The Revolutionary War is praised throughout the United States. It's a day that my people stood up and decided that it was finally time for their freedom and my own. It is a period that will forever be remembered by my countrymen, and it's a war that will forever be craved into my memories. I grew from that war; I developed as a individual. After the war had ended I finally saw myself as a man. I was finally free, and I was finally able to make decisions for myself.
But...
Sometimes I look back on those days and I feel my heart drop.
Because sometimes you don't realize the things you hold most dear until they are suddenly fading away.
I did not feel this way until I came to his house and saw how frail he looked. I did not start to feel bad about my own independence until I saw what it had done to him.
I remember the day clearly - the day I finally won the war - though I would feel too ashamed to admit it to anybody but myself that it is actually one of my saddest and one of my happiest memories. I don't regret it; I don't wish I could go back in time and change the things I had done. I do wish I could try to make him understand just a tad bit more, however; because I never intended to hurt him and I never wanted him to believe that I hated him. I've always loved him and I still do; I finally realized that after seeing him months later.
If there was something I could do now to stop his pain, if I didn't have to see those green eyes stare up at me like I'm the most horrible thing that has ever happened to him - it would make this so much easier.
There was paperwork to be done, and I had not officially warned England of my sudden presence. I kind of just came to his house thinking it would be all right; because, despite the war, we were and are still allies. We heard that our bosses had talked it out and the only thing I had left to do was get England to sign some papers. Afterwards, I could finally turn around and run my own country - I would be free nation.
But seeing England made me completely forget about the paperwork. He didn't even look proper, like he always does. His button-up white shirt is unbuttoned at the top and it isn't tucked in. It's wrinkly; looks like he fell asleep in it. His pants look like they're in a similar state. There are bags under his eyes and his hair is a mess, sticking up in all kinds of directions. There's papers scattered around and on top of his desk in the corner of the room; messy, unorganized, very un-England like.
I want to hug him - take him into my arms and tell him that I'm sorry, but we both know that my pride won't let me do that. Instead he merely stares up at me with those sad eyes and that fake, half smile of his. He says something about making a pot of tea, I believe; and I watch as he slowly turns and heads directly into the kitchen, leaving me standing in the doorway. He looks thinner than usual, and pale. I wonder briefly if he has been locking himself inside these past few months or if he's just been busy with work.
I step inside and shut the door softly behind myself before I follow him into the kitchen. I watch as he sets a kettle of water to boil and then slowly turns around to face me. He doesn't utter a word; neither do I. We stare at each other for a moment before he looks away, pretending to be intrigued by a bird near one of the kitchen windows. His tired eyes follow it as his hops from one branch to another.
"Pretty," I find myself saying. He turns his head to look at me briefly and then turns his head to look back at the bird. I frown at his lack of response.
"Do you like birds?" I ask, trying to hold some kind of conversation between us.
He does this half-shrug sort of thing and a small smile graces his lips. "I suppose," he finally says. "Birds are so..." He pauses, his eyes narrowing as he continues to watch the graceful creature. "Independent and free."
An uncomfortable feeling instantly settles in my stomach.
"Yeah," is all I can think of saying.
"Kind of like your symbol, am I correct?" he inquires, yet he still does not turn to look at me as he speaks. Green eyes continue to watch the small bird; wings fluttering and voice tweeting softly outside the wind. "The bald-eagle: daring, brave, and free. It indeed is an animal that fits America's-"
"England," I try to cut in, but he continues like he hadn't heard me.
"-stature. I am glad you actually put some thought into it."
"England," I try again, a little louder this time. He turns his back fully to me now, his amusement with the bird in the window fading. He moves towards the kettle, blowing out the flame and turning off the gas before he moves to the cabinets. He brings two mugs out and sets them on the counter.
"Do you know what else the eagle stands for?" England asks with a slight tilt of his head. He pours the steaming water into the two mugs and sets them to soak. While waiting, he places both palms flat against the top of the counter and gives a small chuckle. "Eagle's also stand for undying friendship and trust. I guess that's one thing you could not follow."
I clench my fists.
"Am I right, America?" he chuckles darkly, and the way my name rolls off of his tongue so sarcastically makes me want to punch him.
How dare he.
How fucking dare he say something like that so suddenly.
This man - so pale and weak looking, so fucking pitiful looking - is standing here telling me that I'm untrustworthy?
