And So The Sands Of Time Weigh On Us All
Summary: What is a nation, what is a human. What is a nation without humans? These restless yearnings, they strive to know.
Length: Two-Parter
Ship(s): America/England, Slight FrUk if you squint
Tags/Warnings: Slight Historical Inaccuracy, History Divergence, War
Author's Notes: Listening to Will Joseph Cook's Take Me Dancing was absolutely lovely while writing this total amalgamation abomination of an idea I had. This story is literally made out of several clipped conversations I was imagining and somehow meshed it all together. So, just brace yourself for that.
Chapter 1:
Two roads diverged in a yellow road, and sorry I could not travel both…
He was out of the house, wandering through the forest where the trees grew tall and endless. It wasn't like he could go anywhere else anyway, but it was the furthest place available, and therefore his favourite.
It was autumn and breezy, the changing colours of the leaves littered the ground in front of him, filling his vision with browns and oranges and greens.
And reminder of the passing of time, in this seemingly timeless emptiness.
He took a deep sigh, his breath producing heavy fogs that hung in the air, and continued trudging along the pathway, which led straight to the door.
The first thing he remembers is the fields, vast and free and green.
After that, he recalls unfurling himself from the maze and mess of the tall grass, weaving in and out to get away from all the new – humans, settled there. He had dealt with humans before, who were kind and taught him much about the wilderness, but he had never seen ones quite like these before.
They were dressed in more attire than the ones he was used to, and also looked more…scary.
Before he could go closer and see more clearly, these creatures, these – humans, attacked the others, the ones he knew. Bloody and brutal, and it drove them away.
It was his first taste of war.
He remembers hiding after that, running away in the fields wanting to just get away. He's scared and terrified and just want these men off his land. He stops, confused. When did he start thinking it was his land? When did he know it was his land? He'd never thought of it that way, it was simply land.
Before he could think about it further, he heard something rustling in the tall grass and looked up in shock. In front of him is a man, shorter than the others he saw earlier, but no less intimidating. In fact, he felt stronger, more powerful. He feels familiar, like him.
When he sees the man later, after trying and failing to win him over, he's intrigued. He heads towards the man's huddled form – he's never seen one act like this before, so open and vulnerable – shaking with emotion. He's instantly bewitched.
And when the man looks up, the first thing he notices is that his eyes are green.
England takes him in and gives him a name. Colonial America. The name and language a bit foreign on his tongue but he decides that he likes it enough, since England seems happy. And he'd do anything to see England happy.
England also introduces him to the concept of human names, names to use when walking amongst men. Men who are terrified and flimsy at the thought of nations.
"Humans can be terribly harsh towards the things that frighten them, so we must never reveal who we really are unless to our most trusted." England explained kindly, he seemed to glow whenever he spoke.
"I don't really get it, though. Why do we have to hide? It's unfair." America pouts.
"As are many things in life that you will soon discover." He tutted.
"Humans are naturally afraid of what they do not know. Especially," His voice stooped melodiously, dangerously low, and there was something underneath that lilt that made America shudder, but he could not quite place it. "If the things that confuse them are much, much stronger than they are."
"Come now dear boy, don't sulk. I've got a perfect name for you."
England made his way towards the grand house – big and lonely, his stroll slow but to a young child his every step took America three strides. America struggles to catch up to him. He sometimes feels like all he ever sees of England is his back.
"Wait – England, what's your human name?"
England pauses abruptly and just stands there, America is able to reach him by then, stopping beside him to tug multiple times on his waistcoat.
"England? England? Eeeengland?" He whines. The man has been still for quite a while, seeming to deliberate on something, until he snaps out of it.
He turns around and smiles.
"It's Arthur, my darling, and yours shall be Alfred."
And Alfred positively beams.
He spends as much time as he can with Arthur whenever he's around. Whenever he's at a meeting in town, Alfred waits outside and plays. Sometimes he's allowed to sit in, though usually he gets bored and uninterested in everything else but the man, who is the stuff his dreams are made of. Arthur has become his whole life and Alfred can't imagine a time before without him, and he doesn't one to imagine one after.
He meets a nice boy one day, whose name he can definitely remember as Davie, a new name on his tongue. It's fun and bouncy when he says it and gives him a sense of joy.
Usually, the other village boys become scared when they see him.
All was well. At least, for a while. That is, until he was encompassed by the sweet arms of Death, wrapped unsuspectingly in a box of whimsy blues.
His first taste of Death, he finds, was a concept quite literally incomprehensible, yet entirely too familiar. And he thinks then, that humans are feeble.
Later that night, Arthur sings him a song about eternity to sleep.
"Arthur," He blurts when he notices he's about to put the candle out. He doesn't want to be surrounded by blackness tonight. "Where would I go if I died?" The word tasted so foreign on his tongue.
