Haven't updated this since July. Whoops.

It was supposed to be four parts. Now it will be five. Surprise.

Align

IV

"What are we looking for?"

"Nothing," Russia replies. "Nothing. Isn't that best?"

America stops a few feet from him. They are high up in the mountains, silver-white stretching as far as the horizon. This, then, is nothing.

"You and I," Russia goes on, turning to him. His skin is cold and white like the moon. "We are the same. We want freedom. We have no use for culture or language or history. Up here, comrade – up here you can scream all you want and nobody will hear. Nobody will listen."

America frowns. "Do you think that's freedom?" he asks, doubtful. He likes Russia but he doesn't believe half of what he says. "Screaming and no-one telling you to shut up?"

"That is what England would do, da?" Russia's smile has become sly. "That is how he raised you – with pearl buttons and leather-bound books and silver spoons. That is the true cage the humans put us in, making us think and behave like them. Before that we were the monsters in the black heart of the wilderness, devouring all who strayed too close."

"I know," America says, "but that's not what I want either."

"Of course not." Russia presses his large hands together. "We want peace. We want quiet." He starts away again, nimble over the thick crust of frost. He seems as light as a snowflake.

America, by turns, feels as heavy as the moutain. He knows all he's doing is running away. He's become very good at it by now - but soon they'll run out of mountainsides and they'll have to descend.

And then, he thinks, what will we do, you and I, to get what we want?


"I guess you think I've come crawling back, huh?" America says, taking up the entire threshold. He doesn't look at England, instead settling his eyes somewhere just past his left shoulder.

"I wouldn't put it quite like that," England replies, leaning his hip against the door. "Twenty years is long enough to leave it, don't you think?"

"Heh." America's smile is rehearsed. "Well, you showed up at my bedside. Now I'm showing up at yours."

"Is that so." This isn't a question. "I don't expect all is forgiven, even so."

"Oh, you mean... for what you guys did to Germany?" America shrugs. "I guess I don't care so much about that anymore."

"My, my. How very grown up."

"Yup." America is very much aware that he's still on the other side of the doorstep. "Can I come in or...?"

"I suppose." England withdraws, allowing him access. "But you'll have to forgive me, I wasn't expecting company."

"You mean my company," America corrects.

"Yes, of course."

"You're expecting France."

The look England gives him is rather cold. "We'll be going to war tomorrow, he and I. Germany has until midnight but I don't expect much from him." He shuts the front door. "Of course, it's not really his fault. They'll have removed his armour again, the stupid fools..."

"And what about you, England?" America seizes his arm, squeezing it, searching by touch for the hard hollowness of steel beneath skin. "Still safely in your corset?"

England looks like he can't be bothered to muster offence – like playing along is much less effort tonight. "Petticoats and all," he says dryly. "With a lacy garterbelt."

"Damn, if I wouldn't like to take that off with my teeth," America says, though his heart isn't really in it.

England gives a funny bark of laughter. It sounds half-hysterical. He's on a knife-edge, America can see it a mile away. Even when they spend decades apart under pretence of America hating him, he knows every tiniest flicker in England's behaviour. He knows he's nowhere near as calm as he's pretending right now. He knows he's surprised, bewildered, even hopeful at his presence.

England, he thinks. England. You're far too easy. To think I used to want nothing better than to be your trophy.

(Of course, when he thinks of it like that, the one he's truly disgusted with is himself.)

"Well, I'm extremely flattered, of course," England says, because he's a liar. "But I don't think that's really why you're here, is it?"

America gives a lopsided shrug. Now that he's here, maybe it is what he wants. It's been too long, don't you think? he wants to say. Since you were in my bed.

England folds his arms, impatient.

"If this really is nothing but a social call, your timing couldn't have been any worse. I'm afraid I haven't got the wherewithal to put up with you tonight, not if you're not going to come to the point."

"Fair enough," America says. He doesn't venture anything else.

England throws his hands in the air and sighs. "Look, I don't have time for this. Go and make yourself a cup of coffee or something. I don't expect for a moment that you're here to help so I trust you won't think me unhospitable when I tell you to bugger off."

"What if I was?"

England stops, looking at him with his green eyes narrowed.

"Are you?"

"No."

"Then stop wasting my time."

"Actually, it's about Russia." America says it quickly - more to make England stop than because it's true. It works like a magic charm, halting him in his tracks.

