A/N This is the first of (hopefully) a series of one-shots that are basically quick defining moments in our favorite nations' lives. These stories will jump from character to character and will also change time periods from chapter to chapter. There will also be slight hints at pairings for USUK, FrUk, GerIta and more. I'm also basing this more along the lines of dark!hetalia, so the characters aren't going to be happy and fluffy most of the time. Not that they're going to be insane either. Just really sad.
Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia. Duh. It's called fanfiction for a reason, you know.
-1-
The Severity of a Civil War and the Bitterness of Forgiveness
England rapped three times on the manor door before pulling his hand away and waited for a response. A few moments later, a maid opened the door and greeted him before asking what his business with her employer, Matthew Williams, would be. England simply told her to go and relay the name of Arthur Kirkland to him. She returned a minute or two later and let him inside and led him into one of the studies.
Inside the study, a young man sat in an armchair with a cup of tea staring absently out the window. He startled himself at the sight of England and jostled his tea onto the floor. The maid immediately made a lunge to clean it up before it stained, but the young man quickly shooed her out. England waited until she closed the door to speak.
"Hello Canada," he began, but was cut off.
"England, thank God you're here!" Canada exclaimed.
The nation blinked in surprise. Canada was never usually this outspoken… and while they were on good terms Canada wasn't extraordinarily fond of him. "What is the matter?"
Something flickered in Canada's eyes. "What do you mean 'what is the matter'? You know what is happening with America, how can you say that?"
America. An old ache seized a hold of his chest and squeezed. America. Rain. Tears. Muskets. Broken. Why? America.
"Of course I know what's happening with America," England said in a stiff tone. "His little civil war is all over the papers."
Canada flinched at England's coldness. "England...things are going terribly for him and he's in a lot of pain…" Tears began to gather in his eyes. "You have to help him."
"Help him?" Something flickered in England's eyes. "His people are slaughtering each other in droves. Just what would you have us do?"
"I don't mean help the nation," Canada said quietly. "I mean help the person."
"And I have no wish or desire to help him." The island nation snapped angrily. "Is this all you really called me out here for? To help him? You already knew my answer to that question, Canada."
The other nation sighed and put down his cup, looking at England over his glasses. "It's been a hundred years since the Revolution. Can't you just learn to forgive him already? It's not like America is just going to suddenly disappear from your sight even if you do pretend he's not there. We all live very long lives and we have to get used to seeing the same faces, even if those faces hurt us. Just when are you going to get over it and forgive him?"
"Certainly not today," England muttered. He walked over to the window and refused to look the other nation in the eye. "Besides, America hates me as much as I hate him."
The reply was unexpected. "Not exactly."
England whirled around, his temper flaring. "What the bloody hell do you mean, 'not exactly'?"
The other country opened his mouth and then closed it.
England was not amused. "What are you hiding from me you git?"
Canada sighed. "It's just that he has been through a lot of pain,"
"And," England pressed.
"And he's been having many fevers recently,"
"And,"
"And he's not been very lucid,"
"AND,"
Canada bit his lip. "And he's been calling out for you."
"Oh," England whispered. Oh. America...wanted him? But why would he-
"Wait one bloody minute," England snarled, eyes narrowing at Canada's innocent expression. "This is all just a ploy to getting me to visit him. You're trying to guilt me into going!"
Of course it was all a lie. America hated him, he would never want England by his side when he was at his most vulnerable state. It was impossible to consider anything to the contrary.
"England, everything I just said was the complete truth." Canada sighed. "Granted, he doesn't ask for you in his rare moments of lucidness, America's still too proud for that. You both are. But he whimpers you're name a lot, especially if any large battle between the Union and the Confederacy is occurring."
"Like hell he does," England snipped, but something inside of him clenched and unclenched.
"You can believe me or think I'm lying through my teeth all you like," Canada told him. "But at least go see him! Please!"
"Canada, I know you're worried about your brother. But I don't have the time to go and try and mend bridges. Now if this is all you had to talk with me about, I'll be going to board a ship for the months long trip back to my own country."