"Why, Heaven of course." He replied without hesitation, without sparing even a glance up from the book he was reading – Arthur always starts reading when he thinks Alfred is falling asleep. The Tempest, one of Arthur's treasured favourites. Alfred recalls being tasked to read it but finding it utterly boring after a few chapters. The only line he enjoys enough to commit to memory is when Miranda was speaking of a Brave New World. He likes thinking of what his New World would be like, how he would heroically whisk Arthur away with him – he always looks tired except for when he sees Alfred. He dreams of the vast fields again, with just Arthur and him, where Death is non-existent because neither of them are feeble.
"What about you? Where would you go?"
"Oh, no need to worry about that. I will never let myself die and abandon you all on your own. Still the storm in your heart and know that I am with you always, my darling." He ruffles Alfred's hair gently and gets up. The candle dies with his leave.
It was only a while later that Alfred realised he had never really answered his question.
...
"Alfred, darling, would you like to play a game?"
"Game?" Alfred exclaimed, bouncing enthusiastically from where he was seated. He loved games but he usually had to play by himself, with his little army of wooden redcoats, less the other boys in the village suspect anything. But still, playing with Arthur was the most fun. Alfred sometimes feels like he's been playing games with Arthur even when they weren't, technically.
"Yes, it's quite an old one too, if you don't mind. I promise it is extremely entertaining and important. In my opinion, every child ought to be taught it at least once in their life."
"What is it! What is it! Show me!"
"Patience, patience."
Arthur brought forth a board containing alternating colours of black and white.
"Now, the rules of the game are deceptively simple. What you need to keep in mind is to always plan ahead and never," he pulls out a tall and distinguished piece, black and proud. "lose sight of your King."
"Woaah, is the King really that important? Is it because he's so powerful that once we lose him we'll lose everything?"
"No, quite the opposite actually. The King is the weakest piece on the board. The Queen," he pulls out a more elegant looking piece. "is the one who holds the most power over the battlefield."
"That doesn't really make sense…" He was uncertain now. He had never heard of a King who was weaker than his Queen, except for that lady Arthur likes to talk about a lot. Still – it didn't make much sense to him.
"Sometimes all it takes for a kingdom to fall apart is a single loss. Though you could say that behind every successful King," he sets the pieces down. "is his Queen."
Alfred marvels at the way England plays. He sees the way England strategically whisks the pieces around the board. And when he finally claims victory with a flourish of his dark Queen, Alfred is dumbstruck and enchanted, wishing he had his own Queen as well.
Alfred stormed into the room, making a whole show of slamming the doors open. England was unfazed, however, and continued scanning through his letters as if he weren't there.
"What do you want?" He asked tonelessly.
"You know what I want, stop treating me like I am some – petulant child."
"Only until you abandon the attitude of one."
Alfred slammed his hands down hard on Arthur's desk, finally forcing the man to look up. Still, there was no more than a sharp look from him before he fell back to a neutral face, shrugging.
"And you are proving my point perfectly."
"Let's play."
The game of chess had become a sort of ceremony between them – to Alfred, at least, it was when they were at their most intimate. Trying to know the other well enough to predict their moves and still being awestruck whenever Arthur inevitably claimed victory, so quickly and easily it was as if every moved was planned from the start – and, knowing Arthur, it likely was. What it came down to was that victory was a proof of intelligence, and Arthur was nothing if not intelligent. Much more than that, he was arrogant, which meant he found every opportunity to flaunt it.
As they played, they communed.
"You think it easy, do you not? That you suppose you can simply strut your gait in here all high and mighty just because you have grown a wee bit taller, and demand autonomy?"
"I don't think it's quite the same, England. My – people. They want fairness, they want their own voice. I do. Have you not told me all those years ago that I too would have my own world that I should strive for one as well? Or were you always a prolific liar?"
"Do not misconstrue what I have said in the past?"
"I hardly have."
England sighs tiredly, he lazily shifts in his place and stares through Alfred.
"Tell me something Alfred, do you really want all this?"
Alfred stilled, then made a bold move with his Knight. "What do you mean?"
"You seem, rather…haggard by all this nonsense," Arthur's voice carried more sympathy to it as his expression softened ever so slightly. "Is this really what you want?"
Alfred hesitated, but not for long – though a split second is what usually makes the difference between life or death, victory and defeat. He moves another piece firmly, defiantly.
"Fine. Then I ask you one question," England makes another move, swiftly ridding him of his last Bishop. Though when he looks up, his face is devoid of any of the usual smugness in it and in its stead, a look that strips Alfred bare, staring into his soul.
"Can you kill?"
He tenses.
"It's part of becoming a strong nation, you know?" He says it so facetiously, as if he were discussing the weather outside – which is as black as what Alfred envisions England's heart to be like – if he even has one. Alfred certainly believed he used to.
"At one point, even if you somehow manage to avoid it up to this point, war is inevitable. It is as necessary to our kind as the blood that flows through the humans. Perhaps that is why they enjoy seeing it spilled so much." He stops as if to ponder that notion. "Do you have what it takes to bring yourself to do that? Knowing that you have stained your hands with the stench of blood?
Are you willing to become a monster?"
