American Revolution

There was a strong sense of validation that came over America when he was the one to finally loom over England's slumped form, so strong to the point where it felt wrong. He had every right to kick England while he was down, but he didn't. In fact, he just stood there before him, speechless, dazed, and shocked at how the tables had turned. He wiped at the cold rain sticking to his cheeks and watched as Britain hunched over himself. Those commanding emerald eyes hid behind shaking hands that were chilled to the bone.

The sun never sets on the British Empire.

America felt his heart beginning to soften, wondering whether or not he should give England a helping hand before going their separate ways. Despite all the warfare, bloodshed, and fervent emotions, they were still brothers (at least America thought so). Therefore, he stretched out a supportive hand and offered it to England, hoping to move on and put the past behind them. Perhaps, it would signify a new beginning for their little, semi-dysfunctional family.

England raised his head from his trembling hands, bangs wet with salty tears and rain as he gave America a pitiful look. Then, with a suddenly neutral expression, he slapped the proffered hand away as his lips curled with disdain.

"Keep your filthy hands away from me. You were always so unruly and uncivilized. I don't know what I was thinking, trying to culture a savage like you. I should have left you in that damned forest when I had the chance." England grit his teeth and stood up, marching away. "I knew you'd be trouble."

America narrowed his eyes, tucking his stinging hand into the pocket of his uniform. Two could play at that game. With a growling noise residing in the pit of his throat, he stormed away in the opposite direction with the remainder of his fellow Patriots. He planned on celebrating a well-deserved victory.

If only things were that simple…

War of 1812

Out of all the times England had been drunk, this time had certainly topped all of the events that had taken place before and after it. When looking back on it later, he'd wince at the idea of poor Canada having to witness it.

He'd all but strolled into Washington D.C during the War of 1812, he and his fellow commanders laughing at the ignorance of the American militia who had taken position in Bladensburg, Maryland of all places, expecting the battle to take place there due to a poor transmission of information and loose rumors.

All in all, the war was actually a pleasant distraction for England, separating him from the chaos happening in Europe at the time, due to France and its Napoleonic Wars. Battling with America was bringing out old feelings of competitiveness that he'd forgotten he'd possessed.

So, he took as much advantage of the situation as possible during the time, and after a few hearty drinks, he and his old war buddies pranced into the White House and, to add further insult to injury, indulged in the dinner that had been prepared for the President of the United States. James Madison had been forced to flee for his safety upon seeing the all-too-familiar redcoats parading around his mansion, and the few people who remained inside the domain scurried around to protect valuables before fleeing for their lives as well.

Honestly, he swore that he'd never let America live this one down; it was just too priceless. It felt good to finally get some revenge on his former charge with an immense sense of superiority trickling through his nerves.

Canada had awkwardly strolled behind him the entire time, forever remaining loyal to the other nation after being brainwashed with some well-cultivated propaganda on England's part. He'd urged the boy to support the British after telling him that America was planning to expand his land by annexing parts of Canadian land. This of course, had enraged the normally docile nation, and he'd been following England around like a lapdog ever since.

Halfway through the President's steak, England clicked his tongue and poured himself more of the mulled wine that had been set on the table, the burning taste of alcohol warming him delightfully.

Canada mustered the courage to interrupt. "Um, Arthur? D-Do you really think we should be doing this? A-Alfred will be furious."

England poured some of the red wine into an empty, pristine glass and passed it over to Canada. "Ah, but that's the point, my dear boy. Cheers. Besides, we aren't nearly finished here. It'd be a shame to leave when the night is still so young. I suggest we wait for the Americans to arrive after a long march back to their beloved capital."

"F-Finished? What other business do we have here?"

England clapped Canada's shoulder, a slack grin twitching at his face. "Lad, we're going to have a little ball, only this time, we'll skip some of the usual formalities. Yes, I dare say the night will be in flames by the time we retreat."

The curl of hair sticking out on the top of Canada's head seemed to droop a little. "F-Flames?"

England merely shrugged slyly. "Consider it Alfred's early birthday gift. A pity he won't make it for the party."

At that, one of the commanders stood up and traveled to the piano in the opposite room and began to play a melancholy tune. The other British lords and nobles ransacked the perimeter, taking anything of considerable value and tossing it into the fireplace.

