Pangaea

by RobinRocks

*Manifest your destiny* On the eve of the outbreak of the Second World War, England and America disappear. From history. UKUS/USUK with GerIta, RussPruss, Franada et al. Cowritten with Narroch.

3. The Lion and the Unicorn

Hey everyone, Narroch here doing the ANs this time. I kinda bullied RR into updating today more because it is my favorite holiday than any other reason (she wanted to wait till Christmas! D:). Thanksgiving has nothing to do with this particular story, except maybe some characters should be slightly more grateful than others, given what's about to happen. XD RR, of course, doesn't care either way cause they don't get to celebrate a day of legitimated gluttony and lofty gratitude over in the UK anyway. Sucks for them.

A HUGE thankyou to all our readers and a special shout out to everyone who reviewed! chibiaries, SutaakiHitori, jesusofsuburbia2o2o, suzako, riiyacub, hoshiko2kokoro, BakayaroManiac, sacredpools, Divadcreator, backseat compromises, , WhiteCrow10, rae1112, Koi Fish, Genki-angel-chan, Mister Peaches, andthenshesaid, sarcastic moron, hexazebra, and Synonymous Brian!

You guys rock.

Pangaea

The Lion and the Unicorn

America pressed his forehead to the mirror for a long moment, his glasses clacking against the surface, as he paused in getting dressed; his head still pounded, the blood pulsing menacingly in his temples as he moved, as he breathed. The headache was definitely slinking back in, as was the swelling nausea that had never completely left anyway; his hands shook even when he fisted them, his vision swam through viscous blurs intermittently, he felt light-headed if he did anything too quickly—

But it was getting dark and he had finally gathered the strength to haul his quivering carcass out of bed after sleeping for another couple of hours in the afternoon and then eating the questionable broth (that was what the thin, faintly-sour liquid had allegedly been, anyway) that England had brought up to him about an hour ago.

His hot skin misted up the mirror a little, visible vapors of the fever that still refused to break completely; he opened his eyes just as he exhaled and the glass clouded up completely so that he watched his reflection vanish behind his breath as though he had been swallowed into nothingness.

Ha. That was a fucking joke. It sure didn't feel like he'd been swallowed into nothingness when his skull ached fit to burst with a history that wasn't his, only calming and settling to a slow enough simmer to let him think properly when England touched him or, at the very least, came within about a foot of him – as though his body was automatically borrowing England's ease and practice with his own memories.

Which was inconvenient. He couldn't very well follow England around all day and grab a handful of his hair every time he needed to make a decision; besides, England complained that he tripped over America enough as it was.

He sighed and leaned back and finished knotting his tie before reaching for his uniform jacket and shrugging it on; it was thick and heavy and he felt much too warm for it, already wanting to take it off even as he buttoned it. England came into the bedroom, carrying something wrapped in black plastic, and stood watching him as he put on his belt.

"What you got there?" America asked, nodding at the package in England's arms as he worked blindly at his buckle.

"A little present for you," England replied absently, plucking at the plastic himself.

"Oh, gee, it's not a stick-on target, is it?" America grinned at him. "So they shoot at me while you get away?"

England snapped his fingers.

"Damn," he said blandly. "If only I'd thought of that." He threw the parcel at America, who caught it clumsily. "Here. I hope it fits you."

America turned the package over in his hands, looking for a way to open it; it was heavy but supple, sort of soft, and he had a warm feeling he knew what it was. He found the seal on the plastic and tore it open, pulling it off and holding the folded, brand-new leather flight jacket in both hands.

"How did you know?" he asked expressionlessly.

"Did you think I didn't see you jealously eyeing up the Royal Air Force pilots during the Great War from the moment you saw them?" England asked airily, leaning against the doorframe. He nodded towards the jacket, still clutched covetously in America's hands. "Well, try it on, then."

"Right, yeah, of course!" America ripped off the size tag from the inside label and unzipped the jacket, slinging it behind him and pulling it on; again, he was much too warm for it but he couldn't help admiring himself in it in the mirror nonetheless, looking at his reflection from every possible angle. It was a perfect fit, flattering his form as though it had been tailored especially for him.

"Hey, England, what do you think?" he asked, turning to him. "Do I look like a hero?"

Instead of rolling his eyes like America had expected him to, England actually smiled at him.

"You'd pass, I suppose," he said. "It's the standard RAF jacket, of course, so it differs from the American design."

"Uh huh." America nodded; it was primarily the same jacket as the US Air Force's but it had a few aesthetic differences like four pockets, fur on the cuffs to match the collar and it was slightly shorter with a higher waist comprised of a thick band of elastic so that it hugged close to the body and kept in the heat. "I like it, though."

"Good," England said. "You're welcome, then."

He pushed off the doorframe again and left the bedroom; America winced a bit because England had said "You're welcome" before America himself had actually said "Thankyou" and that didn't usually bode well given that England only did that when he was making a point about America's manners (which didn't reflect terribly well on England himself, all things considered, when you recalled exactly who had taught America his manners in the first place…).

God, it was too hot for this jacket – for both of these jackets. He puffed a breath upwards, making a few fronds of blonde hair flutter, as he checked himself over in the mirror. All that was missing was his garrison cap, which he snatched up from the dresser and shoved into his pocket as he left the bedroom and started down the hallway in search of sulky stroppy England.

He found him without much difficulty on his knees in the small room at the back of the house that he used for storage, rummaging through a large wooden chest and muttering to himself about having sworn he had put it here back in 1918.

"Hey," America said, standing in the doorway with his hands behind his back, "thanks for the bomber jacket, doll."

It had been a test – and it was testament enough that England was distracted when he merely flapped his hand over his shoulder and muttered "You're welcome, love" without objecting in the slightest to being called "doll".

America stepped into the cluttered room, glancing about. It was dusty and dark and full of stuff – it reminded him of his own storage space at home.

The one he had still never gotten around to clearing.

Ah, and it was full of memories – of history. All of these old things in here, sitting lonely on shelves, coated with grime, colored by neglect, were like the things which he never had the heart to throw away when he stumbled upon them in his own storage room. Every item had a story, every last thing had once been England's, had had a place in his routine, in his hand, in his life; and for that reason, when America stepped over the threshold, the buzzing and aching and scraping inside his skull quelled, his borrowed memories soothed by his presence in a room full of the objects that occupied them.

It was like being surrounded by England himself, as though his physicality had molded itself into a room, and America could suddenly breathe, suddenly think.

Still, his attention was nonetheless drawn back to England himself, who was practically waist-deep in the chest, so serious was his hunt.

"What are you doing?" America asked curiously.

"Looking for my peace agreement with Germany from the end of the Great War," England said irritably, surfacing from the chest empty-handed and sitting back with an air of defeat. "I thought I put it in here."

America shook his head at him, smiling regardless.

"You're so spacey," he said fondly. "You're always losing things."

"I am not!" England huffed. "I merely forget where I put things."

"Yeah, that's… that's kind of the same thing as losing them," America pointed out. "Shall I help you look?"

"Please," England sighed. "I feel that I should look over it before writing my Declaration of War in case I'm breaching any of our agreements by doing so. I'm not letting that damn jerry get one over on me on a technicality, by George."

"You see," America said, kneeling down and pulling the nearest crate towards himself, "if you and Germany weren't both so goddamn meticulous in the first place, you could just go in there with guns a-blazing and tanks a-roaring and planes a-bombing. You know, like I do."

"I know," England muttered. "It's a tragic thing that Germany and I used to be great friends – and were so primarily because we're both, ah, so goddamn meticulous, as you put it."

He drawled America's words in an attempt at his accent, making America laugh as he opened his crate.

"Right," he agreed, waving away some dust as he put aside the lid. "I bet you guys sat by the fire together, drinking beer and counting money and making lists of exactly how many gold and silver coins you had and how much they weighed and what year they were from."

"You're not far wrong."

"Really?" America whistled. "Wow, what a boring friendship."

"Yes, it was, rather."

"Lucky you have me now, right?"

"Oh, absolutely. Your dazzling intelligence and humble modesty aside, you're not a half-bad shag, either."

"Oh, come on!" America was actually a little insulted. "That was totally uncalled for! Way below the belt, meanie!"

"Alright, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it."

"Damn straight you didn't. I'm an amazing, ah, shag, as you put it."

"But not modest."

"Hey, nobody's perfect."

