Yo, peeps. This was totally unplanned! I got random inspiration and stayed up most of the night writing it. Gotta love that spontaneous stuff, huh? It's possibly the tamest fic I've written so far, but it has some angst. ("Some" angst, sure, let's go with that.) And it's about my absolute favorite part of Hetalia. What part is that? Read to find out, my lovelies. (Hint: rain and muskets are involved.) Get some tissues ready and enjoy—oh, and thanks for your eyeballs!
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Daddy, wake up!
England awoke with a start, eyes wildly searching for the source of the cheerful voice, but it was all in his mind. A dream? He let his head fall back into the pillow, heaved a sigh of defeat. A nightmare.
When he was a child, America would be up every morning at the crack of dawn. Down the hall he would dash, straight to the master bedroom, and tug the blankets away from England. Get up, Daddy! It's morning, a brand new day! What are we going to do together?
And England would get up, dress them both, and fix some breakfast. No soggy cereals here; England was a firm believer in starting the day off with lots of fuel, and America was a hearty eater from the start. Every morning England set down a plate loaded with fried eggs, bacon, hash browns, sausage, baked beans, and—if he was really hungry—some oatcakes stuffed with all the cheese, back bacon, and tomatoes they could hold. Courtesy of Staffordshire. And America would say delightedly, through his mouthful of food, Thank you, Staffordshire! England never admonished him for pronouncing the suffix shyer instead of sheer. How could he, with America's exuberance? He couldn't dampen that with silly technicalities. So he would say only, Try not to talk with your mouth full, lad. You could choke. And he would gently wipe the brown sauce and crumbs from America's chubby cheeks. There. Clean enough to eat off of! And America would giggle. Oh, how England missed the days when he could make him laugh . . .
But those days were behind him, and there was no bringing them back. England rubbed a hand over his face, pushed the covers from his body, and hauled himself to his feet. He no longer had someone to rouse him at dawn, so he often dozed until noon. It sickened him to think how many hours of how many days he had wasted, never to be retrieved, lying abed with only memories to keep him company. England hobbled over to his wardrobe, grasped its handles, but stopped. Your clothes are so nice, Daddy. I want to wear pretty things like that when I get big and tall like you. England's heart swelled, despite its cracks. France gloated incessantly about his superior food, style, sexual prowess. But America, bless the boy—he held England with the highest regard. England may have been a bastard to the rest of the world, but he was a benevolent god to America.
Until . . .
England let out another sigh and opened his wardrobe. In those days, he dressed with more care and variety, but lately he had taken to adorning a simple white dress shirt and grey trousers. When he went out—not often, anymore—he threw on a tweed overcoat that hadn't fit him properly for decades. Not because it was too small. He'd lost more than just a part of his commonwealth. He should've been tracking his weight, but he wasn't; he suspected the results would be distressing. He had enough worries. He didn't need them manifesting as numbers on a scale.
When England finally limped down to the kitchen—his progress marked by the steady three-beat rhythm of good leg, bad leg, cane—he had to stop in his tracks, disoriented. Time seemed to slip. There was a little blond boy sitting at his table, waiting for breakfast. Sunlight from the window warmed his hair to a sparkling gold. He looked over his shoulder, blue eyes full of love—
England blinked. Time snapped back into focus. Two boys had sat in that chair, centuries apart. It was not America at the table now. These blue eyes were darker, and definitely not full of love.
"I've been waiting for almost an hour, Dad!" Sealand pursed his lips in frustration. "I'm hungry! I want some fry-up and rum!"
England paused on his way to the refrigerator, looking at Sealand in exasperation. "No rum for you. Especially not for breakfast."
Sealand stuck out his tongue. "I'm a pirate, so I have to drink rum!"
England shook his head as he prepared the boy's breakfast. "You're not a pirate. You're an abandoned military base."
"In the ocean!" Sealand cried. "Just like pirates were. I'll raid and pillage just like they did!"
