TELL ME LIES
1614
England rode all through the night to reach America, and the dew was glimmering in the dim light of dawn when he galloped up to America's house. He leapt from the back of his well-lathered horse, not even bothering to tie her up, then bounded up the steps two by two and burst into the house. He stood in the doorway momentarily, panting, before calling out, "ALFRED! Alfred, where are you?"
"Papa!" cried a little voice, and Virginia, or Elizabeth as England called her, ran down the staircase towards him. She jumped into his arms, fully trusting England to catch her, never doubting that her papa would reach out for her. England swung her up and cradled her close. Virginia gazed up at him adoringly, her eyes the same unreal color of blue as America's, her blonde hair in ringlets.
"Where is America?" England asked her, even as he made his way upstairs, Virginia still cuddled in his arms.
"He's in his room with the new baby," Virginia said happily, clapping her hands. "You should see him, papa! He's perfect!"
"I've no doubt," England said, but he was still out of breath from his wild ride and could manage no more. At the landing he sat Virginia down and then knocked at the door to America's room.
"Come in!" called America's cheerful voice, and England took heart that he sounded no worse for wear. He couldn't quite silence the nagging voice of guilt, not since even before Virginia's conception when he'd taken the boy into his bed when America had been so painfully young that he hadn't even fully grown into his long arms and legs. England had known - knew - it was wrong, and yet he had not stopped himself. All he had wanted was to lay America down, to spend long summer nights drowning in him, touching him, possessing them. Virginia had tied them together, a living breathing bond, and England hoped this new baby would only strengthen that bond. Make it unbreakable. Immortal.
America was sitting up in bed. In his arms he held a tiny bundle, and England's heart leapt into his throat. The baby was born too early, yes, but America's strength was nothing human, and perhaps their child had inherited some of it. "Arthur, come look," America told him, shifting so that England would have a place to sit beside him. Virginia climbed up on the foot of the bed, curling up like a cat, watching them with her large, beautiful eyes.
"I haven't decided what to call him yet," America told England as he pulled the blanket back from the baby's face. "Maybe Nathan or Nicholas..."
America's new baby was rosy with several downy wisps of light-colored hair. Newborns often looked rather odd, but this little one was as beautiful as Virginia had been seven years ago. England took one look and melted inside. He brushed a finger against the baby's cheek, marveling in how their son yawned and stretched. "I'd like him to be called York," he said. "A New York, after my own city."
It was only natural for a father to desire that his firstborn son carry his name.
America chuckled at this. "You want to baptize the world after yourself. All right, he's New York."
Suddenly, England's attention snapped back up to America. "Did the midwives say that he was healthy?" he asked anxiously. "He's so early - only seven months. They rarely survive that early."
America made a rude sound with his lips. "He's not that early. The midwife said he's an eight months baby. Besides, he's big and strong." He began to coo at his child. "That's right, huh? Gonna grow up to be a big boy."
England's heart iced over. The blood pounded in his ears. Eight months. He glanced over at little Virginia, who had Alfred's eyes and his thick eyebrows, who was gazing at her little brother fondly. Eight months.
The last time he and America had been together was seven months ago, in February. If the midwife were correct, this rosy-cheeked baby boy could not be his child. If the midwife were correct, then New York was conceived in January, around the time that Netherlands visited on a diplomatic mission.
"England?" America asked, peering at him with concern. "Are you all right? You look kinda sick."
England's attention snapped back to his young ward and the child in his arms. He swallowed, painfully. "America..." he trailed off, lost in thoughts of America, the center of his world, laying beneath that depraved libertine, spreading his legs, begging to be taken, letting Netherlands rut against him in the bed where he and England made love. "America... are you sure there's been no one else?"
"What are you talking about?" America looked at him as though he'd grown a second head. "No, there's no one else! You're so weird, England."
Of course not. There was no one else, America said so. The midwife must be mistaken. New York was a seven months baby, and Netherlands had never so much as looked at America cross-eyed. This perfect little family was all his after all. England smiled weakly and kissed America on the forehead.
The years passed, and New York grew up. He was christened Nathan after all, Nathan Kirkland by his proud papa, who simply did not think about how his eldest son grew so tall and how he looked more and more like the Netherlands every day.
For a christening gift, Netherlands sent England a cuckoo clock.