England's hands felt clammy and disgusting. Why was he so nervous? It was a play that England was undeniably very proud of, of course. It had been deeply praised by some of the most renowned Londoners that England respected; what made America's opinion worth any more to him?

Nevertheless, England's hands were sweating and he kept glancing anxiously at America. They weren't even at the theatre house yet. Perhaps he was rather too high-strung for his own good. Meanwhile, America was strolling along as if aimless and humming a silly excitable tune. It was a miracle that the two men could stand each others' presence considering their entirely opposite attitudes.

"Stop looking so restless, Iggy," America sang. "You look like you've got a rock shoved up your bottom."

England shivered at the horrifying image. "Since when did you become so vulgar? If I hadn't known you better, I'd say France poisoned your mind. Again."

"How would you know?" America said, pouting. "You hadn't talked to me for ages. For all you know, I could've buddied up with France and he could've taught me the magnificent wonders of sweet wine and sweet—"

"Have mercy on me," England groaned. Where had he gone wrong with that boy?

"So what is this play we're going to watch, anyways?" America asked for the umpteenth time. England grumbled something inaudibly. Why did the Empire Theatre seem so long off when he was with America? "It's not one of your long-winded, flowery tragedies again, is it?"

"Don't you even think of insulting William, America," England snapped. This boy didn't appreciate the fine arts of his language. The language that England had blessed upon him, mind you.

"Is it?" America persisted.

England sighed exasperatedly. "No, it isn't. Really, Alfred, Shakespeare's plays aren't horribly complicated if you put your mind to it—oh wait, I beg your pardon. Now I realize why you can't understand it."

"Perhaps if I had a better teacher when I was younger, my mind would've developed better, don't you agree?" America retorted cheerfully. "If not Shakespeare, then who? It seems to everyone that Shakespeare is the only writer you really have. Or at least the only one you care about."

"Rubbish," England muttered. "Anyways, you probably wouldn't know this one. Unless Frohman decided to bring his plays over to you, I doubt you've seen any."

"Fine with me. As long as it's not another tragedy where everyone dies."

England silently fumed as the two nations finally entered the Empire Theatre. It was a grand theatre bedecked with decorations and details that beautified the playhouse. England inspected every corner of the theatre with narrowed, sharp eyes, calculating whether or not this theatre was worthy enough to hold this particular production. England was extremely fond of this play, and he wasn't going to let essence of Americans flaw it. It was already bad enough to him that American actors and actresses were whisking the part away from their proper English counterparts. In his opinion, anyways.

"Isn't this a nice place?" America said brightly as he handed the money over to purchase the tickets. "Lots of people are coming in to watch. Looks like good reviews leaked out, huh?"

"Of course," England said huffily. "This place doesn't compare to the Duke of York theatre, however."

"Whatever you say," America sighed, rolling his eyes. His blue eyes lingered towards a promotional poster of the play displayed by the usher. His eyebrows furrowed at the sight of it.

"Iggy," he said uncertainly. "Exactly what is this play about?"

"I can't say anything; it'll spoil it," England snapped.

"Well…" America cocked his head to one side. "I don't know but—are those children flying in that drawing? And is that…a fairy?"

England felt his face suddenly grow extremely hot. His hands felt sticky all over again. He knew that this would be a problem.

"Yes, and?" England replied, straining to keep his composure. He refused to look at America in the eyes.

America gave a bark-like laughter. "Oh, Iggy! You've brought me all the way here to see another one of your little fairies? Except these fairies aren't even real; they're only actors! You're desperate, aren't you?"

"Quiet, you," England growled.

"You know, Iggy, a play about fairies and—what's that in the corner?—pirates isn't going to convince me anything different about your little friends," America chuckled.

"I'm not trying to convince you anything," England snarled. "I wouldn't waste my time; your head's too thick to understand an inkling of truth. You can't believe that I'm taking you to watch Peter Pan just to have fun, can you?"

