The sun had been blistering that morning, scorching everything in its path as Boston panted in its wake.
America sat stiffly by the windowsill, eyes looking out past the bruised horizon as some beads of sweat gathered on his temple. He watched a nest of birds on a nearby tree—the mother feeding her children a pair of wiggling worms. The younglings puffed out their torsos and shrilled with delight, nipping at the slimy prisoners.
Then, there was a knock at the door to his room.
He didn't call out an invitation, but Clarisse let herself in anyway.
"Your brother will be here any minute, Alfred. Why on earth haven't you changed into the clothes I set out for you? Don't you want to look presentable for dinner? Honestly, what am I to do with you? Matthew is impatiently waiting for you downstairs."
The questions went in one ear and out the other as America wrapped his arms around his knees and huddled into an immobile ball, refusing to converse with anyone in the vicinity. He welcomed the darkness as he closed his eyes to shield them from the light.
He wasn't surprised that Clarisse had had enough of his melodramas. He didn't blame her. She'd been trying her hardest—she really had—but she hadn't managed to get through to him despite the numerous efforts on her part. She'd tried preparing his favorite foods for dinner and allowing him extra cookies whenever his heart so desired, but the administrations hadn't made the slightest difference. It was as though the cheerful soul that America had always possessed had been severely mangled and hung on a clothesline to straighten itself out. The light in his eyes had dimmed. His lips barely let past a few, simple, one-worded replies a day.
He didn't know it, but America—the landmass itself—was bubbling with repressed anger inside. The streets of Boston were his veins and they had hardened just as firmly as his heart had.
So it wasn't as farfetched of an action as it should have been when Clarisse threw a dirty washcloth to the floor and slammed the door shut, leaving Alfred in pure solitude once more. He barely winced at the sharp sound of wood bashing against itself, head still buried within the curvatures of his legs.
He nearly jumped out of his skin when Canada's hand somehow found its way onto the circumference of his shoulder, squeezing the appendage reassuringly. He must've missed the sound of the boy's footfalls as he made his way into the room.
"Get up."
Canada's command was unwavering and steady, so unlike him in more ways than one. Matthew couldn't have explained it if he had tried, but he knew that he was the only one who would be able to shake America from his gloomy reverie of crippling thoughts. The boy possessed the power to be resolute when he knew that he was being depended on to act. No one else would step up to face this challenge.
America lifted his chin just an inch and stiffened his shoulders, pointedly scowling at Canada before dropping his burdened, upper body once more. "No, thanks," he mumbled huskily. "I think I'll just sit here until I melt."
"Or you'll just get a really bad sunburn and need another milk bath," Canada said with a roll of the eyes. "I need you to do me a favor."
America's eyes were slits as he turned his head to the side in mild curiosity. "Sorry, business is closed today. Ask England when he gets home."
Canada was unrelenting. "England can't help me with this problem, so stop being a big baby and help me out." The words were hardly offensive, but effective nonetheless. America's weakness had always been his deep insecurity and his effervescent thirst to prove his worth.
He uncurled himself from his miserable position and stepped away from the windowsill, defensive stance already in play. "I'm not a baby!"
Canada bit back a smug smile at the fact that his old tricks still worked perfectly. He knew his twin all-too-well. He easily lured him into the humid outside and over to the same lake where England had taught America to swim all those years ago. He had grown quite a bit since then; now a lanky adolescent as opposed to the hyperactive early child he'd once been.
Canada was the first to speak. "Remember when you fell into this lake that one winter when we were skating?"
America groaned, face growing even warmer than it already had been at the memory. "Don't remind me. I've had some pretty good times by this lake, even though it tried to kill me."
Canada chuckled amiably, proving to be pleasant company. "Well, let's see if you can think as fast as you did back then."
America was about to spin around to ask Canada what he was talking about, but was, instead, pushed into the river by his twin's rough hands, sending him plummeting into the depths of the water with an indignant squawk.
After a few, grueling seconds, America's head broke through the surface of the glistening water. He coughed and spit out a mouthful of water, nostrils stinging and heart pounding. With an irritated snarl, he shouted some unfavorable words at Canada that England would definitely not have approved of.
