Aaaaaaaaaaaand... Part III!

III – Spiritu Sancti

He'd known it wouldn't be worth his while pleading for help; better to just wait and suffer until the brat felt guilty enough to at least come and check that he wasn't dead yet. He had expected America to hide from the prospect of another brutal world war after the damage the first one had done to him mentally, but honestly he also expected America to come. Eventually.

He was sitting on the only segment of a Blitzed roof still standing, one elbow resting on his knees and the other hand absently wrapped around the mangled weathervane to his left – perched like a gargoyle, surveying the ruin of London after last night's raid, the still-smoking turrets of St Paul's – when he spotted America weaving through the rubble.

America wasn't in uniform, just a regular suit, double-breasted and dark with the pale pinstripes popular in the 30s; he hadn't come to help. He had only come to look. Still, it was better than nothing.

It took him a while to find England – who didn't help him – but when he did, he stopped at the edge of the shattered house (just a house, any house, deserted and flattened by the bombs) and looked up.

"What are you doing up there?" he called.

"Oh." England grinned at him. "A silly thing, really. I climbed up here and now I can't get down."

America shook his head at him.

"Like a cat," he said. "Shall I come up and fetch you?"

"No, no." England waved his hand at him dismissively. "You stay there where you're safe. I'll come down."

"You just said you couldn't get down," America muttered; he watched England slide himself off the roof, use three pieces of smashed wall as steps and land lightly next to him, dusting down his green uniform.

"A metaphor, dear boy." England circled America, looking him up and down from every angle. "Let's have a look at you, then. It's been a few years, hasn't it?"

"Yes." America twisted his hands together nervously. "Um, Arthur, listen—"

"Oh, don't go getting all flustered," England interrupted absently. "I know you didn't come over here to help me."

"Well—"

"It's fine. I'm fine. It's all fine, Alfred, really." England stood in front of him again and reached up to take his shoulders. "I've done all this before – countless times. I've been in more wars than you've had hot meals."

"Maybe hot decent meals that you didn't burn."

"You only say that because everyone else does," England sighed. "How nice things were before you were corrupted. Wouldn't it have been better if it had just stayed you and me forever?"

"Uh..." America blinked at him, seeming bewildered. "Arthur, are you... alright?"

"Never better, never better." England flapped his hands at him again. "Well, I expect I look bloody awful – you know, what with barely having time to pull myself back together before Germany is bombing me to bits all over again, but it's all superficial, trying to break my morale, see—"

"Arthur, you're... babbling."

"Yes, I suppose I am. Would you prefer that I ranted instead?" England glanced about at London's gutted shell. "I've plenty to rant about."

"N-no, this is... this is fine." America patted England's shoulders. "I don't like it when you get angry. You're not very nice."

"I wouldn't be much good at getting angry if I was nice while being it."

"You know what I mean, though."

"Yes, I do." England beckoned America down towards him. "In any case, Alfred, I hope you don't mean to tell me that you came all this way to haul my corpse out of some Kraut-dug ditch if need be but haven't a kiss for me?"

"Oh. Right. Yeah." America seemed to hesitate, his fingers kneading England's shoulders with an odd air of nervousness, before he bent to put them on the same level.

He didn't initiate the contact, however; and, when England did, he didn't open his mouth, keeping his lips sealed against the licks and nips that had always, always worked on him. England sighed impatiently through his nose and let America go, sizing him up again. America was standing up to him. How bothersome.

Silly little boy.

"Alfred, Alfred," he murmured, taking the younger man's face in his hands, "how unlike you to be so shy. Why, concerning matters between you and I, I have to say that you hardly have much of a reputation for chastity."

America flushed pink and looked away; but, before he could open his mouth to respond, England had snatched his glasses off his face and was gone, darting away over the rubble.

"Arthur!" America grabbed blindly at him, missing him as he got away, and cursed. "Christ, I need those – get back here! Arthur!"

"I'm over here, Alfred." England paused at what constituted the "entrance" of the Blitzed building, dangling his glasses by one of the arms. "Come and get them."

America squinted at him, scowled and started towards him – and then tripped on a lump of chimney, the loose bricks giving under his feet to send him toppling onto his face. England tutted, tucked America's glasses into his belt and went back to help him up; funny, he had never cried when he had fallen as a child, never even complained, simply bounding back up and laughing, but now he just lay there miserably as though he couldn't be bothered to push himself up.

He did, however, grab England's wrist instead of his offered hand.

"Give me my glasses," he snapped.

"Get up first," England said. "You'll have them afterwards."

America sulkily allowed England to help him to his feet; grabbing at him as soon as he was upright, short-sightedly hunting for his glasses whenever he could reach.

"Still as impatient as ever," England sighed, taking America's hand firmly and starting to lead him towards the house. "Trust me for a moment, won't you?"

"I always trust you," America whined. "Arthur, please—" He stumbled once more, "—I'm going to fall again!" He felt at the ragged wall as everything suddenly darkened. "Where are you taking me?"

"Oh, nowhere special," England hummed. "Really, it's just part of the scenery nowadays." He led America to the middle of the room, then pressed his glasses into his hand and left him.

America put his glasses back on with a grateful sigh, the sudden-grey world sliding back into focus on the other side of the lenses; he glanced about with a shiver, looking for England. This was a kitchen – or what had once been one, at any rate, gutted out and thick on every surface with the dust and debris of broken bricks and plaster. Several of the shelves had fallen or slanted and there was smashed crockery littering the floor. The light hung like a cobweb from the ceiling, suspended by its fraying wire. In the middle of the room sat the kitchen table, battered and crooked but still standing, and the more-or-less frames of four chairs, some in better shape than others.

England was at the end of the kitchen, rifling through one of the drawers. America approached him from behind, confused.

"Arthur... what are you doing?" he asked.

"Getting cutlery," England replied cheerfully, not turning to him.

America blinked.

"Why?"

