PLEASE READ:
As I said before the first chapter, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, please do NOT PM me (or review) to tell me that my story is historically-inaccurate-and-here's-why.
I'm very happy that you passed history class. I did, too.
But this is NOT historically accurate fanfiction! I repeat, I am NOT writing this to be 100% historically accurate! Think of history as…a guideline, not an actual outline.
I swear to god if I get one more PM (or review) about historical accuracy I am going to devote a whole chapter to aliens just to prove that I'm not focusing on accuracy!
LOL. Thanks for reading that. I feel a little better now.
CHAPTER EIGHT: England Returns
Excitement was building uncontrollably in England's chest, making him feel as though he was running but going nowhere at the same time. Finally, he was back, hurrying through the tall grasses of the plains close to where he and little America had build their homestead, about to see his colony again. Looking around, he'd been discomforted by the number of villages and towns that he had passed on his journey. He hadn't expected to see such progress in the few years he'd been gone. These colonists were different from most he'd seen before; they were at once both ant-like and wolf-like, moving together as one to accomplish overwhelming tasks while maintaining a fierce individuality.
He had stopped at a small town pub to have a drink and listen to some local conversation. Again, with unease, he noticed that he was hearing virtually no mention of his homeland. Even worse, the few times it was mentioned were more or less disapproving. How had this come about? When he'd left, his homeland was respected, admired, adored. What had happened between now and then?
England had stopped walking. He realized it and started forward again. All he wanted was to hold America's small frame in his arms again, to cook for him, and to hear him say that he missed and loved his big brother. Love. He loved his colony, his little brother. Love? Yes, love. He could say that; America was still a little boy. He was glad that he'd admitted it. It made him feel…freer.
The house was in sight. England's heart thumped louder, harder. The box of tea he held in his hands (a gift for America) felt heavier; he couldn't make it to the door. He couldn't, it was too far, he was too…America might…the whole thing was…and he was on the doorstep. Suddenly terrified to go through the door, he took a deep breath and swung it open. "America! I'm home! And I brought you some of that tea you always favored because we…" He stopped.
A taller man, no, older teen, had entered the room, shock awash on his face. Hyperaware as England was at the moment, he saw (imagined?) shades of anger, trepidation, and tremulous joy color the teen's face before dissipating. England's brain realized a key fact seconds before he acknowledged it to his own awareness: this young man, this tanned specimen of adolescence…this was his colony, his Alfred, his little boy. His little boy…
"Arthur?" He hadn't realized that America had been talking. "Uh, Art?"
"I beg your pardon?" England finally responded.
America now looked entirely at ease, all surprise and other emotion purged. "I said 'yo Artie, what's up?'"
England felt that he must be missing something. When did America learn to talk in such a ridiculous way? "Did you just call me Artie?"
America grinned. "Yep."
Yep? Who was this person? Where had his nice, sweet, eager little brother gone? Mouth agape, he stared at America. "Gehh?"
"Dude, are you alright?" America frowned at his mentor. "Oookay, well, I'm going to go work outside for a while. You can come with me or stay here; I'll be back in an hour."
England watched him leave, then sank into a chair when the door closed. Details about the room around him started to come into focus in his mind. Gone were the British flags. Gone were the doilies, the flower vases, the decorative china…hand-woven cloth hangings from the natives had replaced the dignified artwork that had previously hung on the wall. Hand-made pottery sat on decorative tables, holding stalks of wheat or dried plant matter such as pinecones and ferns. The home had acquired an earthy feel. On the table sat a bowl of apples. The sight of the fruit brought back memories to England, memories of apple-picking and morning lessons and tea-times. Speaking of which, where were…? "Where are my teacups?" He asked America the moment the latter stepped through the door.
America paused, horrified, the composed himself. "I lost them a long time ago."
"You lost them? How? Those were my favorites!"
"Well," America said lightly, putting a basket of blueberries on the table. "No one was using them. They must have just gotten lost in the movements of the household."
"No one was using them? Why didn't you use them?"
"I don't like drinking tea alone."
Cold silence. Was…was America mad that England had been gone for so long? Surely not. "Alfred, I…"
America cut him off. "So! You're back! How about I show you around the place? I've made a few adjustments! Come on!" He motioned to England and headed down the hallway. England followed, stomach queasy. "Here's my bedroom. Pretty much the same, though I got a new rug because my feet were getting cold in the mornings. That second bed is for Matt, 'cuz he sleeps here a lot nowadays. Check out those moose antlers! Those were totally a gift from Matt's home."
