That awkward moment where you go on a tangent in your last chapter about how you should maybe write shorter chapters, and then proceed to go like 4000 over your usual word limit lmao. So yeah. Long chapter, my guys. (I still can't believe I originally thought I'd be able to put all the content in these two latest chapters into one. Nuts.)
Anyway, can I just say- holy shit. The response to the last chapter was utterly phenomenal! I had so many supportive messages reassuring me about all those doubts and concerns I had, and while stuff still hasn't been easy (I recently got a diagnosis for something- not dyslexia, unfortunately, still waiting on that- that really might explain why I struggle so much with writing and concentration, and basically handling any kind of putting myself out there, be it with fanfics, fanart etc.), the encouragement so many of you offered really has helped tremendously. I was incredibly self conscious about the decision at first, but now I'm really glad I vented in the last chapter. I've been more motivated and felt better about myself and my works in this last month than I have in like an entire year, and pretty much all of that was thanks to the kind words from you guys. That's probably why the chapter's so long too. So, thank you all so much! You'll never know how grateful I am.
True to my word, I've also been trying to reply to comments. While I haven't gotten round to all of them yet (mostly the newer ones, and the anonymous ones on FanFiction), I've actually really enjoyed replying to you guys. This is pretty new for me, cuz I'm usually pretty anxious about talking to people. I've been thinking recently that I want to be a more active voice in the fandom, however, which is why I'm finally posting my art and planning new stories to post- one of which I think I might upload quite soon.
Anywho, the chapter. Like I said, longer than usual, and full of all that angsty goodness. Or badness. I've gotta assume y'all like angst well enough, to tolerate this lengthy angsfest of horror (that's gonna officially become my alternative title for this story. I'm not joking). There's more USUK in this chapter than ever before in this story- at least I hope there is. I'm trying to slide more in, bit by bit. We're getting there. Oh, we are definitely getting there.
Warnings: angst, some horror, my usual gig. But with fluff at the end. Sorta. I'm surprised too. Also, it's the world meeting yo. We're finally there. Oh my god. It only took me over 2 years smh.
I would recommend the Imagine Dragons song Not Today for this chapter for obvious reasons. I basically named it after that. (If you're big on Imagine Dragons like me, I've noticed Believer also works quite well for England's new attitude and his storyline in general. That song is a good motivator for me too. It's empowering.)
Allons-y!
Twenty-Six
Not Today
The fifth of November, 2013, begins with a downpour of slight rain.
It's been drizzling on and off for the last few days, although thankfully London was spared from the rain on the night of Halloween, and America and Sealand enjoyed a bountiful evening of trick or treating. Unfortunately, the next few days haven't been as exciting. America is once again on rather thin ice with Scotland, due to the fact that he neglected to ask whether Sealand could come along with him all evening on Halloween. He wasn't completely irresponsible, however; certainly not as much as everyone else would believe. He'd made sure to text Scotland and tell him Sealand was with him, and Wales had given them permission to hang out for a bit. Nevertheless, this hadn't stopped the eldest British nation from ringing Sealand repeatedly throughout the night, to which the child had finally, reluctantly answered.
Since then, America has thought it best to stay out of Scotland's way, despite every part of him wishing he could go back and speak to Sealand at any given opportunity. Texting and phone calls have felt rather inadequate. Now that he has sufficient proof that magic really could exist, and that England may truly be alive out there somewhere, everything else seems irrelevant. Despite not knowing exactly what he's supposed to do with this information, or how it could help England, America is now consumed with an insatiable need to learn as much as he can.
Suddenly all those dusty, ancient books lying around in England's basement, the ones the elder nation claimed to be full of incantations and whatnot, don't seem stupid or childish anymore. America no longer scorns what he once dubbed as 'England's dumb hobby'. Now, those books might be holding the answers they need in order to help England.
It's a longshot, he knows, and a little too fanciful. He's seen England reading from them before, and knows it's too much to hope that any of them are written in any form of English, be it old or new. They're probably in some Gaelic language, or maybe Latin. America did learn Latin as a child, as England was rather adamant on it being taught, but due to its complete lack of use and the fact that most of his citizens these days have never learnt it, he fears he's probably forgotten most of it.
As for Gaelic, he knows he'll be completely lost if he even tries reading it. There's no reason to believe Sealand will understand it either, despite his family's roots. Scotland, Ireland or Wales might be of help translate the texts, but why the hell would they do that? They all know America by now, and will grow suspicious if he suddenly shows an interest in something he typically wouldn't care for at all. Besides, America is trying his best to be a little more sensitive these days, and he knows how wrong it would be to arouse their mistrust, especially after he's finally made peace with Scotland. Worse, still, would be for him to actually get their hopes up, in the event that they actually believe him- and so close to England's memorial service, too.
And so he stays away and gives them space. The last thing anyone needs right now is a fuss being stirred, or tempers rising.
'If she'd had her way, which you think she probably would, they'd be holding it in Westminster Abbey,' Canada murmurs as he and America duck under the small archway outside the church to escape the rain.
'Who?' America asks.
'The Queen. You know she was close to him. She apparently suggested the memorial should be held there. But Westminster Abbey is, you know, a big deal. It's typically for royalty. No one denied it on account of England not being a part of the royal family, though. It was more to do with all the attention it would gain. The media would want to know who was important enough to have such a big memorial, and, well…' He smiles sadly. 'The last thing we want, really, is attention. This is a private affair. Her Majesty accepted that in the end.'
America nods. 'Is she coming here, then?'
Canada shakes his head. 'They're holding another ceremony later on today, within Buckingham Palace, I think. This one's for our benefit. The nations.'
The church in question isn't anything grand or splendid, but big enough to host two hundred or so people. It's a little optimistic, America thinks rather bitterly, to think that so many nations will come. He hates himself for the thought even crossing his mind. He knows England didn't exactly have the best relationships ever with plenty of other countries, but then, neither does he. The difference is how they go about it. America always tries to be as friendly as possible with as many people as he can, despite any bad history he might have with them.
England, on the other hand, always did have a tendency to let history cling to him a little too tightly. America often wonders whether it was deliberate, or if England truly wished he could let go of things as easily as other might do. As Canada would probably say, it wasn't so much about England holding grudges, the way many would believe. Deep down, it was probably more about guilt than anything. Due to the decisions and behaviour of his people, England was more often than not on the offending side of history. He wouldn't be the only one, of course. Plenty of other former empires probably feel weighed down by their peoples' actions in the past.
America is idealistic. The knowledge that nations can never truly control what their people make them do should prevent them from condemning each other, as far as he's concerned, and yet not everyone can hope like he does.
Nations hold grudges. They resent each other, despite all this. It's just the way the world works for them.
'How many people do you think are gonna show up?' America asks. The only people inside the church right now are those preparing the ceremony. The North American nations are some of the very first to show up, which America almost finds amusing. He's usually late for everything, after all.
Canada squirms a little, seemingly uncomfortable. 'I'm not sure. This… may not run smoothly. We just have to hope everyone will be respectful.'
'Why? What d'you think is gonna happen?'
'You've kind of… been off the radar, recently, haven't you?' Canada says with a small smile. 'That's a first.'
