This was inspired by a thread of comments on Tegaki. I don't have the link anymore ('cause I'm dumb and forgot to bookmark it), but started with a picture of Fem!US hugging England, and then down in the comments someone asked if girl America has Florida. And thus, this was born. Thank you, strangers from Tegaki who inspired me.
The thing about tiny America is that she's simply so small, one easily forgets that her boarders extend far beyond the ones they've drawn on the maps of their empires and labeled as their own. But she's such a tiny, precious thing, how could she possibly be more than his thirteen little colonies? (Never mind that those colonies are larger than England himself. Because if he thinks about how just his part of her is so much bigger than he, he will start thinking of just how great she truly is outside of the arbitrary borders he's given her. The ones she never stays within because it's all her, even the places he's never seen.)
Because so many nations have laid their claim to the darling at one time or other, she is not an uncommon topic of conversation at European parties and meetings. They argue over who she likes best, of all her empires (England is proud to say she has made her preference for him clear as day), who has the best part of her (should they decide based on beauty or usefulness?), and they make thinly veiled threats to take up the rest of her. England and France have similar altercations over her brother, Canada, but Spain's involvement brings a higher level of passion to the battles for America.
Somehow though, England has failed to realize a very important detail that has undoubtedly come up in every argument over America the three of them have ever had. The others must have missed it too, because surely someone would've pointed this fundamental disagreement out by now if they had. The realization that such a mix-up has gone on for so long positively floors England.
"Wait, what do you mean?" England demands, looking positively perturbed. Spain lifts an eyebrow at the question, not entirely sure what the other is asking about.
"Ah, Anglaterre is unfamiliar with beauty, even when it so often sits in his lap and watches him sew!" France responds instead of Spain. He makes a pitying expression, to which England glares.
"That's not, that's not what I'm getting at! I mean, why did you refer to America as a 'he'? America is a girl, Spain."
At this, France makes a face as though he too is just realizing that Spain has always, always referred to America as a boy. "Ah, yes mon ami, why do you address the child so strangely? You will confuse her."
Spain's lips dip into a frown as a little crease forms between his furrowing brows.
"What do you mean America is a girl? He's as much a man as you and I."
000
England's mind races faster and faster the closer his ship gets to America's Boston Harbor. For some reason, he fears he'll find a young man in the house he left his darling little girl in. But that can't be right; Spain must've been pulling a prank on them! England knew America was a girl. He had changed her and bathed her back when she was small enough for that to be appropriate. She has always been and definitely still is a girl.
Doubts still cloud England's mind though. Spain is not quite so mindful as to remember to call America by the wrong pronoun every time he talks about her. Moreover, America is something of a tomboy, alternating frequently between pants and dresses now that she's at an age that, if she were a boy, she'd be in breeches (but she's not a boy, so the behavior is just strange). She climbs trees and does all sorts of manual labor and woodwork on her own, her dainty little hands will become rough if she doesn't stop soon. But she also sews with England, and does this thrifty little thing with the clothes she's grown out of and the letters she treasures most, cutting them into patterns and making quilts, sewing the letters into them.
Yes, America is surely a girl. An eccentric girl, wily and boyish where she should be delicate and feminine, but his precious little girl nonetheless. He will see for himself when he meets her at the docks.
But his heart speeds up with worry; what if she comes to him in breeches, looking like some farm boy? Or dirty and covered in scrapes, as though she fell out of a tree in her haste to get to him on time? He would forever be in doubt, then!
Heaven is not so cruel to him though, as when America appears on the docks, she's in what is undoubtedly her Sunday best, a bit bigger than when he'd last seen her, but still a girl. His little girl.
"England~!" America cheers as she jumps into his arms. He twirls with her, partly because of the force of her jump (she's so strong, like a boy—), and partly because he just loves the way she laughs when he does.
"Now now darling, what do you call me when we're in public?" England asks, trying to sound chastising, but he's just so relieved it comes out jokingly instead.
"Arthur!" She exclaims, as though expecting a prize for her quick thinking. Smiling, England takes her hand to walk her home, and from the way she lights up, he supposes this is all the prize she needs.
000
"…And so the valiant knight saved his darling princess from the clutches of that evil frog once again, and they lived happily ever after," England finishes America's bedtime story with one of her beloved happy endings. The girl, not quite asleep, though not far from it, lets out a large (unladylike, but she's a child, she'll grow out of it) yawn.