Alfred remains silent. He is not looking at England, his heart pounds in his chest, against his ribcage, bursting – the sound resonating and beating against every bone and vein and pore in his(?) body and it is terrifying yet –
"That is what we are, you know? We kill without empathy because that is what we are trained to do from the very start. We know their lives, we understand their pain – too intimately – and yet, we still leave their battered bodies on the ground, and their families helplessly waiting for a day that will never come." And he has taken away yet another Pawn.
"I –" Alfred starts, but he can feel the empty words in his mouth forming and breaking apart and doing so all over again, clogging up his throat. England does not spare him a chance to finish, but when has he ever? The man has always relished being ahead of the game, vicious and uncaring for whose corpse he has to step on to get that lead.
"Because if you can't, never request for something like this again." He moves his King, and Alfred hastily counters with his Queen. "You cannot save everyone, what would you do if you killed a man during battle, having never done so before? A man who you very well know has a life of his own that you so cruelly took away."
"Can you live with that? Cold-blooded murder?"
Probably. He thinks, but dares not voice.
"I – there's no need for – "
"For what exactly? Murder? War? Death? I'm afraid you really are as naïve as you appear. There is always a need for battle and there will always be excuses to have one, if only because the humans relish in it."
"Do you get it now, Alfred? In this game – and that is what this is, for the record. A game between us adults," Empires, he implies, however his use of human terminology stabs something sharp and deeper into Alfred. "You are not the King, not the Queen nor the Knight or even the Rook.
You, my dear lad, are no more than a Pawn."
Alfred glares at him, madness masking his face and anger in the lines of his eyes. The slender mould of the Queen he held onto breaks in his hand, and he makes quite the show of storming out of the room, slamming the door so loudly that England nearly flinches, even.
The silence that permeates the room mere seconds later is lonely.
Sighing, he glances over to the scattered chessboard, where a broken Queen and a few pieces remain. A mark of their previous encounter. His eyes are downcast.
"Tsk, the little upstart's getting a bit too big for his britches."
With a few more moves, America would have had England in checkmate.
England had fallen, and America had left.
War was, indeed, painful and brutal.
[1916]
"How are your boys?"
"They are as terrible as you look today, Angleterre."
"What a terrible sense of humour you possess." He quips back, though he feels a tinge of remorse a bit after. France has sounded lifeless and beaten when he spoke.
"And what a terrible situation we are all caught up in. Let me live, I feel as if I have not been doing so the past few years."
England stiffened and shuffled towards the rickety cabinet, before placing a familiar object in front of a battle-worn France.
"Here, it wouldn't do anyone any good if you're in this mood during battle. What an absolute downer you would be."
"This is coming from you?" France questioned sceptically, though he nonetheless popped open the bottle of rum and downed most of it in one go. England couldn't bring himself to complain.
When he was done with nearly two-thirds of the dusty bottle, he set it back down with a thud. "Agh, tastes as I expected from you; an old bitch with its tongue cut off could have made better."
"Oh as if I give a rat's arse what you think. In case you haven't noticed, this is the best you're going to be getting for a long time." He spat, surprisingly furious though he didn't come off as such – much, anyway.
France, however, was a master at detecting when England, in particular, was being a bitch.
"Oh Angleterre, you have never liked acknowledging your humanity."
"What humanity is there to speak of, from creatures such as us."
"It is rather funny to me though," France began, looking pointedly down at the table as his one hand loops circles around the tip of the grimy-green bottle. "Because I feel that you, more so than any of us, have always wanted to be more human."
"Oh? Have I really imparted such an impression on you? Then again I suppose you were never the most observant."
"Oh contraire, cheri, I do believe that you strive to be like them, God knows why. But I think it is because without them, we become much like pets without owner, monsters with no direction to go. You think us all savages so you try to imitate them, with your 'gentlemanly' attitude and such. Ah, but war was always a gentleman's battle was it not? I suppose that is how we are able to love, in the end.
By mimicking them."
"Of course you would bring this up." England muttered. "Can't you just leave me alone? I made my choice to not get involved in the frontlines, I have let you lived for tonight and you would be apt to return the kindness I so generously delivered you." He snaps, his glare promising wrath of France did not relent.
Sighing, France sets down his piss-poor excuse for a taste of life and points an accusing and patronising finger at England, shaking his head as he does so in what looks irritatingly like resignation. Whatever, the Frenchman had always adopted a rather laissez-faire attitude to life himself, who was he to judge England?
"England, you really do hold the longest of grudges."
"So what?" He scathed.
France brings his hands up in mock surrender, smirking. "How does the saying go again? Ah – don't shoot the messenger. I am merely saying that it is unwise and impractical to hold grudges as long as you do. Such as you most certainly cannot execute a whole village for one act of sin, you cannot begrudge dead men. This particular battle is out of our hands."
"How hypocritical of you," England begins icily. "to accuse me of holding grudges for longer than any of our kind would think sensible – as if a wine-sodden bastard like yourself hasn't taken every conceivable opportunity to bitch and moan at me or anyone else who cares to listen about your mon amour Jeanne –"
The sound of old glass slamming against wood cut England's cruel sentiments short.