"History is not like it is in Disney movies." England spared a moment's thought to the days he was addressed as Captain, the taste of salt and the clang of steal, the thrill of tearing down a Spanish flag. He'd felt brutal but undeniably alive in those days, though some things he could have lived without. The crews of men among whom he was invariably the weakest. The evil things those men did to any foreign women they found. The sleeping conditions. The rats. The weevils, the bloomin' weevils. Little bastard beetles that infested the food, not that the food was any good in the first place. If England saw another piece of hardtack, he would slap whoever offered it to him. And scream, loudly, in their face. He smiled faintly at the idea.
"Dad!" Sealand stomped his feet under the table. "You never listen, you just stare off at nothing. I'm talking!"
"As usual," England remarked, too weary to say it loud enough for Sealand to hear. The hiss of the frying bacon and eggs drowned out his third sigh of the morning.
"I am a pirate, and I don't care about history because it's old and dull," Sealand said decisively, as if that was the end of the matter. "But I won't be a pirate forever. I'll be just like you, Dad. I'll be a pirate, then I'll be Victorian, and then I'll win a war with the whole world!"
England glanced over his shoulder. "I thought you said history was boring."
Sealand rolled his eyes. "It is."
"Well, you seem to know a fair bit of mine."
The micronation shrugged. "Probably because you have nothing better to read in the library and sometimes there's nothing on the telly so I have to read history books. Don't burn it!"
This last outcry was regarding the wellbeing of the sausage, which had begun to emit a high-pitched, almost inaudible squeal. These death throes were less than appealing to England, so he put the food out of its misery, forked it onto a plate and set it in front of Sealand.
"Finally!" Sealand dove in, chopping up his eggs. He was an admittedly cleaner eater than America had been—and still was, if lunch at the United Nations meetings were anything to go by. England was torn between relief for the lack of mess after Sealand ate and longing for the boy to end up covered in the remnants of his meal. Why would he want that? It would only mean more work. It would mean dampening a cloth, wiping Sealand's face and hands . . .
But it wouldn't be the same, and that's what hurt England the most.
The phone ringing drew him from his wandering thoughts. He left Sealand to eat alone and made his slow way to the living room. The end table had a thin layer of dust on it; the vase beside the phone was only about forty years old, but it looked double that with the dust. Bloody dust. England would have to hire someone to come clean up the place. America had Lithuania as a servant, and they didn't even have a sovereign relationship. Perhaps England could ring up Canada or Australia to come tidy things for him . . .
"Dad, answer the phone!" Sealand bawled from the kitchen. "It's annoying!"
England cleared his throat, composing himself, and picked up the receiver. "Hello?"
"Britain! Hey, dude, guess who's in Europe?"
He nearly dropped the phone. He opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. Of course, America was still talking, so it made no difference.
"It's me! The United States of A came across the pond! Roll out the red carpet, bro! Nah, just kidding about that part. You guys save the carpet for when a crown gets hitched."
"Trust an American to reduce one of England's most momentous occasions to a crude shorthand." He hadn't meant to say that, nor had he meant to have such a snappish tone, but that had been England's affliction since he was a boy. Some said America had no filter between his brain and his mouth, but England had something almost worse: a cruel filter. No matter the thought in his mind, the words on his tongue were shards of glass, thorns sharp enough to draw blood. He'd always thought of it as a defense mechanism.
"Ha, yeah, whatever. But anyways," America said, changing the topic in that hyperactive way England suspected came from an overexposure to corn syrup, "I'm coming over for some business for my boss, boring politics am I right? Except not totally 'cause before I head over to the embassy I thought I'd stop by your place! Does that sound like a slice of fried gold or what?"
England felt something come uprooted inside him. He thought he'd been so steady over the years, but the truth was that a strong gust of wind could blow him over at any time. His voice came out a bit shaky, nervous, but not unkind, for once. "Uh . . . Yes, it would be pleasant to have a visit from you, after so long."
"Sweet, dude! I'm at the airport right now, but I'm gonna grab a cab and head on over! Unless you're, like, busy?"
"Busy?" England longed for the days when he was busy. "Oh, I think I can scrape together an hour for tea with you, America."