Canada stood sheepishly by England's side, letting out a little yelp of protest when the older nation pulled him down to sit in one of the luxurious chairs.

"Quite a lavish place, isn't it? And Alfred always said he disliked the ornate castles of Europe," England scoffed, standing up and digging in his coat pocket for a moment before withdrawing himself a cigarette and lighting it. "I suppose you're still upset about his troops burning York."

Canada watched the man warily. "All is fair in love and war, no? He's my twin brother; I'll find a way to let it go."

England clicked his tongue once more. "Oh, Matthew, I thought I'd raised you better than that. I suppose I'll just have to help you settle the score then… You leave me no choice."

With that, England knocked all the burning candles in the room to the floor and watched the carpet explode into uncontrollable flames. The nation's eyes seemed to come alive at the sight of the fire, all drunkenness fading immediately as his focus came back to him.

"Arthur, no! What are you doing? He'll feel it. You're going to hurt him!" Canada frantically ran across the room, searching for the nearest source of water.

"Just as he hurt you, yes?"

"That was different!"

England smirked. "Oh, was it really? Please, explain."

"We don't have time for that now! We have to put this fire out!"

"Alfred's suffered worse. This is a simple strike to his pride," England reassured, guiding Canada out of the room while the others accompanying them began to aggravate the flames even more. "He won't feel a thing in the morning."

"You're wrong!" Canada shouted angrily as England gripped his wrist and led him out the front entrance to the White House.

"How long do you think it will take for him to finally grace us with his presence?" England chuckled, watching as one of the windows of the top floor shattered, letting down a rain of glass. The majority of his men were still spreading the fire with little to no regards to their own safety.

And once again, Canada chided himself for underestimating America's impeccable timing and the fire of his own spirit. Dark clouds rolled into the night as he and England stood before the burning White house for a few, triumphant minutes. Then, terrible gusts of wind spurred the violent flames and sent the redcoats running out of the building in suppressed fear and excitement.

"Arthur, look over there," Canada shrilled, pointing to a place off in the distance beyond the city and its plains. "It's a tornado."

England followed Canada's gaze and allowed himself a dry smile. "I won't say I'm surprised by Alfred's reaction."

The fire continued to crackle loudly ahead of them, sending planks of wood crashing to the ground. Surrounding civilians screeched in fear, cursing the redcoats as they ran past to protect themselves. Then, in the midst of the chaos, Alfred came galloping into the scene on a horse, jumping off the animal and tearing across the site with wide eyes.

Then, a torrential downpour of rain began, signaling the approach of the tornado and sending the majority of people inside or underground to avoid it. The water extinguished the remaining fire that had been consuming the White House, leaving a smoldering pile of ash and debris behind.

Alfred's blue eyes finally found England and his group of redcoats. No more than two seconds later, he had sprinted the distance between him and the other nation, ignoring the pain in his side as he tackled England to the ground, caking his uniform with mud.

"What have you done?" America bellowed, gripping the front of England's shirt and holding him down with one foot pressed against his chest.

England seemed completely unfazed. "What have I done? I don't think I'm the one to blame for the greatest disgrace ever dealt to American arms."

America curled a hand around England's throat dangerously. "I would lose that snarky tone if I were you."

Infuriated with the entire, ridiculous war, Canada finally found the resolve in him to rip America off of England, sending the twins into a struggle in the mud, rain still drenching them both.

"You're here too? You helped him do this?" America spluttered around his gasps for breath around the heavy rain, pinning Canada's shoulders to the ground.

"Maybe if you'd just left my land alone…"

"This has nothing to do with you and everything to do with England's stubborn pride!" America roared, eyes burning uncomfortably at the sight of Canada still wearing that redcoat uniform after all those years… Always a loyalist… Always a struggle between even the closest of brothers…

England sighed, head pounding from all the liquor he'd chugged down. "America, let him go."

"Stay out of this, you limey," America spat in return, eyes grating into Canada's. "Why won't you leave him? I thought… I thought you would've left him and joined my side by now. Haven't I proved myself?"

Canada shook his head. "You never had to prove yourself. I always knew you'd beat all the odds."

"Matt, you know I'm sorry for what happened in York… It's just a little place anyway! It's not like I burned down something as important as the White House!"

