A/N - Sorry there was no update yesterday - I had to deal with some other stuff and didn't quite get chance to upload another chapter. But, but, but! There is now another Cuba/England fic! It's called 'Sorrowful Happiness' and it's by EmilyXXSasu. I haven't read it yet (I'm going to as soon as I've uploaded this!) but although it's a oneshot it's really long and it's Cuba/England so you should all go check it out if you want to see more of this pairing!

13 August 1762, Havana

England turned from the window as the boy entered the room. The first thing he noticed, with nothing more than a faint twinge of guilt, was that Cuba's skin was bruised and his face was cut. England might have thought that he was too young to have been involved in the fighting, but that would have been hypocritical of him, considering his own blood-drenched childhood.

"Do you need any medical attention?" he asked, allowing the faintest hint of concern into his voice. Cuba glared at him as if he wanted him to drop dead. He probably did, England considered vaguely.

When it became clear that Cuba wasn't going to reply, England sighed and shifted his gaze to look out of the window again. He looked out over the city that had finally surrendered to him. It had taken the British forces a good two months to reach this point, but it had been worth it. Keeping an eye on Cuba's reflection in the glass, England smirked to himself as he thought of the expression Spain's face would adopt when he learnt that his most important trading port belonged to the British Empire now. Oh, if only he could tell Spain personally...

"What do you think you're smiling at?" The growl from behind him made England turn, surprised, to see Cuba practically snarling in rage, drawing himself to his full height. He was impressively tall for a fifteen-year-old, England thought as he briefly mourned his own short stature.

"I'm wondering how your master will take the news that his colony belongs to me now," he said, just to see how Cuba would react to being treated like a piece of property, just because he could. He wasn't all that surprised when Cuba tried to attack him, letting forth an incoherent scream of rage as he charged at England, pulling back a fist to hit him with. He gasped when England dodged him easily and tripped him, sending him sprawling to the ground. England tutted, unimpressed.

"You'll have to do better than that, kid," he said, and suddenly felt a lot older than his own twenty years. Cuba looked up at him with hatred burning in his eyesHav, but he didn't try to attack England again as he climbed to his feet. England almost felt proud of him for not trying the same stupid tactic twice. He liked fast learners.

"Do you think this is some kind of game?" Cuba hissed, and England frowned slightly as he noticed that the cut on Cuba's face had opened and blood was tricking down his cheek. "Who are you to invade my country, kill my people and act like it's just another normal day for you? You're so fucking arrogant! Don't you dare think I surrendered because I'm scared of you – I just don't want any more of my people to die for nothing." He was trembling in anger and looked as though he were fighting back tears. "I didn't think you were like Spain, England, but you're just like him!" England winced a little at that, but didn't let it anger him as he pulled a handkerchief from his breast pocket, shed his gloves – they were new and he didn't want to get them dirty – and approached the boy.

"So angry," he murmured, and Cuba tensed as he took the younger nation's chin in his hand, gently wiping the blood off his face. Cuba stared at him with a mixture of confusion and suspicion, refusing to allow his muscles to relax. He almost reminded England of himself when he was younger. But not as broken, a small voice whispered in the back of his mind.

"Did you expect me not to be angry?" Cuba asked, voice hard and disbelieving. England examined the dark stain on his handkerchief and wondered if he'd have to make a new one. Blood was so hard to wash out when it stained.

"Oh no, I completely understand the way you feel," England replied, threading his hand through Cuba's hair absentmindedly, knowing that it wouldn't do a speck of good to try and soothe the child, but trying anyway.

"Of course you don't," Cuba immediately spat, clenching his hands into fists by his sides. "You're an empire. I know your type! You think you're better than the rest of us because you have all the power, but you're wrong. One day you'll fall – all of you – and then you'll understand what it is to not own the world!" England yanked sharply at the boy's hair, unintentionally, as if some sort of reflex had been triggered, and Cuba gasped hoarsely at the pain. He started to reach up a hand to remove England's fingers from their iron grip in his dark locks, but then he must have seen something deep in England's eyes, because he stopped immediately, and for the first time that England could remember, he looked frightened.

