Just like with the last chapter, I had trouble writing this when I started, then I just kind of eased into it, which naturally leads me to finish it at some ungodly hour of the morning. This looks like it will be up by 3:30AM, which isn't actually that bad by my standards, I'm ashamed to say.
Just like every other chapter of anything I've ever written, the update is irregular. I've tried keeping schedules before and they just don't work out XD
Warnings: Dark themes. Referenced torture, but I didn't exactly go into detail. I'll save that for later ;). Tragic stuff too, but that's part of the package deal with my stories. Angst included at no extra cost.
This chapter marks the beginning of England's breaking point. There's only so much psychological and physical damage alike someone can take before something snaps inside them.
Allons-y!
Thirteen
Breaking Tears
He has no choice. He'll die if he doesn't do it. Though he's still not entirely convinced he isn't already dead.
The cupcake today is pink with little white polka dots of icing. If this were any other situation, it would look delicious. England is sickened by the sight. It appears innocent and inviting, much like its creator. Other England is all smiles and cheerful chatter, but he is so much more than that. He is so much worse than that.
He hasn't actually visited England since he left the first cupcake, which the latter has been rather relieved about. But every time England awakens, there's always a new cupcake waiting for him. He's kicked them and trodden on them and even tried pushing them through the bars of his window, refusing to indulge in them. But after one whole month of being trapped in this cell, England doesn't have any other options.
It's been one month since he's eaten anything. It's been one month since he's drank anything. Even for a country, that's pushing it way too far. His wounds aren't what's keeping him down now; on the contrary, he's learnt to cope with the pain to the extent that he barely even notices it's there now- or maybe it is genuinely fading away. No, the reason England can barely stand on his own two feet now is because he's desperately weak from lack of sustenance. No need to sugar-coat things, really. The fact of the matter is, England is dying.
He'll never escape like this. Not if he can barely move. So he has to do this. It's the only way.
He drags his body over to the cupcake and reaches out with a shaking hand to pick it up. Lifting it to his nose, England sniffs it cautiously. There is is, stronger than ever: that sickeningly sweet aroma. Not that it matters, really. England's going to have to eat it anyway.
He brings it to his lips and closes his eyes.
It truly is delicious, something England relishes instantly. Almost anything would taste delicious to him after a whole month of not eating, especially considering- as the other countries would put it- he's always been able to eat his own terrible food.
There's red inside the cake, jam probably, though it's more liquid-like and tastes purely of the sugary sweet smell that is exuding from the cake. England gags a little as he swallows it. It is pleasing to taste but some element of it is less tangible. It feels wrong and unnatural.
His stomach is more than a little pleased, however, and accepts the food without any threat of retching. England supposes he should be grateful for that, yet somehow he isn't. He just wishes it hadn't had to have come to this.
The next time he wakes up, he's certain he's going to die.
His stomach is on fire, much like his chest was when he first arrived here. But it's not a blaring pain, screaming in agony. It's a subtle, twisting sensation, slicing into his skin like a razor sharp knife, and it is still absolute torture. He is coughing up blood again- or is it that red liquid from earlier?
(What's the difference?)
'Help,' England lets out internally, putting every last ounce of his strength into maintaining a mental connection between himself and anyone who might be able to hear him. Even in his thoughts, his voice sounds like a whimper. 'I'm going to die... Help, please help...'
'England?'
His eyelids flutter open slowly. Even opening his eyes is a strain now. He's so tired. His legs are tired, his arms are tired, his whole body is tired. Almost everything he can see is blurry and any sound that reaches his ears is distorted and echoing. There's a black tinged edge around his vision.
I'm definitely dying, he thinks dully. Not long now. For some reason, the thought doesn't alarm him. He's just slipping slowly into it. It might even be peaceful if it weren't so cold.
There was a noise, wasn't there? Just then, a few seconds ago. A muffled voice, maybe? Has Other England come back?
'England,' says the voice. The word doesn't make any sense at first. After a few seconds, England registers that it is in fact his name. Someone is calling to him. Or perhaps to Other England. But Other England isn't here.
'England! You in there?'
England's face is pressed against the floor. He opens his mouth to reply but he can't quite form a word, or figure out which word to say. Nothing in his head makes any sense anymore. All he knows is that he wants to sleep.
'Come on, England! Please tell me you're in there!'
The voice rings with familiarity. Nothing is working the way it should be in England's head right now but he registers this much. The tone is one he recognises. Not a bad voice. Not the other me. Someone else. Not bad. Good.
