On June 20th 1890, Oscar Wilde wrote his first and only novel called The Picture of Dorian Grey. It first appeared in an American magazine and, for some reason, left a bad taste in England's mouth. He would've never heard of the story but the company he was in (friends would you call it?) loved to gossip and discuss current events and drink tea. Well, of course, it was the Victorian age, the very decade that decided to dub England the title of the gentleman of Europe. And that was a very different view in which England never in his life had the pleasure of receiving. France liked to call him the black sheep of Europe. Others called him a hooligan and a delinquent. But now as empire of the world, it was easier to make people have a more positive opinion about you. As long as those Charles Dickens novels didn't circulate around too much depicting the scum of Britain, England was often now associated with class, intelligence, and dignity. It was a title he never thought he liked having. And he did want to keep it that way.

He instantly asked about the story after hearing its harsh criticisms on him, the United Kingdom.

"It's a dreadful story," one had told him.

"It's vulgar," another said. "The author should be prosecuted!"

"Why is that?" England was instantly interested. It seemed to have become a very British thing to gossip nowadays…

"Well, where to start? I suppose with the whole homosexual tone that presents itself throughout the story…and the criticism by some chum about our decadence…"

That was all England needed to know. After raising his glass of tea to take a sip, he started to wonder, however, if he was being a little too (what had France called him the other day?) crude?

Well, why did it matter? France was no better. He was the British Empire, the most powerful country on the earth. If he was being that way, number one, that had to be a good enough reason. And number two, he wasn't too crude. The world just hated the passing of power. That's when England stopped thinking about the matter altogether.

Then America had brought the book up.

It was when America and his boss had meet up in Britain to discuss to the current small dispute between England and Venezuela over land. It wasn't too much of a necessity for America to show up, it just seemed like routine meetings with their bosses and, as far as England knew, America wanted nothing to do with him. He could tell as soon as he laid eyes on his former colony that the boy was dragged there by his boss and could even tell America had put up a fight about it. Well, whatever…what else did he expect from him?

England didn't remember how it happened, but they both ended up being alone as both their bosses went off to chat secretly. Awkwardness filled England's body and he didn't know what to do. Should he talk to America? Did he have to offer something? It was only routine that he did it whenever other nations visited…

America seemed to have had it figured out though, as he sat on a chair, reading a book and took no particular interest to England's presence what so ever. And he sure as hell never bloody well tried to talk to him. From the moment England saw America, the youth had adverted his eyes from him.

What a child…England thought, having nothing else better to do but sit down next to him awkwardly and think. I remember when he used to kiss my hand as a boy whenever he saw me. Now he's still sore over what? The…revolution? That was around a hundred years ago…that dispute in 1812? Well, I suppose that is something to be sore over…

England was still thinking when, out of nowhere, America started to talk to him.

"Have you read this book?" America asked.

"No," England said, not turning to even look at it. Why is he talking? He thought. Just stop talking, I don't care if you don't like me…it was better this way, wasn't it?

"I think the guy who wrote it was British…"

England's head swirled towards the novel, now very confused. Why would he be reading a British book?

But then he caught the name of the title and then snorted. Dorian Grey. By Oscar Wilde.

"The man who wrote it was Irish."

"So, isn't he British?"

England couldn't help but sneer and have that parental tone in his voice as he answered, "There's a difference between being British and Irish."

As soon as he finished the sentence, he knew had gone too far. It was a tone he knew America hated and now, looking back at it, did seem a bit harsh.

But before he could even begin to open his mouth, America had stood up quickly and walked away. England just watched, his stomach turning over. Alright, maybe that was too much…

He felt anger, confusion, embarrassment, guilt, and sorrow all at the same time. He didn't know which one was the proper emotion for this moment…Well, no use getting hung up about it.

But it did stay enough in his mind the next few months for him to start reading the novel. He also grew more and more curious. The press around it was very keen on making everyone know it was an abomination and fellow Englishmen seemed to believe it. He had to give them props, they were pretty accurate in knowing what he would think. But now it was the time to see if they had been right.

