VII – The Dawning Of

It was like that time America had taken him about the waist and flown him up to touch the moon – or as close as England would ever get, anyway.

Maybe, anyway. Maybe it was like that. The circumstances were different. America had been zipping up his bomber jacket outside, one foot propped against his Harley Davidson; England had paused to admire the gleam of the bike in the sun. America noticed him immediately and looked over his shoulder at him – his glasses and his hair and his eyes and his smile gleamed too.

"You want to come for a ride?" he asked, his voice lyrical, melodic. "She's brand new."

Of course England had refused. Of course America had laughed and teased him that he was only saying no to be difficult. Of course England had spluttered in annoyance and batted ineffectually at America as he was grabbed anyway.

"Hold on tight," America whispered over the revving of the engine.

Or you'll fall and break your neck and shatter into a thousand pieces.

The sky was endless and the road was endless, wide and blue like his eyes and ever westward like his mind. American-made, it carried them across his lands as though his dream given a form, a shell, an engine; the dust that had once filled his lungs kicked up behind them and the wind that had flown first his flag and then his own whipped past them and the dry earth that they had fought over and on was scarred by their pursuit. This was everything of him, captured better in a single moment, an experience, a breath, than in the entire chronicle of his history. This was what they had fought for – not just America himself in his Wars of Independence and 1812, but all of them together in the Teens and Forties. No matter who blamed who for what, no matter who was Communist or Capitalist, no matter who was an empire or nothing but a small colony, this was the sum of their struggle. This was freedom.

Perhaps not a brand of it to suit everyone. A Harley Davidson on the open road would not please Russia, it would not please Germany, it would probably not please Japan. But it was a symbol, like his League of Nations, like his Lady Liberty, like his wings. America so rarely had anything to teach that even when he did, nobody ever thanked him for his lesson.

Not even England.

They left the bike at the side of the road and went into an open field. America scampered ahead with his arms flung out wide as he had done when he was a child. England followed him at a slower pace, unknotting his tie, walking with the stride of a newcomer to the New World. His suit was well-cut and neatly-fitting, lightweight, made on a machine – hardly what he had been wearing the first time he had laid eyes on America, no coarse hand-stitched shirt or heavy velvet tunic. He slipped his hand into his trouser pocket and turned off his phone.

America whirled towards him with the easy grace of a dancer, so unlike his usual heavy-handedness; his dog-tags clinked and glinted against his dirty white T-shirt. His old flight jacket was open, ragged at the hem, and his jeans looked about a size too small for him, the button straining a little. He always looked so much more presentable in uniform.

He always looked at his best when dressed to kill. It made sense. He had been shaped by war – he become free by it, he had become powerful by it, he had become hated by it.

America was smiling at him, though.

"This was a battlefield once," he said easily, coming back to England, winding his arms around him. "Do you remember?" He laughed, feeling England start to kiss his neck. "Ugly, aren't I?" He waved his hand at the high blue sky. "I know all that crap, you know, about being beautiful for spacious skies and amber waves, but it's just poetry written by lovestruck patriots. We're all hideous, aren't we? Scarred by wars, ruined by ideologies—"

"You don't know what you're talking about," England interrupted gently. "Hush now."

He took him down to the grass and made love to him on his land and beneath his sky; in the end America couldn't look at him anymore and threw his arm over his eyes. England laughed because no-one ever believed him when he mentioned offhand that sometimes America could be quite shy and suddenly felt that he should be kind to him.

"Oh, America," he said sincerely, "you are beautiful to me."

The door banged open. England, halfway through explaining a proposed attack on Italy to France at the chalkboard, looked up. France followed suit, as did Russia and China.

America was standing in the open doorway. He was in full uniform and he was wearing a brand new leather flight jacket; his wings were presumably tucked safely underneath it. There was a thin layer of snow on his hair and his shoulders, brought in from the December cold.

He wasn't smiling.

"When do we move out?" he asked icily, striding into the room and letting the meeting room door bang closed behind him.

"Amérique, how good of you to join us," France purred sardonically.

"We are in no position to mobilise against Japan at the moment," England said sharply, cutting in before America could snap anything at France.

America calmly met his gaze.

"I know," he replied. "I can wait. I meant in general. I'm all-in. Germany and Italy declared war on me too."

Russia muttered something that sounded distinctly like "Imagine that"; China gave a grave nod in reply. He knew the feeling, after all – he and Russia had both been attacked by those they had formerly counted as friends, allies or even brothers.

England appeared surprised at America's calm acceptance of the fact that Japan wasn't first on the Allied Hit-List; but, after a moment's pause, he nodded and beckoned to America to come and take a seat next to France.

"If you're willing to station in Britain, you can consider this to be your first mobilisation."

America nodded, took his seat and didn't say anything else for the rest of the meeting.

Japan probably didn't realise his folly, but he never should have awoken America from his safe little nest.