"It's true, then?" he asks quietly. "You and Russia...? France said so but I don't believe half of what he says-"

"He's not my... you know, lover, if that's what you mean," America says, putting his hands in his pockets. His suit is pinstriped, big-shouldered, very fashionable. "We're just friends. We have a lot in common." He isn't sure, even as he says it, if he wants England to know what he means or not.

England simply frowns. "Oh. Well, that's none of my business anyway. You're an adult. You can do as you please." He says it dismissively, like he's brushing over the hurt even though there's nothing to be offended by. America knows by now that England actually quite likes being offended. "And as for Russia, well... I'm afraid he's chosen his side rather badly this time."

"I'm not here to defend him." America shrugs. "Besides, maybe he just doesn't want to be on the same side of you and France, not after what you did to Germany in 1919."

"You said you didn't care about that anymore."

"I don't – but I guess maybe Russia does. He's kinda sensitive, you know?"

"Is he indeed?" England is rapidly growng bored with this conversation. "Well, much as I'd like to listen to tales of you and he picking wildflowers together–"

"I told you, he's not my lover. I've never slept with him."

"That wasn't a euphemism." England frowns at him again. "Have you been drinking? You're not making an awful lot of sense."

"Haven't touched the stuff. I just want you to know that there's nothing between me and him."

England looks exasperated. "Why on earth do you think I care about that – tonight of all nights?"

"Because you're the only one I..." America trails off. "Well, I guess it doesn't really matter, does it?" he adds bitterly. He looks up at the ceiling. "Tonight of all nights - when you're getting ready to shed your skin and bare your teeth."

England doesn't seem to know quite what to do with himself. "Are you trying to make me feel guilty?"

America meets his eyes.

"I know." He smiles. "I'm asking for the impossible."


The telephone goes at one minute past midnight. England disentangles himself from America's body and slithers out of bed, padding across the room to the desk. America rolls over and watches him, listens to him, witnesses the outbreak of a war. England is speaking French, which he's fluent in but not much good at, his clipped accent rattling about the words. He's still naked, too, America gazing at the white 'v' of his shoulder-blades and back. There is no glint of metal about him now: his corset is tightly laced indeed. America doesn't know whether to be more or less afraid of him. Monsters that you can't see – aren't they worse?

England puts down the phone and rummages around on the desk for cigarettes and a lighter. He comes back to the bed, lighting up two, coaxing America out from beneath the sheets with the promise of one.

"I'm at war with Germany and Russia," he says. "France and I are. How do you like that?"

"I don't care," America replies.

"You're a liar."

"Yeah, I am. I lied about Russia and I. I used to fuck him all the time." He snuggles against England as he says it.

"Liar," England grumbles, patting his head.

"I learned from the best."

"Not well enough. It's learnt, by the way."

"Uh huh." America inhales on his cigarette for a long moment. "You know, when the Revolution first broke out and I was surrounded by all those guys in wigs pulling me from pillar to post, I used to say the outcome didn't matter to me. I guess I didn't think of it as my war, at least not at first. I mean, they were the ones getting taxed, right? I didn't give a damn either way. I flat-out told George Washington I was going to marry you." He laughs. "Isn't that the stupidest thing you ever heard?"

"In hindsight, it's certainly amusing. What did General Washington say to that?"

"Oh, he didn't pay me any mind. Guess he was smarter than I thought."

"Is that what you wanted, America? Did you want to marry me? Or were you just saying it to get a rise out of him?"

America shrugs. "I dunno. Back then, I guess we were a little something like teenage sweethearts, right? That's about the time you starting changing, I mean, some days I didn't even recognise you – so maybe I thought if we were married, you wouldn't drift away." He pauses, gauging England's expression – which is a mix of hilarity and disgust. "I know, I know, it's a stupid human way of looking at it. It wouldn't even cross my mind now. But back then... I didn't know any better. I just wanted you to love me."

"I do love you." It's distant.

"Yeah. But back then I didn't care what it took."

"I recall," England says. He looks uncomfortable as he finishes off his cigarette. "I suppose you would have filed for divorce in 1919, anyway."

"Maybe." America shrugs again. "It is what it is. I guess it all worked out in the end." He leans over England to stub out the remains of his smoke in the ashtray at the bedside, resting his head on his chest.

"And how do you surmise that?" England asks, going quite still beneath him.

"Well. You're going to your death." America looks up at him. "You don't really think you're going to come out of this war alive, do you?"