"Angleterre. The ice you are treading on is very, very thin."
"Hah, as if I don't feel the weight of it under my boots everyday." England countered, unfazed, though he is aware he's crossed a line he even promised himself to never cross and that he's being petty now.
England has always been a cold country.
France's hands are shaking ever so slightly, though he does still them a little by rubbing the tension from his forehead. He's still got bits of soil and ash under his nails.
"You're a troublesome one to look after you know, Angleterre?"
"You don't say?" He smiled dryly.
[1918]
"You never did answer my question."
America paused, the lit fag in his right hand mid-way from his mouth. The left hand, he notices, is loosely clutching his rifle. He has taken up smoking recently, ever since it was roaring alongside the Great War. England thinks it makes him look older, wearier. He doesn't like it.
"What are you talking about? Finally gone crazy like the rest of your boys?"
England winces and glares at America's casual insensitivity, who rolls his eyes in annoyance. Somewhere far off to their right there was a man – a Robert H. Johnson, he believes – who lay blind and deaf, sporadically twitching at the slightest movement. He is days away from death, and England can't thinl of a more merciful thing for him right now. It was the situations like these that make him remember why he had backed out of the frontlines after the absolute wreck that had been Somme.
He carries on and pretends the man isn't there. He won't be for long anyway.
"If you could live with it, murder."
America looks confused and pauses for a while, trying to recall. Then all of a sudden, he laughed, the sound echoing throughout the frontlines. A few of their men – American as well as British, they were all mixed together – were jolted out of their slumber and loured menacingly in his direction. Rest was difficult to come by in these parts. America simply brushed them off.
"Look at where we are now, old man. I don't think it matters much anymore, whatever I say. S'not like we have much of a choice, right?"
England hummed to himself, skillfully snatching the lit fag from America, bringing it up to his mouth to take the first drag.
He exhaled, the tendrils of grey rising high above them, mixing seamlessly with the leftover smoke and debris from the dead arms scattered throughout the No Man's Land. America is staring as England remains silent while he watched them all bleed together into the grey of the morning light before facing him with a wry, old smile.
"Lose sight of your humanity and you become the very monster they expect of you."
When they are back at camp, they undress. England can't help it when his eyes edge ever so dangerously towards America, whose body, he realises, has become littered with scars and grime.
And he was staring only because of that.
"It terrifies me, sometimes." He mentions offhandedly.
"What does?" And oh, England's something skipped a beat when America stares at him so innocently, so curiously.
"How well suited you are to the look of war, America."
"I feel like we all become that way at some point. No thanks to them."
England glances up, he's been more worried recently. America has been, odd. Different. "I do think so, unfortunate as it may be."
With the awkward silence that permeated the room, England became very engrossed with tracing the lines on the map they had spread open on the table; Red pins marked success, White marking retreat, and Blue marked the infantries. Three married colours.
"You're afraid of me." America blurted suddenly. He had said it as if it were a fact.
"Don't be daft, boy. I find that implication highly insulting."
"But you are, though. Don't lie to me, just stop lying to me."
"It seems that the only one doing the lying around here is you. Coward."
"That's fucking rich, coming from you Scrooge McGrump."
"of course, you would retaliate with some form of childish verbal abuse. Typical."
"Jesus that's fucking it!" America roared. "Why are you always like this? I'm trying to help, I'm here, aren't I? What more do you want from me!"
"As if I want anything that you have to offer." England spat back, venom dripping from his tongue.
"Yeah? Right. You've practically been begging on your knees for me to enter this war. Face it, England. You need my resources, you need me."
"Unfortunate necessities. War is war and it drains one dry." England responded in a plummy voice, unmoved.
It was then that America forcefully jerked his hand upward to cover England's mouth with a tight grip, nearly suffocating him in the process.
"You're always lying to me." He said breathily whilst England glared back, clawing at his hand.
America slams his free hand beside England's head, stilling England's actions. The force of the impact creating craters not unlike those crafted by the meteors that strike celestial entities, the one's that last long after they're all nothing but stardust and rubble. But it is not as intimidating as it's supposed to be, because he buries his head in England's neck, sounding so desperate and broken as he demands rather than speaks:
"England, can I trust you?"
England hesitates, but not for long. He lifts his palms; one to caress his cheek, and the other to gently lace his worn fingers together with America's calloused ones. Just like how they're supposed to be – tangled, intertwined, connected.
His silent answer of "Of course you can."
He doesn't believe it either.
[1943]
"Yo, France. How's it hanging around here?"
"Ah, sorting through some documents. An incredibly boring and tiring task for the likes of me, but these are tough times." He sighed dramatically.
France was busying himself with rationing details. The Allied meeting having commenced as usual a few mere hours before; America said something stupidly naïve, England scoffed and the two bickered, unresolved sexual tension practically flooding the room. China looked perturbed and confused by them before rubbing his temples and dismissed it, muttering something about 'Westerners' as Russia stood to the side, musing all of this. He feels like there was someone else there, but he's too tired today to really think.
