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"England… I want to go to war."
Arthur looked up from his book, staring at the American sitting in the loveseat across from him. "What?"
America grinned. "I. Want. To go. To. War," the younger emphasized each word slowly, as if the elder couldn't understand.
"I bloody heard what you said, you git," the Briton snapped, large eyebrows furrowing. "But why in blazes do you want to go to war? You just barely got back on your feet after paying all that debt you owed China."
Alfred's smile froze, but he still pleasantly went on calmly. "That's exactly why."
The island nation blinked. "Exactly why what…?" he questioned, hearing a small sense of alarm creeping in his voice, even though he didn't know the reason. "America, be more specific, would you?"
The larger nation settled back in the seat, propping his feet up on the coffee table despite the English country's dark scowl.
"China," America said lazily, idly playing with the hem of his bomber jacket. "I paid him back, yeah, but think about it. Since he's a superpower now, a superpower communist nation, don't you know that countries like that's gonna waste all that money for nothing? That's why I want to go to war. I worked hard to pay that oriental bastard back, and he's gonna waste it like the red fucker he is."
"It's 'going', not 'gonna'," England instinctively corrected, before frowning. "America, that notion is absurd. What are you, still a child? It's his money now, not yours. Are you willing to risk war just for that?"
America gave him a level, blue-eyed stare. Arthur tensed at the pure hatred in those beautiful depths, feeling wary and frozen.
"Yes," Alfred intoned softly, putting his feet down as he leaned forward. "I'm willing to risk war."
To take back my superpower title, was the silent meaning.
"England," America said, looking intently into green eyes. "I want you to join me."
Arthur felt his lips pull back in a snarl of his own accord. "You're insane."
It wasn't an answer.
America just smiled. Then he stood up and sauntered out of the room. Minutes passed before the blonde returned, holding something that made shivers run up the Brit's spine like wolves on a hunt.
Alfred was holding the very same musket from the American Revolution that he used against England.
"Arthur," America said again, now pointing the firearm at England's chest, the scar on the weapon noticeable. "I want you to join me. I won't repeat myself."
The Briton wasn't afraid. Even if Alfred did pull the trigger and kill him, he'll just be resurrected once again, continuing to exist as his land did in turn. It wouldn't matter.
It was wrong. England knew, to go to war with China. Many will die, many nations will suffer, and the world would scream…
But the slightly hidden pleading look in the younger's azure eyes seduced England's will, took it, and no matter how much he knew it was wrong, no matter how much of the consequences he would have, no matter who else had to be hurt, he could never refuse America.
England hated the way the other had such a hold on him, hated the unrequited love that followed, hated how he could crumble just by a word or smile. He hated the brighter nation so much, he wished he had never met the other, never had found him in the new land, never had taken him in and raised him, caring for him, growing to love him, he hated it so.
But he still loved America, even though he knew that the very same love would be his downfall…
"Fine." Was England's answer.
America lowered the Revolutionary musket, smirking in triumph.
…He didn't care. Not anymore.
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