"G'night Ah-" another yawn "-Arthur," America mumbles tiredly. Smiling, Arthur leans forward to give her a peck on the forehead, before pulling her blanket up to her chin and making sure she is all tucked in.
"Good night, Amelia," he replies, playing along with her whim to use their human names. However, at the name, she gives him a curious look, one that could be confusion or just her losing focus on reality.
"Ya—you know," America starts, trying to stay coherent enough for speech, "when I, and please don't get… don't get mad, but when I visit… Mr… Mr. Spain, he calls me somethin' different."
At the mention of Spain, England freezes up. His fears that had subsided all through the day, shrinking as she played dolls (even if they were toy soldiers) and watched him embroider, trickle back into him, turning his stomach.
"And… What does he call you?" England asks, trying with all his might to keep his voice even. Judging by the way America relaxes again into a half-sleep, he has succeeded.
"Calls m' Alfredo. Why d' I got two names? It is 'cause you don' like Mr. Spain…?" America asks, struggling to stay conscious.
England is unsure how to answer, and so dodges the question completely. "We'll have this conversation tomorrow, Amelia. You," he punctuates the word with a touch to her nose, "need to sleep."
Made obedient by sleep, America nods, answering, "T'morrah, yeah…" And with one last great yawn, she falls asleep.
England blows out her bedside candle and leaves for his own room, where he spends the remainder of the night pacing.
000
"America, do you know what you are," England asks the next morning after breakfast. The girl gives him a long stare, looking for the appropriate answer in his face.
"A nation-person?"
"No—Well, yes, but no."
"A colony?"
"Yes, but—but no, not that. I mean, do you know if you are a girl or a boy?"
The question seems to throw her off completely.
"Why do I have to choose?" She asks with a pout.
"You don't, you're just born one or the other, there is no choice."
"Why can't I be both?"
"Because you can't be born both."
The way America's brows scrunch together and her lips screw up into a pout, it's almost cute except it's a look of extreme disapproval and it's aimed toward England.
"You're lying. You said that's bad, but you're doing it."
England is flabbergasted. America has never called him a liar, and over something that was so clearly the truth, no less! He takes a moment to just stare at her incredulously, before quickly rearranging his features into a more dignified expression.
"Amelia, be reasonable. I am not lying and you know it. You are a girl right now, are you not?" England's tone left no room for petulant answers. America didn't give any, but simply nodded.
"Right. And are you not always a girl, even when in breeches?"
At this, America shakes her head vehemently. "No! I'm not! I'm a boy too!" She insists, clearly distressed by the thought that England doesn't believe her.
England sighs, feeling the makings of a headache. He doesn't want to upset her but she has to learn sometime. Perhaps he should humor her and figure out why she would ever think she's a boy. Chances are, it's all Spain's doing and he's just messing with England's colony to give him a headache.
"How are you a boy and a girl, America?"
At this question, the girl's face lights up in a terrible blush, so red it looks painful. Oh dear, he's asked a question that's upset her Puritan mind, somehow. "I—I… Wh-when I go down to see Mr. Spain I… It changes down…down there," she manages to force out, burying her face in her hands shortly thereafter.
America is not the only one so affected by the statement. England's mind is first wiped completely blank by it, and then is set to buzzing with questions. How could that happen? England has never heard of such a thing happening before. It didn't happen to him, or France (even if he had worn dresses as a child), and England is fairly sure that even America's own brother is of stable gender. So why America?
Unwilling to think deeply on the issue until he's been entirely convinced of America's condition, England stands up abruptly and scoops the young girl up.
"E-England?" America's shaky voice questions. He imagines she thinks he's upset with her.
"Don't worry love, we're just going to pack for a trip."
"A-A trip?"
"Yes," he says, opening the door to her room. "We're going to visit Spain."
000
England only looks away for her a minute, just as they're crossing into the lands that are Spain's. He's expecting some sort of magical "poof," a loud bang, anything to show that a dramatic change has happened.
Nothing does though, and for a moment England triumphs in the thought that he is right, that America has been deceived by Spain and she is still his girl, his precious little girl.
