Author's Note: This chapter contains some historical references from the writings of an old English philosopher named John Locke during the Age of Enlightenment. He is commonly called the Father of Classical Liberalism due to his leftist views.
He rarely slept easily.
Canada dolefully nibbled on his lower lip, uncertainly shaking his brother's sweaty shoulder to wake him from his nightmare. He waited patiently as America's figure tossed and turned a few more times for good measure before stiffening once more. Another nudge to the ribs sent him reeling back to reality, his bleary eyes meeting the darkness of the stuffy room.
"W-What happened?" America mumbled, disgruntled as he ran a clammy hand over an equally clammy forehead.
Canada stood from the edge of America's bed and neared the window, cracking it open to allow a crisp breeze into the room. "You had a bad dream."
America ground his teeth together, shivering as the cool gust of wind brushed against his moist skin. He watched as Canada peered out the window, noting the early signs of spring that had come upon them during the past week.
"I want England or I won't be able to go back to sleep."
Canada smirked through the moon-lit bedchamber, leaning on the nightstand in thought. "Aren't you getting too old to be asking England for help?"
America flushed in obvious embarrassment, pulling the covers up to his chin as he tried to formulate a good comeback that could defend his stubborn pride. He tried not to look too shamefaced. "It's not like that! I just—"
"I was kidding," Canada interjected with a pleasant smile. "But England's probably exhausted, and we should let him sleep. Besides, I have something that might help." He rummaged around in his small desk drawer for a moment before pulling out a small snow-globe and bringing it over to America's bed. He plopped himself next to his brother and wound up the gadget before it began to chime a soft melody that America did not recognize. He imagined that the sound was mimicking the voices of the stars, twinkling and dancing in the burnished sky. He listened as the lullaby went on, suddenly feeling very heavy and light all at once.
Canada regarded the toy wistfully, eyes reflective. "It's pretty isn't it? France gave it to me before I could even talk. He'd wind it up to help me sleep every night." Eventually, the chiming tones died down, leaving an emptiness that America hadn't realized he'd acquired. He nodded at Canada appreciatively for the comforting gesture, intrigued by the fact that his brother had held onto the artifact all this time.
"I like to think of France humming along to the tune sometimes. I know you probably don't realize it very often, but you're lucky to have a big brother like England; I still miss France every day."
America frowned at that, drawing his knees up to his chest. "But England leaves for Europe in the morning. It's different to have to say goodbye to your brother one time than to have to say goodbye to him every few months. Saying goodbye is the worst feeling in the world."
Canada nodded empathetically, allowing America to slump onto his shoulder in dejection. "But he'll be back. He always comes back."
America shook his head, voice faltering as he gazed up at the white-faced ceiling. "That's what I'm afraid of. What if one day, he doesn't come back?"
"Is that why you've been having nightmares?"
He preferred not to answer, so Canada took his silence to mean yes. Wordlessly, America curled into a tight ball on the bed, squeezing his eyes shut in pure agony. He knew there was nothing he could do to keep England from leaving in a few hours. His departure was inevitable, but for some odd reason, this departure felt more painful than all the rest.
"He loves you, America. He would never abandon you," Canada whispered faintly, placing a hand on his brother's back.
America struggled to open his eyes, irritation working its way into his nagging mind for a number of reasons. "Oh, really? Then why did France abandon you?"
"That was taking it too far," Canada deadpanned, jolting upright and clamoring his way back to his own bed. With an air of outrage, he didn't care if America felt terrible or not any longer. He shouldn't have stooped so low. He bundled himself up in his own blankets and covers, refusing to allow America's crankiness affect him.
Yet, when he heard stifled whimpers growing in frequency throughout the night, he reached over to the side table once more and wound up the musical snow globe, starving the tempers of both twins as the sky began to bruise with the dawn's early light once again.
This would be the final tearful goodbye on America's part.
Canada wasn't sure that he'd ever witnessed America as upset as he had been during that gray morning. Dark clouds rolled in to block out the seemingly smoldering sun. Those blue eyes had been brimming with silent anguish since the moment he'd awakened that same morning. America had wrapped his arms around England's torso, begging him not to go as he clung to the rough fabric of the formerly crease-less shirt. He inhaled his elder brother's scent of stale tobacco and peppermints, forcing himself to memorize it before he grew too old to remember. Gentle fingers combed through dark blond strands reassuringly as America hiccupped into the broad shoulder before him.
"There, there," England had muttered for the umpteenth time. "I won't be gone for long. You won't even notice my disappearance with Canada here to keep you company."
Canada stood awkwardly in the corner of the room, wondering whether or not he was going to be expected to intervene. He had inwardly forgiven America for last night's comments, but that didn't mean he was feeling particularly sentimental today. In fact, he was anything but.