"Wait—really?" America exclaimed. England rolled his eyes, but then realized that America was very serious. "This—this isn't some trick to brainwash me into your British ways or—or trying to wheedle some secrets out of me or anything?"

"I'm offended that you see me that way," England said hotly. "I'm not completely manipulative, you know."

America shrugged, casting a wary glance at England. "Kind of hard to accept, actually. You know, if France was here, he'd be calling this a date over and over again—"

"Don't even mention that bugger," England replied sharply, his face reddening. "Now off to the seats before someone takes them."

Every step England took made his heart dread more and more about the upcoming performance. What if the Americans hated it? They couldn't possibly appreciate the story! And America—that boy probably wouldn't even understand the magic, being so narrow-minded.

As the two nations seated themselves in the velvety seats near the front of the stage, England gazed all around him to check out the house. There were many New Yorkers filling the entire theatre, dressed to the nines, and their faces glowing with anticipation. He couldn't tell if he was happy for the play and or feeling deep sorrow for Barrie since the Americans would no doubt scorn it.

***

As the play went on in all its splendor of fairies and pirates and Indians, England felt himself growing warmer and warmer. He couldn't bear peeking at America to see what his reactions were. America didn't talk to him the whole play, which surprised England immensely. Wasn't America the kind of person who would tease England of his magical stories without stopping? Instead, America didn't utter a word.

Did he hate it? England clenched his teeth at the thought. Maybe America didn't think it a silly, stupid play, but an absolutely horrendous piece of work! England gulped; that couldn't be the case. Those other Americans watching the play weren't throwing rotten tomatoes at the actors, and as far as England could see, no one was yawning…

"Who's there?" Peter Pan on the stage demanded as Tinkerbell woke him up from his sleep. The young actress held out her hand so that the little glimmer of light could rest in her palms. "The Redskins were defeated?" A chime of the bell answered her. "Wendy and the boys have been captured? I'll rescue her! I'l l rescue her!"

England immediately remembered what happened after that. He groaned inwardly and prayed that the blasted Americans wouldn't ruin it.

"Oh, that's just my medicine, Tink," Peter said casually as the shine of light zoomed frantically around an inconspicuous bottle. At the sound of tiny crystal bells, Peter straightened, affronted.

"Poisoned?" Peter demanded. "Who could possibly poison it?"

Blast that Captain Hook, England thought bitterly.

"Tink!" Peter cried. "You've drunk my medicine!"

The little light started to dim. The chime of the bells softened into a weak, pitiful ring. England leaned forward in his seat. He had watched this play already, but he was always on edge in this scene.

"It was poisoned," Peter said, aghast. "And you drank it to save my life."

Someone beside England gasped, but he couldn't tell who it was. He was filled with so much emotion; half of it was for the play, the other half was the fear of the audience's reaction.

England's fists tightened, his muscles tense and sweat dotting his hairline. The Americans reacted fine earlier…they laughed at the right spots and all…but would they think this too ridiculous? They probably didn't believe in fairies at all—who in this whole theatre would clap?

"Tink?" Peter said softly. "Are you dying?"

The little fairy's light grew dimmer and dimmer. The bells—her voice—quieted into a bare whisper.

"Her light is growing faint," the actress said gravelly. "If it goes out, that means she's dead."

One boy next to England leaned closer, drinking in every word. England gripped the edge of the back of the seat in front of him.

"What's that, Tink?" Peter said, listening intently as the small bells spoke to him. "She says…she thinks she can get better again if the children of the world believe in fairies."

Peter suddenly turned to the audience, eyes staring straight into theirs.

"Do you believe in fairies?"

Yes, England barely whispered.

"Please," Peter said imploringly. "If you believe in fairies, clap your hands!"

England squeezed his eyes shut. He expected a deathly cold silence, the audience shifting uncomfortably in their seats and casting confused and disapproving glances at each other, the little Peter stammering and trying to continue with the play despite the lack of response from the audience—

Instead, he was washed over by a sea of loud applause.