But then he looks and his feelings of victory drain right out of him. Subtly, America has shifted. Still a child, small and with that same quality of androgyny that children often have, but now just the air around her was not the air of a 'her' at all, but rather a 'him'. More obvious than this quiet shift in nature is another change: America's hair has somehow shortened itself. The transformation, small as it is, manages to stop England (and by extension America) in his tracks.
"What is it Arthur?" America looks up at him with new eyes, eyes that perhaps fit his mischievous nature better than his more feminine pair.
"By Jove… You truly have changed. Just… just by crossing an arbitrary line…"
America grins as if to say "I told you so." Which is just what she—he—it—hell if England knows anymore—says next.
"Now don't get cheeky with me, you may be a boy but that doesn't give you the right to be a brat," England chides. America's devil-may-care grin just grows larger at the reproach. England is half-tempted to just turn back now, go back to where America is just a girl and he doesn't have to acknowledge this other part of her, back to normalcy, to the reality that's familiar to him. It's abnormal and frightening in its novelty. He doesn't like change. He doesn't like how, for all these years, he's never known about this. Doesn't like that Spain knew first.
Still, he's come this far, and he'll be damned if he goes back home without first giving Spain a proper beating.
000
England wonders if it was perhaps his realization about America that had led to their current situation. America is angry, angry, angry at him, as he (he; his little girl would never be so angry at him so it's not her, even if the person yelling at him is in a homespun dress) always is as of late. 'Stop controlling me,' he says, 'I'm not a kid, I can take care of myself,' he says.
But England can't help himself, can't stop himself from tightening his grip on America. Even if it's only in Spain's colonies, America is a boy too and boys are willful and self-sufficient and boys grow up and away from their mentors and England doesn't want that. He has to make sure America still needs him. And Amelia—Alfred—America—still does, right? Without him the poor child would be eaten alive by the rest of Europe. (Though, perhaps Spain would claim her and turn her into a him for good and what little girl would stay a little girl when she could be a little boy?)
No. America still needs him, still needs his protection and discipline and it doesn't matter if the more boyish, Spanish side of America makes him angry at England because his little girl is in there somewhere and still needs him.
Right?
000
Even here, all England can do is mourn her shorn hair, jaggedly cut and uneven and not nearly so pretty as the bouncy curls she once sported. She has cut her hair and donned a uniform, and England cannot find his little girl under the grime and the clothes and the cut hair. England hates the boy that has taken his girl's place, hates him so much he could kill.
Or he thought he could. But when he tries and his—her, her, her eyes widen from their cold glare, still hers underneath it all. He realizes finally in that moment that they little girl he loves and the little boy he hates are one in the same, and he cannot hurt what he hates without destroying what he loves. This thought allows his musket to slip from his hands, brings him to his knees and makes him stay there as America walks away.
000
The year is 1819 and while visiting Canada England hears news of a treaty between Spain and America that piques his interest. He and America are not on good terms at the moment, 1812 and the way he'd used Canada against the other still souring the air between them. The America he'd seen staring blankly into the fire of D.C. had been a girl—no, a woman now, he must accept that she's grown up, if not in mind at least in body. He assumed at the time she must still be living with her unique condition, a woman in the lands she'd won for herself, a man in the places Spain still owned.
But this new treaty, while entirely average in its purpose of determining borders and the ceding of territory, interests England specifically because of the country America had done business with. Perhaps she had managed to gain control of the land connected to her masculinity and her gender had stabilized. Perhaps "her" is now the wrong pronoun.
The nearest one of America's residences that England knows about is in Boston, and so he travels there first to find him. Thankfully it is the only place he has to travel to, as he finds who he is looking for sitting out on his front porch, reading a book and generally enjoying the warm air of a summer afternoon in New England.
America hears him approaching and looks up at him, surprise written all over his face. And it is his face. At first, England had seen those eyes and dared to think that maybe America still went by Amelia and not Alfred, but his eyes could not miss his strong jaw and generally masculine figure for long.
This is it then, England finds himself thinking, America's gender has stabilized and this is what he will be from now on. England will have to get used to the idea that his girl is gone forever. Despite himself, he feels the need to mourn.
The shock wears off America's face quickly enough, and is replaced by bitterness for a moment before a tired sigh expels that and all that's left is calm, and maybe even a glint of childish joy.
