A Glimpse into His Eyes
AU! Brotherly! USUK
He tried. He tried, and he failed. He tried to free his people, but he failed in doing so. He failed his people. He failed the people counting on him to win their independence. He failed to gain what he had wanted from the beginning.
He failed himself.
Even though they were close battles, every strike rattled him to the bone. Every move, every counterattack, it was too much.
Yet he stood, too proud to fall, to give into his enemy. Until now, that is.
He who used to be his brother, his mentor, his fatherly figure. Who gave him everything; clothes to wear, food to eat, toys to play with…
Yet he still opposed England. He paid England back with the Revolution, the revolution that was stopped this moment. His very opponent, the British Empire, stood in front of him, tall and proud.
He gritted his teeth. This turned out wrong. He should've been the one standing, in front of England, he should've been the one holding the bayonet against him, he should've won!
But this "should've" changed nothing. He wasn't the last country standing. he wasn't the one holding the bayonet. It was on the muddy ground, the rain washing off the blood.
He didn't win. He… he…
England's determined eyes softened, but America's blue eyes stayed fiery and blazing. In his mind, he was burning holes into his former caretaker. Though he remained eye contact, England's eyes showed somewhere else. And by the way his face relaxed, by a little bit, he was thinking about… the better times.
Oh, how America wanted to go back to the "old times." How America wanted to turn back time, to way before all this happened. How he wished he didn't take England's love for granted. How he wished that he didn't grow so quickly. How he wished that England would sweep him into his arms, cradling him.
How he wished for that hand to reach down again.
But he couldn't go back. He couldn't turn back time. He took England's love for granted. He grew so quickly. England would never swing him in his arms until he fell asleep.
But that hand would never be reached out to him, never again.
And while he was thinking this, England decided something. Something unpredictable. Something that none thought he would do. Something that America so wanted him to do.
He stretched his arm down, his hand approaching America. America braced himself for the hit, but the blow never came.
He opened his eyes to the hand that was waiting for him to hold on, to grasp onto. For him to come back into his brother's arms, awaiting for him and him only.
America stared at the hand for a few moments, his mind trying to digest what was going on in England's brain. He wanted to grab it. He wanted to reach out for it. He wanted to be back in his brother's arms, back into the comforting spot saved only for him.
He reached out his arm, his hands dirty and muddy. He almost smiled. He could go back. He could be back. He would be England's little brother again. He would hear his beautiful voice singing a lullaby to him, soft and slow.
But his pride as a nation-no, what could've been a nation-didn't allow that. His hand slapped the other's. This wasn't what he meant to do, what he wanted to do! He wanted to take the hand, go back and live happily… right?
But this was all his heart saying this. It was his mind that couldn't go back. He knew, in the back of his head, that nothing would be the same. No sweet lullabies, no hugs to comfort him.
Maybe he was wrong. But it was too late to go back now, to take the hand.
Teared burned the back of his eyes, but he refused, forbid them from spilling out. Not that England would have noticed, of course.
And when he looked up again, he saw what he thought he would never have seen.
England's eyes were wide, and swimming with emotions, some that America recognised and caught, some that he missed. Not anger, mad, fury, hatred, or anything like that. But there were hurt, betrayal, sadness, and much more.
He saw a little boy, no older than when England found himself in the fields. The young boy was wearing a battered green cape, being chased by something. The boy's hands were tight into fists, and he was looking around frantically. He was afraid. He was frightened, scared, anxious.
But this weakness was gone in a moment. England's shamrock green eyes hardened, his mouth set into a tight grim line.
And he raised his hand.
Behind him, Canada stepped out into America's view. He was holding a gun, his hands noticeably trembling. He raised it, and aimed the gun at America.
It takes a nation to kill another nation.
A lonely gunshot rang out and rang loudly in every person's ears despite the violent storm raging around them.