"To set the table."

"And, uh... why are you doing that?"

"Well, I need to set the table for dinner, don't I?"

"...Dinner?"

"Of course. I need to feed you – you're my responsibility." England glanced at America over his shoulder. "Don't worry about anything, Alfred – I'll look after you. Why don't you go and sit down? I shan't be long."

He went back to his drawer, leaving America to stare at him in utter bewilderment.

"Uh... Arthur?" America asked tentatively. "Are you... sure you're alright?"

"Of course I'm alright," England replied briskly, laying out two forks on the filthy counter beside him. "Don't ask such silly questions. Now go and sit down like a good boy." He had found something else in the drawer – although America couldn't see what – and was examining it with some interest.

"Well, gee," America drawled sarcastically, not moving, "it's just that you're suddenly acting like it's the 1700s. Newsflash: It's 1940 and I'm not—"

"I know perfectly well what year it is," England interrupted calmly, turning on America and flashing the carving knife he'd found at the younger man's throat. "Now do as you're told."

Too stunned to come up with an argument, America backed away and sank abruptly into one of the chairs, his eyes wide. England smiled sweetly at him, twirled the knife over in his hand and tucked it into his belt before returning his attention to the drawer once again.

He eventually surfaced with knives and plates and brought them to the table alongside his forks, beginning to lay them out with a very strange preciseness. Both plates were chipped and cracked, presumably from where they had clattered against one another during the bombing, but England merely looked at them fondly as he put them in place and then smiled at America as their gazes met.

"This is nice, isn't it?" he said. "This is the trick, you see. The only way to beat Germany – aside from bombing him back, of course. You just have to carry on as normal—"

"But this isn't normal!" America cut in desperately. "Arthur, stop this, please – you're scaring me."

"But Alfred," England sighed, "you're not afraid of me. You never are, never have been." He came towards America's chair and put his hands on it, leaning over him. "You remember that, don't you? Everyone else is scared of me but you aren't. Why would you be? When have I ever hurt you?"

"You..." America looked away. "Jeez, did you get hit in the head during the last bomb-raid or something? You're acting all—"

"I'm acting what?" England leaned in close enough to kiss him. "How am I am acting, Alfred? Like someone up to his eyeballs in yet more maiming and bombing and killing?"

America snatched the knife from England's belt and held the point at his heart, the blade actually touching the pocket of his green uniform jacket.

"Get away from me," he spat.

England laughed at him.

"I apologise," he said, composing himself with a cough, "but you stand up to me so rarely that I cannot help but find it amusing. Either way, if that's how you feel, that is something that should have said to me a few hundred years ago." He pushed his torso forward a little, the knife creasing the material as the pressure mounted. "Not now – when there's no escape for you."

The blade broke the pocket and America snatched it away before it could sink any deeper, letting it drop with a clatter.

England merely nodded his approval.

"I'm glad you agree with me," he said.

America opened his mouth to fire back at him – but the words got no further than the bottom of his throat before the chair he was sitting in suddenly gave underneath him, seeming to completely vanish, and, as he hit the floor on his back, a cloud of ash blossomed up around him.

England straightened and held up his open hands, flicking his long fingers.

"You'll have to be more careful with the chairs," he hummed. "They're rather fragile. The Blitz, you know – does frightful damage."

America sat up, shaking his head.

"You did that," he snapped. "Chairs don't... don't just crumble to ash—"

"I really don't have a clue what you're talking about, dear boy," England sighed; he put his hand under the edge of the table and flipped the whole thing onto its side with absolutely no effort or exertion, barely acknowledging that he'd done it even as the knives and forks and plates hit the floor, the ceramic shattering and bouncing out of sight.

America winced at the sound but glared defiantly up at England as the older man stood over him, those green eyes regarding him icily but curiously.

"Don't threaten me, Arthur," America said coldly. "Throwing stuff around isn't going to make me do what you want." He gave a snort of humourless laughter. "What, you waited all this time for this opportunity to show me that you can do... I don't know, magic?"

England sighed impatiently.

"This isn't magic, idiot," he said. He clenched his fists and suddenly brought them into his sides – and, exactly in tune with the movement, all of the cables and pipes and wires beneath the surfaces of the floor and walls and ceiling tore themselves from their confines, danced and hung like the strings of a puppet as England stilled and looked at America.

America, who was staring at him in a mixture of horror and bewilderment, utterly stunned.

"This isn't magic," England said again. "This is the price of war – of the damage done to me because I won't let Germany have his way."

America merely shook his head at him.

"I... I don't understand," he said.

"That's because you've never taken damage like this," England said. "Or, at least – because that's not quite fair, to suggest that you have never suffered – you have never perceived yourself to be at the very edge like this." He raised one of his arms above his head, very slowly, as if stretching, and let some of the wires wind themselves around his forearm like tame vines or tamer snakes. "This is my land, is it not?"

"London, England, Britain..." America nodded, not sure where he was going with this. "Yes. Call it whatever you want. It's yours, Arthur."

"Well, listen to this: We, as nations, are all a part of our land, just as our land is a part of us. I move under its will just as it moves under mine. You are seeing the latter of those here, Alfred."

England suddenly wrenched his arm downwards and tore down part of the ceiling. America put his arms over his head as the rubble and dust rained down as though another bomb had hit.

"Of course, this is very raw," England went on lightly, waving away the dust and shaking the loose cables from his sleeve. "What I am showing you, I mean. I have been bombed and bombed and so the wound is very open. More sensitive, you might say – therefore my poor island is more receptive to me. Whether I choose to tear it down or build it back up is another matter entirely."

"You're crazy," America hissed at him, lowering his arms. "You're going to kill us both at this rate, bring the whole building down on top of us!"

"Yes," England said, and smiled at him again. "If that's what it takes, that's what I'll do. I'll bury us both, Alfred." He paused thoughtfully. "Maybe now you see why everyone else is afraid of me, hm?"

