Author Note: Final version with a lot added. Some things are sort of hit or miss, but some are more substantial. Two things – 1) if you'd like to see the first draft, then please head over to the USUK livejournal community. Some like that version better; and 2) Is it lame if I ask for comments? – I'm about to enter a hiatus so I can start putting all my energy into original fiction commissions to raise a bit of extra cash to keep doing my crazy activist/social entrepreneur/development geeky thing. Can I take your comments with me? I will use them like bread crumbs to bring me back to the house of fandom—and I really would like to come back because it's pretty damn sweet. 3 Oh and if anyone is interested in an original fic commission (ORIGINAL only) then hit me up.
Warning: The following story has some allusions to vastly simplified historical events further mangled into blurbs of badly written magical realism. While the pairing ultimately becomes USxUK, there are mentions of one-sided FrUK, PortugalxUK, UKxFem!India.
Jar of Hearts
Press.
This story begins like it ends, and ends as it begins—as all good things should, really.
This is the story of silence.
It begins like a heart, and it ends like one too—in the thrumming murmur of quiet before it evolves into a soundless hum, because…
This is the song of a heart as it first learns to drone its first beat and the same lull it rolls into as it dies pressed taut against someone's chest.
Yes, because this is the story of peace; the kind that can only exist in the bliss of war long buried and forgotten.
It is the gap behind regret, like the hard tap of a knuckle when it first learns strength before it understands what it means to punch.
Like the kiss of two sounds jumping from tapping of rain to the push of two lips as they say I love you.
.
The heart is soft and warm, like a baby bird tucked into itself he decides.
It thrums against his palm, lying at the center pulsating with the strength of coursing rivers and long expanses of vibrant green eating away into the brown earth and the iridescent blue sky. For someone so small, he'd expected a heart made of glass—fragile and shy, digging into the skin of his hand for comfort. Instead, he finds a heart pumping fast like punches, only burrowing into the mound of his thumb in search of warmth. England can almost akin it to recognition.
He watches the blonde head pressed on his thigh and smiles fondly, slipping the heart back into the crook of the child's chest. He tucks it with a blanket weaved from wishes inside the cradle of bone.
Next time maybe just a little bit longer, a voice urges him, almost desperate. But just a bit.
Fingers pressed to the spot across the child's chest, he feels a tap, like the heart punching back, and he waits. He stares wide-eyed as the heart falls again into an irregular beat. And he only breathes when tiny arms are tight around his neck, sleepy yawns whispering to England's consciousness that everything is okay.
Maybe a little longer next time, he decides. But just a bit. Nothing more than a bit.
It just wouldn't do to damage Little America. Not even for one beat.
.
A young England wishes on a star to forget, so he does.
Stars are nice like that. Not like people, not like Empires. And he decides that this is the best decision he's ever made.
When he's done, he crawls to the river. Here, he scrubs his dirt-stained hands. The water feels surprisingly warm when it touches his skin, turning a tinted maroon around its rippling edges.
Later, clothed in a mantel of night, he makes his wish, slowly recognizing that the pit of emptiness in his chest has numbed away the otherwise panicky feelings of fear and loneliness that once shouted chaos throughout his mind. Stubby fingers curl into childish palms, fisting together to keep from digging through the mound of dirt somewhere—oh! Somewhere. It's such a lovely thought.
Gaps are easier, he decides. (He buries his hot cheek against the mane of a unicorn, the blanket of night not warm enough.) You can always fill a gap so long as you're alive. (There's the smell of violets in the air, though, and he thinks the smell is now eternally imprinted on his flesh.) Besides, everyone has hearts. Everyone. (He wonders if Empires have hearts, too.) If he really wants another one, he can just reach for one. (A snout pokes him awake. And he remembers the nights of spring are not thick enough to veil his blonde head.) Yes, he can just reach for one.
Or, many. If he really wanted to.
It wouldn't be stealing. He's sure his brothers once told him it's never stealing as long as you give things back – like the apple seeds you drop back on the ground after ripping through an apple.
He promises himself he'll always give them back. And then he's surprised he's made the term plural – like he already knows just one heart will never be enough.
.
Maybe they can share.