A lot more cheerful and less sick to his stomach now that he didn't have at least three of England's memories vying for center-stage in his mind every time he tried to engage his brain, America whistled a trilling little tune to himself as he started to go through the crate. At the top were a few old books, the seams barely hanging together, and he carefully lifted them out and put them aside because he knew they were probably only up here to keep them from taking any further damage from whatever elements that happened to drift near the bookshelf; beneath them was a grubby sheet, which he peeled back to reveal—

"Hey, wow, you kept this?"

"I obviously kept whatever it is you've found if you've found it," England said flatly, but he turned to him nonetheless and frowned at the little black and white photograph in its old black lacquer frame that America was brandishing at him.

"This is from my world's fair in 1893!" America said happily, tilting the picture to look at it himself again.

It was of the pair of them, stiff and traditional in the way of photography in the 1890s, dressed in their best, the very height of late Victorian fashion, and with every article and accessory just-so and perfectly-positioned; unnatural, really, carefully-posed and almost unsmiling, England sitting too stiffly for it to be comfortable, one leg crossed over the other far more elegantly than he usually slung it, and America standing close behind him, one hand on England's shoulder and the fingers of his other curved gently over the back of the armchair. There was a small, elaborate table with an exotic plant of some kind next to the chair but the background – a grand parlor – had been fake, America remembered, nothing but a picture on a screen. The photography studio had been one of the attractions at the fair and they had had theirs done near the end. America had said he wanted to create some physical documentation that England had showed up at all and England had obliged him but the resulting picture was pretty miserable.

"That serious look doesn't suit you," England noted, tilting his head to see the photograph. "You look a lot handsomer when you smile."

"Yeah," America agreed. "You know, so do you." He glanced up at England, who simply rolled his eyes irritably at him. "No, you really do! You should stop scowling so much before your face gets stuck that way or something! Ha, or maybe it's too late?"

England sighed and went back to his fruitless search.

"I've plenty to scowl about," he muttered.

America shook his head at him despairingly and put the photograph aside, pulling back another layer of dirty sheet to find a painting, rather a lot bigger than the photo.

"Okay, yeah," he said after staring at it for a while. He reached in and carefully took hold of it by the narrow frame, taking it out of the crate and turning it towards England. "Look how handsome you are when you smile."

England only looked at it briefly.

"It's a painting, America," he said dismissively. "Beauty is in the eye of the artist – and the brush. It's exaggerated. A lot."

"England, it looks just like you," America said impatiently. "It really does. Just, you know… younger."

"I was a teenager when that was painted. It's from about 1410."

"Jeez, it's older than me…"

America turned the painting back towards himself and rested it on his knees so that he could look at it again. It was a stunning painting, lavish and rich in its colors and with firm, confident brushstrokes that perfectly captured light and shadow, the delicacy of lace and the lush swell of velvet and the slight frame of its young subject. The composition was simple, just England sitting in a rather plain chair in what would probably have been casual clothes for a court-dweller back then, but the whole thing looked so natural compared to that stiff and staged photograph from centuries later. It was a painting, yes, put there not by a mirror and a flash but by careful study, by the right stroke here and the right dab there, but it held the presence of life better than that black and white shot, so much so that America recognized England immediately from a canvasful of mixed paint even though he was much younger in this portrayal. He was definitely a teenager, the size and shape of his body giving him away as an adolescent, the sort of awkward way his bones fell even as he draped himself comfortably across his seat; but his smile was the same and so were his eyes, the color of paint used a perfect match to the hue of brilliant jade that now busied themselves with hunting for some stupid peace agreement a few feet away.

"This is…" America breathed out and searched for the right word. "…Amazing. It's almost like a photograph."

"You say that but you have no idea what I actually looked like back then," England said.

"This is obviously what you looked like!" America snapped, beginning to get annoyed. "Good Lord, you smile so rarely that nobody could have gotten it right if they'd guessed it and yet this is perfect!"

"Alright, alright, it's a bloody magnificent painting of me when I was a teenaged sprog," England groaned, finally shuffling over to him and settling at his side. "I'm sure Italy would be very happy to know that you appreciate his art – you know, if we weren't about to declare war on him."

America blinked, reevaluating it in a new light.

"Italy painted this?"

"Yes."

"North Italy?"

"Yes."

"I'm stunned."

"Oh, he has his talents, believe it or not." England shrugged. "I've never been friends with him, exactly, but I've been in his presence a few times." He gestured at the painting. "I accompanied France to Austria's house once back around then and Italy was there. He was bored and wanted to paint me. I was bored so I let him. I didn't realize he was so good at art until I saw it finished. He showed me all his other paintings as well – he'd painted everyone in Austria's house, some of them several times over, he'd painted Prussia, France, Spain, Romano, Portugal… and they were all as good, if not better, than that one you have right there." England smirked suddenly. "All exaggerated, of course, but Italy likes the aesthetic. He makes the world prettier with his paintbrush and who's going to complain?"

"Huh." America glanced at the gorgeous painting again; he too had had no idea that idiotic North Italy had talent like this lurking inside him. "If… uh, I mean when we capture him, I'm gonna make him paint me. Wearing my new bomber jacket, of course."

"Oh, he'll do a beautiful painting of you," England agreed warmly. "And I'll take it and put it on my wall and then I can look at you whenever I like without having to actually put up with you. It'll be nice and quiet, too, being a painting."

"Ha ha," America drawled sardonically, "like he'd give you his magnum opus."

"You're not Italy's magnum opus, America," England said, almost sounding impatient, as though having to explain something very simple for about the hundredth time. "You're mine."

"Oh yeah?" America challenged. "Well, it's all fine for you to take the credit for all the good things I've done but that also means you have to take the blame for the bad."

"You mean that I would have to take responsibility for you?"

"Right." America grinned. "If you're up to it."

"Then that's what I'll do."

"You'd invest yourself in me like that?" America asked quietly, taken aback by the fact that England had answered him seriously and without hesitation. "In my deeds and in my history?"

"That's what you've done for me, my boy." England put a hand on America's shoulder and used him to push himself to his feet; he moved his hand to the small of his back as he straightened up and America heard something click. "Ugh, I'm getting too old for crawling around on my hands and knees…"

"Doesn't war involve a lot of crawling around on your hands and knees, like, under barbed wire?" America pointed out flatly.

"An unfortunate side-effect of war, yes." England stretched. "That's probably what did my bloody back in in the first place."

America watched him over the top of the painting; England was rather small for an adult man (although America had to admit that he was exceptionally tall and dwarfed England even more by comparison) but he was fairly strong despite his size. Oh, perhaps he didn't have America's freakish strength – the one that enabled the younger man to lift a car over his head if he was ticked enough – but America could see the muscles move under England's uniform as he flexed his shoulders, which themselves weren't exactly what one would regard as powerful but there was definitely something… predatory about the mechanism of them, particularly when he prowled restlessly if bored or agitated.

Like he did when there was no war on.

America was desensitized to England and always had been and so sometimes he forgot how dangerous he could be. He tried not to think about England's bloody history coursing irreversibly around his own body as he put the painting of the teenaged pre-Empire aside and went back into the crate a third time, looking for something to distract himself with.

"America, I don't think my peace agreement is in there," England said, drifting over towards one of the shelves and picking up an old flintlock pistol to examine.

"No, I know," America said, digging to the bottom, where a flash of gold had caught his eye. "But I'm just curious to see what else you got in this here treasure-trove. Maybe some priceless Ming vase you stole from China when he wasn't looking or something…"

"China would never have been so inattentive when it came to his vases, I can assure you."

"Really?" America took hold of his prize and tugged at it. "He seems kind of easily-distracted to me."

"Not when it comes to his vases. Or food." England frowned at America over the pistol. "Besides, that's rather rude coming from you. Your attention span is so horrendously short that I thought there was something wrong with your hearing for the first few months I had you in my care."

"It's not my fault you were boring even back then." America lifted out his find with an appreciative whistle, knowing what it was without having to ask. He remembered it. "Well well well, looky what we have here."

England glanced at it.

"Oh," he said blandly. "It's my royal coat of arms."

"Hell yeah it is," America agreed. "Is that real gold on the lion?"

"Of course. And it's hand-carved and painted, too."

"And so it's rotting back here in your storage-room… why?"

"Ah, I can't help thinking it's a bit gaudy for a house ornament," England said. "I have a small printed version of it in a frame over the mantelpiece and that's enough for me."

