III – Every Breath That I Am Worth
(Your blood was a river running west and the gold rushed beneath first your own touch and then ours.)
You were not surprised to see me.
"Well," you said, half-smiling as you opened your door to me, "I knew it was only a matter of time."
"You need to learn a little something about keeping certain things to yourself if you do not wish to be bothered by us," I replied coolly, stepping inside. "I expect I am not the first to have made the journey to relieve you of it."
Your smile turned somewhat sickly.
"Of course not," you agreed. "I rather think Spain for one has had me in his mouth more times of late than he has had tomatoes."
"I should appreciate it if you did not discuss your sexual liaisons with me," I said icily. "This is a business trip, you understand."
"Oh, so were his." You sauntered away down the hall, those ridiculous wings of yours half-open. "And France's."
Insolent little brat, you might have at least taken my coat. I hung both it and my hat up myself and went after you, already rather displeased by your manner. It is most certainly true that you and I are hardly on good terms of late but I most certainly did not raise you to be such an ungracious host. I have not seen you since I burned your little White House to the ground and subsequently chased you away from your brother (whom I rather think you should leave well alone, if you please), but I still should not have to suffer this kind of disrespect, least of all from you.
You had gone to your bedroom. I was glad to see that you were not going to make this difficult for me. I was here for business too. You had gold and I wanted it. It is a pity that Spain and France both got here before me but, given their reputations, I am not really all that surprised that I was beaten to performing fellatio upon you by the pair of them.
Nor am I surprised that you would make this so unpleasant, but I suppose it cannot be helped if you were one day masturbating instead of doing something productive and suddenly found yourself with liquid precious metal all over your hand. What else can I expect from a boy with eagle wings arching out of his back like some absurd mockery of an angel?
I entered your bedroom and was immediately struck by the walls. You had maps everywhere, large ones and small ones, all of your lands; and you had lines all over them, some scribbled over and redrawn. I could see that they stretched, collectively, from one side of you to the other, westward, ever going west.
"What is this?" I could not help but inquire the purpose of this bizarre project of yours.
Already lying on the bed, looking terribly uninterested, you glanced at me.
"Oh," you explained, "I am going to build a railroad."
That was the end of the conversation. You did not seem especially interested in elaborating, at least not to me, and I have to admit that I was not especially interested in your foolish idea. I have often wondered what goes through that empty head of yours but I do not care for you to elucidate on my time.
I came to you with a sense of purpose and you were obliging enough to unfasten your trousers for me. You were not, however, aroused, and so I took back my notion of you not making this difficult for me.
"That is hardly my fault," you muttered. "I know you only want one thing. You are the same as Spain, the same as France. How can I help it if everyone only ever wants me for what I can give them?"
"I do not appreciate you attempting to make me pity you, you little upstart," I snapped.
I descended on you then to take what was mine. You were young, inexperienced; it did not take me long to get you into a state of capable of giving me what I wanted. You writhed about and moaned from time to time and I believe I might have heard you say my name as your gold rushed. I drank of you and you filled my belly with gold; so that I was so full of your riches that I might burst beneath the burden of what I had taken from you.
Perhaps that was what you were hoping for – that our greed would destroy us for the sin of turning it upon you.
Of course I was not the only one. Not the first, not the last. You knew we were all insatiable. Me especially.
You knew we would take it from you. Maybe you knew, too, that it would only be a matter of us simply raping you hard enough to get it from you.
(Oh, America, you knew. You knew the day you were exploring yourself and it rushed from you. I wonder what you were thinking about then. What were you dreaming about, America?)
I had had enough of you, weighed down by your wealth, when you invited me to take a little more.
"I know how greedy you are," you hummed nonchalantly.
"Then I have no idea as to why you should wish to indulge my greed any farther."
"France and Spain will take it if you do not."
Perhaps I heard something of a plea in there. Perhaps they were rougher with you than I was. Perhaps my rape was somehow kinder.
(Perhaps you loved me. Did you say their names, America?)
I felt that somehow you were manipulating me; but although you had angered me with your words about it not being your fault if you were desired only for what you could give, I admit that I also felt something that might have been pity... because you are correct. You are not a virgin, I myself saw to that, and yet no-one has ever made love to you, America. You have only ever been raped, torn apart for what you have and what you have done. France, once your ally, and I, once your bitter enemy... How cruel we have been. How unkind.
You cannot blame us – Europe – for what we have done to you. That is simply how we are. We have done it to each other, please understand. I have raped France and Spain and they have raped me. We have taken up arms against one another – all of us, Germany, Hungary, Austria, Holland, Prussia, even that idiotic Italy. We are cruel.