'What? Have I been missing out on gossip?' Truthfully, Canada is right. Since America's outburst at the last world meeting, in which England was officially pronounced dead, he hasn't really been speaking to anyone. No one but Canada and Sealand, really.
'Things have been a little tense between certain nations.'
'When aren't they?' America says with a small chuckle.
'People, uh…' Canada bites his lip. 'People started suggesting… some things. About pointing fingers. About solving what happened.'
It takes America a moment to understand. 'What, like blame?'
Canada glances around uncertainly. They're all alone under this little arch, and no one else can be spotted in the damp graveyard. 'There have been suggestions that it… wasn't an accident. Whatever happened to him. On account of how we never found any traces of him. It's like… someone went through a lot of effort to…' He trails off, suddenly rather pale, eyes full of regret. 'This really isn't the right time or place, I shouldn't be-'
'What are people saying?' America says.
Canada swallows nervously. 'Well… you know how Scotland was supposed to be the last person who saw England? And how he said England was acting weird, like he was stressed out about something? Well. Um. People think he… uh… he knew something bad was going to happen to him. So, they… they think someone might be responsible f… for…' He stops talking again, but this time it isn't because he's worried someone might overhear them. His eyes are filling with tears, and America immediately feels terrible. Unlike him, Canada doesn't have the burning certainty that England is still alive out there.
Canada only has grief, and the horrible suspicion that England may have been murdered.
'Hey, it's okay,' America says quickly, knowing very well that it certainly isn't. He turns and puts his hands on his brother's shoulders, squeezing them gently. Soon, he tells himself. Soon, when Sealand and I figure out how to find England and get him back. Then, everyone will see. And it will all be better.
'America,' Canada manages to say. It sounds like a whimper. 'I'm… I'm r-really relieved you're here. I know you… you don't believe it. But I'm glad you're… you're showing support. For his brothers. For everyone.'
America feels some strange, hysterical urge to blurt out something stupid and probably insensitive, like he would have done years before; probably something about how this 'support' can't possibly be for everyone, because not everyone is going to come. Plenty of nations are going to keep holding onto those stupid, stupid grudges, whether they can help it or not, and they won't pay tribute to England.
And even though he knows that England isn't really dead (or at least, he hopes. God, does he hope), the thought of this still upsets him in a way he can't begin to explain.
So when the little gate opens to the churchyard opens and familiar faces start appearing through the rainy haze, filing through the gate one by one, America stares, and feels as if he can do nothing else. England's brothers are of course no surprise. They've been here already this morning, running in an out of the church with responsibilities to take care of. But this time, it looks as if they won't be leaving for another errand anytime soon.
Following them are France, Germany, Italy, Spain, Romano, Portugal, Belgium, Hungary, Austria and Prussia. They look as if they've come as a group, which they probably have. Because after them are more. The Nordics. The Baltics and Poland. Switzerland and Liechtenstein. Russia, Ukraine and Belarus. China, Japan, Hong Kong, Taiwan and Vietnam. Australia and New Zealand. And more. They keep coming, and America can't stop staring.
'I didn't think so many people would come,' he confesses quietly.
'And we didn't think you'd come,' Canada replies, this time with a real smile.
'I had to. In case…' In case I'm wrong. In case he really is dead.
'I know,' Canada replies.
'It's just…' America draws in a breath. 'I figured… I mean… so many of them didn't get along with him. So many of them don't get along with each other. And yet they're here. Coming together.'
Canada lets out a sigh. 'It's having completely opposite effects at the same time. While some are… drawing conclusions about each other, everyone else is… how do I put this? Sometimes terrible things can bring people closer together.' He closes his eyes, and America, for once, doesn't feel the ever-present urge to make a joke and lighten the situation. Because this is a memorial, and because people are grieving. He can see it on their faces when he looks at them. It shows more on some than others. But each and every one of them truly… cares.
'They might not have gotten along with him, or each other,' Canada continues. 'But every single one of them is scared. Scared that it might happen again, to someone else. We're not like humans. Our deaths aren't common. You and I haven't even been around long enough to see it properly. We all have our issues with each other, and our differences, but at the end of the day… we're all afraid of losing someone else. And no one cares so little for England that the thought of what happened doesn't mortify them. This matters to them, regardless of whether they'll ever admit it to each other, or themselves. But them coming here is… enough.'
A couple of months ago, some stupid, insensitive side of America would have scoffed and told his brother that 'enough' would be to not give up on England at all, but not only does he refuse to behave in such a manner- he simply doesn't even think of it.
He's touched, he realises, by Canada's words, and by the nations that continue to file into the churchyard. He wonders what England would make of all of this.
He wouldn't believe his eyes, America thinks, and then he too is smiling. He'll have to remember to tell England all about this when the latter finally does come back.
On that day, everything will be okay.
Just not today.
A few rooms down from the big conference hall is a much smaller lounge, with couches, tables and a few kitchen appliances in the corner. England and Wales come here first, to drop off the present for Sealand and to get a drink before the meeting. The room is empty, fortunately, and England enjoys one final moment of peace before joining the world meeting. His stomach isn't squirming as badly as before, despite the confrontation with the other nations looming closer. Getting the present for Sealand has brought him some peace of mind, as well as something else that he realises when Wales keeps checking the bag slung over his shoulder anxiously.
'You have the knife, don't you?' England says, almost amused when Wales shoots him a look of utter shock, like a deer in the headlights. 'May I have it back?'
'How the f- England, what-? How did you know-?'
'So you do have it.' England smiles. 'Thanks for the confirmation.' At the lost look on Wales's face, he adds, 'Lucky guess. You're concerned about something in your b… bag. Besides, you lot might not want me handling it, but y-you still know it's the best protection I have. Scotland saw first-hand what it d-did to the entity. So, whoever's supervising me has it. Right? You p… probably had it with you this morning, or Ireland slipped it to you w-when we left the house.'
'… You're too smart for your own good, brawd,' Wales mutters after a few seconds of silence. 'And that doesn't mean I'm just going to give it to you.'
'I'm not as… unstable as before. You know that.'
Wales drops his bag down on the ground and collapses onto one of the couches, looking far too exhausted for so early in the day. He lifts up one hand and begins rubbing his forehead, closing his eyes. England thinks his brother is being a little overdramatic, until his gaze falls to the dark circles under Wales's eyes, and he wonders why he didn't spot them earlier.
'You've been working so hard on organising th-this meeting,' he tries. 'Don't you need a break? Having a dangerous w… weapon on you and all the responsibility that m-might come with it isn't going to give you much rest. I can tell you don't want it.'
Wales opens his eyes and peers up at his brother. 'I'm not going to give it back to you just like that. Why are you so… fixated on it, anyway? I understand you feel protected by it, but… it's like you're obsessed. Back in the States, it was always on your mind, and I'm willing to bet it still is. Where did you even get it?'
England opens his mouth, then hesitates. He knows he should be more honest with his brothers- well, with everyone. But his answer can't be vague; Wales will only persist with more questions if he doesn't come out with the full truth.
'It belonged to one of them,' he begins. 'He… used it on me. It helped add to… all of this.' He gestures at his chest quickly, uncomfortable with drawing attention to the scars on his chest that they both know are there. 'I don't r… remember how I came to own it.'