"But you love unicorns!" America exclaimed. "And this one has a solid gold horn and everything!"

"It is beautiful," England agreed with a sigh, "but I don't want it on my wall. Besides, it's worth a fortune. It's better to keep it safe in here."

America gave a snort.

"When did you go all minimalist and tasteful, Mr. British Empire?" He felt at the back of the carving and found a heavy brass hook. "Well, let's hang it up right in here so we can admire it properly."

He rose and took the crest over to the first nail sticking haphazardly out of the wall that his eyes fell on, hanging it on the barb of metal and letting it swing gently back and forth until it settled.

"So," America said, putting his hands on his hips in a satisfied manner as he looked at his slapdash handiwork, "a gift from an admirer?"

"One of my monarchs, actually," England replied, coming to his side again with the old pistol swinging idly on his right forefinger. "Victoria – to commemorate the first usage of the new royal coat of arms in 1837."

They both looked at the coat of arms in silence for a long moment – elaborately-carved wood in the elegant shapes of a lion and a unicorn either side of another small lion atop a crown, a knight's helmet and an encircled rendition of Great Britain's royal emblem and then, beneath it all on a curling carved ribbon, the French words Dieu et mon droit.

"There's French on your coat of arms," said America.

"Shut up," said England.

There was another moment of silence.

"I'm not surprised that you have a unicorn on it," America went on at length.

England glanced briefly at him.

"I didn't design it," he said scathingly, "so you can stop with your snide little comments right there."

"Snide?" America pouted exaggeratedly at him. "Oh, don't be like that. I was just saying—"

"Well, kindly refrain from just saying."

"Oh, God, why are you so grouchy? Lighten up!" America moaned at him; he turned to England and seized him about the waist, easily lifting him as he took him by surprise. England was solider, heavier, than he looked but America was massively strong and was to able to stretch his arms out to their fullest length above his head, holding England as high as he possibly could so that the top of his skull almost brushed the dusty beams of the ceiling – as though he was outgrowing this small room of memories and had had to look elsewhere for a place to put them.

"America, I am not a child and won't be won over by you pretending that I'm an aeroplane," England said flatly. "Put me down at once."

"Nah." America stuck out his tongue at him. "I've got a great view from down here."

England whacked him on the top of head with the butt of the pistol.

"Ow!" America dropped him enough so that their faces were level, enabling him to properly scowl at him. "Did you just pistol-whip me?"

"If I'd pistol-whipped you, you'd be missing a few teeth," England said sweetly.

"For that, I am not putting you down," America said, wrapping his arms more securely around England's waist; in order for them to be at face-level, England's feet were still quite a few inches off the ground and America was in danger of getting his shins kicked but he didn't care.

"Is that so?" England smirked at him and promptly put the gun to his temple.

"Is that thing loaded?" America asked, faltering a little.

"I have no idea," England replied airily. "Shall we find out?"

"Yeah, let's do that."

America leaned forwards as England blinked at him in surprise, insistently pressing his mouth onto his; he closed his eyes, trusting England to not try and blow his brains out with a two hundred year old gun and hoping that it was trust not misplaced, and relaxed, victorious, as he felt the cool barrel lift away from his temple and England instead thread his arms about America's neck to deepen the kiss. He found that he had to hitch England up a little bit to keep his grip on him, the older man suddenly not holding himself quite so rigidly in America's arms. The gun was, however, still in England's hand – America felt it touch his ear as England held it loosely, far more invested in the tangled wetness of the kiss, in sort of half-heartedly wrapping one of his legs around America's hips.

"There," America huffed, pulling back for air. "I… I always knew you were… easily-distracted."

"Eh?" England grinned at him. "You're not going to steal my vases, are you?"

"Naw." America glanced at the coat of arms. "I might steal that, though."

"Hmm?" England turned his head to look at it himself. "Do you like it all that much?"

"It reminds me of something," America admitted. "Some old rhyme you used to tell me when I was a kid."

England looked thoughtful for a moment.

"Ah," he said at length, "that would be, of course, The Lion and the Unicorn. It's a nursery rhyme written about the union of the two creatures into one symbol in the early 1700s. It's silly, of course, as nursery rhymes are."

"I liked it," America insisted. "You still remember it, right?"

"Of course I do. It goes 'The Lion and the Unicorn were fighting for the crown; The Lion beat the Unicorn all around the town. Some gave them white bread and some gave them brown; Some gave them plum cake and drummed them out of town'."

"The lion beat the unicorn?"

"All around the town, yes."

"Huh." America studied the crest for a long moment. "I guess I can see that. Look at that lion – he's ready to go. He's ready for a fight, even if there isn't one. Crazy old English lion, teeth and claws bared all the freaking time…"

England looked at him amusedly.

"Oh my, America," he said, "are you being metaphorical? Be still my heart."

"Tch, like I ever think that hard about anything," America said evasively. "Besides, my money's on old Uni there anyway."

"But he's been beaten all around the town," England reminded him. "And the "crazy old English lion" has teeth and claws, if you recall."

"Unicorn's got a horn, though," America replied. "'Sides, he's not a quitter. He's all chained up so it's not even a fair fight and he's still not gonna back down. He's my kind of guy. I'd put a hundred bucks on him any day."

England smiled at him and finally let the ancient rust-locked pistol slide off his finger; it clattered heavily to the plain dusty floorboards at America's feet.

"Brave, true and noble unicorn, chained up only because he's so strong," England said, pushing up in America's arms to press a kiss onto his forehead. "My money's on him, too."

---

It was early, very early considering it was before even Germany's punctual wake up alarm. The sky had only barely begun to lighten, not even to the point of colors, just a dull lilac gray seeping over the eastern horizon.

Germany was slowly, gently shaken awake by a rhythmic pushing and a muffled whining. As his senses slowly filtered in through his sleep-gummed mind, he realized three things, each of which consecutively shifted him into a higher state of awareness. One: Italy had snuck into bed with him again, not that he hadn't expected it; two: the noises were coming from behind him; and three: the movement originated between his legs and was coupled with an unpleasant wetness ringed about his upper inner thighs.

Italy had wrapped his arms around Germany's waist and was panting desperately across his shoulder blades whilst his hips pistoned in and out between Germany's closed thighs. Indeed, as Germany looked down (completely, mortifyingly awake now), he could almost see the tip of Italy's erection play an obscene game of peek-a-boo with his balls, rubbing between the warm friction of his thighs. It didn't feel bad, even pleasant as the head rubbed against his perineum, and it was definitely better than being awoken by Italy putting his cock in other places it didn't belong, but it still unsettled Germany greatly and, after a few more seconds of humping, he decided that he'd had enough. Without letting Italy know he was indeed awake and not very happy about it, he let one hand trail down and gave a mean flick to the tip of Italy's cock just as it pressed though his thighs. It was apparently the wrong move because that single, painful tap was the only extra stimulus the little brunette needed. Italy's arms seized up around Germany's shoulders, holding him in a tight bear hug from behind, as his hips twitched and suddenly the offending finger was coated in a warm spurt of his release.

Italy panted happily, pulling out and flopping back in a dreamy daze. Germany was mortified, left with a sticky hand and no thoughts of spoiling yet another set of bed sheets by just wiping it off there.

"Hey, Germany." Italy spoke breathlessly, giddily, at his back. "You should lick it off. That's what a lover does."

"I'm not your lover!" Germany snapped, admittedly rather defensively, before rolling onto his back, his wet hand still hovering uncertainly in the air as if holding an invisible fruit.

But Italy just sighed happily, unaffected by the routine denial.

"As long as I get to sleep in Germany's bed, I don't care what you call us."

He snuggled closer before squirming on top of the larger country to straddle his hips. He took Germany's hand to his mouth and began to fastidiously lick it clean, which Germany thought was fair enough since it was his fault it got dirty in the first place. As he lay on his back, Italy's weight heavy but comfortable across his hips, watching him lathe his fingers with long languid licks in the warm darkness, Germany's eyes fell on the silver cross dangling across Italy's otherwise naked chest.

"Doesn't the Bible say somewhere that a man shouldn't treat another man like a woman?" he asked carefully, genuinely curious about how Italy reconciled his religion with his insatiable libido.

Italy laughed, the musical sound positively sparkling in the pre-dawn darkness.

"Of course it's impossible for me to make love to you as a woman – you don't have a vagina!" Italy giggled the words but still somehow managed to sound matter-of-fact. "Nor do I, of course!"

