Prompt: Too Much
Characters: America, England
Notes: Takes place shortly before the English Civil War. This is a two-parter with "Not Enough," which I'll try to have up next week. (I kinda like doing weekly updates.)
"Don't go."
America's face burned with shame as tears blurred his vision. He reached out to clutch England's sleeve, innocently imagining that, if he kept holding on, England might not go. That maybe, just by asking, he could make England stay.
Like many young children, America still believed that a wish and its fulfillment were two halves of an intact whole—that simply to want meant to have. He had not yet reached that terrible milestone, the moment of shattering, when the world was suddenly cleaved in two, and a person experienced true isolation for the first time. America had been alone before, of course, but he did not know what it meant to be on his own. Someone had always been there to take care of him, and even when he wandered off by himself, he felt at one with his land—with the rivers and streams that sparkled in the sunlight, the ancient trees whose broad limbs scored the sky, and the dark and gloomy woods that filled him with an obscure joy.
In this world, there was no loss.
"Please, don't go. Stay here."
"I can't," said England, kneeling down so he could look America in the eye. Feeling a little awkward, he wiped the boy's tears away with his handkerchief. "We talked about this, remember? I have to go home now."
That was what confused America most—the idea that England had a home that wasn't here; that he had his own life to live somewhere apart. He knew there was a time when England hadn't lived with him, of course, a time when they hadn't known each other. But for America, past and future hadn't yet fully untangled themselves from the present. He felt as though England had always been there and always would be.
Now that certainty was crumbling beneath his feet.
"Here," said England, half to himself, "maybe this will help."
He took off his jacket and carefully draped it over America's shoulders. The long linen garment practically swallowed the boy. In different circumstances, it would have been comical. Now it simply underscored just how young America was. Nation or not, he was a child, and the thought of leaving him pricked England's conscience.
But no. He had to be realistic. Since the morning two weeks ago when he woke up with a terrible pain in his side, he'd known he needed to leave. Something was wrong back home. Even supposing he could manage the trouble from afar, he would only frighten America, who hated to see anyone suffer. And who knew how much worse the pain would get?
This was for the best. Besides, the boy had done just fine on his own before England found him. He could take care of himself. America didn't need anyone, least of all someone like him, who did not know how to be warm and loving, who would always have to leave.
No. He could not stay.
"You can hang onto it for when you miss me," England said, adjusting the jacket so it wouldn't slip off America's tiny frame. People gave each other keepsakes when they had to leave, didn't they? "It'll be like I'm still around."
God, he really wasn't any good at this.
"Well, then, I must be off." England stood and gave America one last pat on the head. If he didn't leave now, he'd never be able to tear himself away. But even as he feared it would unnecessarily raise America's hopes, he couldn't keep himself from making a promise: "I'll come back to visit, don't you worry."
That night was beautiful. The moon painted the glimmering landscape in chiaroscuro. The air became crisp as it shed the day's heat, and a light breeze stirred the leaves of the oak tree beside the house. Somewhere, an owl hooted. It was the picture of calm. And yet America could not enjoy it. If anything, the serenity, so incongruent with his current state, made him feel worse.
England was gone. Not only that, but America had not been able to make him stay. With the perfect openness only a child could have, he told England he needed him, and that need went unmet. The moment the door closed, America was suddenly lost in a world he used to know as surely as he knew himself.
It was too much.
Curled up beneath his bed sheets, he clung to England's jacket, though it was cold comfort to him now. The fabric, normally pressed to remove even the smallest creases, had wrinkled in his grasp. He buried his face in the ivory silk lining, which felt cool against his cheek, and ran his fingers along the tiny red flowers delicately embroidered on the sleeves. Hot tears dropped from his chin onto the row of buttons sewn on with metallic thread.
By the time he fell asleep, he had run out of tears. All through the night, the world went on as though nothing had happened, and when he woke up, he no longer felt capable of crying. Morning had come; however distraught he felt, he had to carry on, and he couldn't do that without putting the jacket somewhere he wouldn't have to see it. So he shoved it in the back of his closet beneath a few articles of clothing he rarely wore, and then went downstairs to eat breakfast.
When England finally returned, looking far more haggard and weak than America had ever seen him, neither nation mentioned the jacket, and so it remained forgotten for nearly a century, until France found it. What America didn't forget was that terrible feeling of loss—and then, after a time, the realization that he could survive on his own, if he had to. If it was necessary.
And if a time came for their roles to be reversed, he would be able to close the door and walk away from England.