"Wait!" the other nation grabbed onto his arms, but he tugged himself away. The ache in his chest was growing with every second that he stayed here and the wall that he had so carefully cemented together was beginning to crack and chip. "Wait! Arthur!"
The use of his human name stopped him. It had been a long time since anyone had ever used his human name.
Behind him, England hear the boy's tears.
"I know that even thinking of my brother hurts you. But please, if you ever loved my brother, please go to him! He's in so much pain that it's tearing him apart and-" Canada broke off with a sob.
Something pushed through the wall, producing a trickle of harsh and hurtful emotions that England had long since locked away. In his ears, he heard a little boy's voice promise to stay with him always. Then an adult voice whispered its own heartbreaking words.
"You used to be so big."
England closed his eyes.
And that was how he ended up back in America. Again. Bloody hell.
But the surge of emotions had been too strong. Besides, England could never handle Canada too well when he cried.
Absently, he stared at the small gold key at his hand and then to the key hole that went with it. England was standing at America's front door... and was rapidly losing any desire to go in. But what would he even say to America, what could he do?
It wasn't like this would be the first time they had seen each other in a hundred years. But seeing America had always resulted in arguments, thrown objects, yelled insults, and sulking afterwards. And they never had seen each other if they couldn't prevent it.
England ran a shaking hand through his hair. This morning had been bad enough, he wasn't sure if he even had the guts to open the door.
The nation had arrived in Washington late the night before, but had no clue where America was residing. Nervously, he had gone to the White House, where an eager president introduced himself to the nation. England was extremely confused as to why Abraham Lincoln would be so joyful to see him, but Lincoln explained that America had been asking for England quite some time now, and if the younger nation saw him it may cheer his spirits. Everyone had been so worried about America, after all. After that explanation, President Lincoln excused himself, but not before handing England America's house key and address. Which led to England's current position and predicament.
People were beginning to stare at him now. Gritting his teeth, England jammed the damned key into the locked and twisted it with shaking fingers. Pushing himself inside with every ounce of his mental strength, he closed the door behind him and fell to the ground. Damn Canada for guilting him into this.
A high and trembling voice came from one of the rooms near him. "President Lincoln? Is that you?"
England froze at the voice. No, that couldn't be America's voice. It was too broken, too frightened. Where was the fight, the rebellion, the fire?
Mechanically, England stood up and walked towards the door where the voice had come from.
The nation had spent much time preparing himself for the emotional damage of seeing his former colony. He was worried about the old memories rising up and choking him again, leaving him a blubbering mess. England had completely forgotten what he was coming her for the first place. He was completely unprepared for the sight before him.
America was lying in bed, glassy eyes staring at the ceiling, unfocused. Bloody bandages were wrapped around his limbs and torso. After a few seconds, his body heaved and he let out a hacking cough that splattered more blood on the sheets. Leaning back, two tears trailed down America's cheeks and he covered his bloody and sweaty face with an arm.
Something knotted in England's gut, made his own tears carve paths on his face and in his soul, made him cry out in agony, "Alfred!"
The broken boy in the bed stilled. He removed his arm from his face and attempted to sit up in bed to stare at the crying nation at his doorway. There was a pause.
"England?" The word was flat. Emotionless.
England flinched. Oh God, he told them America wouldn't want him here, that America hated him, that-
"Grand," America said in a tone that implied the opposite. "Splendid. I'm back to hallucinating again. What are you going to tell me this time, fake England? That I'm a bastard? A fool? That I have destroyed everything, even my own country?" He tugged the blankets up to his face. "As if I don't already know."
"Alfred," England whispered again, but America would not respond, only curled the blankets around him tighter to shut out the world and everything in it.
The island nation stood quietly in the doorway for some time, tears dripping down his face. He moved over to the bedside and gently sat next to America. "Alfred." He said the name as if it was a blessing and a torture. "Alfred, please look at me."
The blanket was tugged off America's face and he glared daggers at England, the familiar fire in his eyes back. "STOP CALLING ME THAT! You're not him, I hate you, you're not him!"
A sudden shudder passed through America and long, racking coughs ravaged his body. England caught and cradled him, tried to sooth him once the coughing stopped, but America would have none of it. He struggled and pushed the older nation away. "Go away, I hate you!"
