It's Christmas Eve! Hope you've all been good boys and girls... because Finland is watching, hahaha.

Thank you to: Nihonbara, Diurnal Days, suzako and AEngland!

Evergreen

[3/3]

"Hey, look." America caught him by the shoulder. "Mistletoe."

"Yes," England sighed. "There's certainly no shortage."

America dipped a hand behind his back, pulled him close, taking his chin as he kissed him. England let him press him up against the door as he did it, feeling the ivy like old rope against his spine. He could feel America trembling beneath his hands.

Cold enough to snow.

America pulled back.

"Sorry," he muttered.

"It's alright." England took his face, pressed his forehead to his. He rubbed at his cheek.

"Aren't you gonna say you told me so?"

"Now why would I do a thing like that?"

America sighed. "I dunno. Because... you were right"

"Oh, don't sulk." England kissed him on the forehead. "I'm not that awful. Not anymore."

"Mmm." America wrapped his arms about him properly, nuzzling his cheek against his chest. "But you knew," he said. "You knew I wouldn't do it."

"Yes." England carded his fingers through corn-coloured hair. "...We do go through the same charade every year, after all."

"It's getting more and more difficult."

"Yes."

"Sometimes... w-well, I don't know about you but I find it hard to even speak. If I didn't have you to talk to, I really think I'd have forgotten by now. Language, I mean."

"I quite understand." England shivered. "Look, let's go inside. It's getting intolerable."

"Fine." America took the axe from its leather sling. "Stand back."

England did, watching him hack away at the heavy net of ivy that had grown across their front door in their absence. It hadn't felt like they'd been gone all that long but admittedly he didn't have much concept of time anymore. He still wore his old wristwatch, a Christmas present from America a long time ago, but it hadn't worked for decades.

America managed to get the door open with considerable effort, stumbling into the house still clutching the axe. England followed him, unwinding his scarf. The house was cold and dark and he could feel rustling underfoot.

"The bastards have been growing again," he grumbled. "I swear they do it when we're not looking."

"Yeah." America went to the mantelpiece and lit the line of crooked candles. He glanced about the room, his hands in his pockets. "You were right, though. I guess we really don't need a tree."

"I wasn't being a Scrooge about it," England agreed. "I just don't see why you can't decorate one of the ones in here. Look, that one's growing through the blasted wall."

"Yeah." America gave an exaggerated shrug. He seemed to have lost interest in the tree now, besides. "I just... I dunno. Wanted it to be like it was before, I guess."

"It's too late for that now."

"I know. It was stupid."

"I'm surprised you care, anyway. Christmas was very much a human tradition."

"I know – but I liked it. It was their other traditions I wasn't so fond of." America chewed at his bottom lip. "War, you know, that sort of thing."

England rolled his eyes. "You never were much good at being a nation, America," he said. "You're far too selfish. Not that it matters now."

"Guess not." America flopped down on the sofa, pausing for a moment to look at England's book. He was using a leaf for a bookmark. "Still," he sighed, "if nothing else, it's a relief to know there was still enough goodness left in the earth that it was all able to grow back. You know, eventually."

"And what about the Dust Bowl, you little hypocrite?"

"Jeez, I learnt my lesson, didn't I?" America leaned back, closing his eyes. "Even though that was the humans, too. I was the one coughing up the dust and blood."

"Watch your mouth, is all I'm saying." England crossed the room, ducking beneath twisted boughs of low-hanging holly, berries glowing like red jewels, and pearled strings of mistletoe. "I'm going to start on the soup."

"Fine." America sounded deeply disinterested, stretching out his legs. "...I guess I should cut back some of this overgrowth, huh?"

"If you wouldn't mind."

But England turned to look at him as he spoke, observing him at the heart of the evergreen jungle that had strangled their living room. His hands were still shaking and the axe was discarded by the door and England knew he wouldn't do it.

There was no coming back from it now.

[1941]

"I'm not coming. I don't feel like it."

"Can't you at least show your face?"

"I said I don't feel like it." America didn't move, determinedly facing the wall. He was fully dressed, the new leather of his bomber jacket creaking as he breathed.

"That's not going to get you off the hook," England said coldly. He grimaced as he pushed off the doorframe and limped into the room. "You don't feel like celebrating? Neither do I, to be perfectly honest, but that's not the sodding point. It isn't for us, America. It's for the men – and if we've the gall to ask them to die for us then the least we can do is smile and have a glass of sherry and act like it all means something."

America said nothing, picking at his blanket. He didn't really want to argue. He hoped England would just give up on him and go away.

England, of course, did no such thing; he came to the bed and sat on the edge of it. He barely made a sound but America could hear how much pain he was in caged behind his breathing. He didn't want to look – the raw bloodied skin, the bandages, the broken arm in its sling, they were all imprinted behind his eyes. He lay very still, tensing, terrified that England would touch him, wanting him to; wishing he'd fuck him, perhaps, so he wouldn't have to think, to hate himself, but he knew England didn't have the strength. He could smell the antiseptic, strong, bitter. For a long moment the only sound between them was the muffled melody of the band playing in the canteen, the Christmas party in full swing behind their backs.