And suddenly, Canada was reminded of the conversation they'd had as children in England's backyard, catching fireflies. He responded with the same answer he'd given then. "That doesn't mean it isn't important."

America frowned and gaped and Canada, finally releasing him and standing up. He remembered the time when England had once embraced him and said, "Neither of us understands our capabilities."

And the words were so much stronger now than when he'd been a child.

England brooded on how everything could have resulted in a nice family reunion, but just held his tongue instead, eyes nostalgic as he watched the fully-grown twins stare each other down.

"Canada? Come along then, we've got a militia to face off."

And with a final, solemn look in America's direction, Canada followed England's lead into the night.

World War I

"The war to end all wars," England scoffed, spitting a mouthful of dust onto the barren land of the military campsite. "What rubbish." He furrowed his eyebrows at the sight of new recruits entering the camp in chocolate colored uniforms. He recognized a distinct head of dark blond hair among the group paired with that incorrigible cowlick.

"Oi!" he shouted, grabbing the attention of the young soldier, who cocked his head to the side and forced a smile on his face. Even though the gesture was strained, it was reassuring to see fresh troops among the weary soldiers that had been fighting for the past few years. Before America had joined the war, it seemed as though the stalemate between Germany and Britain was never going to let up. But now, the Allies finally had their advantage to end this.

America abandoned the group of men and walked up to England, a look of determination already inscribed into his face.

"Nice of you to finally join us," England huffed, though he couldn't help the relief that was inflating in his chest. "Who would've thought that it would only take a single tantrum over Germany's U-boats destroying your trading ships to get you involved in the war? A European war, nonetheless."

America grimaced at the teasing. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. I thought you could use the help anyway seeing as you keep complaining about France and Russia being totally useless. Russia hasn't even industrialized yet. Being the heroic figure that I am, it was my cue to sweep in."

"Don't flatter yourself, I was doing just fine without your assistance," England smoothly lied, trying to defend his pride. "Canada's troops and other help from my colonies have been more than sufficient."

America bit the inside of his cheek at the emphasis England had placed on his statement. "Where is Canada by the way? Tending to the wounded Frenchmen? His roots were always tied closer to France than you."

"Actually, he's feeding your famished, journey-worn soldiers as we speak, so I'd play nice for a while," England informed, walking through the camp with America on his heels. "We're set to strike in the morning, so prepare wisely." He stated with an undertone of concern.

America scratched an itch on his arm through the uniform as he contemplated this. He knew England was holding back some crucial information.

He ventured a careful question. "What's it like out there, England?"

The man sighed, eyes fluttering shut with a shaky breath. "The trenches are horrible sights to see, and the Germans have been using the dead as… Nevermind that… What's important is that you keep your eyes open."

America nodded, making a turn for where dinner was being served. "Alright then, I'll see you later."

England bit his lip, eyes downcast.

A war of attrition was a euphemism for the birth of inhumanity.

"So, Canada, slowly separating from England's control, I see," America smiled, biting into a roll. "He's still got some say in what you do, but I guess it must be nice to be sort of considered as your own nation."

Canada pursed his lips, watching as America wolfed down his meal. Weeks of being on the seas could really drain a person. "I think we have bigger problems now than my relationship with England."

America swallowed a large portion of food before stuffing more carbohydrate-rich nutrients into his mouth. If he planned to fight, he had to be well-fed and energized. "This war will be over soon, Mattie, don't you worry."

"I think you're taking this a little too lightly," Canada whispered, images from previous battles already burned into his retinas. There were some things that he wished he could just voluntarily forget.

"You'll see, those Germans don't stand a chance."

And for once, there was no irritation in Canada's voice when he spoke to America. For a moment, it was just like old times.

"I hope you're right, Al. I really do."

England was right; the trenches were a horrible place. Those crevices that were dug into the earth were surrounded by miles of land that looked impossibly desolate and inhabitable. America wondered how humans could even bear to stand in such a wasteland.

It was the first war he'd ever been in that had contained such major destruction. The sights were unlike anything he'd ever witnessed before, and it made him feel nauseous. He'd barely trekked half-way up the hill they were supposed to be battling on before he had to stop to vomit, stomach burning intensely.

Canada patiently waited for him as the others went on, giving him a hand when he dizzily got onto his feet again.

It was not long before he was kneeling in one of the trenches, gun pointed ahead as England and Canada stood on either side of him, each with their own guns at the ready.