The second time England takes America's heart, it doesn't sustain the journey well. It punches at England's ribcage, fast and strong, leaving a tattoo of blue and black: you should not keep that which is not yours.
England returns it within a week, finger pads rubbing over a bruise large like Roanoke. It burns and flares and blisters. And he never forgets.
America doesn't let him.
.
He slips America seamlessly onto his lap one evening.
"Hold your hands out like this," England smiles dotingly, pressing a chaste kiss on the blonde fringe. There's the taste of heat on his palate—sunshine burning round and round on the spindles of wheat. England thinks of stars. "Cup your hands. Good lad."
America leans forward. He falls upon his own heart with a gasp, feeling it flex on his fingers as it jumps. It's too big for his palms, and England itches to take it from him again, slip it back into the child's chest with a bed of flowers to break its fall. A bed of stephanotis (for good luck, because he'll need it) and statice (for success, because he deserves it) and sunflowers (for adoration, because everyone must love his child like he does) and jasmines (for grace and poise, because this little boy must be reined in)!
He decides he will knit this nest and crown of flowers with good wishes—only the best for his heart.
As he pushes the small heart back into America's chest, England thinks of all the things he wishes he could say, but doesn't. He holds America's hands with his own palms and raises them to the sky, instead.
"Always, always," he tells him, "hold them out like this."
.
Your hands are too small now. He wants to say. Too small to catch all the pain in the world, but someday, someday, my darling, you might want to try. I know because I, too, was once that child with arms stretched open hoping to catch a shooting star and ride it into forever, wishing dreams of twilight and flowers of hope. He wants to wrap those small hands in his and press kisses to those knuckles and whisper a secret to those fingers to hold steadfast into the now: Because someday you might not find dreams. You'll find rain, and sacrifice, and ash, and maybe you'll be all the better for it.
America, remember this: when you are sad and feeling helpless, watching misery slip through the netting of your stretched out hands, when I am not there to catch your fall, when something hurts and bleeds more than the width of the cut, remember that rain washes away everything—even regret.
I hope in that moment you'll jump in a puddle and remember the shooting stars.
Stars are the secrets of the sky, my boy, and they love the soil, which is the fertility of this Earth.
I hope when you are down, you will remember this—remember the privilege you have had to land in the infinite beauty of life, for, don't you know, my darling, that stars risk their entire existence – watch it burn and flicker in the flames –for that single journey to touch even barren ground with their lips? From them learn passion. From them learn sacrifice. Learn to love without being afraid, take chances without thinking too long, be impulsive without being reckless, because…
What we have here is sacred. Love nature because it is your skin. This is your transport and your passenger. The stars died to kiss your feet. So if ever when you hold ash in the palm of your hands you feel a humming in your heart, a rip in the dip of your stomach, the recognition screaming in your mind, do not let your body tell you it is coincidence because, my dear, that is your heart asking you to remember.
.
When America is a bit older, England drops his heart into his hands again.
"What is it, England?" America asks for the first time, curling his neck to face him. There is heaviness in the heart they hold together, the press and tap of America's irregular cadence hard like rocks.
England presses his hands underneath America's own, helping him rein in the rebellious spindle of tissues threatening to spill from the sides of his palms.
"It's a gift."
It's not manipulation as long as he gives it back, he reminds himself.
He tells America he must take good care of this gift that England is giving him.
England is not surprised when America does such a good job taking care of his heart that as he grows older, England has a harder time stealing it.
One day, he just stops trying.
.
The first heart he takes, he is told he can keep.
He first finds Portugal's heart one early dawn by the coast. There, lying amid sand and the white spuds of crushing waves, lays a copper-brown heart, capillaries throbbing with spasms as if panting desperately for their owner.
England sits next to the heart, tucking his legs under his chin. He watches the heart for a long while, but doesn't touch – it's too early for touching, he decides, and he has no need to touch, he explains, but it'd be nice, his mind whines.
He decides if it's still there the next morning, he will. Touch it. Maybe more.
But the next morning, it's there again and England doesn't touch it.
Intermittently, the heart is left there as if in offering to him. He slips it into his pocket one day, feeling the coarseness of its texture, the thickness of its build against his nimble fingers.
