Well, well, well. It's 4th of July again.
Time for me to grace the Hetalia fandom with a horrible story about America. XD I can't write something nice, I don't have it in me.
Align
[1/4]
His first memory is fields.
High sweet grasses and wildflowers in bursts of summer colour: blues, pinks, yellows. There is the thick honeyed scent of pollen, the clusters of soft white seeds on the evening breeze. He knows every muted blue of the sky, every whisper of each silver river. For a long time, he knows nothing else.
Then he meets England - or is discovered by him, as it goes. Suddenly, of every inch of his vast plains, there is nowhere to hide.
There are other nations (this is what they are, he learns) on his land, too, beginning to settle it - all pale-skinned, golden-haired, just like him - but England is the one that interests him the most. England is a lot younger than the others he has seen: in his mid-teens, perhaps, with wild hair and green eyes.
He has never seen green eyes before.
Something draws him to this one in particular, something about the way he holds himself: as though he has something extraordinary on his shoulders that he hasn't grown into yet.
He makes his intentions about settling and owning clear in a voice loud with uncertainty, as though he knows he's biting off more then he can chew. The hand he offers, however, is gentler. Come with me, it says. You are just like us. I will love you, America.
This is his first mistake.
America waits at the window, sitting on the sill, his knees drawn up beneath his chin. He has been waiting, watching, for the past two weeks. Sea travel is a wondrous thing but unpredictable, unreliable, so all he has for now is the letter. The crease is worn and dirty from the number of times he's folded and unfolded it, read it, reread it, cherished the dyed words. Every inch of this letter is etched onto his brain by now, the curve and flick and waver of every character, the smudge in the bottom left corner, the dried splatch of ink under his name.
Sometimes England doesn't get the time to write him letters - or sometimes they don't make it across the sea - so every one that is delivered into his hands is precious. They smell of salt and tea and the tight gritty powder the humans used on their wigs. Close proximity. Even if he hadn't seen the seal, he'd have known that England wrote this in a snatched five minutes at Westminster. He must be busy. The letter, then, brings America all the more glee. Even the humans cannot come between them.
The weather might, however. It's July but it's been raining for close on a week, with bad seas. So every day America sits at the windowsill and watches the grey mist rising off the driveway, listening for the clatter of wheels, the whinny of horses. He's never been a patient boy but this is all he can do.
England will probably be wearing his red velvet frock coat. He likes to travel in that.
England arrives in the late afternoon. It's still raining, the sky a rather sulky grey, and he and the servants are soaked as they bustle into the hall with chests and crates and sackcloth packages. America comes scrambling from the drawing room, where he had cocooned himself in the purple curtain, and bounds amongst them excitedly. England can usually be counted on to bring interesting things from all over Europe back with him - and some of those things edible, too, always a bonus when you've been living off bread and corn and salted meat for months.
Most interesting, of course, is England himself, shaking his wet hair out of his eyes as he orders the house serving staff to take this and that here and there. He is wearing the coat, though it's gone a little bald at the elbows, glittering with damp.
America wants him madly, ducking beneath a Chinese-lacquered chest to get to him; and there he flings himself into his arms.
"England!" He snuggles against his wet chest. "I've missed you so!"
"And I you, poppet," England replies, patting his hair. "But pray let off, I need to change."
America releases him, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He is forced to wait again, agonised, as England gives the last of his directions and heads across the hall towards the sweeping staircase. America pads smugly after him, catching him up on the stairs. He noticed now that he's almost as tall as him.
"England, I simply must show you everything I've been doing whilst you've been gone," he chirps. "I've read all of Shakespeare, every last one, and you were right, they were most wonderful! Also I have practiced my handwriting every day and I think it has improved so much that you will scarcely believe it! Oh, and I shot a buffalo with the most beautiful hide, I really do think it would make such a splendid rug - and the tanner in Boston has agreed to teach me how to-"
"My, my," England interrupts approvingly, "you have been busy." Now an arch of an eyebrow. "And how is your understanding of mathematics?"
America looks away sulkily.
"I have done a little," he admits, "but I find it so boring as to be an offence."
"We will remedy that soon enough," England says calmly, coming to the door of their room. "You must learn, my darling, that mathematics can be quite as splendid as poetry."
"I fail to see how," America sniffs as England opens the door.
"That is because you have yet to know the glories of addition, multiplication..." England smirks. "All far more enjoyable, of course, when one has physical items which perform such tricks. Cotton, sugar, tea..." He gives a satisfied shrug and vanishes into the room beyond.