What they had not expected to happen so early in the fight, was for the Germans to drop a mixture of tear and mustard gas into their trench, leaving them fumbling around messily to put on their gasmasks. England had already had his on before the battle had even ensued, but America—who had been resolute about keeping the mask off because it would press against his glasses—was left clumsily fighting with the protective device. Canada managed to put his own on with practiced ease, avoiding the spray of tear gas that would have otherwise blinded him before setting off into a run through the trench behind England, who was guiding them to safety.

America ran as well, still trying to pull on the mask as his eyes watered and burned. He regretted the time during which he'd claimed, 'heroes don't need gasmasks'.

Thank goodness for Canada's warm-heart.

"ENGLAND! WAIT!" Canada yelled over the incredible noise, gripping the back of England's jacket to pull him back. The elder nation stumbled and turned his head to see America's sorry state. It seemed as though the young man was drowning on air itself, choking and coughing as his face grew red and desperate. He was the living definition of a fish out of water.

I always knew you'd be trouble…

England pushed past Canada and ran back to help America, snatching the mask out of the younger nation's hands and pressing it against his face roughly before securing it in the back.

"Going to get himself bloody killed," England murmured under his breath, voice muffled by his mask as America grew limp in his arms from inhaling the poisonous gas. A regular human would have already died from the exposure, but England prayed that since America was a full-grown nation, he'd be able to handle the substance.

"Idiot," England panted through the respirator around the sides of his face, supporting America's body and picking him up as best as he could manage without breaking his spine. He gave the man a piggy-back ride for a hundred yards or so before laying him on the ground once more and collapsing on the soil next to an equally exhausted Canada.

"Is he going to be okay?" Canada asked as he took off his mask and inhaled the fresh air once more.

England nodded firmly. "He has to be, or he'll regret it."

Canada gave a nostalgic smile.

"We need to get to a hospital or the medical camp at the very least. We haven't much time before the effects of the gas start settling in. Even if Alfred was the only one who inhaled the mustard gas, we've all been exposed," England rambled worriedly, hovering over America's unconscious form.

Subsequently, Canada began to scratch at his leg, hissing when he hit a particularly tender spot.

England went bug-eyed, snatching Canada's arm in a death grip. "Don't scratch!"

The timid nation apologized quickly, unsure of what he'd exactly done to make England so frightened. However, his silent question was answered when England rolled up the leg of his pants, pointing to an angry, red blister on Canada's fair skin.

"It's started. We weren't exposed for very long, but it'll be enough to blister us thoroughly if we don't douse ourselves with some water immediately. We have to wash it off," England explained frantically, lifting America up as gently as he could manage before heading east. "I think there's a small river nearby. We can bathe there. By the time we get to camp, America's airway will be blocked with blisters in his throat, so we'll need to set up our own camp nearby."

Canada gave America a pitying look before nodding and lagging behind England, backpack full of vital resources on hand.

Being an island nation, England had always had a knack for spotting sources of water nearby. His extensive knowledge of geography and nature always proved to be handy in sticky situations during warfare. This time was no different.

They reached the river in ten minutes flat. Without wasting a single moment, England set America down near the edge of the water and beckoned for Canada to join them. England hopped into the water first, clothes and all, trying to rinse any residue from the gas off of his skin and clothes. It was a warm, spring afternoon, and England supposed that his clothes would dry quickly any way. If he had to take the risk of catching a cold, then so be it, but at least he'd be alive.

Canada soon followed in suit, dunking his head into the water and scrubbing his hands briskly. They put to use the single, tiny bars of soap that each of them had stored in their backpacks for times like these, during which they were far from camp. It was a shame to have to waste it so soon, but it was certainly necessary. They ran the soap over their skin and clothes, doing everything to rid their bodies of the gas' effects.

"Good. That should be alright for now. There should be some topical cream for the blisters in the first aid kit," England noted, rummaging around his backpack for the box. He plopped it next to Canada and told him to treat his blisters and then set up camp before heading back to America's side.

"You've managed to get yourself into another big mess, you know that? I'm going to help you, but it won't be pretty nor are you going to like it," England glowered, cupping his hands into the river and filling them with water before splashing the liquid onto the other nation's face.

