Author's Note: Here's the final chapter for this request. Thanks again to kandielric on Tumblr for the great idea! Enjoy :D
It's sometime late into the night when America wakes up from a fever induced dream, eyes feeling like they've been glued shut. His skin is still tingly and hot all over, but he has enough strength to roll over on his side and see England sleeping fitfully in a wooden chair by his bedside, mouth hanging open.
There's a voice coming from somewhere down the hall, and America recognizes it as France's sing-song tone. Apparently, he has taken charge of the ship's course for the time being, which is quite the miracle, considering England had threatened to toss the man overboard less than seventy-two hours ago.
A few minutes pass before America notices he and England aren't the only ones in the room. At the very end of the bed, Canada is curled up into a little ball, snoring softly as his head rests on America's left foot.
This kid is weird, and yet, America feels the instinctive tug of brotherly love draw him closer to the boy. He reaches out a hand and carefully pokes him awake, waiting for his reaction.
Jolting, Canada snaps his head up. No more than a second later, his arms are wrapped around America's waist, hugging him with as much strength as he can without causing any pain.
"Are you okay?" Canada asks fretfully, eyes shimmering.
A brother—the thought of having one is appealing. For as long as he can remember, America's always been stuck either keeping to himself or vying for England's attention. He's never had anyone to call a friend, aside from maids, nannies, and the other rare people who know of his existence. With Canada around, he'd never have to feel alone again. They could live together and play games and—
"Come back to Boston with me," he says, forgetting about Canada's question. "I can show you my room, and we can share a bed."
Taken aback, Canada sits up with the help of his knees and says, "But I have a home."
"So what? Leave and move in with me," America insists.
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"I don't think France would like that."
"But we're brothers. I asked England about it, and he said we are, so that means we're supposed to stick together."
Startled by all of this new information, Canada lets his arms drop from the hug and says, "I can't just leave."
Increasingly frustrated, America feels his heartbeat quicken. "Don't you want to live together?"
"Well, yeah, but—"
"But nothing… I-I knew it! You don't care that I'm your brother. Y-You—"
Fever playing with his fragile emotions, America feels tears pool in his eyes and drip down his cheeks, hurt. It's not fair! Just when he thinks he's found a best friend, he's going to have to say goodbye?
"It's not like that, America," Canada tries to explain, but it's too late.
Roused by the noise, England opens his eyes and frowns when he sees America crying again. He pushes his chair closer to the bed, puts a calming hand on America's shoulder and asks, "What's wrong, lad? Are you feeling worse?"
America shakes his head and says something along the lines of "Canada's the worst brother ever," but he's impossible to understand through his sobs and sniffles, so England merely gets up, seats himself on the edge of the bed, and cards a hand through his hair in an attempt to quiet him.
It's then that England finally notices Canada's presence. "And what are you doing in here, boy?"
Canada shrinks under the stern green gaze and bites his lip, terrified.
Thankfully, he doesn't have to explain himself because France comes barging through the door and marches inside, bringing a sense of urgency in with him. He's a bit breathless as he shouts, "Spanish pirates!"
England stands up at once and storms over to France before twisting around and stating, "Stay here, both of you! No one steps out of this room until France or I return, do I make myself clear?"
Seeing another opportunity to prove himself, America sloppily dries his tears and fumbles around as he tries to wrench himself out of the mess of blankets on the bed. "I want to help!"
"No," England says with a frightening seriousness. "Stay here."
And with that, France and England rush out the door and shut it behind them, leaving the boys to wait in silence.
But America isn't going to admit defeat so easily. With a powerful heave, he throws himself off of the bed and manages to keep his balance on staggering feet before making his way for the door as well.
"What are you doing?" Canada gasps, astounded. "You heard England. We have to stay here."
"The ship's in trouble. I have to help."
"Are you crazy? You can barely walk!"
America copies England's scowl and trots along on teetering legs. "I can walk fine."
He yanks the door open and shuffles down the hallway, glowering when he hears a series of shouts on deck. Carefully, he reaches the hatch and climbs up to see what's going on, and the sounds of real swords clashing and grinding against one another makes him shiver. Under the dark sky, it's hard to see everyone's faces clearly, but he can see England fighting someone near the helm, and a balloon of worry swells in his gut for the safety of his caretaker as he approaches him.
The pirate catches England off guard when he slashes at his legs, forcing him to stumble backward. Fortunately, England catches himself on some of the ship's rigging, but his sword slips out of his grasp and clatters to the floor as he's righting himself, and the pirate's sword comes precariously close to his throat.
Acting on impulse, America dashes forward as swiftly as his still recovering body will allow him, picks up England's sword, and takes a good swing at the pirate, stopping him in his tracks.
Shrugging off his initial shock, the pirate laughs and mockingly pouts at America. "Hola, querido niño. What are you doing out in the middle of the sea like this?"