"Now, promise me you won't cause the nannies and maids any trouble. I shall be kept updated on everything that goes on in this house. And, I expect a letter from you at some point before my return, is that clear?"
"Yes, sir," America sniffled wetly, wishing he could just cling to England forever and never have to let him go.
England contemplated him approvingly. "Alright then, I best be on my way." He enveloped America in his arms securely and planted a chaste kiss on his brow (which the colony promptly rubbed off in disgust). He smiled in adoration and said, "Stay safe, my boy."
Canada received a warm hug as well, though the hushed goodbyes hadn't been nearly as emotional. The pair of colonies watched as England waved a final goodbye to them and stepped out the door, leaving the boys in the care of "experienced professionals" with "impressive credentials". As soon as silence had filled the household once more, America ran off upstairs to hide from the remainder world for the next few hours.
It was going to be a tough couple of months.
"Bull's-eye!" America snickered, having successfully chucked a grape squarely at Canada's forehead. The latter of the two narrowed his eyes into a scowl and lifted his own bowl of grapes into the air, practically launching the entire contents in America's direction until the nanny, Clarisse, stopped him midway into his assault.
"Hey! That'll be enough of that, thank you very much," she huffed, removing the bowl from Canada's hands and carrying it away. "Shouldn't you boys start making your way to the marketplace? Lord Kirkland expects you both to be lending a hand with the shopping."
"Yes ma'am," America replied apologetically. He excused himself from the table and collected his coat before racing his way to the front door. "Hurry up, Mattie, or all of the crunchiest apples will be gone!" He'd finally gotten used to using Canada's human name around the house again to protect their identities from Clarisse.
In weary defeat, Canada obliged and followed his brother out into the foyer, hoping to get back at him for that betrayal in the kitchen.
Clarisse bustled after them, making sure their coats were properly buttoned before unlocking the door for them. "Now, you are to go straight to the market and back. No dawdling without me to chaperone you."
"Yeah, yeah, fine," America snarled under his breath, extremely tired of being treated like fragile porcelain constantly. If England saw so much as a single paper-cut on him upon his return, he'd have Clarisse fired before even giving her a chance to explain.
"Right, then, run along," she finally shooed, shutting the door softly behind them.
America wasted no time in taking advantage of his freedom; he sped through the yellow-grass and chilly spring air without hesitation, racing Canada to the giant oak tree just outside the entrance to the marketplace. The two sprinted across the grassy hills and cobblestone paths, panting as they raced neck-and-neck. The sun was high in the sky as they competed, beating down on their backs and they neared their destination. Simultaneously, they stuck out their arms to touch the wood of the bark, but got their feet ensnared together during the process, tumbling over each other and somersaulting the final feet to the tree.
"Ouch," America griped, panting heavily as he wiped his dirt-covered hands against his pants (a habit England had been trying to get him to break for quite some time). He chuckled lightly as Canada pulled himself together, Kumajirou stuffed under the protection of one of his arms as he choked on some air, trying to catch his breath.
America produced a cheesy grin, cheeks red with fatigue. "Let's call it a draw?"
Canada coughed once more and cleared his throat before speaking. "No way, I was going to win."
"You wish."
"When will you admit defeat?"
"Never!"
Canada grinned as well, picking himself up off the grass and making his way over to the carts and stands of food to complete the errand that had been so graciously bestowed upon them. America spotted his favorite red apples instantly, as though he had installed some sort of tracking device into the fruits. He pulled out the money in his pockets and paid for half a dozen of them, stowing them into a small burlap sack and hefting them over his shoulder. He let Canada deal with scavenger hunt of finding the corn, bread and tea that they also needed.
America waited for his twin by the same oak tree that they had raced to just a few yards away, munching on one of the juicy apples to kill time. The sun shone in his eyes as the market buzzed with people and energy, inwardly filling him with awe as he watched colonists conversing and exchanging goods in the tranquility of the day.
That is, until he saw a scrawny boy with hungry, gray eyes staring greedily at some fresh loaves of bread. America watched as the younger child circled the area behind the stand of grains, waiting like a stealthy cat for the perfect moment to swipe his prey. The boy observed silently as a tall man caught the merchant's attention, creating the perfect distraction. Then, the slim boy stretched out his small fingers and grabbed a loaf before casually walking away in the opposite direction, admiring his catch.
With serious eyes, America hid his bag of apples behind the tree and went after the little thief, capturing him by the wrist. "Wait," he urged in a sharp whisper.
Somewhere in the close distance, he heard Canada calling his human name; searching for him.
The little boy's oval eyes gazed up at him in horror, frightened at being caught.
"We don't steal from others," America chided mildly, taking the bread from the shorter child's hand. "I know you're hungry, so I'll pay for the bread as long as you promise not to steal again."