"I think you know what it means." Germany paused uncertainly.

Italy suddenly sat up properly, his spine straightening like a soldier's, and recited the Bible verse perfectly without a tremor or giggle in his voice.

"Leviticus 18:22. 'You shall not lie with a male as with a woman; it is an abomination.'" Italy paused thoughtfully. "However, the original Hebrew word actually translates to something like 'ritually unclean' rather than 'abomination'. It's not a sin; it's just not something you shouldn't do in ritually clean situations. But sex of any kind falls into that category too… So I guess as long as we clean each other after the act, 'cause it is messy sometimes, it's okay."

As Italy said it, he brought Germany's hand to his mouth once again, sucking in a finger and holding it, rolling his tongue against it and applying pressure. He pulled back after a moment.

"Not to mention," he added genially, "there are lots of things in the Bible that we don't follow anymore. Blood sacrifices, slavery, pederasty, levirate marriage…" Italy counted them off on Germany's fingers as if it were his own hand.

"Levi-wha?" Germany stumbled with the new word. Despite how useless Italy was in most things, Germany was still occasionally humbled by his sophistication. As Rome's grandchild, his interests were extremely narrow but ran deep to make up for it.

"Oh, that's when you were required by law to marry your spouse's sibling if you were widowed," Italy explained easily.

Germany twitched at the thought of sweet Italy being replaced by surly, abusive Romano.

"Well, I'm glad we don't believe in that anymore." Germany sighed heavily.

"Yes. It's all about beliefs; how we feel. If this was truly sinful, I don't believe God would have put these feelings inside me. I can't help how I feel around you, Germany…" Italy murmured, bringing Germany's fingers in his mouth again, slowly kissing each tip and reverently taking two of them into his hot mouth for a long pull.

"Italy, my hand is clean now so you can stop being so lewd," Germany coughed out, glad the darkness hid the blush he felt prickling across his cheeks.

"But you want it, don't you?" Italy asked, free hand easily reaching behind him to palm Germany's cock, which was more awake than the rest of him.

Germany jerked and let out a shaky breath at the fleeting touch. It was almost embarrassing how much it affected him but Italy never spoke a word about it, only smiled to himself and worked harder to draw Germany out of his repressed shell.

Only here was Italy a master and he a novice. Only here could he let his guard down and let Italy lead. It felt nice to surrender the control after barking orders and holding up responsibilities all day. Only here in the membrane before dawn, before the day was real, could he let himself show weakness.

Italy was headstrong when he really wanted something, Germany sometimes had a hard time controlling him and had to resort to the chains of strict routine and admonishment in order to hold him back from his naturally wandering instincts. He had been with Italy from the beginning, often going through the same conflicts with him, yet despite their similar experiences they reacted in strikingly different ways. Italy had somehow emerged purer for it, refined through the fires of oppression, whereas Germany had just become sharper, stronger, bitterer.

It became remarkably apparent when they made love. Whereas Italy was strong and stubborn in his approach (rarely could Germany get away with making up an excuse), he still took the pleasure of the act as its own delicate art form to be perfected and enhanced with each advance. Germany, on the other hand would, never have even thought of it, let alone attempted to make a move, but once he was baited into it, he became crude, aggressive, taking what he needed with a fierceness that he only let out because he knew that Italy was strong enough to endure it. Indeed, it was Italy who had to be chained back; he was the only one who was capable of turning Germany feral.

"It's fine, you know – do you want to?" Italy asked gently. "I don't mind since I already came."

"Yes, you did – right between my legs, I noticed."

"Ah? But Germany, you were so mad last time, I thought this was better. You didn't even wake up till the end."

"Well, of course I was mad about last time, waking up with your fingers in—in there and… and y-your penis almost about to…" Germany stopped himself, knowing his face was already hot enough to light a match. He could barely force himself to say the word for the body part so there was no way he was going to try and stammer a recounting of what had happened after that.

He sighed heavily, bringing his free hand to cover his eyes.

"Just cause I didn't wake up this time doesn't mean I will appreciate it," he finished in as hard a voice as he could manage.

"Well, I'm sure I can find something else you'll appreciate," Italy murmured, a playfully husky note in his accented German as he wiggled his hips suggestively. The boxer shorts did nothing to hide Germany's arousal, which proved, despite any argument Germany could conjure (and he had conjured, myriads of useless denials, in the trenches, in the tents, in every single bed he had gone into alone and woken up accompanied, he had argued against it) that truthfully he wanted it.

He wanted. And there was no getting around that plain fact.

Italy made quick work of it, pushing away Germany's boxers and splashing a palmful of oil between them. He lowered himself back down over Germany's hips again, trapping Germany's arousal between them. Bracing himself on Germany's shoulders, Italy began to rock rhythmically, hip flexors straining and sliding across the slick heated surface, letting his thighs be used as he had already used Germany's. The blonde gasped, grabbing handfuls of the sheets as Italy's adeptness drove him to his limits; he knew exactly how much weight to let settle down, exactly how fast to swivel his hips, and the combined pressure and rhythm took his breath away. He could already feel his control slipping, felt a roar building up inside him, and when he cracked his eyes open to chance a look and saw that Italy had grown hard again, he attacked.

Surging up, he caught Italy and threw him down on the bed, grabbing up his legs and bearing down between them so that their dicks were aligned. Italy wasn't phased by it and didn't waste a second, even going so far as to grab them both in his hands and rub them together.

"Go on, Germany, do it…" Italy squirmed receptively, smearing his thumb across their wet heads so their passion was mixed. Germany shuddered and didn't need any more encouragement. He leaned back and Italy guided him, tightening his legs around Germany's hips. He took that as the needed signal and simultaneously pushed forward and bent down. Italy contorted easily with the powerful motion, nearly bending in half and crying out as Germany entered him like that. The noise made Germany pause, suddenly fearful that he had hurt Italy, he wasn't prepared enough, there wasn't enough lubrication, he had gone too fast, but Germany quickly recovered when he saw that Italy's mouth was hung open in awed pleasure, eyes glazed and glittering from the high of that first penetration. His hands had already snaked down to jerk himself off. The sight made the beast rise up in Germany and he pulled back only a few inches before burying himself into the heat again, quickly picking up a rhythm to match Italy's frenzied jerks.

There was a desperate sense of urgency to it, as with most of their dalliances, since the horizon was already beginning to blush a soft peeled peach. The act couldn't cross over into Germany's rigidly structure day, he wouldn't allow this to interfere with their plans or even become validated within the sun's glow. Their shared heat only existed in the transition between sleep and reality.

As he felt Italy tighten and spasm through his second orgasm, practically devoid of any refractory period whatsoever, Germany couldn't help but follow him into the void. For a second he was free of thought, or ideology, guilt, anger, wiped pure and clean for the merest second. It was that second of blameless bliss that Italy always managed to grant him that allowed him to continue – as though Italy painted over the flaws of the world with his smile.

And his hands, of course. His beautiful artist's hands. Germany could feel them on his bare back, tracing over the pathways of his scars, as Italy clung to him in the hazy aftermath, pressing little kisses to his shoulder, collarbone, wherever he could reach.

Germany pushed upwards and Italy, not clinging hard enough, fell back to the bed with a musical laugh; pretty little sinner that he was, his stomach glistening with his own ejaculate. He closed his big amber eyes with a sigh and put one of his hands to his belly, trailing through the mess, drawing a few lazy swirling little patterns before lifting his fingertips to his mouth—

Germany caught his hand and pulled it towards himself, reaching too for Italy's other. They were small, delicate, not much good for holding a gun, really.

"Germany?" Italy almost sang his name, his tone lilting and curious.

"Japan wrote." Germany flicked out his tongue and licked Italy's fingers clean so that his hands were no longer sullied with sin – so that they would be pure and perfect for his needs. "He said good things about your designs."

Italy smiled softly.

"I am glad," he said. "I worked hard on them because you said they were important."

"They are. You did a good job, Italy." Germany kissed Italy's right hand – his forefinger had a tiny groove in it against which a pencil or a paintbrush often pressed. "Japan has already begun work on the machine."

"Japan is our friend now, right?"

Germany nodded.

"It would seem that way. We need him, at any rate. He may not be an industrial powerhouse like America but only his brilliance can breathe life into your designs."