England felt his jaw drop. The Americans—they were clapping with all their might! He was in such shock that he almost forgot to clap himself. Even America—scorner of fairies and magic—was applauding wildly. Tinkerbell's light suddenly bloomed into a beautiful, bright glow and Peter thanked the audience joyously, barely heard over the applause. The crowd cheered and clapped for the return of the fairy and the victory of Peter as he set off to battle the wretched pirate Captain Hook.

England slumped back into his seat, breathing a sigh of relief. Perhaps there were some Americans out there who were wise enough to believe in fairies.

***

As the curtains finally drew to a close at the very end of the play and the audience was filing out of the theatre, chattering happily and complimenting the play, England and America remained in their seats. England stretched his limbs, still trying to overcome the shock of the Americans' reactions to the play. He turned to America, about to ask him how he thought of Peter Pan, before he stopped short in surprise.

"America—er, Alfred," England said slowly. "Are you…crying?"

America stiffened at the question and turned away quickly. "O-of course not! What, do I look like I'm crying?"

"Yes."

America coughed and took off his glasses, polishing them inconspicuously. "You really need to get your eyes checked then. First fairies, now this."

England narrowed his eyes. He raised his hand to America's face and swiftly flicked a teardrop off of America's face. America quickly clasped his hand on his cheek, blushing.

"God, it's hot in this place," America complained, sniffling. "I've been sweating like a donkey the whole time."

"I never knew your eyes could sweat," England said. He shouldn't tease America about crying (how low can he stoop?) but he couldn't help it at all. The opportunity was just so great.

"Must've been looking at something really hot then," America said quickly.

"The lights, perhaps?" England taunted.

"Certainly not you," America retorted.

England crossed his arms irritably. "Then what's going on?"

"We should start getting out of here, it's really late," America commented casually, standing up immediately. "We all know how you're not an evening person at all…or a morning person, at that. You're not exactly a daytime person either."

"Be quiet," England snapped. Why did America always had to insult him?

As the two nations fought their way through the crowd and finally stepped out into the frosty evening, England scrutinized the younger man. He had somehow switched from crying (or 'sweating') to a happy, smiling person. Was it natural for someone to change moods that quickly?

"So…" England said, his breath turning into wispy smoke in the cold air. "How'd you like the play?"

"It was cool," America said simply. "Really cool. Like a breath of fresh air."

"Ah." Back to a strange silence between them. England desperately wanted to know what America really thought; it was no mystery that America was keeping things hidden from his former benefactor.

"Anything stick out to you the most?" England added.

"I thought it was sort of funny how there's a combination of all your favorite things in it," America said, chuckling. "Pirates and fairies? No wonder you liked it so much."

"What made you like it?" England said, feeling his cheeks blush for reasons besides the cold.

"The idea of it," America admitted. He sighed, watching his breath form clouds. "The imagination. Never seen anything like it before."

Could England ever force the truth out of America? He had the feeling that America would rather swallow needles than admit any weakness (was crying really a weakness?) to England. England vaguely wondered if America was still part of England's family, would he still have that problem?

"I wonder how it would be like to live in Neverland," America suddenly said.

England was surprised by the statement. "Oh! Er, fun, most likely."

"Yeah," America muttered. "And never growing up? That would be amazing."

"Don't like growing up?" England asked. America shrugged and sighed.

"Well—sometimes...sometimes I miss being a kid and having no troubles, and then I'd wish I didn't grow up," America said softly.

So do I, England thought sadly.

"I mean…" America tried to find the right words (and the strength) to tell England. "When you're young, you don't know anything about the bad stuff. When I was just a tyke and not my own country or even a colony, I was just happy. I didn't worry about money or fighting or people getting hurt like I do now. It's peaceful and...and innocent."

England nodded, his eyes glued to the ground. He had never expected America to say things like this. He always thought America was proud of being a strong, independent country, never regretting anything.

"Don't you think so?" America turned to him. "Not growing up—always a child—you don't have to leave anything behind. You're always living in pure innocence and peace."