Wales is up on his feet in an instant, completely horrified. 'That thing was used to torture you?'
England winces. 'Among other things, yeah.'
Wales looks down at the bag, his face now very pale. '… Why the hell would you want that thing anywhere near you?' he asks, his voice faint.
England glances at the bag too. He can't see the knife, but the fact that he knows it's there, only a few feet from him, is disturbingly comforting. 'Because it's mine now. It's in my c… control. I don't really understand it either. I'm sure I w… would if I remembered how it became mine, but who knows how long that will take? It's strong, too. It killed that entity, and it… it can cut through metal, Wales. I used it on my first night back in th… this world, to get money for the phone booth. It sliced right through it, easy as anything. There's something special about it.'
Unlike England, Wales doesn't seem to share his admiration. If anything, he looks more disturbed than before.
'Look,' England says, 'I know why you don't w-want me to have it. I know you're concerned that I'm becoming… aggressive-'
'Who told you that?' Wales says sharply.
'Scotland and I had a l… little chat last night,' England replies, to which Wales groans. 'And he's probably right. I'm not going to lie- I want to fight back.' He pauses, then walks over to the bag and opens it up. Wales's face is uncomfortable, but passive. He makes no move to stop his brother as England pulls the knife out. 'I… want to use this against him. Not like he did to me, but… I want to fight him. I want to get back at them all. And you're p… probably worried that I might hurt someone here by mistake. I was terrified of that too. Ireland knows all about th-that. But my hallucinations are getting better. I know how to fight them now. I think America d… does too.'
Wales doesn't seem all too panicked now, but his expression is quite gloomy. 'You didn't spend much time with him over the last few days. I thought maybe you were still affected-'
'I am,' England says. 'But I'm handling it. I stayed away because I thought it would be better for Sealand. He's frightened, you must have n… noticed. The confrontation with the other me really shook him. And I l… look like my counterpart.'
'It's not fair on either of you,' Wales says, visibly pained. 'You can't help what happened-'
'Neither could America. It's not fair on him, either. He can't help what his other self did to m… me, any more than I can help what the other me said to Sealand. There's not much I can do. Except, well… this.' He looks over to the present- well, presents, for the micronation, wrapped up in two plastic shopping bags.
Wales was quite irritated earlier when England purchased the gifts. He deemed it irresponsible and a waste of time, considering the meeting they were meant to be heading to instead. But he seems a little less annoyed about the whole thing now. 'A peace offering?' he asks, even giving a small smile.
'Just making up for lost time,' England says.
The closer to the door they get, the easier it becomes to start hearing the voices inside.
At one end of the corridor, the sound is just muffled mumblings, nothing coherent. As England draws closer, he begins to pick out individual voices, even if he can't quite hear what they're saying. It's mostly Scotland at first, but his voice is drowned out by an angry uproar of multiple voices. It's impossible to distinguish any words, until Germany's voice rises above them all, shouting at everyone to be silent. It's almost comical, it's so familiar. England is tempted to laugh, but he doesn't need to hear what everyone is saying to know what they all just grew upset about.
Scotland has told them the truth- or at least, he has begun to. And, as predicted, the nations of the world don't like it. Not one bit.
'Nervous?' Wales asks from beside him.
'I'm sure you already k-know the answer to that,' England says dryly, and the speedy pace of his heart pumping seems to agree with him. His skin is growing cold again, like it always does whenever he is afraid these days. He can pick out other voices now, those belonging to nations he used to know, nations he hasn't seen in over five years. Nations whose counterparts he probably encountered during his ordeal. Perhaps the memories will return more swiftly if he's around those who remind him of the countries in the Otherworld. Being around the G8, being around America, certainly helped- and not in a good way.
Any moment now, he'll be facing them all. And he has no idea what's going to happen when he does.
His fingers curl around the knife in the right-side pocket of his coat, and slowly he begins to feel it spreading through him from the point where his skin touches the hilt: heat, not soothing but fiery and calming in its own way. He finally has the knife back. His strength, his courage, his safety.
He takes the last few steps towards the door, and waits.
'We should go in when they've announced you're alive,' Wales says. 'I don't think they've done it yet.' He glances down at the knife in England's hand, just poking out of the pocket. 'Scotland and Ireland are going to be furious when they find out I let you have it…'
He trails off when their eldest brother's voice begins again, his voice far clearer than before. 'It just so happens that one of us knows this other world. This other dimension. More so than having simply just observed it. He went there. Not by choice. And bad things happened. It is about as much proof as we can offer. Our word, and of course, his.'
'Another dimension?' scoffs a voice that sounds suspiciously like Romano's. 'Are you for real?'
'Who?' another one joins in with a laugh. England's eyes narrow. 'Who went to this 'other dimension'?'
'What happened to them?' says someone else with a snort.
England clenches both fists, tightening the grip on his knife as a result. He barely notices, however. His eyes are fixed on the door, and on the images in his mind of all the nations inside. He can picture them clearly, wearing all too familiar expressions. The same sneering faces, the same mocking laughter, the same hostility laced underneath their words. Most of them despised him, and he doubts that's about the change. But the thought doesn't scare him; it enrages him.
He puts his hand on the door handle, ignoring Wales's immediate protests, and pushes the door open.
No one notices him at first. The room is loud enough already with snickers here and there and people jeering obnoxiously, so no one hears the door open. The countries don't sound as angry as before, but somehow their taunts are even worse, especially now England can hear what they're saying.
'What was it like?' someone from the far side of the room giggles.
'When did this happen?' someone a little closer adds.
'How long were they there for?' one final voice sneers, and England decides he's had enough.
'Five years,' he snaps loudly, stepping into the room and finally, finally, he glances around and sees them all for the first time in five years.
He's met with well over a hundred pairs of eyes drilling into his, sending his heart pumping into a chilled frenzy. The blood thumping through his veins, all the way down to his fingertips, reminds him of the knife, his protection. He straightens up, and the roaring thump thump thump in his ears is reminiscent of war drums from centuries before. This is all a war of sorts. A battle against their scorn and disbelief. Another against the other nations when they inevitably come back for him. One more against himself.
He feels the anger, like fire in his veins. He won't cower from them. He won't cower from anyone.
Behind him, he hears Wales whine something about how he should have waited, but he ignores him.
'Oh,' Scotland says, looking completely dumbstruck. 'Oh, shit.'
England has come in too early; his abrupt arrival was impulsive. He steps forwards, unable to focus on anyone for too long. Even with his burst of confidence, his situation is still unsettling. He spies a few friendly faces in the crowd, one by one; Scotland, Ireland, and various other members of the G8. (A small voice in his head, almost teasing, demands to know since when he started thinking of any of them as friendly.)
He spots America, Canada and Sealand at one point, and to his relief they all seem perfectly normal. Even America looks exactly how he should, and so England knows he won't have to worry about hallucinating.
At least, for now.
'Did yeh… did yeh have to barge in like that?' Ireland says finally, when it seems as if the silence isn't going to disappear any time soon.
'There's no emergency this time,' Scotland adds, his voice rising higher in pitch with each word. 'Please tell me there's no emergency this time-'
'There isn't,' Wales says quickly, following England into the room. 'He was just-'
'Defending myself,' England interrupts. 'Is that allowed?'