Before America can plan his next attack, the pirate lifts him up by the collar of his shirt and knocks the sword out of his hands with another pitying laugh. He holds his own sword up to America's neck and grins challengingly at England. "A stowaway? I can kill him for you."
England pales but doesn't move, and America can tell by the look in his eyes that he's weighing his options.
"How do you say it? Cute. He's cute," the Spaniard chuckles, dangling America back and forth like a fish.
For a long, sickening moment, America thinks England might let the pirate have him. After all, he's been nothing but a thorn in the man's side lately, and maybe England will think he deserves to be punished like this. Then he won't have to visit America at all, and he'll be happy because he'll have one less burden on his hands.
The thought makes America nauseous again, and he briefly wonders if he'd be able to throw up all over the pirate to get him to release him. He feels his stomach clench in pain, and a bead of sweat meanders down his temple.
And then, England pulls a pistol out of his pocket.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you. You shoot and our sweet niño dies," the pirate warns, pressing the blade of his sword lightly against America's skin.
Of course, America's pretty sure he can't die, but it would still be excruciatingly painful if that sword cut into his neck. It wouldn't be a wound that would heal quickly.
England's gaze turns directly to America's, and they stare at each other for a moment. Immediately, America knows what England wants him to do. He's seen England give him that look before. It's the I-give-you-permission-to-be-a-brat look.
Steeling himself, America takes in a sharp breath and uses his brute strength to bite the pirate's arm and flail desperately. He thrashes and thrashes like he does when England announces he has to take a bath, and while the pirate is distracted, England fires his pistol.
The pirate collapses and America is freed. Hurriedly, he scurries to England's side and grabs him by the lapels of his coat, hanging on tightly.
England puts the pistol back in its holster and lifts America into his arms, embracing him. The man's heart is pounding so hard America can feel it through his shirt, and he's shaking slightly.
"Are you all right?" England asks him, checking him over for cuts and bruises.
America nods his head, scared that if he speaks, he'll burst into tears again.
England's fingers curl into his hair affectionately, and then, once the moment is over, he instantly becomes strict and formidable again. "What in the world did you think you were doing? How many times are you going to deliberately disobey me this week? What you did was not only foolish—"
"You were almost hurt," America reminds, hoping that'll help mitigate the man's anger.
It does.
England sighs. "Nonetheless, you shouldn't have put your own wellbeing at risk. I am an adult, and you mustn't concern yourself with my matters."
"I wasn't going to just watch you get hurt!"
England feels his forehead, makes a noise of great disapproval, and starts walking them across the deck, assessing the damage and making sure the threat has passed. Surprisingly, they find France as well as Canada standing a short distance away, and much like England had just done, France starts yelling and lecturing Canada in quick, succinct French.
Canada hunches his shoulders and looks genuinely remorseful, and America must admit he's impressed that the boy left the captain's quarters after all. He'd expected him to be a goodie-two-shoes and hang back obediently.
"What are we going to do with the two of you?" France asks angrily, flushed in the face. "Today's children are so defiant!"
America snickers against England's chest, and earns himself a swat on the rear as a result. "Hey! What was that for?"
"For treating this situation so lightly," England explains, giving him another swat for good measure. "One more incident like this, and you'll be in for a long overdue strapping."
America frowns. He knows England is probably bluffing, but it's best not to call him out on it, or else he might really get punished. If there's one thing England doesn't like, it's not being taken seriously.
"Time to go back to bed," England decides, heading for the captain's quarters yet again, and America groans at the idea of falling victim to more fevered dreams. He lets England carry him away, and purposefully looks away from Canada, still holding a grudge over how he claimed he wouldn't come with him to Boston.
As England tucks him in again and settles him down for another round of sleep, America thinks he might as well ask the man his opinion on the situation. When he's not annoyed or angry, England's usually good at giving advice, but first, America knows he should apologize for his previous transgressions.
"Hey, England? I-I'm really sorry about what I said about you and your brothers earlier. I didn't mean it, and I didn't realize how much it would hurt you," he says quietly, blinking puppy-like eyes at the man. "It wasn't right of me, and… And it's not how a gentleman is supposed to act."
England gives him a half-smile and pats his arm. "I know. Thank you for apologizing. You were understandably upset with me, and I should've told you about Canada sooner. I shouldn't have withheld that kind of information from you, but I was only trying to protect you. I was concerned that if you found out about Canada, you would get caught up in the politics between France and I, which is something I'd like to spare you from as long as possible."
America purses his lips. "I guess I understand… It still wasn't right though."
"No, it wasn't. I-I apologize as well, America. I didn't want things to be this way. Of course I would've liked for you to have better known your sibling, but given the current circumstances… France and I aren't exactly on the same page, and our governments have become increasingly cross with one another. There is talk of another war, and the peace right now will be short-lived, it seems. This is why I didn't want you to have relations with Canada. Perhaps someday, things will change."
"I a-asked him to come live in Boston with me, but he said no. He likes being with France," America admits, cheeks burning. "I-I thought… I thought we could be friends."