"Ha," America coughed, "I thought it was just because you robbed them all."

"Perhaps a little, but a reputation like mine doesn't come from sinking a few ships and waving around a cutlass. I haven't been invaded for almost one thousand years – haven't you wondered why that is?"

"Because nobody wants a tiny island?"

"No – because nobody wants to attack a tiny island that will attack them back." England flicked his fingers again and the walls physically shook, the motion tremoring through them. "Of course I do not like to agree with you when you assert your size over mine, Alfred, but for the sake of this argument I shall do so: As far as nations go, I am rather small, both I and my actual landmass. The scope of my control is therefore more concentrated and, consequently, much stronger than that of, for example, France or Germany." He tilted his head. "The same applies to Switzerland; how else do you think he always manages to stay out of everything? I wouldn't go near him – and, for good reason, nobody goes near me."

America stared at him for another long moment, absolutely lost for words; and then, without warning, kicked himself up and bolted for the door—

"Alfred, you can't run away from me," England sighed as the boy slammed face-first to the floor barely a foot from where he'd been before, cables tangled about his legs like a web. "You had your chance to do that years ago and you never took it. It can't be helped now."

"You're insane," America spat at him, turning over so that he was on his back. "What the hell are you trying to do? Are you proving that I'm yours? Are you going to kill me? What, Arthur?"

"Hm." England flexed his fingers and several more wires wrapped themselves obediently around America's throat, pulling tight enough not to strangle him but to warn him of the danger he was in. "Let me ask you something. You have no intention of getting involved in all this, do you?"

"No." America tugged vainly at the noose about his neck. "Damn it, Arthur—England, let me go!"

"No, I won't. Your answer is unacceptable."

"I hardly think... that it's anything to do—"

"With me?" England laughed derisively again. "Of course it is. Didn't I make you what you are?"

"So I owe you? Or does it merely... reflect badly on you if I don't get off my ass?"

"A little of both, I think." England paused thoughtfully. "It's rather odd, come to think of it. You used to be somewhat eager about declaring war."

"Yeah – on you."

"Because it benefitted you." England shrugged. "Well, I'm flattered, but not satisfied."

"Too fucking bad."

"Yes, it is rather, isn't it?"

Without using the cables as an anchor this time – relying on only his hold over whatever was built or fell to ruin upon his lands – England pulled down what seemed to be the rest of the ceiling, one of the walls consequently collapsing as well and swinging inwards as though a mere piece of cardboard. Unable to rise, still trussed up by the wires, America threw his arms over his face again and squeezed his eyes shut, expecting some massive slab of ceiling to flatten him at any moment anyway—

The wave of demolition stopped and there was silence. America waited for a moment, his chest heaving, before dropping his arms again to lie flat on his back. England was leaning over him, observing him very intently. America looked away from, inspecting the new damage done to the Blitzed house – it was now a lot darker given that England had managed to create some sort of cavern, the walls slanted inwards like a house of cards.

"You've trapped us," America said in a hollow voice.

"Mm," England agreed, not sounding terribly perplexed; he shifted and America felt something warm splash onto his throat.

He felt it again as he reached up to touch it, finding it slick and wet on his fingers as he lifted them to better see that it was bright red. He looked at England properly; only now observing that he was leaning over him because he had positioned himself as a shield to protect America from the spine of steel – a support from inside the ceiling – which had consequently gone through him instead.

England didn't seem to have noticed that he had a piece of metal sticking out of his chest – or, at least, didn't appear to be in any pain from it. America didn't know how to approach the subject tactfully aside from pointing at it.

"Arthur, you... you, um, have—"

"I know," England said absently. He took this as an invitation to sit on America's stomach, taking a moment to straddle him comfortably before attending to the spike. "It's come in through the back. Do you think I should push it back or pull it through the front?"

"Uh..." America blinked at him. "...Push it, surely, b-but..." He shook his head, looking up at him in disbelief. "Jesus, Arthur, doesn't that hurt?"

"A little bit." England tried pushing the spine but couldn't get enough leverage to get it out; he tutted to himself. "I'm going to pull it. Watch your face." He tugged it out without much more warning that that and twirled it over in his hand to have a look at it. "Yes, it's a nasty bugger, isn't it? Would've killed a human."

America was dumbstruck yet again, looking at the metal spike.

"This is a game to you, isn't it?" he whispered. "This war thing – you don't take it seriously at all, like you just get stuck into one if you're bored—"

"Now, Alfred, don't be unfair," England interrupted airily, putting the spike to America's chin and making him tilt his head back a little. "I was merely observing that I, being inhuman, was not as gravely injured by this little incident as one of my men might have been."

"Because you're a nation instead."

"That's right."

"I'm a nation too."

"Yes, you most certainly are."

"Then why did you just protect me from that spike?" America challenged. "Surely it wouldn't have killed me either?"

"No, but it would have hurt you more than it hurt me." England took the spike away from America's chin and planted it into the cracked ground somewhere off to the left of them. "My land can never damage me as I can damage my land."

"So you protected me. You protected me despite wanting to drag me into another of your goddamn wars so I can watch thousands of men be cut down for no reason whatsoever, so I can be plagued with nightmares for years because it's all I see when I sleep, the corpses of fathers and sons rotting in the rain because you and France and Germany and Austria and Russia can't go six months without deciding you need to gang up against each other—"

"Don't you dare speak to me like that, you little hypocrite!" England interrupted, tightening the wires still about America's throat, briefly, enough to make him gasp for breath. "You're as guilty as the rest of us! Didn't you want to be an adult? Didn't you want me to see you as an equal? Then grow up and stop pointing fingers like a child! If you wanted me to baby you your entire life and make excuses for you then you shouldn't have declared war on me."

America got his breath back, drawing it in with angry gasps.

"So," he panted, "is this... our tomb, Arthur?"

