Extended summary:
My headcanon about how USUK got together.
The time is World War II, set in the winter of 1942.
The U.S. has been in the war for less than a year, but America is already tangled deep within the bloody mess.
Around him, turmoil reigns and the situation at hand seems hopeless. France is in immeasurable pain. Russia is frightening and strangely aloof. England is still recovering from the Blitz.
Nothing seems to be going right.
It is during this time of struggle that America and England are sent out on a mission. What was meant to be a simple reconnaissance trip turns into one of the bloodiest battles yet.
America doesn't think that they'll make it out alive.
He doesn't want any regrets.
XxXxX
Chaos.
That was the only word that America can think of to describe the blur of the battle around him. England is at his side, holding a gun and limping along as best as he is able. Bullets whiz by their heads, and all around them, soldiers drop like flies.
It was a solemn reminder of the world they are living in right now. Families are torn apart, innocent lives lost, and destruction runs rampant.
America yanks England to the side as a bullet flies past his arm, nearly catching him. They were both injured, England with a broken ankle and America with a bullet in his shoulder. England was leaning heavily on America. They both knew that they were of no use on the battlefield right now, and both were looking desperately for a way to retreat.
They stumbled through the mess, nearly tripping over their fallen comrades. America saw a man catch a bullet through the head and fall to the ground, blood slowly staining the freshly fallen snow a bright crimson.
They had to get out of here. That was America's only rational thought. We have to get out of here, and I have to keep Arthur safe.
They made painstakingly slow progress across the field, before finally they stumbled into a trench. It appeared to be the safest place to shelter, for the time being.
"England," America said, setting him down in a position that wouldn't aggravate his broken ankle.
"What?" England croaked, coughing blood into his hand. He was clearly in a worse condition than America was.
America for once did not know what to say. They sat in silence, listening to the sounds of the battle around them. Screams echoed throughout the clearing, the sound of bullets hitting flesh loud in their ears.
They listened to their men die. They could feel every death, sense every heartbeat that came to an early stop, and it pained them more than their physical wounds ever could.
There was nothing more that they wanted to be than to be out there, fighting alongside their soldiers, instead of sitting like useless ducks. But they both knew that their injuries were too severe. In their fragile states, a bullet to the chest might be enough to kill them. They couldn't risk it.
America finally spoke. "I hate this."
England nodded in agreement, his emerald eyes meeting America's sky blue. "We can only hope that it will be over soon."
Four stray bullets hit the hard packed dirt, mere inches from England's chest. Both he and America sucked in breaths, the knowledge that their lives could end any second now heightening their fear.
They had both died on the battlefield before. It was something impossible to avoid when one was what they were. They were creatures of time, who saw empires rise and fall, wars won and lost, love and tragedy.
Usually, after their deaths, they laid in the mud for the better part of a day before they regained consciousness, feeling as though every nerve was on fire. Coming back to life was never pleasant. The battleground would usually be abandoned, and the nearest people could be miles away. Sometimes their bodies would have been moved, and they would be extremely disoriented and have no idea where they were.
"You okay?" America asks. They both know the answer.
"No." England coughs again, and America feels a spike of concern for the older nation.
They lapse into another silence, and the sounds of the battle have not dulled at all. If anything, they have grown louder.
England starts to shiver, the cold winter air doing nothing to help. America takes a moment to curse the snow before he shifts his position so that he and England are not longer facing each other, but are sitting side by side.
"Come here," America says, and pulls England against his side. England's head comes to rest on America's shoulder.
"Thank you," England breathes, pressing closer and relishing in the shared body heat. America notices, and wraps an arm around him. England was so skinny, it was no surprise that he was shivering uncontrollably. The Blitz had left him scrawny and malnourished. He didn't have enough body fat to keep his internal temperature high enough to stay warm.
More silence between the two of them. And really, there's nothing left to say. They can't change their situation, and wallowing in hopelessness wouldn't get them anywhere.
It finally becomes too much. "I'm sorry," America says, although he isn't exactly sure what he is apologizing for. He's said it before, and he'll say it again. Over and over, for no apparent reason.
"It's not your fault," England replies. "None of this is your fault." In a way, he does want to blame America for waiting two years to join the war, but he knows that America himself had no control over the matter. What matters now is that America is here, he is fighting, and they might have some hope of winning now.
America opens his mouth to reply, but whatever he was going to say is silenced by another bullet flying at them. It catches England in the arm, and the snow around them is spattered in red, the color so thick by now that it almost appears black.