I do not think that anyone has ever made love to me, either.
I did not take you for myself that time. I did not take anything of you. Whether you truly enjoyed it or not I do not suppose I will ever know for you did not once smile, but when you rushed again against my stomach, there was less gold – less gold and more white, less land-laden riches and more life.
You sighed and I knew that this time – this time at least – it was not for the gold.
(Unless it was for the gold of your hair.)
It's been years and, for all those years, America and England have not exactly been on friendly terms. It's rather been more like a certain aloofness, civility enough to shake hands and exchange meaningless pleasantries whenever they are forced to come into contact, but the damage caused by those two other wars and that business with the gold between them seems irreparable.
They are both engaged in other wars at the moment, anyway; too preoccupied with their own conflicts to pay each other much mind at whatever these meaningless meetings are, pre-League of Nations, pre-UN. It's 1861 and England is an empire with time enough for everyone and yet time for no-one – China and Japan hate him, Russia resents him and France is jealous of him.
He doesn't care one little bit. He smokes some fancy, expensive cigarette at his end of the table, heedless of Germany's irritated coughing; immaculate, of course, in all his finery, Spanish gold and Chinese silk and Indian jewels.
"Who would have thought it?" France whispers sullenly to Spain – and it's true that England is at his most desirable. He's never been so beautiful – and yet, somehow, he's also never been so ugly.
That, in any case, is America's opinion, who thought he was much nicer in a simple shirt with a simple smile, playing with him beneath the shade of the oak trees—
At least, it's America's usual opinion. Today he comes in late, white in the face, one arm clutching around his middle, and doesn't say a word.
America's war has civility enough to keep itself solely within him – he suffers in anything but silence and yet no-one touches him, no-one goes anywhere near him. Sometimes Canada opens his mouth, but frowns and closes it again, and France puts aside his animosity with England and wonders aloud to him what is to be done about it. So far England has not lifted a finger but to tap off the cumulating ash of his cigarette.
He watches America very carefully today, however; watches how the sweat builds on his pale face so that his glasses slip constantly and he has to push them up with a hand that has blood flecked on the fingertips, watches how he rocks back and forwards and shifts in his chair as though thoroughly distracted, watches how he cradles his forehead in his palm and tries his hardest not to shake or scream.
A break comes; Germany retreats with Austria and Hungary into a corner, England saves his smoke to blow into France's face as he approaches and America stumbles out of the room by himself, a blotchy bloody butterfly on the back of his shirt.
"Ah," France sighs, waving away England's smoke, "I am most inclined to think that you are greatly enjoying watching him in so much pain."
England gives a shrug – but it is somewhat uncomfortable.
"He is his own nation now, and is that not what he wanted?" His green eyes darken. "Lord knows you gave him help enough to realise that dream. What of it if he suffers now? Did he truly think it would be so easy?"
"So bitter still, Angleterre," France sighs. "So stubborn and so prideful. I cannot, cannot believe that you hate him as much as all that."
"And what help would you have me give him, pray tell?" England snaps, angrily stubbing out his cigarette. "Any intervention on either of our parts will result only in a declaration of war upon us – you know that as well as I."
"This is true – certainly he has mimicked your warlike tendencies perfectly."
"Well then," England replies shortly, resting his chin on his hand. "I am sure I shall hear no more about it from you."
France smiles.
—
"I might have known you would try to resolve it with so foolish a remedy."
America's head snaps up. He looks awful – England doesn't recall ever seeing him appear so haggard, so sick and wasted-away, as he does now. There are dark circles under his eyes and his skin is deathly white and he's lost weight.
His wings are patchy and tattered and with several vital feathers missing.
England folds his arms, resting his weight against the doorframe. He had told himself that he wasn't going to face America and immediately be struck down with pity for him, had reminded himself that this was only for business, that America needed to be told that he had to pull himself together, for god's sake—
But he remembers when America was little and loving and a perfect fit in his arms and so it's hard, even for the hard-hearted British Empire, to look at him now with a needle and thread clutched between his sweaty fingers, halfway through trying to stitch himself back together, and regard him as though he never meant anything to him.
America drops his gaze again, dabbing at the blood with his bunched shirt.
"What else am I supposed to do?" he asks in a low, angry voice. "I am splitting in half, England. Surely you can see that."
"Of course I can."
"Then surely you also see my predicament." America gives a cold little laugh. "I know you think me idiotic but even I would not be eager to be so drastic as to take a needle to my own flesh if I had not the need to do so." His sudden sigh sounds exhausted. "Can we not at least agree on that?"
"I daresay we might."
"Then leave me be. I am sure you agree also that this does not concern you."