"Ours?" England leaned over him, planting his hands either side of America's shoulders. "No, I think not. Mine, perhaps. But other graves will fit you better, Alfred."

"On the field, you mean?"

"Mm." England tucked a spike of hair back behind his ear – a feminine, vulnerable motion. "But not in red."

America looked away from him.

"You're being stupid," he said ruefully. "Choosing this for a grave when you are not dying, after all your talk of being strong enough to physically crush anyone who might invade you, after bringing a whole house down on top of me to prove it—"

"If the bombs keep coming then I shall have nothing left with which to crush anything," England said levelly. "That is mere logic."

"Since when does any war have any logic? The War To End All Wars? Was that logical?"

"Consider it the basic principle of equivalent exchange, then. Perhaps we are delving into theories slightly more mystical or magical in this instance – perhaps too fanciful, even, for your tastes – but if a soldier has no sword then how may he draw it in his own defence? To defend – or attack – one must have some kind of shield or weapon which is used in exchange for the defending or attacking action. Put simply, if everything of mine is turned to ash, with what do I fight?"

"With... with guns, with tanks, with—"

"You're not listening to me, Alfred."

"You are still strong, Arthur," America argued. "I can feel it."

"What can you feel?" England asked dully. "You haven't even touched me."

You haven't so much as kissed me.

"That's... that's not—"

"Yes, it is." England heaved an exaggerated sigh. "I don't blame you. What do you want with me when you can have the world?" He examined one of his own hands, turning it this way and that. "You must be sick of this tired old body by now, Alfred – it's not all you have ever known but you know it the best. Of course you didn't come here to help me; what does it matter to you if I crumble to nothing alongside my lands? Of what benefit has this sceptered isle ever been to you—?"

"Stop it." America abruptly sat up again and took England's face in his hands. "Don't be like this. It's all... so pointless. Can't you see that?"

"Yes, it was all pointless, wasn't it? Raising you, even."

"You don't think that. I know you don't." America held England's head still as he tried to pull it away and leaned in to – finally – kiss him properly.

But now England was the one who was adamant on being uncooperative, grabbing at America's wrists and managing to twist free from his grip.

"I do think that," he insisted, "I do, I do. Nothing I did for you ever amounted to anything – I tried to protect you and nothing came of it. You're ruined and you'd have been ruined either way. You won't even wear the cross I made for you."

America said nothing to that, but he pulled one of his hands free from England's grasp and went to the breast pocket of his jacket, clawing the necklace out of it and holding it up for inspection, his expression a mix between smugness and pure defiance.

England looked at it for a moment, then batted his hand away dismissively.

"Oh, ignore me," he said. "As if that would protect you either. It's just a piece of wood. It hasn't saved you from anything, has it?"

America clutched more tightly at the cross.

"Yes it has," he argued. "It—"

"Liar. It didn't even protect you from me."

"Then why make it for me?" America burst out. "Why give it to me, why tell me it would keep away everything that could hurt me, why lie to me?"

"Oh, why anything? Why raise you, why abuse you, why be on the verge of killing you more times than you can imagine?"

America blinked at him.

"...What?"

"Don't act naïve; I can't stand it," England snapped. He pulled his other hand back, put both of them to America's shoulders and shoved him onto his back again. "America, I'm going to kill you. Are you going to let me?"

America took hold of England's elbows and looked up at him.

"I don't understand," he said quietly.

"Of course you don't," England bit out. "You never understand anything. You can feel that I'm still strong? I very much doubt that."

He tugged his arms from America's grip and moved further down him, repositioning himself rather heavily on his thighs – America's legs were notably still bound by the wires, just as the copper cords remained twisted about his throat like a physical shadow of the pretty choker of bruises England had once put there.

"What are you doing?" America propped himself up on his elbows, watching England warily. "Arthur?"

"Be a good boy, Alfred," England said lightly, not looking at him; he unbuttoned America's pinstripe blazer and opened it, immediately going to his belt and beginning to deftly unbuckle it. "Lie back. You know I'd never hurt you, don't you?"

"You just said you were going to kill me!" America burst out.

"And which do you believe?" England toyed with America's button and trailed his fingers down over his zip and firmly pressed his palm against his crotch, listening to his breath hitch. "Which do you trust?"

America looked at him for a long moment, clearly deliberating even as he bit at his bottom lip against the feeling of England deliberately, nonchalantly, palming him to arousal through two layers. His hands fisted on the cracked concrete and his bound legs twitched under England's weight.

With his free hand, England reached towards him and once more took his glasses off, folding them and carefully tucking them into the pocket from which America himself had taken the cross.

"Can't you see that I'd never do anything to harm you?" he pressed, his voice gentle and full of lilting folk-song-promise. "Lie back, Alfred."

America hesitated a moment more; and then let his elbows buckle, sinking back to the floor with a heavy sigh. He was still clutching very tightly at the wooden cross, his gaze fixated on the ceiling even though he couldn't see it very well anymore, the damage disguised by the dark and his own short-sightedness.

Don't act naïve? Forgive me – I know you can't help it.

England merely nodded his approval, enjoying the tormented look on America's face as he tried to keep it straight even with his hips twitching like that. As usual, however, he didn't keep his mouth shut for long:

"This is pretty unromantic," he panted. "It's all been, you know, for ages. When was the last time we did it on a proper bed?"

"1911," England supplied absently. "Unless the beds in the dugout count."

"Proper bed."

"1911."

"That's a long time."

"Yes, I suppose it is."

England finally left America's crotch alone, satisfied with the bulge he'd managed to make of it, and unbuttoned him. The zip followed and he dipped his fingertips beneath the open 'v' to unfasten the line of smaller buttons down the front of America's boxer shorts. He heard the boy's breath hitch again, this time more nervously, as he was put on display; felt him squirm uncomfortably beneath him as though he wanted to draw up his knees to hide himself.

