Synopsis: The United States of America joined the war effort on April 6th, 1917 but England wondered what had taken him so long.
Notes: This piece is set during the Great War from the point of view of England. His tent is stationed further from the front lines where most officers were kept but quite out of danger. Soldiers were rotated from the trenches at the frontlines to this area a little further back on a 'week on, two weeks off' model.
Hetalia does not belong to me. Neither do any of the countries mentioned. Get back to me after 'World Domination Phase 3' is complete.
Better Late Than Never
England clutched the missive between stained fingers and glowered at neat, precise writing scattered across the crinkled manuscript. The lantern hanging from the beam of his tent rocked under fire and spluttered out but the words were burnt into his mind and he could still see them in the sudden darkness.
The United States of America has joined the war effort on this date of April 6th, 1917.
He put it down and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration.
Two years and ten months. It had been two years and ten months since the war first started and America was just throwing his hat in now.
He growled as another mortar exploded close enough the shake the tent and far enough not to damage headquarters.
Two years and ten months and thousands of commonwealth soldiers buried in foreign soil for want of aid that could be so easily given.
England pushed back his chair with such force that it toppled over and lit the lantern again with trembling hands. The pale blush of fire painted the russet tent and darkened the shadowed corners. There was a cot against one side of the tent and a makeshift desk against the other. There was a scoured footlocker sitting at the end of the cot while his rifle was resting near his flattened pillow.
He was furious, true, but he was also exhausted. He was disenchanted with the concept of sending his soldiers out to capture muddied mounds and crests worth no more than a couple of metres in the right direction.
His government had thought this war would be a simple matter of a few months but their soldiers dug in and then his soldiers dug in and now no one was marching. Men were churned down into the earth with each mortar, never to be seen again, and those left behind found little time to mourn their fallen comrades. The pockmarked landscape was but a shade of its former splendour and instead peppered with ruined corpses and weapons. The trenches were closer to sewers but their protection was invaluable.
He ran his hand through his knotted hair with a sigh.
He was at the end of his rope.
England stepped out of his tent and reached for the carton of cigarettes tucked in his breast pocket. He lit one. It was dangerous to light matches after sunset lest snipers see the ember but it was a risk most men were willing to take for a moment of reprieve. He was far enough from the front lines that it should not matter but 'should not' and 'would not' were two separate matters.
He blew out the match as soon as possible and breathed in the scent of cigarette smoke and stale latrines.
"Arthur? Is that you?"
His teeth clenched around the end of his cigarette. He knew that voice. It belonged to the United States of too fucking late.
"Alfred."
America appeared from behind another canvas tent. He was bathed in moonlight and England could see that the child he raised was gone and that a man he did not know stood in his place. He allowed himself a moment to miss the child before shrugging it off.
That child was gone now and all that was left was a nation that ignored multiple pleas for help.
He snorted.
America was wearing standard issue boots and uniform. His blonde hair was hidden beneath a helmet and the moonlight stole the brilliant blue of his eyes but England remembered how beautiful he was in the sunlight. In the darkness he was washed in charcoal and soiled emerald instead and it left much to be desired.
America studied him with the same interest and England wondered what he saw. His sleeves were pinned up and his helmet was hanging off his cot inside the tent. The knees of his trousers were coated in slick mud and the filth of dead bodies. His fingers were covered in the ink of a thousand missives and the oil of his rifle. His hair was knotted, his eyes were hardened, and he was sure that his mouth was twisted in a permanent grimace.
America took all of it in but did not seem disappointed. He snapped to attention.
"The United States of America, reporting, sir!" His voice rang out across the hush of the battlefield and England wanted to shake him as another mortar whistled through the air and landed a little closer than before.
"You fucking asshole. At ease." He lit another cigarette as his first one petered out. America relaxed the set of his shoulders and went back to examining him.
"You look different."
"Two years of hell will do that to you…" He paused. "You're late."
"… I know."