Scotland looks as if he's going to have a complete mental breakdown right here in front of everyone. 'Christ- right, okay. Let's just- let's just all take a moment, and I'll explain-'
But there is sound now, coming from all around the room: heavy breathing, choked gasps, a few spluttering outcries. Nothing too loud, as most are still in numbed shock. But Scotland seems to release he's about to lose control of everyone's attention, and he acts fast.
'Listen, everyone,' he tries quickly. 'I- I realise how shocking this must be, and-'
His frantic words are interrupted by a several more gasps, and even a couple of strangled screams. Many rise from their seats, although no one comes forwards. England begins to hear his name echoing around the room in alarmed whispers, along with the word dead. His fingers brush against the hilt against of his knife absent-mindedly, almost as a way of comforting himself, until he spots Scotland and Ireland both staring down at the weapon, still poking out of his pocket and quite visible.
Don't be aggressive. Don't make them think you're unstable, or worse- dangerous. He removes his hand from his pocket and shifts uncomfortably. Already the hushed voices around the room feel consuming and louder than they really are. If he can't find safety with his knife, he'll have to do it some other way; but as he looks around at the sea of old faces, they all suddenly seem like strangers. They weren't friendly to begin with, and they're outright daunting now.
Something beginning with F. Sealand's game of I Spy rings softly in his head when his eyes fall on Japan, and he quickly looks to his allies in this cause. His friends, if he could believe that's what they all are.
(And he really does want to believe it.)
Italy seems to be quite anxious as he glances around the room, but when he meets eyes with England, he manages one of his regular, wide smiles. Russia, too, smiles when England looks at him, and it's not even half as unsettling as the stares he's receiving from most of the other nations. Germany, Japan and France all give him encouraging nods. He is keenly aware of Wales right beside him, and Scotland and Ireland only a few feet away. They've organised this whole thing and are probably going to try their best to shield him when the angry questions come flying at him; whether it's because they're scared he'll lose his shit, or because they're simply worried he'll be hurt in some way, or perhaps even both, England doesn't know. But he feels oddly comforted all the same.
Finally, he looks back over at the spot where America, Canada and Sealand are seated. There are more smiles from the first two; an endearing and hopeful one from America, a soft and kind one from Canada, both of which England knows all too well. Sealand doesn't smile, but he doesn't flinch or look away when his eyes meet with England's.
'I'm sure yeh all have a lot of questions,' Ireland says, getting to his feet. He and Scotland are on a slightly elevated podium, usually used for whoever is giving a presentation. He towers above the rest of the room, clearly hoping this will give him some authority. 'If yeh could all just be patient, we'll explain everything-'
'England!' someone nearby hisses, far louder that all the previous exclamations. This is followed by a chorus of deafening shouts- not all at once, not indistinguishable, but clear and… angry. Of course they're angry. England shivers slightly. He's known all along that they would be angry.
They sound frightened too, as if his return is a far bigger impact than anything Scotland and Ireland must have told them about the Otherworld; but then, unlike the evidence for the latter, he is very, very real, for all of them to see.
'You're alive,' someone cries out, sounding almost mortified. England doesn't exactly have high hopes for many being relieved by his return, but the tone still stings.
The sharp, dry sarcasm comes flooding out before he's had a chance to think it through. 'No,' he says. 'I'm a ghost, and I've come back to haunt you all.'
Someone to his left, up on the podium, makes a noise that sounds like a forehead being slapped. It's either Scotland or Ireland and, honestly, England doesn't care at this point.
'Dude,' America whines abruptly. 'Don't even joke about stuff like that.' He sounds almost comical in that moment, an exaggerated but clearly fake look of fear on his face, as if this is some kind of horror movie. It's so natural and familiar that for a second England forgets about the unfriendly atmosphere and the chilling gazes from every nation in the room, as warmth blossoms inside him.
This moment of peace is interrupted when Switzerland spins around and sends America an absolutely furious look. 'You knew?'
America's lack of shock must have been a giveaway. England sighs.
The younger nation is flustered at first, but quickly regains his composure. 'Of course I knew!' he chirps, light-hearted as ever. The room falls silent in astonishment. Despite it all, America is still trying to be as cheerful as possible. It makes the pressure of all the eyes on him feel less heavy, somehow, and England is appreciative.
'How?' Switzerland spits.
'I've been telling you all that he couldn't be dead for years,' America continues, grinning proudly. When the silence stretches out afterwards, he adds in a more humbled voice, 'That, and he, uh, showed up at the G8 last month.'
This brings attention to the other members of the G8 around the room, who are immediately hounded with questions.
'Last month?' Austria is saying, glaring at Germany. 'You mean to say you've known for- how many weeks now?- and you're only just telling us?' He turns to England. 'How long has it been since you… revealed yourself?'
'I came back on the f… fifth of November,' he replies, internally recoiling. He hopes the other countries are too distracted to notice his stutter.
'The fifth of November? The anniversary of your death?' someone snarls. England scans the crowd to find the culprit, but it's impossible to tell who it was with all the murmurs sifting through the group.
'Given what yeh can clearly see here today,' Ireland says, 'I think we should be amending that to the anniversary of his disappearance.'
'You told us he was dead,' China finally says, his face stony. It was only a matter of time until he spoke up, England knows. That phone call a few days before must have alluded him to the big surprise, after all. 'All this time, you lied to us.'
'We didn't lie,' Scotland replies. 'We thought it was true. We had no idea where he was, or what had happened to him, and we couldn't sense him any-'
'And you,' China snaps, turning on England. 'Just where the hell have you been?'
Scotland clears his throat. 'As I told yeh all earlier-'
'You think we're gonna buy all this bullshit about some other world?' Turkey demands, his voice booming. Others immediately voice their agreement. 'That is about the worst excuse ever-'
'Hey, back off, man,' America interrupts, no longer smiling. 'Just hear them out. This stuff is all legit-'
'The hell it is!' Romano exclaims. 'You spring this- this bombshell on us, and expect us to buy into some other massive and totally impossible thing, all to cover up the fact that he faked his death or some shit-'
'I didn't fake my death,' England retorts. His fingernails begin digging into the palms of his hands, and he begins wishing his knife could be in his hand. He knows he won't need it, of course, and it's not as if he wants to use it; he just likes the sense of security it provides.
This meeting isn't really going how he expected- perhaps because he hadn't really known what to expect. The cynical part of him anticipated anger, and with his luck, the same amount of hatred plenty of other nations held for him before all this. He hadn't really dared to hope that the welcome would be warm in any way; he had thought perhaps some of his former allies, some he might even call friends, and maybe even the few former colonies that didn't completely hate his guts might greet him nicely. But so far, he has been met with outrage.
Allen would find this hilarious, he thinks dully. Oliver would say I'm not one of them anymore.
'England was taken,' Germany says diplomatically. 'This was beyond his control.'
'Taken by what?' Austria spits. 'Fairytale monsters? Like this creature that supposedly attacked you?'
Germany seems to snap, but not in the usual way. There's no outburst this time; he doesn't even raise his voice. He simply stands up, rests his hands on the desk and leans over slightly, his fists clenched almost as tightly as England's.