A snort. "Tea? Gross! Hit me up with an espresso, dude! Actually, don't bother, I'll just get an energy drink from a vending machine."
"You know, you really shouldn't drink those, they aren't health—"
"Hey, here comes a taxi! Okay, see ya in a few, Britain!" He hung up.
England slowly lowered the receiver back to its cradle, numbed as if he had gone into shock. Perhaps he had, after so many careless blows from oblivious America. Tea, gross? He'd loved their tea times when he was a child; England remembered one cozy afternoon tea, America's little face scrunched up in a grimace as he took a tiny sip of his tea. What's wrong? England had asked. Don't you like it? You've taken an awfully long time to finish it. America had gazed at him with pleading blue eyes. I'm sorry, Daddy. I just didn't want tea time to end, because I like sitting with you so much, so I thought maybe if I drank really slow, we could talk longer, but my tea got cold and it's yucky. Please don't be mad. How could England ever be mad at that? He'd corrected his word usage—though it had clearly never caught on that insanity and anger were different things, and mad was supposed to mean the former—and assured him that the pair of them could talk whenever he wanted. America had been delighted enough to give England a hug before he finished off the cranberry scones England had baked. He used to love those scones . . .
"America's visiting?"
England turned, broken from his reverie, to see Sealand standing in the living room doorway. He nodded. "Yes, America will be here in a few minutes."
Sealand's eyes narrowed a little, his expression almost suspicious as he studied England in silence.
Rather disconcerted by this, England asked, "Is there something wrong?"
The micronation shook his head. "I'm going to watch the telly in my room." Without waiting for a response, he vanished down the hall.
England limped into the kitchen to clean up the mess from breakfast, but there was none. He blinked in surprise, checked the fridge. There were the leftovers, put in before they'd cooled. England set the plastic container on the counter and glanced into the sink. Sealand's plate was as it looked when England left to answer the phone. Why hadn't Sealand finished his food? Had he been eavesdropping on him? But surely he could have gone back to eating afterward? Unless something he'd heard England say had put him off his breakfast. Like what? England thought in half-hearted amusement. America's name?
That gave him pause. It wasn't too much of a leap of logic to think that Sealand might be jealous of America. Why wouldn't he be? America was a powerful country, just like Sealand wanted to be. I'll have to have a word with him after America leaves. He emptied the plate into the compost bin, rinsed it, dried it, and replaced it in the cupboard. Then he cleaned the table, counter, stove. Then he considered the rest of the surfaces in the house—the majority of which were dusty—and produced the day's fourth sigh, this one the most defeated so far.
What was the use? He could hobble as hurriedly as he could around the house, dusting and bumbling like a prat, but to what end? England's scoff tasted bitter at the back of his throat. Everything he did was viewed by the Americans as stupid, old-fashioned, hoity-toity. He didn't need to put on a show. America wasn't anyone to impress. He wasn't France.
No, a dark voice within England said, America isn't France. He's friends with him, though, he likes him just because they allied for the War, and that was only because France wanted to colonize him, and how is that any different than what I wanted to do? At first, I mean, and after I got to know America it was more of a partnership, of course I was more important because I founded and fathered him, France would have been terrible to him but I think I was quite reasonable given the circumstances and it was certainly no reason to seek In—
England's train of thought crashed headfirst into a brick wall and he slapped a hand over his mouth, fighting the urge to retch. He held his hand over his lips as his other trembling fingers grasped a bottle of wine from the rack. He tipped it up, too desperate to get a glass, and swallowed once, twice, thrice. He lowered it, breathing deeply, his painful nausea subsiding. He couldn't think or speak about what had happened all those years ago. It made him feel like his insides were being torn out. He gave a tiny shudder and took another sip of wine—red, he realized now that his mind had cleared, but strange. Swirling it around in his mouth, he turned the bottle to check the label. Cabernet?!
England spat the stuff into his sink and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, grimacing. "Bloody frog juice," he muttered, pouring the wine down the drain. England had once left some wine at France's house, and the Frenchman would never let him hear the end of it. Oh, did you forget something? I think you should take that bottle, Angleterre. Before my champagne makes it cry sparkling tears! And then some of that back-of-the-nose laughter that drove England up the wall.
