"America! America, get back here!" England called out.

"No!"

"If I have to catch you, America... You're lucky I love you so much!" England dashed after his colony, and finally caught his arm. America was trapped. England began to tickle him. America's side's heaved with laughter. It was contagious. "Yeah, I've got you now, you little bugger!"

Everyone always said that England wasn't raising America properly. England didn't necessarily agree with everyone else on America's being a sinful little bastard, so he raised America how he thought was right: with laughter and happiness, as opposed to order and control.

England was well aware of the fact that his peers loved their children. England simply didn't believe they raised their children properly. He had never agreed with it.

America squirmed, trying to free himself as tears came to his eyes. England let him go, and he stumbled back a few paces, giving out breathless little laughs that England would die for and regaining his breath.

(I don't know how to do transitions, so here you go. I'm sorry.)

America and England had been playing with America's toys for about fifteen minutes. England stood up. "Well, America, I believe it's time for bed."

"Aww! But I don't want to!"

"You have to get some rest so you can be a strong colony, America."

After England had gotten America to bed, he left to go to a meeting.

(I don't know how to do transitions, so here you go. I'm sorry.)

"Sir?"

"We need to talk about how you are raising America."

"What's wrong with it?" England asked defensively.

"It's not proper. If you continue to spoil him in such a way, he'll surely rebel. The Americans are already becoming restless; you're aware of that, right?"

"What does that have to do with how I'm raising him?"

"He'll rebel. He'll listen to his people."

"Surely—," England began. "Raising him in such a drastic way seems to be exactly what would cause him to listen to his peers. He knows that I love him. Isn't that enough to keep him?"

"What we need to keep the colonies at this point is beyond 'love'. He needs to be aware of the might of the British Empire. He needs to be aware of the fact that he cannot beat us."

"So you're suggesting?"

"I'm suggesting that you raise him properly."

"What about just a few years ago? He was so happy. He was so proud to be a part of the British Empire. He celebrated so joyously with us. He loves us. You know that I don't agree with how everybody else raises their children. I believe it will hinder his development. He's a colony; he has to be raised in a way that will allow him to grow strong."

"How strong can he get?" His Boss demanded. "There's already minor unrest in the colonies. What if it escalates? Not to mention— it was years ago, that the Americans were happy with us. I highly doubt the conlony you're babying is so proud anymore."

"He's a colony. Years are like months to him."

"England, answer my question. How strong can we allow him to get?"

England was at a loss. "He already is extremely strong, physically."

"What if he grows too strong?"

"What?"

"What if he grows too strong, too independent, and decides to leave you? What if there's a war?"

"What are you implying?"

"What if he becomes too strong and you're not able to hold onto him any more? Do you really think we can keep this colony forever if he decides to be restless like this?"

"I— What do you mean 'keep this colony'?"

"You want him to grow strong, England. How strong can a colony possibly get without causing problems?"

England felt sick. America... becoming too strong... no. Yes. No. That would never happen.

"Are you saying that you want me to either begin to punish him for mundane things or neglect him completely, in order to inhibit his growth and keep him from leaving?"

"If you raised him properly, you wouldn't be 'punishing him for mundane things'. You'd be instilling order. He would understand that you are his parent, not his friend."

"I'm not his parent or his friend. I'm his brother. I'm the only person he has."

"You're raising him, all the same."

England sighed. "So what do you want me to do? I refuse to raise him the way everybody else would. I believe that he won't leave us if I—,"

"He'll leave us. He'll... Children don't understand how grateful they should be, England. It's your job to teach him. And if you don't? What if he tries to rebel? What then?"

"He— the Americans— couldn't possibly beat us."

"Don't you think they'd fight with tooth and nail? What would we do?"

"We'd fight them until they surrendered." England replied. He still couldn't see the point his boss was trying to make.

"Would they surrender?"

England was silent. "If they wanted their independence? No."

"But they wouldn't win, right?" England nodded. "Do you really think we would just defeat them?" England nodded again. "They'd have shown they aren't loyal."

"So you're saying?"

"America wouldn't exist anymore... Actually, what the hell, I'll just say it. They would no longer have our support. If they didn't surrender and the war continued, we would eventually kill them."

"No. That won't happen. That would never happen."

"You want to kill him?"