England leans his head back against the pillow, contemplating the ceiling rose. He plays idly with a spike of America's yellow hair, letting it pull through his fingers like it he can't keep a hold on it: Alabama sunshine, Kentucky cornfield, California goldrush.

"I want to say that that's none of your business," he says eventually. "I wish it wasn't."

"Haha."

"But I'll say this." England's green eyes again meet his, a piercing jealous shade, greed in its purest form. "If you're going to eat me, perhaps you'd better get on with it."

"Wh-what...?" America, caught badly off-guard, recoils, peeling himself away from England like a strip of wallpaper.

"That's really what you're here for, isn't it?" England goes on, his voice soft, demanding, terrifying. "To devour me? I wanted you to be different, to be pure, but you're not. How could you be? I daresay you're the worst of us all." He looks towards the window. "So if that's what you've come to do then do it. I would welcome it. Then you can take responsibility for this mess instead."

America says nothing, quivering at the end of the bed, furious and humiliated and scared. He draws the covers around himself like a cocoon and says nothing.

England, he thinks. England. You're not easy at all. I always underestimate you.

"Well?" England says. "If you haven't got the guts then at least deny it."

"Maybe you pre-empted me," America snaps. "Maybe you thought of it before I did."

"Ah." England smiles. "Well, you did learn from the best." He gets off the mattress again, going to his wardrobe. His khaki miltary uniform is hanging over the back of the door like a flat empty skin, waiting for him to step into. America thinks of the hot morning in July 1919 when he couldn't get England to leave. England had been starving, then; now he doesn't seem hungry at all, like he's just going for the sake of it. The worst kind of monster, then: the one you can't see, the one that hunts for sport, not hunger.

"What exactly is it that you want, America?" England asks, pulling on his uniform. He does it quickly and without care, like he's done it a thousand times - which he has. It all but falls onto him, molded to his shape exactly. "What do you want?"

America doesn't answer this - and a long bout of silence follows. He simply watches England dress for the day job, his resentment seething at the back of his skull.

"It's midnight," he says eventually. He's aware that he sounds like a sulky child. "Why are you getting dressed?"

"Needs must. I suppose I'd better show my face at Whitehall." He pauses, knotting his tie. "You can't come."

"You're just going to leave me here?"

"You say that like I invited you." England turns to him, fully-dressed. The last time America saw him dressed like this, he and France and the rest of the world ate Germany. He knows it's deliberate, then, when England asks him how he looks just as he turns his face away.

"Fine," he bites out. "You look fine."

In fact, what he realises – when he glances at him out of the corner of his eye – is that England has never been more in control of himself than he is right now. He's not as powerful but he's more dangerous for it. Germany, America thinks glumly, is going to be sorry.

England comes back to the bed and sits on the edge, too close to America for comfort.

"I remember the last time we did this," he says in a low voice. "You bit me. Did you get a taste then?"

"You used to bite me all the time," America says. "On the neck, on the shoulder... All the servants and farmhands used to thiink I'd been mauled by a goddamn wild animal."

England smirks. "How apt. Here's the thing, my darling." He takes America's chin. "You will do it one day. You'll swallow me up and then be sorry you did it. You'll cry your heart out, I expect. But I know you will. I knew the moment I first set eyes on you."

"Then why keep me near? Why didn't you just leave me to die?"

"Because I love you. Sometimes you just know these things, don't you?" He leans in, kisses America on the forehead. "Besides, we're nations. This is what we do."

"And what if I don't want to?" America begins to cry, bowing his head, his shoulders shuddering. "What if I-I... I just want t-to be happy? What then?"

"Well, in that case, let's get married after all," England says nastily, losing his patience. He gets up. "And then you can eat me wedding dress and all. You can pull the garter belt off with your teeth and take half the thigh with it."

"Shut up!" America puts his hands over his ears. "Just shut up, England!"

"Yes, that's how you'll cry," England says. "Just like that." He pats America roughly on the head and walks away. "Goodnight."

"I just want you to understand!" America screams after him. "Don't you fucking get that?! Every time I come to you, it's because I don't know what to do. I want you to help me." He draws in a shaking, gasping breath, tears crystallising. He holds England's gaze as the older nation turns back to him, pleading. "Please, England. Help me."

"I understand perfectly," England replies. His voice is gentle. "I wish you would, too. Help you? I can't. There is nothing I can do for you, just as there is nothing you can do for me."

