Good-bye
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia, or its characters.
A/N: Well, I would be lying if I said I didn't plan this story. There has been an interview with NeverShoutNever by BryanStar. Some might know it, some might not. If not, I'm not gonna explain this interview.
The point that I'm trying to say is people change. Some might not want a person to change, but that's okay, because life goes on. It's just that some people need to say good-bye to the old person, and move on with the new. Get what I'm saying? No?
Fuck it.
Enjoy.
It was sunny. Almost blindingly bright, and England strode though Boston with his held head high. He could feel America's citizens, his colonist, shift and move out their way for him, their burning stares seemingly to scorch his inner core with crisp conviction.
Go away. You are not wanted here.
That conviction was whispered hotly in England's ear, and he could practically feel America as a whole whispering into his ear, his hot breath sending icy chills of anger and an emotion England couldn't tell down his spine. It made him increase his pace, heading toward a place where he could feel the most inner rebellion from.
America's house, the place where he could practically see America laying in the lawn and staring up into the sky, or some other useless activity America has taken too. England could feel America, not as his own colony, but as some outer source causing havoc in England's eyes.
It needed to be stopped.
England's arrival did not go unnoticed, America waiting calmly on his front porch drinking some disgusting coffee. His eyes found England's, and instead of a cheerful greeting that England was expecting, he simply tilted his head challengingly. "…Hello." His words were covered with slight annoyance. "I'm guessing you're here to collect taxes?" A mocking smile. "Well too bad, I'm not paying them."
Not paying taxes? What in God's name? England's hands clenched, knowing the reason he was here was only to collect taxes and return home, not to be denied by his colony. "What? What did you say, you bloody git? I am not sure if I heard you correctly, or not." England felt sorry he had to use this tone, but he should be used to it.
He had been using this tone for awhile. America and England had a growing tension between them; it seemed to increase every time England made a decision that would surely benefit both of them, in time. America was shifty about it at first, covering up his angry comebacks with smiles and apologies like "Oops! Sorry dude, I didn't mean to say that!" and usually ended in nervous laughter.
"Dude, I think you heard me." America smiled. "I'm not paying your stupid taxes, so might as well leave." England glared. America wanted him to leave? Like bloody hell he would! This was not how colonies were supposed to act; they were supposed to be obedient, loyal, and non-troublesome.
This was not how his little brother should act!
"I am not leaving until I collect the proper tax, in which you should have prepared like a gentleman would have." England gritted through his teeth. His voice was tight, cold, and deadly. "But it's obvious that my lessons to you are not working at all. Why did I even bother?"
"Well I'm not a Gentleman!" The statement was said quick, fast, angry, and not like England's little brother. America glared. "So, get out my lands, before I kick you out myself." England stared, a little shocked to hear America threatening him.
Him? Great Britain; he one who raised America, who defeated the Spanish Armada, the World's strongest Navy! His big brother! "Your lands?" England sneered. "From what I remember, I still own you. So technically, you git, these are my colonies."
Crack. A broken coffee cup shattered on the porch. Its dark liquid spilled on the wooden boards, as America stepped over it and walked over to stand in front of England. England waited, knowing full well that America had something to say. "I will become independent one day, England. And you will see that these are my lands."
"I would like to see you try."
The two nations stared at each other, both challenging each other to back down, to stop and say "I'm sorry", and they stood there. Five minutes passed, and both of them still refused to give up, to resist the feelings that would surely cause conflict. At last, America turned away from England, his back to his former brother.
His words were whispered. "Go away, and next time we meet, it will be on the battlefield." England stared again. Battlefield? He actually thought England was going to fight him. As he was going to suggest that that was a stupid idea, England stopped himself.
A colony needed to learn discipline one way or another. England turned to head back into town, to the docks, to his home, to get ready for the supposedly upcoming battle. England shrugged. "We'll see, America; until next time."
Even though that was a farewell, and England fully intended to walk away, he couldn't. There was a pause. A thoughtful pause and America spoke to break the silence, his voice almost hushed with firm decision. "…Good-bye, Mr. England."
Mr. England, those words caused icy water to course through England's body. He envisioned seeing America as a child, crying and clinging to him as England was about to go home. England would watch, on the deck, as America would wave frantically at him, and finally, with slumped shoulders, turning back to go to his respective home.
That was the last time England seen that America. Now, he realized that was probably going to be the last time he ever saw that America. In fact, this was probably going to be the last time things were ever going to be the same again.
God, what was he doing?
He was doing what he felt like he needed too.
England nodded, even though he knew America couldn't see it. He started walking away, only pausing at the gate and peering back at America's front yard. America was about to close the door to his house, and their eyes met briefly.
England whispered the words.
"Good-bye, America."
Review, Favorite, or whatever you do on stories that you read.
-BMTM