"Y—you can have it!" a voice breaks from behind a boulder. A tall, lanky young man walks out; brown curls a wild mess on his head, he gives England an earnest smile. England recognizes him immediately, and jumps, dropping the heart on the sand again. He slips and almost slides as he runs. All he can hear is the candid, hot whisper, "you can have it. It's yours anyway."
And all he can feel is the throbbing of a faint beat, so steady, so honest.
.
The spear of the bayonet is thin and sharp, just long enough to pierce through thick layers of skin and brittle bone. He angles it just right at 30 degrees so he can make a clear puncture.
America stands steady before him, raising his chin and stretching out his chest. He holds his breath, and England can almost feel in his palms, which now hold the cold metal and wood of his gun, the throbbing of a punch - pitter patter sounds, like strong beats kicking his ribs.
You cannot keep that which does not belong to you.
It's raining. It's always raining now. It will probably always rain on July 4th, and he will remember this and think of today and yesterday as he kneels by the burial site of America's heart, laying reeves of violets and ringlets of daisies to remember the ray of sunshine in America's sky blue eyes.
"You used to be so big."
England blinks, looking down at his mud-stained trousers. America's words are not derisive. He does not find the ex-colony sneering or bragging. There's something else in his words, like a tap tap tap—or maybe that's the rain? England can almost feel the press of America's heart in his palm, right against the mound of his thumb.
Except, America's heart is not there. He's not sure it ever will be again.
.
The second time England takes Portugal's heart, it's waiting for him on the coasts of Lisbon when he steps off his ship. The corner of his boot presses against the coarse underside before he can tell that it isn't a small rock or a shell. Gently, he picks it up, bouncing it from hand to hand to feel its strength.
It's heavy, obviously rebellious as it rolls over the lines of his palm. He slips it into his pocket, scanning the area for any sign of disturbance before marching back to his ship.
"Wait! You can't just take it."
I'll return it.He wants to say. I'll return it, so it is fine. Always fine.
He barely turns, though, chin propped on his own shoulder.
"And why ever not? — You told me once that I could have it. I've come for it now."
Portugal's lips are thin and brittle. There's a gap between then that reminds England of a night a very long time ago when he first smelled violets. He stares at England from beneath thick, dark lashes and darker eyebrows. The fists at his sides are individually smaller than the object now bouncing in England's pocket.
"Yes, well, things have changed," Portugal kicks at a mound of sand by his foot, "I don't just give it away like that anymore. I'd like yours in return if you're just going to take mine."
England's eyes waver, the green pupils expanding and constricting in the reflection of the green-tinted water. He gulps his shame, taking the heart out of his pocket to drop it gently on the sand. It bounces, energetic and eager to return to its owner. He'd never noticed it beat so fast, so very fast – Portugal leaves him breathless. England blinks. Portugal's heart leaves him stunted in the magnitude of yellow—underneath him and above him.
"I do not partake in such primitive exchanges. I am not like other nations, Portugal. Asking for my heart will neither win you my allegiance nor will you gifting me your heart ensure me of your loyalty. I've no need for gifts, not hearts anyway."
His fingers curl as he leaves the offering on the ground. Portugal stares at the heart between them, and in an inscrutable moment, his lips fall open.
"Oh. Oh. Oh meu deus..."
England huffs, "I do not need your pity."
"Meu deus, I should have known – how did I not see? Oh my poor Inglaterra, how did I not see? We can share mine. We can share it. If you'd like, we can share mine. You need not give me yours."
Portugal is so good, so earnest. In the stretched sea between them, there is silence and rhythm and depth. Between them now are a heart and a promise. That thing humans call love, England is sure this must be as close to it as it might be possible for nations—or not. There are many things England cannot understand without time.
England watches Portugal from beneath his blond lashes, and turns around once again. He's not sure why he succumbs, why there's this emptiness that engulfs him whole as he watches the wrapped tissues of red and blood roll on the sand, jump into the crashing white of waves dying as they hit earth.
"Give me a day," he tells him, marching back into his ship. "I will give you something better than a heart. I will not be like other nations, but I can promise I will be better to you."
England presents Portugal with a treaty. It's not a heart by any means, but in his mind it's probably better – treaties are not half as fragile and, under the right circumstances, can be eternal.
