V – Know Your Enemy

[I've got a really bad disease—]

You were disappointed in me.

I didn't get it. I didn't understand why you were looking at me like that – tight-lipped, quiet, your arms folded in that rigid way you do when you have a stick up your ass about something. I put a lot into that speech, you know; I felt for everything I said, I meant it—

But no, when I glanced at you, you just met my gaze with that... that look.

I have no idea what you wanted me to say, England.

When I chased you up afterwards, you wouldn't even look at me. I had to catch you, physically wrestle with you to get you to face me.

"Hey, jeez," I protested, "what's your problem?"

"Oh, do you really need to ask me that?" you snapped, trying to get out of my grip. "Kindly release me."

I tightened my grip.

"Not until you tell me why you're acting all snobby and cold all of a sudden," I replied. "I didn't pull that speech out of my ass, you know."

"Huh." To your credit, you managed to wrench one of your wrists free. "I beg to differ – the situation seemed contrary to me. Unrehearsed, nothing but a reel of cliché excuses—"

"That's why you're mad?" I interrupted incredulously.

"Of course not!" you spat, looking at me like that again. "Good lord, America, I wouldn't have minded if you had stumbled and stuttered a thousand times if only you hadn't said—well, what you did!"

"What's wrong with what I said?" I challenged. "It's the truth—"

"It is not the truth, I can't believe you would defend it in that manner—"

"It is the truth!" I argued frustratedly. "England, things are different now. Wars are different, peace is different – and I'm the one who changed that. You know it was the quickest way to end it; I mean, for God's sake, you agreed to it!"

"That's not what I'm—"

"And I figured, you know what, now that the war's finally over and everyone has calmed down again and we're trying to get this United Nations thing in full swing... It's about peace, right? Like the League of Nations but not a total failure—" I couldn't help myself – I had been thinking it for a while. "I had this crazy thought – only maybe it isn't so crazy anymore. I have created peace – maybe the reason the League of Nations failed was because—"

"Don't you dare say it!" you burst out savagely, pulling violently against my grasp on you.

"—Because I wasn't a part of it," I finished wryly, humouring you, letting you go.

I had made you angry. I could tell. You always go very, very pale when you're honestly furious. It makes your eyes look really green.

"Th-that you would dare," you said, your voice shaking, "to have the audacity to consider yourself the key to world peace when you—"

"But that's just it!" I know you hate to be interrupted but I was so excited, so earnest, that I couldn't help but cut you off in my eagerness to explain myself. "I am! Japan didn't think twice about surrendering – he lost the will to fight. And now, who else will consider attacking me? Will Germany come after me in revenge? I don't think so."

"America—"

"No, listen; this goes for you too, England. You are my greatest ally—no, damn it, they all know we're more than that, they all know we've been sleeping together for years, they all know I'd never let anyone fucking touch you without them having to answer to me, and... and now that I've shown the world what I'm capable of, who the hell wants to answer to me? No-one!" I waved my hand at you excitedly as I saw you open your mouth once again. "No, I know what you're going to say – how could something so awful be a means for peace? Simple, really. It's a deterrent. Don't fuck with me, don't fuck with my allies, or I'll bomb you to Hell. Don't you fuck me around because I'll shoot you down. Welcome to a new kind of tension, right?"

"So what happens when someone else gets them too?" you asked in a low voice.

We both knew exactly who the someone else you were referring to was, but I preferred to play that one off like I was completely oblivious.

"Even better!" I declared confidently. "If everyone has them... well, that's fair. No-one will ever think of using them, of declaring war, and that solves the problem!"

"Don't be so naïve!" you bit out. "Do you honestly think it's that simple?" You pressed the heel of your hand to your forehead as though trying to bear down on a headache. "God, forgive me, America, but is this really our future?"

"Of weaponry? Of warfare?"