"No, but I refuse to raise him the way everyone else would. I will raise him as if he was a human boy, and I will treat him with the same respect as I would one of my peers."

"You'll raise him so he can grow up?"

England nodded.

"You'll raise him so he can be independent? And what do you think that would mean?"

"That's enough!" England snapped. "I am not going to disrespect him and hurt him just because he is a colony and not a mortal human! What the colonies happen to be doing is not his fault."

"All I'm saying is, if things continue on like this, you won't be able to protect him forever. You'll have to do the exact opposite, actually. Did you really think that America came into existence for the sake of lasting forever? No. He won't outlive you, no matter what it takes. He will be yours for as long as he is alive, no matter what it takes. Nobody will touch him but you. America... You are not taking care of America so he can last forever. Now you are taking care of America because he is still useful to us. Nothing was ever intended to last forever, and though we would like to see it happen, America is just a sorry excuse of people that are crying about being represented. We sent them away because we couldn't handle the amount of people."

England was shaking. He wanted to retort; but he couldn't. He couldn't put America before the Empire. That would be disgraceful. It would be shameful. The consequences would be horrible. Besides, it was his job to put the Empire before anything else. "I apologize for losing my temper." He said quietly. "I will see you again tomorrow. Until then, please take care."

England left, trembling slightly.

America was waiting in his room for him at home.

"Why are you still up, America?" England asked.

"I had a nightmare and I couldn't sleep, so I wanted to wait until you came back. Can I sleep with you?"

"Not tonight, America. Don't worry, it was just a dream. Goodnight." England pushed him out of the room. Usually, he might've hugged America and went back to his room with him to tell him stories, but not tonight. Not when he was already doubting how he'd raised America so much.

England tried to go to sleep.

For a few days, England tried to raise America the way other people might have. He encouraged America to go out and play more, and would try to keep him outside until it was dark. England did more work during that time. He didn't play with America too much, either, and he had only lulled America to sleep with stories once.

Thankfully, it seemed America didn't do anything bad, so England didn't have to punish him.

(I don't know how to do transitions, so here you go. I'm sorry.)

"America!" England called out. "I need help with—!"

There was a loud crash from the kitchen.

"America? What did you do? Are you okay?" England rushed downstairs.

America nodded. When England had called, it had startled him and he'd dropped a teacup.

"Ow!" America hissed. He'd bent down and tried to pick up the broken shards, and had cut his arm. Now, he stood up because England was there.

"America— Just... Just get away from there. I'll deal with it.

America held his arm tightly, wincing. England had been shooing him away recently, and he wasn't sure why. Maybe he'd done something wrong. Wasn't he just proving England that he was a burden?

What if England thought he was stupid or a waste of time or horrible? Did England hate him because of his people?

England turned to him, sighing. He'd picked up the most obvious pieces of porcelain. He rubbed America's cheek. Isn't this where people might hit their children for doing something wrong? His hand twitched at his side.

"America, are you hurt?"

America nodded, hesitantly showing his arm. A cut ran across his wrist. "Oops. You fell. Well, that's okay, love. Come here."

England pulled some bandages from a drawer and carefully wrapped his arm. "There. You're okay now, right?" America nodded. "Good. You have to be more careful, okay?"

"Okay."

"Now go play." England steered him out of the room and shut the door.

America frowned. Apparently it was normal to be pushed to go outside, but England was completely avoiding him. Maybe this was normal too, but from what he could gather, it wasn't. Even if it was, America represented a colony. He had to at least stay in touch with England, right?

Not that they talked much anyway. America shouldn't have cared. England was gone a lot of the time already.

(I don't know how to do transitions, so here you go. I'm sorry.)

England sat in the living room, drinking some tea. He frowned. Perhaps it was better to be away from America. He'd become more independent, and learn to take care of himself, and—

America knew how to take care of himself. Not only that, but he couldn't become independent. They never spent much time together anyway— England hardly ever had time, but usually he'd try to spend thirty minutes with America each day.

Maybe that was wrong. Was it wrong? He didn't know anymore.

But then, America was so young. He was, at the very most, around eight years old at this point. He was old enough to be on his own every once in awhile, but surely not completely?

Pushing children away led to them being less independent, or so he'd read. Was he really hindering America's growth by doing this?

He didn't want to, but he supposed it was for the best. After all, the last thing he would want is a revolution.