But France didn't really visit much anymore. Perhaps he'd gotten tired of England's constant snapping. England couldn't blame the bastard for that. He got tired of it, too, every now and then. But he forgave himself. He had to. Nobody else would.
. . .
BANGBANGBANG.
England, halfway down the hallway, turned to look at the front door. His heart quivered in his rib cage. There was no need for the adrenaline tingling in his gut, prickling electrically at his fingertips. He knew who was knocking, he had no reason for a fight or flight response. But still, the feeling remained, a queasy cocktail of excitement and dread.
England hobbled to the door and opened it. "Good day—"
"Hey, Britain!" America spread his arms wide, a larger-than-life grin on his face. "Get over here, gimme a hug!"
England couldn't even begin to protest before he was enveloped in a warm, tight hug, his face pressed into the furry collar of America's bomber jacket. America was so strong; he had been since he was young. England remembered his shock the first time he'd embraced teenage America, when he'd noticed that it had stopped being England holding America and started being the reverse. And now, America was fully grown, and England could never hope to be bigger or stronger than him.
Too soon, America pulled back, brow furrowed a little. "You okay? What's with the cane, dude?"
"Oh." England tapped it against the floor, self-deprecating. "It's no cause for concern. I've just got a stiff knee, that's all." He raised a thick eyebrow at the younger nation. "I'm an old man, America. Getting older every year."
America didn't look consoled. "But . . . you're not that old. You're not gonna d—"
England waved it away. "As I said. It's no cause for concern, least of all for you." That was more biting than he'd intended. He turned away. "Come, I'll show you around. How long has it been since you were here?"
"Oh, I dunno. A long time," America replied, walking slowly beside England to match pace with him.
"Almost two hundred and fifty years," England said. Mercy's sake, he was almost spitting every word. Relax, you heartless git. "You probably don't even remember living here."
"You kidding? I totally remember this place." America looked around, hands clasped behind his back like a boy told to behave in a museum. "Doesn't look like it's changed much. I remember this painting, the flowers. I always wondered why you'd have a painting of flowers instead of real ones."
England followed his gaze to the oil canvas. "It's an antique. The techniques used were groundbreaking at the time." He glanced at America, expecting to see the wide eyes of a boy enraptured in a story. Instead, the other nation had a small, indulgent smile on his lips. He's patronizing me!
Bristling, England went on, "I've not changed anything in the house because I value its historic air. Some people recognize the importance of such things."
"Looks like a bunch of old dusty stuff to me." America shrugged, flippant. "But hey, whatever floats your boat. I had lots of old junk in my storage closet until I cleaned it out a while back. Oh! Speaking of that." He removed a small bundle of cloth from his pocket. "Here, I found this."
England accepted the bundle and unwrapped it to see a tiny toy soldier. A hand-crafted, hand-painted toy soldier. England remembered the time and care those tiny features had required to perfect. Truth be told, he'd made several attempts before he'd ended up with the ones he gave to America. And now the paint was chipped, the wood scratched, though the expression still remained the same: narrow eyes, tight lips, angry brows. A face ready for battle.
"I thought you might want it," America was saying. "I picked the angry one to give to you, 'cause you're always so grumpy. I got rid of the rest of 'em."
England stared at him. "Got rid of them? You mean you threw them out?"
"Uh, yeah. They were old and, I mean, they were for a kid to play with. I'm not a kid anymore, so . . ." He shrugged. "You can't keep stuff forever, right? Sooner or later you have to let things go."
Let things go. Just let me go, Britain. I want my freedom! It's my right! Let me go!
I WON'T ALLOW—
England doubled over, gagging. Hastily, he withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and coughed into it. Ragged, raw sounds from his throat; he tasted nothing but sorrow. He glimpsed a flash of crimson on the white of the 'kerchief before he stuffed it back into his pocket. The movement unbalanced him, and he swayed.