"No." Your hand dropped and you looked at me and there was that expression once again. "I am referring to you – you came out of that war as the dominant superpower. I had high hopes about it; I was willing to put my faith in you. You have been selfish in your dealings, it's true, but you have never been malicious. You have never behaved like Germany or Russia or... or me. It was apparent even early on that the war would probably result in my hegemony being taken from me – don't you remember the agreement we made to ensure that it was you who inherited it? You laughed and asked if I was naming you as my heir? But..." Your fists clenched. "...You stood in that meeting today, in front of the entire newly-assembled United Nations, and more or less suggested that we should all thank you for your contribution to – no, your creation – of world peace, that we should be grateful for your having showcased such unspeakable destruction at the close of the war. Oh, I know it wasn't an easy decision for you to make at the time, America, but to publicly champion your actions at a time like this is more than a little tasteless and inappropriate. I had hoped you might go about the whole thing with a touch more tact."

I stared at you in disbelief. Was that really all this was about? You thinking I should have admitted to knocking Japan on his ass a little more sensitively?

"I can't believe that you..." I paused and swallowed, trying to keep my temper in check. "—You, of all people, can stand there and say that to me." My fists clenched – just like yours. "What gives you the right to—?"

"I have every right," you interrupted icily, "because I've never been so disappointed in you." You gave a fake, false little laugh. "Hegemony and the most powerful instruments of destruction in the entire world, both in the hands of a child who does not know how to hold them."

Your words hurt me and I didn't know what to say. It's always been so difficult for me to do right by you – nothing I do ever seems to please you. I knew I was right about this and I didn't understand why you couldn't see that I was speaking complete sense. Pointing the things at everyone as a warning to play nice – wasn't that the best way of using them?

(England, you're still so old-fashioned. I was half-expecting you to turn up on D-Day wielding a cutlass.)

Your expression suddenly changed, however. You no longer looked angry; instead, you suddenly looked...

I didn't know. Kind of... sad.

"I will stand by you," you said quietly, "but, America, I am frightened by the future you have promised."

[You'd be surprised what I endure]

You were hunched over your desk. You've been doing that a lot recently. I know the war damaged you, which is why you made your excuses and didn't come beat up on Korea with me.

(It has to have been money and resources that stopped you – I know you, England. You like a good war.)

My wings were out. I wasn't sure if you had heard me sneak in but when you finally noticed me that's the first place your eyes fell. I'd just been training with this really cool new knife I bought so I was dressed in one of my old black sleeveless vests from that mess with (I think) Korea. I'd thought you might look at my dog-tags first – you've never approved of me wearing them all the time since the Second World War ended – but no, straight to the wings.

I've always wondered what you think of them – but I've always been too afraid to ask. It's strange, isn't it? I mean, no-one else has them, not even Canada, my own brother. Do you think I'm strange because I have them, England? You always look at them, you stroke them when I'm falling asleep and grab at the feathers when we're making love – but you never say anything. You've never once said a word pertaining to how you feel about them; even when I accused you of clipping them all those years ago, you said nothing. They make me a little self-conscious around you because I don't know what you think – I have no idea if you hate them or not.

I really am starting to feel more comfortable around Russia these days. There is no uncertainty, no pretence, no charade. I hate him and he hates me and it's really kind of fun.

"It's snowing," I said. "Come outside and look."

"Not right now, America," you replied dismissively, going back to your paperwork. "I am very busy at the moment."

You've started behaving oddly around me recently, you know. Quiet, absent, almost like you're avoiding me. And every time I propose that you do something about the Communists, you just scoff and say I'm being paranoid. The Age of Paranoia, you call it. The American Age.

There are Communists, though, England. Russia's poison is spreading fast and invisible – I have to be the hero and stand up to him like you stood up to Germany, right? Everything that he employs is meant for me to destroy so that it doesn't touch anyone, least of all you. I'm only trying to protect you, to warn you. You never know what could be waiting outside. But you won't listen to me. I'm right, I'm right, but you never listen.

"Well," I tried again, "I'm going outside for a smoke. You should take a break and join me."

"Put a jacket on!" you called after me as I turned away.