Maybe help has arrived.
England forces his head to turn as much as it needs to so that he can catch a glimpse of the window. He's pretty sure that's where the voice is coming from. Sure enough, once his eyes have managed to finally focus he can see a silhouette on the other side of the bars. He opens his mouth again and tries to call out. A rasping moan comes out instead.
He hears a sigh of relief. 'Thank God you're in there. Hold on- I'm gonna get you outta there!'
England can't say anything. He can barely hear the words, let alone understand them.
There's a horrible screeching noise that lasts for a few seconds and then a crashing sound. At the edge of England's peripheral, blurring vision he can see the bars of the windows being wrenched from the sockets by the sheer force of the silhouette alone. That shouldn't be possible. Nobody should be able to possess such strength… except…
With his last ounce of strength, England utters his first word in weeks.
'… America…?'
He comes to staring at the sky. Spread out over the black canvas are patches of extremely dark clouds. There's no light anywhere. No reflections of any city light, and no stars either. Not even the moon.
There's something in his throat as well. Smooth and refreshing. Cold, but not uncomfortably so. It's nice.
England gulps down the water quickly and doesn't stop until the entire contents of the bottle that's being held to his lips has been emptied completely.
'Better?' asks the voice. England can hear it a lot better now, and he can understand it too. He nods gratefully.
Something shifts ever so slightly beneath him. His head and upper back is being supported by someone's arm while the rest of his body is lying on the ground. He's no longer in his cell. He's out in the open, being held and helped by someone beside him.
'You look really thin. When was the last time you ate?' says the voice.
England glances up at his rescuer. He can see a lot better now, and he doesn't quite feel as dazed anymore. It's very dark but now that his thoughts are coherent, he definitely recognises the shape of the body.
'Are you okay? What happened? We were all worried about you!' America says.
But England hasn't quite registered the implications of America being here. It's as if his very presence isn't actually real. What is real, however, as England's mind quickly screams at him, is that they are out in the open at night time, when the pack roams in the darkness.
'The wolves,' he gasps. 'Wolves-'
He expects America to laugh and tell him that he's delusional and that there are no wolves in Britain, but the bigger nation just chuckles lightly and says, 'Don't worry, they won't bother us.'
'A… America-' The reality is finally dawning on England. He is free from his prison. He hasn't died. America is here. America has rescued him.
He chokes a little on his own words. Using his voice after such a long time is painful and the water hasn't helped soothe his throat completely. He's still desperately weak, too. It's going to be a long time before he's fully healed and restored to his former state.
His eyelids are getting heavy again, though this time it is genuine sleep that is calling to him, not death. England feels as if he should be reassured by that, but he's not. He can't rest now. Is he even safe yet?
Well, America's here. America, who usually would have cracked a joke about the dire situation England's in. Perhaps he's in such a bad state that even America is struggling to find an amusing side to it. The bigger nation is still supporting England in a half sitting position, and if he were to let go England would fall for sure.
America is strangely quiet, waiting patiently for England to finish coughing. He would usually be chatting away about all sorts of nonsense and probably throw in a little light teasing here and there. Perhaps he really is fazed by all of this.
England feels as if he's waiting for something too, but he's not sure what for. He's still severely disoriented and unsure about whether or not he should feel safe.
Then it clicks, properly this time- he is safe. Properly this time. America has saved him. Much rather America than plenty of the other nations. He is strong and he's… well, he's America. England feels relief washing over him in an instant and for the first time in this last month, he feels content, even if it's only a little bit.
'You want some more water?' America asks, and he actually sounds concerned. England nods, feeling a rather delirious need to smile, one he can't really explain.
America must have brought a bag with him because England can vaguely make out him rummaging around with his free hand before pulling out another bottle of water.
'You've been gone for a month,' he says as England downs the second bottle. 'We had no idea what had happened to you. Who did this to you?'
In the right frame of mind, England would hesitate telling the truth to America. He knows he would come across as crazy, and that would give America and the other nations all the more reason to label him as deranged. But England is currently rather overwhelmed with having been rescued by America, who isn't teasing him but is instead being openly sympathetic.
'Other me,' England manages. 'Another England. Bad.'
America doesn't laugh. He doesn't mock England and call him a crazy old man. Instead, his grip on England seems to tighten and he says, 'I'm sorry, England. I should have found you sooner. I'm gonna get you home, okay?'
