Memories of a Different Time

...

oO-Memory of A Wish-Oo

[A/N: Warning: Serious angst later in this chapter. Return to fluff afterwards]

-oOOo-

The winds and subsequent chilly weather of London told the world that summer was just about to end. There was a certain charm to the end of summer, and England normally treasured the change of seasons.

But when was the last time that anything had been considered normal?

England was currently carrying a rather large, cumbersome box through the house, following France, who was holding Peter in his arms. They had been walking in the estate for quite a while, roaming the hallways as France looked in each of the rooms, claiming that he was looking for an empty one. Apparently, he had decided to do something with England's house without asking for permission.

This type of thing was becoming England's "normal" more and more these days.

England groaned again, adjusting the box in order to get a better grip on it. "You stupid frog! There are only three empty rooms in this house! Would it kill you to just pick one already? And what the devil is in this box, bricks? It's like you put bricks in here just to spite me!"

"Ah, quit your whining, Arthur. We simply must find the perfect room! It must be glorious! I will have nothing else!" France pranced around the hallway, swinging Peter in his arms. "Isn't that right, Peter?"

Peter's smile widened. "Yeah, a perfect room!" he echoed, his head turning to England as France danced. "We gotta get the perfect room, England!"

"There is obviously no perfect room in this house! Just pick one of them already so I can put this thing down!" England shot back, clearly starting to lose his temper. "And just what do you plan to do once we get to a room that suits your pompous tastes?" England shifted the box again, desperate to gain some sort of decent hold on the heavy object.

France sighed. Gently, he set Peter down. "Alright, we'll let Peter chose." With his characteristic smile, he winked at Peter. "Go ahead, chose a room."

Git's acting like he owns the place. England scoffed, unwillingly following France as Peter ran off, leading them through the hallways. Though I have to wonder what he's planning. Francis can be a sneaky bastard if the occasion calls for it.

Noticing that the box was slipping, England readjusted his arms so it wouldn't fall, making sure not to spill whatever contents France had gleefully put in it. He frowned. Maybe that frog did put bricks in here...

"This one!"

England was snapped out of his thoughts by Peter's voice. He looked up to see Peter and France standing in front of one of the empty rooms. It was completely bare, with white walls and a wooden floor. England couldn't recall what he had used this room for, but it was obvious that he wasn't using it now, and hadn't in many years.

"This one, Jii! This one!" Peter pointed into the room excitedly.

"Ah, Peter, such fine tastes, no doubt thanks to my glorious teachings—" England rolled his eyes, "—is it not wonderful, Arthur?"

England sighed again as he made his way into the room, dropping the box at his feet. "It's wonderful. Now, could you tell me what exactly is in this thing?"

France knelt down, shifting through the box. "Paints! And brushes! We're going to turn this stuffy old room into something splendid for Peter! Peter's very own room! You can't very well have him continue to sleep in the guest room, no? He's part of the family!"

England rolled his eyes again, scowling as France put emphasis on family. There was no way he wanted to be any part of a family that had France in it. "So you decided to do all of this without my permission?" he asked spitefully as he examined the array of colorful paints France took out of the box. They were a mix of blues and yellows. England cringed. He thought they looked dreadfully tacky. "Why such bold colors? Is this what all French rooms look like?"

"Non, not all of them, but Peter deserves only the best! Just like my cooking." France tossed a brush at England, who caught it before it hit the floor. "Now, would you be so kind to paint the walls a light blue?" France motioned at the cyan-colored pains. "I will be painting the ceiling yellow. It will be the perfect room for a perfect little boy!"

England sighed. There was no way he was going to be able to convince the Frenchman out of this ridiculous scheme. Still, it had been something he had been meaning to do for a while—giving Peter his own room. It would only cement the fact that Peter was part of the family—a part that England wasn't about to give up any time soon.

He carelessly set the paintbrush down, reaching out to grab one of the cans of blue paint. He started to struggle with opening the lid. "Why do they make it so hard to open these bloody things?" he mused.

Peter, noticing the brush had been cast aside, started to grin devilishly. He quickly snatched up the object and started to wave it around like a victory flag.

England glanced up at the boy, still struggling with the paint can lid. "Peter, you be careful with that." he warned the child. Peter had been quite mischievous lately, and England had no desire to scold the boy. England despised scolding Peter. All it did was remind him of what a horrid job he had done as an older brother in the past.

Hearing England's warning was all the egging on that the boy had needed. Before England could stop him, Peter ran over to France and started to jab him with the brush. "Jii, you're the bad guy! I'm the hero! I gotta beat you!" he laughed, continuing to poke his surrogate uncle.

France, smiling, decided to put on a performance. "Oh, Peter, it seems that you've defeated me!" he cried, drawing out each word as melodramatically as he could. He fell to his knees, clutching his chest. "Oh! Is this how it is going to end? Why has God decided to take me at such a young age, in such a manner? It must be my punishment..." he trailed off, falling to the floor with a thud. His mouth was slightly open, and he was apparently dead.

England couldn't help but smile to himself. Though he hated the stupid frog—and he put emphasis on the hate part—he had to admit, France was good at entertaining children. Maybe it was because France was childish, and stupid, and easily pleased—but he was good at making Peter smile, and that was all England cared about at the moment.

The golden haired child looked down at France triumphantly. "I won!" he grinned, stepping on France's stomach to show his victory. "I won, and I saved the whole day!" he looked down at France. "Hey, Jii, that was fun!"

France didn't respond. His mouth remained hung open, the twinge of a smile in his expression going unnoticed by the child. Peter paused, then knelt down and poked France's cheek. "Jii? Hey, it was just a game. You aren't really dead, are you?"