"Look," England said at last, "I know Pearl Harbour was only a few weeks ago, I know you're still in pain, but–"

"I'm not, though."

"Pardon?"

"I said I'm not. I'm not in pain. I don't care. I don't care at all, okay?" America closed his eyes. "I really couldn't give a fuck."

"Now there's really no need to be like that."

"Yes there is," America said. "What did they expect? They said they were neutral but they weren't, they were helping you guys. Did they really think Japan was just gonna sit there and take it?"

"You're making it sound like Japan was justified," England said dangerously. "And I'm sure that's not your intention."

America shrugged. "Not justified," he mumbled. "But I can see why he did it."

Another pause. England, at length, reached out and put his hand to his shoulder. America fiercely knocked it away.

"Don't. I know you think I came here for you but I didn't. I'm only here because they made me come."

England sighed. "I don't believe you."

"Well, it's the truth. You don't have to believe me but it's true, England, it is. If you want to let humans lead you blindly into war after war then that's fine but don't come crying to me."

"'Tis the time's plague when madmen lead the blind," England murmured.

"What?"

"Nothing. Shakespeare." England sighed through his nose. "Nothing."

"Shakespeare," America said. "Shakespeare. Is that all you can think of to say?"

"I'm afraid I don't know what else to say to you. I've said everything I can. It doesn't seem to make much difference."

"Because I'm not goddamned blind like you!" America snapped, sitting up. "All of you, France, Germany, Spain, Russia, Japan...! You just blindly do what your people tell you. You go to war because they feel like it, you never even question it! How can you be proud of that? Look at you, England! You're a mess!"

"Germany did this to me," England said calmly.

"No, your people did! Germany's people did! Why can't you see that?!"

"I have no way, and therefore want no eyes."

America's jaw twitched. "Was that fucking Shakespeare again?"

"It was. King Lear, Act Four, Scene One."

"I swear to god!"

"America, I don't know what you want me to do," England said tiredly. "I am a nation, after all. I have a duty to my people. I cannot deny what I am."

"You could refuse!"

"As you do?" England got up, albeit with a little difficulty. "Tell me, for all your sulking, for all your running away... where has it got you in the end? You're here, aren't you? You know perfectly well that there is nowhere you can run."

"You say that like I'm the problem."

"Hmm." England patted him roughly on the head. It was affectionate and condescending all at once. "I'm going back to the party. I'll be waiting under the mistletoe."

Sarcastic but not necessarily untrue. America lay down again, watching him go. He was definitely limping, trying his best not to let it affect his stride, stiff upper lip and all that. America found him exhausting.

England was at the threshold when the low wail of the air raid siren began, the sound ascending higher, louder, over 'Jingle Bells' as it rang throughout the barracks.

"Bollocks," England grumbled. "On Christmas Eve, too." He looked at America, who hadn't moved. "You'll have to get up now."

America sniffed. "'S'not like I can die."

"Up!" England demanded. "Now! Immortal or not, I'm not spending the rest of tonight prying you out from under a pile of rubble."

"Fine." America rolled his eyes, at last rising. He straightened his tie as he crossed the room. "Now what?"

"The bloody air-raid shelter!" England seized his wrist, pulling him out into the hallway, now filling up with servicemen and personnel. "Come on, stop dawdling!"

But America did dawdle, using the push and ebb of the crowd, the narrow walkway, to squirm free of England's hold on him and pull away, falling back. He heard England call for him, angry, impatient, but he was away like a salmon upstream, keeping close to the wall. He opened the first door he came to and darted through, escaping out into the night.

The sky was on fire. He could smell the smoke thick on the air already, hear the roar of Spitfires and B52s above the clouds. The searchlights flashed and beamed between the buildings, hunting, and the sirens screeched. A surprise attack; nobody had expected this, not on Christmas Eve. It was almost laughable. England never seemed to learn his lesson.

He started through the streets. They were empty but for the mobs of firefighters and Air Raid Wardens dashing to and fro – but none of them approached him, all the same. Perhaps they sensed, they knew, they understood.

Don't come near me. I haven't got it in me to be civil.

England caught his arm, wrenching him off-balance.

"Where the hell do you think you're going?" he seethed. "I am not in the mood for your games tonight, boy!"

"Oh, hey, look at that." America smiled at him. "You caught me."

"You know I'll always catch you," England said savagely. "You can't outrun me."

"Guess not." America threw his arm, heavy, around England's shoulder, feeling him buckle. "You're just in time for the show, anyway."

"Show?" England repeated in disgust. "You say that like–"

"Like this is what you want?" America tilted his head. "Isn't it?"

"Of course it isn't!"

"Then why do you let them do it?"

"I don't!" England pulled free. "For god's sake, why can't you understand?"

"What is there to understand?" America spoke just as an explosion tore through an adjacent street, rattling the ground, shattering the windows, the glass cascading to the cobbles below with a sound like bells.

England winced, bowing his head. "You did this on purpose," he said in a low voice. "So I'd follow you, you little bastard."

"No, I was running away. Like I always do, remember?"