—

America stood at the meeting's end but did not make much effort to leave, instead shrugging off his jacket. England, leaving with France, paused to watch him, seeing the flash of white on the back of the new leather. As America threw it over the back of his chair, he could see that it was a '50', a little crooked, presumably painted on by America himself in the tradition of flight jacket art.

He motioned for France to go on ahead and stepped back into the room, watching America spread out his wings. They were slightly ragged, some of the feathers bedraggled and even burnt. What did he think he was, angel of vengeance?

"Thankyou for coming," England said softly. "With your help... we might be able to win now."

(No, not vengeance. Angel of death. Japan shouldn't have awoken him.)

America looked at him. He looked angry but he also looked very tired; England could sympathise with that. They didn't call it "The Blitz" for nothing, after all.

"It's not fair," America said at length. "I wanted to stay out of it. I tried to. I helped you because I didn't want Germany to beat you to a pulp simply because you had nothing to defend yourself with but I also didn't want..."

England shook his head.

"I don't know what Japan was thinking," he muttered.

America looked up at him, his eyes narrowed.

"You're the one who started this," he said. "You and France. You declared war—"

"What other choice did we have?" England snapped. "Let Germany overrun Europe?"

"Hasn't he done that anyway?" America asked balefully, looking away again ruefully.

England sighed. America was taking a childish approach to this but he was, in many ways, still a child. He had been attacked and he didn't like it. He hadn't been attacked since England had burned the White House, as a matter of fact. He had mobilised for selfish reasons but England was in no position to accuse him of such. Better to let him sulk if it won them the war. Besides, he would come around. He wasn't wicked, wasn't malicious. He had helped England primarily out of kindness, after all.

"What did you do it?" America persisted suddenly. "Over Poland, over Czechoslovakia... England, why did you start another war?"

"Because it was the right thing to do."

"No—"

"Yes," England insisted, suddenly feeling exhausted. "Yes, it was, America. No matter the cost, no matter what happens, there was no other option than to stand up to Germany."

"And the price?"America leaned towards him. "You're going to lose your hegemony and your empire. Why, England? You're such a bully yourself, so why are you only ever selfless at the wrong time? Why give up everything to chase a false hope of peace?"

"Because," England sighed, closing his jade eyes, "it was the right thing to do."

It was the most ruined that England had ever seen his wings.

The night after it happened, England came to him not as his lover but as his ally. America was lying on his back on the floor of his room in the dark, his glasses off and clutched tightly in the hand of the arm he had thrown over his eyes. He was barefoot, wearing jeans and a white button-down, open to bare his chest. At his throat the silver chain of his dog-tags gleamed like a line to indicate "cut here if running with shears" and Lady Liberty – Sister of Grace – moved like the lace-gloved fingers of the tide as he breathed.

His wings were bent and broken and bloody; almost all of the feathers were gone on each of them and those that remained were burnt and brittle.

America said nothing until England sank to his knees next to him.

"Don't touch me," he said; flatly, tiredly.

England was frustrated more than he was offended – he wanted to tell America to let him heal his wounded heart – but he nodded.

"I won't if you don't want me to," he said. "But I'm here."

Little one, the sky is falling – but I will keep you in my keeping.

America gave a nod, still not uncovering his eyes.

"Yes," he said quietly, "that's alright. Stay."

—

It had been arrogant of him to suppose that he might have healed America's hand-grenade heart with little more than his company; America was grateful for his friendship, for his allegiance and his loyalty – for he had called him to be true to him – but it was not enough to make him recover.

After three days, America completely disappeared.

For two more days, England did not pursue him; America would come back when he was ready, of that he was certain. It was only natural that he should wish to hide from the world – it was the world that had done this to him, after all, his superpowerdom, his position, his hegemony.

England had predicted it in 1945 in the map room, small and light enough to be supported almost entirely by the upward thrusts of America entering him; he had warned then that America would be hated.

He had known because he had tasted it before.

("But I'm worried," Canada said gently, stirring his tea distractedly. "Won't you go to him?"

"I did."

"Again." Canada looked at England pleadingly. "You're his closest ally. He won't come back for anyone else."

England looked at America's brother for a moment.

"And do you know where he is, Canada?")

The sun was bright and bold on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. England ascended them with the care that he imagined America had probably done before him, pausing on the last one. Before the great man in his chair stood America, in uniform, his back to England, to his own lands. The sun slanted in all over him, over his shoulders and back and wings.

They had reformed. They stretched out behind him, the outmost tips of the longest feathers almost touching the marble floor of the platform; larger than before, longer, more beautiful.

"America," England began; but his rhyme and reason failed him. He had nothing more to say.

America turned to him, his wings following the shape of his movement, rustling like paper and flowing like water. He smiled. It wasn't sincere, but it was a start.

"Hey, England," he said serenely. "Hope I didn't worry you."

England couldn't say anything. He wanted to run to him but he didn't dare – not because he was afraid, but because...

...He felt that he had no place amidst what had saved America. He stepped back onto the step below, back into the sun, away from the platform. He returned the smile.