"Alfred, Alfred," England chided, gently laying a hand against his cock, "don't be shy. It's nothing I haven't seen, after all." He wrapped his hand around it for a moment, watching the twist of America's expression with interest; observing the physical buck of his ribcage when he pressed his thumb into the head. America's breath was coming so short that he sounded terrified, although the flush in his face was a clear enough announcement that that wasn't the case. "There now," England went on sweetly, stroking his first two fingers up the underside of it, "you like that, don't you? I know what you like, Alfred, hmm?"

America nodded, his eyes squeezed tightly shut.

"Of course I do," England said. He took his hand back and began to attend to his own clothing, kneeling up and blindly fumbling under his jacket with his belt, roughly pushing everything down his thighs.

America wasn't watching him, apparently too undone in anticipation to concentrate on anything and so merely keeping his eyes shut. No matter. England put a hand flat on America's chest to steady himself as he pushed forward into a better position, using his free one to take the boy back in hand again and guide him in, sinking downwards with an uncommon confidence – he had never done this with America before and hoped the brat wouldn't panic.

America gasped and his eyes flew open, lifting his head to stare at England in bewilderment as they met fully; England merely huffed at him and straightened his green uniform tie, his shoulders stiff from how uncomfortable it was. Of course America had grown since that evening over the battlefield but he felt a lot bigger, unpleasantly so, and England hadn't prepared himself and was unused to having someone inside him due to his general staying-away-from-France – in retrospect, this was beginning to look like a bad idea, actually, but he'd feel like a fool if he retreated now and sucked in a breath or two to help himself adjust to the stretch.

America grinned then; weakly but obnoxiously.

"Is my prick too big for you, Arthur?" he teased.

"Hardly," England replied icily. "It's just that I am not as used to being bent over tables as you are, boy."

America shrugged good-naturedly.

"They're your tables," he said mildly. "Still..." He propped himself up again to look at the joining of their bodies. "This surprises me."

"How does it feel?"

"Um..." America hissed as he felt England rock forwards a little. "G-good, I guess... a little overwhelming..."

"Yes, I expect it does." England kneaded at America's chest like a cat, nails dragging over the weave of his waistcoat. "Put your hands on my waist to hold me steady, won't you? I shouldn't have to do all the work."

"O-of course." America lay back a third time and raised his arms enough to place his hands on England's belt. "Is that better?"

"It'll do." England pushed himself up and down a few times, making America gasp, but the rhythm was difficult and not very smooth; America was completely rigid beneath him, not moving a muscle, simply clinging grim-death to his waist and looking up at him in what appeared to be bewilderment. "If you lifted your hips to meet me, it would feel better," he said coldly.

"I can't with my legs still tied up," America retorted.

England rolled his eyes at him but loosened the wires still wrapped constrictively about America's legs, allowing him to move them. The boy opened them and bent his knees, his feet resting flat on the floor, and the whole movement sort of pitched England forward, making him brace himself against America's chest.

"That feels so much better," America concurred with a sigh; he let one hand, the one still holding the cross, drop back to the concrete, rolling his hips now to meet with each of England's motions.

England took hold of the lapels of America's waistcoat and clung to him like an anchor; America was so strong that each of his rocks upwards physically lifted England, almost making him lose his balance. He glared down at America in annoyance, noting that he had closed his eyes again and really seemed to be enjoying it now.

"Can you feel it now?" he challenged, tugging hard at America's silk lapels. "Can you feel my strength? Or can you just feel the damage? This has to feel different! Different from that time over the battlefield – against the birch tree, remember? Surely I don't feel as I did then."

"No," America sighed. "You were stronger then. I wasn't even able to hold you still. I couldn't feel anything."

"And this?" England gave an icy laugh. "Is this better? Does this ruined body pleasure you better now, Alfred?"

"Mm. This is nicer – gentler."

"Weaker, you stupid fool."

"That's—"

"It is true, it is." England stopped moving, tilting his head up to look at the collapsed, slanted-in ceiling of the ruined house. "A tomb, you ask? Yes, I suppose... Do I feel like a tomb to you, Alfred?"

"I..." America opened his eyes again. "N-no—"

"Because that's how I feel. How much longer can I survive on borrowed money and borrowed weapons and borrowed time? I'm not stupid – I know the old glory days are coming to end, I know empires can exist no longer when this is all over. It's old-fashioned and it's hypocritical."

"Arthur—"

"Exhume me from beneath the rubble of London when it's over. All you'll find is the remains of bones that crumbled to dust decades before."

"Are you listening to yourself?" America grabbed hold of his belt and shook him a bit.

"Of course I am." England looked down at him again – he lifted himself and felt America's hips rise with him, arching to meet him. "You've made your decision, haven't you? Then this is all I can do – accept my ruin with open arms."

"I haven't— Now wait a minute, I haven't... haven't made any decision—"

"You are neutral." England sank rather heavily back onto him again. "Is that, or is it not, correct?"

"It's..." America brought the hand holding his cross up to his hair to grip at it in frustration. "Arthur, it's not... it's just not that black-and-white, I mean, sure, I'm hardly a belligerent, but—"

"Oh, Alfred, Alfred, I'm not accusing you of condemning me to death," England cut in wearily. "Keep your knickers on."

"Kind of difficult since you're on my—"

"It's a figure of speech – just like asking you to choose."

America froze, the chain of his necklace brushing his cheek.

"You remember that?" England asked softly, smirking. "Baby, you must choose. Blue or red. Your side or mine. Choose now. If you must condemn me to save your own skin then do it."

"It's not about saving my own skin!" America snapped. "How many men have you lost already, Arthur? How many more of mine will you take?" He laughed bitterly. "They called it No Man's Land but it wasn't true. It was Every Man's Land because every man died there or knew someone who did. Will you turn all of Europe into another Hell like that – will you decorate it with my blood as well as your own? Exhume that and see how many skeletons of forgotten men you find – American, British, French, German." He looked away, refusing to meet England's gaze any longer. "I will give you money – I will not give you men."