"B-but I don't want to become a monster," America whines.

"Oh, my dear," England sighs, turning away. "It's much too late to be afraid of that."


In 1941, late December, America turns up in a brand new bomber jacket. He smells of burnt flesh and fresh paint. He comes into the room like a queen, his back straight, barely making eye-contact – haughty and ashamed all at once.

"Well, well, well," France drawls. His eyes glitter with spite. "Finally he descends. Amerique, I do hope you can stand the stench of peasants."

America glowers. He doesn't expect much sympathy from either France or China, who have been battered to within an inch of their lives already. He is, however, hoping for more from England or Russia: because Russia is the sympathetic sort when it pleases him and England is willing to open his arms if he thinks there's something in it for him.

He gets nothing, however. England does not look up from his paperwork and Russia festers like a mould in the corner, his smile paper-thin. He looks very tired, America thinks. They all do.

"How unlucky," China says. His voice is hoarse. "Japan's appetite is truly insatiable." He smiles. Is it amusement or glee or hysteria?

"I didn't ask for it," America says defensively.

"Of course you didn't, mon cher," France coos, full of venom. "Our friend Japan simply cannot stand pillars of virtue." His blue eyes gleam. "Or perhaps he simply cannot abide by liars who insist their hands are clean."

"Now, now," England chides in disinterest. "France, your tongue is becoming wickeder by the day."

"And yours, Angleterre, is as forked as a serpent's," France retorts. "I have not heard such rich words since Spain's drunken tales of El Dorado."

"Indeed. America, pay him no mind. He's been in a foul mood since 1939. Still..." England looks up; and past his elbow, America sees that he's not doing paperwork at all, he's amusing himself with obscene doodles of Adolf Hitler. "I hope," England goes on, "that you did not truly come here to scrounge for pity."

"I-I came to fight," America says, almost mumbling. This is not how he pictured it. They've humiliated him again, these old-world motherfuckers with a working knowledge of how a cannon shatters a ribcage. They don't want to know what he's got under his belt. They'd have nightmares for weeks.

"Mon dieu, we are saved," France says; coldly, sulkily, because he knows it's the truth. America steadfastly ignores him.

Instead he looks briefly at England, who looks like he might have pity to spare after all if it's in the barracks with the doors locked and the black-out curtains closed – but it's America's choice if he wants to come begging.

America says nothing at all, keeping his head down as he crosses the room to stand next to Russia. Russia, he thinks, treats this situation best; he takes it seriously because he has so much at stake but he keeps his ill-fated allies at arm's length where they belong. He doesn't pay them any mind if he can help it. He doesn't let them get under his skin. There isn't any room.

He feels Russia brush at his hand, cold fingers running over the well of his tingling palm.

"Stomache it, comrade," he mutters. "It will all be over soon enough."

(This is it, then. He can't remember if Russia said it or not. This is what it's like, you see, because you're screaming in the middle of a crowded room. If nobody tells you to shut up then it's because they can't hear you or they're pretending they can't. Sometimes it's easier that way - because why are you any louder than the men they send out to die?

America thinks of the three of them, of their backs in line, China and France and England, all old and exhausted and washed-up. The armour doesn't shine beneath their skin anymore, retreating inwards, closing around their ribcages and lungs and hearts, protecting what they've got left. Their shadows are so much larger than they.

Listen to me. Russia takes his face. Listen. We're so very close to being free. If it's what you want, then...

But America wants three-letter words; and four and five letters, too, war and love and peace. He wants to etch them into England's back. Russia knows that.

I don't want you to love me, comrade, he says gently. That's not what this is about.

I know.

Still. England. If only you would wash your hands of him-

I can't. Not now. It's... it's not just the war. I just can't.

Nobody can expect miracles now.)


"You make me feel like I can do no wrong," America says, staring hard at his reflection like he's expecting to see a set of wings or a second head. "And yet, when I'm with you, I feel like I've never done a thing right, either."

"I shouldn't worry too much about that," England says dismissively. He yawns. "I'm a hard bugger to please."

"Yeah. I know. It drives me crazy."

"Then stop trying so hard. You don't have to impress me, my dear. My love is unconditional."

But when England talks about love, he sounds like he's a thousand miles away, shouting about something he heard once in another language. This has always been true but America has only just begun to notice.

