Okay, so, I said two-shot but... this thing just ended up being so horrifically long (idevenk how) that I thought it would be better for me to break it into three parts so it looked less scary and would strain your eyes less. I mean each of the three "chapters" by themselves are still pretty long, but I thought of you, okay? XD
(Altogether on the original single Microsoft Word document it stands at 43 pages of Size 8 Verdana, totalling at 29, 652 words, not including the title, quote or ANs. I surprise even myself sometimes. O.o)
BUT I SAID TWO-SHOT, so I just posted chapters 2 and 3 together since they were both done. ENJOY.
Thanks to my lovely reviewers for Part I: Mr Tomatoe, anon, Anastasya Debbie, Narroch, Synxailla, lishtar, yellowrose87, lovingbird, emptyjournalsong, flamethrowerqueen, Tensai55 and TechnoRanma!
Okay, so as Narroch pointed out, this wasn't shota-shota (as in, I didn't stoop to the lows of the Kuroshitsuji fandom and actually describe it in excessive detail) but it was shota enough and I'm glad I wasn't shuuuuuuuuuuunned for writing it, lolololol.
As a heads-up (as opposed to a "warning"), from here on this fic takes on a slightly different tone. I don't even know how to describe it – it's sort of... more supernatural? O.o Um, well, that's misleading. You shall see what I mean when you get there, I'm sure.
Oh, and if you thought America was the crazy one in this thing...
England. Bitchplz. I haven't even started.
II – Et Filii
For years the cross hung from the corner of the largest mirror in the house, gathering dust between his visits so that he was compelled to take it down and clean it gently every time he returned – which became less and less frequent as his presence in the newly-formed United States of America became unneeded and unwelcome.
He had found the piece of birch from which it was made here – the chain came from Britain but the cross itself had never left America's lands and he was loathe to remove it, even now that it was a revoked gift.
He thought about leaving it in the house when he departed for good that morning; but felt that abandoning it as though it were an old chair or candlestick, an unwanted piece of furniture belonging to the house, was not right.
He thought about burying it in the garden so that the earth might rot at least the wood and take it back; but somehow that seemed an unfitting end, too human for an object.
He thought, halfway across the Atlantic, about throwing it overboard into the sea so that it would wash away exactly between them; but didn't like to entertain the thought of it eventually coming ashore elsewhere as an eroded message for someone else to find.
He slipped it into his pocket and closed his hand around it as his feet met with London – as his land rose to greet him. He thought that, for now at least, he would hold on to it – perhaps take it with him to St Paul's.
It had always helped him to pray.
England didn't know if he was more surprised to find America in London or in the company of Denmark and Holland.
England hadn't seen him for years – not since 1812, in fact. He was taller again, more mature in the face, and wearing his glasses. He was dressed nicely but the clothes themselves were in a bit of a state, crumpled and crooked as though he had been wearing them all day and had not bothered to attend to them since putting them on that morning.
This was a sailor's tavern down near the docks, which explained Denmark and Holland – England saw them frequently since they hopped all over the place, trading, just as he did – but did that mean that America had sailed here? Or had he just come over with one of them for a bit of an adventure?
America coming East – that was strange. After that last war between them, America had seemed to want to cut all ties with England and Europe altogether. He retreated from the East and started going West across his own lands, as far away from all of them as he could get. England could appreciate that – he, after all, had once viewed America himself as an escape from the relentless turmoil of Europe, a haven of uncharted earth and hand-in-hand with a wide-eyed child who thought the entire world consisted of only the two of them and a path pointing West.
It was a conflicting feeling, therefore, seeing him so comfortable in the company of others; Denmark was talking, waving his hands around animatedly, and America was watching him, wide-eyed, lapping up every word. Then Holland said something and all three of them laughed. England could appreciate that – he liked Holland and Denmark himself and often drank with them when they showed up on his shores. And it was nice to see America out of his shell; he had always been a bit of an odd child, clinging to England's coat-tails and refusing to be away from him for an hour at most at a time. England hadn't minded then, happy to have the boy in his company all day every day, but as America had gotten older and his behaviour had begun to worsen, England had started to wonder if he hadn't ruined America by spoiling him.
But still, he couldn't help but be a little... jealous. Here America was in his land after all this time and he didn't seem to be terribly interested in seeking out his company. Yes, they had fought two wars fairly recently but they were nations and things like all got to be water under the bridge in the end, really.
He slipped his hand into his pocket and felt the cross on its chain, nestled safely in the lining.
Nothing for it but to go over there. England straightened his cravat and approached them nonchalantly, pretending not to notice America immediately as he greeted Denmark and Holland and received a hearty slap on the back from the former for his trouble.
"And I take it you have met America?" Denmark joked, gesturing to America – who had said nothing but gave England a small, hopeful smile when their gazes met. "England, America – America, England. Be nice to each other."
"Yes, yes," England sighed, going along with the charade and putting his hand out towards America to shake with him.
America merely blinked at him – and then swayed suddenly and grabbed at Denmark's shoulder to steady himself.
"He has had a little to drink," Holland muttered to England. "Denmark is a bad influence."
England and Holland looked at them; Denmark was engaging America in some kind of clumsy waltz, manoeuvring him like a puppet.
"Did he sail over here with you?" England asked in a low voice.
Holland nodded.
"From Asia," he said. "I was visiting Japan – he and I are good friends, you know – and it seems that America has also made friends with him. I informed him that I was sailing to Great Britain next and he insisted that he be allowed to accompany me."
England blinked, then looked at America again.
"Is that so?" he asked absently.
(Made friends with Japan? That was interesting – but not as interesting as America wanting to come to Britain...)