The boy quivered uncertainly, tears streaming down his cheeks as he reluctantly nodded, surrendering his prize.
"HEY! What are you doing bugging my little brother?" a hearty voice rang out, nearing the pair by the second. A large, beefy adolescent with a freckled face came into view, followed by a few of his equally colossus friends. "The kid has to eat and so do the rest of us. He's stealing to feed the family, so why don't you keep your rotten hands off of him?"
America stood his ground, straightening his posture to bring himself to his full height. "I'm not the one with the rotten hands. If you were a half-decent brother you'd teach him to work for his food. Instead, you've got him ripping off some hard-working people."
"What did you say to me, you milksop?"
America frowned. 'Milksop' was colonial slang for someone who was pampered and usually pompous. It literally stood for "bread soaked in milk". Truthfully, he was well-fed and well-kept, but that didn't mean he was oblivious to the needs of others. He understood that peasant children were desperate to feed themselves, but he still wasn't going to tolerate thievery. He was even willing to pay for the food, if the jerk wasn't so incorrigible.
"You heard what I said."
A vein seemed to pulsate in the teenager's forehead; his oversized hands reaching down to wrap themselves around America's neck, strangling him as he slammed the younger into the nearest fence post.
"Spoiled rich kids like you are poisoning the rest of us," he growled, sour breath rolling off his tongue and making America grimace between futile attempts at releasing himself.
"Alfred? Where are you?"
America tried to call out to Canada for help, but could scarcely breathe as it was, his face turning cherry red as his pupils dilated, frantic for release. And then, just as the world was starting to tilt on its side, he kicked at his captor, falling to solid ground as the older boy dropped him in shock. America was left heaving and choking on his own saliva as he inhaled fervently. Then, a muddy boot collided with the side of his face, leaving him writhing in the grass.
"Matt—Matthew!" he cried out as soon as he had found his voice once more. He couldn't remember the last time he'd called Canada by his full, first name, but he'd never been more relieved to see those lavender eyes peeking out around the corner and rushing over to his side. He stood in a defensive stance beside his twin, shielding him from further injury. Shakily, America rose to his knees, still dizzy as he swiped at his sore face.
"Stop it!" the little boy with the gray eyes had finally spoken up, running up to his teenaged brother. "No more fighting!"
The North American twins stood side by side, unsure of whether or not they should run from the scene or not. They were physically only eleven years old and stood no chance against the muscly teens, no matter if they were nations or not.
Yet, America didn't want to seem to give in just yet, even though an ugly bruise had started to form around his left eye where the boot had made contact. It was obvious that this was one fight that was better to be finished with a hasty retreat.
"Alfred, come on. Let's go," Canada pleaded urgently, grabbing his brother by the arm and dragging him away from the small crowd of children. "It isn't worth it."
America chose not to comment, but directed a final death glare in the direction of the teens, vowing to himself that he would be ready to truly stand up for himself when he was older and stronger. So, he followed Canada back to the oak tree and retrieved his hidden apples before trudging back down the road to the house, face still stinging from that little adventure.
It was time for America to toughen up.
And he knew just where to start.
"I just need you to cover me for an hour, is that too much to ask of my amazing brother?" America batted his eyelashes innocently, his cowlick causing him to look all the more harmless.
"Yes," Canada rebutted indifferently. "I don't think I can keep Clarisse distracted for that long. You haven't even told me what you're up to, so how can I trust you?"
America slumped his shoulders, exhaling a long, upwards breath that made his bangs flutter. "Okay, okay. I want to sneak into England's 'forbidden' library. He keeps it locked all the time and I want to know what's inside."
"Why would you want to know that?"
"Because… Just because!"
"So what am I going to tell Clarisse?"
America sat on his bed thoughtfully, holding his chin as he tried to conjure up the perfect excuse to keep Clarisse out of England's office and adjoining library for the next hour or so.
"Tell her you don't feel well and make her stay in our room to take care of you," he finally suggested, cracking his fingers and rubbing his hands together.
Canada looked less than enthusiastic about his role. "I don't want to do that! What if she gives me some kind of herbal medicine and sends a letter to England?"
"She won't do that," America promised firmly, removing a spare hairpin that he had taken from Clarisse's guest bedroom and shoving it into his pocket. "Just keep her busy. I'll grab a few books from the library and let you know when I'm done."
Canada grew slack-jawed. "You're going to willingly read? Are you sure you're not the one who's actually sick?"
America rolled his eyes. "Shut up. I'll see you later."
"You owe me."
"I know. I'll give you all the cookies I take from the cookie jar at night for a week."
Canada weighed his options for a moment before nodding. "Alright, I'll call her up here now. She has to see you and send you away to play or something before you do anything or she'll just come looking for you to make sure you're not sick as well."