England blinked at him, then laughed.

"It's not funny!" America spat, still fiercely looking aside.

"I know it's not." England reached back and patted America's thighs reassuringly. "Come on, let's at least not let all this effort go to waste. Close your eyes and relax."

America bit at his bottom lip for a moment, then gave a deep, huffy sigh and nodded. He settled back, fingertips rubbing over the decorative notches of his cross, and closed his eyes as he felt England take his other hand, the one that previously been resting at England's own waist to hold him steady. He felt England incline towards him and then the gentle press of lips against his knuckles – the gentleman's role, somewhat sarcastic, perhaps, but a nice touch nonetheless. When he let go of his hand again, America dropped it only to England's thigh, letting it rest on the curve of it, feeling the coarse, thick material of his bunched uniform trousers.

Neither of them said anything else. There was finally some sort of passable rhythm, even if it was still a little uncomfortable, and they moved with the preciseness, the predictability, of machinery, the same motion over and over again, rising and falling at the same moment as though it was an extension of their breathing captured exactly in time. America arched his back and lifted his hips, pushing up into every thrust, almost afraid to let England move too far from him; he was light, physically fragile, and it was no effort, no exertion, for America to raise him with each of his plunges upwards. Not weakness, not ruin, but... something. England was so small and yet it had taken him so long to notice. He had needed to grow out of his arms in order to realise that England couldn't protect him forever.

He twisted and grabbed at England's trousers; he could feel the older man tightening all around him, his inner walls clinging to him in a way that they hadn't before, either this time or that other awful time in the red light of the dusk, and he made a strangled, restrained squeaking sound at how amazing it felt.

How sickening. America couldn't help but smirk to himself as he fancied he felt the ground trembling underneath him – that was a cliché, wasn't it? It was so wonderful that there were fireworks and the earth moved—

Wait. He felt something – a little chunk of rock – hit him on the forehead and his eyes snapped open. England was shooting him a sickly smile, lazy, his jade eyes half-lidded. The ground was moving – everything was, tremoring under England's hold on it. One of the walls suddenly slid inwards another metre or so, kicking up a cloud of dust and raining down a shower of plaster on them both.

"Stop!" America yelled at him; he grabbed desperately at England, anywhere he could, trying to break his concentration. "You're going to bury us! Arthur!"

"Won't it be a fitting tomb?" England sang.

"No, no it won't—" America tried to shove England off. "Get off me, you lunatic!"

The ground stopped shaking; but in the same instant England held up his hands. His fingers were threaded with copper wires, wrapped in and out and between like an intricate weave. He pulled his hands back and America realised – much too late – that they were the same wires as the ones wrapped around his neck, as they suddenly pulled taut and too tight about his throat and began to strangle him far more easily than England's bare hands.

He couldn't even speak, the cords too restricting to allow him to make even the most undignified squeak; instead he thrashed underneath England, wrestling with the wires and trying to pry them away from his neck. He kicked and bucked but, despite how light England was, America couldn't manage to throw him off. His vision was beginning to black out as he dimly watched England pull the wires tighter and tighter still, putting all of his strength into it.

Vainly, desperately, America threw out one of his hands, feeling blindly around for something, anything, to use a weapon, to get England off or cut the wires—

His fingers met with the metal spike and closed around it. He wrenched it out of the crack England had staked it into and thrust it upwards in the same motion, aiming blindly, just hoping it hit him—

The wires loosened and America fell back, gasping for breath; still grasping the spine, his knuckles white around it. He panted for a long moment, greedily drawing air into his lungs, and then dared to open his eyes.

England was looking down at him, his arms limp at his sides again. He didn't look like he was in a lot of pain but he was observing America with some level of bored interest.

The spike had impaled him just under his heart.

"Is that it?" he asked eventually. He shrugged and began to raise his arms again. "Well, if that's all you have in you—"

America shifted his grip on the spike, angled it upwards and shoved. England froze up, wide-eyed, and then seemed to go quite limp as America kept pushing and pushing, sitting up even as the metal spine went right through England's body and came out of his back. With him completely unyielding, America shoved at him and reversed their positions, England hitting the floor on his back like a rag doll. Still inside him, England's knees somewhere at his hips, America leaned over him and tightened both hands around the metal spine, giving it a final thrust and pinning England to the floor of his tomb with it – like he was staking a flag into the surface of an uncharted land.

The wires were still around his neck, loose and clinking like strings of pearls, as he dipped his head, hands still on the spine and cross still clutched in his palm, and got his breath back.

"No, you're not going to let me," England said quietly, smiling at him. "I'm glad, Alfred."

"Shut up." America looked at the blade of pure steel impaling England through the heart. "Even this doesn't kill you, monster."

"Of course not." Blood began to pool at the corner of England's mouth. "But it hurts."

America said nothing – but his shoulders began to shake.

"Tell me," England mused gently, ignoring the boy's sobs, "is this what you dreamed?"


"You dreamt of me, Alfred?"

Not prepared to let the child settle with words like that on his lips, England reached down under the covers and took hold of him under his arms, pulling him up to his level. America protested sleepily, kicking a little bit, but soon got comfortable again on England's chest, one small hand clinging to his heavy cross.

"Alfred." England shook him. "Your dream. Why is it that you speak so easily of your nightmarish monsters and myself in the same sentence?"

"Because it was a nightmare," America informed him, not opening his eyes.

"Pray tell me."

"We were in the woods. It was snowing and it was just you and I. You showed me where acorns had fallen around an oak tree and had begun to sprout. You said that they were too close to the original tree and would probably die – their roots would be strangled by the big tree. I said in reply that it would have been better for the seeds to go far away from the big tree in order for them to grow and survive."

"And then?" England wrapped his arms around America, who snuggled contentedly into his embrace.

"You murdered me."

England paused.