"Well," Denmark said, appearing at Holland's side, "I need to rest up, for I return home tomorrow." He glanced at Holland. "Are you not sailing on to Ireland?"
Holland nodded.
"Yes, we should retire," he said blandly.
Denmark reached out and clapped England on the shoulder.
"Then we leave our charge in your capable hands – I am sure you shall make a wonderful father," he said, and he slung his arm around Holland's shoulders and practically marched him out of the tavern.
Abruptly and unexpectedly left alone with America, England turned to him; he was sitting on a bar stool, watching England intently with his head a little to one side. He smiled at England's attention.
Drunk.
England smiled himself and went to him, putting a hand to his back.
"Well then, Alfred," he said warmly, "what say I buy you another drink?"
America was very, very drunk.
Much too drunk to stay upright without support and much too drunk to have been able to give any sort of real consent.
Which completely explained why he was in England's lap in public, naked from the waist down and with his head thrown back in drunken ecstasy. He probably didn't even remember that they were in public; a dark, dingy corner table in one of London's most notorious "music halls".
"How low you stoop, Angleterre," France purred off to his right; he was somewhat drunk too, but still sober enough to enjoy every moment of the free show he was getting. "The poor boy can barely see straight. Ah, come morning he will wonder why his backside is so sore, non?"
"Probably." England scowled at him – by a strange turn of events, he was the least intoxicated. "I say, would you mind shutting your infernal trap for a moment? Alfred is rather heavy – I shall drop him if you do not allow me to concentrate."
"Hmm." France leaned towards the table, resting his chin on one hand, and leered at the both of them over his drink. "Heavy – is that so?" He ran his gaze appreciatively over the curves of America's bare thighs – he was still plump in places with the final remnants of baby fat. "I disagree, mon cher – he merely appears quite delectable to me. You shall have to let me have a turn afterwards."
England stopped altogether; America panted, wilting, in his lap, his glasses threatening to slip right off. He was so drunk he was barely conscious. From this angle, France could not see if America was aroused at all but reasoned – from experience – that he wouldn't be surprised if the boy had rendered himself impotent with alcohol.
After all, it was no secret that England was doing this for his own pleasure. He'd been horny from the show and had waited, biding his time, until America was on the verge of face-planting the table before pulling him into his lap and whispering empty promises in his ear whilst undressing him enough to satisfy himself.
"You, Francis," England hissed, "are never to touch him, drunk or sober – do I make myself perfectly clear? You have had your "turn" with him."
"It was so long ago, though," France complained good-naturedly. "Really, Arthur, you are unfair to your Big Brother." He sighed. "You were never very good at sharing, however."
"If you must be satisfied," England replied curtly, irritably pushing America away as he nuzzled sleepily at him, "then have at his brother."
"Ah, Matthieu?" France laughed. "My darling Matthieu whom you stole away from me with all that you had? Why, is he not yours more than sweet Alfred?"
England ran his hands lasciviously over America's thighs and down between his legs, making him twist, swaying in his precarious position.
"We both know that I prefer Alfred," he said simply.
"Because Alfred is stupider," France conceded, "and easier to lure into your bed." He gave a cough. "Present location not withstanding, of course." He tutted to himself. "Ah, Arthur, you worsen each day. Your bawdiness knows no bounds, I fear – your music halls and dirty songs, your brothels and your print shops selling pornography. Why, you are becoming quite as bad as I, you naughty boy. Whatever next, a Moulin Rouge in the middle of Piccadilly Circus?"
England glared at him as he finally unknotted his cravat.
"Do you mind?" he spat. "Take yourself off – I am busy."
"Mind?" France echoed. "Non, non – but please do not expect me to mind my manners in such a place and in such company." He drained his drink. "Here is a proposition, then – lend me one of your filthy coins that I might buy myself some sweeter company and I shall leave you and your drunken, well-trained boy-whore to your corner." His grin darkened. "Either that, or I shall gladly sit here as I am and watch you fuck darling drunken Alfred as I might watch one of London's finest peep-shows – with a great amount of interest. And, come morning, I shall be the first to tell the dear boy exactly what happens to him every time you invite him out for a friendly evening of a sociable nature to "improve relations" between yourselves."
England settled back better against the bench, taking America's hips and readjusting him – not overtly bothered by France's threats.
"Alfred has coins in his trouser pocket," he said absently. "Take one of those – a shilling should buy even you company enough."
"I doubt it," France muttered, but he rose, located America's discarded suit trousers, took more than a shilling and sauntered off into the crowd.
England put his hands on America's waist to hold him steady – the boy seemed about ready to pass out, slumped against England's chest, his fingers threaded in the silk of his companion's open cravat. He certainly wasn't as receptive as he'd been five minutes ago.
England lifted one hand to unbutton America's shirt – his suit jacket was already open and his blue silk bow-tie was loose about his collar.
"Do you think I am stooping low, Alfred?" he asked gently; almost crooning it in the tone that one would use on a very small child. "That is unkind of France, is it not, to suggest that to find you attractive enough to bed is to lower my standards? Certainly you are prettier in a pinch than Paris' whores – and London's too, for that matter."
America shifted on his lap but didn't say anything; England wondered if he remembered where they were, who he was with, that he was even being penetrated right now. England opened his shirt and looked at his chest.
Completely bare.
England had the cross in his pocket again. He always carried it under the pretence – to himself – that one day he might be presented with the opportunity to slip it back over America's head with his permission; so far such an occasion had not been in attendance at any time in which America had indulged his company in return for a drink in the seedy underbellies of London or New York (because they at least liked to pretend to be friends nowadays). Oh, it was one thing to get America so drunk that he couldn't stand, to take advantage of him when he couldn't coherently refuse, but England knew he'd never be able to talk his way into America's arms without the help of Lady Liquor with the way things were between them now.