America woke up promptly, attempting to sit up habitually until England's hands pushed him back down. The young nation's eyes were bloodshot as he blinked up slowly at England, letting out a horrible cry of pain in the process. He sounded like a wounded dog, howling and whimpering helplessly.

"Hush, Alfred," England whispered reassuringly, pushing back the nation's hair.

"A-Arthur," America let out a ragged breath, voice mangled and unrecognizable. A few tears leaked from his eyes involuntarily; not out of sadness, but pure pain.

Canada tried not to gawk at the sight, head turned as he focused on setting up the foldable tent he'd carried with him in his backpack. Still, he couldn't help but notice the renewed compassion in England's voice. The last time the man had been so gentle with America was when they were children. The soothing lilt of the Englishman's voice had been enough to put all of their worries to rest when the twins were small.

Canada got lost in the memory for a little while, watching out of his peripheral vision as England carried America over to the water and dunked him carefully in and out of the river. America gasped at the numbing temperature of the water, but adjusted quickly, head resignedly resting against England's chest as the older nation tried to muster up enough strength to keep America upright while scrubbing him down with soap.

Canada had forgotten how strong England could be.

"There, there, it'll be alright. Try not to speak. Your throat is going to hurt quite a bit for the next few days," he'd said delicately, downsizing the severity of the situation to keep America calm. He didn't even explain to America what was happening, though the nation didn't seem to mind, seeing as he was too preoccupied with dealing with the pain in his aching lungs.

Once the tent was deemed fit enough to spend the night in, Canada began to start a fire, glancing up at the sky as sunset began to tower in the distance. It was going to be a long night.

"Drink some of this water and rinse your mouth out a few times. You may want to gargle as well," England continued whispering commands to America, aiding him whenever he was unable to do something himself. The young nation coughed roughly multiple times and did as he was told to the best of his ability while England rummaged around in the first-aid kit that Canada had long since finished using.

He found a few tubes of plastic containing clear saline, brightening with relief upon the discovery. Perhaps they weren't completely doomed after all. He guided America into a supine position once more, removed his glasses and opened one of the tubes of saline to use as makeshift eye drops. It rinsed America's eyes out and reduced the redness and irritation that had settled there, causing the younger country to sigh with relief. His glasses were soon placed back on his face.

"Feeling better?" England instantly interrogated, holding his hand in front of America's face and asking him how many fingers he was holding up.

"Three," America mumbled correctly, his voice hoarse and raw.

"Good, any blurriness or dark spots?"

America shook his head in negation, causing England's shoulders to sag with relief.

"Thank God," he spoke faintly, offering America the semblance of a dry smile.

Blindness would not be one of their concerns any longer; it was a miracle that his eyes would come out unscathed.

But there were plenty of other things to worry about instead.

"Let's get you settled in the tent." England said mildly, squeezing America's shoulder in a mollifying way as he helped him stand again.

America gasped quietly, trying to gain control of his voice as fresh oxygen invaded his sore lungs once more. "A-Arthur…I…"

England shushed him. "What did I say about speaking unnecessarily?" The pair made their way over to the small, gray tent that Canada had set up. It wasn't much, but it would have to suffice.

Canada had already gathered up all three of the blankets that they had, covering the bottom of the tent with one of them and tucking America in with another. The third one had been set by the fire, where one of them would be sleeping for the night. When he was sure that England and America wouldn't be needing his help anytime soon, he went through the cans of food that remained in each of their packs, trying to make a meal out of whatever he could salvage.

"M-Mattie's a…g-great housewife," America chuckled weakly before letting out a string of painful coughs.

England crossed his arms. "If you're feeling well enough to make attempts at humor, I think you just might make it out of this in one piece. Then, I'll be able to scold you for being such an idiot that you couldn't even properly put your gasmask on!"

America gave England a cheeky albeit weary smile.

"Yes, you won't be smiling when the abdominal pains, blisters, shortness of breath, fever and wretched coughing set in. Mustard gas is an unforgiving substance. I'm afraid you'll be suffering through the effects for a few days before you'll be ready to walk around again, let alone fight," England informed.

America coughed again. "W-Will I die?"

England frowned, biting his tongue. Quite frankly, he wasn't sure of the answer.

"No, don't be ridiculous."

He knew that America could read through the lie.

