Authority, a hetalia - axis powers fanfic

All proper disclaimers apply.

A/N: First time writing here (in terms of official posting, yeah.) Hello, fandom~ For iu_fanfiction's Tenth challeng; prompt: The hare and the tortoise.

Not everything starts with nothing. England's one of the few witnesses who can give their testaments to that. He's seen one of his charges before he met him— in the wilderness in his own solitude, roaming about undisturbed and unbothered.

America looked— seemed like a defenseless, harmless baby and all, except that he wasn't.

England got fascinated with the young one, needless to say.

"It took me centuries to get to who I am now," he narrated once upon a time to the American boy who was intently listening to him— and those sky blue eyes, they were practically glued on his face. He smiled faintly at the hazy recollection of those past memories that he held on for so, so long.

"I can reduce that to only decades!" America beamed, flashing those perfectly white teeth and fresh innocence, "Look at me, England. I will do that."

England smiled slightly at the boy's enthusiasm, and then he replied with his earnest tone, "It's not as simple as that, America. You'll encounter many exhausting obstacles, above all else."

America frowned at this, but England knew he did not convince him— "Well, I'm still a growing nation. I have more time to think."

England tried to muffle his chuckles.

"Even if you're ages old nobody said you're not a growing nation anymore," he pointed out, "The only time you'll stop growing is when you're dead."

III

"Read me something else, England."

"If I narrate to you the story of The Hare and the Tortoise, would you be satisfied?"

"England! Are you okay?" questioned the boy as he eyed with sympathy England's fresh scars on his back. England smiled weakly at his concern as he pulled down his tunic to cover the scars.

"Yes, I'm fine," he answered persuasively, "Worrying will do you nothing. Now go outside and play with Canada."

America was not satisfied. He's merely standing there, on the figurative 'boring' ringside, keeping an eye out for more enemies and scrutinizing England's men. England vehemently refused to the simple idea of him partaking the war. And yet America's following the orders given to him, and the very thought of it sucked.

On the other hand, he felt small ounces of fulfillment just from seeing England in the midst of everything that occurred in the battlefield.

(He's— he's better off declaring independence than trying to dream it.)

"America, the taxes."

Really now.

For the most part, there's this strange urge boiling intensely within him.

VII

"England, England— why won't you listen to me? I'm not a child anymore. I can handle my own, and I can handle anybody's own if you let me go!" he declared, shouted, but it did not necessarily come from the top of his lungs. But he's not the rooted one, England was. The latter has been beaten, torn, defeated, and yet it's as though he's still hanging on, on the top of this ruthless game, a survival among the corpses spewed around.

But England. He's a silent man, in all actuality. He preferred actions over words and he did not want to tolerate the other's nonsensical declarations.

(And— the downpour's increasing— it did not decline, and the ground was murky and dull, very much like how tedious England's green orbs were. The same goes for America's.)

So he raised his rifle gradually, finally pointing it towards his America.

There were two obstacles that seemed to clog the rifle's opening:

If he shoots, there's really no way he can survive this. He's far too outnumbered.

He can't even shoot, to begin with.

Damn it.

Why.

Why can't I shoot you?

…There's— really no point in shooting you, wasn't there?

All is shit.

America turned his back on his feeble form— once a nation so great and now he's sitting on the rained ground, defeated.

VIII

One dramatic, gloomy day, America telegraphed England.

"I think I have identity crisis."

England's not really in the mood to lend a hand.

The first time America celebrated his independence, England showed up briefly.

"Here," he said, handing America (who seemed to be too satisfied of himself—) his present wrapped in white.

"Happy birthday," he added, tad a bit sardonically; one quarter sincerely. But America's an airhead— or perhaps sometimes too much of an airhead, so he typically (and smilingly) ignored the half-hearted greeting.

When he unwrapped the gift, out pops a toy set that quickly brought back memories of his younger self. He counted the pieces— they were complete, although some were not intact as they used to be. A few of them got decapitated and some simply lost their body parts.

Essentially speaking, the set itself was dusty, old, and definitely uncared of.

He muttered to himself, as he picked one piece and studied it again, chuckling.

"I wish you were a little more subtle, England."

During his second celebration of his independence, England was a bit livelier, more vibrant, than when he last visited him.

"Damn it," he told the celebrant as he handed him his present, "trying to wrap that thing was such a hassle. You'd better appreciate my efforts, you ingrate."

"Yeah, yeah, sure thing, old geezer," America replied as he offered a cocky grin at England. The latter glared back at him.

Seriously, England wrapping a weapon? That's not a very great thing to do. He scrutinized the aged rifle and noticed the scratches that were made on it.

It brought back, yet again, pieces of memories that he thought he had already locked away in the deepest abyss of his mind.

"Really," he murmured to himself.

"Germany's really a pain in the ass," England complained once in the phone with America, "and I really hope you can fucking stop pushing your neutrality through."

He heard America sighed at the end of the line— "but I'm still neutral, man."

"Even on my deathbed?"

America rolled his eyes, amused at the other man's foul tenacity—"Look, England, right now I can do nothing more than sending you supplies."

"Oh yeah," a spoken afterthought— "stop being emotional, England. It doesn't suit you."

Eventually, there's an irony hovering above it all. And America's seen riding in the skies in all his powerful glory.

XII

"Merry Christmas!" he greeted cheerfully, flinging a box wrapped in golden strings and too-white a paper towards England— who, in surprise, barely caught the damned thing in time.

"Where are your manners, you idiot," reprimanded England. America offered a cheeky, enigmatic grin instead.

America has never felt so edgy or so bothered— or so he thought, anyway. England's unraveling the gift in an awfully slow rate.

"What the fuck's engraved on this thing? Special Relationship?" England, partly shocked, raised his voice as he examined the ring.

"Well, yeah—"

"…Oh no it's not."

"Unbelievable, isn't it? It's still true, though."

"Special relationship?"

"I like the sound of it~"

"Do you know what it means like—"

"…Being married to a totally awesome nation? Come on, England."

(Prussia appeared though, in the right time and right moment— "Sorry, fucking awesome title is already taken.")

"Your approval, please~"

Upon saying that, he dawned his lips upon England's.

END

So after a hell lot of time wasted because of consistent power failures, I finally got the time to finish this. However, this is so rushed like whoa, so I hope everyone forgives my (totally senseless) writing. Ahaha. This is so wrong. (Also, Prussia appearance is very much a random thing that only the author can completely understand.)

Reviews are very much appreciated! Thank you. (bows)