"You're wrong, sweetheart," England murmured, forcibly prying his grip open and breathing deeply to relax the muscles in his hand so that he could move it down to stroke along Cuba's cheek. Whether the boy shivered at his touch or at his tone, he wasn't sure. "On all counts, I'm afraid." He suddenly pulled Cuba close, holding him against his body in what could have been a loving embrace.

"Would you like to know a secret?" he whispered into Cuba's ear. A series of short, shallow breaths against his shoulder was all the answer he received. "I used to be like you," England continued in a dreamy voice, not needing verbal confirmation that Cuba was listening. He probably wouldn't have heard it if it had been given. "I used to be more of a victim than you. I think you're the one who doesn't truly understand what it is to live in the gutter of the world." He paused to place a tiny kiss to Cuba's forehead. He could never help but try to comfort frightened children.

"Did Spain ever lock you in the darkness?" he breathed, and it was like the supply of emotion had been cut off from his voice because his words were hollow, dead things. "Did he ever hack you into little pieces just to teach you what his word for 'death' was?" Cuba gave a muffled sob against his shoulder, and England shushed him, rubbing his back gently through his shirt.

"Everyone in this world is either weak or strong," he said, louder suddenly, using his best teacher voice, the one he used when America was falling asleep in his lessons. Somehow, though, it sounded off to his ears, as if the soul had been sucked out of it. "The world is split into the invaders and the invaded. You have to understand, Cuba, that I can't go back to where I was before. I have to keep on clawing my way up, past France, past Spain, right all the way up until I own the world. It's the only way I can ever guarantee my peoples' safety." Cuba's hands curled around the fabric of his shirt, and England wondered faintly if he was trying to comfort him or trying to draw out comfort for himself. "Do you understand?" he asked softly.

Cuba finally, hesitantly, pulled his face out of England's chest, and when he looked up at him, his cheeks were wet with tears. It almost broke England's heart when he reached a trembling hand to card his shaking fingers as best he could through England's hair. He wasn't angry anymore, but somehow he seemed so much more afraid than he had been when England's men were raining destruction down upon his city.

"It's all right," Cuba whispered, and England realised with a shock that no one had ever told him that before.

"You don't need to look so scared," he said, gently removing Cuba's hand, because Cuba was the frightened child who needed comforting, not him. "I'm not going to hurt you. Not anymore." He took a step back and moved into another moment; a moment where he was calm and composed and faintly exasperated at the look the younger boy was giving him. What, did he think that England needed pity?

"I'm going to keep you in my possession until I can arrange a treaty with Spain," he said, all business now, but Cuba's expression didn't change. England ignored it. "If he gives me what I really want, I'll give you back to him. But until then, I expect you to be a good boy and not cause trouble for me, understand?" Cuba nodded slowly, silently, and England pulled his gloves back on before he forgot them and left them in the room.

As he ushered the boy out and handed him over to the waiting guards, ordering them to take him to a doctor for a physical examination, just in case, he thought again of Spain's furious face on finding out that Havana was no longer his. The image brought a smile to his face as he strolled along the corridor, as did the memory of Cuba, fierce and young and beautiful, losing every battle but never being tamed.

He wondered if one day it would be Cuba who would be defeating Spain.

Notes

The British Empire first attacked Havana on the 6th June 1762, with the city surrendering on the 13th August (I think. Another source gave me the 11th August, so the one I chose might be wrong). They only held it for ten months before returning it to Spain in exchange for control over Florida. Havana was an important city to the Spanish Empire because in order to keep their merchant ships safe from pirates, all of the empire's trading ships would go through Havana and then travel in groups on to Spain.

Also, England's childhood? Do I even have to say anything? It's got to have been rough fighting off invasion after invasion after Viking raid after invasion...not to mention that a lot of my own personal head!canon for England's childhood is pretty grim (one day I will write a Norman Conquest fic and it will scar you all for life. Yes.)