My second-favorite scene! Please review or I'll let England near a kitchen!
America's New York home, 1770
Fuming silently, America listens to the muffled clattering and curses coming from downstairs. England is in the kitchen furiously burning dinner in an attempt to repair relations after their latest fight. America can't even remember how the argument started, but it ended with a glare that nearly sizzled through the air and the two of them stalking away in opposite directions.
Now he paces his room, simmering over a sullen, buried fire. How dare he? What gives England the right to do this kind of crap to America's people? The new taxes are to help England recover after the Seven Years War, and since part of that had been protecting America himself from France and Canada, he supposes England has the right to ask for a bit more. America would agree to the new taxes if he could just have some sort of say in the matter. His people—he—are citizens of the Empire. Why won't England treat them like it, then? With this sort of treatment America's seeing more and more sense in what Otis was talking about when he said taxation without representation is tyranny.
Why does he continue to act like America's a child to be ordered about? It's not just the taxation—that's merely the centerpiece of an exquisitely arranged bouquet of conflict—but everything from that toddler's playpen called the Proclamation of 1763 to shoving soldiers into his people's homes to just being mean for no reason at all.
America sighs—he can feel his thoughts spiraling down the same path they've been taking all too often recently. He searches for something to get him out of this temper, since he doesn't feel much like arguing yet again with England today. He hates their fights, but these days it seems everything one of them does rubs the other the wrong way.
For the two it never takes much for stubborn pride to be injured and shouting to begin, and at that Canada always just melts away into the shadows in that silent, hunched way he has. The boy, shorter and skinnier than America despite their twin status, had arrived tear-streaked and curled around a bear cub in England's arms after the war. If anything England rants about France is true, it couldn't have been great to live under his care, but America wonders if their household of door slams and mute, snarling emotion is much better.
America goes and slumps at his desk, rubbing his eyes wearily. He finds himself squinting to read in the weak candlelight more and more often lately, and it leaves his eyes aching every night. In this mood it's better to get out the house and run through his land until the itching is eased by exhaustion, until the cool night breeze flushes the growling thoughts out of him and replaces them with the smooth dream of flight.
He pulls open the drawer where he stores his lantern and pauses, struck at the sight of the other occupant of the space. A scrap of old red cloth seems to stare back at him and America is struck by an idea far more appetizing than a night run.
He sneaks into the hallway and listens carefully at the sounds echoing from downstairs. A steady stream of obscenity and a faint burning smell tell him now is the perfect time to act. He pads silently down the hall, automatically dodging the creaky boards, and jiggles England's bedroom's doorknob in the special way that disables the lock. Old houses have their uses, and America's known this house since before it was built. He chuckles lightly at the thought, and slips into the room, closing the door softly behind him. Everything's as neat and shipshape as usual, the only point sticking out a Descartes lying open on the bedside table. But America's not here for that—though he'll certainly think about the implications of England reading that particular author later—and walks into the closet.
There it is. England's red war uniform, the redcoat of redcoats, complete with the medal from the King. The infamous scarlet cloak looms next to it, long folds disappearing endlessly into the shadows. America just looks for a moment, then frowns in determination, squares his shoulders, and strides forward.
The uniform fits surprisingly well, he finds. It's even a little tight in the shoulders. When has England gotten that short, or rather, when has America gotten that tall? The uniform smells of gunpowder and blood and power, and maybe he's just imagining it but the roughness of the collar feels like sand and salt on his skin.
He hesitates, one hand on the cloak. The uniform was one thing; he wore one himself in the French and Indian War and the conflicts after. The cape was another matter altogether, something entirely and purely of England's, only England's, dominion. But then America remembers the hurt England had inflicted upon him in their last argument, the scorn and contempt he felt for the younger nation evident in every venomous word, and scowls. In a swift movement he grabs the cloak off the hook.
The mantle of the British Empire falls on his shoulders with a shocking weight and he almost drops to his knees under it. The unending folds spread around him, nearly swamping him before he manages to struggle to his feet. The tremendous, inexplicable weight presses down on his hunched shoulders, a suffocating compression that makes every breath an effort.
It's then he notices something odder. Though the cloak has seen at least as much combat as the uniform, it smells only of England himself. It's the same scent of old books and tea and dewed heather and sea spray that had lain on the shirt he had stolen when he was younger and clutched on the nights England was away, the scent that to him means, indelibly, home.