"And how did I do that?" He shook America again, bringing him back from sinking beneath the surface of sleep."Alfred, just answer me this last question. By what method did I kill you?"

"Hands about the throat, enough to choke the breath from my body and lay me upon the snow. And then..." America nudged the top of his head up underneath England's chin, making a pillow of the dip in his collarbone. "...The strangeness of dreams is to blame, but you took from nowhere your flag and impaled me with it, spearing me to my own land. I was another pinned butterfly for your collection."

He smiled sleepily, perfectly delighted to have an excuse to crawl into England's bed.

"But," he murmured happily, "it was but a dream."


America lay on his back looking up at the ceiling, following the crack spreading from the light fixture until he couldn't see it anymore. It was an old sort of morning, early and dim even though it was May; old because nothing about it was artificial, neither the light nor the silence. They were in another run-down hotel room with walls which had once been white and a plain, ugly lampshade and thin flowery sheets on a shaky metal bed frame. The curtains were still half-open and America looked over the top of England's head at the window, picking out the blurred, grey shapes of London's half-decimated architecture. Admittedly it was difficult to tell Big Ben from a lamppost without his glasses...

England was still sound asleep, his head on America's broad chest, content under the weight of the arm that America had casually thrown over him. America remembered sleeping like this many years ago now, when he was still a child, in this exact position but reversed, his cheek on England's chest as he drifted to sleep and swam to wakefulness. England had smelt like the sea then, cold salt and high winds; with traces beneath of misty fields and sweet incenses of lonely churches, the sharp bustle of London life, ink and wax and axle grease.

Now he smelt of gunpowder, of blood, of rust and rubble and ruin.

In Europe it was over. Italy, separated from Germany two years ago, had been cowering beneath the Allied shield ever since as they had pushed forward from all angles, dragging up France as they went even as their dead littered his lands once more, falling on his shores in June and tearing down Germany's flag from the Eiffel Tower in July. They pushed and men fell; France breathed and Canada helped though they forgot him and England watched as America and Russia crushed Germany between them.

America turned his head, pressing his cheek against the pillow, and looked at the opposite wall; the battered old dresser was against it, and leaning against that were England's crutches. If he squinted, America could see them in half-decent detail. They didn't shock him anymore – England had been using them for years now. Perhaps his own land couldn't hurt him, perhaps his buildings fell and barely scraped him because Germany just couldn't break him no matter what he did, but America had seen this coming, had seen the war crippling England little by little as it dragged on. Money, machinery, men – they began to run out and England could stand on his own no longer.

He fought on with them, his resolve to see it through to the end never wavering once, but they began to leave him behind as the years advanced.

Even then, watching China hold England's right crutch for him as he signed the peace treaty with Germany, America had remembered when England was strong enough to pick him up, to carry him for miles, to cuddle him close. He remembered looking up at him at night and being made aware of his own weakness in the face of England's power. He remembered being at England's mercy more than once.

He remembered that England had never really saved him from anything – not even this.

He gently lifted England and slipped out from beneath him, tucking him back in, and got dressed. It was a new uniform, ready and waiting for him in London when they had gotten back from Europe, although he had refused to part with the bomber jacket even though England had mocked him for falling for the fad of personalising it with paint and ten minutes' spare time. He was just pulling it on, his back to the bed, when he heard England address him:

"Are you sneaking out, Alfred?"

"I have still have men out there." America tugged his fur collar straight. "Okinawa. Iwo Jima."

"Ivan and I—"

"Yes, I know." America sighed and turned to him. "I know it's not just me – it's not just my war. But you know I can't stay here with you any longer. You and Francis have all this mess here in Europe to deal with and I don't know if Yao can hold up much longer on his own and—"

"I am aware that the Pacific Theatre is still open for business." England had propped himself up against the headboard, toying with the cuff of the too-big shirt of America's he was wearing. "That damned Kiku – he always was stubborn..."

"I used to be friends with him."

"So did I." England shrugged at him. "Well, easy come, easy go. I was friends with Germany just fifty years ago, too – and who'd have thought that I'd end up allied with France?" He shuddered. "Twice."

Or that you'd end up like this. America didn't voice that last part aloud but looked at England for a long moment; those jade eyes met his, suddenly dark and thoughtful.

"Going East at last, then," the older man mused. "As far East as you can go."

"Yes." America gave an uneasy shrug of his own. "What protection does West give anyway? You came West to me when you wanted to escape Europe and it's still been your undoing."

"Ah, yes; is East ruin?" England smirked dryly. "I am East of you, after all – and Japan is East of us all."

America merely gave a sigh and offered no answer to that. England was so oddly... gentle now, if that was the right word for it. It was almost as though he was relieved that America had stood up to him – as though a burden had been lifted from his shoulders the moment America had thrust him through the heart and given him a grave.

An America strong enough to try and kill him in return wasn't boring.

"Would you do something for me?" America asked at length. "Before I go, I mean."

"Of course." England held out his hand. "If you would be so kind as to bring me those."

He was motioning to his crutches; but America shook his head and came back to the bed and sat down on the edge of it.

"No, it's okay, you don't have to get up," he said. He went into the pocket of his flight jacket and brought out his cross on its old tarnished chain, holding it out. "Could... um, could you... put this back on me?"

England blinked at him, silent for a moment, clearly taken aback; then he smiled, a real, rare, genuine smile, and took the necklace, stretching out the full circumference of the chain and beginning to reach up to slip it back over America's head.

"No." America ducked away, shaking his head. "I want you to clasp it... like you did when you first put it on me."

England simply nodded at that, not questioning the peculiarity of the request – well, England was somewhat eccentric himself at times, it couldn't be argued – and lowered the chain again to open the clasp on his lap. It was stiff, having never been opened or worked since that time he had first put it on America almost two hundred years ago, and it took him a moment and rather more exertion than should have been required to get it undone. He held it open, an end in each hand, and America leaned towards him for him to slip it around his neck.