"Arthur," America says, pulling him closer. There's nothing else to say. He knows the they're both dying, it does no good to attempt to deny it. The battle rages on, and they grow weaker. Both of them know that they probably won't make it to see the next sunrise.
If England feels any surprise at the use of his human name, he gives no indication, just choosing to bury his face in America's jacket collar in an attempt to hide the pain from the newest wound.
"Arthur, God, I wish I could change this." America says.
England laughs, but there is no humor behind it, only a resigned sort of self pity. "So do I."
More bullets strike the dirt, dangerously close, and America decides that if he's going to die here, he's not going to have any regrets.
"Arthur," he says, pulling back slightly to take England's chin in a dirty, bloody hand. Their eyes lock, and screw it, America thinks.
He leans in and their lips meet. England's lips are chapped and America is certain that his aren't in a better condition. They both move slowly, mouths opening, and then the kiss tastes overwhelmingly of blood. America grimaces, but doesn't pull away because he knows that England isn't the only one who's bleeding.
When they finally break apart, America has two gentle hands on the side of England's face. England stares at him, and America can see the question in his eyes. Was this just a moment of desperation, or was it that America had feelings for him?
"I've wanted to do that for a long time now," America admits, barely daring to speak above a whisper, answering England's silent question. There's a fragile feeling in the air, a mood that America doesn't want to shatter.
England closes his eyes, thinking for a moment, and then he opens them again. "Really?" he asks, as though he can barely believe it.
"Yes," America affirms, "I think I've been in love with you since forever."
England takes in a deep breath. "I must admit that I'm rather fond of you too."
America feels a rush of relief, and then he's pressing his lips against England's again, desperate for more of the feeling that he'd dreamed of for so long.
They both know that their situation is hopeless, and perhaps that is why England allows this to happen. He wouldn't usually kiss someone on the battlefield, but America is special, and they both have one foot in the grave anyway, so what harm is there to it?
Eventually, their already lethargic kisses slow to a complete stop, their bodies too tired to continue. England buries his face in America's chest. They're both losing too much blood, and they both know that it's only a matter of time before one of them passes out.
Words bubble up on England's tongue, but he is so, so exhausted and none of them make any sense.
"Shhh," America says, holding England in as tight of a grip as his weakened state would allow him to. "Just rest, you've earned it."
England has no protest as the gentle words lull him to sleep, or perhaps he loses consciousness as everything fades to black. The last thing he remembers is feeling a strange sense of peace and calm as he lays dying in the arms of someone who he might one day call his lover.
America watches as England slips into sleep, his labored breathing slowing down before it eventually stops. America wants to scream and cry, but he has no more tears left to shed. He's seen England die before, yet it never gets easier. This war has taken its toll on all of them, so America just pulls England closer and buries his face in England's hair, waiting for the end.
Another bullet catches him unawares, right in the stomach. Blood drips from the wound, painting the scene a bright scarlet, adding to the morbid picture.
America is getting dizzy now, his vision is fading, and he knows that he's nearly gone. With his last breath, he whispers, "See you in a little while, Arthur," and his breathing stops.
XxXxX
England wakes up in a trench, the snow below him stained an ugly crimson. For a moment, all he knows is immeasurable pain. Every nerve in his body is alight with brutal, unrelenting agony as his body slowly transitions from dead to living again. His wounds are healing, and he knows that there are bullets that will need to be dug out after the skin has healed around them.
After what seemed to be an eternity, his vision clears and he can make out the gruesome scene that greets him. He sits up slowly, allowing his body to adjust to the movement. He takes a moment to take in his surroundings.
America lies next to him, probably having fallen over after death took him, shortly after England's own. England reaches out and brushes a piece of hair out of America's face. Sometimes he forgets just how young America is. He's still practically a kid, only physically nineteen, but he's seen so much.
Fighting back a wave of emotion, England lies down and places his head on America's chest. He is in absolutely no condition to attempt to find his way back to the encampment, where medical attention hopefully waited. His best chance would be to wait until America woke up again, so that the two of them could stumble back together.
England closes his eyes, leaning on America. His ear is flat to America's chest, listening to a heart that has slowly begun to beat again.
XxXxX
When they finally make it back to the camp, they're taken to the nearest permanent base. Their wounds are treated, the bullet shells embedded in their skin are dug out, and they're returned to active duty.
Soon, they're sent out once more, and it's the same hell all over again. The cycle repeats itself. They fight. They die. They wake.
There seems to be no end to it, until finally there is.
When the announcement comes, there is a sudden silence, and then there's a wave of relief followed by an uproarious cheer of joy.
America pulls England into his arms, and then they're kissing again, not caring what others will think.
The war is over, and they've earned their peace.