"Matt?"
America shot him a strange look. "Um, yeah, Matt. Canada. Your new colony."
Was it just him or did America look mad again? "Oh, right, carry on."
"Anyway. Your bedroom is still over there and I haven't changed anything in it. I…well…there's some really crappy artwork on the walls that I put up when I was a kid, right after you left. Uh…I'll take it down tonight before you go to bed. . Don't look at it or I'll be embarrassed. And you've already seen the family room and most of the kitchen…wouldn't hurt to take a closer look, though, because I've added some sweet cabinets and a great fireplace to assist with cooking. OH! By the way! You have to taste this freaking awesome stuff that they villagers showed me! It's called coffee! It's amazing; I have to have a cup every morning or I feel all tired and draggy. It's like tea but better, come on, I'll make you some." He ran out of the room, fairly bristling with excitement.
England followed slowly, casting a look towards his bedroom. What kind of artwork had America put up in there? He desperately wanted to go find out, but remembered America's plea for him to not do so. Ah, well. He could pamper America a little and respect his wishes. He walked to the kitchen to see America all but bouncing off the walls, looking through cabinets. "Can I help with anything?"
"No, I'm just looking for the coffee…oh drat, I think I used the last of it this morning…do you mind if I run down to the local village and buy some more? It'll only take like forty-five minutes, I swear."
"Oh, that's fine," England replied, settling himself in a chair.
"Great. Awesome. You wait here," America yanked a jacket off a peg on the wall and ran out the door, forgetting to lock it behind himself.
England sat on the chair, twiddling his thumbs and trying to keep himself seated. Every so often his eyes would stray down the hall to look at the door to his room. What kind of artwork was in there? Why was America so hesitant to let him see it? America was gone right now…just a quick peek and he'd never know… He stood up, peered out the window, saw no sign of his colony, and so scampered down the hallway. Pausing in front of the door momentarily, he pushed it open and stuck his head inside. His room was, indeed, as it ever was, except that the walls seemed to be covered in papers. After another careful glance toward the door through which America disappeared, England stepped into the room, leaving the door cracked behind him.
Nearing the papers, England realized what they were. They were childish drawings, made with different-tinted inks. The young man's eyes grew wider with each picture he examined. Alfred had clearly drawn them when he was younger. Some pictures were of America himself: picking apples, fighting invaders, riding horses, or holding the musket that he had been given. Some pictures were of England: holding black blobs in a pan over a fire, drinking tea, doing needlework, and just standing, smiling. A few pictures featured Canada and his bear friend. Many were of both America and England: studying, running outside, throwing a ball, catching fireflies, embracing…England moved closer to touch the ink lines and was surprised to find that America had narrated each and every picture he drew. The one where he stood holding the gun he was given was marked with these words: "Dear Arthur, I still can't shoot the gun you gave me. I tried but the butt of the gun hit me in the face and gave me a black eye! Gotta keep growing!"
The picture in which England stitched a pattern in a pillow read: "Dear Arthur, today I tried cross-stitching like you like to do. It was really boring and I can't believe you enjoy it. I miss you." England chuckled.
Under the figures of America and England catching fireflies together were the words: "Dear Arthur, are there fireflies at your house? There were a bazillion here last night. I caught fifty hundred! Wish you were here to catch some too, even though you could never catch as many as I did."
On the picture where America picked apples alone: "Dear Arthur, the apples don't taste as good without you. It's not fair you've been gone so long."
One short sentence was scrawled beside the drawing of England enfolding America in his arms. "Please come back." A lump grew in England's throat and he backed away from the paper, blinking rapidly. The child love letters fluttered gently in the draft from the slightly-open door. He returned to the sitting room and was there waiting when America returned, triumphant and bearing a satchel of coffee. Had America noticed his red eyes, he would have blamed it on seasonal allergies, but America did not notice and the issue was temporarily forgotten.
"Alright, dude, prepare to get your mind blown!" America sat a mug of steaming brown liquid in front of England half an hour later, cheeks rosy from the heat and the anticipation. "I put some milk in it to tone it down a bit for you the first time. I also put a little honey in it 'cuz honey makes everything better! What are you waiting for? Down the hatch!"
