For a time, America's favorite color was green. He liked the pretty textures of the leaves in summer. He liked how the pond, when sat too still for long would be coated with the green fuzz that reminded him of the lush velvet of the curtains in the study.

But mostly, he loved green because that was the color of England's eyes. Each morning, he would wake up in his big brother's arms and watch as his eyes blinked open, and a brilliant smile crushed his cheeks. America would copy the smile and grasp England's shirt and cry:

"G'mornin' England!"

To which England would dutifully reply:

"Good morning, poppet."

Then they would start about their day. England often holed himself up in the study, to sift through papers that America thought were dull and incomprehensible. But America would drag in his toy soldiers and play with them until England was not preoccupied.

Then he would spend the last few hours of the day staring at the lovely green of his most favorite person in the world.

Until England left. The nation had promised to come back soon, but with each passing day America was reminded that the promise had still not been kept. But America kept faith that England would return soon. That England would come teach him to fire a musket and deal with his people and do all the things he told him he'd do.

He never did.

When England returned, America no longer thought of green as a beautiful color, but an ugly one. One that was perfect for describing the sin of envy, one that was the color of mold and sickness. When England returned with a plastered smile on his face that didn't move his cheeks, America looked upon the eyes with horrible distaste.

But they tried to go back to normal.

It was hard to pretend that England had not been gone for such a very long time when America was suddenly bigger than he. It was hard when England offered to teach America how to use a gun, only to find that the boy was a wonderful shot. Each day was a reminder of England's lies.

It all came down to the day that America made a little snap at England's clothing. He was tired of England doting on him, dressing him in uncomfortable suits and pretending like he was still a child.

"Would you just stop buying all of this!" America yelled, pushing away the coat England was holding out to him. "I don't wanna wear your stupid stuff! I don't wanna look like you!"

England's arms fell limply to his sides, and suddenly his eyes burned with anger. America steeled himself for what was to come.

"I'm just trying to help you! You're such a prat these days! An irresponsible, cruel, and fake little prat!"

America tore the jacket from England's hands and threw it to the ground. He focused on those eyes, trying to see the beauty in them he had before, but he saw only anger. America felt something inside himself snap, as if England's eyes pressed a button inside himself. When America spoke again, it was quiet. But his voice came out strangely. His tongue didn't roll the vowels the way it should have. His words were flatter, more relaxed, and steaming with anger.

"Leave me alone."

After that, they stopped pretending that things were normal.

Before they had time to forgive and forget, they were at war. With each other. Green and blue.

It was long, it was harsh, and America knew he would never forget it. He was tested every day. Each time he saw England, he tried to get closer, to tear him down. But he never could. The eyes were too distant.

Until the day in the rain. America saw his chance. He held his musket tightly, and charged. England stood ready, but he didn't care. He needed to see those eyes again. To tell them how much he hated them. To hurt them, break them, make them dim so they wouldn't be so damn bright across the murky battlefield.

England's arm jutted up quickly. America was too distracted to react, and his musket was torn from his grip as it splashed into the mud a meter behind him. He was breathing heavily, but England was calm as he pointed the barrel of the gun at his head.

America heard his soldier shout behind him. His muscles tensed. His frown deepened. He stared up at England.

Water dripped off the edge of his nose. But his expression was breaking. He looked like a man that had lost everything. A man who's heart had been stolen from him bit by bit. A man who couldn't keep his promise.

Maybe it was the war that had matured America. Maybe it was just time. But when he looked at England he felt compassion for the first time in years. And when England turned those sad, regret-filled green eyes on him...

He remembered what his favorite color was.

Sequel to "Blue Is For Sorrow"

Requested by PirateKirkland17.

Sorry for any mistakes, I'm American!

-Mallory