"And to think I actually saw someone like you as a little brother," England goes on when I don't reply. His fingers curl into his palms and I can see his shoulders shaking now, with sorrow or anger. I can't see his face so I'm not entirely sure what he's feeling at the moment. Honestly, I couldn't find it in my will to care what he was feeling. I was so hyped up on his sudden rudeness to care about his well-being at that moment.
"Stop it," I say, though it comes out sounding breathless. "England, I did not come here to fight with you."
"I know what you came here for!" England shouts, turning his head so he can look at me from over one of his shoulders. Those thick eyebrows of his are pinched together in the middle of his forehead, creating an ugly little crease in the space between his brows, but his eyes look like they're about to flood with tears at any given moment.
"Then stop being so immature!" I find myself shouting back. I feel the tips of my nails dig into the palm of my hand from how hard I'm clenching them.
"I cannot help it," he snarls in return, turning around to face me now. "It's all your fault for leaving me and causing this. What did I do, America? What did I do to make you despise me so much?"
"Causing 'this?'" I ask; and half of me feels like laughing at the slighter male before me. "'This' as in the war, I take it? I think you have failed to notice that the war is over, England! I won; you lost. I am a country now whether you like it or not."
He seems a little taken back by my words; his green eyes widening only for a second before they narrow back to glaring at me. He gives an irritated groan and throws his hands up in the air angrily. It might have been more intimidating if he didn't look so weak.
"Piss off..." he fumes. "I raised you! You were my colony to begin with! I think I have the right to be angry about this."
"I understand that." I was trying so hard to calm down my raging nerves then. I knew I had not come there to banter with him again. I take a deep breath and say my next line as calmly as I possibly could, "But you had to see this day coming at some point."
"Actually, I had," he says; which slightly surprises me. I raise an eyebrow out of curiosity. "I thought about it while you were still young."
"Then you shouldn't be surprised," I counter.
"I thought about it when you were young," he repeats, "but then I looked at you, and seen how you..."
I didn't expect him to suddenly break into tears. He lowers his head and sniffles lightly, and I watch as the small specks of water fall onto the tiled floor near his feet.
When he doesn't make any move to continue what he was saying, I make my way towards him, taking large strides forward to reach the smaller male before he gets a chance to move away. His head shoots up to look at me, and green eyes widened, almost frighteningly so. He backs up into the counter, the movement almost knocks over the mugs of tea behind him.
"England," I say once I am close enough. I reach out towards him but he winces away. "I'm so sorry, but..."
But I did this for me.
Despite him wincing away from my touch, I reach both hands out and cup his face, tilting his head towards me and forcing eye contact. I smooth away the lines of tears with my thumbs the best I can; but more just continue to pour out of those beautiful emerald eyes when I do so.
I did this because I looked up to you.
...I did this because I wanted to be like you.
"I had my reasons," I say. I try my hardest to smile at him but my lips strain to do so. "And I don't regret doing what I did, England, because I had reasons."
I was selfish, I understand that.
I know I hurt you.
I know you won't forgive me so easily, but.
Please, Arthur,
please try to understand just a little bit.
He closes his eyes, squeezing them together tightly and stopping the tears.
"I hate you," I hear him muttered before I can fully collect my thoughts. Those words hit me like a thousand knifes. A burning pain quickly spreads throughout my chest. And I suddenly find it very hard to breath.
I open my mouth to say something but I can't find any words.
Everything seems to move so quickly; all at once. My mind hurriedly searches for something to say to him, but I'm so numb that I can think straight.
He grabs onto my wrists and removes my hands from his face.
"I think it's better if you left," he says. And for once, I find myself agreeing to this as I silently nod.
I don't even remember walking to the door or saying goodbye to him.
I do remember returning home and letting my jackets fall to the floor in a heap. I remember the sudden urge to cry hitting me in the face, and while sinking to my knees, I mumbled numerous apologies to my former nation. I knew he could not hear me, and I knew it was too late.
He would never forgive me. He would never see me the same way again.
A sob escapes my lips before I can stop it.
"England.. I'm so sorry."
There's so much I would like to say to you; there's so much I wanted to do with you.
"I'm sorry..!"
If only I would have waited a little longer; if only I had taken the time to explain myself fully to you.
Would you have seen me differently?
Uh, this is my first story. I apologize that it is very short, but I was mostly trying to convey America's emotions in about 2,000 words.
The eagle was made as America's symbol in 1782, just a year before the war actually ended. Just thought I'd throw that out there for those who didn't know.
Please leave a review and tell me what you thought. I would also love advice on how I could improve my writing in any way. Thank you!