This routine was getting old, even for France.
"Yeah, yeah." France's eyes shifted, noticing how America fidgeted slightly. "Anyway, have you seen England at all? Haven't seen the old grouch since he stormed out after I mentioned – some stuff."
France raised his eyebrow sceptically but decided it wasn't worth deliberating too much on America's slip-up. He shrugged nonchalantly.
"He is as elusive as ever, I see. Give up chasing after him, if he doesn't want to be found then he will not be."
America looked disturbed by the answer, expression darkening immediately. His reaction was off-putting, in ways that France couldn't explain, but he knew anger when he saw it.
"Whatever, thanks for nothing." He stuffed his hands angrily into his pocket and turned to leave.
Ah, uneasy in love. I suppose it wouldn't be too much for big brother to offer some advice.
"Be careful Amérique." France warned casually.
"For I have never known England to be kind." He could see America stiffen in his peripheral vision.
"He was kind to me – once." America added hastily.
"Was he really, though?" France rolls his eyes. "I bet it must have made you feel really special, thinking that you had once been able to break through his ice cold heart."
"Well, better the devil you know right?" America shrugged his broad shoulders, not giving the satisfaction of an answer. "England's good for me."
"England's not good for anyone."
"Too bad I guess, sucks that I'm in love, huh?"
France sighs in anguish, shaking his head. He had long lost all care for the mounds of papers and documents in front of him.
"Love is selfish, love is blind – it rings true. How scary, you and England; you're both willing to hurt whatever and destroy whoever you so choose for what you want."
Even yourselves.
Oh Jeanne, how I wish you were here.
Not even God can save these lost souls anymore.
[1945]
Hospitals during wars was the Devil's hearth.
It was here that England seemed to have made a home for himself, far away from the battle, again. Thinking he could simply tend to the dying, give them some semblance of peace before they passed, more often than not, in pain.
France himself was not here as a nurse, but rather, a patient. Having had a part of his arm and entire leg blown off during a raid. He would heal soon enough, but it still hurt like a bitch.
In the midst of his suffering as his body tried to piece together dried blood and flaky skin, he can't help but loathe England for acting so disgustingly gentile and compassionate towards those faceless men – it didn't matter their identity, for they would all be dead come next moring. Few managed to make it through the night.
As the hours passed with not even so much as a glance, England finally tended to the last man, who was coincidentally France's bedside partner. He assumes it was intentional, though he knows that if he points it out England would firmly deny that fact, and he was much too tired to get a rise out of him now.
England lights a small flame and places it by the man's bedside. His voice soothing as he comforted the man, who France was sure could not hear him. Though maybe that was a final grace from God; England's honeyed words were annoying to sit through.
France strained his neck to the side, upon closer inspection, the soldier was actually much younger than he anticipated, looking well into his late teens. England was still murmuring away with his silver tongue, cradling the boy's hand as he did so. France felt something twist inside of him.
"What makes this one so special that you would willingly grace him with your presence on his deathbed?" He hissed out, feeling his chest spike higher. "Would it not be perhaps, for his blonde hair and blue eyes? His age? How laudable of you to claim you treasure all your colonies equally. You may as well link arms with that disgusting Boche at this point – "
"Oh lord, would you please stop alluding everything I do to him. Unless you wish for me to bring up your unmentionable." It was an underhanded tactic, but England finally looked up at him, though he was clearly unimpressed.
"Oh, sweet England, nothing you ever say can mar my memory of her. She is forever an angel in my heart, and you, the devil."
"I sincerely hope you're suffering right now. In fact, why don't you just die off already, at least then I won't have to put up with you burning holes into my skull for a few hours- days, if I'm lucky."
"Ah, you're as accommodating as ever, I see." France's words were laced with sarcasm, though England had been earlier – only sparing his smiles and warmth for those poor unfortunate souls that should be would into the already cramped floors, looking to be the hand that saves.
The fallen soldier had stopped moving. He had stopped doing anything. England let go of his hand to reach forward and shut his eyes, bringing the bedsheet over his head as a reminder for tomorrow. France snorted, ugly and loud.
"You're utterly disrespectful."
"Please, as if you could possess love for anything that is not so blatantly six-foot-two, stupid and American."
"You know we only love our humans."
"I rather dislike the notion that love should be forced this way."
"Forced?"
France shakes his head, even though he has to strain his body to do so. "I see the humans much in the same way I see rats, or cockroaches, scurrying around like the dirty, nasty creatures that they are. Truthfully, I do not spare much thought for them."
England stared at him incredulously. "You do not care for your people? Forgive me if I find that hard to believe."
"I never said that. We are not all like you, England. Humans make up who we are, I appreciate all that they are for me, but I realised a while ago that there is nothing beyond that."
"How ludicrous."
"Ah, yes. Well, you have always loved a bit too much for your own good."
England clammed up after that. They remained in this stale sort of silence for a while, the only sounds coming from those who could still afford to rest and the other nurses shuffling about, who whispered to each other in hushed voices, as if the intangivle evil hanging in the room would come for them too, if it hadn't already.
