The RMS Lusitania

*time of day changed for dramatic purposes

The movement of their ship should be calming if not sleep-inducing, America thought. It was not. Somehow it was frightening – the well-built hull seemed tinny next to the timeless, inhuman crash of pure energy as the feeble boat struggled to push aside wave after wave of endless ocean. The rhythm enveloped him as closely as the night, starry tendrils of apprehension reaching down to curl around his ears like dangling spiders.

"Don't you think it's a little choppy tonight?" America asked nervously, drumming his fingers against the table.

"I don't even think it, America," England replied. He was a man who thought he'd captured the sea in a mere handful of centuries, and was happiest on the ocean. "Yes, it's choppy. Fear not – this ship is one of the British Empire's glorious daughters, and she's more than adequate for any job you care to set to her."

Was he always this cocky? America thought, biting his lip. Surely it was just the ale and the marine night that did this to him. Well, if England was going to play Mighty British Empire, it would be America's job to bring him back down to earth. "Jeez, England, you're awful chipper tonight for a man in the midst of the greatest war the world has ever seen!"

"It's not like I'm here for shits and giggles and drinks," England replied defensively, nonetheless taking a swig of ale. His eyes wandered past America's to rest with fascination on something behind the other man. Though he did not turn his head, America was sure it was either the ocean England so loved or one of the dancer-entertainer ladies he'd hired for the evening. "This is a business meeting."

Which is why we have dancer-entertainer ladies? That sure makes sense, America thought, though the evening mood was sullen enough to keep his mouth glued shut.

"Purely business…" continued England, as his gaze continued its enthralled path. By now, America was sure the object of interest was definitely not the ocean.

"Which is why we have dancer-entertainer ladies? That sure makes sense."

"Look, America, I'm a little stressed out right now!" England's eyes finally fixed his dinner partner's with a surprisingly weighty shadow behind them. "I'm in the midst of the greatest war the world has ever seen!"

"Hmph."

"And the reason we're here," England continued, his challenging gaze not leaving America's, "is to discuss why you're not."

"I gave you money." It was a feeble response.

"I don't need your bloody money!" The implication was enough. I need your army. I need your technology. I need your help. England would never say it.

"Look, England, I'd love to save your ass." America blasted straight through the delicate un-said words as delicately as he blew through mountains to build railroad lines. England flinched. "I just can't work with that guy."

"You've never even met him."

"I've heard stories."

"Probably just gossip."

"Try me. So, about a decade ago, he massacred a peaceful civilian protest because his boss wasn't home."

"Well—that—yes…"

"And like fifty years ago his people blew up his boss – who was called The Liberator – and delayed the creation of a parliament for like twenty years."

"Well, erm, that…"

"And he has a really creepy smile."

"That's subjective."

"Do you think he's creepy?"

"Look, America," England growled, throwing his head back in frustration, "sometimes you have to work with people you don't get along with."

"Like me and you," replied America caustically, fixing England with his best you're a jerk grin. He practiced his subtly nuanced grins in front of the mirror every day, but somehow they all wound up looking like a straight-up I'm a hero! grin. It wasn't his fault nobody else could read the atmosphere. Or that he had just a great heroic grin.

"Except we're not." In the awkward pause that followed, England quickly broke eye contact. It was hard to tell in the dim lighting of the deck, and America was not the most observant fellow, but perhaps England's cheeks darkened slightly. "Working together, I mean. Which brings me back to…goddammit, America, can't you just join the war effort already?"

"I, unlike you, England, will not work with that tsar-loving, violent maniac," America began in his most frustratingly superior voice. England's considerable brow twitched, and America had to fight the urge to reach out and pinch it. He wondered idly if those eyebrows were as soft as they looked. He also wondered, even more irreverently, if England had been the victim of an accident involving Dr. Jameson's Miraculous Hair Potion! Lustrous In Three Days! in his youth. "Because I, unlike you, uphold the pinnacle of democracy that innervated my birth."

"Excuse me, Mr. Thesaurus, but you're talking to the guy who brought democracy to Europe!"

"Tell that to your precious Queen!"

Somehow what had begun as typical alcohol-fueled banter, egged on by the tension everyone felt surrounding the war, had become a question of moral superiority. The pair glared at one another across their little table, England's meeting agenda long forgotten.

Ideology was serious – it could make the difference between being allies and being at each other's' throats. America remembered back to a rainy day when democracy had become more important than shared history, when he'd made a statement and lost a friend. Looking back, it seemed inevitable. How could the little boy never have grown up? How could he have been content to be Little Brother when Big Brother refused to be called that?

They were antagonistic in their solitude – most passengers had gone below deck already – so no uninformed presence could deter their most carnal arguments. As green eye met blue, America was sure England was going to reach across the table and slap him a good one. He'd only insulted the guy's principles, foreign policy, and most precious monarch, but just because he deserved punishment didn't mean he wasn't going to fight back.

Luckily, America never cared much about the mood.

"Hey, England?"

"Nnnnrggh?" It was more a growl than a response.

"What's a fellow got to do to get a hamburger around here?"

"It's one o' clock in the -"

Motion on a ship is and always has been normal. However, marine rocking is rhythmic and constant, so both men were instinctually aware that something was drastically wrong. The wooden deck rumbled and shuddered violently as though each oak slab had suddenly decided it was no longer content to lie peacefully by its neighbors, and then the ship hung perfectly still for a long moment. Perhaps if it'd been light out, America would have realized that the deck stood motionless at an unnatural angle. Perhaps if he'd been more awake and sober, he would have heard the sound before the wave.