"I find it ironic that the man who taught me to always send word before I went anywhere is showing up at my house unannounced," America says in lieu of a greeting. His grin is smooth and easy as he beckons England over to the other chair on his porch with his hand.
"So you're a boy for good now, then?" England says without preamble. He hasn't seen this part of America since he was a little boy and doesn't know how to behave around this man, whom he does and does not know. He can only be terse and awkward. It's his default mode.
America looks a bit taken aback by the question, perhaps not expecting it so soon into the conversation, but answers quickly enough. "Seems like it. Should've figured it was Florida, from the shape and all," he says, coughing awkwardly near the end of his statement. England thought of the maps of America he has seen before and thinks that indeed, if any part of the land was going to be America's manhood, it would be Florida.
A few moments of awkward silence pass between them. England doesn't have anything else to say, but it seems silly to come all the way here just to get the answer to one question and then leave. America, fidgeting and clearly uncomfortable himself, can't leave because it's his house and he shouldn't have to flee from his own residence. So the silence stretches on until finally, America decides to break it.
"I expected you to come down here sometime and ask me that. You really did love me when I was her. But for all I liked being your little sister, I think I can honestly say I resented you and France for doing that to me."
"Doing what?" England is pretty sure he already knows, but he doesn't want to admit to it himself.
"Before all of you Europeans came here and carved me up, I was a boy. I mean, do you guys even think before you go around cutting up other nations into little pieces and distributing them among yourselves?" America asks with an accusing look, working himself up the more he thinks about it. England remembers Rome and Denmark and France, remembers hating them for the way they took control of him, even if they weren't always completely terrible to him. He wonders why he doesn't think of himself the same way he thought of them.
"And do you realize how troublesome and scary it is, changing genders every time I stepped over an imaginary line? It's like being castrated! Now I won't lie and say I was unhappy as a girl, 'cause I was plenty happy, but I shouldn't have had to be a girl at all! And you know, I might be a boy again, but even now I'm still not whole because of you jerks. Spain's still got a good third of me out west and he's losing it to Mexico! Damn it!" America is shouting by the end of his rant, scaring off the birds that were in his yard. He looks incredibly frustrated with the entire situation, though somewhat relieved for having finally said something. Another moment of silence passes between them where America realizes what he's done and colors up to his ears.
"…That's been a long time coming, hasn't it?" England asks, feeling exceptionally guilty over the whole matter. The feeling had crept up on him starting with the phrase 'cutting up other nations into little pieces' and had solidified with the word 'castrated.' He doesn't imagine it will be going away any time soon.
"Yeah, it has been," America says, looking a bit sheepish. "Um, sorry for taking it all out on you though. It's not like it was just you, after all." A cough covers up his awkwardness as he stands up from his seat and stretches. England tries not to stare, or even think about why he would want to in the first place. He tries to remind himself that until a few decades ago, this man was his little sister, but the dissonance between his past memories of sweet little Amelia and the present reality that is Alfred makes it impossible to connect the two in his mind. This America doesn't feel like his family. England can't make himself think so either. What he can think is that this may become a problem.
(Damn America, being beautiful even when he's a boy.)
000
"Not that I don't appreciate your help an' all, but ya'll got a real sick way o' doin' things."
England does not know the man with the slate gray eyes in front of him, polishing his gun, talking at him with that silly southern drawl.
"Don' think I don' know why ya'll are sidin' with me. You an' France both wan' 'er back. Mus' be the irony of all ironies that ya'll are helpin' me and hurtin' her when you don' even like me. Never did, I reckon, not even when I was her."
England grits his teeth, tries not to let this terrible (horribly insightful) nation get to him. He doesn't want to rip apart the Union so that he can separate his America from this man once and for all. That is certainly not his motive. Of course not. He just wants to watch as America's silly experiment falls apart, his interests are as cold and impersonal as any other European nation's.
"You're wrong," England says, though he can't think of a particularly fool-proof rebuttal to back his words up. The Confederacy puts his gun down (gently, like it's his most prized possession) and slowly walks over to England, smooth as a mountain lion and just as dangerous, or so he seems.
He doesn't stop his advance until he's standing less than a foot away from England, looking down at him.