So of course it was through a haze of alcohol that America was smiling at him. Interestingly, he was not exactly moralistic when it came to getting a quick shag out of America in a dark, dingy near-brothel; but he refused to put the cross back around the boy's neck without his sober consent.
When he was done with him in the gin-soaked filth of the so-called gentleman's establishment, England took America back to his hotel the way he always did to put him safely to bed. It had been a bit of a wasted venture – America had been a pleasant enough lap-warmer for a few minutes or so but by the time England had finished the boy had been practically falling sideways off his knees in a drunken stupor. He had slept in the cab all the way home, not bothered by the jostle of the horse and the cobbles on London's crooked streets, stumbled all the way to the third floor and was completely out for the count by the time England got him halfway undressed and under the covers.
England put on the gaslamp at the mahogany desk and sank into the plush armchair, slipping out of his velvet jacket. He was barely tipsy – certainly sober enough to know better.
"What am I to do with you, eh?" he wondered aloud, watching America sleep. "A fine thing it is indeed that I am here to look after you."
America, of course, did not hear him. England sighed and put his head in his hands. He had found himself in this position before – wondering if he should not just stay instead of silently slinking out the moment America was fast asleep. Should he not simply climb into bed next to the young man he knew more intimately than anyone else and face the consequences of his hung-over indignation in the morning as they breakfasted together?
If only he could bring himself to stop taking advantage of him, things might be different.
He often wondered why he did it. Was it his idea of revenge – a way of paying America back for abandoning him all those years ago? Was this the only way he could continue to assert himself over him when he knew, really, that America just didn't need him anymore?
France, when he accompanied them on their drinking excursions to soak up the grittier aspects of Victorian life in each of their respective lands, always found one opportunity or another to crow over England for still being so hopelessly, horrifyingly in love with a child under half his age; to tell him that, if he ever wanted his heart to heal, he had to learn to let America go – and that getting him drunk and fucking him over an ale-stained table at two in the morning in a less-than-reputable establishment in Fleet Street was not the best way of going about forgetting him.
Perhaps France had a point but England had concluded that forgetting America, breaking away from him completely, just wasn't an option. He couldn't do without him – and this case of affairs, unsatisfactory as it may have been, was better than nothing.
America was still much too trusting of England.
("You have ruined him," France mused gleefully, watching America scramble unsteadily into England's lap at very little physical urging from England himself. "Utterly ruined him, Angleterre. It is many years of hard work that I am observing here.")
England got up and fished the cross out of his pocket as he went to the bed, clasping it in his hand as he stopped to look at America, watching him sleep off the alcohol. His face was still flushed with it, the colour high on his cheeks. His dark eyelashes flickered even though he was probably too drunk to be dreaming.
England bent and kissed him on the forehead – the gentlest, sweetest kiss he had given him all night, saved until the last moment when the boy was asleep.
"I love you, Alfred," he murmured, putting the cross down on the bedside table. "Even if you will never need me again."
His kiss woke America no more than his silent departure did; the cross was back in his pocket. Somehow, stupidly, he could force himself on America but not this – not when America had so purposefully given it back.
Not when he didn't know why he had.
The first night America was in the trenches, England got him drunk.
Not drunk enough to trick him into his bed; just drunk enough to – hopefully – prevent him from lying when he asked why he had given the cross back that evening before the final battle of the Revolutionary War. He had taken the necklace from the breast pocket of his uniform and dangled it in front of America's face like a pendulum, as though trying to hypnotise the boy into answering him honestly.
America watched it swing back and forth like a cat, his shoulders coiling as though he might pounce on it; but then they sagged and he deliberately looked away, watching a rat scrabbling in the corner of the dugout with exaggerated interest.
Without even looking, England pulled his revolver from his belt and shot the rat; America jumped violently and gave England his attention again, his eyes wide.
"I asked you a question," England said coldly, putting his gun back roughly.
America swallowed; but his eyebrows lowered noticeably.
"Will you shoot me too if I don't answer?" he asked quietly.
"Alfred, I shan't put up with your silliness. It was a simple enough question."
There was a long moment of silence.
"Because," America burst out suddenly, "when you gave it to me, you said it would keep away the monsters."
"And did it not?" England asked gently.
America was still a child in so many ways – he could easily be manipulated, persuaded to change his mind about this and that. Even his being here, a mile of mud and a roll of barbed wire separating them from Germany and Austria, in his new uniform didn't mean a thing – there were boys as young as fifteen, sixteen, out there dying for King and Country, all somebody's son sacrificed on the Somme.
No, America's youth meant nothing except that it prevented him from seeing England's abuse for what it was. He had never once dominated England – or even tried to – since that time above the battlefield, happy instead to be talked into the arms that had been taking advantage of him his entire life by this excuse or that drink.
"Do you mean to say that it did not keep away war?" England went on.
But America shook his head.
"No," he said. "It was back then – I heard you whisper something in my ear, and I knew then that I had to give back the cross which you had carved for me, that it might protect you instead." He watched the necklace swing a moment more, and then glanced up at England in drunken desperation. "Why did you take it off, Arthur? I put it about your neck as you put it about mine."
"Because it is yours, Alfred."
More silence. America looked at the scarlet semi-circle in the corner, frowning at how far the fragments of flesh and bone had travelled across the floor.
"What did I say?" England pressed. "I don't recall saying a thing. Tell me."
"You..." America waved his hand at him absently, still looking at the remains of the rat – another of England's casualties. "It doesn't even matter anymore."
(It was clumsy and painful and America couldn't work out how to hold him still, hurting him with every movement. England put his hand to the back of America's neck, resting his own cheek on the boy's shoulder.