If England weren't so weakened, not just physically but mentally too, he would be making note of all these peculiarities. It's taking him far too long to register anything at the present time, however, and he feels almost comfortable in the knowledge that America is here and that he cares, and that England is no longer trapped in that horrible empty room.
It takes him a few seconds to even realise that he is no longer on the ground and that America is pulling him up and hoisting him onto his back. England feels relieved that he won't have to walk, at least, because he knows that he would fail spectacularly if he tried. America is being awfully considerate, like a true gentleman. Or a hero, as he'd probably prefer to be called.
And that's when the knowledge of what England was waiting for earlier dawns on him. America hasn't delivered an 'I'm the hero' speech yet, to England's knowledge. Shouldn't he have done that by now?
'Let's get out of here,' America says, once England is secure on his back.
They appear to be on a darkened street and in a flash of fear England spots the little window on the bottom of the building to the right of them, the bars having been torn off by America. So they haven't exactly gotten very far away from England's prison. Despite his known inhuman strength, even America shouldn't have been able to pull the bars off with such ease. But he clearly did.
Once again, England wonders where the wolves are. But America told him not to worry, and England trusts in what America has to say. The bigger nation has come to rescue him and has promised to get him home safely. If America hadn't shown up when he did, England would have died.
England relaxes as America starts walking. He feels warmth spreading over him. It's going to be alright. They'll get home safely and whatever nightmare this is will be over.
But…
It doesn't make any sense. None of it.
No, England chides himself internally, shifting uncomfortably. Don't spoil it. This is good. America is here. Everything's going to be alright.
Please let it all be alright.
But England is delirious, and he is starting to acknowledge this. He knows he's not thinking properly, and now he's starting to question everything.
This is another world. That's why there's another London and another England. So how did America get here? How did he know where and how to find England?
Stop… England quietly begs his mind. Why can't everything just be okay?
America's not acting like himself. Too… empathetic. Too considerate. America isn't cruel, not by a long shot, but he's rarely so thoughtful when it comes to England's wellbeing. He really should be teasing England by now and boasting about his heroic escapade. He's being overly compassionate this evening and hasn't once said anything even remotely egotistical.
Don't ruin this, England growls inside his head. He cares after all. He's brave and kind, really. You know he's not as obtuse as he pretends to be.
But there's one more thing as well. One of the things America said earlier on.
We were all worried about you!
That doesn't sound right. Not at all. Most of the other nations despise me, England allows himself to think. They'd probably rejoice at my disappearance. This can't be right.
America has stopped. He can only have walked about twenty feet in total, but he's come off the street and is instead standing in front of the house England was locked up in. 'Here we are,' he says.
England blinks in confusion. 'Wait… what? No. This is where I was locked up. We have to get away from here.'
America chuckles. 'Don't worry, England. This is our stop.'
'America- no. What are you talking about? We need to go, now-'
America ignores him and knocks loudly on the door.
'America?' England yelps, his stomach sinking horribly and the coldness washing over him once more. This isn't happening. It can't be. Please don't let this be real. Please…
The door swings open and Other England stands there, smiling widely. The light in the house are on behind him and England is finally able to observe his doppelgänger's appearance without merely the light of the faraway fires or the dim daylight inside the cell. Other England's hair is a very pale blonde, bordering on an almost pinkish hue. His eyes are just as England depicted them before- a disturbing electric blue.
'Got your little runaway,' America announces, and it takes all of England's willpower not to cry out in despair and horror. His stomach isn't the only thing twisting in fright; his chest is also squirming and burning and his heart is beating faster than ever.
Other England smirks. 'Tut tut. You let him out in the first place.'
'Just wanted to have some fun,' America replies casually, and England can feel him shrug.
In a bid to escape, England tries to wriggle off America's back and ends up collapsing onto the ground behind him. Wincing in the new pain in his back, England gasps in short breaths, winded. Above him, America and Other England watch him distantly.
'America,' England chokes. There are tears stinging in his eyes. No, don't do it. Have to… have to be strong…
But everything's falling apart. This can't be right. America.
America. Whom he raised. America, whom he's known for centuries. His family-to-enemy-to-ally-to-kind-of-but-not-really-friend. America, whom he cares about regardless. America, who will always mean so much to him, even if he is reluctant to admit it, even to himself.
America.
No, please no, not America, anyone but America, please not America-
Is he saying this out loud? Is that why they're both smirking down at him?
Oh, what does it matter? Nothing matters anymore.
'Having fun down there?' America asks. His crimson eyes sparkle in amusement.
