Cleaning out the Storage Room on a Dreary Day in London

One of the numerous boxes in the basement had fallen over; nearly knocking England out as he searched for the extra blankets he knew he had saved somewhere. The blonde personification hissed, rubbing his swore head with the base of his palm. If only it wasn't so cold this time of year. Then he would never have to come down to this dungeon of a basement! The fairies had warned him that the accumulating junk was only going to be a fire hazard. England hated to admit it, but they were right.

The nation sighed, bending over to pick up the fallen box. It was extremely heavy, which would no doubt explain the large bump now forming on his cranium. The cardboard box had been labeled in large, bolded letters: BOX O' CRAP. He couldn't help but smile. He recognized the penmanship. Handwriting can tell a lot about a person. For example, this particular sample of words told England that whoever wrote this was arrogant, boisterous, and confident due to the size and slant of the writing. Scotland was definitely all of those things.

This must have been when he helped me move out, thought England

Suddenly growing curious, England opened the box. Much to his surprise, it was filled with some of his clothing from his childhood, as well as a small bow carved from old oak wood. There were no arrows, though. He took the ancient weapon in his hands, wondering how he could have ever been so small. Just underneath was a small green cloak. Its colour had faded with all its time spent shut away. England held the material to his face, taking a sniff. It still smelled of trees, and dirt, and fresh air; the smells of his childhood.

He could barely remember it. It was just too distant for him to recall, even in partiality. England could only recall running. Running through thickets, having his small legs scratched on sharp branches and thorns. He could remember the shouts of hunters, and the barking of vicious hounds.

"He went this way, 'm sure o' it!"

The child was no taller than the hunting group's smallest hound. He quivered in the cold night, trying desperately to remain still and silent. His little heart was pounding too fiercely, however. The poor little nation thought his chest was about to explode. He had been running all night. In all honesty, he was tired. He wanted to give up, but he knew he couldn't. His people were relying on him to return. Sure, there weren't many, but they were his people, and he had to protect them by staying alive.

From his spot behind a large boulder, England drew another arrow and readied it in his hand carved bow. He wasn't too worried about the human hunters. He could easily outrun them if it ever came to that. It was the dogs he was scared of. They were fast, and smaller than those hulking Scotsmen. The beasts could easily follow him into tight places, where he would surely be trapped and killed.

England took careful aim at a tree across the way. He couldn't reveal his position, but that didn't leave him with very many options. Releasing the arrow, he hit a pinecone that loosely hung on the end of a branch. The seed case fell to the ground, snapping a thin branch. The small sound alerted the dogs, and therefore their owners.

"He's this way! Hurry now!"

When the thundering footsteps and panting of dogs subsided, England finally took the chance to breath. He felt dizzy. He almost lost his footing and fell, but was surprised to find himself caught by an unknown force. England was pulled by the wrist, forced to stand.

"What're ye doin' there, lil' brother?" asked Scotland with a cheeky grin.

England gasped, stepping back and away from the slightly elder nation. He wanted to scream at Scotland. He was just so tired of this. He didn't want to run anymore, but he also didn't want to die. "Make them stop!" he sniffled feebly. "Make them leave me alone."

"I'm sorry, brother," said Scotland softly. "I really am." His expression was suddenly dark. He seemed to mean it, too, which only made England feel worse. Scotland placed his hands on England's small shoulders. "I can't control me people. They control me. Yer still me brother, do ye understand? I want ye alive, I really do. But I can only do so much for ye."

The barking of dogs was growing louder again. They must have realized it was a dead-end search. Scotland frowned.

"Run," he warned. "I'll distract 'em, okay? You just have to promise me that you'll get stronger." England was about to nod in agreement, but Scotland shoved him in the opposite direction of the hunters. There was no time to waste.