"You're gonna pay for that!" America promised, wrapping a dripping hand around Canada's ankle with a devious smirk.
"No, America, don't! These are the new clothes that Clarisse-AGH!"
Canada went tumbling into the gloriously, cool water as well, escaping the sun's rays of death. He mimicked America upon bringing his head back up to the blessed atmosphere, taking in a giant gulp of air before splashing a handful of water at his brother's face.
America laughed, eyes finally alight with the joy that Canada had longed to see again. His face glowed under the sunlight, and his cowlick was as pronounced as ever among the rest of his sodden, matted hair. His striking blue eyes and wheat-colored hair greeted Canada with replenished life.
Canada grumbled unhappily under his breath, knowing that Clarisse was going to throttle the living daylights out of him for ruining his outfit in the murky, lake water. Nonetheless, he swam back to the shallow edge of the lake with his brother and began skipping rocks before presenting the true reason as to why he had brought America outside.
"While you were fooling around in the library, I read some of the letters that England has been sending to Clarisse," he began seriously, flicking his wrist and tossing a stone into the water.
"England sends letters to Clarisse?" America furrowed, rolling up the soggy ends of his jeans so that they rested just below his knees.
Canada shook his head. "They aren't meant for her. He has her personally deliver all the letters to some of the soldiers stationed here in Boston. She'd lose her job if she read them… But I figured if England's willing to go through all the trouble of having his letters delivered in secrecy, he must have something important to say."
America's eyebrows soared up his forehead. "Don't tell me you read the letters! England will kill you!"
Canada's eyes took on a mischievous look. "He won't lay a hand on us, America. We're colonies—part of the empire—he needs us. Anyway, I think I can explain why you've been feeling so down lately. In one of his letters he talks about the growing concern over the American colonies. It turns out your people are really unhappy with how Parliament is treating them. Now that you're old enough, you've grown attached to your people. That is, whatever they feel you feel in return."
"Then how come you don't feel the emotions of the people up in Canada?" America asked curiously, slightly frightened by this new revelation.
"I guess it's because my land hasn't been part of the British Empire as long as yours has been, not to mention I'm not even in Canada most of the time since I moved in with you and England," Canada replied nonchalantly, turning over another stone in his palm.
America glowered. "Doesn't that bother you? Not being with your people and stuff?"
Canada stiffened a little at the question, trying to brush off the subject. "I suppose… What really matters though is that while you're experiencing the anger of your people, so is England. England feels the entire empire, not just his homeland. I'm willing to bet he's fighting some sort of internal battle right now, which is bound to make him… do something that he wouldn't normally do."
America inquired further, anxiety peaking as he listened to the other young adolescent. "What do you mean?"
Canada turned away from America, kneeling in the grass. "I've heard that divisions within an empire are never good news. If I'm right, your people are starting to see that they will always be considered inferior to the motherland."
"Inferior?"
Canada sighed, plastering a hand to his sweaty forehead in an attempt to cool down. "If you paid attention while doing the assignments England left us, you'd pick up on some history and learn to use your head! He never leaves us too much though… Naturally, he can't let us become too educated… Colonies aren't viewed as a part of the sovereign nation; they're an extension of the empire. They are gained solely for the purpose of bringing wealth to the mother nation."
"Is that why the soldiers England sends here don't like the colonists?" America queried, kicking off his sandals and swatting a nearby fly.
"Yes, exactly. The English soldiers don't like American colonists for the main reason that they are not considered English. The same goes for people from Canada, India or any other colony. The American colonists are considered to be less important than the English themselves, and now that the colonists are upset with Parliament, it's only a matter of time before—"
"Alfred? Matthew? Your brother has just arrived! Come and welcome him back!" Clarisse directed, spotting the pair by the lake.
America ignored her, lowering his head and whispering fervently instead, "Only a matter of time before what?"
Canada sent an appreciative smile in Clarisse's direction before snapping his head back toward America. "Mutiny… Treason… There isn't much of a class distinction in the colonies; no nobility. Basically that means that the common people make up the majority of the population. They are large enough in number to demand that they be heard."
