Those lips that Love's own hand did make
Breathed forth the sound that said 'I hate'
To me that languish'd for her sake;
But when she saw my woeful state,
Straight in her heart did mercy come,
Chiding that tongue that ever sweet
Was used in giving gentle doom,
And taught it thus anew to greet:
'I hate' she alter'd with an end,
That follow'd it as gentle day
Doth follow night, who like a fiend
From heaven to hell is flown away;
'I hate' from hate away she threw,
And saved my life, saying 'not you.'
William Shakespeare, Sonnet 145
America is lounging in England's sitting room when he opens the door. It's artful, actually. An exquisite study in lounging, his head propped on one hand, perfectly slumped in the chair so as to convey indifference but not apathy. He must've planned it. Git.
"What are you doing here?" England demands even as his feet carry him across the room, and: "Go away," as he falls into America's lap.
"I would," says America as his arms go around England. "But an old man like you is too heavy."
"I won't dignify that with a response," England sniffs, and anyway, America proves himself wrong a moment later when he picks England up and turns him around so he can kiss him. (England only helps a little.)
They are half undressed before America tells him why he's there (of course there's another reason – no one spends two months as sea just for this.)
"I'm writing a Constitution," he says. "Not me, I mean, it's George Washington and Ben Franklin and, you know."
What an absolute wanker, to wait until England is defenceless (you generally are when someone is taking off your trousers) to tell him something like that. "God, I hate you," he says with much conviction.
It isn't true.
It has never been true, except for perhaps a moment or two. It easily could have been true, if things had happened differently. He sort of thought that might be easier.
When people asked what he had done after surrendering to America, he claimed he'd brushed it off and never looked back. Everyone knew this was a lie, and because they knew it was a lie, most were too kind of demand the truth. To a select few he would admit that he had gone home and gotten drunk every night for a week, and most of the nights for a month after that.
This wasn't true either.
It did contain elements of truth, because once he did go home he had done just that. However, that story glossed over what he had done the night between raising the white flag and officially surrendering two days later.
What he had done was get rip-roaring drunk on what alcohol they had left and stumble over into the American's camp.
Maybe he wasn't quite as drunk as he wished he was (at that point, they were running low on everything,) because he realized not to wear his uniform, but he was acting as drunk as he wanted to be, and it was pure dumb luck that America found him before the soldiers' amusement turned into anger.
At first, America was also more surprised that angry, and he tried to send him back into the city, but England sat down on the floor of America's tent and refused to go. He honestly had no idea what he was standing (sitting) for, but he was ready to fight to the death for it. He might even have wanted to, just a little bit.
America started to get angry at him. (Understandably, but of course England didn't see it that way right then.) He said things like what do you think you're doing here and do you think this is going to change anything?
England just gritted his teeth and stared defiantly at the ground, which is not really the place to stare if you want to get your message across to anyone.
Frustrated, America pulled him to his feet with annoying ease. He held England's wrists when he tried to sit back down.
"Let me go," England hissed.
"No," said America. "Because I don't have to do what you say anymore."
"I hate you!" England shouted. "I hate you I hate you I hateyouhateyouhateyouIhmmf."
America claimed to have kissed him then to shut him up. England knew he did it to make his life hell.
No, no, that wasn't exactly right. That kiss might have been to shut him up. It was the next kiss – the one that happened after England went "Mmfeh!" and jerked back, and America looked at him and carefully leaned in again – that made his life hell, because before that he could have hated him. He was pretty sure he really did hate him for those couple moments when he shouted it out and maybe even during that first kiss.
But America kissed him again, slowly and carefully and just a little nervously, and because he was drunk he let America kiss him for just a little too long before he pushed him away again and ran out of the tent. But by then it was too late.
That was when he went home and got drunk again. And again and again.
But that wasn't the end of it either, because they had to have peace talks, of course, and America showed up, of course. England tried to hate him, but it simply didn't work. Something had got wrong in his head – he knew he should've felt nothing but loathing, but he seemed to be feeling everything but. He refused all of America's demands over and over, glaring at him the whole time, hoping he could convince himself that a stupid drunken kiss had made him hate America more, not less. Not erased the hate entirely.
But then one night he got home and America was lounging in the same chair he'd been sitting in today, and before England could say, "Get out of my bloody house," he'd stood up, crossed the room, and pulled England up against him to kiss him.
Before England knew what he was doing, he was kissing him back.
Not quite before he knew was he was doing (but certainly while he had limited mental capacity,) they were in his bed, doing more than kissing.
The next day he refused all of America's demands even more vigorously than before. That night, the same thing happened all over again.
It went on for almost a week before he grumblingly conceded a few points and they finally started real negotiations.
Strangely, America's visits didn't cease.
Because he didn't really want to think about what was going on, he avoided actually talking to America in between the sex, but there were only so many times you could pretend to fall asleep, and so one night he asked something that had been bothering him from the start: "Who else have you been sleeping with?"
Quite openly and immediately, America said, "France."
"I hate you," England told him, and for a second he was almost ready to.
But then America said, "Oh, not anymore. It's just you now," and grinned at him.
With slightly less assurance, England repeated, "I still hate you."
He could've probably, with a lot of brooding and sulking, still worked up to something like hate if America hadn't, with a smile as wide as the ocean, said, "But I only did anything with him to get his guns and all. Of course it was you I wanted all along."
England turned over so he wouldn't have to look at America and muttered, "Liar. And I hate you."
By then it wasn't true by any stretch of the imagination.
Which was how it had gone for almost five years now, although America was away far more often than not. While he was gone, England would almost be able to convince himself that he really did hate him, but then America would appear one day (always in that chair, that same bloody chair) and no matter how much he said it, it was useless.
"Anyway," he says as America continues to remove his clothing as though he'd never said a thing. "This Constitution won't work any better than your first try. You're doomed to fail miserably."
"No," America says, and his face is pressed to England's neck, but he can hear the grin. "This one's going to succeed beyond my wildest dreams. I can feel it."
"I hate you," England insists.
It's a lie.
But it's a lot less scary than the truth.
Historical accuracy is nil – I really doubt a British soldier would've been allowed to walk into the American camp at Yorktown. Also, peace talks were held in Paris, not England. However, it is true that the Americans demanded England recognize them as a nation before negotiations were allowed to start. (Understandably, this took a while to happen.)
The "first try" England is referring to at the end is the Articles of Confederation, which were a big flop. An interesting fact is that they were so bad some Americans went to the king of Prussia and begged him to come take them over. He refused. Bet those Germans are kicking themselves now.