England sighed, placing the cloak and bow back in the box with the other tattered clothes. He looked around, the dim light of the single bulb giving a soft glow in the dark basement. He turned to the chest directly beside him. This one was not labelled, and it didn't have to be. England could tell by the crest that had been etched into the wooden chest with gold that it was from his days of being an empire. That brought back good memories. The nation doubted that there were any hidden treasures in there. He had lost a lot of it to the museums a long time ago.

He lifted the chest's lid, revealing his old coat and hat he often wore when sailing. The plume of the hat seemed to have wilted, leaning over with lifeless ambition to decorate. He had a hard time believing that this was ever in style. It was still pretty cool, though, he had to admit. The entire chest smelled of sea salt. It was a smell he had almost forgotten. England picked up the coat, which was decorated with detailed little buttons and pins. The fabric was starched with age, and it stunk of seaweed and spice.

"Fire!" he shouted above the roar of ocean waves and clashing swords. The cannons boomed as projectiles flew, hitting their intended target. With a rope tightly twisted around his arm, England took the chance to swing on board the Spanish vessel, sword drawn and thirsty for a fight. He let go of the rope, landing on deck with a magnificent thud.

"Bastardo!" snapped Spain, furiously raising his own rapier. "You cannot honestly think you will beat me. This is the Spanish Armada you have so foolishly challenged!"

"Screw your armada," laughed England viciously as he swung his blade. Metal clashed, a loud vibration erupting from the two weapons.

"You must really enjoy defeat, then."

They sparred, barely aware of the chaos around them. England parried, and then thrust his blade forward. His footing was perfect; his movements fluid. He was convinced that there was nothing more thrilling and satisfying in the world than the moments he shared at the tip of a sword.

A grin found its way onto England's face. Yes. He remembered that particular episode quite well. It was the buzz of the entire European continent. The small island nation had done the impossible.

England began shifting around, opening boxes here and there without order. Some things were genuine junk: chipped tea cups, large volumes of book collections, moth-eaten sweaters… He found a box of some of his things from the Great War. His old pistol looked practically brand new, having been stored in a special case to keep it in pristine condition.

He found an old photo along with his old military uniform. It was black and white, and yet his memory filled in the colour. Canada and France were standing next to him in the photograph, smiles bright and triumphant. England turned the photograph over, reading the hand written description: Vimy Ridge. Ah, yes. France couldn't hold it. England couldn't hold it. Canada, however, could. England nodded in fond memory. His little colony wasn't so little anymore. He was turning out to be quite the strong nation.

"Non, Mathieu. You are being ridiculous!" exclaimed France angrily. "I will not allow it. England, tell 'im 'e is being ridiculous. I will stop you myself if I 'ave to." The French nation hardly seemed convincing with his bandaged and bloodied arm. His head had been wrapped, too, having sustained a severe cut due to flying shrapnel.

Cannons could be heard, the impacts of the projectiles leaving craters in the muddy fields of Vimy. Not much was left of this place, making England wonder if it was even worth protecting. No. It wasn't worth it. He was losing too many of his men, as was France, to those German troops just across No Man's Land. It was a strategic point, however, that would give them the advantage. If they could hold the fort, that is…

"Papa," sighed the gentle Canuck. "I can do this. I know how to fight."

"I know you do, mon cher, but I'm not going to let you risk yourself like this."

"But, Papa–"

"Let him go, frog," snapped England. He rubbed his temples. He had been awake for far too long, fighting in those blasted trenches. "We need all of the help we can get."

"Arthur, I can't just–"

"Enough. You are in no position to object anymore. You're growing weaker every day. I don't want this ending up being another battle of attrition, do you understand? It will get us nowhere." England turned to his violet eyed colony. "Ready your men, Canada. You'll lead your platoon west and wait as reinforcements. I'll tell my men you're coming to relieve."

"T-thank you!" said Canada, suddenly perking up. This was his chance to shine, and he knew it.