In exchange, Portugal tells England he may take his heart. England tells him he will. He tells Portugal to keep it for now – for safety.
Some nights when he lies pressed against the wider body, he yearns to slip his hand between Portugal's ribs, pull out the beating heart and press a kiss to its beat. But he leaves it be – he learns that the promise of someday is better than holding the real thing.
.
Canada's heart is beautiful, like ice and crystal merged together into a prism. It's large, bigger perhaps than even Portugal's and England notes with excitement the way the blue capillaries run in perfect time with one another. It breathes with England. It always inches close to his chest. He almost wishes he could slip it inside and feel the cadence of its patient rhythm.
Instead, he takes Canada to see the sunrise one July 4th and holds his heart up against the sun. He lets his colony see the way the light expands and contracts through the crystals of his veins into rainbows. Canada watches entranced, listening to England as he talks about the inner light of each person's heart, the way that in the dim darkness of solitude, chests glow red like faraway stars.
"This," England whispers, cupping Canada's heart with gentle care, "this I would have shown your brother, this and so much more."
.
He picks up hearts and stuffs them in a jar. Everywhere he stops, he picks another one. Sometimes he cuts them out of chests with knives, sometimes he simply slips them out with the pads of his fingertips, and sometimes—well, sometimes he just shoots them free and lets them fall with a thud into his jar.
Australia's is particularly precious. It's scarred with protruding arteries so thick it's hard to tell them apart from the scabs. England experiments on it – he cuts it apart, sews it back together, lets his fingers dip into the ventricles and feel the blood pumping wildly inside. Australia always watches, pressing his chin to England's shoulder as if asking for his attention, and when he is done, England always presses a kiss to the sturdy man's forehead, whispering a thank you.
Hong Kong is a child. His heart is small, reminding him of America. But Hong Kong's heart is not a baby bird. It is not soft, it is not fragile, and it is not warm. It falls on his hand with a thud, heavy like a rock and wet like bitter tears. This heart beats on his palm cautiously, not afraid, but reserved – and England knows then he will never know all of Hong Kong's secrets.
India is difficult. She entices him into her bed and he seduces her into telling him her secrets. When in bed one night, he slips his fingers into her chest, finding an empty gap in the crook of her heart. The black bleeds into his hand, eating at his flesh.
"I have hidden it where not even you can find it," she laughs against his ear, each tremor of her lips the thousand steps of her people rising against him in defiance.
He smirks. "Oh my dear," he presses his lips against her collarbone, painting with his black fingers an X on the pulse of her neck, "oh my dear, you've no idea how much more fun you've just made this for me."
Her heart is smooth like jade. It fits into his palm perfectly, inching away from him the entire journey. There's blood on his fist as he carries it, already debating whether to slip it into his jar or not. She stares at him; her long dark locks spread in a blanket over the face of the elephant head between her arms. Not even a blanket of night can hide his sin. A part of him spurns the guilt rising like bile up his stomach through his throat.
"And now that you have it," she asks, sobbing into the coarse gray skin of the dead animal, "and now that you have it, what will you do with it?"
He shrugs, making the heart bounce on his palm. "I've yet to decide."
.
Not having a heart means he can't have a pulse.
England can't remember the first time he figured this out on his own. He just knows he doesn't like this. It is the one reminder that there's a gap in his chest, a less than perfect bruise on his side, an abyss of empty loneliness eating at his thoughts. Feeling, he comes to understand with age and fatigue, is only half the battle.
The other half is knowing…
Surprisingly, when life is different and technology has changed, he finds comfort in knowing—to know, he thinks then, is an ironic reality. What would be better than to not know?—and he thinks perhaps that the answer is to feel.
He thinks of this often when he's alone, taking in the sight of London pumping steam clouds into the sky. He confirms this when he presses his forefingers to the top of his wrist-watch, feeling the way it ticks like a metal pulse against his wrist.
Artificial isn't perfect, he decides, but blood tastes like metal anyway, so who is he to judge?
.
England's jar is heavy in his sack during the war. It makes it hard to fight. Still, he trudges on, holding tight to his thick jar filled to the brim with hearts—one for each conquest. He's never felt so full and so empty.