"Woah! Are you okay, Britain?" America's face, foggy around the edges, black mist. "You look like you're gonna faint. Come on, let's go sit down."
England was distantly aware of strong arms guiding him, nearly carrying him, into the living room. Ah, soft cushions beneath him. England breathed deeply as the suffering subsided.
A cold cup was pressed into his hand. "Here, dude," America said, blue eyes bright with compassion. "Take a drink. You don't look good at all."
England downed the whole glass. He couldn't recall the last time he'd drunk plain water, but it was cool and clean and refreshing, even if it didn't taste like much. He leaned to set the cup down on the table, but paused. "America, fetch me a coaster from the kitchen. They're in the first small cupboard going from the left."
America snorted. "What do you need a coaster for? It's just a coffee table."
"It is from the Elizabethan era, you uncultured twat." The harsh words were hot in his still-sensitive stomach, prickly as if he'd swallowed a swarm of bees. "The table and I are both your elder, so respect us and fetch me a bloody coaster."
America rolled his eyes, but he obeyed and headed across the hall to the kitchen. England heard some fumbling with cabinet doors, then America's voice: "I can't find 'em."
"Are you looking in the first small cupboard?"
"Yeah."
"Going from the left?"
"Oh. Right." A moment later, America slapped a coaster down on the table and dropped onto the sofa opposite England. The table sat between them like a referee. "There ya go. One coaster. So, what was that all about? You looked like you were dying. You still kinda do."
England set down his cup and sat back, hands in his lap. "Oh, thank you. You certainly know how to boost a chap's confidence."
"Britain." America's brow was furrowed again. "I'm serious, dude."
England was silent for a second before he latched on to an escape from this line of inquiry. "Why do you call me Britain? We are countries, are we not? Britain is not a country. It's an area that includes England as well as Wales and Scotland, who I know do not appreciate being called British." He'd given them more power than they deserved within his borders, but they still despised him. How did he manage to piss off the whole world? It was a miracle Canada still allowed royal visits. "My name is England. Please address me as such."
Or you could always go back to calling me Daddy . . . or Dad, or Father . . . just once . . . please . . .
"Okie dokie." America, never good at focusing on one topic for very long, took the bait. "How about UK? I could call you that. That's what they always call you on the News."
England wasn't sure how he felt about the idea of his tragedies being displayed on American television. "As you are the United States, as I am the United Kingdom. It's only the first half of the name. It means nothing without what follows."
America nodded slowly, smiling. "You always did have an answer for everything. But, y'know, there is a reason why I call you Britain."
England raised his thick eyebrows inquisitively.
America's smile widened, pleased to have stumped him. "I'll tell you someday." He hopped to his feet. "Where's Sealand, anyway? I haven't seen that little guy for, like, ever."
"Oh, he's in his bedroom. He spends most of his time there. Watching his cartoons." England grasped the crystal top of his cane to help him stand. "It's all very bright and flashy. Nonsense to me, but it keeps him entertained."
America paused in adjusting his glasses, incredulous. "You mean you never play with him?"
England's mouth was open a considerable amount of time before any sound came out. "As I've said. I'm an old man. I can't chase children around anymore. I'll likely break something."
America shook his head. "You don't look old. You're not wrinkly or anything. You look as young as France, and he looks fine. No cane for him." He crossed his arms over his broad chest. "You just look tired, bro. When was the last time you had anything to eat?"
England tried to recall, but his thoughts were sparse and scattered. "I had half a scone yesterday."
A knowing look came into America's eyes. "And when was the last time you had a drink?"
"Just now. The water."
"You know what I mean, dude." America's voice was gentle. "A drink."
England didn't meet the other nation's gaze. Quietly, he replied, "This morning. Before you arrived."
Even gentler now. "If you need help—"
England turned on his heel, cane thumping the floor. "I've no wish to discuss it. In fact, there's nothing to discuss." He stepped out into the hall. The words were on his tongue—Perhaps it's time you got going—but he couldn't force them past his lips. He couldn't ask America to leave. It hurt too much.