"…then I suppose it is why I can love him." He whispered. "The dumb boy doesn't realise how human he himself is, sometimes."
"Mm, he fits the emotional profile."
"He's just trying to do the right thing."
"They do say that the road to hell is paved with good intentions."
"So they do."
"How mych of this road are you willing to pave for him, Angleterre?"
"As much as it takes."
"For what?"
"For him to be done."
"…you know, despite our differences, you were the first I ever – "
"What? Ever what, England?"
He sighed, shoulders sagging as he buried his face in his hands. "Nevermind, it's all so useless now."
"Indeed." France dismissed. "I would think you know better now than to put your faith in matters of the heart."
"Haven't you always claimed to know about those things?" He said exasperatedly.
"And look at where that got me."
England squeezed his eyes shut and sighed once again, two for luck, crossing his arms defeatedly.
"Everything around me is like a prison; I see prison, in all its forms – "
"Human as well as in the shape of bolts and bars. How nice of you to quote one of mine for a change."
"Loathe as I am to compliment you, I find the line rather fitting. We are very much trapped in our human bodies, reduced to the same limitations; whole, inseparable. Like monsters who wear the faces of men." As he said this, he brought his hand up to obscure his face, as if he wanted to rid himself of a mask that wasn't there.
"We are not their humanity, but rather, their self-love."
"Ah, yes. Man naturally desires not only to be loved, but to be lovely, non?:"
"I think my darling is trying to be lovely."
"What a splendid job he's doing, preparing to unleash his own brand of hell unto the world."
"He thinks it'll help – bring about 'Peace' or whatever."
"'Peace'? We're all far too late for that."
"I'd sooner wish for the Devil himself, at least he is straightforward in his intentions."
[1939]
"Hey, England, what would you do if I told you I love you?"
"I'd spit it back in your face."
"Heh, yeah, I thought so."
"Then why bother to ask? By the way, you're not subtle at all."
[1943]
Cynic, England was, a man who knew the price of everything and the value of nothing. It was this very same England who was currently, even lovingly – one might say, cradling a young boy in his arms.
The boy was small, though England would not be fooled. He had seen him lift the weight of a full grown bull with just his tiny hands. It was most definitely certain. This boy would grow to be a strong nation, with power flowing through his veins.
He felt himself shudder at the thought.
It was terribly exciting.
He stared down at him. His face was framed with soft, blonde hair, almost glowing in the sunlight. His cheeks were pressed against England's chest, puffing out quite comically. England found himself smiling softly at this, a single thought passed through his mind –
I'll protect you.
And it left as soon as it came. He shook his head. What was wrong with him? This boy would need no protecting. With the strength he possessed, he should be the one humans needed protecting from.
But still.
The boy suddenly stirred awake, facing England with wide, blue eyes. England's eyes widened as he stared back, unsure of what to do. The little one stared for a while longer, before he slowly reached out a finger.
England held his breath in wait.
Then the boy poked one of his eyebrows curiously, and he let out a high-pitched laugh, loud and clear. England's face flushed – to think! He was being made fun of by a mere infant! Him. The Bloody British Empire. Needless to say he had anticipated something more…sophisticated than that.
Despite that, his chest swelled with an emotion he dare not name and he gave a tremulous smile.
"Would you ever love me, as much as you love your humans?"
Arthur was snapped out of his reverie, mind lost in his thoughts of the distant past. He quickly straightened his back and looked up lazily at Alfred.
"I don't think it can be helped." He drawled. "We're all programmed to do so unconditionally after all – you too. It's in our blood. The fact that we even have blood should say as much."
"I don't, though. And you already love me – unconditionally."
"Don't flatter yourself too much. But, well, you've always been quite the anomaly haven't you?"
"France too, he – "
"Yes, yes, I know all about the Frog. I do have to admit he's quite the special case – an ironic case too, actually – though he's smarter than you. He has not renounced the human race quite like you have."
"'Renounced'" Alfred scorned. "Like I'm obligated, like I'm – fucking abandoning anything important,"
"Well aren't you?" Arthur groaned, too used to the same talking points to be exasperated anymore.
"No!" America's furrowed brows betraying his guilt. "I, it's not like I hate them. They have every right to live and let live or whatever, I just hate that they drag us into this mess. That we have to obey what they do, that we don't have the freedom to choose what we want."
"I mean, when are we us – are we even us?" Alfred stammers, digging and gripping the sides of his heads so tightly England was surprised he had not drawn blood. He was afraid of letting go, as if it was all he was doing to hold himself together, and that his sanity would follow soon after his trembling fingers.
"Oh, darling," England sighed. And sighed again when America did not budge.
"When we are born we cry that we are come to this great stage of fools."
…
"Look at this."
"…the rain?"
"They say that rain is the ladder that leads to Heaven. All the men who died here today are fortunate to have appeared before the gates of Paradise."
"'Fortunate'. Is that what you would call this?" He growled.
