains. Yet, knowing that he couldn't be more suffering, he opened the first row.
He was wrong.
When he saw America's bunny doll and the blanket he used to wear as a child, he felt as if his heart was being daggered.
England's hand slightly trembled of cold, of grief, as he reached both stuffs. Images flashes before him; little America ran happily in the fields bringing the bunny, his blue eyes sparkling against the sunlight. Little America insisted to sleep next to him after reading horror stories, asked him to hush away his fears. Little America, whose smile and innocence always enlightened him.
Memories were like the sweet smells of forget-me-nots. At the same time, they shared the agony of poisonous potions. They stayed, but never returned.
England sat on the floor, regretting every moment he hadn't spent with him. Why he always slept first when America scared of horror stories and begged to sleep next to him? Why couldn't he make him happy enough …?
He pressed the bunny and blanket on his face. He didn't know whether he only imagined it, but he felt he could faintly smell the little child's sweet powder on the blanket. Suddenly he couldn't take it anymore. His throat was like being strangled, and he closed his bright green eyes as his tears dropped on the bunny. He began to sob the way he did in the war field.
I've truly lost you…, he whispered.
-00-
Afterwards, time didn't pass the way it should.
Seconds, minutes, and hours went too slow, like the movement of the laziest snail. England was losing the interest to glance at the calendar, refusing to acknowledge what day it was, what month it was, even what year it was. The more he noticed the wheel of time, the more he regretted the amount of minutes he had spent without visiting America, or the otherwise.
He spent his days sitting at the porch, reading America's letter, accompanied by the set of Afternoon Tea next to him, barely touched or sipped. Warm breeze stroked his cheeks, sending the sweet-smelling English Breakfast into his lungs.
Today's letter was shorter than usual, as if America had grown tired of writing the letters he'd never got the replies from.
England couldn't bear to reply.
He just couldn't.
He started to read. The words were casual and light, yet it brought so much pain in his heart, just like the other stuffs that reminded him to America.
Dear Igirisu,
How are you, dude? Well if you're interested, I'm okay.
The land is growing fast. All labors get prosperous jobs. I've told you I can do it. Be careful, I'm surpassing you know.
Speaking of which, why you never reply, dude? I've wrote, errr, I don't know, about fifty letters? Yeah, fifty letters sent to you since the Revolutionary War, and none of it replied. Are you still mad at me?
Well, that's it for now. Take care of yourself.
-America-
Before England knew it, tears were stinging the corners of his eyes, and fell on America's writings.
He put the letter slowly on the previous fifty letters America had sent, which piled on the marble floor. As he washed away his tears, suddenly the wind got wilder and blew all the letters. Spontaneously, England straightened up and caught them all, placed them on his chest. He panted, unwillingly grateful the letters weren't going away. He couldn't stand losing America for the second time.
He sat, resting his back on the chair, the letters still attached in his arms. The wind was soft again, sending much gentler breeze. It was summer, apparently, for the air was warm like melting cream inside fresh-baked cake.
Stupid, England thought as he closed his eyes. After all this time, why he still couldn't stand the loss?
-00-
Couple mornings later, he woke up from the sound of cheerful voices down the garden. He sat on his four-posters bed, went silent for a while, adjusting himself with the living world and the patches of sunshine. Then he exhaled, climbed down the bed and headed to the window. As he opened it wide, the scent of rain overwhelmed him, and he saw droplets of water in the entire evergreens, like million teardrops. It must have been raining at midnight.
England looked at the garden. His butler and maids were chatting with a kind-looking young man with shoulder-length hair—brunette in color—and simple common suit.
England was startled. What was the young man doing here?
He decided to bath, wearing his brown suit and vest, left his hair the way it was—no use of combing it—and stepped down the staircase framed with wrought iron handrails. The young man had stood in the hall, looking at the grandeur surroundings with silent admiration.
"Lithuania," England greeted.
Lithuania turned, smiled widely seeing England before him. "Good morning, Mr. England. I'm sorry for interrupting you this early."
"Nevermind. How are you?"
"Fine. Absolutely fine," Lithuania said cheerfully. "I've had great fun working in Mr. America's house. It's been fifty years but it just felt like yesterday!"
England's jaw dropped.
"Fi… fifty years?"
"Mmm!" Lithuania nodded.
"Sorry… what year is it again?" He couldn't let fifty years passed without noticing it, right?
"Mr. England doesn't know what year is it?" Now Lithuania's jaw turned to drop.
England ruffled his hair and laughed weakly. "Well…"
"It is 1833," Lithuania said, still wondering about England's peculiar disorientation of time.
"Ah … I see," murmured England. So fifty years indeed had passed.
"Mr. England, don't you want to know how Mr. America's doing right now?" asked Lithuania excitedly.
England went silent for some seconds.
"Sure," he said. "How is he?"
"He was doing alright. The land showed rapid growth. He treated me really well, and cleaning his house has been my favorite thing to do! Oh. One day, he asked me to sleep next to him because he was scared after reading some horror stories. And he recalled his childhood, when he used to sleep next to you as well everytime he was scared. He talked a lot about you, Mr. England. Recently he was upset because you never reply his letters. That's why I'm here," Lithuania said brightly. "He wants me to tell you, he invites you to his house for a dinner."
A minute passed. Lithuania was waiting for England's response, but the later looked very still, his feature was unreadable. Worried he might be making mistake, Lithuania said hurriedly, "Mr. England—"
"That idiot," England said, his voice broke.
He didn't want to seem weak in front of Lithuania, yet he couldn't help it. He dropped his eyes as his tears began to swell.
Lithuania gazed at him with both amazement and sadness. "Mr. England…."
"I'm sorry," England blinked, trying to swallow his tears.
"Do—do you mind, Mr. England?"
England didn't answer. He needed to think. For fifty years he felt broken just to recall his pastimes with Little America and read his letters—what would it become if he agreed to meet him in the flesh?
"Lithuania, why don't you take a rest and drink tea first?" England offered. "You've been in a long journey."
"Ah, sure. Thank you," Lithuania hesitated. "But—"
"I need to think for some moment."
"Okay…," Lithuania even seemed more hesitated than before.
"Ah… I won't be long," England chuckled. "It's not like I'll think about it for fifty years."
Lithuania exhaled, then laughed as well. "Very well then. I'll wait."
England kept staying at the hall as the maid took Lithuania to the tearoom. He inhaled.
He'd afraid he would disappoint Lithuania. Probably it would indeed take a long time for him to think.
-to be continued-