(I don't know how to do transitions, so here you go. I'm sorry.)

England went into America's room that night. America was playing quietly by himself, humming softly in a tune that England couldn't say he'd ever heard before.

America turned, smiling at England. "Hiya, England!"

"Hello, America. I think you should go to bed now."

"Okay," America said. He put the army figurines in their box and climbed onto his bed.

"America," England began, taking a deep breath. "You know I love you very, very much, right?"

America nodded. "I love you too, England."

England patted him on the head. "Goodnight, America," he hugged the colony and left the room.

England went back to his own room and read over some papers. He wouldn't raise America the way everyone suggested, not anymore. Making him go play outside; sure, whatever— but hitting him? Really?

England was disturbed by how close he had come to actually punishing America for dropping a teacup, even when he'd hurt himself.

He would never hit America, no matter what he did. Ever. America wasn't around to make the promise to, but he didn't have to be.

(I don't know how to do transitions, so here you go. I'm sorry.)

England sat on the ground. It was raining.

Someone approached him. England looked up. Probably one of America's soldiers; and now he wasn't even sure if he'd care was the person to shoot him. America was gone. England stifled a whimper. It was freezing, and the rain poured down on his back. Not that he wasn't used to rain, but he felt so vulnerable. So worthless. So empty.

Maybe this was how it would always be. Maybe he would never feel better. Maybe he would never get over the loss of America.

He really, really hoped this person would shoot him.

He didn't bother to look up. He didn't want to know what it was.

A hand reached down, offering support. England reluctantly accepted, hoisting himself up. His knees were weak and his throat burned, and he really wanted to collapse.

Still, that would be disgraceful. Even more so.

And suddenly he was engulfed in someone's arms. America? Did he... did he come back to me? No, of course he didn't. He's never coming back.

"England... I've never seen you so miserable. I didn't know you cared about me so much," America joked, but it wasn't funny and it was hardly phrased as a joke either.

It dawned on England that they would probably capture him. At the very least, he should be moving away. He should be fighting against his col— this nation, trying to get away, right? Just because he had surrendered didn't mean he had to let go of his dignity. He could run. He shouldn't accept help or warmth.

England felt his knees buckle. No running.

"Woah. You okay there? I mean... Of course you're not. You lost."

England would be shunned by everybody, he knew it. They would all think 'oh hey, he's not so powerful', and maybe they'd even hurt him as grievously as America had. Maybe this was only the beginning of the end.

"Come on, England. I've never seen you so down. You'll get over it." America said. "Trust me, the last thing I want to do is talk to you, but you're still here and you look absolutely devastated, as if you just watched your house get burned in a fire, but I'm not worth that much to you, am I?"

"Of course you're worth that much. You're worth... you were worth... so much more than that, America." England wasn't going to tell America how much he meant to the older nation, not when he'd lost. Not now. Instead he continued, "C-Colonies are so expensive. You've no idea."

America laughed without merit, and it actually sounded like he was closer to crying than enjoying himself, but when England looked up he was grinning. "There ya go. See? Already recovering."

No. Things are never, ever going to be okay again.

England could just imagine all of Europe ignoring him, shunning him. He could also imagine what would come much sooner: scorn from his own people over how he'd raised America.

"Leave me alone."

"England, I'm not going to—,"

"I don't want pity from someone who will always claim to not be related to me, and I don't want pity from my enemy."

America tilted his head to the side, putting his hands up and backing away. "England... clearly you're... You can't hold yourself with pride all the time. Perhaps sometimes you should accept help? I'm not your enemy anymore, I'm—,"

"Yes, you are. I'm..." England's lip trembled and he looked down. "I'm..."

"No, I'm not your enemy. Neither of us have a gun anymore— I left mine inside— and the war is over."

"You idiot. Of c-course you're still my enemy. But it must look so easy to forgive for the winning side."

"Say it. In a great deal of pain? Filled with self loathing? Filled with loathing for me?"

England shook his head. Of course he couldn't ever hate America.

"Say it."

"Leave me alone." England snarled. He shoved America away. America stumbled back a few paces, wincing.

"Fine. I'll go." His voice was low, barely heard over the rain.

England tried to stand, but he had no idea where to go.

Eventually, he was able to return back home. Alone, without his colony— the one he'd spent so much time with — and shunned by everybody else, even his own people. He was alone.