Title – Requiem For A Dream
Author – Gosangoku
Rating – M
Pairing(s) – possible future USxUKxUS, others mentioned
Genres – Angst, tragedy, alternate history, potentially some disturbing themes, possible future friendship and romance.
Warnings – Personified countries; violence; alternate history.
Notes – If you didn't like Silencer, I doubt you'll like this. But it isn't really based on that... Other than that, yay angst. Let's see if I can match CLAMP levels... Lol, I doubt it. Still, challenge accepted.
x.
Pain. He gasped and writhed but still had enough pride to feel humiliated by his own behaviour. He felt weak and he loathed it; he couldn't be seen like this by anybody. Due to his own misconceptions, he had led his troops right into disasterous terrain. Rather than rain that cascaded from the sky and washed away blood, the crimson liquid stained the area. Only bullets and screams could be heard, but he had enough practice to dismiss his own mens' cries of agony. They echoed in his head and resonated in his dreams, but he couldn't let the sounds hinder him. But he had misconstrued his plans. He had ventured through Somme with care but not enough precision; they hadn't been able to catch Germany off guard and his men had paid for his error. He had no idea how many, if any, of his men had escaped alive. He himself had continued shooting furiously even after he had lost feeling in one arm, his side was pulsing violently and he could no longer stand. (He hated being unable to stand. He couldn't stand sitting at another's feet. He wasn't subservient or weak in the least.) Icy blue eyes that were not reminiscent of the sky in the least stared down at him, unrepentent and closed off. They had to be. They could hold no sympathy for their enemies, no matter what. That didn't prevent him from feeling somewhat repulsed by Germany, even though he himself had acted terribly in the past and probably would in the future. They exchanged no words as his enemy drew his gun. He was found hours later and the boy - the man who looked so much like his brother didn't look at him as he carried him back to their camp. Although it made him hate himself more, he couldn't help but, just for a moment, imagine that it wasn't Canada carrying him. He refused to cry this time. England's silent footsteps ceased outside of the Canadian's tent. Eavesdropping was rude, but often necessary. And whilst this was an issue that wasn't particularly beneficial for information regarding the war, England had to admit that he often became caught up in personal problems and emotional ties too. Thus, ignoring the blood seeping through his bandages, he stood quietly outside of the tent and listened to the two brothers' discussion with little guilt. "Believe me, I have stayed out of it for as long as possible; I do not even wish to be a part of it now." "However, you..." "I "America, I believe he realises that... If you two would stop dancing around each other and talk without barriers, then I..." "That is just absurd, Canada. Do you not know England? He is..." "I am perfectly aware of who he is, America! I am still with England and I fully intend to finish this war with him." "But that is because he is controlling you, Canada! Similarly, he controlled me by imposing taxes and..." "America, hush. You have no idea who England is. Neither do I. Nobody knows each other fully; it is wrong of you to presume so. It was wrong of him to use you for finance, I will not deny that. It was reasonable of you to crave independence. However, it is "I laid it out for him quite plainly, Canada! I..." "This is not about then, America. You have to be aware of that. It is the 1900s, not the 1700s. Perhaps you will both never smooth it over, but you must at least accept that times have changed and now we are in a full "...I know that, Canada. It is not I who cannot move on. Nonetheless, I... I am willing to participate in this... I know it is not something for those without will. My words are not meaningless, Canada; I do not say something unless I truly intend to develop it. I am part of this war now, and I will not let you down." "I am not sure if it of interest to you, America, but... England has never doubted your words." Silence enveloped the area once again. With an even more bruised ego that before, England staggered back over to his tent, leaving bloodied footprints in his wake. America looked up from the papers to gaze disinterestedly at his companion. "Mm," he hummed, not taking his eyes off of the apathetic form of the Englishman. "History tends to repeat itself." He didn't miss how England's hands tightened on his teacup. "No," he replied softly, staring into his tea that had long since gone cold. "Similar aspects occur in diverse fashions. It is never the same circumstance." His eyes fluttered closed and the cup trembled in his grasp. "Contrary to what you may believe, America, I do not want another war." He swallowed, head lowering and hair falling like a curtain to hide his face. "I... Once, perhaps I may have been able to handle a world war. But not now. Now... I am not what I once was." America watched the pale man through thinly veiled cynicism, but he couldn't help but frown at his defeated words or slumped posture. He looked tired. So tired. "Are you saying you are going to surrender?" He didn't expect the laugh. And, by the surprised