England sniffed the liquid. It smelled strong and bitter. Nervously, he lifted the mug and took a sip. The flavor flowed over his tongue, as bitter and heady as he'd imagined. He unconsciously shuddered and plunked the mug back down. "Dear heavens!"
"Was it awesome or what?"
"That's…that's horrible, Alfred, how do you drink such utter rot?" England cast about for something with which to purge the taste from his mouth. "Please make me some tea so I can forget about the horror of your demon-brew."
America was aghast. "You don't like it? Dude, what's wrong with you?"
"What's wrong with you?"
"Alright, alright…I'll make you some stupid tea…I dunno where I put the canisters, though…the tea might be kinda old…" He rummaged around in the cabinets.
England frowned. "Old? Have you not been drinking it?"
"No."
"What do you drink, then?"
"Coffee," America replied. England shuddered again. "Oh, and ale. That, too."
"Well, that's very understanda—OI! Who told you that you could imbibe alcohol?"
"Everyone drinks it…"
"If everyone jumped off the side of a ship into the ocean, would you do it also?"
"Of course."
England crossed his arms. "Oh, please."
America took the mug from in front of him and took a swig out of it. "Who would be the hero and save people from drowning if I didn't?" He grinned at the older man, who spluttered.
"That's exactly the kind of harebrained hogwash I'd expect from you." America made no reply and instead walked cheekily away to the stove to monitor the fire for England's tea. England watched him, exasperated with the ease and confidence with which his colony now conducted himself. No longer was he the awkward boy who constantly looked to his big brother for cues as to how to behave himself. His eyes were the same, but there was a wall behind them now, a wall that had never existed before. He's nearly an adult, England suddenly realized with an icy wave of desolation.
The pictures were gone by the time England settled into his bed later that night. He stared at the empty walls, trying to remember where the different pictures had been tacked. The room felt empty without them. Why was America so insistent on removing them? Was he ashamed of them? Why? Every child draws pictures; there was nothing of which to be embarrassed. Unless…he was angry and didn't want England to know how he felt for the past few years. England didn't like that thought. America was too happy, too naïve, too full of sunshine to ever be angry. Or, at least, that's how England thought of him. But who knew how America felt nowadays? He had changed so much…
England realized that he didn't really know America at all anymore. What did he do in his spare time? What were his hobbies? Did he collect anything? What was his favorite color? Did he want a pet? Who did he spend most of his time with? Was he seeing any of the girls from the local village? The thought made England angry. America was too young to be courting girls. Or boys, for that matter. It didn't matter to him whether his colony favored lads or lasses. After all, it would be incredibly hypocritical of England to judge America's choice of love interests, after all…
ANYWAY. England tried to empty his mind of the nagging worries buzzing around his skull and focus on the calming sounds of the late-summer crickets outside his window. He had succeeded in falling partially asleep when his door opened quietly, an orb of candlelight slicing through the darkness. "Um…Arthur?"
"Alfred?"
"Yeah. Listen…I…can I sleep with you? For…for old times' sake?" America crept closer to the bed.
England smiled in the semi-darkness. "Yes, of course."
The covers beside him parted and America slid in between the sheets. He blew out the candle and was silent for a long time. England was having trouble falling asleep, however. America broke the quiet. "I missed you."
Gloom crawled over England's chest again and he was momentarily at a loss. "I…I'm sure you kept busy," he replied tartly, then regretted it. He wasn't good at dealing with this emotion business. America didn't reply to that. Feeling suddenly ridiculous, England tried to backtrack. "Listen…about leaving you for so long…I…it wasn't—"
"Let's not talk about it," America mumbled in the darkness. "You're here now and that's what matters, I guess. I just wanted to let you know I missed you, that's all."
I missed you too, England wanted to say. He wanted to explain why he'd been away so long, wanted to say how many times he had wanted to return…but in the back of his mind he knew that sometimes he'd truly forgotten that he had a colony waiting for him. But, but, no one can be expected to remember all the time. Say something. Talk about how well he's grown, how much more mature he looks, how happy he seems. Tell him you want to pick apples with him again. Tell him he smells so different but also the same, like sunshine and woods and hickory smoke. Say something. Say anything. But he couldn't decide what he wanted to say first and so abandoned the whole idea and just said "Goodnight, Alfie."
"Goodnight, Arthur," was the sleepy reply.
oOoOo
Review please! It's one of the only things that encourages me to quit stalling and start writing haha