Wait. Crimson?
'I like how this played out,' Other England says thoughtfully. 'What a fun little game this is. Are we done for tonight?'
America grins. 'Not by a long shot. You plan out the next game if you want to, I'm gonna finish this one.'
Other England squeals in delight and grasps America's arm. 'Oh, thank you! I'll get to it right away! We're going to have so much fun!' He turns around and races off into the house immediately, a little skip in his step.
England tries to shift from his spot but he is not nearly strong enough to move more than a couple of inches. America reaches down and pulls England roughly off the ground. He is forced onto his feet but he can't use them properly and they are unable to support him. Being kept upright only by America's iron grip, England is dragged back into the house.
'America,' he whimpers, his voice little more than a ghost-like whisper.
'It's alright, England,' America says with a smile. It looks twisted as it etches its way onto his face. 'Like he said- we're going to have so much fun…'
'Sleeping means letting your guard down. Aren't going to make that little mistake again, are we?'
A knife traces a thin but deep line of blood across his bare chest and he bites down on his lip to keep from screaming.
America watches him, almost seeming a little impressed, though he covers it well behind those malicious crimson eyes. 'I could give you hell and it won't make a difference, will it?'
He changes the angle of the knife as the blade reaches his abdomen, pointing the tip of the weapon against England's bare skin and gently plunging it through the flesh. England lets out a groan of pain as the agony flares through his stomach, but shows no reaction other than this.
America grins. He seems to almost tremble in anticipation. 'Thanks,' he says quietly. 'I like a challenge.'
It must be morning by now. They've been at it for hours. Repetitive in concept, yet varied in execution- like a game, hardening with each new round. England has long since given into his tears; America always was able to bring out the more human side of England.
It's him, every detail. The blonde hair, the glasses, the cowlick, the beloved bomber jacket. Everything but the eyes.
When America brings out a new toy to play with- a selection of knives, a blunt instrument here and there, even a machete at one point- England closes his eyes and tries to pretend that it is simply America picking up cutlery so he can dig into whichever meal he has decided to have for lunch today.
When America whispers cruel words in his ear- no longer fully distinguishable in England's pained mind, and yet he always seems to comprehend the malicious content anyway- England keeps his eyes closed and envisions America on any other day, merely teasing him about his food, his age, his eyebrows, anything but this.
And each time America uses his name- always England, spoken meaningfully as if he has some power over the name itself- England imagines his real name being cast aside and replaced with an infuriating nickname instead, like America always does inevitably. England refuses to open his eyes for fear of looking straight into America's and seeing crimson. He pictures those eyes he's known for centuries, the sky blue eyes that should be there but aren't, bright with the determination and hope and dreams that America always seemed to carry with him.
The America he knows. My America.
But England's entire perception has been overthrown. Every memory of America is etched with doubt and stained with this new reality. The America he knew is dead. The America he knew is non-existent. The America he knew could never have truly been there, because how can someone like that simply become someone like this? England must have gotten it wrong all along. Everything he ever thought about America must be wrong.
But that can't be it. The America he thought he knew was real. He had to be. The happy, optimistic, strong, resilient, determined country can't have always been an illusion. That smiling child in the field on the day they met can't simply be a lie, a mask, a façade. America really was that person.
And now he isn't.
Now he's a monster.
England should never have woken up.
And yet, at the same time it is the biggest relief at all. Or rather, it is until he remembers that none of that was simply just a bad dream and was in fact another memory returning to him. An extremely vivid memory.
For the second time this week, his return to consciousness is accompanied by an ear-splitting scream. He throws his covers off and rolls over, tumbling out of bed in an instant. He registers no pain whatsoever as his body crashes into the floor (after all, nothing, nothing in the world right now will compare to the pain he felt in his flashback). He quickly fumbles around for his knife and his stomach leaps horribly in shock when he discovers he's not wearing his jacket he was carrying his knife in. His suit and tie have been removed too, leaving his shirt underneath.
Someone has taken his knife-
'England? Are you alr- Hey, hey! It's okay!' comes a soft voice from somewhere above him. His heads shoots up and takes in the sight of a tall figure standing there, watching him in the semi darkness with those all too familiar features.
England cries out in panic and tries to scramble backwards in an effort to get away. The dream hasn't ended; it can't have done. This is just how it was before- lying on the ground, staring up in pain at them. He has no idea where Other England has gone or why he doesn't feel as weak as he did before but… he is still here, leering down at him with those crimson eyes-
Except there's no leering. And the eyes aren't crimson. They're not blue, either.