America followed after him. Thankfully, the younger country let the matter pass and tried to bring them back to a more lighthearted conversation. "Hey, I bet there's one room in this place that's changed since I was last here. My bedroom!"
England didn't break his uneven stride, but he felt something slip slightly inside himself, his world shifting microscopically on its axis. He heard himself say, "Would you like to see it?"
"Heck yeah!"
And up the stairs they went.
. . .
Centuries ago, England held the boy's hand as they climbed the staircase. Where are we going? America asked, hopping up the steps as if he were splashing in rain puddles. England smiled. I'm showing you to your bedroom. That's where you'll sleep. America had cheered. I get my own room! You're the best daddy ever!
Now, they climbed with a foot of space between them, America a good-natured enigma, England awash in grim silence. Had they both known that America would end up sneaking under England's covers? First, it was a bad dream. The next few nights, rain brought thunder. For weeks after that, though there was nothing to frighten America from the bed England tucked him in to each night, morning still found the pair of them together. After a few months, of course, America started sleeping in his own bed. A sign of growing up, England had thought at the time. It had been his explanation for every upsetting thing America did, right up until that final day in the rain. America had shown no fear of the thunder in that fateful storm . . .
Aching nausea twisted in his abdomen. No. He wouldn't think about it. He couldn't. He simply could not.
They stopped in front of America's old bedroom. The door was closed, and—America tried the knob—locked. He glanced at England, and the older nation passed him the key. "To keep Sealand out. He can get carried away when he plays. I didn't want him to break anything."
America unlocked the door, pushed it open. "Why would it matter if he broke something? He's your son, dude. He should be more important than your . . . antiques . . ." He trailed off.
At first, England thought he'd realized that the words he spoke could just as easily apply to himself. But no. America had fallen silent because he'd seen what had become of his old bedroom.
"It . . . It looks exactly the same," America said in amazement.
England watched America walk around the room, exploring old memories. Everywhere England looked, he saw a vision of the little blond boy, playing with toys or drawing a picture or gazing out the window. What are you doing, lad? England had asked him when he found him staring outside. America had turned and smiled. Just watching the pigeons. They're really small. There are eagles where I came from. They're big and strong and free. I want to be like them.
If only England had known what would happen. What would he have said? Hopefully something more meaningful than a bit of trivia about English bird life.
America gestured to his twin bed. "Look how small it is! And it's still unmade, after all these years? Have you not even come back into this room since I left?"
England could not admit that he came in here at least once a week to breathe deeply, to watch the memories of his little America. The bedsheets still smelled like him when he was young: sweet grass, fresh air, the gentle spray of a forest creek. All new countries smelled like that, before the world was built up into a bulging urbanized mess called civilization. Sealand, obviously, did not smell like untamed wilderness. He smelled like salt water, rusting metal, concrete.
America was still awaiting answer, so England replied, "No, I haven't really been in here. I'm too busy with current affairs to tidy up ancient history."
America gave a little laugh and went to sit on the bed.
"No!" England burst out. The idea of the faint scent of the past being overwhelmed by America's greasy odor of fast food and cherry soda—England couldn't stand the thought. This was all he had left, and he would not let it be taken away.
America straightened up, eyes wide. "What? What's wrong?"
"You'll break it. Fatass." As soon as he said it, England wanted to cover his face with his hands. Why? Why was he so cruel? The old theory—excuse—rose up in his mind. Defense mechanism.
A defense mechanism against what? Happiness?
America didn't look as insulted as England thought he might. He was tough, always had been. Perhaps too tough. "Thanks for that, dude," he said, shaking his head. "I don't think I'm that heavy, but whatever. Guess we both have issues with food, huh?"
Don't get defensive. "Look here," England snapped. Too late. "I'll have you know that our issues are quite different. I'm simply not in the mood to eat. A third of your bloody population is obese!"
America put his hands into his pockets. "Yeah, but we're trying to get better. It's just really hard, in the beginning."
"If you'd stayed with me, you wouldn't have to face these things on your own." England only muttered it, but that was enough. America heard him.
