America was sitting at his neighbor, Mary's, house, eating dinner and hiding from England, who had just arrived in the colonies. England was in his house across the street, undoubtedly pissed. This was not an ideal position to be in, but if America went home right now, at 6:59, maybe England wouldn't be mad at him.
And then it was 7:00, according to Mary's clock. England would totally kill him, and America was feeling a bit too liberated to go home now anyway.
"Hey, Mary, can I stay the night?"
Mary was a teenage girl whose parents were on a trip to Delaware to bring her elderly grandmother back home. As it was, she was calling the shots for her house at the moment.
"Sure," she said, without hesitation.
"Nice, thanks."
Mary and America were two vastly different people. Mary, for instance, was concerned with the typical things a seventeen year old might be concerned with, namely how she was going to get on the right course for her life.
America's relationship with England had been torn apart by politics and the power England already had over him, and England's plan was that America would live a very, very long time under his rule. America had no say in the course of his life and was not much interested in genuinely changing it; he only wished to have a good day, one where he lived a life defined by something other than ocean-crossing tensions.
Though Mary and America were both basically teenagers, they were concerned about extremely different things. Dinner stayed quiet until Mary asked, "Why can't you just talk to your brother?"
"I don't like him much."
Mary, whose brother's status was incapable of changing, frowned at this. She said nothing and they ate in silence.
/\
It was only while America was laying on the floor that night that he realized just how fucked he was. If England wasn't upset before, then he was definitely upset now, and things would only get worse by the time America went back. America had a hard time saying he didn't hate England anymore; every time they spoke, England was hostile. Every gesture was an act of spite; their relationship had become a war zone, a battle that America couldn't win. Every exchange ended in America's forced agreement that he was weak, or stupid, that he couldn't survive on his own— when he was lucky, anyway. Other times he was less lucky and England forced him to say he disapproved of his people, or that he was a morally depraved individual, or simply that he was inferior.
And all of that was humiliating, sure, but the worst choice America could have made was avoiding it. England would only make things worse.
There was nothing America could do about it now, so he'd have to live with knowing that he'd done all of this to himself. For now, he could just try to enjoy a night away from England.
America didn't enjoy himself that night, nor did he sleep. Instead he just laid there, on the floor, trying to pre-panic so he didn't fuck up so much in the morning.
...
America crept inside early that morning. The first thing he noticed was the smell of alcohol. The second was that his front room was a mess.
England was sitting in the dining room, leaning over a glass. America tried to sneak past him, up the stairs.
"America? Where've you been?" England demanded.
"Oh, just at the neighbor's house."
"You knew I was coming. What's— what's wrong with you? Why wouldn't you be at home?"
"I just had to help my neighbor with something."
"The whole night?" England scoffed. But immediately their personal grievances were forgotten; England turned to his new favorite subject. "Did you hear about those asshats that got shot a few months ago?"
"...No?"
"Don't be ridiculous, we both know you did," England told him. "Yeah, they got shot. They were harassing my men. What do you think of that?"
"Huh," America said. England always made him feel so small.
"What? Answer the question, don't avoid it. What do you think about the animals that got shot?"
America flinched. "Yeah, I mean. I wouldn't harass your guys, so..."
"That's not what I was asking."
America wracked his brain for what England wanted him to say. "What fools," he said. "They totally deserved to die."
"You're just saying that to shut me up. What do you honestly think?"
"What do you want me to say here?"
"The truth."
America would say anything, anything at all, if it would make things better between them. The days separating America from shame stretched far, but left no shadow.
England laughed. "God, you think you know things, don't you?"
"No, I really don't."
"Yes, yes you do. But you don't know things. You don't know anything at all."
"That's mean," America replied. "How's your day going?" All of their conversations were broken these days, with England's constant insults and America's frequent attempts to change the subject. Nothing came naturally anymore.
"Well," England said. America reminded himself that, though he was in significant discomfort at the moment, he couldn't give in. He was surely having a better day than England, who got off on chastising kids over politics. That was enough of a win.
England didn't ask America how his day was going. Instead he said, "You know... if you ever pull something like that, you may as well not bother to write me ever again."
"Okay." And this, of course, was the man America's entire life was supposed to benefit. America was significantly pissed off by now. His house was still trashed, England was still hungover. In the moment, he felt that nothing could meaningfully change. "Well, you know what they say."
"What do they say, America?"
"You better pay me for picking up after you, 'cause I'm not doing this for free."
England sighed and slumped down without paying him. America took the moment to look at his immediate surroundings; England had went and ruined every ounce of organization in the area. His things were all over the place; papers and books were spread across the floor. But this must have all happened while England was sober, because it was clear that England had been looking for something.
The sight of America's possessions on the floor, disregarded, made him want to cry. But instead he took the open containers from England and opened a window, figured that he may as well start by ridding his house of the smell of alcohol.
America picked up one of the containers and noticed there was still alcohol inside it. He sighed, glanced at England to confirm he was asleep. England was well gone; America took a sip and then took the container to his room, snagging a piece of bread and hunk of cheese from the pantry on the way.
The rest of America's house was extremely messy, sure, but his room was wholly indescribable. Individually America was able to perceive it, of course: his books on the floor, covers bent and pages ruined; his clothes in small, depressed heaps; his pencils and pens and other miscellaneous possessions dumped out of their drawers; his tipped over furniture; his flipped mattress, now devoid of sheets (which were also on the floor). America could not imagine the complete, utter disrespect England had to have to do something like this. That was the overarching image, the one thing America could not piece together.
He knew what England was looking for: any signs of rebellion or resentment. And he hadn't found it, of course. But England also hadn't bothered to even try to put anything away.
America moved a couple piles of stuff out of the way and sat on the floor, stewing in his own desolation.
Funnily enough, he wished for England. If England was here, America thought, England would definitely be happy to see him. England would chase out the asshole in his kitchen; England would hug America and say he was sorry something so unfortunate had happened. England would help him clean up for at least a little while, and he would understand why America was so upset to see his cherished possessions slighted. England would probably go to sleep after that, but then when he woke up, they would eat a hot meal together, and England would tell America about his travels and how things were across the sea. Afterward they would play a game, maybe a card game, and America would tell him about his studies, and England would say he was proud of America for everything he'd accomplished. America would admit that he'd stayed at his neighbor's house just to hide, and England would reassure-- no, England would prove his fears to be unfounded.
America bit into his apple, slowly made his way through the bread. He finished off the alcohol and then stood and surveyed his room, which hadn't magically improved over the time it took to eat breakfast. Fantasies couldn't bring solace now, not when reality was so bleak. England was downstairs, and all America really wanted was for him to leave.
A/N: This is more based off personal history than international relations over time-- as such, I paid attention to only the most minimal of historical inaccuracies, so this is only a historical piece by definition rather than by relevant merit.
Anyway, a review would be peng. Have a great day and stay safe.