"Don't lie to me!" England seized his face. "You brought me out here on purpose. Do you really think I want to see this?!"

America reached up and pried his hands from his cheeks, instead clasping them hard between his own so that he couldn't pull away. England looked at him like he didn't know him.

"Then, England," America said, looking at the orange sky, "what do you want to see?"


"...We're supposed to give each other gifts, aren't we?"

"That was the tradition." England sighed. "It's alright, I'll let you off the hook."

"Is that your way of saying you don't have a gift for me, either?"

"I confess, I wasn't sure if you'd even remember."

"Is that why you were hiding that Dickens book from me?"

"I-I wasn't hiding it."

America laughed, settling. "It's okay," he whispered. "I'm not sure I even remember how to read."

England exhaled. He tightened his hand about America's, squeezing his cool palm. They were lying side by side on the bed, looking up at the sky through the hole in the roof of their bedroom ceiling. It had happened some months ago, torn open by the weight of the vines and flowers growing over it, rooting themselves between the slate. There was never any rain so they hadn't bothered to fix it, watching night by night as the roots and leaves encroached on its ragged edges, their window to the silent world beyond.

The night was a clear one and they could see the low haze of brilliant crystal colours overhead, the man-made aurora borealis to which they owed their freedom – as America liked to call it.

England often looked up at it and wondered if they knew, if they could still feel, if they were screaming.

"Do you ever think about the others?" America asked suddenly. His eyes were closed quite contentedly. He never gave it a second thought.

"You mean France and Russia and..."

"Yeah. Well, all of 'em. I wonder what they're doing. You reckon they all live together? Maybe they made a little village or something, haha. That'd be cute."

"What does it matter? They banished us."

"Me," America corrected. "They banished me. You just came with me because... I dunno, you're a masochist."

"Mm. Something like that." England yawned. "It was so long ago, anyway."

"Yeah. Maybe they've all died."

"I doubt it. I daresay they're doing better than us."

"Whatever." America shrugged. "Who needs them? Who needs books or language or Christmas presents? I like our life just how it is. It's nice and simple and we don't have to do anything we don't want to, right? No more humans to make us go to war." He waved towards the hole in the ceiling. "They're all... floating around up there somewhere, outta our hair." He snapped his fingers. "Hey, Christmas lights!"

"Oh, surely even you're not that callous," England said coolly.

"Hey, they started it," America replied cheerily. "I just wanted to have a nice quiet life with you in Boston. They're the one who wanted independence. They're the ones who built the bomb. When you look at it like that, I don't think I overreacted. Not really."

"They certainly underestimated what you were capable of," England agreed absently. "...As we all did."

"Well, yeah, we both know that's why they banished me afterwards." America didn't sound too bothered. "It wasn't a punishment. It was because they were scared."

"Do you blame them?"

"No." America opened his blue eyes, beaming at England. "It's fine, though. I have you. That's all that matters. I don't care about presents or a tree or that red guy with the stockings. As long as you stay with me, I don't need anything else."

"I'm not going anywhere, America," England said gently. "You're the only thing I've got left."


"What have you done?"

"Wait and see, wait and see!" America kept his hands firmly clamped over England's eyes as he led him outside. "You'll spoil the surprise!"

"Forgive me my scepticism, America, but–"

"God, shut up a minute, will ya?"

"America, please." He didn't know if it was that America couldn't hear the tremble in his voice or if he didn't care.

"Hang on, hang on...!" America brought him to an abrupt halt. "There!"

He took away his hands with a flourish and England looked up. The sky was awash with a mist of beautiful colours, impermeable, heavy, like nothing he'd ever seen before in his life.

"What have you done?" he asked again. "...America, god..."

"It was painless, don't worry."

"That's not what I..."

"I thought it was fitting for the season, you know? Peace on Earth an' all that. There's no way they could ever have done it on their own, not with all that money and language and borders, they never had any real interest. War's pretty profitable, after all. So I figured... if you remove all that, well–"

"You mean if you remove their humanity?!"

"Well, yeah, I guess." America shrugged. "Turns out they're made of stardust or something, haha. Pretty, huh?"

"Or you turned them to stardust," England said in despair. He looked at America, who was smiling, very pleased with himself. "Do you realise what you've done? America, tell me – do you actually have any fucking inkling–?"

"Sure I do. I'm not stupid, you know." America pressed his hands together. Truly, terrifyingly, he was exactly as a child on Christmas morning, his forget-me-not eyes shining. "I've brought about world peace – all without shedding a single drop of blood. What's so bad about that?"

England opened his mouth but he couldn't utter a sound. He had no idea what to say. He simply looked at America and realised, perhaps for the first time, that there was no escape.

"See, you've got no answer. Speechless with joy, I assume." America leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. "Merry Christmas, darlin'. I told you you'd love your present."


I don't know what's happened to me, haha. I can't write nice things anymore. XD I think this is at least the fifth fic of mine that has suddenly veered in a disturbing Neon Genesis Evangelion direction...

Merry Christmas to all of you that celebrate! If you don't, simply have a lovely and peaceful December 25th!

Thank you for reading!

xXx