look on England's face, he didn't either. It sounded borderline hysterical and more like a sob than a laugh, but there were no tears. "What on earth is wrong with you, boy?" he whispered hoarsely, meeting his eyes. "One such as myself would never admit defeat... in most circumstances." Something indecipherable lingered in the emerald depths, and America smiled warily at him. Marching up to his new ally with a sense of youthful vigour, he inclined his head. "It is lovely to see you again, England," he drawled, only half teasing. Green eyes flickered but England didn't smile. He stood stiffly, arms held tightly by his sides, and he hummed in response. "History repeats itself, hm?" he muttered, chuckling weakly at the irony of his words as he repeated America's. "No," America replied vehemently, tone softening soon after. He held out a hand and awkwardly placed it on the smaller man's shoulder. (He couldn't help but momentarily revel in the surge of power he felt when he looked England offered him a small smile, looking like he wanted to believe America but finding it difficult. But he didn't undermine his new ally, simply nodded tightly and turned to lead him back to their base. America said he had to get something from his plane and, whilst England wasn't looking, he cast a glance back at him, feeling that strange sensation buzz through him again when the Briton clutched his side. He vowed to win this war. "I am aware of that." Any conversation was stunted by England, not that America really wanted to speak at present as it was; his chest was heaving from exertion even without moving much. Whilst he was thankful and... and sort of pleased that England had silently insisted upon patching him up after Japan's attack, he couldn't help but feel curious regarding the man's thoughts. He hadn't spoken much for a long while and, whilst it was it was understandable, it was just as infuriating. It felt as if he still saw America as a child - one who was unworthy of bestowing his thoughts upon. The idea made America bristle indignantly; he was nothing like how he used to be. He was independent and, hell, he was stronger than England now... but he knew that it wouldn't be wise to say that. He felt the hands on his body still suddenly, and he looked down to see England had finished tying the last bandage over his flesh. He rose his eyes to gaze at the Brit in puzzlement; he was so caught in his reverie that he hadn't moved. His emerald eyes were conflicted and tormented and full of things that America was somehow afraid to determine. England sighed softly, his warm breath ghosting over America's blemished skin, and he looked away. Despite himself, America clenched his fists, frowning at England; he expected some words after his self-imposed silence. It was disconcerting and he was growing concerned for his ally; he always kept everything to himself and didn't bother anyone with it. But he was England's equal now - he was a powerful nation with soldiers at his disposal, along with supplies to spare and trade and... but that wasn't it, was it? It wasn't as if he could show England that he was grown up just because of his guns or military. England had to realise on his own that America no longer cried to him over miniscule things because he was his own nation and dealt with his problems maturely. "Take care of yourself, America." Why was it so difficult for England to accept? "It's your heart, is it not? Your heart hurts..." he murmured softly, raising up and carefully approaching his ally. "It... It isn't just there. Not only London is being attacked. The Luftwaffe would not be as foolish to attack solely one area, even if it would be hard to rebuild..." England gasped out, trying to say it in one breath. He coughed violently, shaking and clutching at his desk and his shirt as crimson slipped from his lips and stained the parchment that lay before him. America bit the inside of his cheek and clenched his fists, feeling utterly helpless and hating it. "You... You are bleeding, England. I..." "I will be "England, do not speak." He almost wished he had passed out before America lifted him. He felt... useless. "I am very much aware of that," he snapped, massaging his head and glaring bitterly. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat, sucking in a breath as he felt the cuts on his thigh burn. He had given as good as he got, bestowing America with a black eye and a kick to the groin when he had tried coming after him again. He locked himself in his room, fully aware that America could easily knock it down, and sighed in relief when he didn't. But sometimes, during this time, America just... lost it. Just as he had done as an empire, America sometimes abandoned his self-control and did things he scarcely seemed to recall afterwards. England didn't know if the younger nation even remembered carving words into his skin. He'd had worse, so he hid it fairly well, but Russia seemed amused nonetheless. "But you feel partly responsible, yes?" the superpower murmured with a smirk, abandoning all childish smiles and feigned innocence as he leaned over the table, staring down at England through half-lidded glinting violet eyes. Thick brows drew together as the pulsating pain in his head increased along with his heartbeat. He didn't lean back; he refused to be intimidated by the man. "Why on earth should I?" he