"Not you," he murmured, closing his eyes. "A monster.")
"So it's over now," America said flatly. "It's over because you said it is. An hour ago you were sending men out to die against his and now we're all going to crawl out of the trenches and dust ourselves off and shake hands and be friends—"
"Alfred, stop it."
"But isn't that it?" America burst out. "Isn't that what is going to happen, Arthur? Allies, enemies, all decreed by a word here and there – a British man will either take up or lay down his gun against a German boy of nineteen young enough to be his son—"
"Alfred, I won't hear any more of this!" England tilted his head at the high-pitched sound which came next. "Now there's the whistle. Up and over, lad – and for mercy's sake, leave your gun." He reached over and pried the rifle from America's hands. "Leave it, I say!"
America was reluctantly parted from his gun and practically frog-marched out to the ladders, England escorting him by the arm. It had just struck eleven and there was absolutely no sound whatsoever from above. The sky was unforgivingly grey, stretching over the trenches an across the expanse of No Man's Land. France, looking haggard and relieved, joined them at the ladders, Canada close behind him.
"Where's Australia?" England inquired of him absently. "I haven't seen him for a while."
"Further back," France said. "He received the message, however."
"Very good." England nodded.
They all paused, listening to the silence.
"Shall we go up, then?" England prompted.
He was gone before there was any agreement, the first over the top. The field was a scar on France's lands, carved up by carnage with the preciseness of a plough, littered with the bones and twisted corpses of soldiers exactly as they had fallen, dented helmets and torn fragments of uniforms, rusted rifles and spirals of barbed wire like lace threaded into the mud. There was a low-hanging mist, but through it was visible the uneven line of the living dead emerging, Germany and Austria and Hungary and all of their men braving the land which – only an hour before – had been no man's land and every man's grave.
England surveyed it all with a grim sense of satisfaction. This was what war was supposed to look like, after all.
He felt a hand on his back and glanced to his right, expecting to find America having come to him for comfort. Instead he found France and looked away again in irritation.
"Well?" he bit out.
"A fine job we have done, non?" France mused. "Does this satisfy your bloodlust for now, Angleterre?"
England shrugged away from him.
"Get away from me," he spat.
"No kind word for Big Brother?" France asked, sounding somewhat amused. "Then have you not at least a kind word for your child?"
He gestured with his hand and England followed the flamboyant movement, finding that France was indicating to America.
America, who had collapsed to his knees as he took in the sight before him, wide-eyed and trembling, barely noticing the embrace that his sweet, quiet brother had wrapped him in.
England looked away absently.
"Oh, that behaviour is nothing new," he murmured. "He is quite impossible at times. Frightened by the air-raids, crying if left on his own, frequently disobeying orders and refusing to keep to his own chamber at night – I tell you, I rue that it was I who raised him..."
France gave a sudden cold little laugh.
"Angleterre, Arthur... May I just say that I am surprised he even lived to see this Hell, it having been you who raised him." France grinned. "There, you see – Big Brother has no kind word for you. Do not forget that it was I who raised you, and after all... I know you well. I know what kind of cruelty you are capable of."
England looked at him again, his gaze far sharper.
"What did you want with a child?" France went on dangerously, his voice low and vicious. "I fancied it must just be a whim of yours – a streak of kindness which would end as soon as you got bored. Because you can be nasty when you are bored, can you not?" He wound his arm around England's shoulders. "Hmm, Arthur? Aren't you at your most vile when you are in the throes of boredom? Isn't that when you start wars, take sides and engage in such uncouth activities as piracy? Oh, Arthur! Do you remember the rabbit I gave you when you were a child? A pet all of your own to care for?"
England stiffened under his touch suddenly, not venturing an answer. France smirked.
"Ah, of course you do. It was a very long time ago, but how could you forget? You loved that petit lapin, hmm? But then, a very strange thing! What happened to the rabbit, Angleterre? What did you do to it?"
"I killed it," England replied expressionlessly. "I strangled it with a leather cord and then buried it at the end of the garden beside the birches. I dug the grave for over an hour because I wanted it to be deep."
"A strange thing indeed," France mused. "Why, Arthur? Why kill it if you loved it so?"
England paused before answering this time.
"It was hurt," he said. His voice was still flat. "It hurt its paw on a thorn."
"A minor injury."
"Still, I thought it best to put it out of its misery."
"Such a vicious little creature you are," France purred, squeezing England's shoulders; and then he glanced slyly at America. "And therein I expected him to go the same way. I thought you would fuss and fawn over him until he bored you and then you would convince yourself with some contrived excuse and lead him out into the woods where his screams wouldn't be heard. I was waiting for you to do it – I remain surprised that you haven't and that he is still alive." France sighed. "Of course, you have shown your true colours in other ways – I should hardly complain about you not hanging him from the same birch tree you played games with him beneath when you took him to your bed when he was still but a boy—"
"As was I when you took me to yours," England interrupted curtly, wrenching himself out of France's grip. "Oh, of course you're right, Francis – of course I thought about killing him. It would have been so easy to do it – he trusted me so much I probably could have talked him into allowing me to behead him with the woodcutting axe. But I didn't want to, so I kept going away to Europe to prevent myself from grabbing him about the throat. Why end the damage I had done to him just like that? Why not just let him grow, continuing to ruin him, and see what he became?"
"A selfish experiment; and now you rue it?"
"Isn't that parenthood?"
"Failed parenthood, perhaps."
"Then you failed, Francis – you raised a murderer. That rabbit wasn't my last."
"Nor your first, I shouldn't wonder."
"Well, don't worry." England started away from him at long last. "This has quelled my boredom for now."
—
"I'm going home," America said.