It only took England a week to finish the novel and the great empire couldn't stop his heart from swelling with love for his people.

They're always right he thought. They can read me like a book. Well, they were him in a way. But their opinions and outrage were not out of place, in his honest opinion.

This book is horrendous, he thought. And just to prove to myself that we, the English, aren't too crude and know a thing or two about what great literature is, I'll be the bigger man and ask that yank what he thought of it… And I'll prove to that git who the bigger and more mature person is!

But a lump instantly started to form in England's throat as soon as he thought of the idea. America? How did that thought even come about? The boy hates me…maybe I won't ask him I suppose…

During those months, England never came face to face with America or even heard much about him after that particular incident. The boy has his own problems to deal with, and I, my own he thought. And that was the end of it.

But fate conspired otherwise. His boss would soon be meeting America's again for another discussion about that damn Venezuela and some stupid doctrine named after a president. He had asked England if he was to come with but England tried at first to decline.

"Russia is in America at the moment as well," his boss said. "I implore you to start rebuilding whatever bridge you burned with him…"

Russia? Their relationship was still on the rocks, going back and forth every few decades.

"I don't think now is the time for it…" he said.

"It would be better to do this as soon as possible."

England thought for a moment. His boss was right. The British Empire needed allies at the moment, and Russia was growing stronger and stronger at an alarming rate. It wasn't smart to get on that man's bad side, which is what England had kind of been doing for some time now. Maybe he could give Russia the book as a token of friendship. God knows he didn't want it. And he knew Russia did like literature.

As soon as England and his boss arrived in America, they were greeted by the harsh winter. It seemed even the weather in this goddamn country disliked him. England stayed with his boss in a upper-class village in, what the locals called, a Victorian style home. England had no ill will towards America's people anymore, but it was hard not to laugh at what they considered Victorian. America was very modern and it was amusing to see it becoming something it really wasn't. Europe that is.

Hadn't his founding fathers, those rebellious yanks, said they didn't want to be like Europe?

It was all amusing now.

The day finally came when England would have to meet Russia and he had been dreading it. Not only because of the long ride to where Russia was staying, which would take around a two hour ride, but also because he just did not have anything prepared to say to him. How did you go about trying to get allies? It wasn't impossible, but he knew it couldn't be achieved in one meeting.

His boss had stayed behind. Something about Russia and England needing to be alone, sorting out their own problems and what not…But he knew it was really because even his boss didn't want anything to do with the man. Russia was huge and intimidating. In the carriage ride there, England couldn't help but think ill thoughts towards his boss, representing him like this. A coward. England was no pansy. He wouldn't let Russia make a fool out of him; he was the British Empire and the ruler of the world. Why should he be afraid of anyone?

Anybody who tried to stand up against it would meet their downfall. That is except…

England signed as he heard the single trotting steps of the horse pulling the carriage and looked out the window.

Why did he agree to even come here? He hated Russia, there was no way they could ever become friends, so what was the point? But England knew deep in his heart what his real goal had to be. Why he had agreed to come to America.

There's no use in trying to get around this thing anymore…England thought. We can't be like this forever. We have to start being on good terms. It doesn't help that we'll see each other for hundreds and hundreds of years to come. The anger is just out of place and useless…it's also tiring. We have to start getting along. Getting to know and support each other. It only makes sense. He is my son…

When was the last time I ever called him that?

He tried to remember…but it had been so long ago and he had been successful at getting rid of almost all those memories from his mind.

I can try to bring up the book when we meet again…but knowing him, he probably loved it. That won't do any good…we are in enough hot water as it is.

His carriage made its slow journey towards where Russia would be staying, a small cottage in a nearby village. After about a half an hour, England started to curse himself. He really should've put on something warmer.