England finally came to a box hidden away in the corner. It had been placed underneath a layer of white silk which was soft to the touch and smelled of old air and dust. England frowned. He had a weird feeling about this one, almost as if his instincts told him not to proceed. Why was this one tucked away so neatly, banished away to the darkened corner of the cold basement? England carefully drew away the silk cloth, folding it carefully while inspecting the delicate needlework in the corner. He had embroidered it years ago. It was so long ago, that simply running his fingers over the gentle floral pattern brought back a sense of wonder, as if it never really existed.

England found his hands shaking, though he knew not why, as he opened the lid of the box. When he revealed its contents, he automatically knew why. The nation didn't even have to look to know what secrets he had purposely hidden away. That's why it was in the corner. He knew there had to be a reason for this particular cases exile. The smell of wheat, and dirt, and a general scent of foreign air wafted from the box. England gently pulled out a child's shirt, feeling his face flush.

America…

"England!" cried the blue-eyed colony. Tears were streaming from the boy's eyes. It broke the nation's heart, but this was the way it had to be. "Please don't go! I don't want to be all alone. Please don't leave, England!"

"America," cooed England. He knelt down, his arms open to embrace his dear, sweet colony. "Please don't cry. I'll be back. I'll always be back."

"But," sniffled America, hugging England close. He smelled of lavender soap and honey. "It's so scary in the house when you're not around. And I get so lonely."

"I get lonely, too," admitted England softly. He pulled away slightly to look at the colony's small, tear streaked face. Using his thumbs, he wiped away a small bead of moisture that threatened to run down America's cheek.

"You do?"

"Of course I do! That's why I always come back to see you. I promise that we won't be apart for long. I'll bring you a present when I get back, alright?"

America nodded sheepishly, doing his best to look brave. He hated it when England said that. Presents never filled that void of his missing presence, but America never said anything about it. He knew who England was. He was an empire, after all. "I'll miss you," said the colony, burying his face into England's shoulder.

"I'll miss you more," said England gently. "Make sure you grow big and strong while I'm away, okay?"

England regretted saying that.

"You're raising taxes? Again? Why?" shouted America.

"Calm down, old chap. It's for your own good," sighed England.

"Calm down? My people are working hard enough already. I don't think we can handle another tax hike." America was taller now. He seemed to have developed an inch for every ounce of stubborn pride he had gained while England was away. England had been proud, at first. Nothing pleased him more to see his colony healthy and happy. It was just his bloody disputes with France that seemed to be driving tensions up and beyond control.

"Alfred, just let me explain. I–"

"We weren't even represented, Arthur. What happened to democracy? You're being a tyrant."

England stood up from his spot. "Now, see here, young man. I am your guardian and protector. I know what is best for you, so don't you dare question my authority!"

"This is outrageous. This is oppression! This is–"

America was cut short by the sharp pain that now flooded across his face. England's hand hovered slightly, almost unaware of what he had just done. A shocked expression was plastered on both of their faces. The elder felt his heart sink. He didn't mean that. He didn't mean to hit his beloved colony. It was just an action based of his anger; anger which had no suddenly ceased to exist.

"I'm…" England whispered in disbelief. He felt disgusted with himself. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…"

But America had had enough. He stormed out of the room, doing his best not to let the empire show he was beaten.

England swallowed. What happened after that?

Oh, yes, he thought. Then I got the letter.

"'We hold these truths to be self-evident, thatall men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.'" England clenched his fists as he read it out loud. His face was red with anger and bewilderment. "That bloody fool," his hissed. "Does he even know what he's getting himself into?"

"Hey, England," shouted America from the doorstep. "You home?" England couldn't hear him. America pressed his palms to the door. It was frickin' freezing today. He should have brought a thicker coat. To his surprise, the front door swung open slowly on its rusty hinges. How odd. England always made sure to lock the door…

It was raining, and his boots were covered in mud.

"Hey, England!" shouted America. His musket was raised, poised on England. "After all, I want freedom! I'm no longer a child nor your little brother. I'll become independent from you from now on."

"I won't allow it!" screamed England. He charged forward, much to America's surprise. The end of England's bayonet was blocked by the side of America's weapon. Had his reaction time been too slow, he would surely have been pierced. The momentum and force was too much, however. America lost grip of his weapon, and could only watch as it fell to the muddy grounds beneath his feat.