"And your idea," Italy finished. He sat up and kissed Germany on the cheek before scrambling off the bed in a tangle of naked limbs and going to the desk. "I did more sketches."

Germany pulled the blankets over his lap as he waited for Italy to come back with one of his many sketchbooks; Italy settled happily next to him and flipped open the leather-bound book to show off page upon page of rough pencil drawings of everything imaginable. Scenes through windows, pretty lampshades, cars, fruit, fancy chairs, Prussia, Russia, Romano, Spain, Germany himself—

"Here." Italy eagerly pressed the book into Germany's hands. "I thought, you know, aesthetically—"

"Aesthetics hardly factor into this, Italy."

"Yes, but you want to cleanse the world with this creation," Italy argued. "There is no reason for it to be ugly. I'm sure Japan would agree!"

"Hmm." Germany looked down at the drawings, all labeled in neat Italian.

It was fascinating, really. Italy was completely and utterly hopeless in a combat situation, going to pieces, not even knowing how to hold a firearm correctly, but with a piece of paper in one hand and pencil in the other and suddenly, as in the bedroom, he was a master. Germany honestly felt an odd sort of… pride in Italy when he looked at these beautiful drawings.

His idea. Italy's design. Japan's craftsmanship.

Their new Axis on which to hinge the world.

"Well, perhaps we can show these to Japan, too," Germany said.

Italy beamed.

"I'm glad," he said, reaching to take the sketchbook back.

As he did so, a single loose leaf fluttered out from between two of the pages and drifted to the floor. Germany reached to pick it up and was stunned when Italy practically leapt off the bed to beat him to it, snatching it from the carpet.

Germany hadn't really had time to look at it before Italy was stuffing it back into the sketchbook but he'd seen that it was a sketch of a small figure, perhaps a child, with flowing clothes that were heavily shaded as though they were black.

"Italy—" he began.

"It's a bad drawing," Italy cut in hurriedly, clutching the sketchbook to his chest as though afraid Germany might try to take it from him. "I'm embarrassed."

"None of your drawings are bad, Italy," Germany said.

Italy – hotheaded, willful Italy – wasn't to be persuaded.

"This one is," he said. "I broke the rules."

Germany was perplexed.

"What… what rules?" he asked, thinking that Italy was acting very oddly.

Italy gave a sigh and flopped back across the bed – still naked, still dirty, his cross glinting at his throat. His fiery hair glowed in the rising dawn.

"The rules my grandfather told me," he said absently, tucking his sketchbook behind his head. "Draw whatever you desire – but don't draw anything that you cannot have."

---

Too hot. It was much, much too hot. Both jackets off and slung on the empty kitchen chair next to him, America loosened the knot of his tie, plucked at the very top button of his collar, tried not to slump too much in his seat as he fanned himself with his newly-written Declaration of War.

Nobody else seemed to be this uncomfortable with the room's temperature. His own declaration in hand, France was talking, all decked out in that showy blue uniform of his – it had a cape, for God's sake – and England, one foot resting on his other knee, was listening but not looking at the Frenchman, immersed in carefully examining each individual bullet before letting it clatter to the bottom of the magazine. Once filled, he deftly slid the entire round into his new Browning Hi-Power pistol with a satisfying click and smiled at the sound. Canada, sitting quietly in his usual unobtrusive way, was torn between giving France his full attention and glancing bemusedly at America now and then.

It shouldn't be this warm. America blew upwards, cooling his forehead briefly before it began to burn again, and glanced at England. He was a few feet away; America dug one heel into France's floor and slid his chair closer to England's. At this point he was ready to sit on England's lap if it made the heat in his body settle—

Because he blamed his "sickness". It was a feverish heat, one that prickled across the back of his brain whenever he closed his eyes, one that made his breath congeal in his lungs so that whatever air he took in wasn't enough. It made his head pound and the sweat bead on his brow and he could almost hear a faint sizzling sound—

"Canada, get your brother some water before he passes out on my floor," France said dismissively. "And Angleterre, stop so deliberately ignoring Amérique when he is almost on top of you. You are always so adamant about your "personal space" that it rouses my suspicion."

Canada got up and went to the sink, casting another worried glance at his twin as he rose; England finally looked up at France, his green eyes narrowed.

"Everything rouses something in you, France," he replied curtly; he shrugged irritably as America rested his chin on his shoulder. "America, don't be a nuisance."

"I'm too hot," America complained in a low voice. "Hold my hand or something."

"Fine." England put his Browning down on the table with rather too much force and caught irritably at America's hand, squeezing it; he toyed absently with the few bullets remaining in his other palm as he turned his attention back to France with exaggerated interest.

France still looked rather doubtful, eyeing their clasped hands, but he let it drop, picking up his Declaration of War and beginning again. Canada came back to the table with the water and handed it to America.

"Are you alright?" he asked quietly, sinking onto the edge of the chair next to America, avoiding sitting on his jackets.

"Yeah, I'm fine," America muttered, pressing the glass to his forehead and finally putting down his makeshift fan. "Thanks."

Canada didn't appear entirely convinced but clearly wasn't sure how to breach the whole "I-know-you're-lying" topic and just nodded uneasily. America downed the water greedily and tilted the glass upside down to get the last few drops; England was so blatantly ignoring him that he didn't even chide him for his bad table manners and let him get on with it.

America thought he was being mean; he had sprung to his side if he so much as coughed all day but, the moment they had gotten to France's, England had stopped pandering to him entirely, refusing to acknowledge that he was unwell. Or acknowledge him at all, for that matter; it was a common pattern whenever France was involved. America wasn't quite sure if it was because England didn't want to act affectionate towards him in front of France, who would probably tease him for it, or if it was because England was trying to hide the fact that America was sick in the first place.

Well, he was doing a grand job of the first option and a lousy job of the second one. Even with physical contact from England, America still felt awful. His arm was beginning to ache, the pain resonating from the connection of their hands and slithering up his forearm to form a blazingly-hot core at the entry point of the needle almost twenty-four hours ago. He grunted in pain and twisted a bit, clutching tighter at England's hand to try and squeeze off some of the pain.

He realized that he had absolutely no idea what France was saying. He was pretty sure that France was speaking English but the buzzing in his skull made it difficult to understand his thick accent; that, and his vision had started to waver like he was punch drunk so that he couldn't even see France all that clearly anymore, even when he adjusted his glasses and squinted. Everything just refused to be still; his own erratic thoughts, England's domineering memories, France's discombobulated voice, everything turning syrupy when he focused on it.

He felt England's weight shift next to him and heard his voice close to his ear as the older man leaned in:

"With your body reacting like this, I wonder if it will be alright for me to come inside you."

"I don't care," America said vehemently, leaning in so that the lips brushed his ear. "Do it anyway. I want you to."

"…Pardon?"

France's voice. America looked up, startled. All three of them were looking at him very oddly, although England had a little bit of color to his face.

"I… I was talking to England," America stammered defensively, shrinking in his seat again. "H-he asked me—"

"I asked you if you were going to faint," England said incredulously, heading him off. "And you came back with… well, that."

America blinked at him, confusion making the nausea rise up and his filters come down.

"No, you didn't," he said uneasily. "You… you asked if it would be okay if you came inside my body."

France arched an eyebrow interestedly and England's face flushed completely scarlet.

"I asked you that… earlier!" he hissed angrily. "Much earlier when we… well, it's not important but… For God's sake, pay attention!"

He scowled and promptly found himself a bit of wall to stare at; France coughed amusedly but refrained from saying anything. America huffed and glowered at the floor. Great, so now the fucking history-sharing thing was affecting his brain.

Or his hearing. Which was ironic.

The thing was, it actually both had and hadn't been alright for England to come inside him that afternoon. At the time it had felt wonderful, a sudden burst of understanding that washed through him and left him hurriedly making connections in his mind even as England sighed and shifted backwards; grasping at the new knowledge as it rushed by and leaving him panting with the exhilaration of enlightenment as the feeling subsided. He suddenly knew his way around London, for one thing, and could recall what rings Queen Elizabeth I wore on which fingers in court – knew which seat William Shakespeare had liked in his favorite pub, remembered biting his lip with laughter as he read of Jonathan Swift's latest scandalous exploits in the slanderous Whig newspapers. His parted legs had trembled with the excitement, the prospect, of setting foot on new lands with high open skies and wide endless plains – his lands. For the first time he had known England's love for him instead of merely believing in it.

