Here it, folks. *Angst Alarm goes off in the background*
mofalle: My head!canon is expansive and slightly insane, yes. America's eyesight gradually deteriorates through these early memories (I think it's a side-effect of trying to civilize such a wild nation, especially where the written word is concerned). Fortunately Texas joins the Union in 1845, so it shouldn't be long until the poor boy can see again. Another side-effect of being still so wild is that America's much closer to the native wildlife, and that's just the sort of thing a mother bear would help her cubs with. England likes to pretend he's someone else when he's with young!America, someone who can do something right for once in his life when it comes to other nations. And it's just so sad when he even fails at this (or so he thinks, anyway).
ScatteredSands: Yes, I live in hope that if I entertain and/or annoy people enough, they'll review! Something like that...haven't really thought this through...Actually, I usually just eat, er, read too much crack and act accordingly. ;D
LovelyToMeetYou: Thanks so much! And it's lovely to meet you too ;3
The American Revolutionary War: Yorktown, 1781
America has seen England across the battlefield before—how could he not, over four years of warfare—but this is the first time they've faced each other since America, stony-faced, handed England his Declaration of Independence. He has been wondering, all these years, whether England was deliberately avoiding him. Admittedly he hadn't been all too eager to face off against the man himself, with angry words covering an aching emptiness, and correspondingly stayed on his own side during their battles. He still heard England's crazed battle-laugh a few times, though it sounded harsher, more grating than usual.
Now they face each other, too far away for America's heart, yet far too close for America's hurt. This is hard enough for him without so many of his people still loyal to the Crown or undecided, hard enough when he can barely stand for weariness and pain.
Under the pouring rain it is difficult to see more than the general features of the nation before him. The red and white of England's uniform stands out less than he would have thought on the trampled, muddy field.
America finds himself unconsciously trying to look over England, checking him for injury as he did whenever England came home from his wars; an old habit that has no place in his life these days, especially since England has no home here any longer and never will again if America has anything to say about it.
With that steadying thought, he raises his musket and points it at England with a straight and unwavering grip. It is time to bring out the little speech he composed all those years ago, simple and direct without the lies and twisty language the Europeans love to hide behind. He is a plain and honest person, and he does not intend to stop being so now that he is his own country. Or will be, as soon as England just admits it already.
"England. All I want is my freedom. I'm no longer a child," he swallows, "nor your little brother. From now on, consider me independent!"
"NO!" The word tears out of England and he leaps for America, gun stabbing forward with a desperate thrust. "I won't allow it!"
The blade of his bayonet crashes against the stock of America's own weapon, knocking it out of war-weakened hands and to the sodden ground.
"You idiot! Why can't you follow anything through to the end?" The blade of the bayonet comes to rest against America's throat before he can stumble away.
Distantly America hears one of his officers tell the men to ready their weapons, but knows even if every bullet found their target they could not put either of them in more pain. France and Prussia are back there somewhere too, probably snickering to themselves, but he can't bring himself to care. He cannot manage to tell the men not to bother firing, either, because he can only focus on the bayonet trembling at his throat and the face before him.
England is pale, with dark circles under over-bright eyes, his usually flyaway hair plastered flat against his head by the rain. Those eyes, usually warm forest green or acidic, annoyed lime, are now just empty, brittle and bitter. Water rolls down his face and heedlessly into his panting mouth, and—are those tears blending seamlessly into the rain? No, it can't be. For while England might occasionally cry, usually into his beer, Red England never weeps.
The cold edge at his neck twitches, and America prepares for his death.
But then the blade droops, the musket thrown viciously away.
"There's no way I can shoot you. I can't." England slumps to the mud like his body has given up on ever standing again. "Why? Dammit, why? It's not fair—" And America can't pretend anymore, because England is sobbing openly into his palm, shaking as the rain pounds icy needles into the dirt.
The red cloak is pooled around his hunched figure, crumpled and leaden with water and filth. His uniform is splattered with dank brown muck and his own blood. The formerly bright scarlet of the cloth is dimmed somehow, the red washed out and dulled by grime and water and maybe something else.
America knows his own uniform doesn't look so pristine, either. Over the years it's become torn and worn, and America would clumsily mend it himself, blinking blurry eyes in the weak candlelight as he couldn't help but remember the sight of England's long, thin fingers swiftly darning the holes in young America's clothes, roughly used in play and adventure.
His uniform has been stained by innumerable injuries as the British won battles and seized land; results of the organ failures and deep, weeping wounds that are only now starting to close and heal with the regaining of his territory and the retreat of the British.
"You know why." America whispers. Of course he knows why. They both know all too well why, and it's far too late to go back to what they were.
He is so glad it is over, so tired and excited, terrified and happy.
He tilts his face to the sky and lets the rain drip down his newly-liberated face, washing away the tears that were never there.
What had happened, for them to come to this?
"You used to be…so big."
~o0O0o~
Despite what England seemed to think, America didn't get some sort of vindictive enjoyment out of that day, of rubbing his liberty in England's face. He loved the day of his independence, the day he first stood up as his own man, forging ahead into a future of his own making. That's what he celebrated every July 4th, a day of new beginnings and hope, and that's why he always sent England an invitation. What better day to repair relations, after all? What America didn't do on that day is celebrate the death of the relationship most important to him, the day he made his big brother cry.
But England never seemed to get that, did he?
I've tried to shape this piece of canon into something more mine. It's tricky, since this is probably the most fic'd piece of history ever, but I hope I've given you something that doesn't sound too much exactly like everything else out there, mostly through my theme of clothing embodying their wearers, not just covering their bodies (hehe, I can never resist even the lamest play on words). It's just impossible to talk about the relationship between our two sad boys without the Revolution coming up. Meh.
For you purists, I have cherry-picked from the available lines and changed some small things, like adding England's cloak. Kill me if you must.
And yes, though I love bigbrother!France, in those days all the nations could really be assholes to each other. I can definitely see France feeling very pleased indeed at the sight of a broken England losing the most important person in his life, especially after England took Canada from him a few decades before. Of course, it hurts even more because that person is leaving of his own accord and England thinks America hates him now. And Prussia's laughing his head off because he's Prussia.
Head!canon time!
The line about America preparing for his death: no, he's not just being melodramatic. In my canon, a nation-tan on the edge between utter failure and becoming his own country (or a similar situation) like America is during this (especially since he's still reeling and bleeding from having at least two of his thirteen colonies completely occupied at one point) can actually be killed, at least semi-permanently. So yeah. England not killing him is serious business.
Awesome Prussia logic time! America claims he's own country now, thank you very much. England says he's still part of the British Empire, part of England. So what happens when England's people have to fight against America's? As far as England is concerned, those are English subjects fighting against English subjects. He's killing his own people, and it feels like it's like a mini civil war. Add that to intentionally fighting against, hurting his little brother... Oh England... D:
Now, can y'all guess what flashback will come next? What year?