America follows, hoping that he won't be scolded for the mess. He doesn't like the servants to come in here, even to tidy it up. This is the room he shares with England and the mere thought of a human disturbing the sanctuary of this space unsettles him. It follows, therefore, that the bedsheets are still rumpled and the floor is littered with books and wooden models and clothes.
"Perhaps we'll start with subtraction," England says coolly, shrugging off his wet coat. "Remove all of these things from this floor, you slovenly little hellion."
"Later." America presses the door shut with his weight, leans against it. He's been waiting months for this, for England to finally return to him, for them to retreat once more into their tiny unmarred world.
He will not be denied a moment longer.
He catches England's wrist, leaning in close. He is almost as tall as him now.
"Or, perhaps," he goes on, fingering England's buttons, there might be subtraction of quite a different kind."
"Is that so." England smirks again, allowing him a kiss - for that is what the brat wants. It's dry, short but forceful. "That would be of clothing, I presume." A roll of his green eyes. "Heaven knows where you pick up such things."
America scowls. He is at the age where he thinks everything he says is clever.
"It is no worse than your remark about the mess!" he says crossly.
"Perhaps not," England agrees, smiling. He rubs fondly at America's cheek: the boy has grown a lot since he last saw him but he's still chubby with baby-fat. It makes him delectable - and hard to take seriously. He could gobble that pout right up.
America shakes his head free, determined to get what he wants. He pushes England against the dresser, kissing him again, harder. There is tongue this time, a flash of teeth. He fists his hands in the green silk of England's waistcoat, holding him.
England lets him, opens his mouth, enjoys it; but he puts his hands to America's elbows all the same, holding him at bay. And when, as he does, he begins his silly fumbling, England pushes him off.
"That's enough, lad." He wipes his mouth on his cuff. "Later."
"No, I want-" America begins.
"Yes, I know perfectly well what you want." England pushes his knee up between America's legs, feeling him. The boy hisses, shuddering. "But this room is a disgrace and I'm wet and hungry." He reaches out, takes America's chin to make him look him in the eyes. "When all of these things are remedied, you can have whatever you want."
"I've waited patiently for seven months, America complains, rubbing his chin as England steps past him.
"Then I trust you can wait a little bit longer." England pauses at the door, glancing back at him, his damp coat glittering in the grey light. "My dear colony, isn't it always worth the wait?"
"Mm." America half-giggles, squirming away. "Don't."
He doesn't get far, of course: England is draped over his back, their sated bodies pressed together. America reaches back to bat pathetically at him.
"Stop that."
England, who is licking his shoulder, grins against the bone.
"Just getting a taste," he murmurs.
"Of what?" America wrinkles his nose. "Sweat and hay?"
"Oh, you are too young," England sighs. "You will understand one day."
"Why you keep licking me?"
"Mm." England exhales again, putting his chin against the back of his colony's neck. He wraps his arms around the boy, cuddling him close. Silence.
"England?" America fidgets with the coarse blanket thrown over their tangled bodies. "...Is there something troubling you?"
"Not particularly," England replies. "I am only tired. There is... much turmoil in Europe."
"Oh." A pause. "Does that mean you will not be here long?"
"I fear not." England strokes at his hair. "I am sorry."
"It's not your fault," America mumbles. "I just... well, your last visit was also very short-"
"If France and Spain would mind their own business, I should have all the time in the world to spend with you," England interrupts tiredly. "Alas, they seem to be united in their cause against me."
"Perhaps I could be of some use?" Now America squirms loose, sitting up. He looks down at England, who props his cheek on his fist, watching him wearily.
"I doubt it," he replies. "You are still very young."
"But I have grown very quickly!" America points out. "You have said so yourself - much faster than any other nation you have ever witnessed!"
"Mercifully," England says dryly, giving America a wry look up and down.
"W-well, then is it truly so ludicrous that I might assist you?" America flexes his awkward, skinny arm. "I am strong from tending the fields, I can use many types of weapon, I-"
"Your brain." England sits up, stretching to tap at the boy's temple. "Your mind is not right for it. Not yet."
America scowls.
"And how do you know such things?"
England smiles.
"I am a nation, am I not?" He pats America's cheek. "And a colony you may be, you are of us. The apple never falls too far from the tree."
America shakes his head free with a sulky sigh.
"I wished only to help," he mutters, looking at the fire.