Ha. I knew it. I knew it. You hate them. You want me to cover them like I did in the war. That's why we got on so well then, isn't it? Because my wings were under my uniform the whole time and you could pretend they weren't there. I'm not stupid. I'm not.

I didn't put on a jacket. I went outside onto the balcony and lit up and waited for you. It was cold but I didn't shiver. I'm past all that now. I'm much too strong. Let Russia have his overcoat and his scarf to keep out the cold. I don't need anything of the sort.

You came. I knew you would. I noticed that your brand of cigarettes was French but I refrained from teasing you since you didn't seem like you were in a very good mood; you lit it with that gold Zippo I gave you and brushed some snow from the rail so that you could rest your elbows on it.

You looked tired. You had dark circles under your eyes and your whole body seemed to sag a bit like it was too much effort to hold yourself up properly the way you usually do. I wanted to wrap my arms around you and pull you close and make you feel safe and secure so you could rest; and, really, that's what I've been trying to do for you – but I knew you'd push me away.

It's not fair. You always push me away. Sometimes when we make love you make it seem like I'm raping you because you say 'no' and 'stop' and shove at me. You shouldn't cry wolf like that, you know – maybe one day you'll really want me to stop and I won't believe you.

"Are there snow-fairies, England?" I asked. I shifted my wings and one of them brushed you.

"How should I know?" you asked snappily, jerking yourself away from me as though my feathers had burned you. You seemed determined to be rude to me and I have to admit that I was a little disheartened.

You and I have never reached a comfortable behavioural balance. It always changes, the way we act around each other. I can't explain it, but it makes me unhappy. I think there needs to be another war. You're always nicer when there's a war on. We get on so much better when discussing how to march and maim and massacre over prime Scottish whiskey.

"I think it will look like this," I said after a moment. I leaned on the balcony too, mimicking your position, enjoying my cigarette and your prickly company as I looked out at the pure white world sprawled out below us.

Everything was indistinct, covered in a crisp coat of white, shapes merging and melding. It didn't look like the world anymore. I gave a sudden shiver, but it wasn't from the cold. I have some lovely thoughts sometimes – interesting, you know?

"What will?" you asked testily.

I dared to lean over and rest my head on your shoulder. I felt you stiffen but you didn't shrug me off.

"The end of the world," I whispered dreamily. "Just an oblivion like this – white, soundless, nothing. Not even the sound of hysteria or anything. I wonder, you know? I just wonder. I don't know if that's what I want but I still think I would like to see it. Wouldn't that be interesting, England?"

You didn't say anything. For once I was glad. I nuzzled against you and closed my eyes, shutting out that perfect painless world. I hope it's like this. I hope you're here to stand silent at my side. I'll make love to you amongst the ashes.

Before that, though—

"I think I'll fuck Russia," I said. "Or let him fuck me. I don't know. What do you think?"

(I wonder if I meant it.)

"I think you're enjoying this," you said. Your voice was frosty, emotionless, but you still didn't shove my head away.

"Oh, of course," I replied nonchalantly. "I'm really hard right now, yeah? My shorts have been crawling up my ass the whole time we've been talking."

I turned my head and kissed you on the neck, just under your jaw, and you finally jostled me away, retreating further down the rail with your cigarette.

"That wouldn't surprise me," you snapped. "This is all some kind of freakish masturbation for you, isn't it? You want to know what I think, America?" You suddenly stubbed out your smoke on the rail and tossed the bent corpse over the balcony down into the snow. "I think if you and Russia are so obsessed with seeing whose dick is bigger then yes, just bloody do it already. Shag him, let him shag you, you shove your missiles up his arse and let him shove his up yours, have a damned good time doing it all because you know what? The end of the world won't look this winter wonderland of yours – it'll look like you and Russia fucking."

That was it. I knew you'd pop your cork and yell abuse at me if I pestered you enough. I couldn't help but grin at you in amusement and you went very white and looked like you were about to faint and then you finally got the balls to walk away without another word.

