I imagined this entire story while I was eating pasta. I'm not even joking. ._. Well, enjoy it anyways, 'cause I'm sure I did (I'm talking about the pasta now).
Wash Away My Tears
Characters: The United States of America (Alfred Jones); The United Kingdom (Arthur Kirkland); The Dominion of Canada (Matthew Williams)
Pairings: USUK; A bit of Can/UK
Ratings: T for violence and yaoi
Genre: Drama, Romance, Hurt/Comfort, Tragedy
Warnings: Just some USUK stuff. I don't usually write more than a kiss. ;)
Disclaimers: Hetalia © Hidekaz Himaruya; The countries © the world.
Summary:It's the 1700s; America bumps into his brothers along the border. But what will he do when they aren't on the frontlines? Fail summary is fail. One-shot. USUK. Canada is noticed... and is a bit yandere. Inspired by the song "Running Away" by Three Days Grace
"Ah, so you came, brother."
"It's fine, as long as England isn't here."
America tightened his grip on his musket, eying his neighbour carefully. A thick, humid fog had descended upon the twilit land, quite unusual for summer. It enveloped the two brothers in darkness, manifesting that same darkness that clouded their hearts. Where had the love they once shared as a family disappear to?
To America, it was the British wanker's fault.
"What did you want to talk about?" he asked in a guarded tone.
"England asked me to..." the Canadian trailed off as his brother shook his head and held up a hand.
"If this is another negotiation to try and get me to surrender, it's not gonna work, bro," sneered Alfred.
"I told him that," Canada sighed. "Very well, do what you want."
The Canadian turned to walk away, but stopped. Glancing over his shoulder, he looked at his brother with cold, indigo-blue eyes.
"The British Empire, like all other empires, is eventually going to fall," whispered the Canadian in a foreshadowing tone. "If you ask me, it would be best to wait."
He slowly walked away, vanishing into the fog.
"What's wrong with him?" Alfred muttered to himself. "He's working for that stupid Brit then starts talking about crap like that. Does he want to be part of the Empire or not? Wait till that idiot hears about this."
Shaking his head, America turned to walk back to his own territory—it was just across the border anyways—when he found himself face-to-face with the very man he hated; the man with bright, emerald-green eyes and messy, golden hair. The man who wore that cursed red coat.
"Wait till who hears about what, you wanker?" growled the man in a British accent.
"E-England!" the American stammered, taking a step back and aiming his gun sharply at his enemy's chest, the tip of the bayonet a hair's breadth away from England's uniform. "What are you doing here?"
The Brit raised his empty hands and gazed at Alfred with sad green eyes.
"Would you really stoop so low as to shoot an unarmed man?"
The musket in America's hands trembled. The young man's shoulders shook as he slowly lowered the weapon, burying the attached blade into the soft ground. His face was twisted with confusion, shock, and anger, but his blue eyes were wide with guilt as he stared at his former friend.
England lowered his hands and took a hesitant but bold step forward.
"America I..."
"Get out of my way," Alfred hissed, defensive rage flooding into his expression as he loomed over the smaller man threateningly. "I'm not going to kill you now, but when we're on the war front, I won't hesitate."
Deep inside, he knew if it ever came to that, he wouldn't have the courage to kill the Brit.
They both knew that.
"Why are you trying so hard to be rid of me?" Arthur asked desperately. "I thought we were brothers. I thought you loved me."
America gritted his teeth, but didn't reply.
"I remember you... you never wanted to be left alone," Arthur whispered, his eyes clouded with memories. "You started to grow on me. When once I wanted to own you, I started to want to mean more to you. You were more precious to me than anything. I wanted you to think the same of me..."
"There you go again, talking about the past," America scowled, not seeming to understand what the Brit was implying.
"Wait, that's not what I mean—"
"Just leave me alone, England," Alfred spat as he shouldered Arthur aside. "I don't need you anymore."
The words hurt more than any physical wound.
Is that what America thinks? Is that all the thanks England gets?
"America..." England shook himself from his daze and grabbed the taller man's arm. "Now it's my turn to say this."
He turned the American around and their eyes met. Alfred saw the loneliness and sorrow rippling in the green depths.
"Please," the Englishman pleaded. "Don't leave me alone."
Guilt and regret welled up in the American's heart. Before he could push the emotions away, the Brit tilted his head up and locked his lips with America's. The blue eyes widened in shock. The taste of England's lips, the feeling of the small man's body pressed up against his own—it was wonderful. His whole body sagged and his grip loosened on his weapon.
But America had a weapon for war. This was war. A war with the very man he held in his arms.
What was he doing!
Shocked and angry, the American pulled away from the Brit. In one fluid motion, he tightened his grip on the musket and swung it upwards in a wide arc, the bayonet tearing through England's uniform.
Warm blood splattered America's face and his heart hardened. Yes. This was what he was supposed to be doing. He drew his tongue over his lips and licked off the beads of blood.
England's emerald eyes widened with surprise and dismay. He gazed at the American, overflowing with sorrow. Standing before him wasn't the little boy with big blue eyes he once knew, begging him not to leave. The one he adored as a little brother. Here before him was a handsome young man, sapphire blue eyes cold with hatred, the blood of his enemy dripping down his face, aiming to force the Brit out no matter how many soldiers it cost him.
The Englishman clutched his torn chest, feeling the blood seeping through his fingers and running down his body. America slammed the butt of his musket into England's shoulder and, with a pained cry, he fell to the ground.
"You're no longer my brother, England," America said coldly. "Goodbye."
As the rain started to fall, the American turned and walked away without looking back.
The Brit stared as the man he loved disappeared forever into the darkness, leaving him behind.
Let the rain fall down...
Fat drops of ice cold rain splashed down from the heavens. Mixing with the warm fog on the ground, it would soon turn into a thunderstorm. Already the ground was flooded with rain water.
Canada dissolved from the shadows. He had watched the whole argument unfold. After leaving England to sulk in the rain for a while, he decided to fetch the older nation before the weather worsened.
"You're going to catch a cold if you stay here, eh?" the Canadian murmured in a grim tone. He stood beside the Brit and proffered his hand down to the older nation, sharing the shelter provided by the umbrella he held in his other hand.
England was a disaster. His neat, red uniform was ripped from the shoulder down to his hip and stained black with a mix of mud and blood. His face was wet with tears and rain, the mud and rain plastering his once golden hair to his skull.
He gazed up at the Canadian. Matthew was shocked to see how bloodshot the dull green eyes looked. The Brit forced a smile, but it only made him look worse.
"I'm lucky to have loyal countries like you to watch out for me," England rasped as he took Canada's hand.
The young man dug his boots into the slimy ground as he pulled the Englishman out of the sucking mud. They stood under the umbrella, gasping, their uniforms splashed with mud, rain, and England's blood.
"Thank you, Canada," the Brit wheezed, leaning on the dominion's shoulder. "Don't ever leave the British Empire. I need you."
"Don't worry, I won't," he replied, but he held no promise in his words.
The Canadian closed his eyes and grinned breezily; the kind of look that hid what he was really thinking.
"Come on. Let's get you home."
...and wash away my tears.
END