He gestured towards the carnage surrounding them. The ground littered with dead men, gruesome scenes of pure, raw, bloodshed on full display. Their uniforms so stained with violent blood it was difficult to distinguish between whose side any one soldier was from. It hardly mattered in the end, for they all met the same fate; Death was a cruel mistress.
"Don't you find it ironic? Water, water everywhere, and not a drop for these poor souls to drink."
"Stop. Just, stop avoiding – the question."
"I think them fortunate for their suffering is cut short."
"They wouldn't – shouldn't even have to experience this suffering!"
"It seems to me, darling, that you don't quite understand the human conditions. Conflict and mortality have always been the most prevalent. Peace and resolution have never played any part in it."
"Go to hell, England."
"Oh, but can't you see?" He spread out his arms under the sky, as if to pray – or was it the other way around?
"We're already here."
"God, how infuriating you are!" He crashed both his palms to his forehead, refusing to look.
"And what do you feel about all of this, Mr. United States?"
"…when did you become so cruel England?"
"It takes one to know one." England hummed for a bit, staring out until the blissful grey sun rose from the horizon of the dead. They were always the last one to leave this vast field of human waste, just Arthur and him, both of them silent and feeble.
America had fallen to his knees, shaking and aquiver with sick. "What's the point if we have to live and live and live like this just to suffer."
And it was as if everything had clicked together.
"It may come as a shock to you, I'm not quite sure, but it is times like these that make me feel most human." England said breathlessly, turning back to give America a dry smile.
"Cruel, aren't I?
But wouldn't you agree?"
The tension between them was palpable as they made their way back to the tent that night. Immediately, America shoved England harshly onto the low-lying wire mattress. Never one to back down, England dug deep scars into Alfred's back as he grasped tightly onto Arthur's neck, holding him down with it as he fucked him raw and hard onto the springy mattress. The rusted metal inside it squeaking every time America thrusted, in sync with England's throaty moans.
America finished with a groan, he collapsed down onto Arthur, still fully sheathed.
"Arthur, Arthur, Arthur," He murmured into his neck, kissing softly at the bruises and bites left behind from earlier. England ran his hands through Alfred's sweat-matted hair.
"I know, darling."
"How do we always manage to ruin everything?" He asked, voice watering.
"I don't know."
[1941]
"What is this." England only ever seemed to ask questions in sarcasm or demands. America never noticed it until now.
"Flower, roses. For you, they're yours."
Indeed, in America's arms were a bouquet of lovely Tudor roses. White and red, green stalks bound in blue wrapping paper; as over-the-top as the man himself. He can tell they were lovingly hand-picked, for while the stalks were trimmed down, the thorns remained. Lovely as they are, however, they looked rather uninviting at the moment.
"This is lovely and all, but what is the occasion. Surely you did not travel all the way here for a simple gift?"
"No, England. It's for you. I love you."
Well, now that was a bit unexpected. He supposed he should have seen this coming.
"America, I don't have the time for this today. Bloody hell, we have a war going on, what's brought you to this? Desperation?"
Something stirred inside America at that moment. It was cold, the cold always followed where England was concerned, how did he even fall in love with the man?
He grabbed England's hands, cold and porcelain in his tight-fisted grip. First, he brought it up against his lips, featherlight, kissing the ring. Then he took them to frame his face. A promise to have and to hold. His expression pained and raw.
He felt England flinch, and he dared to hope it was because he was feeling.
"What do my feelings mean to you, England?"
"It means nothing." He hissed, tugging his hands away harshly, wanting to get away.
"Are you quite done yet?" He flicked a speck of dust off one of his old pullovers. Bored. Unamused.
"That's just how it is for us, 'feelings' are as personal as they are politics. A terrible mix, really. And one that can never be satisfied."
"That's just how it is for us, they are as personal as they are politics. A terrible mix, really. And one that can never be satisfied."
"You really think that's it? No other reason than fucking politics?"
"Well, it is just so awfully convenient for you to be professing your love for me at this time is it not? What with you setting your own stage for the world and all. I might as well prepare my uniform alongside my wedding dress if we are to engage in this occasion of yours."
"My ideals are the same as yours. Arthur, I'm in. Fuck I've practically always been in, but the fucking humans, they didn't want that. But I did. I've always wanted you, to be with you." He smiled.
"Well you got one thing right, at least. You were always so greedy…tsk. I never said that our ideals were different. I was merely pointing out how terribly coincidental this all is."
"You're so difficult sometimes," He winked.
"I wouldn't be here if I wasn't now, would I?"
"Nah, I love you like this." England flushed, and America's smirk grew wider. He loved seeing England finally fall off his holier-than-thou attitude, adorable. He kissed England on the cheek afterwards.
"Do you want to end up with cinders tied to your ankles?" England threatened, glaring at his antics. America felt his chest tighten, but oh, he was still smiling, still pained.
"Stay with me forever, 'kay England?"
…
"It is to my knowledge that wretched ideas start from wretched people. The sin of ambition burdens the hearts of many a man, and too often does it come with petty meanness."