America reminds himself that he's strong, freakishly strong for a colony, and that his eyes are just watering from the dust. He slowly straightens under the load. He tells himself it's not really that heavy at all and tries out a smile. He walks back into England's bedroom to look himself over in the light.
In England's looking glass he cuts quite a dashing, frightening figure, if he does say so himself. His face rather ruins the effect though, he thinks, too young and innocent and full-cheeked with the remnants of baby fat. Time would take care of all three eventually, and in the meantime he decides he likes how he looks cloaked in power, clothed in ruthlessness. He smiles, a mere baring of the teeth, and can't help but break out in nervous giggles at how surprisingly terrifying he looks. If America seems this scary in England's ensemble, no wonder England had frightened him the first time he saw him in it. He gives his younger self extra points for the sheer, heroic courage it had taken to approach Red England on the ship.
He grins in pride, this time a real smile, and notices something else when he looks back at his appearance. The uniform and the cloak both are frayed around the hems. Is England really that far in debt? America has heard the Seven Years War had been pretty icky all around without much to show for it, but the frayed cuffs before him somehow wrings something painfully in his chest where the gossip hasn't.
He's still staring at the loose threads with a frown when he hears exactly what he does not want to hear.
"America? America, dinner's ready, where are you?"
He has stayed far too long. America's heart jumps with a sickening twist, and he begins to desperately look for an exit, eyes darting wildly like those of a small cornered animal. But there is only the one door out, and England is in the hallway. He decides to hide in the closet and takes a step—
—and the door opens.
"Amer—" England freezes at the scarlet sight before him. Immobile himself, America watches England as a tumult of emotions crosses the older nation's face, so swift he cannot pick any out but the underlying expression of absolute horror.
But then, knuckles white around the doorknob, England's countenance becomes as still and expressionless as a dead man's. It's his not-showing-the-world-his-thoughts face, the one he uses to talk to countries he doesn't like but has to be polite to, and America loathes it. It used to be that England was always open with him, always unreserved and honest with his little brother, but in recent decades that face has been pointed at America more and more often.
The appearance of that expression sends a blaze of boiling anger through his chest, and he lashes out. "You look kind of pale, old man. Not scared, are you?" He'd say anything if it makes that face go away.
England doesn't respond to the insult, doesn't even seem to hear it.
"Take that off, America. Put it back in the closet where it belongs."
"What if I don't—"
"Please, America."
Why isn't England shouting? England always shouts when America does something wrong. America's never heard that tone in England's too-quiet voice, never seen that empty look in his eyes before, and it's beyond unsettling. He retreats to the closet and changes, hanging England's reds back up as they were. He walks back out, and from England's expression America already knows this incident will never be discussed.
They share a long moment of quiet between them. England lets out a long breath, closing his eyes for a moment, and the tension slowly leaks out of the room.
"I've made blood sausage for dinner for a special treat. It's ready whenever you like." He attempts a careful smile.
America sighs, stifles an eye roll. "England, I haven't liked blood sausage since I was, like, a hundred."
England stiffens and something that looks a lot like wistfulness flashes across his face, to be rapidly covered up by outrage. "Now why in God's good name are you speaking like that madman Poland? I certainly never taught you to speak like some sort of delinquent."
"There is nothing wrong with how I talk! My people just took English and made it better!" The tension has returned, writhing up through the floor and heating the air around them.
"No, it's a perversion of the proper way of doing things! Just like you and your people corrupt everything my people send you!
America's feeling something akin to whiplash. After that bizarre little scene, they're arguing again. He hates it when they fight, but this time it's almost…comforting. It is a bit of normalcy in a situation that has been irrevocably changed. Clearly England feels the same way, for he's slipping easily into his role as the fusty old man who just doesn't understand what America's trying to say.
Though he's distracted for now, America knows he will be thinking about the events of today for a long time, thinking about him and England and the sight of his own blue eyes above the red.
~o0O0o~
The world had certainly changed since that day.