The pair's voices were growing more hurried and urgent now as they began to trek back to the front of the house.
"I just think you have a right to know what's going on, America. England shouldn't be trying to hide this from you; it'll only make things worse," Canada murmured as their elder brother's carriage came into view.
"Canada? I've been thinking… I told you about that book with John Locke, right? If what you say is true and the people are angry because they aren't being represented, do you think they could overthrow the government?" America muttered sheepishly, suddenly feeling extremely inferior, indeed.
Canada choked on the air filling his lungs, eyes stinging. "You mean l-like a revolution?"
America felt his heart skip a beat at the word. "Yeah, a revolution."
"I think you've been sitting in the sun for too long. A war between an empire and some colonies? An empire with the strongest navy in the world, nonetheless? That was a good one, America."
America scoffed, kicking up some dirt. "It wasn't meant to be a joke."
England's mossy eyes had just finished conversing with the carriage driver when they landed on America. Something seemed to harden inside of him before he shook it off and held his arms open to embrace his little brother, face cordial once more.
"My, America, you've grown!" he remarked as America hesitantly walked into the hug, allowing himself to be fussed over for a few moments. "And you're absolutely drenched to the bone! Have you been swimming in the lake again? Run along and change into some dry clothes before dinner, alright?"
America nodded weakly, suddenly feeling very foreign and small in England's presence even though he was only about three inches shorter than his guardian. He dashed into the house just as England began fretting over Canada, jumping up the steps two at a time. He dressed as gradually as possible, hands trembling as he buttoned his shirt. So slowly in fact, that he barely noticed as England came behind him with some sort of present at hand.
"You've been up here for a while? Is everything alright?" he asked gently, silently inspecting his colony from the doorway.
America swiftly nodded, stopping himself from biting his lip nervously before it was too late. "I'm fine. What's with the suit? It looks expensive…" He examined the artifact warily, disliking the taste immediately. It looked far too fancy and stuffy, so unlike America's outlandish style. "Too bad I'll never wear it," he added as an afterthought, unsure of whether or not his statement had sounded rude or not.
Apparently, it had.
"You should," England countered firmly, handing over the suit to America. "Dressing like a pauper isn't in fashion. I refuse to be seen with you if you aren't dressed properly," he finished matter-of-factly.
Perhaps it had been the conversation that had taken place between the twins prior to England's arrival that had lit the fuse on America's sensitivity, but he suddenly felt extremely self-conscious of his appearance. Then again, who did England think he was telling him how to dress correctly? He would dress however he very well pleased.
"So, what's the matter? I think the way I dress is perfectly acceptable," he snarled, making his opinion known before tearing the suit away from England's view and marching into the bathroom to change. He planned to prove to England that the suit looked ridiculous.
When he had returned fully dressed, he stomped in front of the mirror in his room, face dropping at his reflection.
He looked so…so…
European.
England seemed awfully pleased with himself, a proud smile gleaming on his face. "See? Dressed like that it's hard to believe you're the same person."
America tried not to take the comment to heart, his eyes glaring distastefully back at him through the mirror. He would never be caught dead in this suit if he could help it.
"Sure..." he forced a smile at England. "But this isn't comfortable. I guess I'll just wear it on special occasions then."
England sighed, but conceded, crossing his arms across his chest and scrutinizing America's form one more time before allowing him to change back to his regular clothes.
Did he really dress like a pauper?
America frowned, rubbing a hand across his face wearily. Everyone in the colonies dressed in a similar fashion; it was simply part of the culture.
Another wave of fury bubbled inside of him. He could practically hear the voices of angry citizens shouting in his ear. He gripped the doorknob in one hand, wondering if England could feel the same twinge of heated emotions. Maybe he'd grown immune to it all considering how vast his empire was.
After all, the sun never sets on the British Empire.
America had matured into quite a strapping man. His cornflower hair complimented his azure eyes; those orbs glistened with untold wisdom depicting a young adult far beyond his years that many had failed to notice.
Except for Canada.
The seeds of understanding had been planted and watered, meaning that there was nothing stopping America now from thriving even more. He'd grown unnaturally large for a collection of colonies, surprising both England and Canada alike.