The light blue eyes were surprised, and weary. "Are you still upset about that? After all these years? Dude, I thought you were over it. You just said, all this is ancient history. Can't we move on?"
It had been a long time since England had seen red, but he was seeing it now.
"Move on!" he shouted. "You're asking if we can bloomin' move on? Do you have any idea what it was like for me to lose you? Your land is a hundred times the size of mine, and I'm not even exaggerating that much! Do you know how much that weakened my country?! It wasn't just the war I lost, you Patriot wanker! You took years to even figure out how to function by yourself, because you didn't give a moment's thought to your own future! Was it worth it, Yank? All those lives lost, on both sides, just because a rebellious teenager wanted his FUCKING INDEPENDENCE!"
He retched so hard that he fell to his knees, his body wracked with shivers of agony and disgust. His cane clattered down beside him, but he couldn't care about that; he was too busy coughing up blood onto the old floorboards. The dark, rainy battlefield flashed in his mind, and just as he had then, he sobbed out, "How . . . could you . . . do this?"
He didn't know how long he stayed that way, collapsed with tears and blood dripping down his chin, but he almost jumped when he heard America's voice, oddly calm. "Britain."
He looked up. America held out his hand to him, a gentle smile on his lips, the same gentle smile England had given him a lifetime ago, when it was not a shattered old man who took the hand, but a bright-eyed orphan in need of someone to love him.
America pulled the older nation to his feet and wrapped his arms around him, holding him close. England's arms around his waist were thin, weak, but they held him with the fierce love of a guardian, a parent. A father.
"I still love you, Britain," America whispered to him. "Even if we had to separate. Even if I had to grow up and leave you behind. I still love you."
England's voice was soft, muffled in the bomber jacket. "Why do you call me Britain?"
America smiled against his hair. "Because you'll always be Great to me."
England went still, then hugged him tighter, crying tears of joy into America's shirt. "I'm so sorry—I love you, too, America. I love you so much." He pulled back to look up at the younger country, emerald eyes rimmed red and shining with tears. "I'm sorry I'm so horrible to you, to everyone, but I just—everybody I love leaves me, a-and I . . . I just wanted you to stay. All I've ever wanted is for someone to stay . . ."
Their roles continued to reverse, for after the outpouring of emotion—most uncharacteristic of an Englishman—America carried him to bed and tucked him in. Looking small and tender beneath the blankets, England said meekly, "Please stay."
"You know I can't do that." America ducked out of the master bedroom long enough to dampen a cloth, which he used to delicately wipe the tears and blood from England's face. "There," he said, smiling. "Clean enough to eat off of, right?"
England's heart was a bird with broken wings; it tried to soar, but could give little more than a feeble twitch. But his eyes filled with love at the words, and that was all America could see, anyway.
"You took care of me when I needed it," America told him. "But I think you needed it, too. We both grew up, even if you were bigger than me when we started." His words held a wisdom England had never realized he possessed. I suppose we've grown, after all. America went on, "Now, there's someone else around here who wants to grow up, isn't there?"
England followed America's gaze to the doorway, where Sealand was standing, dark blue eyes wide.
"Daddy?" he asked, in a squeaky voice England hadn't heard since the boy was tiny. "Are you alright?"
"He will be," America assured him. "But he needs your help. Can you help him get better, Sealand?"
The micronation nodded without hesitation, standing soldier straight, eyes sparkling with determination. "I can! I'm a hard worker! I'll take the best care of Dad!"
America ruffled his hair fondly. "Good. I'll visit again soon, to make sure you two are doing okay." He leaned down to kiss England's forehead, and whispered to him, "He looks more like you than I ever did. And I know he could never leave you, even if he wanted to."
England gave a weak chuckle. He was exhausted. Sleep would overcome him at any moment. "H-have fun at the embassy," he rasped, eyelids drooping.
"Check ya later, Britain."
And when he opened his eyes again, a little boy with blond hair was there, smiling down at him. "It's a brand new day, Dad," Sealand whispered. "What are we going to do together?"
.
The end.