"There." England gave it a tug to make sure that it was properly hooked; remaining with his arms draped around America's neck when he was satisfied. "Nothing can hurt you now, Alfred." He pressed a kiss to the boy's forehead.

America ducked his head and laughed.

"Liar," he said, and he smiled.


America ran ahead, his footprints in the snow like an uneven braid, weaving this way and that as he jumped roots and twirled about every now and then to make sure England was still behind him. His heavy cloak was tied firmly around his shoulders, keeping out the crisp winter chill, although his hood had come down, silver snow glittering on his gold hair.

Evening was sinking low as they made their way back through the woods – the trees were tall and naked and starkly black, standing like soldiers with stoic duty and bitter bark. America had had his hand in his for part of the walk but some time ago he'd broken free and gone scampering off after a rabbit – which was tame enough to regard him without much fear but still too shy to let him touch it, waiting for him to crouch and outstretch his arm towards its ears before it bounded away another few feet. At every failed attempt the child merely laughed and went tripping after it once more.

England's hand suddenly felt empty for the absence of America's and he reached into his pocket to find something to instead occupy it with. He emerged with the blunt beginnings of a wooden cross and stopped, resting his hand against the body of a birch, as he looked down at it cradled in his palm instead. The shape was more or less complete – he intended to decorate it with further intricacies, cutting into the wood beneath for its beauty to be better beheld.

Birch. He'd found it here, out in these woods, just he and America and no-one else to make up a world of silent forest, America's land as it died in the winter and yet was no less breathtaking for that cruel early death. Europe choked and shrivelled under December's touch but America's earth dressed itself with care, a splendid lady with pearls in her hair and diamonds at her throat and opals sewn into her moon-white gown, the perfect mother to a perfect child (even if he had hair like the sun and eyes like rivers unfrozen).

England did not belong here. He existed in the New World with the ill presence of a ghost, festered on the skin of America's land like a wound that spread without respite or healing; America didn't see the danger in him because he didn't understand anything other than what England taught him. For years he would never know that England had no power over this land.

No. England closed his hand around the cross and sank down against the birch. London rose to meet him but Massachusetts shrank back as though it feared that the stench of Europe on him, the stink of mud and war and dead men, would taint it. He had no hold over anything here – nothing except America himself. Beautiful land, though; so many places in these woods alone would make pretty graves, deep and undisturbed for America to sleep where monsters couldn't get him.

Birch wasn't a difficult wood to work with – but how this birch hated his English knife.

"Are you singing?"

England opened his eyes. America was leaning over him curiously – the rabbit was captive in his arms.

"No, no, I was..." England gave a shake of his head and stuffed the unfinished gift back into his pocket without America seeing. "Praying, Alfred. The Pater Noster."

He hadn't realised that his lips were moving.

"Oh." America nodded. "Our Father."

"Yes." England stood. "Well, let the rabbit go. You cannot take him home – he lives here in the forest."

America pouted a bit but bent to put the creature down; it skirted timidly past England and was gone, darting behind a tree.

"He must not have liked you," America said forlornly, looking after it. "Perhaps you smell like a wolf, Arthur."

"A strange thing," England agreed absently. "They used to come right into my arms."

America fell asleep in England's grasp as he carried him home; England held him carefully, gingerly, suddenly not sure what to do with him. He was overwhelmed with the want to kill him, bury him deep so that he could never regret turning him into something he had never had any control over to begin with; the want to make love to him, to abuse him with touches and words he was much too young to understand; the want to put him to bed and safely tuck him in, kiss him on the forehead after the prayer to keep away the monsters, hear him whisper "Goodnight, Daddy" around a sleepy smile.

Oh, he had no idea what to do with promise such as this other than ruin it.

The only gift he could give made his fingers bleed; but he would finish the cross tonight.

Then America would be safe.

[America held his cross in both hands as the first bomb fell. He did not so much pray as he pleaded.

"Deliver us from evil."]


So. Um. Yeah. Congratulations! You reached the end of this almost-30,000-word-monstrosity! XD

That Blitz part got so long, idevenk why...

I don't like to harp on with the assumption that you have read any of my other Hetalia fics because it is, of course, likely that you haven't, but... if you have, you may have noticed at this point that I have a massive fixation with America's glasses. XP Ah, I can't help it – I'm an American Studies student and the fact that he wears glasses – presumably because he's short-sighted, since he wears them all the time – is just like... too freaking perfect. Really it is. I love that he is short-sighted. I think it comes from a conversation I had with Narroch many years ago now, when we first became friends and realised we were from different countries, but I mean ideologically it's just... be still my heart. It's probably just me reading too much into stuff again, though – Himaruya Hidekaz was probably just like "Yeah, this guy would look good with some glasses on him"... (but let me have my fun).

As an aside, I wear glasses myself so I know what a pain in the arse they are – they get dusty and dirty and scratched all the time and if it starts raining you're buggered because once they're wet you can't see and if you take them off because you can't see you still can't see because you're not wearing them anymore. Still, it is nice that someone invented them so the massive percentage of us that need them don't have to stumble around blindly our whole lives...

Speaking of America, a little of his literary heritage: There were no direct or explicit references to his poetry in here, but this whole piece kind of had a bit of a Robert Frost undertone, particularly the poems 'Stopping By Woods On a Snowy Evening' and, of course, 'Birches'.

And England's literary heritage: "Sceptered isle" – A reference to Shakespeare's Richard II; the quote continues "This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England".

Um, so, I think that's that. Thanks for wasting like three hours of your life reading it; and I hope you enjoyed it!

Wow, I really need to write something happy one day...

(I can't help it – I'm European!)

RR

xXx

('Spiritu Sancti' – 'Holy Spirit/Ghost'. "Deliver us from evil" is the final line of the shortened version of the Our Father/Lord's Prayer/Pater Noster.)

(Suddenly totally want to listen to E Nomine's 'Vater Unser', lawl.)