"Yes, I think that would be best," England replied absently, concentrating more on scrubbing America's hair while the boy washed the mud off himself. It was an old tin tub before the fire, all there was on offer in such a tiny, cheap hotel, and England knelt behind him to wash his hair.
He'd expected America to protest that he was old enough to do it himself the way he used to, but he was subdued and seemed glad of England's presence.
"Tomorrow, I mean," America went on. "I can't stay here any longer, Arthur. This... it's all just—"
"I know," England interrupted casually. His kissed America's right shoulder, bare and damp with steam. "I agree. This isn't for you. Leave the negotiations to us, Alfred."
America was silent for a moment.
"You're mocking me, aren't you?" he said softly. "You're angry that I'm leaving, you think I'm a coward just running away from it all—"
"Alfred, it's fine, really." England picked up a jug of warm, clean water next to him and poured it over America's head without a word of warning, rinsing out the soap. "Just let Daddy handle it, hmm?"
"What will you do?" America asked, pushing his hair back out of his eyes. "Tear apart Germany for yourselves?"
"I expect so." England dipped his hand into the water, reached across and rubbed a streak of wet mud off America's bent knee – he was much too big for this bath, his frame too broad and his legs too long. "There now – I think you're all clean."
America nodded and awkwardly managed to scramble out of the bath, unfolding himself like a spider from the corner of its web as he rose and stepped out, taking a towel from the rack near the fire and wrapping it around himself like a cloak.
"Not caked in six months' worth of filth," he sighed, settling next to the fire with the towel draped all around him, "and warm."
"A luxury indeed," England agreed.
America looked at him.
"Are you going to bathe now?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Do you mind if I sit here by the fire?"
"Of course not – Alfred, I expect you've seen me naked more times than you've seen... well, a lot of things." England waved his hand dismissively. "Besides, even if I was self-conscious, you are not wearing your glasses."
"Yes, I can't see small things without them."
"Alfred Franklin Jones, you are going to be sleeping on the floor if you don't hold your tongue."
"Arthur whatever-your-middle-name-is Kirkland, I just spent a year in a trench."
"Try four years, I meant the corridor floor and—" England pulled off his tie, "–I don't have a middle name."
America shut up.
England fit better in the bath, hooking his legs over the sides and sliding down so that the water came up to his collarbone. It was already muddy due to America having taken his bath before him, but at a time like this they simply had to share the water and that was that. It didn't matter. It would probably take him a month to get completely clean again, anyway – it was just nice to feel the hot water around him like a blanket, to close his eyes and listen to nothing but the crackle of the fire in the grate, no gunshots and explosions and the groans of dying men.
America came closer and played with England's feet, holding onto one stubbornly as England tried to instinctively pull them back. He still had the towel wrapped around him like a shroud, peeking out from under the hood he had made of it as he traced the shapes of England's toes and then laid his hand flat against the sole of his foot.
"You're so tiny," America mused. "Look at that – my hand is almost longer than your foot." He kissed England's ankle.
"I am not tiny," England huffed, succeeding in pulling his foot back.
"Yes, you are," America argued mildly. "But it's fine. I like you exactly as you are – and besides, everyone else is still terrified of you, so it doesn't matter if you're not very tall."
England gave a sigh and closed his eyes. He was exhausted and the warmth and the calm were making him sleepy.
"And are you afraid of me, Alfred?" he hummed, not opening his eyes.
"No," America replied. "Of course not."
Well then. How ironic. If only he knew how close, on one occasion, he had come to being suffocated with a pillow; or how close, on another, he had come to being drowned in the lake; or how close, on quite another more recent occasion, he had come to having his throat slit by England's bayonet whilst he slept.
Of course, England didn't really want to kill him – that was why he always restrained himself at the last moment and flung aside the bayonet with a gasping sob. It was just that he felt compelled to.
No, it wasn't that. He did want to kill America, actually. He just didn't want him to be dead. He couldn't stand the thought of being without him – but he wanted to kill him, yes. He wanted to watch him die. He was convinced that it would be a beautiful sight, something you didn't see everyday, something to stave off his boredom with America because really America was boring at times, keeping to himself and making silly gadgets, and England was an Empire who didn't want to sit and watch the boy wind up clockwork aeroplanes. How much more entertaining it would be to torture him to death instead.
But death, of course, was an irreversible state of affairs – that he knew well enough – and so he stopped himself every time. Why waste America for a moment's delight?
America eventually pattered away to get dressed, pulling on his old nightgown with the frayed cuffs where he had torn off the lace, and was sitting on the bed drying his hair by the time England was out of the bath and in flannel pyjamas that had been to the trenches but not been worn much because it had been too cold. Only one bed, of course, old and with a spindly metal frame and thin sheets – this entire hotel, right in the heart of war-torn France, looked as though it hadn't been refurbished since the 1860s. The wallpaper was cracked and peeling away from the walls like the fronds of palm trees and only one small lamp worked, the mirrors were tarnished and offered no reflection whatsoever, there was mould around the sink and the fireplace was filthy with soot. And the bed, barely big enough for two people, sagged in the middle.
How glorious it was to those just out of the trenches.
America pushed himself up against the wall to make room for England, greedily gathering him into his arms as he settled and pulling him flush against his chest. He had suffered terribly in the trenches, left a nervous wreck by the air-raids and shellings and clinging to England at night to stop himself from shaking. His size didn't allow him to burrow deep into England's arms and hide as he had once done, so instead he caged him in his arms and refused to let him go no matter how much England squirmed about, as if thinking him some kind of charm to keep away the dreams of death and decay.
Ironic, thinking himself safe with England to protect him. Oh, England had always protected him his entire life – from absolutely everything except England himself.