They're violet.
'It's over now,' Canada says uncertainly, seemingly unsure of whether he should just stay exactly where he is or whether he should lean down and try and help England. 'It was a bad dream. You're awake, England.'
'Can- Canada?' England says shakily. Once again, he has mistaken Canada for him. He verbalises the name, not as a revelation but more as a question, because England needs confirmation that it really is Canada standing above him. He no longer trusts his own eyes.
'Yeah,' Canada says gently, finally drawing to the conclusion that he should try reaching out to England. But England flinches in an instant, images of him reaching out for him, holding him in his arms, promising that everything was going to be okay and then- and then…
'S-sorry,' Canada says quickly, terrified at his former caretaker's reaction.
'W… W-where-?' England chokes out.
Canada misunderstands, naturally assuming that England is inquiring as to his location, instead of as to where a certain someone is, which is what England really wants to know. 'Your hotel room, England. We're in your hotel room. You've been resting for a few hours. It's night time.'
England grasps onto the bed and hauls himself unsteadily to his feet. 'Um, I'm not so sure that's a good idea-' Canada tries to say but England is already spinning around on the spot, trying to catch a glimpse of his knife (the knife that is slicing into his skin, cutting and piercing and jabbing-) . It has to be here, it just has to be (Oh God, I'm dying, please let it be here, I need it-). The knife, once a weapon being used to slowly kill him, is now the only thing that can protect his life.
'K-knife-' he coughs, hoping that Canada will understand.
The sound of a light switching off somewhere in the hotel room alerts England that there's someone else here, someone coming out of the bathroom. Barely suppressing another cry of panic, England focuses on the door in an instant.
'Is everything alright? I thought I 'eard a scream- oh, Angleterre, you're awake!'
No, no, no, no, no, England's mind moans. Everything hurts enough already without the reminder that more than one nation has betrayed him. He might not be here right now, but France is.
What if… (Oh God no, please no) What if Canada's a part of this too?
He can't. He can't be. Please, please, please. He can't be. But I thought that about them as well. I can't trust anyone. Where's he gone? Has he left me with Canada and France? Are they going to finish me off instead?
There's more than just a sob working its way up inside England. Despite his unsteady balance, despite France standing right there in his way, England bolts into the bathroom, collapses in front of the toilet and promptly retches up everything in his stomach (which, as it turns out, isn't very much at all).
He's not entirely sure at which point he finishes retching and begins sobbing instead. Throughout the ordeal, his body continues to shake violently. He can feel the tears, hot on his cheeks, his eyes almost stinging as much as the burning in his throat. He becomes aware of a hand on back, rubbing it gently. Instead of feeling comforted by it like a part of him still knows he should be, the touch only makes the shaking worse.
'… mentioned his knife,' he finally becomes aware of Canada saying.
'Oui, Écosse mentioned that 'e 'as an attachment to the blade. A fixation, I suppose.'
'God… this is so terrible… Can you hear me, England? Please give me a sign you can hear me.'
England reaches up with shaking hands to cover his face. He closes his eyes tightly. He doesn't want to see anything. He wants the tears to disappear.
'Angleterre?' France prompts. There's no sneer in his voice, no mockery. 'Listen. If you can 'ear us, just listen. Your frères aren't 'ere right now, so they asked us to stay 'ere with you in case you woke up. Écosse is still in 'ospital, of course. Your petit frère, Sealand, was it…?'
'Sealand,' Canada confirms. 'Italy and Japan are looking after him right now. Italy will keep him entertained and Japan's quite responsible, so he should be in safe hands. Wales is, um, talking things over with Germany and Russia, and…'
England holds his breath, his face still hidden behind his hands.
'America's with them,' Canada finishes. 'Like I said. They're, uh, talking things over. He called us after you… collapsed.'
France takes a deep breath. 'We all thought it best if we kept you out of 'ospital. Écosse ending up in there is trouble enough, especially if the 'umans mention it in the media, which they undoubtedly will. Besides, the doctors won't exactly understand what 'appened to you. The best people with a chance of understanding you are your fellow nations- us.' He gives a nervous laugh. 'Though I must say, Angleterre, you are not making it easy.'
'We thought this would be the best place for you right now,' Canada says. 'You don't look like you've been sleeping much lately. You should probably get some more rest; it's late anyway.'