England was panting. It was too cold outside. His own musket was raised, not once lowering from his colony. "This is why I say you don't follow things through to the end, you dummy." He stared coldly into America's eyes, which were equally fixated with a mutual burning want for freedom.

"F-fire!" announced one of America's generals. Several soldiers behind him raised their weapons, aiming at England. They didn't fire, though. America was just too close. It would have been too risky.

America's eyes wandered to the tip of the sharp bayonet, his normally vibrant blue eyes having dulled with all the fighting. His heart was racing. Was this it? Was England really going to shoot? Did he have the audacity to? Did England have the courage to show America what war really meant?

To his utter surprise, the rifle was lowered, leaving America flabbergasted.

"There's no way I could shoot you, is there?" said England. His voice did not sound confident. "You idiot…" His hands were shaking. He could no longer hold the wait of his gun. He couldn't do it. He loved America too much to shoot. The musket met the same muddy fate as America's own weapon, now forgotten somewhere beside him.

England fell to his knees, hiding his face with a quivering hand.

"Dammit! Why! Dammit!" he sobbed, his shoulders heaving as he cried.

"England…" whispered America. He watched the nation before him, a look of pity upon his young face. "You were so great once…"

And so the rain poured down, mixing with England's salty tears. It was finally time to admit defeat.

His beloved colony was now a nation.

"England!" exclaimed America cheerfully. England jumped up, surprised.

"What the in the bloody hell are you doing here, you wanker? You gave me a fright!"

"You were the one who invited me over, stupid," said America with a roll of the eyes. He looked around at the mess. "What've you been doing, dude? It's like there's been an earthquake."

"I've just been… cleaning."

"Doesn't look like it," shrugged the American nation.

"You're right," chuckled England softly. He turned his back to America, nervously stuffing a few things back into the box.

"Hey…" said America thoughtfully, noticing the items England was now trying to hide. "Whatchya got there, Arthur?"

"N-nothing!"

"Lemme see."

"N-no. Hey! Wait a sec–"

America managed to snatch away one of the old military uniforms from England's hands. He recognized it. The Red and Blues, they used to call them.

America smiled sadly, tossing the uniform jacket aside. He took England's hand and gently gave it a squeeze. "C'mon, baby," he said. "Let's go for lunch. You're gonna get yourself all depressed down in this hole."

"It's not a hole," retorted England. He was glad, though, that America didn't linger on the subject.

"Whatever," laughed America. "I'm starving. I really don't like airplane food."

"Funny," sighed England. "I thought food was food to you."

"Yes, but McDonald's is always preferable."

"You're going to get fat."

"Don't worry 'bout it. I'm still young. It's old men like you who have to worry."

England smacked America on the arm.

"Shut up."

"You love me," said the American, unconcerned. "So McDonald's it is?"

They walked together towards the staircase leading upstairs.

"Fine," sighed England contently. "But tea afterwards."

"Right, right."

A/N:

What do you think? Nay or yay? Hopefully you chose the latter.

I'm so sorry that I haven't updated Acrylic Painted Smiles yet. I normally have a cycle, rotating between my multi-chapter stories, but as many of you know, Slow Waltz is done. It sort of threw me off and gave me the impression that I could write a few other short stories for you guys. I've also been taking numerous commissions, and I would very much like to get those done first. I don't really like leaving people hanging… I promise you that I'll updated APS and then onto Coffee, Guns, & Tea within the next two weeks. It's sort of been hectic around my end, and lately I've just been writing to suit my current mood. (Can you tell I'm feeling depressed?)

Anyway…

Thank you so much for reading! Please remember to review. When I see that I've got such a responsive audience, it makes me feel like I'm obligated to write to ensure you love what you read. Don't mind me. I love to write, so if you want me to, I'll write forever. Words are my paint; your desires are my inspiration. Damn. That was poetic.