After a world conference in Stockholm one time in 1998, America energetically bothered England into coming with him on a quick McD*nalds run. England hadn't been clothed properly for a walk in the Swedish chill and characteristically denied he was cold through chattering teeth for the first several minutes. After a few choice comments America good-naturedly draped his bomber jacket over his companion's shoulders, carefully not thinking of the implications of such an action. At the time it had puzzled him when England in response stumbled and let out all his breath with an audible oof. After a minute, though, he began grumbling around flushed cheeks about the smell of burgers on the jacket, so America had supposed whatever happened hadn't been too serious.
Thinking back at all those memories now, America wondered how heavy his bomber jacket was these days. Some days it certainly felt as if the weight of the whole world was on his shoulders. It wasn't as though he just tossed the thing around willy-nilly to whoever wanted it, so he really didn't have much of an idea. Come to think of it…he'd never lent it to anyone. He made a mental note to drop it on Canadia's head the next time he managed to see him.
America could feel the ominous approach of the next memory like a thundercloud on the horizon. He could see those uniforms even now, feel that rain on his face…
If it's 1770 now, when do y'all think the next flashback might take place, eh? I can't imagine. ;D
A bunch of thoughts on smells in this chapter. Y'know, when you smell something it goes right to your memory banks, only getting to conscious thought by the time you're already feeling nostalgic and deja-vu-y about where you've smelled it before. The smells also hint in a stronger way that these aren't normal clothes...and that England isn't the only one with vestomorphic personifications. I teared up, by the way, when I wrote about the frayed cuffs. It's the little things that get you...little things like America lending England his treasured bomber jacket because he was cold! I just had to put that in there as a sort of reversal of the situation of 1770, showing how much things really have changed between them over the centuries. And, yes, I admit, also because it was adorable and the mental image of the two Not Going On a Date was too cute. Too bad America's oblivious and doesn't figure the weight thing out until now... And no, actually America's jacket smells like broad plains and open skies and a fresh breeze. Not that England will ever admit it or admit it's his favorite smell in the world.
So why do you think England freaked as much as he did at the sight of America in his reds? Was it the abrupt realization that America is not a child any longer, that he really might leave England someday?
Were they all parent-child relationship, human emotions? Or also something else more...mystical, in line with the power of the clothing? By putting on the clothes of the Empire, did America doom himself to be the next big power-and to also fall the way all empires must? Was England terrified that his little boy might have to go through all the bloodshed and pain and cruelty that he has to as the British Empire? I imagine England having nightmares about those sadistic reds slowly bleeding into America's innocent blue eyes until only England's worst imperial qualities remain in those demonic blood-red eyes...*shivers*
Personally I think all of these are true, and more. What do you guys think?
A note on America's language: You'll notice I don't bother trying to make any of my characters speak the language of the time, since it would be beyond difficult and be most likely incorrect. Also, it wouldn't have the same impact; just assume America's speaking in the 1770s equivalent of "what them thar young'uns are a'speakin' these days." His is the language of the young and rebellious, and England doesn't like it one bit.
Historical stuff!
Not as much this chapter, but still a bit.
England reading Descartes: England reading philosophy about self-governance? And it's French? Sounds like someone wants to know what America's thinking...
Taxes: Indeed, for all we 'Mericans go on about how terribly we were treated then, the new taxes weren't really that bad-actually British citizens in the Isles had much more. It was more the fact that the colonials had no say in the matter that was important: "No taxation without representation," not "No taxation whatsoever." The line about taxation and tyranny I quote in America's thoughts, by the way, is most associated with Boston politician James Otis, though it was around in Ireland for at least two decades before this.
Another of America's grievances includes the quartering of British soldiers in colonial houses. How would you like it if some random, battle-worn, probably vice-filled and foul-smelling man was randomly shoved at you and you were told he was going to live in your house for a while? Not much, I'm sure, though this issue also has to do with the representation complaint. Actually, the 3rd Amendment to the Constitution explicitly states that quartering of troops in the houses of citizens is forbidden, not that we have to worry much about that these days.
The Proclamation of 1763 is the one where the British government limited the spread of colonials to the Appalachians, which displeased all the people looking to spread west. I figured America would look at it as yet another way England's treating him as a child that needs to be kept safe and suffocated, unwilling to let him spread his wings and grow. A large part of it actually had to do with the Empire not wanting to get in more costly fighting against Native American forces. It's pretty sad when you have the British Empire being the nice one when it comes to native relations...well, comparatively nice.
Next up is the infamous Day in the Rain.