It had been Canada's turn to keep watch over America late into the night while England caught up on a few hours of sleep by the fire before they would switch roles again. The nation had to be monitored around the clock in case of respiratory complications. At around three in the morning, Canada had come sprinting out of the tent, shaking England awake with a panicky air.

England woke quickly, always a light-sleeper. Upon seeing Canada's concerned eyes, he stumbled his way inside the tent and sat down by America's side, placing a practiced hand on the prone nation's forehead.

"He's been calling for you in his sleep. I think he's delirious. At one point, he started screaming. I didn't know what to do!" Canada said dejectedly, hands trembling in fear upon seeing his twin so incapacitated.

England nodded with a yawn. "It's alright, lad. Go to sleep. I'll handle this."

Canada remembered a time in his childhood when he'd come running to England's room in the middle of the night, explaining to him that America was having a terrible nightmare and that he was extremely worried. England had smiled at him fondly and praised him for being such a good sibling, before telling him to sleep in his bedroom for the night as he tended to America.

Things didn't seem much different now. England was still the one who was always cool-minded and in control during emergencies, always able to think well, if not better, under pressure.

Canada retreated quickly, too troubled to sleep anyway.

Meanwhile, England readjusted the moist cloth that Canada must have retrieved to lower the fever onto America's forehead, frowning as he yelped at the cold touch. His eyes popped open, wide and bewildered as he cried out in more pain, forehead clammy.

"H-Hurts," America whimpered like a kicked puppy, blinking hazily at England. "When can I go back outside, England? I wanna… Wanna go out and play… Don't like staying in bed."

Canada was right about the delirium then...

England decided to play along with the hallucinations for a little while, as long as it would keep America relaxed.

"Soon, love," he murmured, carding through America's hair tenderly. He gave the nation a calculating look as the country took in labored breaths. "You'll feel better soon enough."

"Good, cause M-Mattie needs me to teach him how to w-whistle… He can't do it… Did you know?"

England shook his head, eyes watering with tears and he watched America move his lips. "No, pet… I wasn't aware. Can you open your mouth for me? Nice and wide? Just like when you play hospital with Canada?"

America took in another oblivious breath, sweat gathering on his upper lip. He opened his mouth carefully a moment later, breaths growing shorter and heavier.

England felt more tears sting his eyes as he saw the blisters that had formed around the edges of America's swollen throat. Obviously, his attempts at clearing the residue of the gas had failed. There was nothing he could do about the internal contamination.

America closed his mouth, still believing he was a colony all over again. "Hey, England? Don't cry."

England's breath hitched as he tried to smother a sob. "I'm sorry, America."

"Silly, England. Always crying," America smiled ever so slightly, cheeks flaming red with fever.

"Yes, silly me," England replied softly, wiping his eyes and grasping America's hand with his own. "It's only because I care about you so much. You're my little brother, after all."

"I know," America whispered, coughing roughly. "You and Mattie are the best brothers in the whole wide world."

England let out a shaky breath along with a small smile. "You don't say?"

"Mhmm. I'm getting kinda sleepy, England."

England dabbed the icy, wet cloth over America's face and neck, trying to cool him down. "Don't go to sleep yet, America."

America seemed to ignore him. "Tell Canada I said goodnight."

England felt the lump in his throat double. "Please… Don't go to sleep. Stay talking to me, America."

America went silent for a moment, startling England with the heavy stillness within the tent. Finally, he spoke again. "Are you mad at me, England?"

"No, of course not," England said soothingly. "You know that I'll always forgive you, no matter what kind of trouble you get yourself into."

"Really, cause I thought that you always wanted me to be more like Canada… Canada is always good…"

"No, poppet. I like you just the way you are," England sniffed, trying to get his eyes to stop tearing up. Maybe the mustard gas had gotten into his eyes too… He couldn't understand why he was becoming such an emotional wreck all of a sudden. Perhaps, it was the lack of sleep. Yes, that explained it.

America had fallen asleep after that, unable to keep his heavy-lidded eyes open. His chest still rose and fell steadily, but it was a painful sight to behold. He tossed and turned in his sleep, restless as England rubbed his back tiredly.

He had not sat by America's side like this since before the revolution, and the importance of the moment was certainly not lost on him.

But he knew that if and when America woke up in the morning, he wouldn't remember a single word of their conversation.

And maybe it was better that way…