"That is precisely my point." England flops back against the mattress. "You want to help, my dear. You have no urge to kill, not for yourself. When you are consumed... that is when you are ready."
America frowns.
"I hate it when you talk like that," he murmurs, sinking across England's chest. "You do not sound like yourself."
England, carding his hand roughly through the boy's tangled hair, says nothing.
"Tomorrow, at least," America goes on, "may we not amuse ourselves more pleasingly?"
He means a walk into Boston, tending the fields, lunch in the shade of one of the ancient oaks, apple-gathering, a swim in the river, supper in the drawing room by the fire...
"I suppose so," England says, yawning. "And if you are very well-behaved these next few days, I shall take you to New York on Friday."
This is teasing; nonetheless, America pouts.
"I am always well-behaved," he grouses, pinching England's cheeks.
England laughs, shaking his head free. His laugh is still very young - more than his voice, which has dropped lower since America last saw him.
"Yes, I suppose you are," he agrees. "You always do exactly what I expect of you."
New York, high summer, and they have a grand old time. England has work to do, of course, and America spends a lot of time sleeping in or wandering the streets on his own, but the hours they have together are wonderful. England seems to have embraced the fact that America is older now, at least, and for the first time they really feel more like friends than the peculiar parental relationship they had before. Now America realises that the apple does indeed flourish at the root; he sees how alike they are, loves that he is almost England's equal. They engage in conversation that England might have once deemed inappropriate; they go to see bawdy plays that shock the last of America's Puritan values right out of him; they buy new clothes and go drinking in them, tottering back to the house at three in the morning singing sea shanties; they have loud fumbling sex that ends in laughter.
Yes, America has grown quickly. They are two young men, best friends, having the sort of adventure that young men do, quivering at the bone.
America is completely and utterly in love with him - the way that young men are.
The last night:
"Where are you going next?" America is sprawled in the grand bed, lazily watching England pack clothes and books into chests.
"North," England replies absently. "I suppose I ought to look in on your brother."
"May I come?"
"Not this time, darling."
America sits up, folding his arms over his knees.
"Why not? Canada is my brother, after all. I have not seen him in a long while."
"The conditions are..." England pauses. "Well, I just think it safer if you go back to Boston."
"England, I am hardly a child," America says coldly. "I should hope that the last few weeks have shown you that."
England merely snorts.
"Sexual maturity and mental maturity are two very different things," he says, "especially in creatures like us. I pray that you forget about what you see the humans doing. They are not something to be measured by."
"I am not asking to be made a general!" America groans, throwing an arm over his face and flopping back. "Nor even a governor!"
"Then what?" England stops, straightening. He looks at him across the room. "You desire to be my consort?"
"What would that entail?"
"Travelling about with me, hanging most prettily off my arm... keeping my bed warm, as it were."
This is sarcastic, of course, but America looks at him sincerely from beneath his elbow.
"Yes please," he says gravely.
"I am not in the practice of keeping colonies to be my whores," England replies sharply.
"I know - but it sounds like a good time, all the same."
"Oh, you say that now," England sighs, "but you'd grow to resent me most dreadfully."
"Then I would stop." America shrugs.
"By then the damage would be done." England goes back to his task. "If you want to be taken seriously, keep your head down until you are ready to be reckoned with."
"I am ready to be reckoned with," America argues.
"You are not." Again England drops what he's doing; he comes to the bedside, folding his arms.
America glances up at him furtively, almost slyly.
"Then why do you waste your time with me?"
"Because I know strength when I see it." England's tone is somewhat absent-minded. He sits on the edge of the bed, leans over, lets America wrap his arms around him and cling. They share a kiss. America still tastes of alcohol; England has let him have far too much.
"Perhaps one day I'll destroy you, then," America murmurs, pressing his forehead to England's. "How about that?"
"Perhaps," England agrees. He sounds dazed, uncommitted.
America, who said it only to make him squawk in indignation, frowns. He lays his head on England's shoulder. He needs to feel him now, warm, solid, because soon it will all be gone again. Just as he can grasp him, he will slip between his fingers.
"Despite our closeness," he whispers, watching the candle burn at the bedside, "I feel that I cannot reach you."
He feels England reach up to stroke at the back of his neck. It's gentle, constant, like the rain on the window.
"That," England replies, "is for the best."
This story should be four parts. I do have a lot of it done already so hopefully it won't take me too long but we all know how often I say that and then fail to deliver. :D
Incidentally, this part of the story seems rather normal. Hopefully that won't last too long...