"Hey England, can we talk?" America grins at him one morning, bouncing steadily from foot to foot.
England blinks, nodding as he lets America into his tent. "What do you want, git?"
On his desk lies the jar, empty of its contents now. The hearts lay lined up along the length of the table, beating sporadically from left to right and right to left, and America can only watch his chest clenching. He clambers back to himself, though, and lays his heart right inside England's jar. It's red there, taking only a crook in the vast rainbows of light reflecting on the glass.
America's heart is different now and still so familiar to England. It's red and fist-like, clenched so tight every pounding beat is like a taut punch. It purrs loudly, warm and confident, like the many factories pumping steel and machinery from America's capillaries.
England is quiet as he stares at the heart now in his palm. It's still small, tucked into itself safely like a baby bird. "And what do you intend I do with this?" he asks dismissively. He nods at the line-up before them. "I already have too many. More than I know what to do with."
"I know," America nods, growing serious. He clears his throat. "But this is different. You're not taking my heart. I've been told you're very good about keeping hearts safe, so I want you—I want you to keep mine."
England shifts an eyebrow. "Keep? – You're gifting it to me? Because I don't take gifts, not hearts anyway. Why would I when I can just take it?"
"Not mine," America reminds him, almost warningly, "I'm not gifting it. This is, this is safekeeping, you know, just—just during the war."
There's a murmuring silence between them, the sound of hearts thudding against wood in the background.
England nods, turning away, "Alright. I'll keep it, then."
"Alright?" America looks surprised, and then smirks, "yeah, alright. Awesome."
His face falls as soon as he sees England dumping his heart into the jar.
"I—in there?"
"That's where I keep them," England scoffs, filling the jar to the brim with hearts, all except for one. America watches numbly as England takes this one heart into his palm, pressing a kiss to the thick coronary artery, thumb running over each ventricle before slipping it into the empty crook of his chest.
America frowns and pouts like a child willing away his tantrum. "What of that one?"
"India is the heart of the British Empire. I thought even you weren't so ignorant," England huffs, patting his chest, "Now, then, if you need nothing else of me, I must get back to work."
There's a terse silence between them before America clears his throat.
"I want it back now."
England turns, "I beg your pardon?"
"My heart. I—I've change my mind. I want it back now."
England chuckles, ushering America out of his tent, "oh America, that's not how it works, my dear…"
And through America's protests and shouts, he zips up his tent.
When he is alone, he brings America's heart out, watching amazed as it taps against his skin. It has an irregular rhythm about it, familiar, and still so foreign. He watches it tap and press, tap and press, and after a while, he grows bored, so he slips it into his pocket and leaves for the battlefield.
There it bounces in his pocket, heavy and demanding.
.
The last time England takes France's heart, he decides he does not want to give it back. His jar is looking empty, after all.
Years later, he will look back on his decision and call it war-weariness.
But now here they are: two declining countries shaken by the decade-long rivers of blood, red like the walls of communism mounting around them, so heavy that not even rock 'n' roll can tumble them. And the heart is there, just lying on France's desk unattended. It's lonely. Oh, England understands that language.
He slips it into his jar, burrowing it next to Burma, and for ten days, he watches it carefully from across his living room. Sometimes he takes it into his hand, amazed by the way it beats blood into the arteries, pounding in a rapid arrhythmic cadence—so very red, so very Francis.
It is two weeks later, though, that he panics.
"Mais," France begs, taking England's hand into his own, two weeks later, "I love you, Angleterre! I do! I ask for nothing, nothing except your heart…"
England panics—take it back, oh, just take it back. He scrambles for his shelf, taking the jar into his hands and slipping it onto France's own. His fingers are shaky as he pops the lid open, taking the heart out with his own palm, letting it pump and press against the mound of his thumb one last time.
"You do not love me, see? This is why you think you do, but you do not love. I assure you that you do not love me," he coughs, a knot in his throat, "and you do not want my heart."
He's sure if Francis really wanted his heart, he'd already known he doesn't have one.
.
America starts leaving his heart where England can find it.
He drops it in the hallways of the United Nations or just leaves it on his desk. Sometimes he's bolder and puts it right on England's chair.
