Blue.
Why are his eyes so blue? France once offhandedly commented that the blue is like America's El Paso, Texas skies. Though really, that can't be where the color comes from. Britain raised the blue-eyed twerp, the supposed hero of his people and his eyes have always been that blue. Never a shade lighter or darker, it's almost a gift.
But again, it doesn't' make sense. Texas, back in 1845, was the 28th state after the Mexican-American war. A state that had became apart of America [causing his eyesight to suddeningly go bad Britain now remembers] long after his "birth." Long after Britain lost those blue eyes for holding on too tight. Would it had turned out any different, he ponders, if he had handled his blue eyed boy in a better way?
Or is the blue in American's eyes a sign of a freedom he was practically born to have? The blue of the skies he once dreamed of flying though. That he has flown through. He's touched the sky. He's touched the moon. He's touched Britain's heart.
"Hey, Britain!" America cheers. He is decorated in his colors with a birthday hat perched on his head. His smile is bright, his eyes as blue as the day Britain first saw them. "Come join my party, man!"
He doesn't really want to. He feels sick look at America, staring at that boy from way back in 1607 [Or was is 1606? Or even 1608? '09? He can't really recall the exact date anymore. Maybe, he is getting old] who smiled so brightly. America still smiles brightly, like a sun Britain rarely sees in his own home. His smiles are more jagged, however, roughed up from the events of 1838, the battle in 1862 and so many more that Britain honestly fears the day his blue eyed boy will turn into someone like him. War and death takes it toll on every country and has made his poor America lose that exact innocence he once held in the beginning of the the 16th century.
But what is he to do? America's a country now, one with battle wounds and mounds of regret. Of pain. Britain has his own pain, just like America, just like Vietnam or even Germany because he has been around for as long as they have. You don't live as long as he has and not see some things.
[1208's King John and his spliff with the Pope come to mind. The cannibalism of 1316 and the Black Death in 1348 make their appearances as well.]
Grudgingly, he admits that he didn't protect the lad very well during his colony days either. He can still feel the spreading wetness of a young America's tears on his shirt, can still hear the broken sobs of a child who watches his own people accuse one another, watches them hang their own at the cries of a madman, watched them crush a man to death after two days of torture.
"Arthur?"
Oh, how he misses the sound of his name. His human name. Something nation's only use when they are truly together, truly a pack. Not even the frog or his brother's dare to mutter Britain's name. Only America ever has.
And, because of that he knew that when "Britain" first left his dear boy's lips in 1775 he had lost him.
"Yes, Alfred?"
"Am I bad? Am I horrible for letting my people do these things? For not stopping the massacre of the Pequots? For not stopping this?"
"Heavens no, boy!" He crouches down as low as he can get without popping his back and pulls the sniveling child into his arms. "My own people have rebelled against one another as have other country's people. France, Holland, Germania, Spain. All of our people have done terrible things, my young America, my Alfred. Are any of us considered 'bad?'"
"N-no." The colony sniffs and wipes a dribble of snot away. "I would never think you to be a bad person, a bad nation, Arthur."
"You're so terrible!" an older America complains at the refusal of the once Great Britain. The older nation holds back his wince well and avoids the country's eyes. He can not handle that blue color right now. Not when he's slowly losing himself into what used to be as he does every year.
"Sorry I am not sticking around to indulge you, America," he snidely comments. He crosses his arms over his chest and gives the forever teen a stern look. "Go party with Prussia. He's always looking to get into trouble with someone."
"Well, maybe I will." Then a young, wide eyed boy is back and Britain has to stop the tears before they even start.
"Maybe I will, Arthur!"
"Do as you like," he responds. He leaves too quickly. He doesn't leave fast enough.
"Why are you crying, Angleterre?"
Why is France the only one that calls him by that name outside of his brothers? It is really just a name used to separate himself from them. Is it just because France knew him back when he really was just "England?" Before the 18th century when The United Kingdom of Great Britain was formed, uniting both England and Scotland [the Act of Union of Wales and England had already taken place in 1536-1543]. Maybe so, but he does not have the energy to ask his questions now today.
"I am not, y-you tosser!"
"Then my eyes must be tricking me, mon chou! Is it just some rainfall that is only over you sliding down your cheeks?" The frenchie chuckles at his own joke and lifts himself from the bench he has perched himself on outside of America's party. For a moment, his face is serious, sorrowful even. "It is young Amérique's birthday today, is it not? Thinking of the past again, ami?"
"Sod off, Frog!" he spits out. He dabs at his cheeks, shocked to find they are wet. "Do not deny that I have not seen those birthday presents you never send to Canada."
"Ah, so you do remember that one, oui? I have always been told that little Amérique was your favorite by far."
"Do not talk to me like that. You gave him up. Chose to keep your sugar islands instead."
"Yes, and then I gave Amérique more guns and clothes for his soldiers to get away from you. You took Matthew, I took Amérique. I believe my revenge was delivered and we have since civilized ourselves."
What he would do to give the Frenchman a new one, but he knows that he cannot hold a grudge. Not a big one anyways, not one that will damage any help he knows one day he will need from the reluctant ally. They are countries after all. They have betrayed and stolen from one another, have fought together and against. They even dragged their "baby brothers" into the mix because that is what is expected of them.
"Leave me be," he demands. He wipes another hand over his eyes to catch any excess drops and holds his head high. "I'm fine."
"No," France whispers. "You're not. We never are, eh? I have a room full of unsent presents. You reminisce and drink until you pass out."
"As I sai-"
"Britain! Yo, you're still here. Knew you couldn't stay away." Bright hair and blue eyes pop up in Britain's line of sight and again, he feels sick to his stomach.
"I was just leaving," he says. America laughs and wraps an arm around the shorter nation. When was the day he had gotten bigger then him? The day he started to look down at him?
"Ah, don't be like that," the boy insists. "Stay. Just for an hour. Please?" He shines those blue eyes down at someone he once look up at and flashes that smile the girls in his country always fall for.
And, how can Britain deny him again? How can he muster up the nerve to say no to those blue eyes he spoiled to the point of rebellion all those years ago?
"For an hour," he promises.
"Great!" America quickly grips his hand and starts to drag him inside the venue. "You have to try the-"
"No."
France watches them go and smiles to himself.
Maybe, it is time to send one of those gifts. A small one. To show his dear Matthew he has never been forgotten.