'You are all alarmed,' he says. His voice is quieter than usual, but it carries across the room all the same. And people listen. Out of every nation in the room, Germany seems to be one of the very few who can simultaneously hold everyone's' attention and garner their respect. 'You have every right to be. This is all too much. Perhaps you believe we should have told you about England first. But there really is an emergency, and the entire G8 can vouch for the validity of what Scotland and Ireland have told you. We were all there, and we were all attacked. We didn't want to believe it either, but the difference is that we had no choice. We were targeted by those responsible for England's disappearance, and we were in very real danger. Just as England was.'
No one says anything at first, silently taking it all in. Their faces are conflicted now; while it's clear that they still don't believe a word of what Scotland and Ireland told them of the other world, they can't seem to fathom why the rest of the G8 are defending the story.
'I swear… if this is some massive prank…' Hungary says, her eyes narrowing.
'Do you think I'm the type to behave so ridiculously?' Germany asks.
'But… but…' Estonia glances uneasily at England. He's far less hostile than some of the others, but he is struggling to put this delicately. 'England was alive this whole time. And he-'
'You never thought to contact any of us?' Switzerland says harshly, addressing England directly. 'Five whole years, and you never thought to let us know you were alive? We held a memorial for you.'
It's as if there are flames inside England's chest, searing against his skin. He can feel himself shaking, and it certainly isn't from fear. 'You think I didn't try?' he growls. In the corner of his eye, he can just make out Sealand shift restlessly. He can't see his little brother's face, but he imagines the child isn't all too happy with this accusation either.
'What part of he was taken did yeh not understand?' Scotland says angrily. 'Yeh're making it sound he was just free to come back whenever he wanted, like he wasn't their prisoner-'
'You told us he was dead!' Portugal explodes suddenly, and England is a little taken aback. Portugal is definitely someone he would call a friend without needing to be too generous to himself. The thought of his long-time ally being this enraged by his return is uncomfortable. His fury subsides slightly, and he feels the unease begin stirring in his stomach.
'You- you told us there was no chance he was still out there!' Portugal continues, abandoning his spot and striding over to Scotland and Ireland. 'You told us all to quit the search! You said you couldn't sense his life force anymore! He's your brother!'
England blinks. Perhaps he's misreading the situation, assuming the worst like he often does. Portugal isn't angry with him, or that he's returned. Portugal is angry because he was made to think that England was dead.
It is at that moment that England dares to hope that maybe, just maybe, there are some who really will welcome him back kindly-
'This is all ridiculous,' Spain pipes up, even going as far as to laugh nervously. 'This is a joke. It has to be. Whatever happened to him, it can't have been… what you're all saying. I don't believe-'
'Perhaps you should be listening to everything we have to say,' Russia suggests neutrally, 'instead of talking about things you don't really understand, da?'
Spain visibly shrinks under the look Russia sends him, and remains very quiet after that.
Germany opens his mouth to continue the discussion, but more movement from somewhere in the right-hand corner of the room grabs everyone's attention. Someone else is leaving their seat and coming forwards, except they don't appear to be heading for Scotland and Ireland, but for England instead.
England inhales sharply. It's been a very long time since he's seen Australia look so serious, perhaps not since the younger nation gained full independence. It hadn't really set any kind of rift between them, and much like with Canada, Australia has maintained a good relationship with England. He is certainly someone England has been secretly hopeful about over the last few days, no matter how hard he has tried to suppress the thoughts.
It really is so good to see him again, and incredibly relieving to see the look on his face. There are no traces of anger or disdain, only eyes open wide in shock and a mouth that is hanging open slightly, as if he still hasn't quite processed the last few minutes and registered that England is back and this is all really happening.
'England?' he whispers, coming to a stop about five feet away. Behind him, England spots more movement. Others are getting to their feet, and he can just make out New Zealand approaching too. His stomach does a full summersault, equally relieved to see another former colony with whom he has good relations, someone else that he has missed greatly. New Zealand's expression is much the same as Australia's, with the addition of glassy, glistening eyes. Eyes filled with what even England can't deny to be tears.
There's a moment- one warm, shining moment where it all feels perfect- or as close to perfect as anything ever could feel these days. Behind Australia and New Zealand are others, and around the rest of the room, more people seem to be relaxing, recovering from the shock and outrage. Not everyone, of course, not even close to a majority, but it suddenly feels daunting than before. In front of him, Australia is beginning to smile; a pained yet hopeful one, mirroring the thoughts running through England's head.
This is good. This is happy. This is safe.
No one is ever safe, a distant, barely reclaimed memory of Allen's voice says softly in his head, and England is jolted out of his little fantasy.
Australia is coming closer once more, still smiling, but that suddenly doesn't matter. All that matters is the outstretched arms closing around him like whenever Allen and Oliver would haul his broken and wounded body around for their games, and the way the nations around him all seem to blur, as if he's losing his sight.
'You're alive,' Australia laughs gently into the crook of England's neck, pulling him into a deep embrace. England tries to smile, tries to respond, tries to do anything. But he stands there, rooted to the spot, feeling the cold wash over him like the river that dragged him down.
The hazy sight of those he can see distort, the colours flickering around. It's the smiles he notices the most, however. The nations' faces shift from their looks of shock, anger and relief, to something sinister: wide grins across all of their faces, stretching and twisting. Much like that special smile Oliver reserves for him, the one that says that there is a brand new game waiting for him.
The thought alarms him greatly, and he finds his strength. He pulls away from the grasp and twists around, looking at each and every one of them. The nations are all gone, replaced by disfigured, inverted figures who seem to loom over him from all around. He twists his head to search for his brothers, hoping against all reason that maybe, just maybe they're here…
But in the spot where Wales was once standing, he's met with a smile far more frightening: a skull grins back at him, its eye sockets deep and dark and hollow.
The knife in his pocket brushes against his side as he backs away, and he suddenly remembers that it is here. The world goes silent is a huge gasp, and all he can hear now is the thumping of his heart and the blade in his pocket, softly singing to him in a high-pitched ring-
He means to pull it out, but his arm stays motionless by his side, unresponsive. He glances around the room, silently begging for someone, anyone, to come back. Over where America and Canada were seated before, he spies Allen smirking at him, and beside him a harsh, rough-looking man in dark shades who must be the other Canada. And on Allen's other side…
Sealand.
But nothing about him is different. He looks just as he did before, with his blonde hair and blue eyes and the light blue coat with the zipper that he struggled with only this morning. He isn't smiling like the others. He simply stares back at England in bewilderment, and something else that might even be worry-
Run! England wants to scream, but he is frozen once more, his lips unable to move. Get away from them! Run!
But just like England, Sealand is surrounded by them all. And as he watches, they turn their smiles on the child, rising above him, smothering him-
'England! England!'
Wales's voice, hushed but frantic, cuts over the image like static. England blinks, and suddenly all he can see is a whole group of people staring at him in utter confusion. Less than three feet away, Australia is horrified, glancing around uncertainly as if someone will give him an explanation.
'Is he okay?' he asks worriedly. 'Did I do something wrong?'