It's June 4th, 1944, and they're all restless. He feels like he's been cooped up in this cheap Dover hotel room for a century. They are at the mercy of the weather, like they're going on a picnic. He remembers sitting at the window as a child, miserable at the rain for ruining whatever plan had struck England's whimsy the night before. This is much the same as those dreary afternoons in Boston, then, complete with England like a caged lion at his back.

"Unconditional," he repeats, resting his cheek on his hand. It's a hot night, his forehead and collarbone gleaming. "So I can do anything I want and you won't give a damn?"

"By all means, try me."

America looks over his shoulder at him. He's sitting up in bed, reading through a stack of files from the War Office. Naked – and his skin seems tighter than ever. If the armour is still there – and America supposes that it must be – then there's no inkling of it whatsoever. England looks so normal, so human, that it's almost terrifying: it makes America feel like he's going mad, that he imagined it all, steel and blood and teeth.

He leaves the dresser and comes to the bed, crawling on. It's a fairly dilapidated specimen and it makes a shrill protest under their combined weight (though not as shrill as earlier).

"I don't mean this very instant," England says, not looking up.

"I know." America lies down next to him. "I just wanted to be close to you."

"How romantic."

"Mm." America squints at a crack running straight down the middle of the ceiling. "England, I feel like even if I took you apart at every joint and seam, broke you up into atoms, I still wouldn't understand you."

"What is there to understand?" England rubs fondly at his hair. "I mean, what do you want, precisely?"

"I don't know. I just feel like I'm blind, is all. Like I do what I do because other people want me to."

"That's true, of course, but so do I." England finally lowers his file to look at him. "Is that what you want to understand?"

"Well, I feel like you just do whatever you want. I wish I could be like that, too."

"America, that's not true at all. I suppose I can see how it might seem that way to you but even an Empire–"

"But it's not like you can be more than an Empire, right? I mean, that's the most powerful thing a nation can be."

England shrugs.

"Perhaps for a little scrap like me," he says. "You could be more than that, I daresay."

America looks at him. "You think?"

"Yes – if you stop trying to puzzle the rest of us out. Who gives a damn about the likes of France and I? Old washed-up empires without tuppence to rub together. You thought this war would be the death of me, if I recall."

"Well, maybe I was just being spiteful."

"No." England shakes his head. "I'd have been flattened by now if it wasn't for you. You can let go of my coat-tails anytime you want."

America says nothing. Instead he closes his eyes, lying perfectly still, listening to the heat of the night, to the flutter of the pages of England's report. Their breathing goes in and out, perfectly balanced, like the sea awaiting them beneath the white cliffs at the window. He could scream, he feels, and England wouldn't say a thing.

He wonders what the hell he's waiting for.


You know, it's a curious thing. This fic just will not do what I want it to. It's like it wants to be something else and the more I try to force it, the more it gets away from me. I don't think it's a bad thing, necessarily, and I don't dislike this story but... it's almost like I'm not the one writing it. It's sort of writing itself and I can't do a thing about it. My original idea for it, waaaay back in July, was to focus on how much England must have changed in the short time between his finding/taking-in America and the eventual rift that drove them apart. I mean, he must have more-or-less turned into a totally different person – and I tried to consider that from the perspective of them being teenage-sweetheart-sort-of-things. You can still see remnants of that concept in this story, definitely, but the more I write it, the more I realise that both America and England in this have really horrible self-esteem. Like, they both essentially have none whatsoever and they deal with it in different ways. England tries to make himself feel better by bullying/putting down America and then luring him back with sex and weird, scary promises that he's always known how powerful he will be. It's this really strange self-destructive cycle. England keeps saying he loves America in this story but the more I write him saying it, the less I believe it. I think he actually really despises him but he's too reliant on him at this point. America is much the same, if not worse. His self-esteem is literally non-existent in this story. Every time he stands up for himself, he tries to solidify it by having nothing to do with England for say twenty or thirty years (nothing, in my opinion, to a nation) but then, the moment he comes back into contact with him, he falls into bed with him and drinks in everything that comes out of his mouth. I feel like he's aware of it, hence his attempted awkward friendship with Russia, but he's become reliant on England's particular sadisitic method of making him feel better about himself.

Writing it, it's like watching a trainwreck. This is not what I set out to write. Honestly, it's a mess – but this is the first time I've had basically no real control over a story and I kind of like what it's doing even though it's sad and painful. I will understand if people don't like this fic, haha. It's not nice at all – and at this point I realise that the nations cannabalising each other isn't even the worst of it.