America kneels before a monument made of his pain and loss and suffering, eyelashes fanned out to his pale cheekbones like glittering sunlight, or gold spun of God's whimsy. They cling to each other, too wet to lie alone, helpless citizens after tragedy.
England considers the young nation for a long moment before dropping to his knees alongside him.
America doesn't look, but America knows he's there.
"They died, Arthur," America whispers, running his finger gingerly over names carved in stone (and the stone of his own soul), as if he is afraid he will break their souls with a touch. "They were so young."
"We will remember them, America. They live forever in memory, I swear it."
England hugs him and America doesn't resist, but his arms encase America awkwardly; England slides rough, calloused hands over his bare shoulders and his fingers do not lay flat over America's broad back.
"It gets better with time," he says, but his gruff voice is soft and does not sound quite right – it is without rage, without conviction, brimming with a sorrow he's never let America hear before.
They both know he's lying - but they know this with different parts of their souls.
"You're lying," America tries to say flatly, but the sentiment is lost in between his heaves and sobs.
England stares – but he does not see America.
Vibrant blue eyes flash in his memory, set in the face of a young boy equipped too with a kind smile. And now America does not stand next to a memorial of his own pain – he stands next to a cherub with blonde Botticelli curls, but he pales his brother into insignificance with his spirit.
America always was the lovelier.
"Come, America. It'll be alright," he says, tones faraway, and tightens his hug.
America protests – and England is again reminded of a young rebel who thought he could conquer the wild world that stretched wide from ocean to ocean.
"Fuck off! You don't know anything!" he screams, flailing his thin arms (he hasn't eaten in days), and his eyes flare with an awakened rage that has lain dormant for centuries – and England flinches away in pain and sits quiet.
The silence is still between them before America realises what he's done.
"Oh my God… Arthur, I didn't – "
"Of course you didn't," he shoots back, wounded and vulnerable, and gets to his feet and runs – runs from the rubble of a young tragedy, runs from this forgetful, selfish man who is so unlike the child he once knew.
If he does not know anything, neither does America.
America does not know that he mourns every 4th of July.
disclaimer: i do not own hetalia.
this was going to be a simple memorial fic - even though just about everyone else is writing a fic about this or has written a fic about this, this is quite dear to me, as i live in nyc - but then i thought of england attempting to comfort america and this was born.
please review & tell me what you think.