Next it was cold and salty and turbulent. Feet went over head, table under arm, and America had no idea which way was which. He felt his glasses slide off his face, as though attracted by some perverted magnet, and clutched blindly at them. I didn't bring my spares! He tried to shout, but was interrupted by the rude sloshing of brackish water into his mouth.

It was only then that he realized why it was his limbs felt simultaneously light and sluggish, why his face was wet, and he why he felt himself drifting in a direction that must have been up. He kicked once, experimentally, and then stronger, feeling the tightness in his lungs that directed him to the surface.

He broke it disgracefully, in a flailing mass of basic human need for air. In the darkness broken only by stars and their reflections, he felt he might as well have been swimming through the gates of Hell.

The touch of flesh on the back of his neck might have incited a scream if he'd had any breath to spare. Even so, he kicked wildly, turning with frantic eyes to face the aggressor. Having turned, he lit upon a sight that chilled his bones.

The great RMS Lusitania, daughter of the glorious British Empire, was turned at a precarious angle, sliding seamlessly into the timeless sea. Passengers, what of the passenger? Some fought the waves, like him, and others clutched life rafts. Many, no doubt, were still trapped in the sinking monolith that had only, really, been a pleasure cruise. It was the glorious British Empire himself who'd touched the back of America's neck and tread water next to him now, hair dank and eyes dark, looking exceptionally inglorious.

Even as they locked eyes, a horrible rumble passed beneath them, in the most secret depths of the ocean like a never-sighed sea monster of old. America tried to catch a glimpse the unseen aggressor, but the meters and miles of water were thicker than blood, and he saw only the lapping of reflected stars against England's arms. Surely he was not turning into England? Sea monsters didn't exist.

"That bastard Germany!" England spat. "Submarine."

"Oh," America said, and felt stupid.

In the next hours, they paddled to shore even as the humans did the same in their lifeboats. America struggled, pushing back fatigue, chills, and the knowledge that, miles behind them, bodies were floating to the surface or sinking inside the ship. He had the distinct impression that England was slowing down to keep pace with him, and as they neared shore, the other man swam ahead, arcing like a dolphin through the silver-tinged water that began to meet sunrise on the horizon.

Of course. England was the world's swimming champion, ever since he'd wrested the title from Spain in 1588. Even as America approached the forsaken-looking beach, England sat proudly and damply upon a rock. America wondered if his pose was to disguise some sort of sorrow for the passengers lost. He hoped so. He would give England the worst talking-to of the older nation's life if he didn't do something for those poor passengers' families. Perhaps a monument, or a commemorative ceremony – twin ceremonies in D.C. and London, perhaps. America's people had been on that boat, too.

And Germany. Germany was going down. Germany was going to pay.

Yet, as America approached the shore, he felt his exhausted limbs begin to fail. Really, why had he eaten so much ice cream and exercised so little? He'd been busy. People were always busy. But now, with the nearly-bare beach approaching, there was simply not enough strength left in his muscles to keep going. They were taught, stretched to their absolute limit, and not even the adrenaline of finally approaching land could excite them again. He'd swum a long way, with no raft or life boat or anything. What was he, superhuman?

Well, yes, he was. But he was no champion swimmer, and wouldn't be until 2008. He was a man of scaling mountains and digging tunnels and destroying native populations, and then maybe going out for a root beer float afterwards. It was the watery cold that got him. The numbness numbed his muscles even before he could feel it, so that it was a surprise when his limbs no longer responded, and he felt his head sinking progressively lower and lower, until his nose was plunged into cold, lapping waves, and he could no longer breathe.

It was funny. His vision never went blurry – after all, he hadn't had his glasses since right after the Lusitania had gone down. It was simply silver water and clouds one moment, and darkness the next.

The next thing America recognized was the feeling that sand was getting into his underwear. He did not like that feeling. Perhaps that was why he couldn't handle the ocean – his deep-seated fear of getting sand into his underwear.

Sand was getting into his underwear because there was a strong, warm hand pressing delightfully on his chilly chest, even as another pressed itself into the back of his neck. This whole sand-and-hands thing was, apparently, indicative of the fact that he had finally made it to land. This was, apparently, a very good thing.

America could tell that this was a good thing because England was kissing him like there was no tomorrow. He could tell, even with eyes closed and brain barely functional, that it was England because – come on – who else smells like Earl Grey first thing in the morning? Who else even drinks that sludge?

He could tell that he was being kissed like there was no tomorrow because there was a pair of soft lips caressing his own, and even he was not a complete idiot.

England broke away. America would have liked to pull him back, but he had only energy enough to flutter his own eyes open, meeting England's gaze. The other was kneeling above him, and they were, surely enough, on a beach. Sand was still in his pants. It was still itchy.

"Mmmm," said America extremely coherently, beaming at England.

"I was giving you CPR, you dolt!" England snapped, furrowing those bountiful eyebrows and turning bright red. "You almost drowned!"

"Oh."

"So, will you join the war effort now that you see what evil we're fighting? Both of our citizens died tonight." England's face turned somber, and America thought maybe his eyes were brighter than usual. Had he been crying? Maybe he wasn't a wuss if he had been. England was right – they'd both lost good people to Germany's submarine warfare. America decided not to make fun of him for the tears.

"Yep. But only if you pay me. And, England?"

"What is it now?" With a sigh.

"I don't think you're supposed to use tongue during CPR."

*The RMS Lusitania was a British passenger ship (i.e., not involved in WWI at all) sunk by a German submarine during 1915. Many Americans also died on that ship. Germany's declaration of unrestricted submarine warfare was one of the main factors contributing to America joining WWI, and henceforth, the Triple Entente winning. The Lusitania actually sunk during the middle of the day, but that's not very dramatic.