Canada wordlessly observed the process of America reading under candlelight during late hours. Clarisse had tried to prod him into going to bed for some required rest each night, but America had ignored every plea. Getting America to read when he was a young child had always ended up in someone getting extremely frustrated with an accompanying migraine, but now, he seemed to be inhaling one book after another. He constantly stole books from England's library, careful to put them back in their rightful place when he was finished with them, leaving the library seemingly untouched and spotless.
But Canada knew… Canada had always known, whether he had liked to admit it or not.
America wasn't as foolish, naïve or lazy as others would've judged him to be. He was clever and cunning, always acting as though nothing was out of the ordinary when speaking with England. He'd mastered the skill of controlling his hot-tempered emotions and stood in front of his sovereign nation as though he was still the most precious and obedient thing the world had ever laid eyes upon.
And while Canada watched the days and seasons pass like the servants of their expansive abode, America grew more and more detached as knowledge seeped into his very core.
Canada felt as though America had been poisoned. He knew that they were just colonies, destined to forever kneel to their motherland's command without question or hesitation. To Canada, it was a duty and an obligation to the empire to remain loyal and hardworking, helping the empire prosper by handing over resources and supplies.
To America, they were just slaves to the crown, and he would never allow himself and his people to remain bound by those chains for very long. A fire that could not be quenched had already been ignited, and America was going to burn the ropes that were holding his wrists; regardless of whether or not he should have his own skin blistered in the process.
However, what Canada had not expected was England's violent reaction. After small outbreaks of resistance in the colonies toward a new string of taxes imposed by the Stamp Act, he'd sent hundreds of redcoats overseas to snuff out the flames of the rebellion.
And as with all fires, it had soon grown uncontrollable after its manifestation. Canada could practically see fire raining down from the skies when America had approached him to question where his true loyalties lied.
America's stance had become more impressive over the years, and his eyes had gone from innocent and fragile to sharp and stolid. He'd also grown taller than Canada, seeing how quickly he was developing and pulling himself away from England's influence.
"If this does lead to the colonists taking up arms, which I expect it will, are you going to be siding with my troops or those of the British Empire?"
America's voice was deeper than what Canada had once remembered it being.
"Your troops? You've barely got a militia. Joining you would be suicide, and unlike you, I don't plan on having my people die for an unachievable goal," Canada muttered, already tired of a war that hadn't even officially started.
"It was a simple question. If you can't answer it, then just say so!" America spat, pulling out a cigarette from his coat pocket and carefully lighting it. He'd picked up the stress-relief habit while hanging around with the other colonists, though it was supposedly addictive. Personally, he hadn't cared very much at the time. With an angry exhale of breath, he brought the cigarette to his lips and took a long drag, slumping against the wall as he regarded Canada with cold eyes.
"I think I've made my point clear enough. I'll be siding with England," Canada finally stated without an ounce of remorse.
America tapped the excess ash off of the cigarette before continuing. "Alright, then I guess you'll be heading back to your own land soon enough?"
Canada nodded, running a hand through his wavy hair, which was much more manageable than his brother's. "It's been a while, and England's deemed me old enough to live by myself on actual Canadian land. Besides, he's too busy fighting you to really have to worry about me any longer, right?"
America clicked his teeth disapprovingly and let out a puff of smoke from his mouth. "You're free to go on your own while I'm still being treated like an unruly child? How wonderful…"
"I'd watch my back if I were you. England is bound to arrive to the colonies any day, and he'll come on a mission to stop this madness on his own. If it should come down to warfare… let's just say that I hope you don't get blown to smithereens, eh?" Canada smirked, amused by the recent turn of events.
"Thanks, brother. How very supportive of you," America grumbled with a shake of the head. "I'm outta here," he added finally with his colonial accent, opening the door.
Canada narrowed his eyes. "What do you plan to do?"
America grinned toothily in that childish way that Canada hadn't seen in nearly a decade. "It's obvious, isn't it?"
He dropped his cigarette butt to the ground and extinguished it with the tip of his boot.
"Start a revolution."