America was torn. He really was. He didn't know what to do. France or England? How could he choose? America dropped his head into his hands, careful to not crush his glasses.
The year was 1812 and England and France were fighting - again. America was caught in the middle, his trading ships being stopped by both countries. He'd wanted to stay neutral, stay out of it, but he ended up being dragged into it anyway. He'd been sending trading ships out to both England and France, but French boats had cut off the trade to England, and vice versa. He had to pick who to help now. Would he side with England? Or would he side with France?
England. His 'big brother'. He couldn't pick France without making it seem like he hated England. And he didn't hate England. He loved England - more than a brother. But England has also hurt him as well. England, with his golden hair and emerald eyes; eyes that had stared down into his baby blues so lovingly. That golden thread of hair he had; the hair that America had ran his hands through and played with throughout his childhood. America knew that he'd hurt him badly with the Revolutionary War. He'd asked for help from France to destroy England, to help him get away from his older brother, to break away and let his people go.
And that brought him to France. How could he side against France when he'd helped America so willingly and successfully? France had been mean to England when England was a child and still on to the day, but he'd been nice to America. He was like a real older brother to America, not like a love interest as England was. France had held him up when he'd wanted to give up and end the Revolutionary War. He'd been there to help America. He gave America the Statue of Liberty as a gift. He'd helped him so much, it would be unfair of him to not help him back.
America sighed, the faces of both England and France swimming in his mind.
He picked up his phone, dialling the number.
England felt broken. He hadn't wanted to ask for help from America, not when he'd hurt him so bad, but he'd been forced to by France. He should be able to defeat France by himself, but not when the trade was being cut off. He needed help, and seeing that America wouldn't - couldn't - bare to hurt him more, he'd asked for help from him. But then the news came.
America was choosing to help France win the war.
England had been furious at first. How could he have chosen France over him? He'd raised America, not France! He'd been there to hug him when he was afraid, to kiss his forehead, to make him smile, to feed him, to play with him. How could he bare to hurt him again? First wanting to seperate from him, and now, when he'd asked for help, he chose France instead?
Then, he'd felt disgusted. Disgusted with himself, for so pathetically asking for help from America. America had hurt him once without minding, what made him think he wouldn't do it again? Of course, he'd side with France. England was disgusting - he must be disgusting if America couldn't stand being his colony, being his baby brother.
And then England had locked himself in his room, fallen on his bed, and felt completely and utterly heartbroken. He buried his face in his pillow, trying to muffle the sobs that were breaking through his shaking body. England let the tears fall out of his eyes, not having cried since the Revolutionary War. Why didn't America choose him? Was he not good enough? Was he really that unimportant to his former brother?
He'd cried himself to sleep that night.
America felt bad, he really did. He was coming home, feeling guilty for hurting England once more, when he smelt it. He smelt the smoke before he saw it. His eyes widened and he ran towrad his Capitol. His legs and lungs burned and ached as he sprinted. He stopped in his tracks when his blue eyes danced over the sight of his Capitol burning to the ground, the flames licking at him, mocking him. But as his eyes fell on a familiar pair of green, he could feel all the guilt he'd felt resurface.
England's face was hard, unemotionless, and America couldn't help but think that he was the reason that mask was set upon England's once happy face. But what made him fall to his knees was that his own, twin brother was standing beside his former adopted brother, staring at him with accusing violet eyes.
"Why?" he managed to croak out. England didn't answer, only walked up to his trembling form. America looked up at England's blank face and flinched violently when England spit at the ground beside him and walked off.
He couldn't bring himself to reach out and stop him.
America looked up at Canada, who was shaking his head at him. America opened his dry mouth, tears in his eyes. "You're my brother," he whispered. "Why would you help him do this?"
Canada came up to him angrily, tears falling from his eyes as his tone, his oh-so-soft tone of voice filled with barely concealed rage. "He was your brother too!" Canada yelled at him. "How could you break him without a second thought?" Before America could reply, that he did have second thoughts, that he didn't want to, Canada continued and America felt that even if he wanted to say those things, he wouldn't ever be able to. "You brought this on yourself." And for the first time ever, Canada looked down at America as though he was the dirt on his shoe. Canada didn't spit at him before following England, but those accusing eyes, those once soft and loving eyes looking at him like he was the lowest form of garbage on the planet, made it as if he had punched him in the gut.
America looked down at the ground, the hurt he'd caused to many people finally surfacing. America tore his eyes away from the rocky ground to look up at the burning building, his hope of being close to England again burning to the grond along with it.