It certainly does not. England has to agree there too, watching America go back to his sewing. He was never any good at it, seldom paying attention to England's lessons, and the pain of having to pass the point through his own skin to seal the rupture clean through his middle – as though someone took a sword or an axe to his midsection – makes his shaking fingers slip all the more. The stitches are loose and uneven and not doing their job.
England huffs, pushes off the doorframe and approaches him. He tells himself that it's because he can't stand to watch America so utterly fail at repairing himself as he holds out his hand for the needle.
"Give it to me," he says firmly.
America glares at him balefully.
"I would rather you did not intervene," he says stiffly. His glasses slip again as he says it. "Haven't you some Asian nation to rob or something? China is looking strangely untraumatised lately."
"I would rather you did not continue your campaign of being so utterly ridiculous," England replies coldly, taking the needle anyway and completely ignoring the second part of that statement. "I am not surprised that this has happened to you, nor that it remains unresolved."
"That is hardly—"
"Any of my business?" England nods shortly, putting his free hand on the small of America's back to steady him as he puts the needle through neatly. "Perhaps not, but consider this not an intervention – that is, I would appreciate it if you did not rally around your flag in that silly self-righteous way of yours and declare war on me. Consider this instead a lesson."
"A sewing lesson?" America smiles sourly through the pain and his wings flutter wretchedly. "As I thought – you have nothing left to teach me."
England pulls the thread taut, ignoring America's gasp.
"That may be," he hums patiently; and inwardly he doubts that his stitches will make much difference either way.
—
America throws up everything he swallows and cannot read anything for more than five minutes before he clutches at his head and throws the literature aside – his body rejects nourishment and his mind rejects wisdom.
England watches him sleep and wonders if America is going to die.
Civil wars and inward revolutions are not exceptional; something like a sickness of nations, not contagious but still common. England himself suffered for ten years between 1641 and 1651 beneath the inner conflict of a civil war, but the bouts of it were sporadic and somehow less violent, less devastating, than America's illness seems to be.
They are still barely on speaking terms but England eventually insisted upon accompanying America home; he has heard from Canada (lovely loyal Canada) that sometimes America screams the place down at night, or, conversely, that he doesn't sleep at all, flitting between the huge empty rooms of his house by lamplight, short-sighted and wide-eyed and shaking all over with his wings dragging and a trail of blood behind him.
England doesn't know how long his stitches will hold; maybe mere days, maybe mere hours. He reads Milton by gaslight as America sleeps fitfully next to him – green gaze flickering to him every now and then, noting the sweat beading on his white face despite the cloth soaked in cold water on his forehead.
He doesn't know if America is going to survive this – if, at this rate, he will even live the night.
Barely an hour later, America begins to thrash around in his sleep, tossing and turning and drawing up his legs, knees pulling at the covers as he shifts restlessly; he groans and his eyes squeeze tighter shut as though he's suddenly in more pain than before and then he's turning half onto his side and England can see the blood blossoming through the white sheets.
The thud to his left tell him that his book didn't make it to the bedside table as he turns to America, taking him by the shoulders and forcing him onto his back again. America doesn't awaken but tries to resist, to protest, shaking his head violently from side to side.
"America!" England shakes him. "America, for goodness' sake...!"
"No, no, nonono, stop, stop..." As though reacting to him, America suddenly kicks and claws, wings thrashing, seeming to go into some kind of fit, and the blood comes through the cotton faster. "Stop, no, stop, please stop, stop—I'm begging you, stop stop stop—!"
He goes silent from a moment, abruptly cutting himself off; and then he screams at the top of his lungs and bolts upright, blindly slamming England away from him. His eyes are open – he's awake, and he pants for a moment, his chest heaving and his wings drawing close around him, before suddenly pitching forward and throwing up into his lap.
It's almost all blood. He coughs up the last of it as England collects himself and shifts to sit next him, putting his hand gently on the back of America's neck as the younger nation buries his face in his hands and starts to cry.
"Oh, America," England whispers, "you're weeping." He rests his head on America's back, cheek pressed between his shoulder blades.
Right between his wings.
He says nothing else and lets him sob himself into silence.
"What do I do?" America eventually asks, his voice still shaking. He lowers his hands from his face and they go instead to his middle, feeling for the thread, his whole body sagging in a sigh of relief as his fingertips tell him that the stitches are still in place.
It is not a request for help. England almost smiles at that. So stubborn and so prideful. It's just a question – about that lesson.
"Be strong," England replies, closing his eyes, "or be destroyed."
America pauses.
"You... know this sickness, do you not? England?"
England nods.
"I know it," he agrees. "I have tasted it before."
"So, what do you think?"
