America is staying with England for about two weeks, and England has undertaken the costs of providing America with a variety of things. Instead of spending time with England or necessarily alone, America spends time staring at all of the things England has theoretically provided him.
Right now, for instance, America has opened England's pantry to get something to eat. There are spices, multiple types of bread, multiple types of dried fruits and teas and a whole plethora of other things. America grabs the bread and then walks to the refrigerator and grabs a piece of meat and a piece of cheese, and he assembles a sandwich.
Just to be sure it's safe, America says, "Hey, England."
"What?" England says, not looking up from his book.
"Do you want a sandwich?"
"No."
"…Are you sure you don't want a sandwich?"
"I am sure. Why?"
England still hasn't looked at him, which prompts a more desperate bid for attention. America says, "You're not mad at me?"
"Why would I be mad at you?"
"For making a sandwich."
"Why on earth would I be mad at you for making a sandwich?" England looks at him now, somewhere between annoyed and concerned.
"I just wanted to make sure you wouldn't be," America says. "You don't want a sandwich?"
"I don't want a sandwich."
"Okay," America says, and England continues to stare at him for a moment before returning to his book. America eats and leaves quickly.
…
America lays in bed later that night, and he marvels at how soft the sheets are. They're not a particularly amazing material, but they are clean— America imagines England giving them a quick wash before he arrived, and he smiles at that. Something in him finds it unreal that England should provide him with things like clean bedding and food, that England doesn't make his life so awful again.
America has a hard time believing that he should have access to things like various foods and clean bedding, even when he goes and buys and washes things himself. England is perhaps the person he is most close to, and he would love to describe this feeling to England, because there is something so amazing and so awful in it— but he worries that England will think he's stupid and that England will yell at him for it, which brings him to another thing: America is amazed that nobody ever really yells at him.
But really, mostly America does not confide in England because England would ask what he's suggesting by feeling such a thing. England typically flat-out denies that America had anything other than an amazing childhood, and America is always exhausted by it. The last time they'd had this conversation, England had called him filthy for being willing to sleep in unclean bedding; America had tried to explain he was used to it, but when England had asked him to elaborate, he'd found himself unable to talk.
It is nice, America thinks, that England has provided him with basic necessities like these. Now that America is an adult, England doesn't even really have to. The fact that he does almost makes up for America's childhood, but it doesn't, not really. America is left awfully confused by all of this.
Eventually he decides not to be confused. He gets under all of the blankets and he marvels at how soft everything is, and life is simple and good again.
…
America is perhaps more surprised than he should be that England has not sexually abused him during his stay. England has not made any inappropriate comments toward him, or touched him, or forced him into inappropriate clothing. America supposes that England doesn't because he can't. This would be a fine conclusion if it was fair, but America is unsure that it is fair, just as he is unsure of everything else. After all, England has been so kind by providing him things. It seems unfair to assume that England would sexually abuse him if he could; it seems unfair to assume that England is not a changed person, especially when nations change.
Sitting with England now, America almost feels safe. They are watching a movie, and they are so distanced from the past that America gets the feeling it may as well never have happened. It's all so far away until America flinches when England gets up, and then it's close— but they get even further from it when England stares at him strangely, as if America has no reason to flinch at all. Sitting with England, America again begins to doubt if England really ever touched him or if all of his memories are fever dreams.
America can't even tell England about things that weren't so awful, about the nights spent sleeping on the floor or the days spent constantly looking for ways to make food last. America most certainly cannot ask England if he remembers sexually abusing him, if it really did happen-- and yet, unlike everything else, America is unsure of how to move on from it. He does not know how to forgive England, or if he should. Right now, sitting with England, it is painfully obvious that America cannot confide in England or anybody else about it.
A review would be hella lit. Have a great day and stay safe.