England can feel hands gently grasping his shoulders and lifting him to a standing position. He staggers a little and his hands drop down from his face. The tears in his eyes are blurring his vision but he can just make out Canada to the side of him, helping him stay upright, and France directly in front, holding something out.
'Just something to take away the aftertaste,' he offers.
England doesn't accept it. As sour as his mouth currently tastes, he isn't taking anything unknown from an enemy. From France.
(Please, please, please…)
'England,' Canada coaxes him kindly, somehow sensing England's discomfort. 'It's just a mint. It's okay.'
England's weariness and a lack of care win out in the end. He's tired and his own life is starting to not seem altogether important anymore. It isn't simply the cruel jabs at his own worth and all the other horrible words that were whispered in his ear during his ordeal. His empty weariness is transpiring from something a lot more peaceful. He remembers how he lay for a month in that cell, slowly dying, and how in the end it merely felt like falling asleep. That's it. That's all there is to it, really.
He's so, so tired.
He should never have woken up. The waking world is just composed of fear and confusion and pain. And yes, his dreams are full of these things too, but at least they're providing him with answers. They're filling in the gaps. They're solving the riddles. And maybe then everything might mean something once more.
So he takes the mint from France and he allows Canada to lead him back to his bed. When he finally rests his head again and closes his eyes, his mind doesn't drift to the whereabouts of his knife, because it no longer matters to him whether or not he is safe. Rather, he already believes he knows to the answer to that. He's not safe. He's never safe.
And he doesn't care.
(No.)
America's red eyes are wrong. His words are wrong. His smile is wrong, his laugh is wrong, he is wrong.
England opens his eyes and stares directly into the crimson pair. He speaks clearly and calmly, with no hesitation and no break in voice, two words.
'Not America.'
The imposter stares at him. England holds his gaze, either unable to look away or simply refusing to.
That child in the field with the bright blue eyes and the pure smile could never become this. The nation who proposes insane ideas at world meetings for how to save the planet, the country who is always happily joking around, the same young man who fought for what his people wanted and gained his independence; the America England knows is not and will never be this America.
He won't believe it. He never, ever will.
'Not America,' he repeats, his eyes fixed on the imposter's.
For the tiniest moment, the imposter's image shimmers slightly into a different colour scheme. His hair and skin darken, the former to an auburn-brown and the latter to a tan. This new appearance seems to compliment the crimson eyes, and they finally don't seem so out of place. A few seconds later, however, the former image of the America England knows replaces the sudden change once again as if nothing happened. Almost like a hologram.
An enchantment, England registers. This is magic. Someone's enchanted him to look like the America from my world. To trick me into trusting him in the beginning, probably. To hurt me all the more.
But no amount of magic is going to work on England anymore. He's got a glimpse of what the imposter really looks like: an inverted copy of America, much like Other England is to England.
A hand flies up to England's throat, quickly pressing a knife against his skin. 'Got anything else to say?' Other America says. His voice is strained and accompanied by a forced smirk. It disappears in a flash of surprise when he catches a sight of the expression on the figure beneath him.
England is smiling. The tears in his eyes aren't just from the pain, they are from relief, too. He almost looks gleeful. He must be delirious. Perhaps the pressure on his throat is too much, or maybe he's simply reached his level of endurance.
Other America's hand, still clasped around England's throat, quivers slightly in shock.
England looks up at him, not shying away from the crimson pair of eyes. Oh yes. He certainly does have something to say. He wants the monster above him to know who has won and who has lost.
The little but meaningful smile is still gently etched on his face. He gazes at the red eyes and pictures the blue ones, safe inside his head where they can't be touched.
'Not America,' he whispers.
I've included a scene from chapter 3 in here. Of course, back then I referred to England's torturer as 'the demon', whereas this time round he is called 'America'.
I've actually sort of been hinting at something being off about America since the second chapter. In chapter 2, England has a seemingly unprovoked panic attack and starts hearing 'the demon'/Other America's voice in his head directly after America's name is mentioned. He remembers the red eyes for the first time not long afterwards. In chapter 4, while he is in the library, his thoughts briefly drift to America at one point and the voice appears in his head again. I like to include the little details, I guess XD
Honestly, you guys are amazing. I had no idea this story would interest people so much. The main reason for writing it was mostly because I'd run out of fanfictions to read myself and I really wanted to read very particular genres. And you know what they say to authors- write what you yourself would want to read. Or something like that. I am fully indulged in this story. I absolutely love writing it and I'm happy that so many of you enjoy reading it!
Remember to review, and toodles!