'No,' Wales says quickly. 'It's fine, it's not your fault. Just- England, can you hear me?'
England tries to nod, but his head is stiff. He feels his body quivering instead.
'Brawd,' Wales says, stepping in front of him. He reaches out but doesn't touch England, simply holding up his hands carefully. 'Do you need to leave?'
'What's wrong with him?' someone calls out.
'Mind yer business!' Ireland snaps, his voice closer than before. England finally manages to turn his head, awkwardly, to see his brother approaching, thick red eyebrows furrowed in concern.
'What happened?' he asks quietly when he reaches them. 'Is he hallucinating?'
'I think so,' Wales says.
'Is he what?' Australia asks, panicking.
'Don't worry yerself, lad,' Ireland says. 'Why don't yeh go back to yer seat, alright? We'll handle this.'
'What's going on?' another voice demands.
'I- I-' England struggles to find the right words, and is surprised that he can even muster any at all. 'I have t-to go-'
'Alright,' Wales says, nodding. 'Okay. Do you want to go sit in that lounge we were in before? Do you want anyone to come with you, or-'
'No,' England says quickly. 'No. I just- I just need- I-'
He doesn't miss the frightened, upset look on Australia's face as the younger nation turns to head back to his seat, or the sorrowful way Wales and Ireland both remain where they are stood, neither following England when he begins backing away towards the door. He knows they're keeping their distance because of his aversion to touch. He knows they're respecting his boundaries.
(Despite this, it still hurts.)
'I w-won't run,' he promises, wondering if that's still a concern.
'We know,' Wales assures him. 'It's alright.'
England glances over in Sealand's direction before he turns to face the door. His little brother is visible and unharmed, still confused like before. Beside him, America and Canada are sharing alarmed glances. When the former turns to look at him, eyes as blue as ever, England almost sobs.
He's out the door quite quickly after that, feeling his legs move almost mechanically beneath him. The corridor seems to go on forever and ever, and it feels like an eternity before he finally reaches the little lounge, wrenches the door open, and slams it once he's inside.
He knows the truth, for certain. This is more than just speculation now. The nations of the world triggered a memory that is yet to properly return to him, and he saw it for himself.
There's far more than just Allen, Oliver and Francois in his memories.
At some point, somehow, he met the rest of their world too.
'Where the hell do yeh think yeh're going?' Ireland demands as America heads for the door.
'After England,' he replies. 'Obviously.'
'No. Being around people is the last thing he needs right now,' Ireland retorts, stepping in front of America and blocking his way. Fortunately for America, he is one of the few people in this room who has the strength to barge past just about anyone. He is about to do so, but Ireland isn't finished.
'No offence, America, but I don't think-'
'You really think leaving him alone is a good idea? After all the shit these other nations have done so far?' America says, keenly aware of how loud his voice is. He no longer cares what his fellow countries might hear or believe. 'What if one of them shows up, and none of us are around to help?'
'He has his pretty knife back, from what I could see,' Russia's voice calls out from behind him. 'So he's not unprotected.'
'Yeah, and that's another thing!' Ireland exclaims, rounding on Wales. 'What the ruddy hell possessed yeh to give that thing back to him?'
'He- he figured out I had it!'
'What, so yeh just let him take it-?'
'Guys,' America says, cutting over their argument. 'The only good reason for me not going to him is if he doesn't want me there. Right?'
'He won't want anyone in there,' Ireland grumbles. 'He's freaking out right now, he won't-'
'Wait,' Wales says suddenly, deep in thought. He looks at America. 'Yeah. You should go.'
'Wait- what?' Ireland says incredulously.
Wales is determined. 'England said you know how to make the hallucinations stop,' he says the America.
'Um…' America rubs his hands together nervously. 'I mean, sorta. He told me what I needed to say and do, so I did, and… and it stopped, yeah.'
'So,' Wales says, 'it should be you.'
Ireland frowns at Wales. 'Are yeh sure about this?'
'He's happy to see America, when he isn't panicking. And if America knows how to make him stop panicking, then-'
'Gotcha.' America ignores the shouts from around the room, demanding to know what's going on, and moves past Ireland, heading for the door.
'Just remember,' Ireland shouts after him, 'if he doesn't want yeh in there, yeh leave! Alright?'
'Already said I would,' America mutters, rolling his eyes. He expects others might try to get to England, but with any luck, England's brothers should be able to hold them off.
He finds the small lounge easily enough, at the other end of the corridor. At this distance, the sounds in the meeting room are completely muffled and unintelligible, which is kind of refreshing. Ignoring his nerves as best he can (because what if England's still hallucinating and America only makes it all worse?), he knocks on the door.
No voice from inside tells him to come in or to go away, and at first he worries that England isn't in there at all, and has left the building altogether. He opens the door and peers in to check, and is relieved to find England on one of the couches, curled up in a ball, his arms wrapped around his legs and his head buried between his knees. He looks small and vulnerable, two things that America has always found incredibly unsettling to ever see in England.
'Hey, dude,' he says, his voice low. 'It's me. Uh… I'm supposed to say stuff that sounds like me, right? What- what do I usually say? I mean, should I just act natural? Would that work?'
England lifts his head up and smiles at him, very weakly. 'I'm not hallucinating anymore.'
'Oh,' America says, feeling stupid. 'Right. That's- that's good. Do, uh… do you wanna be alone, or are you cool with me being here?'
England breathes in and out heavily. 'Stay. It's f… fine. And… I'd like…' He trails off, and America is reminded how England always used to behave whenever he was open about how he was really feeling: awkward, embarrassed, sensitive. Vulnerable too, a lot of the times. And America would have often exploited that. Teased him, made fun of him, mocked him.
Perhaps acting like himself isn't always such a good thing.
He approaches slowly and takes a seat on an opposite couch. He has no idea what to say. If he's too considerate, too empathetic, too much like a version of himself that England doesn't really know, the older nation might not recognise him and start hallucinating again. On the other hand, he really doesn't want to act like a dick. His head is bursting with questions about what England saw back in the meeting room, but he knows he needs to be tactful. England probably doesn't want to talk about it.
'I gotta say, Iggy,' America says finally. 'This is shaping up to be the most interesting world meeting in history.'
England lets out a low chuckle. 'You th-think so?'
'Oh, definitely.' America leans back slightly, growing more comfortable.
'I doubt the other n… nations share your enthusiasm,' England says wistfully. 'I knew it w… would be bad, but… I don't think I w-was actually prepared for it. They don't seem t-too happy about my return.' He chuckles darkly, although nothing about it amuses him or America.
'They're just a bit freaked out right now,' America says optimistically. 'We've just gotta give 'em the chance to chill out a bit.'
'Right. Yeah.' England stares off into nothing, seemingly distracted. His face is ashen from whatever horrid hallucination he had in the meeting room, but nothing about him is frantic or restless; if anything, he seems quite exhausted now. And sad. He must be miserable about the awful thing he must have seen, or perhaps he's disheartened about the reception altogether. America frowns. Maybe England's letting it all get to him- he's always been good at doing that, unfortunately. Maybe-
They both jump slightly at the sound of the door opening. Sealand steps into the room, hesitant and nervous. He looks at America mostly, but his gaze does flicker over to England every few seconds. England himself uncurls himself and watches his little brother with a very strange look; alarmed, and quite concerned too.