England glanced up from struggling with the lid, still smiling.

Peter started at France's unmoving face for a full minute in shock. "H—hey! Jii, I was only pretending!" Tears began to form in his eyes. "Jii, wake up!" he yelled, starting to pound on France's chest. "Hey, hey, wake up! Don't die!" the child started to sob.

England left the paint can—still unopened—on the floor and picked Peter up. "It's alright, Peter, he's only playing." he tried to assure the boy. "Francis likes playing games like this. He thinks that losing is fun. That's why his military sucks so much."

At this insult, France shot up. "H—hey! It's not that, it's just that God—oh, look, I'm alive." the long haired blond stood up, dusting off his chest. "See, Peter? I'm fine." France joined the group hug.

The three stood there for a long time, hugging, until France finally pulled away. "Well, that was fun and all, but we have a room to paint." he pulled out a box of crayons and some paper. "Now, Peter, I need you to draw on this while England and I work, okay?"

Peter grabbed the paper and crayons. Without a word, he settled down on the floor, scribbling furiously.

The two countries began to paint, with France humming a happy little tune as he stood on a stepstool ladder, painting the ceiling a strong yellow. Every once in a while, Peter would glance up at the work that the other two were doing.

The hours passed by that way. It was a wonderful way to pass the time, England had to admit.

With a family.

—oOOo—

Peter sat up, a finished drawing on the floor. This was his seventh picture since England and France had begun their job. "Hey, England, why am I getting my own room?" he asked. "Wasn't the room I was sleeping in my room?"

"No, Peter, that was the guest room. You're getting your own room because you're a big boy." England replied, still focused on painting the walls.

"What about my bed?"

"You're getting a big bed, too."

"And my boat?"

England chuckled at the thought of the toy boat. "Yes, you can have that too, if you want."

"What about being a great big country like everyone else?"

England froze, paintbrush still in hand. What in had made Peter ask a thing like that? Peter had shown no interest in becoming like them—his own country. England had assumed that he didn't care.

England bit his lip. "...no. You can't."

The boy blinked. England had never said 'no' to him. "Why not?"

"Because you're not big enough for it." England retorted.

Peter's eyebrows furrowed. "But you just said I was big."

"I said no." England repeated firmly, despite how his heart was sinking and his anger rising. He turned his head to get a good look at the boy, who was staring, wide-eyed. "Why would you want to become a country?"

"Because everyone else is a country. Matt, and Jii, and England, and America—"

"No!" England snapped before Peter could finish. "You are never to say you want to be a country! Haven't I given you everything you wanted? Haven't I taken good care of you?" the green-eyed man continued to fuss. "I don't want you to get hurt!"

"I won't get hurt! I'm big and strong!" Peter cried back, tears forming in his eyes. "You just said I was big, England! So why—"

France quickly and silently jumped from the ladder, swooping the now crying Peter into his arms, muffling the child's protests. France shushed him gently and shot England a chiding glare.

England dropped the brush and promptly left the room in anger. He made his way to his own room and slammed the door, throwing himself onto the bed. How dare France give him that look? After all that England had gone through with America! How dare he, how dare he—

England held back a sob as he remembered. The hardships, the pain...the hate and suffering... England was protecting Peter from that. He was protecting him. He was doing what he hadn't done with America, making sure he wasn't screwing up by abandoning the child.

...goddammit. Peter was turning out just like Alfred, even when England did things right.

England held back another sob. He couldn't handle that—he couldn't handle being thrown away like he had with America. England winced at even the thought of it. He had to remind himself to breathe as his memories came back to haunt him. He rolled over to his other side, trying to stave them off. Why, why, why? England screamed at himself. Where do I keep going wrong with them? Why can't I hold onto them? Why—

England's thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. It was a soft knock, but England cringed at the sound. He continued to sulk, unmoving, as France entered the room, closing the door behind him. "Arthur."

"G-go away."

"Arthur."

Despite how much England despised France, he was somewhat comforted at how France called his name. He didn't speak as France edged towards the bed and sat down. France casually took his hand and started to comb through England's hair. "Arthur, Peter doesn't understand why you got so angry." he said softly.

England swallowed, still unmoving. "What was I supposed to say, Francis?"

France said nothing, instead choosing to rake through England's messy top. The silence itself was an answer. After a moment, he raised England off the pillow, wiping the tears from the Brittan's eyes. "Mon cher, please don't cry. Peter is a child. It's natural that he wants to be like his heroes."

England winced. "That doesn't make this any easier, Francis."

France gently kissed England's forehead, making the Englishman flush. "Arthur, I wouldn't know what you should do later, but right now, you need to fix this misunderstanding. Go be Peter's hero."

—oOOo—

When England finally cleaned himself up enough, it was almost dark. How long had it been?

England caught sight of the small child, and his heart sank. Peter was sniffing, settled down on the living room couch, his lip still quivering. England looked off to the side, trying not to let the guilt steal his voice.

"Peter?"

Startled, the boy looked up. "Y...yeah, England?"

"You're cross with me, aren't you?"

Peter shook his head, biting his lip. "N-no...Jii said to be patient. That you were remembering stuff that made you sad. I don't like it when England's sad."

England walked over to the boy and picked him up before settling on the couch, holding the child in his lap. "I don't like it when I'm sad, either."

"Is it 'cos I wanted to be a country?"

England bit his lip, holding Peter tighter. "I just don't want you to get hurt. I don't want you to be hurt, or sad, because I...I only want what's best for you."

Peter held him back, if a bit confused, as England softly cried. None of what England was saying made sense to him. All he knew was that England was sad, and Peter knew that he didn't like that.

So he decided on it then and there.

He would become a great big country to protect his big brother.

~to be continued