Still, he settled in America's grasp, slipping one arm beneath America's and hooking his hand over his shoulder; America's chin was propped on the crown of his head. England could still smell mud and gunpowder on them both, lurking beneath the clinical scent of flat, cheap soap, and the mustiness of the old bed. The entire room was cold, the heat of the fire having barely spread, and America shivered and snuggled closer to him, tangling up their legs to conserve heat.
England lay wide awake in his arms and listened to the uneven rhythm of their breathing and the loud ticking of the filthy clock on the wall. It had struck eleven some time ago, making the armistice twelve hours old. He was exhausted but not tired and lay wakeful until the nightmares began.
America shifted restlessly, his furrowed brow beading with sweat, and clutched at England more tightly still – England yielding to his hold on him with no protest and no sound, no movement whatsoever. He was used to this, used to sharing a bed with a terrified child, and it barely stirred him now. America crying about the horrors he had seen was the same as him crying about ghosts in the end.
Mud. England could still smell it as clearly as if they were still in the trenches. He could still feel it on his skin even though he had bathed (in water already cloudy with filth), could still taste it on America as he breathed against his neck. It was a claustrophobic scent, damp and memorable, too much like the wood of coffins and the salty bite of ash, like the sweet, dreamy headiness of poppies and the bitterness of regulation coffee that came in tins rusted from the rain. America smelt of it, the scent clinging to his skin as though he would never be clean again, all a reminder that England had fucked him up against one mud-slick dugout wall or another, happily taking him in place of France the moment he was available. He remembered America, drunk, clutching the poppies he'd picked on his way to the Allied frontline trench, as he took him that first night, devouring how clean he was, how good he smelt; dirtying him himself, pressing his back against the filthy floor, drinking down his moans before silencing them with kisses, whispering that it was okay, it would all be okay, he didn't need to worry, Daddy loved him, would never do anything to hurt him, to put him in danger.
Mm. Why would you try to clean yourself in water that was already dirty? It didn't make any sense. No wonder they both stank of Hell.
And America. Ruined for so long now, having grown into exactly what England had hoped he wouldn't; damaged further still, even, mollycoddled too much, England too indulgent of him as a child so that now war made him cry, made him dream in black-and-white barbed wire and bayonets and blood, made him want to run West. Dirty, dirty, dirty. He would never be clean again.
No wonder, now was it?
England slipped out of his arms, got on top of him and strangled him.
—
"Arthur. England." America shook him awake. "I'm leaving. I need to catch my train to the harbour."
England opened his eyes and looked up at him. Of course he wasn't dead. Again, England hadn't had it in him to do it – to finish it, to put him out of his misery. He had come close, though – the closest he had ever been to killing him.
America had bruises. His shirt collar was pulled up high and his tie was knotted neatly but they were still visible, a circle of delicate blue about his throat like a chain.
"Yes," England said absently, closing his eyes again. "Yes, I think that would be best. You should leave, Alfred. Go West where it's safe."
America nodded, rubbing at his arm as though he wanted to say something else.
"Bring me my jacket," England said, holding out his hand. "My uniform one."
America scurried to get it, bringing it back and dumping it onto England's chest; watching the older man curiously as he went through each of the pockets of the dirty green garment and finally closed his fist around something.
"What's that?" America asked, as though prompted. "What's in your hand, Arthur?"
"A present for you." He left off the "darling". "If you want it, open your hands."
America hesitated; and then held out his open palms. England reached out and dropped the cross into them, the chain coiling coldly into the cup of his hands.
"You wear it well," England said flatly; and he turned over and went back to sleep.
("What are you doing?" America asked, opening his eyes. He didn't sound terribly panicked or afraid.
England smiled down at him in the dark, his hands firmly around his throat.
"Killing you, darling.")
"Are you still thirsty, Alfred?"
England poured another glass of water as he said it, pushing it across the table towards America; it swayed back and forth in the cut crystal, glimmering even in the lavender light of a late London evening. It was not hot here, not dry and dead and dusty – as always, England had as much rain as he pleased and more.
Perhaps not money, perhaps the days of ruby cufflinks and gold brooches on silk cravats had ended alongside 1929 for him just as much as America had had to kiss goodbye to his Roaring Twenties; but water. He had water. A rain-blessed island could not know the Dust Bowl, could not know thirst like this.
(England had telegrammed him. Come to mine and I shall drown you in as much water as you like. Need had tempted him East once more.)
America didn't hesitate. He took the glass and drained it, leaning back in his chair as he put it back on the table rather heavily. He couldn't even remember how many glasses he'd had now – England was just sitting there with the pitcher pushing one after another at him, knowing he would drink. He was full, his stomach swelling against his worn belt, nothing inside him but water, more water than he had ever drank before, and still his thirst was not quenched; his throat was still dry and his lips were still cracked and his skin was still rough and tight.
England poured him another glass without a word and he drank that as well; he was exhausted from drinking and had to undo his belt in order to be comfortable and still he inwardly screamed for hydration.
"You seem frustrated," England mused, watching America lean forward and press the heels of his hands against his forehead. "More?"
He raised the pitcher and America shot out a hand to stop him.
"I can't," he said. "I can't drink any more, I'm too full." He gave a sudden amused laugh. "Are you trying to make me burst, Arthur? I'm sure as hell you don't want my innards all over these lovely paintings you've looted from France over the years."
"Spain and Italy, too." England nonchalantly poured another glass. "You're avoiding the point. Are you still thirsty?"
"Like the devil."
"Then drink."
America drank. He couldn't refuse it even though his belly had begun to ache from the pressure. He put down the glass and slumped across the table.
"I'm going to explode," he said in a rather matter-of-fact tone. "I warned you. You'll have only yourself to blame when you're mopping up my guts."