Make love, not war. Make war, not love. I thought you liked jokes. Why aren't you laughing? You never laugh anymore.

Ha. Wait. I know.

You'll have to forgive me, England. I'm so fascinated by being stronger than you for once in my life that I can't help tormenting you.

(Once I pushed you so far you broke down and put your hands over your ears and begged me to stop. If you were me you'd understand why I laughed at you. I like jokes too.)

[What makes you feel so self-assured?]

"What kind of coffin do you want?"

It was a serious question. You were on your elbows and knees and I had my hand on the back of your head to hold you down and I was completely inside you when I asked. I paused, leaned over you, pressing my chest against your back and feeling your heaving breath, your every shudder. You didn't seem very happy. Maybe you really weren't in the mood for this like you said earlier.

Poor England. I don't think you could push me away even if you wanted to.

You didn't say anything. I sighed into your hair and wrapped my other arm underneath you, holding you under your ribs, as I pulled back and then rocked forward again – deeper, deeper than before. I couldn't stop myself from groaning. You're still a tight fit. It's sort of surprising how good you still feel, actually.

I mean that in the nicest possible way. See, I looked up then. I looked up at the room, at the walls, at the ceiling, out of the window. I had no fucking idea what time it was but it was still light outside. Ha, light. Barely. Grey and drab and dull and raining. It's always like this here – or at least it seems like it whenever I'm here. Why don't you go mad? I know I would.

That's nice, isn't it? I made wild, passionate love to you by the light of your grey cloudy sky. Be still my heart.

Here's the thing. I don't know what's happened to you but you're not like how you used to be. Not at all. You're all quiet and sullen and unresponsive. What's the matter with you? Are you dying? It feels like it, you know. You suddenly feel so frail, so small and wasted-away, like if I tightened my hold around you too much—

"America—!" you gasped, suddenly thrashing in my grip, clawing at the arm wrapped around your torso. "You're—h-hurting me—!"

I felt your ribs bend dangerously there. I couldn't help but smile. I'm sorry. I couldn't. I can't.

In. Out. In. Out. I pressed a kiss to the centre of your spine. Your breathing was laboured. You sounded like—

Are you dying, England? Did that war...? Is the ruin it brought on you slowly killing you? You're so apathetic, so stagnant. You're falling apart. You're pale, you're fragile, you're indifferent. I have to really hurt you if I want a reaction. You don't care about anything anymore – I don't care if you don't care if I don't care if—

It's not like it was during the war. God, how I loved you then. Violence is an energy. You were filled with bloodlust. You wanted Germany's head the way I wanted Japan's. Your eyes glittered and you carried yourself straight – everything about you was wound up tight. It was your Finest Hour. When I kissed you in the meeting room against the table after the five of us were done bickering for the day, you never let me dominate you if you could help it and I loved you for it. You fought back because you were used to fighting during those years. I was no different to Germany at those times. You bit me, you scratched me, you bruised me. Sometimes I didn't overpower you; sometimes I found myself being bent roughly over the desk or being made to sit on it while you stood. You have always been strong enough to slap me around but never strong enough to hold me up, for some reason. Am I that heavy?

Either way, I don't think I could have pushed you away even if I had wanted to.

Even when I got my way with you, grappled you into some semblance of submission, you didn't let me have an easy time of it. I liked having you ride me so that I could appreciate your eyes and your smile as we did it. Your eyes were alive with something I can't describe and your smile was wicked, really it was. I was afraid of you but I was afraid because I knew how strong you were – I could feel it – and I knew that I could stand up to you and that, if I could do that, I had to suddenly be as frighteningly powerful as you.

England, that war made me.

Somehow, it destroyed you.

I don't know how. I don't. What happened to you? Why are you like this? You don't start wars anymore. For the longest time you stood up to the Axis Powers all by yourself. Why can't you even try to fight me back? This isn't what I love.