He's careless, England assumes. So England always picks it up gently and plays with it for a few hours before tapping America on the shoulder, typically when he's in the middle of a conversation. England will drop the heart on America's hand.
"You left it again," he'll say, sometimes shrug, and always leave.
Nations watch the banter, abated breath as they wait. Someday England will understand, they think, America's not being careless. He's being explicit.
.
It finally happens decades later.
"I'm not going anywhere," America tells England as he straddles his hips on the sofa. He barely presses his body against England, staring down at the unwavering green of his eyes.
"Good," England tells him, bored as he leans around America, trying to watch the telly. "Now move. I'm trying to hear your President try to make a distinction between this special and essential rubbish."
"England," America groans, the heaviness in his heart now too painful to carry on his own. "England, this is stupid. Okay, yeah, this is stupid now. I've had enough of this."
And because America is mad– England decides he must be, hegemony will do that to anyone, really – he slips his hand into his chest, bringing out his fist of a heart.
"I don't want your heart," America informs England, patting his pocket for a knife, which he uses to slice his own heart into halves. England only watches silently, smirking as he shakes his head.
"Such foolishness," he murmurs, "You think I want half of yours instead?"
America shakes his head. He takes a bite of his own half heart, holds it between his teeth, and then rolls it around his tongue before pushing it into England's mouth.
There's a moment – suspended, a gap in time – during which England panics; he tenses and kicks, flailing as he fights the flickering tongue slipping something hot and red and very, very wet into his throat. And eventually he swallows, the embers of scorching emotions and years of cold tears and loneliness and fear and everything returning like a flash of lightning before they disappear into nothing.
Is this an implosion? Don't those create black holes? England knows black. He understands holes.
When they break apart, England gulps before pushing his own lips against America's, hungry to swallow him in completely. And he does.
It takes them an hour between bites and sucks, sharing morsels of heat and clattering teeth. And then they each have half thrumming in their rib cages.
America's heartbeat has always been irregular. England notices it now more than ever as their chests lay pressed together, the words from the telly blurring into infinity. It is in that moment England begins to make sense of it.
He smiles, shaking his head.
He grabs America's hand and repeats the message as he feels it.
Tap Tap
Tap Press Tap Tap
Press Press Press
Tap Tap Tap Press
Press Tap Press Tap Press Press
Press Press
Press Press Press
Tap Tap Press
Notes
[1] What is the meaning of the violet? So, in ancient Rome, violets were a symbol of mourning, actually, almost indicative of spilt blood, though their sweet scent stood for peace. Typically, violets were laid on graves and used to symbolize affection for those passed on. Romans believed the deceased would then rest quietly.
In ancient mythology, violets were wards against evil spirits, and tokens of health and love.
[2] England and Portugal have the longest standing treaty in modern history: the Anglo-Portuguese Alliance goes back to 1373.
[3] Australia and Hong Kong were both part of the British Empire. Australia was the place where the United Kingdom tested many of their early nuclear prototypes. One of the more famous places was Maralinga from 1955 to 1963. Just random, but the United States – in case you didn't know – was the only nuclear power to test on itself.
[4] Ganesh is the God in India that has the head of an elephant. Elephants are holy in India. He is considered the God of Beginnings and the God of Obstacles (removing them, mostly). While he is typically invoked to remove obstacles, it is thought that he also places them in front of those who need to check themselves.
[5] The wrist watch is thought to have been invented by Patek Phillips, sometime near the tip of the last few years of the 19th century. You know watches and their technology were some of the earliest precursors to the gear work that would play a big part in heavier machinery. Oh, and I just felt steampunkish.
[6] In the 1950s and early 1960s, France and the United Kingdom considered a formal union. It was first proposed by France.
[7] Tap and Press? – It's Morse code! Look up the Morse code for I Love You. Go on.
[8] What are some of the other historical events alluded to here? – Roman occupation; American Revolution; World War II; the devolution of the British Empire; the Roanoke colony experiment; some of the India rebellions of the 1800s; industrial revolution/turn of the century; maybe the Special Relationship v. Essential Relationship business? - That last one is for you to decide.
Any questions? Need more notes? – Please ask. C=