—But it had congealed inside him. It was likely just his imagination, his oversensitivity to any contact from England at all, but he fancied that he could feel it within him, wet and sticky like some awful spider's web slung about his innards; and that, if he dared to put his hand anywhere near down there to try and clean it, it would stick to him there too, drench his palm in spent dead ejaculate that had taken up residence in him as though it had impregnated him—

Wait. He slid his palm against England's. His hand was wet. So was his arm, his shirt sleeve sticking to his skin.

He and England looked down at their interlocked hands at the same time. There was a slow but steady stream of blood dripping from their union, running down America's arm and over his wrist into the small pool of their clasped palms.

England snatched his hand back and got up, almost knocking over his chair as he seized America under his arms.

"Get up," he ordered, hauling at him. "Get up, boy!"

America barely had the strength to stand but yielded to England dragging at him, rising shakily; he swayed as he straightened and grabbed at the table, leaving a smear of blood on it.

"America!" Canada stood too, white in the face, and helped steady him. "What's the matter with you?"

"He's alright, he just cut himself earlier," England lied easily, pulling America away. "Come along, lad, let's get you cleaned up."

America could only nod faintly, pressing a hand to his burning forehead as England heaved him towards the kitchen door.

"You know where the bathroom is," France drawled, flopping heavily into one of his own chairs and tossing his Declaration of War onto the table in front of him. "Mon dieu, never have I known so many interruptions during a war declaration party…"

"I'm sorry," America mumbled; he glanced apologetically at France and was somewhat alarmed, even though the haze of pain and shock, to see France glaring suspiciously at England.

England saw it and flipped France off. France didn't react except to take out a packet of cigarettes and light one up, speaking to a concerned, hovering Canada in low French. Canada exhaled and sat down again just as England pulled America out of the kitchen.

"He knows," America said, sitting on the edge of the bath with his hand pressed over the needle-mark. "He keeps giving you the Evil Eye."

"He doesn't know," England replied dismissively. "He's an idiot." He dug around and found a cloth in one of France's cupboards. "Take off your shirt and tie, won't you?"

America pulled his tie loose and tossed it onto the bathroom floor before undoing his shirt, smearing the buttons with blood as his fingers fumbled with them; he shrugged the shirt off and gingerly peeled his damp bloody sleeve away from his right arm.

The bleeding appeared to have stopped; America twisted his arm this way and that but nothing more than a tiny bead swelled at the mark, though the puncture wound itself looked strangely swollen and red, as though inflamed with an allergic reaction.

"It's stopped," he reported lamely, blinking at it. "I got no idea why it was bleeding so copiously like that…"

"Isn't it obvious?" England asked lightly, coming to his side with the warm wet cloth. "Your body was rejecting my blood."

America blinked as England took his wrist.

"Rejecting it?" he repeated. "Wh-why would it—why would I do that…? And, I mean, why now after all this time…?"

"I don't know what took it so long." England pressed the cloth to the prick-mark, gently wiping away the blood, and then paused to touch his fingertip to it to disturb it and see if it bled again—

It reacted to his touch, the vein visibly throbbed and a shock of blood – no doubt his own – flared from the needle-mark spurting right at him; America snatched his arm back and stared at England, stunned. The blood had splattered clean across his throat like a liquid choker of red jewels – a bloody line to mark the scar he didn't have from the memory he did.

"Your body is spitting my history back at me," England said blithely, tossing the stained cloth at America. "You'll have to do it yourself, I'm afraid." He sighed and went back to France's open, raided cupboards. "I'll fetch you a bandage."

America watched him guardedly as he wiped his arm down, his vein still tingling.

"You don't know why it took so long?" he reiterated coolly. "You mean you knew this would happen?"

England shrugged and didn't look at him.

"It's only natural that your, ah, mechanism would sort through all of your newly-acquired history and decide on certain things that it doesn't want," he said. "It doesn't mean you're going to lose everything I gave you – it just means your body is acquainting itself with it all and making a few decisions. Rather like spring cleaning, I suppose."

"You can't be so choosy when it comes to history!" America replied, working the cloth down between the webbing of his fingers to get at the congealing blood. "I don't want lose anything you gave me!"

(He'd learned that the hard way because, again, he really never had gotten around to clearing out that damned storage room…)

England glanced at him very briefly.

"You made that bed a long time ago, I'm afraid," he said. "1776 strikes again; your system is doing this now because it's ingrained into you to cast me off when I bear down upon you too heavily." England grinned and pointed to his "choker". "Ironically, this is the mark of Revolution."

"So, what, I can't touch you ever again or I'll start gushing like Niagara Falls?" America snapped, throwing the cloth into the sink angrily. "Well, that's damned inconvenient given that touching you is also the only thing that makes me not feel like George Washington went cherry-tree on my skull."

"America, even I know that cherry tree thing is a lie that has imbedded itself into your history."

"The comparison still stands," America said grouchily. "God, I haven't felt this sick since Wall Street crashed and now you're telling me my body is vomiting your blood out again so it's all gonna be for nothing?"

"I said nothing of the sort," England said impatiently. "Will you please listen? Now that your system has gotten used to my history being in your body enough that it can decide what it doesn't want to keep, none of this should last much longer. I expect you'll be feeling yourself again by morning."

"And I can touch you and not bleed all over France's kitchen? And not touch you because I don't need to in order to think properly?"

"I should think so." England surfaced with a bandage and turned back to America. "Hold your arm out stiff – I can probably do this without touching you."

America obeyed; England pressed the middle of the bandage to the needle-mark and worked his way inwards, tying it neatly at the crook of America's elbow.

"That ought to do it," he said. "Hopefully that's the last we shall have to deal with it."

"Thanks," America said, bending his elbow to examine the bandage. "Admit it, England; you love playing nursemaid."

England sighed at him, turning to the sink once more.

"No I don't," he said, although his tone was a good deal less defensive and flustered than America had expected. "On the contrary, it is rather a shame that I am called upon so often to play the role – that is, practice has made me adept, not pleasure."

"Lay off the wars, then."

"It's not as though I started all of the wars I've been involved in," England said bitterly, rinsing the cloth out distractedly.

"I'm still gonna go with over half, though," America countered; he tapped his temple when England glared over his shoulder at him. "Hey, don't give me that look. These aren't exactly blind guesses – it's all up here now, remember?" He frowned. "You know, aside from the bits my artery spewed all over France's house. And you." He twitched his nose briefly to hitch up his sliding glasses. "And let's not forget that the whole reason we're in France's house to begin with is because, at your suggestion, we're all about to go postal on Germany and his wildly-roving Band of Merry Men—"

"Yes, yes, alright," England interrupted. "You've made your point. I'm a trouble-maker. Let's just leave any references to Robin Hood out of it, hmm?"

America grinned; he now knew perfectly well why Robin Hood might be a touchy subject with England.

"A lie that has imbedded itself into your history," he sighed, looking up at the plain but pretty ceiling of France's bathroom.

England nodded approvingly, finally turning to face America properly, wringing out the cloth as he did so.

"Well, I'm glad you're finally beginning to get the hang of that concept, at least," he said. "You argued with me point-blank about it earlier this afternoon."

America gave an awkward shrug, deflecting England's wry smirk.

"I'd have understood better if you'd mentioned the George-Washington-and-the-cherry-tree thing straight off," he grumbled. "It illustrates the point more clearly than your fancy-pants cryptic wordplay, England."

"I apologize. Sometimes I drink too deeply of Bard's blood."

And he was at it again. America didn't even pursue the meaning of what England had said, instead letting his gaze settle insistently at England's throat.

"And that?" he asked, motioning to his own neck, drawing a line clean across it.

"I don't know," England replied airily, wiping at his throat on his jacket cuff; a faint copper smear was left behind on his pale skin but the studded line across it was gone when he lifted his arm away.

"I think you do," America countered coolly.

"You have my memories," England pointed out. "If I know then you, too, now know."

"But I don't."

"Then there's your answer."

"But…!" America trailed off in frustration. He was not going to back down about this, not when he'd so vividly seen and felt the memory himself, when England's own blood had been thrown back at him, rejected by America's body, in so bold and blatant and guilty a pattern upon him. "…Okay. Fine. You say you don't know. But maybe I don't believe you."

England looked pointedly at him.