"Don't be so utterly absurd." England stood and came around the table; he still looked remarkably well put together despite his own financial situation, his shirt not missing three buttons or worn at the elbows as America's was. "Still, if you are positive that you have had your fill, we can move on."
He put his hand on America's shoulder and nudged at him, implying that he wanted him to get up. America rose obediently, feeling the liquid move inside him as though it was one of his lakes, Michigan or Erie, his belly heavy with it.
"Move on?" he questioned warily. He resisted the hand England had put to his back. "What are you plotting, Arthur?"
England grinned dryly at him.
"Plotting? You give me too much credit." He lowered his hand enough to pat America firmly on the rear. "Didn't I say I had a solution?"
America looked at him tiredly. His glasses were grimy with dust, as was the rest of him, and he wasn't in the mood for England's cryptic games.
"What can you do?" he asked. "Besides somehow getting me to drink half the Thames."
"If that water had come from the Thames, you'd be dead." England patted him again, more insistently. "You're just going to have to trust me, Alfred. You can at least do that, can't you?"
"...I suppose." America yielded to England pushing at him again and let him steer him into the next room, disconcerted by the sensation of the water within him swaying like the sea against the walls of his stomach.
He was led into a room empty of furniture except for an old desk against the far wall; next to it was what looked like stack of large paintings with a heavy, dust-thick cloth thrown over them. The only other thing in the high open room, sitting in the middle of the floor on the bare boards, was a bath. It was nothing like the meagre tin can they had shared back in 1918; it was old, certainly, but luxurious, white porcelain curving up in a shape not unlike a petal or a shell, and it stood proudly off the floor on bronze lion's feet. It was large, deep and full of water, clear and crystal and cold.
"...I hope you don't want me to drink that," America said at length, glancing uneasily at England.
"No," England sighed. "I want you to get in it."
"I don't need a bath." America looked down at his dusty, grubby clothing. "Well, I do, but it's hardly top of my priorities—"
"Keep your clothes on," England cut in dismissively. He flapped his hands at America, half-chasing him towards the tub. "It's not a scrub you need – it's water."
"You gave me water. Lots of water. So much water, in fact, that I'm going to be pissing like Niagara Falls—"
"When you have quite finished being so obscene," England snapped, "please get in the bath. Didn't I ask you to trust me?"
"Well, yes, but—"
"And you do trust me, don't you?"
"Y-yes, but I don't—"
"Then do as I tell you."
"Alright, alright, jeez." America went to the edge of the bath, kicked off his shoes and removed his belt completely before stepping into the lower end of it and turning so that he could lie down in it properly. "Ah, it's freezing!" he hissed, shuddering as he sank to his waist and then his chest.
"I expect it is." England came to the side of the bath and knelt, watching him. "Go right down."
"Like this?" America felt the chill of the water touch his chin. "Low enough?"
"No, go right under."
America blinked at him in bewilderment.
"Um... right under?"
"Yes. Trust me."
"You say that too much," America muttered, taking off his glasses and putting them in his pocket. "You're like a snake."
"A snake wouldn't go to this much trouble to cure boredom." England frowned, seeming to catch himself, and then smiled again, far more sweetly than was normal for him. "I mean cure you, of course."
America couldn't help but smirk at him.
"Are you going to drown me, Daddy?"
"Don't be silly," England said briskly, composing himself. He rolled up his sleeves and pressed at America's chest. "Go on, then, under you go."
America let him push him under, sinking until the back of his head came to rest against the porcelain bottom of the bath. He observed that England's hand was still on his chest even once he was underwater, anchoring him against the buoyancy of his air-filled lungs. He opened his eyes and glanced about; from down here all he could really see was the ceiling and England, both wavering to and fro on the other side of the wall of water. Even with his glasses off, even with the water warping England's image, America could see how deeply green his eyes were; they were like fields and forests, like the damp moss on old buildings and lily leaves floating on lakes. He had eyes like lands alive with lush vegetation, flourishing farmlands and great flat prairies fragrant with heather and deep woods thick with ferns and flowers and fairy-rings.
How America's land had once been before his people, his grandfathers and fathers and sons, had farmed it to dust.
He would trust England, then. How could England not be able to help him with eyes like that and all this water – as much water as he could drink, as he could sink beneath so that he was submerged beneath its surface like cold cradle? Why, it had been raining as he'd docked in London – England had been clutching an umbrella when he'd come to fetch him, shaking his head as America had gone bounding off down the street with his arms open, jumping in every puddle as he had when he was small.
So he waited. He was patient, lying there beneath the icy water in the empty room, drumming his fingers in a little Charleston rhythm against the bottom of the tub. He fancied that he could feel the water seeping into him everywhere, even through his skin, and his stomach felt fuller still for his being surrounded, as though he was a flooding river that would swell and burst and bleed over the land. That would be alright. If it would not rain then the wash of broken rivers would suffice instead – anything, anything, to give his land back its life.
But then, with a rude suddenness, came the need for oxygen. He closed his eyes and tried to ignore it for as long as he could, wanting to stay under longer; but it heightened and burned until he was twisting under England's hand as he reached up to tap at him. He tried to sit up even as he did so, hoping that it would convey that he wanted to come up for air.
England pushed him back against the bottom of the bath. Already out of air, America panicked, not even thinking anymore as he began to thrash, clawing at England, kicking with all of his strength at the sides of the bath to try and break it—
England leaned further over him and pressed his other hand against his chest, too; pinning him to the bottom of the tub, although it was presumably taking everything he had to keep America there with him flailing about in raw inhuman terror, fight-or-flight trying to damage England in any way that he could in order to get him off.