"I'm sorry, America. Truly," England says. "But you must see that Canada has his own land and his own people. He is France's colony, just as you are mine."
"I know…" America mumbles, not too happy about the arrangements. "Will I ever get to see him again after this? Can I still visit him or something?"
"We'll see," England replies, and America knows from experience that this usually means "no."
"Okay."
"But now you need to rest. You've been traipsing about and making your condition worse. Lie still."
America nods glumly and turns on his side, profoundly sleepy but too anxious to actually drift off. "England? Do you know any French?"
England wrinkles his nose in disgust. "A fair amount, unfortunately. It's a dreadful language—a whole lot of croaking and nasally intonations."
"I've heard Canada speak French. It's nice," America remarks, trying to get comfortable but failing. "Can you sing something in French?"
England has sung a plethora of lullabies in his time, but he's never been asked to do it in French. He seems stricken by the request, but when he sees the glazed-over look of sadness in America's eyes, he relents and clears his throat, trying to recall the French nursery rhymes he's been forcibly exposed to in his long life. There's one about a ship, but he's not sure if he remembers all of the words.
"Il était un petit navire
Il était un petit navire
Qui n'avait ja-ja-jamais navigué
Qui n'avait ja-ja-jamais navigué.
Ohé ohé!"
Some of the pronunciation is probably off, but America is none the wiser and is soothed by it anyway.
"What's all of that mean?" America asks.
"There was a little ship that never sailed. Ahoy, ahoy," England translates roughly, and America makes a contented noise before slowly falling asleep, chest rising and falling with long, calm breaths.
France, the darn eavesdropper, comes waltzing into the room, doing his best to be as quiet as possible to avoid waking America. "Someone's been practicing their French," he teasingly whispers. "I'm so proud."
"Yes, yes, laugh all you want, you git. Unlike some, I am able to appreciate the importance in being familiar with other languages other than my own," England hisses before gently pushing America's hair back and planting a chaste kiss to his still overly warm head. Then, he tiptoes across the room, pokes a finger into France's chest, and says, "We have to talk."
"You know I always enjoy chatting with you," France smiles. "What am I in trouble for now?"
"It's about Canada."
By England's orders, the ship heads back for Boston, and they return in a little over a week, at which point America is healthy and able to perform all of his daily activities without needing to lean on someone for support. He hopes he never gets yellow fever again because that was one of the worst sicknesses he's ever had the misfortune of encountering.
America is supposed to go straight home, where Marybeth will be waiting for him with a hot meal on the table. She will probably be infuriated, and America will have to do double the amount of chores he's normally expected to do in order to win over her trust again. He will have to say goodbye to England once again, and then, the ship will travel farther north, so that Canada can be brought home as well.
America begs for England to let the ship head for Canada's land first so that he can have more time to spend with the man, but England refuses to listen to any of his pleading.
So that's how America finds himself on the docks of Boston once again, arms clasped around England and begging him to come back soon because he doesn't know if he'll be able to stand the seclusion for very long.
"I'll be back before you have a chance to miss me," England promises, and America can tell that he's not too happy about having to leave either. "I'll write to you as soon as we make landfall, all right? And I'll be back for Christmas."
"Promise?"
"Yes, but you have to behave for Marybeth while I'm gone. If I hear that you've caused any trouble, you'll be getting coal in your stocking," England warns. "Now, I believe there's someone else who would like to say goodbye."
Canada peeks out from behind England and walks around him to hug America, and America hugs him back, no longer upset.
"I'll miss you," America says with honesty, "We found each other once. We'll find each other again."
Canada nods and mumbles, "I'll miss you, too. I like having a brother."
"Me, too."
"And if France is mean to you, I'll beat him up," America adds.
From behind them, England doesn't bother muffling his laughter, and France smacks his arm.
Lowering his voice to a whisper, Canada mutters, "I'll try to make sure they don't fight too much."
"Don't worry. They'll get along around you. They won't fight in front of a kid, if they can help it," America reassures, tousling Canada's hair for good measure. "See you around, brother."
Canada smirks and nods. "Bye, brother."
And with that, Canada follows England and France back onto the ship, and America watches them depart, knowing that this time, he won't be able to follow. The years that are to come will be full of turmoil, bloodshed, confusion, and fear for the future, but standing there on that dock and watching the ship disappear on the clear horizon is an image America won't soon forget.
Much to his amazement, Canada is allowed to visit once or twice thanks to some maneuvering on England's part, but then the Seven Years War begins, and everything changes. When Canada falls under England's reign, America thinks they'll be closer than ever before, and yet, their lands are both so close and so far away that neither of them ever manage to fully cross paths. It's politics as usual.
America supposes it's better not to have a family than to deal with the constant ache of separation.
So when he turns his back on England in 1776, he makes certain he is the one to leave this time. He will finally know how it feels. Blind faith tells him everything will sort itself out. He will find Canada again someday. He's sure of it.
He's free, and in that sense, he becomes a pirate in his own right, once and for all.