"Wow, Matt, you've really thought this through," America winked, sprawling out on his bed and trying to look natural as he flipped through an old scrapbook of pictures.
"Wait here," Canada ordered, heading out of the room and disappearing for a few minutes before returning with Clarisse in tow, fussing over him and ordering him to get into bed. She tucked the covers around him snuggly before feeling his forehead once more.
"You don't feel warm, but that doesn't mean a fever won't develop later on," Clarisse clicked her tongue.
America prayed that Canada's acting skills were up to par.
"My throat…" he whined pathetically, massaging his neck with both hands in feigned despair.
"I know, dear. I'll bring you up some hot tea in a moment," Clarisse soothed, fluffing up Canada's pillows.
America tried not to crack a smile.
"And Alfred?" Clarisse asked, turning to him. "How are you feeling, sweetheart?"
"I'm okay. Is Matthew going to be alright?" America said in mock concern, eyes glistening with rehearsed fear.
"Of course he is," Clarisse assured, feeling America's forehead in turn. "Why don't you go play in the yard or in the sitting room? We don't want you catching this bug as well, do we?"
America nodded obediently and sauntered out of the room, casting a final, grateful glance in Canada's direction before rushing into England's office (which was thankfully unlocked) and closing the mahogany door behind him. He was immediately immersed in England's old scent; those same cigarettes and peppermints that he remembered so fondly. Allowing himself to indulge in the moment (just for a little while), he sat in England's leather desk chair and opened the top drawer of his desk, spotting a few extra mints in a little, decorated canister. He pulled out one of the wrapped candies and popped them into his mouth, smiling goofily at the taste and leaning back in the chair mindlessly. It felt as though England had just stepped out of the room two seconds ago.
Reminding himself of his mission, America hesitantly pulled himself out of the chair and wandered over to the locked door on the other side of the room, inspecting the lock for a prolonged moment before making his next move. He withdrew Clarisse's hair pin from his pocket and set to work at picking the lock. He'd only practiced the action a few times in the past when Clarisse had decided to lock the food pantry for the night to keep him from eating sweets before bedtime, but he'd managed to succeed in his attempt no more than three minutes later. The door to the library came swinging open, unveiling a rounded room outlined by books from one end to the other. Some books were stacked up to the ceiling, which explained why there was a ladder in the room to help aid in their collection.
Feeling extremely curious, America wandered to the couch that was at the end of the room and picked up the lone book that England had apparently neglected to put back on its shelf. It had a polished hard cover and was handwritten, which meant it was probably valuable. The cover read, "Two Treatises of Government".
America opened the cover and turned to the first page, only to see a piece of parchment fall out from between the pages. He picked it up and discovered that it was a letter that had been written to England just under a year ago.
Lord Kirkland,
I thought that this compilation of John Locke's recent ideas might stir some controversy should it fall into the wrong hands. I trust it shall stay safe in your possession. God knows what kind of uprising this could start should other members of the nobility pass it around. You, of all people, are well aware of the dangers of words written in ink. Such words can never be taken back. It's a maddening curse if nothing else. Furthermore, Godspeed on your trip back to the colonies. I doubt the yanks have ever even heard of philosophy let alone read of it.
-A friend
America folded the letter back up and put it back in the front of the book. Whoever the sender of this letter had been, he didn't appreciate his tone and word choice. He was more than old enough to understand his prejudice toward the colonies.
Nonetheless, he began to peruse through the book, flustered by the extensive amount of flowery language. He did pick up on a few key points though. This "John Locke" spoke of some sort of social contract by which people gave up the state of nature for an organized society. He also spoke of natural rights that belonged to all humans from birth; among these were life, liberty and property.
And even though America could not wrap his head around the majority of the writing in the book, one concept had managed to stick to his brain like glue, and that was the idea that if your government did not protect your natural rights, you had the right to overthrow it.
Part of America sensed that this was more grandiose than he could fathom. He could feel the firmness in John Locke's words and knew this point was very crucial to his philosophy, but didn't understand what it truly meant.
Overthrow a government? How was that even possible?
Unwilling to put back the book so quickly, but knowing his time was up, America took the book with him and locked the door to the library once more, hoping he hadn't left any traces of his whereabouts scattered around the office accidently.
He held the book closely and decided he'd hold onto it for now. He'd have someone explain John Locke's words to him if he had no other choice, but he knew he could not ask England in a letter without risking punishment for sneaking into the library.
Yet, as America made his way back to the bedroom and signaled to Canada that he had completed his escapade he couldn't help but wonder…
What was England so keen of hiding?
And what was this "curse" that written words brought into the world?
He vaguely noted Canada glaring at him across the room as he was forced some disgusting herbal tea to cure his "sore throat".