Once a week, without fail, England called America. They were important allies, he told himself. He needed to stay in touch. Obviously his own personal feelings played no role in the matter.
So on a drizzly afternoon, England pressed speed dial and carefully held the phone away from his ear. America had a loud voice and an annoying habit of answering his phone with a 'Wazzup, dude?' or some other silly phrase du jour. Since complaining about how America butchered his language never did much good, England took the next best approach and turned down the volume.
"I've got it!" a child's voice called cheerfully on the other end of the line.
Moving the phone closer to his ear, England's first thought was that he had dialed the wrong number. But how was that possible? America had been on his speed dial for decades. "Hello? Who is this?" he asked.
"Ahh! Engwand! It's really you!" the child shouted.
"Ah... is Alfred there?" England asked, his frown deepening. America would have some serious explaining to do if he was letting children know about the existence of national personifications. Or perhaps it was an aggravating micronation, the American equivalent of Sealand. England hoped not. Sealand was bad enough on his own. Surely an American Sealand would be even worse.
Oblivious to England's concerns, the child continued to chatter excitedly. "Yep! Will you visit us, Engwand? Please come visit! Please, please! Oh hi Al, did you want..."
England heard shouting on the other end and then the line went dead. He stared at the receiver and tried calling again. This time he rang through to voicemail. He cleared his throat and left a message.
"Give me a call when you have a chance, Alfred. I'd like to discuss some aspects of the proposed Transatlantic trade deal," he said, carefully leaving off any mention of the child who had answered the phone. America would never call him back if he thought that England was going to give him a tongue lashing. His rants worked better as a surprise.
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When three days passed without a response, England decided that he wasn't worried, but he might have been just a bit concerned. America was an important trade partner, after all.
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By the end of the week, England found himself standing in front of America's home in Virginia, wondering why exactly he felt it necessary to cross the pond to check up on an annoying idiot. Especially when that idiot had always insisted he could take care of himself and didn't need help from an 'old man' like England.
Before he could second-guess himself further, he rang the doorbell.
Hearing America's loud footsteps, England breathed a sigh of relief. It turned into a gasp of surprise when America opened the door. America usually adopted a clean-cut boy-next-door style, but today he was dressed in ripped jeans and a black t-shirt for a punk rock band called "Anti-Flag." He looked younger than usual, probably because he wasn't wearing his glasses. England wondered vaguely if something was wrong with Texas.
"Why are you here?" America asked accusingly. He didn't wait for an answer before slamming the door in England's face.
England felt the anger rise in his stomach as he glared at the oaken door. He had taken an eight-hour flight to check up on America, and he wasn't going to allow the younger nation to respond by shoving his concern back into his face. With a quick gait, England walked around the side of the house, jumped over the white picket fence, and made his way into the backyard. He knew that America always kept the back door unlocked.
America liked everything large, so his immense backyard matched the scale of his Virginian mansion. It had been a farmstead once and still showed it, with a vegetable garden and herb garden near the kitchen door. Cattle no longer grazed on the pasture fields, though America did still keep a few horses in his paddock. England caught sight of a person in a cowboy hat leading a horse into the stables. It looked like America, but England already knew that America was in the house. Perhaps it was that nation that looked like America... what's-his-name. He frowned for a moment, then gave up on trying to remember the nation's name. It would come to him eventually.
Turning back to his original mission, England yanked open the kitchen door. He took two steps in and found America staring right back at him. England knew that it was a large house, but it still seemed strange that the blond nation had found the time to change into his bomber jacket and khaki pants while England walked from the front door to the back.
"America, what do you think you're doing?" England demanded with a scowl. He and America weren't always on the best terms, but slamming a door in his face was a new dip in their 'essential' relationship.
With a grin, America lifted up a plate holding a submarine sandwich filled with heaping amounts of sliced meat and cheese. "I'm making a hero sandwich!" he said proudly.