But America was weak from his nation tearing itself apart and he soon didn't have the energy to fight England. He slumped in the older nation's arms, sniffling softly. England was not sniffling softly. England was fully weeping, holding onto America.
"I'm so sorry, Alfred," he mumbled into the nation's golden hair. "I'm so, so sorry."
The wall was broken and everything was pouring out now. Every. Single. Thing.
"Don't say that," America whimpered. "You're not him, don't say that."
"Why can't I be him?" England demanded.
"Because he wouldn't come. He hates me, he'd never come." America closed his eyes. "England never comes no matter how much I call."
"I'm here now," England said softly. Guilt sliced tiny cuts all over his heart and mind. "I'm here now."
But America had already fallen asleep.
England gently laid his former colony back onto the bed and shifted away from America, head in his hands. He had completely lost it, had broken down into something he didn't even know he was. But England couldn't help it, the moment that he had seen America like that… France's drunken words came back to him, when he talked of his own country's war on itself when the peasants overthrew the military. France had described it as one of the worst pains in his long past, as there were nothing worse than your own country trying to kill itself and your own people murdering each other. There was no real winning in those types of wars. Well, there was never any real winning in wars. Just surviving.
England stared at the fresh scars that littered America's body. No doubt most of them would completely heal, but it wasn't the scars of the body you had to worry about. It was the scars of the past. They were the ones that wrecked and destroyed everything.
Silent sobs made England's chest convulse. America, you damned fool. Just what did you think I was trying to protect you from?
After a moment of indecision, England kicked off his shoes and laid down next to America. The nation wrapped one of his hands around the other country's and rested his head on America's chest, listening to the slow and unsteady beat of his heart.
All this time, I've been a fool.
America, through his pain and madness, wondered why there was something heavy on his chest. He opened his tired eyes to see a mess of sandy hair.
"Arthur?" He croaked and mentally flinched. No, not Arthur. America didn't get to call him that anymore. The only part of England that was his own was the furious and hurt one. He didn't get to have Arthur anymore.
"Yes, Alfred?" England's voice whispered sleepily.
Another tear dribbled down his face and this time it had nothing to do with the men that were fighting and dying inside his head. "Are you really here?"
"Yes, Alfred," there was soft amusement in his voice.
"Don't ever leave," America begged.
There was a pause.
"I won't," England muttered.
America was unconvinced.
The war continued on and England stayed by the wounded America's side. Few words were ever exchanged. The past was never brought up. It just simply stopped mattering. But it could never stay that way forever.
England had planned on returning to his country as soon as the war ended. Once it did end, he prepared to start packing things. Then the news came that President Lincoln had been assassinated. America was distraught and England found himself with an extended stay. One month later, though, he realized he couldn't delay the inevitable. The frigid coldness inside England began to return and he didn't even realize he was already rebuilding that damned wall inside of his mind.
America found him while he was packing.
"You promised you wouldn't leave." The statement was flat as it was broken.
England let out a heave of air from his lungs he didn't know he was holding. "I was going to stay as long as the war was on. Your civil war has ended, America. I have to worry about my own country, now."
"That's not what I meant." America said quietly.
"Then what did you mean?"
"Are you going to pretend this never happened?" America stared into England's eyes sadly.
"What?" England asked, flustered.
"Are you going to go back to hating me now that I'm not weak and pathetic?" America clarified grimly.
England looked away from him. "I don't hate you, America."
America's eyes flashed. "Ah. So we've already gone from Alfred to America again. Good to know." He stomped out of the room, leaving England empty and alone.
Their goodbye was nonexistent. England knocked on America's door and tried to talk to him, but America would not open up either the door or himself. England finally gave up, muttering "stubborn brat" and wiped tears out of his eyes.
The nation had hoped that returning to London would soothe his rattled nerves and push away memories of a certain western country. But once he collapsed in his own house, onto his own bed, he couldn't help but feel that he left his home and his heart far across the sea.
A/N Yeah, America and England still have issues they need to work out. Apologies for any grammatical errors or if I somehow managed to make any large historical gaffs. Please review and share your thoughts!