"Naw, I know I ain't. Don' worry though, if'n I win, which I a-reckon I will, we'll split right in two, your Amelia an' me," the Confederacy says, tapping his index finger on the center of Arthur's forehead, before dragging it lightly down his face and chest for emphasis. Arthur feels a shiver run through him when that finger finds his navel under his clothes. The Confederacy stops his hand there.
" You'll never have ta worry about her bein' a boy again. Ya will have ta worry 'bout her hatin' you though."
England's breath catches in his throat. Somehow, he'd forgotten about that.
"But don' worry your pretty lil' head over that," he continues in a whisper. "She might hate you, but I won't. I'll love you in her place, if you'd like."
Startled by the idea, England steps back. The Confederacy follows.
"I know I ain't your lil' princess like she is, but I'm still America, yeah? Either way you've got what you want," he says, his lips so close to England's ear that he can almost feel them against his skin.
"I—I—" England doesn't know what he intends to say. This man is a stranger, but he's not, he's America, or half of it. He can feel the other's lips trailing over his cheek, making their way to his own. He doesn't know what to do; he wants America—he doesn't—He wants both and neither and only one, just the one but does it matter which and—
000
"Don't think I can't see right through you, you bastard. You've only stopped helping the Confederacy because you need my wheat. Fucking bastard." He wonders when she learned to swear. Probably when she was off being a boy, working with the sailors at her precious Boston Harbor, gallivanting about with the pioneers in the west.
"It's politics Amelia, I—"
"Don't call me that! I hate that name and this body and I hate you for trying to make me stay like this!" America yells at him, looking more betrayed than he can stand. Her face is red and she's half-way to tears, but she's such a strong girl, she'll never shed them in front of him. Not anymore.
This is not how he wanted to see her, after so long without her.
"You know how I hate this, but you've been helping the south anyway so that I'll be stuck like this forever! You're trying to tear me apart again after I've worked so hard to be whole!" She shouts, and it seems he's overestimated her strength because despite her best attempts to keep them at bay, tears prick her eyes, gather on her lashes. He can't stop himself, even though he knows getting near her when she's so angry is dangerous. He embraces her, holding her head close to his chest, his heart, trying to sooth her. She beats on his chest (he feels his ribs creek under the power of each hit), tries to make him let her go, but he doesn't and soon enough she just collapses into his arms, tired from war and anger and tears.
"Wh-why Arthur? Ever since you, you figured out I'm a boy, you stopped loving me all the way! Why am I only good as a g-g-girl and not as I am!"
"America, I—" What? Is he sorry? Does it matter if he is? He doesn't know, so he says nothing.
000
The Union wins the war, America becomes a boy for certain, and then he locks himself away in his country for a good long while until a ship blows up in Cuba and he unleashes himself on the world. He locks himself back into his home on the onset of World War I, or at least he tries to. But England whispers atrocities into his ear, points to sunken passenger ships and incriminating telegrams, draws America away from relative safety and into the trenches. For the Second World War, it is Japan who brings him out with bombs rather than propaganda.
While England is saddened that America was hurt in such a way, he can't help but be terribly thankful for America's involvement, or what it leads to for them.
"So, ah, special relationship, huh? Shucks Iggy, you're makin' me blush."
Which is utter bullocks, as the only one blushing in the room is England himself.
"Belt up you prat, it's not like I chose the term!" Which is true, only he knew that's what Churchill was planning to say and had agreed with the usage wholeheartedly at the time.
"Uh-huh, sure Iggy, sure. Heck, if you wanted a relationship, ya should've just asked!" America says laughingly, pulling England into a tight hug. With only the slightest bit of hesitation, England reciprocates the embrace, red up to his ears.
In all honesty, he is still has not completely resolved his past memories of America to his present reality, but he doesn't really care. He's working on it and when he finally succeeds he'll really give America what he's wanted since his colonial days. England can love the man holding him just as much as he could love the girl he used to hold. In fact, he's sure he can love this man better.
Aaaaaaah rushed ending. I don't think this needs any notes, but I guess the key thing here is the Adams-Onis Treaty, which made Florida an American territory. Naturally, Florida went with the rest of the South during the Civil War.
Also, sorry if this comes off as sexist. I'm a girl, so I really have nothing against being a girl and am all up on the equality wagon, but I'm trying to channel 18th and 19th century views on gender, and sadly, being female was sort of frowned upon in those days. Sorry to offend, and sorry to Floridians who are feeling awkward now...