Storage room cleaning is always an event for Nations, who hold onto so much of themselves that it's easy for them to forget who they are during such events. It's a very personal time, a time of remembrance and regret and existential crises, and it always turns out the same way: "I'll never use this again, so I might as well throw it out," but who can ever let go of their history? In the end, no cleaning has been done. That's just the way things go.
Yet it is standard, when another Nation is present for the cleaning, for them to ask why an object was kept for so long, because every object tells a story about who they once were, or still are. And for America, who is among the youngest of the Nations, that's what he dreams about. He wants to see glimpses of the others' histories, history he doesn't have yet, and at the same time get an idea of who they really are – as private people, not public Nations; Alfred F. Jones, not the United States of America.
So when he pays England a visit and catches him in the middle of cleaning out one of his closets, America feels like he's won the lottery. Because he's heard stories about England's past – impressionable days, pirate days, punk days, as well as some days America would rather have not heard about, thank you very much, France – and he finally has a chance to ask England himself. Frankly, he has trouble believing that stuffy old England was once a badass pirate, or a punk in any form of the word.
He watches as England retrieves a little booklet from the box in front of him and flips through it, a rare smile lighting his face. America approaches slowly and silently, feeling like a hunter, because the smile is nice and he doesn't want to scare it away.
"Hey, England," he greets, his voice soft and his smile softer. "What's that?"
England looks up at him curiously, as if wondering what he's doing here, and for a moment, America thinks he sees a hint of the real England in his expression. But then he blinks, and it is gone, but a small, fond smile remains. "It's my old passport," he responds. "From the sixties and seventies."
America makes a confused face that England doesn't see because he's back to flipping through the passport. As far as America knows, none of the other Nations (including himself) keep any of their old passports. Once they've expired, they're useless. They don't contain memories, just the names of locations of conferences. But the way England looks right now – content, which is a new expression for him – makes America think that the passport means more than that.
"Why have you kept it this long?" he wonders aloud, even though forty-odd years is nothing to a Nation.
When England looks up again, there is fire in his eyes and a challenge in his smile, and America knows that this is the England he's been wanting to see; this is Arthur. "I've kept a lot of things from my punk days," he answers smoothly, cocking an eyebrow and daring America to interpret that any way he wants.
He does. "Like what?" he asks. It's more than a question of innocent curiosity, and they both know it. That's why England is smirking – not smiling – when he stands, and America notices that he's not actually that much taller. He feels so much younger, though, and so much less experienced.
And England looks victorious and powerful, full of passion and fire, and every bit like the empire he was.
And suddenly it's not so difficult to imagine him with piercings and tattoos, wearing tight leather pants and smoking a cigarette.
And damn if that image doesn't make America blush.
And – and – and his brain is going a mile a minute, moving from one thought to another before it's completely formed, and England hasn't even done anything yet, which could account for the triumphant gleam in his eyes and the words that take a second or two to break through America's haze: "Are you eager to find out?"
The notion scares him, but he's so out of his element that he can't help but agree.
England's always had that effect on him.