"No. Not that. I want some explanation for your rude behavior."
America tilted his head to the side and gave England a perplexed look. "Rude? Uh, do you want some?" he asked, offering England the sandwich.
"I'd love some and a beer to wash 'er down," a new voice drawled.
England watched as America pushed past him and walked into the kitchen dressed in cowboy boots, jeans, a white shirt, and a ten-gallon hat. England gaped. He had spent very little time with America during his western phase and he'd forgotten how amazing the nation looked in a cowboy get-up. England's gaze fixated on the younger nation's chaps. The swaying fringe drew extra attention to America's butt, not that his taut behind needed any help in holding England's interest. England felt his head involuntarily turn as he watched the cowboy open the fridge and pull out a beer. Entranced by America's rear, he was taken by surprise when a small weight bowled into his legs.
"Engwand! Engwand!" a child cried, latching on to the older nation with a flying hug.
England staggered to the side and looked down to see a mop of blond hair attached to his hip. He felt his heart flip. The child looked exactly like America as a little colony. The child looked up at England with a sweet smile and his blue eyes sparkled, just like America's. England knelt down so he could look the child in the eyes. The resemblance was uncanny. "Were you the one who answered the phone?" he asked.
"Yep! I'm glad you came," the child replied brightly.
"Typical. His little colony walks into the room and England doesn't notice anyone else," a fourth person added. England looked up and saw the Anti-Flag America who had answered the door. The teenager leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. He glared at the child. "Careful, Am, you've got a little brown on your nose."
England returned to his feet, his eyes sweeping the room as he protectively rested his hand on the child's shoulder. One America ate his hero sandwich, the other drank his beer, and the teenager continued to glare. This wasn't what England had been expecting when he scheduled his flight, but it seemed that America did indeed need his help. "I would like an explanation... and introductions," he said.
The America in a bomber jacket smiled. "Sure thing, England! Let me introduce America, America, and America," he said, pointing at the child, the teenager, and the cowboy. "And obviously I'm America!" he added, giving England a wide grin and a thumbs-up.
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Three more sandwiches and two beers later, England and the Americas sat around the kitchen table as the bomber-jacket-wearing-America launched into a ridiculous explanation. Naturally, America attributed his clones to alien technology and/or a communist plot. Most of it sounded like nonsense; still, England had to admit that there were four Americas running around, so something untoward must have happened. Near the end of the long-winded explanation, England decided that as a responsible nation, he had to stay to help America fix the problem. The younger nation certainly couldn't be trusted to take care of it himself. Which meant that England needed to deal with a more immediate problem:
"I can't call all of you America," he said. "I'm going to need different names."
The Americas glanced at each other, likely wondering who was going to be the America. The official bearer of the stars and spangles. The sweet land of liberty. The one of whom his country sang.
The teenager spoke first. "I'm the United States of America to you," he said, glaring at England sullenly as he claimed the most formal name.
"Big Al," the cowboy said with a wink.
"And I'm the World's Hero. But you can call me America," the America with a bomber jacket said. England decided that this America represented the World War II era. America still referred to himself as a hero in modern times, but he was slightly more subdued about it.
England glanced at the child. "What do you think about Freddie?" he suggested. He'd always called America by his country name when he was a colony, but the nickname seemed to suit the young boy.
Freddie nodded eagerly. "Sounds great, Engwand!"
"Why do you care about our names?" the United States asked, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. Understanding slowly dawned on his face. "No! You are not staying. We don't want you, and we don't need you," he said harshly.
"I want him to stay," Freddie protested, gripping England's arm tightly.
America grinned. "Guys, guys, we're a democracy. We'll take a vote."
With three votes in favor and one against, it was decided: England was staying. The English nation allowed America to carry his suitcase up to the only empty guest bedroom (the other two had already been claimed by the other Americas) and wondered what in the world he was getting himself into.
Author's Notes
A harem comedy, England. You're getting into a harem comedy ;)