hissed, unable to stop himself from tensing when the Russian appeared before him, pinning him in place to his chair, eyes wide and smile thin. "The Iron Curtain," he breathed, cold breath drifting over the Brit's face, and he tried not to shudder. "It merely served to increase mine and America's antagonism... Perhaps you like the tension between America and I, yes?" "Don't be absurd, Russia," England grumbled lowly, narrowing his eyes and eyeing the man he had once called 'ally'. "I wish to avoid more war." The larger man laughed, eerily childish before his eyes darkened and he leaned closer, nose brushing against England's and forcing the Brit to move back. "No... You like that America and I are on bad terms. You want America. That is why you let him hurt you..." he whispered, hand trailing down England side before pressing against his thigh without preamble. He laughed again when the smaller man stiffened and sucked in a breath. "Please get out of here, capitalist pig." "Hardly," England muttered, leaning against the wall and leaning on his uninjured leg as he scowled at the younger nation. "I was confronting him. Asked him to cease this behaviour..." He arms that roughly pinned his wrists to the wall came to no surprise and he remained impassive as threatening blue eyes stared into his own. "You are not my boss, England," he hissed, grip on his former coloniser's hands tightening considerably. He didn't register the barely suppressed wince. "You cannot protect me." He was rewarded with a poignant smile. "Although I am aware of that, America," he murmured softly, gazing up at him ruefully, "I don't think I will ever stop wanting to." Weary green eyes peered up at the American and he sighed softly. "It seems as if it's been a success," he mumbled, reiterating his boss's words. "We've been in Iraq long enough, America." "After what they did? The weapons they have, and..." "America." He looked back up to see England staring at him, anguished, and then to his arm where England had patted it. "We've had enough war, don't you think...?" He wrenched his arm out of England's grasp and scoffed in disgust. "You're so selfish, England," he hissed, trying to squash the guilt that rose up when England looked honestly hurt by his words. "I'm leaving," he muttered, not bothering to look at anyone. Grabbing his infamous bomber jacket, he strolled out of the room, leaving England staring after him sadly. "Angleterre..." "I'm fine, France," he said, tone clipped and cold as it always was when he was defensive. He didn't turn away from the door. "I just need a drink." "I will accompany you."
He never received a response, but was dragged into a sleazy bar, fairly empty with only a few patrons who only seemed tipsy. Usually, America wasn't one for bars, and if he did fancy it then it was usually somewhere rambunctious, crowded and noisy. It was never so abandoned and eerily quiet. But he sidled up beside his brother on a stool and requested water. Judging by America's order, he realised he would be the one driving tonight. He bestowed a polite word of gratitude to the bar tender along with an apologetic smile when America seemed to sneer at her Arabic appearance. She shrugged it off and moved to clean some glasses elsewhere, but Canada couldn't help but feel mildly disgusted by his brother's prejudice.
Nonetheless, he drank in everything: the stray sentence along with the prolonged silence, the jerky movements and the frustrated sighs, and came to his own conclusions. He threw in his own two cents at times, only for his words to be waved off or forgotten by the intoxicated American, who dismissed Canada's arguments of how England had tried hard for him and was probably making a well thought out decision. Instead, garbled, slurred insults about the Brit compiled the majority of the relatively onesided conversation, and Canada briefly recognised the irony; usually it was England drunkenly sobbing over America rather than the other ranting over the older nation.
"He never ack...acknowledges me as an... as an adult. As my own nation," he mumbled into his fourth empty glass, words muffled but just about reaching Canada's ears. "He... He always objects to my ideas and insults my plans... He says I dress badly and have no manners 'n' says I butchered his language... He criticises everything about me and he'll hate me forever like he always has since the revolution."
Canada sighed, burying his face in his hands. He hoped that the bar tender would think that his words were drunken rambles and nothing more. "Alfred," he said, mindful to utilise human names in public, "He... He knows you're grown up, but he just... he's very insecure. He didn't want to lose you and... I think he's still scared of the prospect, and so he pushes you away." He spared a glance at his brother and prayed he was listening. "I think he can be as childish as you and objects to your ideas for your attention, but he also does it so that your plans can be improved. You do dress badly and sometimes I do wish you'd pull your pants up. Your manners are lacking and I know you can do better, but he doesn't dislike you for it; it just makes you... well, you. I won't comment on your language. He doesn't criticise everything about you, but like I said, he's insecure and afraid of losing you. He doesn't hate you at all, Alfred..." you oblivious idiot.