Why is it so damn cold in this country lately? England thought to himself. It must've always been this way and I suppose I've forgotten…

He brought his fist to his chin and realized it was the first time today he was actually seeing his surroundings. Now that he looked at it, he was happy to have been in his mind for so long. There was something ugly about this place…and also something extremely depressing. Even the trees looked like they were shivering whenever the wind blew.

Why can't I remember it being this cold? I've had been here enough times to experience all four seasons…yes, I remember it being winter, I remember seeing snowflakes here and they were beautiful…but why have I forgotten it being this cold?

Something about this upcoming winter was off. And as they stretched further and further on, England tried harder and harder to put the pieces of the puzzle together. Something was wrong about this place, he could feel it. But what was it? The trees, the snow, the silence, the wind…?

Or maybe it was nothing….

This wasn't his country after all. Maybe it was all in his head.

And then the carriage stopped. England hadn't even noticed.

"Sir."

England flinched and then realized they were not moving. And what's even more, his servant was right at his window, looking at him concerned.

"Yes, Stuart?"

"Are you alright?"

Did the man have eyes on the back of his head? Did he know what England had been thinking?

"Of course. Why did we stop?"

"I need you to see something."

England watched him walk out of view. Now alert of the situation, he came out quickly and looked towards the path where the horse was facing. It wasn't as unusual as it had been before. The pathway was still a muddy mess, snow in various awkward places, and the sky was still white. The trees had not lost their somewhat ghastly black color and only a few leaves on the ground still had their autumn color.

"Look down," the coachman said.

England looked. At first he saw nothing. But then saw specks of something dark and pretty soon more pools of it were spread along the path. Blood. He bent down to take a closer look.

"What is this?" He asked his coach.

"Look over there," the man pointed towards the trees. England looked again and then saw more blood spots leading off into the woods along with broken branches, making the snow such a red color.

"Get my pistol," England said. As his coachman went to retrieve it, England started walking towards the woods, his eyes transfixed on the blood. At first his heart was jumping but then, as he started to think rationally, he started to calm down. It must be a deer he thought.

"It's just some wounded animal, calm down," England called over his shoulder to his servant. "It's hunting season. I'm sure that's all this is."

He began to walk back towards the carriage but then stopped when his servant spoke up.

"There's a base over there, sir." he said.

England looked directly at him.

"What do you mean? Like a military base?"

"An American Cavalry is stationed very close to here…"

England looked back at the ground, trying to sort this in his head. Well, perhaps that made sense…if that was true, they shouldn't be around here long between the two fighting forces. After a long hesitation, England said, "Let's keep going."

"Are you sure about that?"

"Yes."

"What if someone's hurt?"

"It's none of our business."

The man opened his mouth but, probably remembering who he was talking to, closed it quickly.

"Yes sir."

The coachman walked back to his station but for some reason England felt planted to the spot. He looked back again towards the woods and suddenly felt the sting of curiosity started to creep into him.

It's none of our business He had just said. But it was America's….

"I'm going to go take a look," England said. He started forward, not even bothering to look back when he heard the surprised voice of his coachman.

"You want me to come with?"

"I'll call you if anything happens."

He slowly crept into the woods, following the small blood splatters. At some points, there would be none around what so ever. But soon he would find some again and they seemed to definitely be leading somewhere. He studied the snow, trying to figure out if his first suspicion was right. But the ground was also covered in dead leaves, making it almost unknown to anyone who would've crossed into these woods.

As he looked up, he noticed the trees branches looked like thin, dark, fingers ready to enclose him. There was nothing but white and a dark brown. A very dark brown. Colors that, for some reason, didn't go together in England's mind. He tried to stop thinking. Always this thinking, never focusing…

It didn't take long for him to suddenly spot a body.

England instantly froze, not so much out of fright, but out of knowledge. He had seen plenty of bodies littered on the ground before, this was no different. The question wasn't what happened at this moment, but if anyone else was around here. Was anyone pointing a gun to at his back? After a few seconds of no sound or movement, he decided to take a closer look, being careful to still be quiet.