America, the suit that had been so pristine only this morning in disarray after presumably a day of rushing about greeting people and showing them around, flops down next to England on a bench under the shade of a tree.
"What do I think about what?" England asks, looking at him.
He isn't altogether all that pleased to see him – it's much too hot to deal with him. He and America are notably on better terms now; his boss, the one with the hat, and his queen, Her Majesty-Empress, were reasonably friendly with one another and ever since the end of America's sickness, which he eventually recovered from, they have become... not close, exactly, but closer. Much, much closer.
There was the gold, too, which helped – at least on England's part, although he knows that his greed really shouldn't have been a cement for the cracks in their relationship.
Still, nothing to be surprised about. England – the British Empire – is currently the wealthiest and most powerful nation in the world, with almost a third of the globe under his thumb.
America, of course, doesn't address with him with the respect that he should, but perhaps there's nothing to be surprised about there either.
Perhaps he's just glad that high-and-mighty Great Britain wasn't quite stuck-up enough to refuse a personal invitation to America's current proud achievement – the 1893 Columbian World Exposition, or the "Chicago World's Fair", as it is often called in conversation.
"About this!" America enthuses. He waves his hand around at everything – the grand structures showcasing electricity and Ferris Wheels and steam locomotives. "Beats your little Great Exhibition thing, right?"
England blinks at him very slowly, becoming more and more irritated.
"If you have just come over here to insult me," he says coolly, "you can kindly take yourself off."
"Not to insult you!" America insists. "To inform you!"
England frowns. America honestly seems a bit drunk, to be frank. Not that he's worried – and it's not as though he doesn't like a drink or two himself – but America does seem to be drinking a lot lately. England doesn't think he's seen him completely sober for a while. It's barely mid-afternoon, too.
"Where have you been?" he asks carefully.
"Oh, everywhere!" America says breezily. "A lot of people showed up today. And since I went to the trouble of making sure the fair is a world's fair, everyone wants to see how I represented them. I took Egypt over to the Street in Cairo and Denmark insisted that I show him the big Viking ship Norway brought and—oh! Germany wanted to know why I named this simply brilliant invention of mine after one of his cities! Can you believe that? You would think he would simply be honoured and not question it!"
"And what is this "invention" of yours?" England queries flatly, privately agreeing with Germany.
"My best idea yet!" America grins. "I call it a hamburger – after Hamburg. It is, I suppose, a sandwich—"
"We invented those," England interrupts. "Europe, I mean."
"Not like this. It is ground beef in a flat circle shape, grilled, and you eat it between two halves of a special kind of bread and you can have lettuce and tomatoes and whatever else you want on it! You should try it!"
England rolls his eyes.
"That sounds appalling," he says, "so I am afraid I am going to pass."
America just laughs.
"You are depriving yourself, then," he says. "I've had five today!"
Suddenly England stops being so concerned that America is going to die of alcohol poisoning.
—
Regardless, later that night in America's room, England watches him from the bed as the younger nation makes himself decent enough to go scampering out of the bedroom, his wings half-fluttering; when he returns, he's carrying a bottle of bourbon and two glasses.
"Nightcap?" he beams, holding up the bottle.
England shakes his head. He doesn't feel much like it tonight – and besides, he doesn't drink in bed.
"No, that's... that's quite alright, thankyou," he replies.
(Actually, he's a little put out that America can walk as well as he can right now.)
America shrugs, puts the glasses down on the dresser and pours himself a generous portion of the drink before bringing it back to the bed with him. England opens his mouth for two reasons; the first to scold America heartily for bringing a potentially-spillable beverage near the bedsheets and the second to ask him how much he drinks in a day—
"England," America says, cutting him off, "do you... do you think my fair is... well, good?"
England blinks at him, thrown off. He was bragging about it earlier, and now...?
"You had better not be fishing for compliments, boy," he says in a low voice.
America swallows his mouthful of bourbon.
"No, no, not at all!" he says earnestly. "I am being completely serious! Your Great Exhibition... well, I enjoyed it very much and I wanted to make mine as good so that... well, people might compare me to you..."
"I seem to recall you saying that yours was, ah, of a slightly superior nature to my "little Great Exhibition"," England reminds him haughtily, just to give him a hard time.
America winces a little.
"W-well, I meant... yours was around forty years ago, so... I have more things to show off. The electricity, I mean! General Electric lit the whole fair. Don't... don't you think that that is something pretty amazing, England? Yours didn't have that."
"Well, no, that is very true," England replies graciously (because it's all that he can be in this instance).
He meets America's gaze. The boy – well, young man, really – is looking at him with those big blue eyes of his. He took off his glasses earlier when England decided to push his host's hospitality to see how far it stretched.