"Using that logic so cleverly now," he said, "only proves to me that, as I suspected, you were simply being deliberately stupid this afternoon." He shook his head. "It's often the case. I admit I don't know why you do it. You are nowhere near as idiotic as you like to act." He paused thoughtfully. "Still, they do say that it takes a wise man to act a fool."

"Oh, I don't know about that," America sighed, shivering a bit and looking forlornly at his bloody shirt; the burning in his body was finally beginning to subside a little and, topless, he couldn't help but start quivering as the sweat turned cold. "Half the time I really genuinely do have pretty much no idea what you're talking about, England."

"That's because you don't listen."

"Nuh-uh. It's because you're a drunkard. And you're mad."

"And because you butchered my language and thus can't understand Basic English."

"There you are! Thus! Who says thus, England?"

There was a timid knock at the ajar door just as England opened his mouth; America hooked it open with his heel rather roughly, which Canada, standing on the other side of it, flinched at.

"France said you'd need a shirt," Canada said quickly, holding out the plain white shirt folded neatly in his arms as though to explain himself physically as well as verbally; the way he glanced nervously between them both was evidence enough that he'd heard them arguing.

"Yes, put that on and come back downstairs," England said dismissively, stepping past them both and out of the bathroom. "Kindly recall that we're here for a reason, after all."

America pulled a face at him as he left. Oh, England didn't see him do it but he knew he had; he ignored it and pulled at the bathroom door behind him, leaving Canada at America's mercy instead.

France was waiting for him in the hall.

"Angleterre," he purred dangerously, "I desire a word – no, two, three words – with you."

"Too bad," England replied coldly. "I have no desire to have any number of words with you."

France pulled England's own loaded Browning Hi-Power out from where it had presumably been tucked into the back of his belt, aiming it rather calmly at his forehead.

"It was not a request, mon ami," he said pleasantly; he motioned towards his open study door at the other end of the hall. "Shall we?"

England snorted at him, shifting his weight onto one leg.

"I doubt you're going to blow my brains out in the middle of your pretty little Parisian house, France," he said. "Think of the damage to the wallpaper."

France grinned at him.

"I might," he countered in a low voice, "if only for the irony of shooting you with a gun that you loaded yourself."

Huh. England narrowed his eyes. He wasn't exactly France's biggest fan but he was always (grudgingly) willing to give him credit where credit was due; France had been powerful in his time and, conversely, hadn't always been the most reasonable of nations. After all, there was only one reason he didn't have a monarchy anymore…

France shut the study door behind them, turning to England once they were inside, still keeping a very firm hold on the Browning even though he had lowered it a little.

"Angleterre," he sighed, "you insult me. Did you truly think you could hide this from me?"

"I wouldn't have brought him if not for the rather pressing matter of writing our Declarations of War," England replied coolly, folding his arms. "I'd rather not have taken him from his sickbed."

"He does seem rather unwell," France agreed, his blue eyes gleaming. "I wonder what the cause might be." He said it without a single hint of wonder in his voice.

"A good question, isn't it?" England returned, not playing into the accusatory sarcasm and drifted over to France's desk instead, attracted by the map sprawled out across it in a similar fashion to his own in the drawing room; the names on the map were in French, of course, but France had clearly been plotting out his allies and enemies in an identical way, color-coding them as England himself had. "He has always baffled me, that boy," he added, tracing his fingers along the eastern edge of the blue-shaded Estats-Unis.

France, who had followed him, lost his temper and grabbed England's wrist, wrenching it away from the map and forcibly turning him to face him.

"Do not insult me!" France spat again as England blinked at him in shock. "You selfish, idiotic bastard, do you truly think that I am so stupid? You have put your dirty blood inside his body, you have forced your history onto him – you have committed Pangaea and do not think for even one moment that I am ignorant of it!"

England snatched his wrist back.

"Mind your own business," he bit out, looking away.

"Sacre bleu, it is very much my business!" France cried. "He is not your possession to do with as you please—"

"He is more mine than anyone else's!" England argued hotly. "He speaks my language, he chose me to guard him all those years ago over anyone else, over you, over Spain—why will you endeavor take him from me when you have, and have always had, Canada?"

"I do not speak of possession," France snapped, "because he is not yours and Canada is not mine – not wholly, not entirely. There is as much of me in Amérique as there is of you in Canada, and there is Spanish and Dutch in Amérique also, there is—"

"And yet he cast it all off and therein only British North America remained," England cut in triumphantly.

"And then he cast you off, too," France countered.

"Because you put that sickness in him!" England hissed, leaning in to France savagely. "Revolution – your virus, your disease. Don't talk to me about the ills of me pouring myself into him when you have done much the same thing—"

"Revolution is one single idea, one single action. That is entirely different to you putting your whole history into him." France looked like he was on the verge of slapping England in the face. "All our hard work to create him and then you do this unspeakable damage to him – and just when we had let our guard down, too, you little snake. You cared for him well enough when he was a child and I assumed it was safe enough to let him grow close to you now if that was what he wanted; advantageous, even, if it meant that you would be become inseparable military allies. Never did I expect that now, hundreds of years later, you would do the forbidden – that you would taint him with your filth."

"You don't understand," England said icily. "Nor would you if I explained it to you." He pushed himself away from the desk, elbowing France out of his way, and started towards the door.

"But I might have my suspicions," France replied, making England pause. "Do not forget that I was a part of the Poppy Pact as well."

"Russia has broken his promise by allying himself with Germany," England snapped.

"And yet you act now upon his words?"

"He wasn't lying. I may hate him but I believe him. He committed Pangaea with Prussia and it made things… different."

"But what if he was lying, Angleterre?" France pressed, beginning to sound desperate. "How could you act on a madman's words when you have never trusted him?"

"But he wasn't." England finally turned back to France, suddenly feeling exhausted. "When he came back, he knew things – he'd seen things. He said there would be another war and here we are, standing at the very brink of it. I've thought about this for years, France – about what Russia said when we pulled him out. The things he said about America. America chose me to guard him, to love him, and I won't let him become what this war intends to turn him into if I can help it, even if it means changing history. Pangaea is just a means to an end."

"A dangerous one!" France burst out incredulously. "Who knows how long it will be until history comes for you? Did you not consider how ill-timed this was, just as we declare war?"

"I cannot wait and give Japan time to join the Axis Powers. That is where it begins."

"And what about me?" France asked frostily. "What about Europe? If Russia is to be believed, at some point in this war, you are to be the only one left standing before the Axis Powers – the one immovable wall between them and their goal of conquering Europe. If you do anything to alter that, changing the stakes so early in the game, the Axis might win the war, Angleterre!"

"Well, you could start by not surrendering," England bit out. "And you'll have America from the start this time – and Canada. Besides, it might be months, maybe even years, before history punishes me for what I've done. There's a chance we can have the war won by then."

France shook his head.

"Russia wasn't supposed to come back," he said quietly. "You know that, do you not?"

"He was lucky," England agreed.

"You might not be so fortunate."

"I am aware of that." England shook his head. "I don't care. It doesn't matter. We both know what would happen to me at the end of the war if I hadn't done this – I'd be a bankrupt, battle-scarred shell anyway."

"So you will disappear and Amérique will hold your history within him – you have imprinted yourself upon him with how you raised him and filled his veins with your blood as a parting token. He will wear your mantle when you are gone, a mixed-blood hybrid of you both."

"His blood was mixed already," England said with a smirk. "You have pointed that out yourself."

"Because he is ours. All of ours. Our wishes, our dreams, our ideas – he embodies them, as does Canada."

"The New World." England nodded. "So I will give him a new world in return. History has marked him cruelly as a monster but he is not history's – he is ours. Or, rather, now that I have given away my own history to him, he is wholly mine, and so I will take responsibility for him. It isn't fair that he should suffer because of our war – and it was, after all, we who created him to begin with. For all the desired endless capacity we wished upon him, I for one never intended for him to become the most powerful weapon ever dreamed of. America is, first and foremost, an idea – and not one of war or of power."

"I did not know that you were so devoted to him," France said, although there was a bit of a sneer in his voice. "To give yourself as a sacrifice to save him from what he will become is so undeniably selfless that it surprises me, coming from you."

England grinned at him.

"Oh, it's not entirely selfless," he said. "Preserving my history inside him via Pangaea and letting it course in his veins, letting it become part of him so that he learns from it and lives by it, is a good deal more glorious than for me to rot and resent in the 1950s, don't you think? In this way I am putting my crown upon his brow myself instead of him prying it from my cold dead fingers when it's battered from the Blitz and dented from D-Day." His expression sobered. "Besides, ideas breed other ideas. It would be better if those weapons were never born of him and then no-one ever mimicked them."

