Once, a long time ago, America fought with England.
He stood up for his rights. He stood up for his people, for his freedom.
Once, his little brother refused to come with him, tried to dissuade him and tell him he was wrong, he was over reacting.
Once his guardian pitted his brother against him in a war. Once, he trampled over his brother in an attempt to make a stand.
Once, a long time ago, the White House burned and left a terrible and deep scar across his chest.
Once the Parliament Building burned and left a similar scar on his brother.
Once, he fell into turmoil, his people fighting against each other.
Once, his people starved as he took a stand for what was right, once again, this time with England at his side, instead of against him. Once, he and Canada leaned their bone-thin shoulders against eachother and tried to support eachother at a world meeting, tried to ignore the concerned or predatory glances shot their way.
Once, no twice, he and half the world fought for what was right. Once, he spent a month in a coma after pearl harbour was hit, and his brothers formed a line of defense to protect him, socially, physically, military.
Once he returned the pain twice-fold.
Once, he drew up his full hieght, planted his feet firmly, and told Russia to try him, to call his bluff. Once, Russia stared him back down and said the same.
Once, he screamed as twin towers burned and crumbled, and England caught his one arm as he fell, and Canada Caught his other.
Once, a long time ago, he fought. He fought for what was right, time and time again. And finally, one day, a hand fell on his arm.
"It's okay to relax now," England murmured, low enough no one else could hear, "We're not at war anymore."
And America wanted to protest that peace doesn't last, that he needed to be ready for the next war, that he needed to be ready to fight - and America always fought for what was right.
Once, Canada leaned against him in a rare show of affection, and smiled that strange and peaceful way only Canada knew how, and sighed with satisfaction.
"This is is," Canada said, either to himself, or to America, "This is what we fought for, all this time."
And America looked out on his people, his peace, and understood.
Once, America had fought for what was right. Twice, thrice, four and five and so many more times he fought. So many more times he'd continue to fight. But in that moment, America didn't fight anymore. He didn't burn or hurt or starve or tiredly push himself to his feet or stare down his enemy with an unwavering glance.
He just looked, and saw.
He saw children, fighting over toys, toys their parents could afford, full and fat on food they had and could eat.
He saw parents hug and nudge their family and friends, tease the brothers and sisters and fathers and mothers that were there, not at war, not damaged beyond repair.
He saw Russia, speaking with England about gardening tips for sunflowers, and Japan, talking with South Korea about video games, England bickering with France, Germany drinking his beer with a wistful gaze, missing a brother no longer by his side. And he saw Canada, by his side, dopey grin and all, surveying the noisy crowd with him, still by his side, still alive.
Once, he'd fought for what was right, many, many times. In the future, he would fight for what was right again, as many times as it took. But in that moment, America wasn't at war. And it was alright.
Once, America pulled Canada into a noogie at a world meeting, and England stopped bickering with France to answer Canada's cries for help, and America laughed, really, truly, laughed, from the bottom of his heart, and remembered what he fought for.
Once, not that long ago at all.