(Quite far, apparently.)
I understand. And suddenly he does. You want very much for me to say that I am proud of you; that I am proud of how far you have come. Even though you broke away from me, you still want me to acknowledge you, to accept you as you are.
America has come a very long way. Certainly England is somewhat concerned about what appears to be a bit of a drink problem surfacing in him, but the Chicago World's Fair has shown him – and the world – what America is capable of. He is beginning to industrialise almost as fast as England and some of his inventions really are rather ingenious (the electricity, not the hamburger). England even noticed quiet little Japan taking some rather diligent notes here and there on his travels around the fair.
America has always been ambitious and free-thinking, eager to prove what he can do; but England has also observed him to sometimes be a little shy, despite what his brash, precocious outward behaviour would imply. He doesn't really have many friends because he doesn't venture out into the world very much, preferring to keep to himself. Aside from England, the only other people he appears to know very well at all are his brother Canada, France and Japan. His sexual experiences with Spain and France were limited to Spain and France wanting his gold. No wonder he was so keen to make the World's Fair his own – it has brought the world to him. America has never seen the streets of Cairo or a Gokstad ship or even the Welsh choir singers England sent.
It's nice, England realises. It's nice to see him branch out. He can't stay isolated forever. He's growing up.
(After showing him some of his other inventions, America took England's hand and pointed up to the darkening sky.
"I am going to fly," he insisted.
"You can already fly, idiot," England said, tapping America's back and feeling his wings through his coat.
"No," America replied. "That is not what I mean. I can fly, yes – but I am going to create something that will enable us to one day own the skies." He looked at England and smiled. "All of us.")
He looks at America carefully nursing his bourbon. Tonight is the first night he and America have slept together in quite a few years now and it always takes England a while to reacquaint himself with America's body – or perhaps acquaint is a better word, since America seems to have changed every time England sees him.
He had, of course, almost forgotten about that tattoo.
France did it, probably some night America was drunk. It's an encrowned woman, slender and elegant, in a flowing gown and holding aloft a flaming torch, etched delicately into the skin just over America's heart. France actually isn't a bad artist (she's quite beautiful, really) but the ink he used was terrible – it turned green after about a year.
England was introduced to "Lady Liberty" when she was still healing and wasn't green. He hadn't liked her merely because France had put her there. He had said he could have done her better as he had carefully kissed around her contours and America had laughed (because he'd been drunk that night too) and agreed.
"I could have done her better." England meets America's gaze. He meant to say he was proud of him but he looked at Little Miss Liberty and that came out instead.
America tilts his head to the side, squinting a little bit as he looks at England because he can't really see him properly without his glasses, and smiles placidly.
"No, you couldn't have," he says gently. He puts his near-empty glass down on the bedside table and leans in closer to him. "Please do not think I am insulting your artistic ability. I have no doubt that you could have marked me with something beautiful, something intricate and flawlessly-designed. But it wouldn't have been her."
It wouldn't have been a symbol of your freedom.
England gives a sigh; it's uncharacteristic, but he backs down. Let him have his hour of greatness, then. The world has readied itself for him and allowed him to clasp it whole within his hands, to bring it to his own soil so that he might come to know it. England no longer resents America as he once did and he has always loved him (even when he didn't) and is willing to let him be beautiful, to be proud of him, without trying to take the credit for it.
Let the world meet him as the United States of America – not Great Britain's failed, rebellious protégé.
As what he is and not what he once was.
England leans in and kisses her; she is healed and permanent, a promise—
Not from France but to the world.
He doesn't say anything and neither does America; but England feels him shift his wings as he settles to sleep, nestling close.
A new century is almost upon them and America is readying himself for the world.
Take it literally: America really came gold and really was ripping in half. I warned you. XD
The gold thing was, of course, the California Gold Rush.
As for the American Civil War – the relationship between the USA and Britain was interesting at that time. Americans were always in Britain and Brits were always in America, literature and plays passed back and forth between the two countries and relations were a little strained but overall fairly amicable. Queen Victoria and Abraham Lincoln sometimes wrote to each other and were, by and large, fairly friendly. However, when the Civil War broke out, both Union and Confederacy threatened both Britain and France with declarations of war should they intervene on either side even though both made moves to help.
1893 Chicago World's Fair: The first one hosted by the United States. This is where the first hamburger in the form it is recognised in now appeared. It was also the first place Welsh choir singers performed outside of mainland Britain.
America's drinking will come to a head. The USA started develop a pretty bad drink problem throughout the late nineteenth century and early twentieth. Funny how England gets the blame for being the resident drunk in Hetalia...