'How'd you get outta there?' America asks, going for a humorous tone.
Sealand grins at him. 'I slipped past Ireland when he was arguing with a bunch of other countries. I don't think anyone spotted me.'
'Ooh, sneaky. Like a ninja.'
'I have something f… for you,' England says unexpectedly, his voice barely more than a whisper.
'… Yeah?' Sealand asks, equally quiet. America wonders if this is the first time they've talked over since the incident in the bathroom. He certainly hasn't seen them interacting while he's been staying with them.
England gets to his feet, a little wobbly, and America a pull tugging at him, to get up and help England should he need it. But he needn't worry; the older nation is steady quick enough, and he heads over to the table in the corner where America spots a couple of plastic bags resting on the surface.
'Do I get a present too?' he teases, hoping to lighten the atmosphere between the other two.
England pauses. 'You'll w-wait 'til Christmas.'
'Ha ha! I get mine early!' Sealand boasts, shooting a victorious glance at America.
'These are b… belated,' England says, lifting up the bags and handing them to Sealand when the child is close enough. 'That's why.'
Sealand stares at England in confusion, then looks down at the contents of the bag. Immediately, his face lights up in complete delight. 'No way!'
'Now, don't eat them all at once,' England chides in that former guardian voice that America recognises all too well. 'They'll r… ruin your teeth. In fact, d… don't even eat a single box all at once. And w-wait 'til after lunch.'
Sealand looks back up and England, and there doesn't appear to be a single trace of fear in his expression. 'They're all for me?'
'What are they?' America asks curiously. He gets to his feet and comes over to inspect the mysterious contents of the bags.
With a huge grin, Sealand proudly holds them out so he can see. 'Five boxes of Cadbury's chocolates!'
'Wales thought I'd lost my mind,' England mutters.
America laughs. 'Are you gonna share or what?' he asks Sealand, but the kid immediately pulls the chocolates away from him.
'Maybe,' he says with a cheeky grin.
'Why five?' America asks. Surely England, the guy who literally just went on a tangent about eating them carefully, would have thought one would be best?
'Five Christmases,' England murmurs, as if that explains everything. America has no idea what he means, but Sealand seems to understand. His smile falls away, but what remains is not unhappy. He puts the bags back on the table and looks up at his brother, twitching a little nervously. But it is not England he is afraid of, America can tell.
The kid tilts his head slightly, as if he's asking a question, and America almost misses the tiny, subtle nod that England returns. And then, right before his eyes, Sealand steps forwards and wraps his arms around England's waist.
'Thanks,' he mumbles awkwardly, then pulls away quickly and rushes off towards the door, snatching the bags of chocolates off the table as he does so. He's gone in an instant, and America almost believes he might have imagined what he just witnessed.
'That was… really sweet,' he says, referring to both England's gift and Sealand's hug.
England is red in the face, a stark contrast from the disturbing paleness in his cheeks only moments before. 'I… didn't expect that to go so well. I thought it w-would be like everything else today. A complete d… disaster.'
Something inside America's stomach wrenches slightly. The reunion with the other nations has really fazed England, and not entirely because of the hallucination. America could hear all those angry voices, just as clearly as anyone else. It would be just like England to take it the wrong way, to assume they're angry at him and that they're unhappy he's alive.
That couldn't be further from the truth. The memorial two years ago proved that.
'Do you wanna get outta here?' America blurts out.
England blinks in surprise. 'And go where?'
America shrugs, trying to appear casual. 'Back home. I mean, your home. Obviously. Not much point sticking around here, right? You probably weren't planning on re-joining them, and your brothers will wanna keep you away after… after what happened in there. So…'
England thinks for a second. 'I promised th… them I wouldn't run…'
'This isn't running,' America says quickly, flashing as confident a grin as he can muster. 'Especially if we tell 'em what we're doing. Come on, Iggy. We'll just come back for the meeting tomorrow. I bet everyone will have calmed down by then. Plus, I think that's enough drama for one day.'
'Since when do you grow t-tired of drama?' England asks, raising an eyebrow. He sounds slightly amused, and this pleases America greatly.
'Even I have my limits,' he admits, almost faltering with the honesty of his next words. 'And, anyway… I'm not doing this for me.'
For the first time in days, the house is quiet. America knows that he and Sealand are the main reason for why it's been so noisy lately, and in truth he has enjoyed the boisterous and energetic atmosphere… but after all the sound from today, the silence is quite welcoming.
England seems to think so too. He is far less tense by the time they step inside and close the door. He heads upstairs almost immediately, murmuring something about how tired he is. America doesn't doubt it. By this point, England looks completely shattered.
But concern gnaws away at America as he takes a seat on a couch in the living room and turns on the TV. He soon finds himself unable to concentrate on the screen, too wrapped up in his own mind. For a moment, he almost misses the days from years before where he was so consumed by denial that he even refused to admit to himself how worried he could be about England. Times were simpler back then.
America narrows his eyes. No. No, they weren't. He just made everything complicated in the past. Everything is clearer now.
He glances over at the open door to the hallway, where the staircase is just in sight. England must be in his room by now, perhaps already asleep. Maybe it would be best not to bother him. Maybe he won't want to see anyone else today- especially the one person who seems to cause his hallucinations the most.
America thinks of that look on England's face when he talked about the other nations, and the misery and apprehension that seemed to cling to every word he said.
He thinks they're angry he's back, America concludes, surer than ever, and his feet are already taking him to the staircase before he registers anything else.
Just as tentatively as before, America knocks gently on the door and waits, hoping. Once again, England doesn't say anything, but America opens the door slightly and squints in the dim light. Despite it being the middle of the afternoon, England has closed the curtains and room is dark.
'Iggy?' America whispers. 'You awake?'
He spots England on the bed, curled up once more, this time lying down. His back is to the door and America can't tell if he's awake or asleep, until England lifts up his head and twists it around to peer back at him.
'I can go,' America says hurriedly. 'This can wait.' No, it can't, he reprimands himself immediately. England needs to know. 'It's just… there's some stuff I wanted to tell you about.'
England shifts his body around so that he's facing America. His eyes are heavily lidded now, but he still gestures at the other nation to approach.
America closes the door behind him and walks over to the bed, nervously taking a seat at one end. He tries to ignore the prickling unease at the feeling of England's tired, wary eyes on him.
'If you want me to go, I'll go,' America offers, praying that England won't. 'I promise, dude. I wanna be here, but it's your call. One hundred percent.'
'… Don't go. Stay,' England says eventually, in a very small voice. Much like whenever he used to get too drunk, his exhaustion has lowered his usual defences. America is somewhat gladdened.
'See? I knew you wouldn't be able to resist my charm,' he teases, hoping that his attitude is familiar enough without sounding too obnoxious- or God forbid, cruel.
England smiles softly, and America's nerves wash away.
'So,' he begins, shifting closer on the bed. 'I've got this story for you. Like I've been saying, I totally need to catch you up on all the stuff you missed. I think you'll like this one.'
England says nothing, his head simply resting on the pillow and his weary eyes watching America as he continues.