"Jeez babe, do you have to always be so roundabout?" America whined. Then chuckled when England tried to whack him with his stray boot.
"You're such a twat." He huffed. "Simply put: The world falls apart when man decides to play God."
"Yeah, but even the best laid plans of mice and men, right? S'just always seems like something always has to go wrong. Just look at all this, it's one giant mess."
"…America, may I ask you what you think war is for?"
Tapping his fingers on his chin, America spoke up again.
"Hmm…Power, would be my first guess. Humans love power, right? Yeah. Then my second guess," He thought for a while more. "My second guess would be Peace, then Love. 'Cause you can't love without Peace."
He looked to his side to see England smirking sadly.
"How terribly naïve of you. It is for nothing."
"What?"
"Oh, nothing, nothing." England waved him off. He had shuffled on the boot he previously used as a temporary weapon and straightened himself.
"I just hope you never lose sight of what you're looking for."
[1944]
"There's gonna be peace after all this, you hear me. I swear it." He murmured against England's ear, smoky voice causing him to shudder involuntarily.
"Peace has always been a fool's paradise."
"Then I guess I've always been one, huh?" He smiled sheepishly, but the grip around England's waist was anything but shy.
America leaned down to rest his face against England's neck, nuzzling. As he spoke, his words seemed to rumble through England's entire being.
"I'm gonna get my peace, even if I have to show the world I'm the bad guy to be a hero."
England didn't bother to comment on the contradictory statement. He hadn't the energy nor the power to convince America of anything anymore. He reached up a hand to blindly smooth over America's cheek.
"I love you, England."
"Of course, Love."
[1956]
"And what colours should we bloody the world with next? The pitch blackness of the bombs clouding your mind, or the weighty blues that stain your soul? And how beautiful will the skies be when we are all but done?"
"Have you? Found out what stains your soul and all that?"
"Red."
England did not hesitate, he did not have the time to waste to do so.
"Pure and primary. I think the most befitting of someone like me."
"Yeah, I can see it."
Red, the colour England used to don all the time. The colour Alfred used to excitedly wait out at the docks to catch a glimpse of. It went well with many things: Rich gold accents, silver sharp weapons, blue cloudy skies, green endless oceans, black choking smoke –
Red suited him well. But god, he hated red.
"'Instead of the cross, the albatross hangs from my neck', her weight, heavy and crushing on my mortal shoulders."
"The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, huh? I don't remember the last part being in there, sweetcakes." He gritted out.
England carried on as if he hadn't heard him.
"One day, Alfred, you will be crucified and sent to the gallows, the guilt wrung tight around your neck. You will suffer the consequences of your albatross, one day. It will hang you with the weight of your burdens and tear you apart."
England looked back at him with a watery smile. Voice thick with emotion.
"And when that happens, you will be put back together all to do it again."
…
"White." England said suddenly.
"What?"
"Blinding white, that's what you are."
[1942]
"Marriage is still the most effectual way of solidifying alliances. I do have to agree.
Why, where are all the documents and the grand displays and the celebrations?" Arthur remarked sarcastically.
Alfred simply rolled his eyes at Arthur's usual sarcasm, and held his breath.
They stood in wait – well, wait because Alfred simply insisted in his too-optimistic tone that he wanted to get the timing right. By the dawn's early light, he insisted. And despite all, Arthur could never resist him. Standing toe-to-toe under the blessings of an old, abandoned church, tucked away in their own corner of the world. Well, if he wanted to be romantic about it, at least. He doubted Alfred planned that far ahead.
"This won't go on any records, I promise. It's just us, our marriage. No empire, no alliances, and no stiff politicians breathing down our necks.
We're just people, two people who're in love – who've been in love, and we're getting married to prove it. I want this to be just us, just Alfred and Arthur, before America and England.
So, do you take my hand, my betrothed?"
He held out his palms for Arthur to take.
And he did.
"Funny," Arthur started, though his tone was soft. A trickle of light broke through the cloudy stained glass. "I always thought you despised human traditions."
"I like some of them, marriage, definitely. It's quaint. You know me, I just don't like – the fights. The wars."
"I do wonder sometimes whether or not you truly despise it as much as you would claim. Now hurry up and put a ring on it, we're wasting time here."
"You're so impatient, babe." But he was smiling, and in that moment England felt like doing so too.
"Swear yourself to me, and I to you. Until we both reach our end, till our very last breath, till death do us part," Arthur snorted, and Alfred broke his unnaturally serious character for a moment and let out a fruity laugh.
"You are mine and I am yours. To have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer and for poorer,"
"For better, for worse." England finished softly.
They sealed their marriage with two cigarette buds that Alfred had reserved for the occasion, the yet-unsinged ends meeting together in an almost chaste kiss, before being lit by a single lighter. England felt too warm to look up and meet America's gaze, uncertain of what he would and wanted to find.
The smoke formed hazy columns leading up to the sky, as if they too sought a ladder to the Heavens.
They hadn't kissed that day, they reserved that for when the war was over.
For when one side would come out victorious.