America laughed and cheered as fireworks lit up the sky.
Sparks fell from the heavens, illuminating her sky-blue eyes. She danced in the fiery rain, grabbing smoking sparklers from everyone nearby and thrusting them to the night sky.
A shooting star dazzles everyone around it, then fizzles to the Earth in defeated glory.
Britain watched her from the back of the crowd.
Every year, whether he liked it or not, America would get a hold of his planner and mark the Fourth of July in red, white, and blue crayon all over the July page.
Every year, whether he liked it or not, he would end up standing in the back of a screaming crowd, watching America celebrate her independence.
Every year, he wondered. How could America be so happy now? Didn't she still hear the cannon fire and gunshots echoing in his mind? Did she not remember her raw feet tracking blood in the snow?
What about him, the greatest empire on Earth, breaking down and sobbing right in front of her?
Years had passed since then, but he still had the scars from those awful eight.
America turned her head in his direction. Britain ducked down into the seething mass of people, keeping his eyes downcast. Had she seen him?
No. America just kept on weaving through the rave, twirling and kicking her feet.
Britain faced away from her. He took one step, then another, then another. Soon, he was walking away from her, walking away from what had fought so hard to keep.
He wouldn't sleep that much tonight. And unlike so many times before, he knew he couldn't blame the boom of the fireworks.