"You did," he said, "and your brother, too, but it doesn't matter. I understand that I was of no help to you." He held out his hand, his upturned palm catching the gold light, offering to lead America back into the sun. "However, if you want to go to war—"

"Yeah, it's your specialty, right?" America laughed as he left Lincoln and came over to England, his wings open behind him; he put his hand in his. "That's what I like about you."

"That only?" England asked wryly.

"Of course."

(America still felt fragile to him. It was to be expected. He had shattered into a thousand pieces and it would be a while before he put himself back together completely. England had tasted that before, too.

But it was a start.)

"Wh-what do you need?" America panted. "More... more weapons, more—ah, Jesus..."

"No, that's not... the Lend-Lease is—is fine, this is..." England sucked in a breath, looping his arm around America's neck and pulling him down close to kiss him; his knees pressed either side of America's ribs. "I-I mean..."

America's glasses were heavily misted, so much so that he wasn't looking through them; he reached blindly for the headboard to brace himself as he stilled and made England pause with him, satisfying his thirst of him. Their sudden ceasing of all movement save for the harsh fusion of their mouths made the slow rock and sway of the ship on the calm waves all the more obvious.

This was probably not the best time to be having this conversation – they were both incoherent, barely able to string a sentence together. However, what he wanted from America wasn't money, wasn't support or guns or grenades. This wasn't something he needed a signature for.

And, for that reason, there seemed to really be no better time or place than right now. This was, incidentally, the first time he had ever allowed America inside him – and the first time in a long time that he suddenly felt (remembered) that he loved him.

It made him surer than ever about his decision.

"Listen," he said, biting at America's bottom lip as they separated. "Listen to me, America – things... things are going to be different when this war is over. It's... it's likely that I won't be an Empire any... anymore... That is, I mean... to say that I won't be as I was..."

America, who had been kissing the spot below his ear, lifted his head; his eyes were wide.

"You... you mean you won't be...?"

"The world's superpower any longer," England sighed. It was a relief to say it – to share it. "It'll have to be... passed on to someone else, and between you and I, I can think... of several people I would rather did not fall into... possession of such a title..." He settled back against the sheets, reaching up and taking America's face in his hands. "If you still... want to stay out of this, that's alright, but you have to understand... that when it's over, the world will be different..."

America simply gave a mute nod and sat back, seeming bewildered by the turn his first time on top had taken.

"All of these loan programmes you have," England went on, finally seeming to recover his breath, "with us, particularly China and I... they're a boost to your economy. There is no doubt in my mind that you will be the most economically-sound of all of us by the time we manage to wrap this all up. You would have the resources at hand to take my place."

America suddenly shot him a bitter smile.

"Are you naming me as your heir, British Empire?" he asked softly, half-sarcastic.

But England didn't take the bait.

"Phrase it however you will," he replied. "The point is that the choice should be mine – I shouldn't have to suffer the position being wrested away from me by the likes of Germany. It's only natural that I would choose you, America."

"You're... putting a lot of faith in me," America said in a low voice, shaking his head out of England's grasp and looking away.

"I trust you."

America stiffened briefly; then his shoulders hunched. His heart thrummed hard beneath Lady Liberty. He still didn't meet England's gaze.

"More like you're just using me," he muttered.

"Well, that too."

America finally looked back at him, scowling; but England was smiling.

"A joke, America," he said mildly. "This is important. I can't afford to not trust you with something like this. You know that."

America gave a deep sigh, looking at the ceiling.

"Where would you like me to sign?" he asked at length.

"Nowhere." England sat up, pressed himself up against America as though to remind him what they were doing here, after all. "This isn't an official document – it's a promise, and unless your promise comes with a price the way your guns do, I think it can be committed just as safely to skin and to memory as to paper."

He coaxed him into another kiss; the rhythm of the ship on the quiet Atlantic rocked them back to the bed.

"Oh, America," he murmured, "welcome to your age, your century, your dawn."

("And tell me," America said softly, folding his wings and draping himself over England, who was already fast asleep, the worried lines in his face eased somewhat, "does your price come with a promise?")

"Imagine that" – For once, Russia actually wasn't being mean to America. He was saying "Imagine that" in reference to Germany's declaring war on the USA. Russia and Germany had, of course, been allies at the start of the war until Germany realised that it couldn't push any further west with immovable Britain in the way and so instead went east – into its own ally, Russia.

50 on the back of America's jacket – This might be why the anime version dropped this part of the design, but the USA actually didn't have 50 states during WWII. Alaska and Hawaii didn't become states until the 1950s. I left it in because I like the 50 on his jacket, inaccurate though it may be...

Since this chapter jumps around a bit, the segments, in order: Modern day (revisit to the first chapter), aftermath of Pearl Harbor, aftermath of 9/11, creation of the Atlantic Charter between the USA and UK in 1941. This last one was intended to govern the new world order, since the UK, already in massive war debt, knew it wouldn't be a superpower after the war was over and thought it would be better to make a deal with the US rather than to just wait and see what happened. There is no official signed document named the "Atlantic Charter", however.