England could see, even from a few yards away, the eyes of the victim where half way open. The body, which appeared to be that of a middle aged man, was lying in an awkward angle, the arms and legs bent strangely. His uniform was ripped in various places and his chest area, in particular, was covered in blood. A small gun lay a few feet by him, accompanied by more blood and a darker redder snow.

Yes, this had to be a solider…

But England's mind began to race. Was America at war with anyone at the moment? His civil war was over, wasn't it? Yes, he was sure it was. It had ended decades ago in fact. Well, England didn't know much of that matter anyhow.

He unlocked his eyes away from the body and decided to investigate further.

He only had to get a few yards away to finally see some out of place color hidden behind some trees. Something a dark orange…fire?

He went towards it and, out of the hundreds of trees, came into an opening. It was campsite with about two light brown tents and some gear, tools, and personal items lying right next to it. The only sound was that of the fire surrounded by pans that looked like they had been used very recently.

England went closer to the tents and gear, inspecting anything he could as to see if they had been ambushed. But the tent and…everything else looked unusually fine. The only thing really unsettled seemed to be the violent footprints in the snow.

It was what first told England that something was very wrong here. In all his years of life he knew what it looked like after someone sneaked up and attacked you. People would be dead, sure, but all traces of the victim's origin would be destroyed. Things would get burned down, personal items thrown about or stolen, and everything would be ransacked. It didn't matter if it was a village or a military base. For some reason they were all the same. But to England it seemed like the point of this ambush was just murder. But then again, that's always the point.

England walked around the tents and saw another body lying face down in the snow. A man also dressed in blue, with small dabs of blood, leaves, and dirt over his back and body. England didn't care to turn the man over or even take a second look; the scent smelt like everything around the area was dead. There was no point in checking. And it wasn't upon himself to even touch the man.

His eyes were still stuck on the body though as he walked further away, only the sounds of his shoes crushing the snow adding to the moments intensity England was almost revolted by himself at how fascinating he was finding the crime scene. When had this been so interesting? Maybe when it wasn't happening to your own people…

England stopped for a second and stood, letting his sense alert him to anything if he heard or saw it. But no one seemed around…so perhaps he didn't have to be careful anymore. Maybe he could investigate more?

But something in head told him that this was enough. The scent of death was too great now and he shouldn't have to deal with looking at these things any longer. It did no good to the mind at all the longer you allow yourself to be around unsettling things such as this. It wasn't his business anyway.

When he met up with America next, he would tell him.

Then, as he turned to the left, he spotted America only a few yards away lying in the snow, nude, battered, and beaten.

NOTES

On June 20th 1890, Oscar Wilde wrote his first and only novel called The Picture of Dorian Grey

When this novel came out, apparently there was a lot of criticism from the British press and, as the man said to England, it was mainly due to its criticism of 18th century England. It did have homosexual themes, but they were soon edited out of the story all together.

As long as those Charles Dickens novels didn't circulate around too much depicting the scum of Britain, England was often now associated with class, intelligence, and dignity.

I'm more or so referring to Oliver Twist here. England did have a lot of, I guess you can call it, "secret" low lives of that time.

It was when America and his boss had meet up in Britain to discuss to the current small dispute between England and Venezuela over land

Venezuela Crisis of 1895

His boss would soon be meeting America's again for another discussion about that damn Venezuela and some stupid doctrine named after a president.

I'm talking about the Monroe Doctrine that basically states that Europeans weren't allowed to colonize new lands in North America anymore and if they did, America would get pissed.

Russia is in America at the moment as well," his boss said. "I implore you to start rebuilding whatever bridge you burned with him…"

Apparently England and Russia weren't the best of friends during this time. In 1853, they battled each other in The Crimean War. And then there was this war scare between them in 1885 and then…they got along during the Boxer Rebellion…

I don't know…you know I'm getting all of this from wikipedia…

Remember! This is fanfiction, not a history book! I'm bound to get something wrong.