"He does," America muttered insistently, sounding defeated.
"Fuck, Alfred," Canada hissed, scowling at his brother and not bothering to hide his irritation. Maybe England's rubbed off on me. "If you can't see how much England cares about you, you're absolutely blind. I'm pretty sure he wished I was you when I was holding him in World War One... but that's beside the point. Listen, Alfred, no one could care for you more than England. You're both just terrible at showing it." He'd better understand this, the clueless fool. It's obvious to everyone but you...But America still shook his head, leaning on the bar and shoving his glass out of the way. "No, Canada," he grumbled, sighing ruefully. "If England had never existed, I'd have proved my worth instantly without feeling like I had to. I'd have been a world superpower long before I became one. I'd have just as many colonies as England did but I'd treat 'em better. World War One might not have ever happened if he didn't exist..."
Canada's eyes widened in mortification. "Alfred... That is just...!"
"Everything would be better if he wasn't here... Less wars, less empires, less motherfucking taxes and less fucking confusing feelings..." His eyes fluttered closed and he sighed for the umpteenth time, slowly drifting into the realm of unconsciousness while his brother glared at him reproachfully and the bar tender eyed them. "I wish England had never existed..."
Everything delved into black.
x.Axis Powers Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya. - I almost got carried away with this, forgetting that the main focus isn't exactly their feelings for one another (...well, it is one of the main themes, as highlighted by our drunken America), and nearly made America follow England during WWI and help him back to his tent, almost made them hold one another during WWII, and nearly made them kiss (violently) during the Cold War. Really, I need some more self-control... I'm sure most of you are aware of these wars, but nonetheless, in case my writing lacks clarity, I'll elaborate a bit now. World War I - Began in late 1914 around the summer. It ended in 1918. The German Empire was an enemy of the British Empire in the First World War as well as the second, hence Germany and England having a moment of tension. Although Japan and Italy were allied with the British Empire in this war, but anyway. The US joined in 1917, around a year before the war ended. The Battle of the Somme involved the UK, Canada, Australia, New Zealand, and other countries that belonged to the British Empire, along with France, against the German Empire. It took place between July and November of 1916 when British and French forces were on the offensive against the Germans following the invasion of France in 1914. It was a very horrible event; one of the most bloody military operations recorded in history. World War II - Began in 1939 and ended in 1945 with an Allied Powers victory following the Axis collapse. Japan attacked Pearl Harbour and the US joined, and there was the Blitz which affected not only London but various other locations in Britain. You don't really need to know a lot about it for this story to be honest, just the basics; I'm only skimming over the facts because I assume you're aware of WWII already seeing at that's Hetalia's main timeline. Cold War - Two of the new world superpowers emerge and engage in a political conflict. Again, not imperative for the story, but you could know a little about, hm? I mostly covered it to further depict America's and England's relationship... Second Gulf War/Iraq War - You should know about this, I think... Britain dropped out in 2009, declaring that it had been successful. If you've kept up with the news, you should know a little about this. If not, there's no need to worry. XD Most battles/wars commending in this story will be fictional as it is an alternate history story. It will focus on America's inner monologue, his thoughts and feelings towards England, and England's place in the world. This story shall feature some dark themes, so be warned. Everyone will be twisted in some way and will probably act like arseholes. As for Canada, I don't like him being depicted as weak and whiney... Whilst he is forgotten and is a bit of a pushover, he isn't entirely pathetic or hopeless. Although I must apologise to him; I have the tendancy to make England use him as somewhat of a replacement for America... but in this story, he is aware of that. Oh dear, he's becoming reminiscent of the random plot revealing Gryffindor... Not to fear, not to fear. 'Requiem' spurns from 'requiem mass', which is, in short, a mass for the deceased, usually used for funerals. The title is shamelessly taken from other sources, but it is appropriate for this story. Originally, I titled it I hope you enjoy this fairly uneventful segment with various flashbacks. =w=; The action begins next time, although I should warn you of potential political discussions along with war and violence and gore. Wow, I start a new year with a story like this... Anyway, I hope you like it. I'm focusing on updating another story of mine, but this idea refused to leave me alone. Please be patient...