"So you are saving the world?" France mocked.

England shook his head.

"No," he replied. "I am saving America. It is only that he will become the world after this war."

France looked exasperated.

"Why is it I who is mocked so mercilessly for entertaining romantic notions?" he asked coldly. "I knew you had a head filled with your Shakespeare and Austen but never did I imagine that you would apply those pages to a war. You cannot be so selfish as to dedicate yourself only to the one you love at a time such as this!" His expression darkened. "Where has my monster of a British Empire gone? Even during the Great War, you devoured all who stood in your path."

"I am terrified that I might have already given that aspect of myself away to America," England said. "That is, after all, the path history has begun to blaze before him. In that respect, this has little to do with romance. America and Canada were not designed to be like us. You and I and Spain and Portugal, all us old Empires, we were created to be military machines, to fight and destroy and conquer on behalf of our peoples, our kings and queens and leaders – but there was gentleness enough in us that we could perceive what peace was, even if it was never to be ours. America and Canada are our own designs, our manufactured shells for those ideals, ones of peace and equality and dreams. Nations created by other nations – an experiment." England clenched his fists. "This isn't about love, France. I love him even if I shouldn't because I helped to make him, because he isn't like us, but I'm not doing this simply because I love him. History wants to make him like us – worse than us – and I won't let that happen. I won't have our experiment ruined when he was on the very brink of perfection."

"You think him perfect when he tore himself in two in the 1860s and divided his values – our values – between opposing versions of himself?"

"How can I for one judge him for that?" England asked haughtily. "I too have had a Civil War—"

"But we took care to ensure that he would not remember that he split in half!" France said frustratedly. "Knowing that pain, it was your decision that we… reprogram him, if you will, so that he would recall only the war itself."

"To protect him! You saw what that war did to him – no nation is ever meant to break apart like that and when it was all over nothing but ideology to begin with… He wouldn't have recovered if we hadn't hidden that truth from him!"

"And yet now you may have done him even worse damage," France said idly. "You are still the largest empire in existence and we all know how you got to be so. Heads will roll, as they say, non? And now you have put all of that into him. If anything, I expect that he will worsen now. You may be a romantic, Angleterre, but you are also insatiably greedy and appallingly brutal."

"That is how I was designed. Eat or be eaten, as they say, no?"

"That is an excuse?"

"No. Simply the truth. Besides, you're preaching to the choir, France. How very fine it is for you to say "heads will roll", hm?" England went to the study door at long last. "I take it we are done? You are no longer holding me at gunpoint, at least."

France glowered at him for a long moment before crossing the study and making a point of pressing the Browning back into England's hand.

"How different the world might have been," the Frenchman lamented, "if only I had killed you at Hastings instead of showing you mercy."

"Mm," England agreed, noting that the safety had been on the entire time as he slipped the pistol back into his belt. "History can be as kind as she is cruel."

---

"I didn't think West would have the nerve to treat me like an errand-boy," Prussia grumbled, pulling on his heavy military-issue overcoat. "I didn't sign up to do his dirty work for him."

"Oh, but it will be fun, da?" Russia asked pleasantly, waiting for him beside the door – already bundled up, as was his habit. "I am glad that he does not accompany us this evening. He is so very precise in his methods that he makes everything boring. It will be pleasant, just the two of us."

"I see you've learnt all there is to know about him already," Prussia said with a dry grin. "Or… well, I suppose you already knew." He buttoned his coat, checked his gun and went to join Russia. "How dull the world will be when he rules it."

Russia simply smiled. Prussia saw it and rolled his scarlet eyes.

"Jeez, save it for Denmark and Norway," he muttered.

---

"Sing to me," America said.

His voice was quiet and high-pitched. England turned towards him, leaving his brandy and Declaration of War unattended on the dresser; he continued unknotting his tie as he looked at America curled up on the bed in just his plain grey boxer shorts, his skin alight with a sheen of sweat and his blue eyes glittering feverishly.

America had taken a turn for the worse during the second half of the "war declaration party", briefly passing out on the table, awakening with a start at England's touch and spending the rest of the meeting half-asleep on France's sofa with an ice-packed cloth pressed to his forehead. Canada, who noticed that England and France were not paying America much attention, sat by him worriedly and even shot England a rather sour, mistrustful look when he finally came through from the kitchen to fetch America and take him home.

Well, Canada always had been less oblivious than his twin, even when neither of them knew the complete truth.

"Sing to you, my love?" England asked by way of reply, sinking to his knees so that he was level with the bed and America's face; studying him, taking note of the high color in his cheeks, how it drowned out the tiny spatters of pale freckles that arched across the bridge of his nose when the sun shone.

"Mm." America nodded and smiled prettily at him. He was almost delirious. He shifted his legs, curling them up against his chest briefly. "Anything. Sing me to sleep."

"You need to get into bed first," England said.

"Nnn." America rolled over, leaving England looking at his back and the way the curve of his spine pressed against his damp skin. "Too hot."

"I know you are," England sighed. "It cannot be helped. It's almost over."

"Sing to me," America insisted, ignoring him. "An old song. Something I know."

"Oh, very well."

England didn't see a way around it – America was awkward at the best of times. He stood up and then sat on the bed, feeling America turn over again and curl around his back. He reached down and tugged his Browning out of his belt; it had been pressed too close for his liking to America's shoulder.

He sang Orange and Lemons for him, another old nursery-rhyme song, this one about the words of London's church bells as they chimed conversationally to one another on a Sunday morning; he thought that perhaps America was asleep already since he didn't react at all to the song except for when England came to the very last line:

"Here comes the chopper—"

"Not that line," America mumbled, pushing at England. "I never liked that line."

"You asked me to sing for you," England groused. "You should have said something before if you didn't want me to sing that one."

America shrugged sleepily, not opening his eyes.

"It isn't that," he muttered. "I like anything you sing. I like listening to you. The way your voice is all gentle and sweet… it reminds me that you have more than just one tone of voice. You know, the angry one." He frowned, his sticky forehead furrowing. "But I just never liked that line, even when I was small."

"Right." England rubbed at his neck and got up, prying himself away from America, who clung a little bit before weakly letting go. "Get yourself into bed, then, my boy."

"Mm." America didn't move, practically asleep.

England sighed, knowing he wouldn't be able to budge him, and fetched a blanket instead, draping it over America and making him stir again.

"Are you coming to bed?" America asked groggily.

"Soon," England promised. "I have to make a telephone call first."

He straightened and began to walk away; America reached out from beneath the blanket and caught his hand.

"Make it quick, doll," he teased drowsily, one eye cracking open just enough to gleam at England. "The night is still young."

"Oh, I will," England replied blandly, looking down at America's arm.

The blood was blossoming against the bandage again. Smiling, sleepy, America hadn't even noticed that his body was casting out England's history once more – rejecting his protection. England snatched his hand back and the bleeding stopped but the damage was done, macabre and messy on the plain blanket.

He stumbled out of the room with his brandy and his gun.

Here comes the chopper to chop off your head.

---

Whoa! Pangaea is a verb now! WHAT DOES IT MEAN! Hopefully we will find out soon. XP

In closing there are just a few things to mention about this chapter:

One: The unicorn appearing chained on Great Britain's coat of arms is historically significant because a free unicorn was considered to be a very dangerous animal. (Anyone seen The Last Unicorn? EVERYONE wanted to chain her up!)

Two: There was an FFNet-enforced typo that appeared in chapter 2 when it was posted that RR fixed as soon as she saw it but the first wave of readers may have been burdened with it. It was one of the most important lines of the chapter, as well. England saying "Bloody bloody history. That's the trouble. It's all lies – even the truth." It is, as I said, now fixed, but some people will have missed reading it.

Three: I know RR said the last chapter was going to be the most religion-focused one for a while and then I went and quoted the Bible directly in this chapter. *facepalm* Wasn't originally in the plan to have that conversation here but it fit so we just went with it. (I have conversations like this all the time as part of my day job. You do actually have to explain it like that for some people to get it. Guh…)

And that's it for now! We will update again sometime in December. Thanks for reading! For those of you in the States, Happy Thanksgiving!

Narroch and RobinRocks

xXx

P.S. So… Who went to YaoiCon!