America had just managed to grab the collar of England's shirt when something in his chest abruptly gave and he felt as though his whole body was collapsing inwards as his vision darkened and he suddenly, uncontrollably, went limp and he felt the icy rush of water plunge deep within him, crashing inside his lungs like a wave against a brittle cove—
He was hauled upright and felt – dimly, barely conscious – something simultaneously slam against his back and up beneath his ribcage. He was brought back from the brink of blackness by the sudden need to cough and pitched forward and everything came up, all the water in his lungs and what looked like half a field's worth of dust and dirt.
He leaned forwards, still breathlessly coughing, gasping for air, and felt England clap him on the shoulder.
"Good boy, get it all up." He stood and America heard him walk away, the floorboards creaking with every step.
America didn't care. He took a deep shuddering breath and was hit with a sudden wave of nausea, ducking forwards again to throw up between his legs. Water, more water, that was all he'd had in his stomach – and there, too, more crumbled earth that settled heavily like sediment at the bottom of the bath.
Exhausted, he leaned back against the porcelain again, the water – now cloudy with dirt that might have been inside him for years – slopping at his collarbone. He raked his soaking hair out of his face, plastering it back as though with gel, and just breathed gratefully, dimly aware that this water was like that which he'd left for England in that November, already unclean with his suffering.
England came back with a towel and a glass of water. He threw the towel over America's head and offered him the glass; as he did, America saw the raw-red scrapes and scratches on his bare forearms.
America pushed the glass away.
"I'm not thirsty, Arthur," he muttered, looking aside.
"It's to wash out your mouth."
"I said I'm not thirsty," America pressed. "Not anymore."
England shrugged, eyed the filthy water and took a sip from the glass himself. He looked hideously pleased with himself.
"You're welcome," he said.
YAY FOR DENMARK AND HOLLAND!111!11! Denmark because he's one of my favourite characters so I'm glad I got to squeeze him in somewhere and Holland because he's done so well in the World Cup! Aww, well, in reality, I think they have worked hard to get into the final, so good luck to them against Spain! I'm rooting for you, Holland/Netherlands/whatever you're going by these days! =)
Speaking of Holland, they did have a very good trading relationship with Japan, even prior to Matthew C. Perry's 1853 expedition to get them to open up their borders to other Western countries for trade – in fact, before the US intervention on Perry's part, Holland was the only Western nation that Japan had trading relations with (although Britain and France had tried it on a few times, only to get sent packing).
Victorian Britain: Surprisingly full of filth despite stereotypical Victorian sensibilities – peep shows, whorehouses and opium dens abound, particularly in lovely lovely London. I did in fact watch a very interesting documentary on it a few weeks ago called Rude Britannia. Ah, British TV. How I missed you.
I'm sure this is obvious, but the behaviour displayed by America during the WWI segments is not cowardice or childishness; he is suffering from "shell-shock", or what is now diagnosed in soldiers as Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Anyone who has also read O America, the most recent Hetalia fic I posted, may have noticed that America also appears to be a victim of shell-shock in that fic too. I suppose I shouldn't recycle my ideas BUT it cannot be denied that the kinds of soldiers most likely (although not exclusively) to be affected by the horrors of WWI in a way that resulted in shell-shock/PTSD were young men, often mere boys, who had signed up to fight having never been in the armed forces before. Of course the USA had been involved in wars prior to WWI – Revolution, 1812, Civil War and American-Spanish War, to name but a few – but America is the youngest and most inexperienced of the main Hetalia countries and, coupled with the fact that the USA entered the war late and wasn't really expecting the kind of carnage that countries such as Britain, France and Germany were already used to after three years, it doesn't seem all that far-fetched to me that he might be mentally affected by the bloodshed, whereas countries like Britain and France, which had been killing each other for years, were more desensitised to it because they're older, sort of like veterans.
Incidentally, as a fun fact, WWI was the first time the USA ever enforced a draft.
Speaking of recycling ideas (again from O America), I may as well confess that the scene where England drowned America enough to get the dust out of his body was in fact meant to be in that fic and not this one – in O America it was more explicit that his lungs were full of dust because he kept coughing and coughing, but... I cut it. I felt that it didn't need it and besides, England wasn't as ridiculously abusive in that fic, so it would have been a weird behavioural turn for him. It fit much better in here in that respect and I still liked it enough to want to write it, so... yeah. I suppose England did help, anyway – not that Britain had anything to do with the end of the Dust Bowl historically, but oh well. Like Hetalia doesn't take liberties of its own...
Franklin? XD I have no idea what the 'F' in 'Alfred F. Jones' stands for – it's probably something stupid like 'Fantastic' or 'Fat-ass' or 'FUCK YEAH'. But I thought I'd do my usual thing of taking Hetalia much too seriously and gave him 'Franklin' after Benjamin Franklin and Franklin Delano Roosevelt (who hadn't been president yet back then but never mind...).
Fairy-ring: I don't know if this terminology is used outside of Britain but it's a colloquial name given to a ring of mushrooms or toadstools, which is an uncommon formation. Supposedly they grow like that because fairies have danced there.
Finally, on rereading this fic for proofing purposes, I realised that I had written England as suddenly following the Light Yagami and Haruhi Suzumiya Schools of Curing Boredom; that is, his excuse for wreaking havoc is pretty much just that he's bored. That, and it looks like I'm excusing him for being a murderous paedo bastard on the basis that "He can't help it – he's European". OH WELL.
(Although, on a historical note, I would just like to point out that when the outbreak of WWI was announced throughout Europe, there was mass celebration in cities like London, Paris, Vienna, Berlin and Budapest. Why? Boredom. Highly-Nationalist Europe was bored of peace. Trufax. Really really. O.o)
Onwards to Pt III, lads and luvvies!
('Et Filii' – 'And the Son')
