A/N:
I have seen his glory in the dresses of a hundred campy camps
They have builded him an altar in the fanfics do's and damps
I have wrote a righteous sentence in the dim and flaring lamps
Hetalia doesn't belong to me!
Warnings: Incest-as-you-like-it; England's POV as written by an American; Implied rape and/or sex.
It wasn't gradual. It was sudden and shocking like jumping into the icy waters that surrounded his home. One day, it just happened.
America was taller than him.
Impossible.
The height – it wasn't possible for England to ignore that. That was simply something he had to accept. The beginning of the search for independence – that he could ignore. As the little one got larger and larger (it was the fault of all those Jewish grandmothers, England just knew it), he could pretend that it was a size constraint that made the bed too small for the both of them. It was only because of America's new height that England found himself accidentally tossed to the floor night after night. America always had been a squirmer, after all. He was a teenager. Probably just needed space.
And England was all too happy to give him that.
Because other things were not as cut-and-dried as the height issue – not as physical. Or were they? The line of inches and centimeters cleared showed where each nation stood, but what about other lines? The line between colony and independent nation? Canada could attest to the troubles that brought. The line between "giving space" and complete disregard? Australia could attest to those. Most importantly, the line between brother and lover?
X
"I wuv you, England," arms around waist. That was fine – that was adorable! It was wonderful to be treated like a big brother, to be chosen as the better caretaker over that pedophile France.
"I – ah…hey there, America…" The gentleman couldn't formulate a proper reply. Instead, he bent down to give his new friend and charge a European greeting – a quick kiss that was more a brushing of faces than of lips.
X
"England! Haven't seen you in a while!" It was a hug that was stuck between childish tenderness and a man's gruff bear-hug. It was a hug of guilt and hidden gentleness. The almost-adolescent's arms, far too strong for their age, squeezed England too close. Hands in dirty blonde hair, stroking, comforting, promising.
I'm sorry, America, for ignoring the boy who loved him. For being a prick, with his fear of commitment that made him a terrible world empire. He'd show France. He'd show France that he could follow through!
X
"Haha! Look at the snowflakes, England!" America's cheeks were pink, and not just from the cold. He shouldn't have let his adolescent brother have drinks. Of course he shouldn't have! But it was New Years, so of course England was already far gone, his judgment clouded along with his forest-green eyes.
"Happy New Year, America," England whispered under the blanket of snow beginning to coat the pair of blonde heads. In the flurry of white and night, America's baby blue eyes shone like beacons. As midnight began to toll, England leaned forward in the darkness below the clock tower to give his brother a chaste kiss.
X
"Hey, England." Was that a cigarette in the young nation's hands? Henry VIII would not approve. America's cool, removed stare was shockingly different from the last time they'd met, that only hazily-remembered New Years Day. He was wearing some sort of new jacket, slung casually across one shoulder as he leaned back in his chair. He no longer bothered to stand to greet his elders.
"Hey, America," England said, the words hard and strange in his mouth. They tasted like metal.
X
"Ah-ahh…Arthur…" Hands in dirty-blonde hair, stroking, pulling, needing. Legs on legs and fingernails on shoulders. Shockingly different from the last time they'd met.
"God bless America!" Knowing it was wrong, knowing it was sick. Knowing he was no better than any other empire. Knowing no good could come of this.
X
Consent didn't mean anything in the end. A revolution required no consent.