A/N: I have a uniform fetish... I wanted to write about these ones, but it turned out angsty and... I blame Assassin's Creed! I've been killing too many Templar's lately, that must be why I turned sexy uniforms into sad things, that has to be it! But anyway, this is just a string of connected little blurbs centring around the Revolutionary War and their unforms. Because, once again, I have a uniform fetish.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own Hetalia. Guess you're S.O.L. on that one.
America stood rigid, staring at the piece of clothing before him.
The beautiful uniform was draped over a chair, newly stitched and starched, made to fit him perfectly. The rich, bold colours stuck out against the pale white of the upholstery, the dark blues and reds bleeding both pride and fear into his heart.
America swallowed past the lump that had built in his throat, realization hitting him.
He didn't want to put it on.
---
England tucked his pants away into his boots and stood up, turning to look in the mirror.
His red uniform glowed brightly against his skin, the gold accents making his eyes stand out underneath choppy blonde bangs. He had worn it thousands of times before, fought proudly for his namesake in it, killed in it, bled in it… it had made him the man he was today.
But never before had it made his stomach twist painfully. Never before had it made his breath catch on a lump in his throat. Never before had he wanted to take it off.
---
America had seen England in his military uniform before. He used to identify England by the outfit, really. England's ship would come into the harbour and America would see him walking down the plank to shore, the red uniform making him easily identifiable to the young nation who was waiting for him.
But something about seeing England in it now made him want to cry.
No longer could he run to him, the red cloth almost like a target as the younger leaped into England's waiting arms, gripping onto the person he had wanted to badly to reappear. No longer could he watch as England took off the coat, the wounds hidden beneath it now visible. No longer would he fall asleep to the soft murmurs and quiet petting of England's hand on his head, the last thing he sees being the white cuff of England's jacket.
America grit his teeth. If he wanted to, he could end this. All of this. Go back to England, apologise, say that he needs him and cares for him and loves him and will do anything to stand by him again.
But America knows that's not what he came this far to do.
He says nothing, only staring ahead into the mass of red that is marching towards his people.
---
England had never seen America in a uniform before.
He never wanted to.
America did not need to know the sting of war; the way your people's screams ring through your ears, the torture and pain and loss and hurt they are feeling reverberating throughout your entire being. The scars that never went away, lining your body in tattered, mangled, uneven lines and blotches.
England never wanted America to know that.
But here he was, marching with his men, marching them to do exactly that.
American lives were going to be taken before this was over. England would be the one that killed them. The one that made the screams and the pain ring in America's ears. England would do it.
And with a tightening in his chest and strain in his voice, England ordered his soldiers to shoot upon the sea of blue ahead of them.
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