Jesus, don't you know how strong I am? I don't want a quiet little doll that I can break! Why are you mocking me? If you don't want this then fight me. Break my nose. Slam your fist into my throat. Claw out my eyes. Protest me, do something or you'll disappear. You drive me mad. I can't stand it, I can't stand you, I loathe you, you have no idea—

I suddenly dug my fingers into your scalp.

"I asked you a question!" I snapped. I shoved your face into the pillow and held you there. You scrabbled at the sheets and I knew I was suffocating you.

Good. Good. Because you fucking suffocate me.

I'm sick of you. You're boring. Point a goddamn nuke at me already, okay? Give me a reason to give you my attention the way I do. Be like Russia. I hate him, you know I do, but he's not boring like you. He's not content to lie about and rot the way you are. I love you but I think you must be dead or something; all I want to do is get you a nice coffin with some ornate carvings on it and put you in it because it seems like you'll be at home there. No place like home when you've got no place to go. We'll have a lovely funeral for you, okay? Dearly Beloved, are you listening? I know you like all your languages so we can sing hymns in English and Gaelic and Welsh – I'll write you an American eulogy and give you a twenty-one gun salute and we can have your headstone engraved with some stuffy old Shakespeare or something. You'd like that, wouldn't you? Yeah, so we'll do that – get some wreaths of roses, red and white, and we'll kiss one last time and you'll hardly react the way you always do. You'll just look at me with those eyes of yours that don't glitter anymore – no malice, no ambition, no will to live whatsoever. Then I'll put the lid on and nail you in nice and snug and safe and carry you to your resting place. We can drape a Union Jack over the coffin as a shroud if you'd like. It might blow away, though. It'll probably be all grey and rainy and windy that day too.

You stopped thrashing. I let you go, listened to you gasping for breath. You're your own worst enemy. I'm not the one doing this to you. This is all you.

"I'm not fucking around," I said icily. "Your answer?"

You stilled. Then you shuddered and retched and coughed up some of that awful black stuff you always do these days. I didn't blink. I'm used to it. I mean, you're rotting, right? What do you expect, really, England? It's your own fault. Let me do a nice thing for you now and then – that's all I can offer you. They're calling this the American Century now. Me, you know? You gave me your place as world superpower and now it seems like all you want to do is die. I don't mind rocking you to sleep in your grave but you have to help me out here.

You spoke then, though. You wiped your mouth on the back of your hand and your voice shook but your tone was firm.

"I apologise for testing your patience."

Ha. I couldn't help but grin down at you even though you couldn't see it. You sarcastic little fucker.

"Mm," I agreed softly, folding my wings around us both. "Don't test me."

Second-guess me.

"I don't need a coffin," you said. "Some crater you leave behind will suit me just fine. Don't even worry about burying me – the ash will suffice. I expect you'll be busy with Russia anyway."

Hahaha. You're so funny, you goddamn hypocrite. Junkie preaching to the fucking choir. Acting like I invented destruction or something – no, you know all about that, right? Do you think I don't have a working memory or something? I've seen everything you've done. I've been on the receiving end of some of it. Are you listening? Don't think that anything I've done absolves your own sins. You're worse. God, when I'm done with Russia it's your turn. Don't forget who I am. Don't test me—

"I'm going to rip you apart," I whispered in your ear.

"I expect you will," you replied. You sighed it. "Oh, but do save me until last, won't you? You'll enjoy it that much more."

"Last?" I repeated dangerously.

"Don't lie to yourself," you murmured. "You'll never be satisfied until you've asserted yourself over us all. Who is on your side, really? Will you ever know? Better to be safe than sorry. Crush the world before it crushes you."

I withdrew, suddenly afraid to touch you – your corpse of a body. I knew that tone of voice. It's the one you use when you admit to having tasted some affliction of mine before.

"Oh, America," you said gently, "do you know your enemy?"

COLD WAR LOL

Not much to say about this one except that it's saturated with Green Day quotes.

As before – England rotting inside? Take it literally. Pleasant image, right?