The next time they fought was with bayonets. America hadn't planned England to be, well, so good. Or maybe he hadn't planned on England ever fighting after their first gunfight. There were a few times when the bayonet blade was close, almost too close. His plan, for the moment, was a taste of that sweet glory. That superiority, that short god-like feeling, he needed to have it. Just for a second. And it wasn't like he would hurt England. Not too much at least. Besides, as a nation, he'd heal soon enough.
"England," America said slowly. "You don't have to fight me. We can part civilly."
England laughed. "What do you take me for, a fool? I may have let you off when we first fought, but don't think I'll ever be merciful towards you again brat." England held his bayonet high, poised to strike when he froze from the sound of a sob.
America could see the fear overwhelm those emerald eyes, the fear of hurting the colony he would sacrifice anything for. He kept the act up until England lowered his weapon just a bit more. And that was all he needed. America lunged at him with all the force of a startling wind, brandishing a concealed dagger. He hadn't aimed for anywhere in particular, so it wound up somewhere in the middle of England's chest. He watched in an almost child-like wonder as he shoved the blade hilt-deep into his former caretaker. A dark voice in America's head told him to twist the dagger. Just a tad, of course. He wasn't an animal.
England lay in the mud, red coat crimson, with eyes tightly shut. He had known one day his dear, sweet America would feel the urge all nations do, the one to hurt and destroy because something in him told him to. England just thought it wouldn't be him, the one who cared for and loved him best. England could feel the literal twisting of the knife in his stomach, sapping him of hope and energy. The little America he knew was hidden behind this abomination of urges and impulses. He was lost to a creature that only wanted to feed. But, he supposed, it was his fault for sheltering America from everything. So England would let himself be devoured, all for a greedy colony he loved.
The stillness of England's body had spooked America. He wasn't dead, the ragged breathing convinced him otherwise, but it was too still for the active nation. That voice, the one telling him to harm England, cried for him to take advantage of this. 'Drive the bayonet through him, cut one of his pretty little eyes out, shoot at that failing heart, scratch him, break him, bleed him!' it whispered. Submitting to the voice's requests he slowly pulled the dagger down, creating a slit. Beautiful ruby blood lapped at the fabric of England's coat. It almost seemed to bloom like a newly opened rose. Even with this, the voice wanted more. It needed to have more. While America debated whether to listen to this newfound perspective or not, England feebly lifted his hand to America's face. Gently, he pressed his palm against the still slightly chubby cheeks. With a smile, he stole the dagger from America's surprised hand and gutted himself.
He was horrified. The voice vanished, the feeling evaporated, and America ran to the bushes to vomit. Dry heaving and crying, he couldn't bear to look at the body. Because it was just a body now. A body that just happened to look like England.
Slowly, as he was still trying to get over his nausea, America crept towards the fillet of England (with that image in mind, he made a note not to eat fish for a while). The sight was still terrible. The ground was muddy from blood which made him highly aware that the squelches under his boots were coming from the remains of England's life.
The last seconds they shared were frozen on England's face. His eyes were wide, probably from the pain but maybe from fear as well. His bruised and chapped lips were barely parted. America wondered if he would have seen England's final breath if he stayed long enough. All color seemed to be seeping out of England, almost like the blood pooling under his fraying threads of hair. His body seemed to move without thought as America knelt to touch the hand that, moments ago, rested so warmly against his skin. It was so stiff, so frozen, so unlike England.
Speaking of, it only now dawned upon him how cold it was. Night was falling. He couldn't leave England to the wildness of the dark, but he certainly couldn't bring him to his camp. America's only option was to bury him. He had heard somewhere- possibly from France- that a nation needed to be returned to the soil to heal. So he did. Yet, as he covered the body, the small kisses from the earth did nothing to conceal the bruised off-grey of England's skin. For a moment, he felt...No. No, now was not the time. But before he obscured the face with dirt, America closed the unseeing eyes and gave the cold face a soft peck.
And then he left.