England stamped out his cigarette and opened the flap of his tent with a flick of his wrist. He motioned America inside and followed after him. He sat on the edge of his cot, within reach of his weapon, whilst America leaned against the desk and glanced around the tent.
He could see him a little better standing beneath the lantern and it sickened him to see that his uniform was still pressed and that he was clean of the filth and dirt that seemed to coat everything and everyone here. His stomach roiled and he bit the inside of his cheek.
America seemed awkward, unlike himself, as he leaned against the desk. He seemed almost unsure of himself. England wondered if he had stopped in to visit his brothers before coming here but he was unharmed and he knew that Canada or Australia would have landed a punch or two. No, he must have come here first.
England sighed and patted the spot next to him on the cot. America sat down but kept as far as he could without falling off the other side.
"What took you so long?"
"Politics, red tape, the usual."
"Hmmm…"
He scooted a little closer.
He seemed so young in comparison to the other nations fighting this war. He looked like some of the mere children who forged their papers and joined up for the sake of adventure. There were no hard lines to him. The other colonies of the commonwealth were drawn and careworn with bitten fingernails and calluses; America was soft and new and…
Beautiful.
England ran his fingers through his hair again. He had forgotten how beautiful America was, no, he had forced himself to forget. It was too hard otherwise to send letter after letter begging for help and find it ignored.
The land of the free, the home of the brave, and the United States of too fucking late.
"I tried, you know." America unbuckled his helmet and set it on the woollen blankets. He scooted closer again. "I did."
"You should have tried harder."
England watched the space between them disappear and wondered what he would do when America was sitting beside him. He was not sure if he could contain himself…
He was in love with America. He always had been and two years and ten months was not about to change that. He was in love with him.
… And America knew it.
France used to laugh and tell him it was a foolish to fall in love with their colonies. He used to tell him that it would end in heartbreak. He was right. Colonies were either stolen or left of their own accord or disappeared when absorbed into the greater nation. America had left and he had been heart broken.
America scooted closer and rested his hand on his knee. He wrapped his other arm around his shoulders and kissed him on the forehead. It was gentle and the tenderness of it contrasted the war surrounding them.
"I know. I'm sorry. I am so sorry."
England was already at the end of his rope and the apologies sent him over. He grasped the lapels of his pressed uniform and pressed their lips together as another mortar rocked the tent and the lantern spluttered out. He wanted to forget the war and the death and the difficult decisions. He wanted to forget all of it.
America returned the kiss with an equal enthusiasm that belied his youthful appearance and England knocked him back onto the cot. He straddled him. He started snapping the buttons of his jacket and smoothed his hands over his undershirt. He ran his fingers over his stamped identification tags.
This war was supposed to be the war to end all wars but he doubted it. After this one there would be another one, and then another one, and then another. It would never end. He focused instead on America and the aid he represented. He focused on the lives that might be saved now that the United States of America had joined the war efforts.
… He focused on the feel of him writhing beneath his touch.
He had missed him. He had missed him more than he care to admit and he was choking on words of love and adoration and affection but he swallowed them. There was no room for such words on the battlefield.
England unbuckled his belt with sweating hands and allowed himself four words before kissing him again. The tent rocked and trembled under fire or perhaps that was just him.
"Better late than never."
Author's Notes:
This is my second entry for the Hetalia Romance Contest set in motion by Fanime Sensei at www . fanfiction forum / Hetalia _ Romance _ Story _ Writing _ Contest / 108090 / and the prompt was for USUK.
This is not cheerful, I suppose, but it was written with the feelings most other nations have of the U.S. during both the Great War and World War II. American media likes to paint themselves the heroes of both these wars but the rest of the world toiled for a long time before the U.S. entered the conflicts. It is upsetting to the rest of us when the U.S. tries to claim credit and most of us think "Where the hell were you last year or the year before?". The United States of America joined the Great War on April 6th, 1917 although the war began on July 28th, 1914. That's a long time. This is written from the point of view of England and so tinged with that same frustration. Great Britain and the commonwealth came to the aid of Belgium and then France but the U.S. could not do the same for them.
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