"But even so, there's the grown-ups around you that can force you to grow up mentally," England contradicted.

"I'm talking about Neverland here," America reminded him. "That's where no one grows up. It isn't possible."

"What about Hook, hm?"

"Hook—I don't know about you, but he didn't really seem like a grown-up to me," America laughed. "Just a big kid with tantrums." He sighed, staring up at the skies in the cool black night. "You're never scared, either. All there is to scare you are nightmares that can't touch you. When I was a kid, I didn't know anything about wars or terrorists or murders or any of that. But now that I do, I always feel—you know. Hell, back then I was scared of monsters and ghosts and all those nasty things you threw at me, but afterwards you'd comfort me enough for me to stop freaking out." America paused and licked his lips, reminiscing the carefree, dreamlike days. "Nowadays...you can't stop my fear now. They won't go away."

"No one ever said it was too late," said England. "Hell, I know who you are. You are like a kid so much, I sometimes forget you're a country." Though once he did remember, England would become bitter and resentful all over again.

"I don't know," America mumbled. "It's just—I don't think I can grow back." His voice started to tremble, something England had never heard before. "It's too late, I think. I already know what war and hate and fighting and suffering are; I can't go back when I've understood all those things. That makes me...makes me want to cr-I mean, it makes me upset when I realized that." America turned his head away from England, wiping his face with his gloved hands inconspicuously. "It seems like—every day I'm moving farther and farther away from when I was a child and I can't stop and Neverland can't come to me. You know—I had so many chances to relish childhood and live in Neverland, but I didn't take it and now it's too late."

England remained silent. How was he to respond to America anyways? He had never known that America felt this way before.

"Can you go to Neverland even though—even when you're grown up and worn and beaten down?" America said softly. "Could you even fly off the ground if you've got so many burdens and bad memories in you?"

"There's nothing pixie dust can't fix," England said stubbornly. America glanced at England and chuckled. England noticed that America's blue eyes were misty again.

"Aw, but England, fairies aren't—"

"Bloody hell!" England hissed. "Did you forget everything about the play? Every time you say you don't believe, a fairy drops down dead!"

America winced and covered his mouth. "I forgot. Sorry." He laughed at England put his hands in his pockets. His laughter soon died off and America sighed. "But if that's the case—I've already said it. I can't do anything to bring the fairy back to life anymore." Just like his childhood.

England felt progressively uncomfortable. This side of America was new to him; it wasn't bad in any way, but it made England feel like America was growing up too fast; the little brother England loved and hated at the same time had to grow up to realize what this chaotic, suffering world had in store for him. He didn't like that any more than America did.

"Whether you like it or not, America," England said slowly, refusing to look at America, "you'll always be the little brother."

America raised his eyebrows and smiled. "Oh? And you'll be that crabby, antisocial older brother of mine forever and always."

England shoved America roughly as the taller nation, nearly pushing him into a lamp post. In a swift motion, America scooped up packed snow from the ground and pelted it at England's head. In a fit of rage, England chased America through the New York streets, screaming his plan of vengeance to the younger nation as he sprinted past the surprised passerbyers and automobiles, laughing and singing teasingly at England without a troubled thought in the world.

You'll always be my little brother.

In America, Peter was warmly welcomed. It was performed at the Empire Theatre in New York on November 6, 1905. The two million people in the States who saw the play were perhaps crazier about Peter than those in London (which was no easy feat, because Londoners were quite crazy about the play also). The audience described it as 'a breath of fresh air.' Mark Twain said, "It is my belief that Peter Pan is a great and refining and uplifting benefactor to this sordid and money-mad age; and that the next best play is a long way behind it."

I got the idea to write this after watching Finding Neverland for the umpteenth time. I really, really like the story of Peter Pan, and like America, it sometimes makes me cry too.

I probably will not like this story once I post it up, because I'm a pessimist and my own worst critic…I dunno. Please tell me what you think.