'A couple of years ago, there was this big gathering in the UK,' America goes on. 'At first, I didn't wanna come. I had some… personal issues with it. Disagreements with others and stuff. But I was being an asshole about it. So, eventually, I decided to come.'
He doesn't miss the way England's eyes widen when he criticises himself, and he gives an awkward smile. 'Took me a while to see it. Canada helped. And Sealand. And Scotland, funnily enough. Long story. Anyway, the point is I showed up early on the day. I didn't think many people were gonna come. Not 'cause I thought they shouldn't. In the end, even though I felt differently about the whole thing… I wanted everyone to come. I felt they should. That it was right. That… that it was what you deserved.'
England doesn't frown or ask questions, and doesn't give any indication that he is confused. He must have already figured out what America is talking about.
'I was mad, even before it happened,' America admits. 'I was kinda stupid. I just assumed hardly anyone would show up, and it pissed me off. I thought people wouldn't care, and I thought that they should. I thought they'd still be clinging to the past, or that it wouldn't really matter that much to them, even though by then I knew that… that it's harder for some people.' He averts his eyes from England stares at the bed covers. 'That stuff affects us all differently, and we can't all deal with it the same way. That some people can't help how they feel about things, and yet they still make an effort anyway, to try and fight it.'
He's very much aware of how mature he sounds in that moment, and he's afraid to look back and England in case the older nation has grown suspicious or fearful of his strange behaviour. He wonders if he should make a joke to lighten the situation, but the thought feels wrong. This is a serious matter, and he needs England to hear all of what he has to say.
'I was wrong about them,' he says. 'Because you know what? People started showing up. Lots of them. Far more than I ever expected. Like with this meeting today, actually. Around the same number. You wouldn't have believed it. I barely could. But it felt right.'
He takes a deep breath. 'Canada talked about how… sometimes, people really can put the past behind them, when something means enough to them. That tragedies can bring us all closer together. The world wasn't in a good way at the time. Nations were pretty hostile with each other. Fingers were being pointed. But it all kinda went away for one day. Like this thing mattered more to them than… all of that.'
He finally plucks up the courage to look back at England, only to find his eyes glistening slightly. America can barely believe it. The last time he saw England cry was over a week ago in the hospital, when the older nation had woken up from some kind of nightmare. It doesn't feel as disturbing now as it did then, however. These aren't tears of fear or pain, but of something gentler and more emotional.
America clears his throat. He doesn't pretend he didn't see, but he refuses to make a spectacle of it. He wants England to know he sees, and that he won't treat him badly for it. 'The world came to say goodbye,' he says. 'And I think it really mattered to everyone. Because, at the end of the day, we were all scared and hurt, and we missed you. So damn badly. Not just me, or Canada, or your brothers- everyone who showed up to that memorial. The same people in that meeting today, the same people who are angry now- not 'cause you're back, but 'cause they spent five years searching and then grieving for someone who wasn't really dead. You saw how Australia and some of the others were. You've gotta know how much this all means to everyone, even the ones who were angry. Because they really did care. Some of them- us- just weren't able to realise that until you were gone.'
Their eyes meet, and America's vision begins to blur. The tears are a small relief; he's not sure he'd be able to look at England's expression clearly right now, and he's certain it would probably break him even more. And so the two remain quiet for a few moments as the words sink in.
'I know what we're all scared about the Otherworld,' America murmurs eventually. 'We're all worried that it's gonna get worse. That something bad is gonna happen. And I know today was bad. But… it can always get better, too.'
He blinks several times to clear away the tears, and when his vision clears he finds England with his green eyes full of tears and his sincerest smile yet; full of a deep sadness, but hopeful all the same. Hope that America realises he has planted there, that he has inspired. And there's relief too, a small but glimmering amount of joy buried in those eyes. Relief about the other nations, perhaps, and the way they really feel. England believes him.
'Thank you,' he whispers, and America can feel his own smile returning, through the tears. He remembers how he had felt on that day, how he had known that things weren't okay, but he knew one day they would be. When England returned. And now England is back, and that horrifying cold dread and the awful thoughts in his head that made him wonder if England truly was dead are in the past.
Today is much like back then, he realises. Because things are not okay. But they will be. They have to be, and he truly believes that.
Just not today.
My Hetalia blog: infinitalia . tumblr . com
The Ash Song page on my blog: infinitalia . tumblr . com [slash] ash - song
Apparently it's Mayuge Day, aka a day dedicated to England's eyebrows, which is an actual thing that this fandom celebrates. Here's my contribution. The angstfest of horror (yeah, that's definitely sticking). I mean, it's gone midnight here, but most of you guys are American. It's still the 3rd where you are.
Good news! I had an epiphany a few weeks back, about what I'm gonna do with this fic. I've had the idea for an ending in mind for a while now, and several major plot points that lead there (I actually tried to foreshadow some of them in this chapter, but more on that later), but I now have a clear course set for how I want to get there. Like all the way back in chapter 1, I'm still talking about it like I'm a sailor. Or a pirate. Still sounds good to me.
I definitely want to do more 2P stuff in the next chapter, as I've been neglecting them a bit recently. I'm getting closer and closer to my big reveal for exactly what happened to them, and I'm pretty excited about that.
I was tempted to have Sealand sorta just completely leap at England with a surprise hug, but the kid's pretty smart. He knows England has an aversion to touch, and saw how the whole thing with Australia played out, so I made him silently ask for permission first. I figured that would be better. As for the whole thing with England and touching now, he's sorta at a crossroads. On the one hand, it still freaks him out. On the other hand, as you've probably noticed, he's kinda craving comfort now. It's ironic, honestly. I feel bad.
I had to bring the thing with the Christmas chocolates back too. (If you're having trouble remembering what that's all about- I mean I wrote that well over a year ago- it's back in chapter 16.) I figured if anything was gonna help mend the thing between England and Sealand, it had to be that.
I had feelings writing that last section with America and England. Serious feelings. I have a tendency to get a little emotional with my writing after midnight. I wrote this thing a few weeks ago- a rough idea for the final chapter of one of my Game of Thrones fics- and got incredibly deep and emotional Stark feels at about 2 in the morning. I wrote stuff that actually made me tear up. And when I woke up hours later, I went over it and was like, this isn't even that sad wtf. But yeah. I hope the USUK is adequate and wholesome. Far more so than the rest of the story, amirite? Like I said, we are getting there.
Super psyched to post another one of my USUK fics soon. The one I have in mind is another angsty canonverse- that's seriously my favourite genre in Hetalia, as long as there's a happy ending. I don't handle tragic endings all that well, so yeah, the 'angst with a happy ending trope' is totally my jam. Which brings me to my next point- I don't know if I've ever mentioned whether the Ash Song ending will be happy or not. I want it to be, for England's sake, honestly. I'm aiming for bittersweet more than anything though. I suppose we'll see when we get there.
I should make peace with the fact that I will never cease with my long A/Ns. It's an inevitability.
Thank you all so much once again for all the feedback in the last chapter, and for the story overall. I'm gonna keep trying to reply to comments, because despite how bad I am at it, I really did like talking to you all. I'm always available on my APH tumblr, as I'm working on posting more and more fanart there.
Thanks for reading, and remember to review!
