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historizeTitle:
Author/Artist:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
historyblitz
Character(s) or Pairing(s): America, Canada, Mommy!England and Papa!France
Rating: I suppose PG-13 for violence
Warnings: Angst, Native Americans, insensitive dismissals. Google!French and Google!Spanish.
I haven't decided if I want to post this one at![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
hetalia or not. I want to post it and then come back and see how satisfied I am with the result. This is still being tweaked. I haven't even decided on a title yet
The boys are at that awkward place where they are still young but America hasn't shot up in height yet. So they--especially America--drift between being needy children and the cusp of adulthood.
America gripped the sides of his head and started to scream.
She ran so beautifully, through a setting he found very familiar. She was nut-brown, beautiful black hair and in a dress of natural fibers. She was running.
And suddenly, he could feel her fear, her terror. How fast her heart was beating and her thought of, ‘What happens if I die?’
He moaned, crying now. He threw his blankets off, jumping out of bed.
There were fires and smoke. He and this woman could hear the blasts of muskets and screaming. A pitched battle?
“My people die of their sickness and drink and their….weapons….”
He was trying to get away but these thoughts….images….were invading him. He didn’t know what it was, who it was…how….
America ran through the house, tripping and stumbling over handmade furniture and a pail, wiping out in the kitchen and knocking the table over.
Something stirred on the floor above, but America didn’t hear it. He kicked the table away, threw the chairs from him and ran outside, winding around the house, going to the back yard.
Upstairs, Canada jumped awake to the sounds of terrified screaming. He and England were visiting America for the fall and so were sleeping on the second floor of America’s house. He hopped out of bed and ran into the hall where he saw his brother crash down the stairs and flip over the table.
“What…?” Canada whirled around and headed to the farthest room, throwing open the door. “England! England!”
She stumbled into a camp and for a moment, could only stand and watch. This was war as she had never seen it. The terror and anger of her people, their gods, their earth…the wars individual tribes had unleashed didn’t even compare. This was a massacre.
And there was one of them. One of those that had come on the ships. He’d stood so proudly at the bow as they sailed up the coastline. He had felt different then the other men. His name, as she had heard, was Spain.
Her hand went to her shoulder, removing a bow, notching an arrow and let fly.
It took him by surprise; America could feel Spain’s surprise as the arrow slammed into his arm. But his eyes were whirling and he grinned, sliced a throat, and then ran for her.
“Usted es su nación, no?” (You are a nation, no?)
Her features shifted, noble but she could not understand all of what he said. It didn’t matter. She grabbed the short axe from her hip and ran to meet him.
“Stop! STOP IT!” America collapsed in the back yard on his knees. He grabbed at the grass, pulling it up, clearing the leaves again. He reached up, tearing his fingernails down his face. “I DON’T WANT TO SEE!”
England ran through the house, Canada at his heels, as he leapt down the stairs. He skirted the disrupted furniture and heard the screaming before he even got outside. How had he not heard him? It must be all the wars. He was used to screaming now.
That thought disturbed him a little but he paid it no mind for the moment, following the screams into the back yard.
America was on the ground, holding his head and sobbing. He was framed in a circle of moonlight and golden leaves.
“Alfred! Alfred!” He ran to him, barefoot, nightshirt whipping around his legs.
Spain had stopped before she reached him, pulled a pistol and shot her.
America knew she had never felt a gunshot before. She started to collapse.
But then there was a flurry of activity. Surges forward of people. A muscled, nut-brown man was pulling her up onto a horse and riding away.
England knelt by his charge, grabbing his shoulders. “Alfred! What’s wrong?! Alfred!”
America wailed and instantly latched onto him. “Who is that! Who is she?!”
England’s mind went instantly to perhaps a demon or a fairy or a ghost and he looked around, but none were there. “What are you talking about?”
“The woman! Spain tried to kill her! I know her! Her people are dying!”
England went still.
She was back by the coast and this time, she was waiting. Her warriors were brave and strong, some of them had even managed to get the strange weapons of these people. Some were on horseback; others were standing behind her.
Across from them were demons in red coats. And their leader and what she now understand to be someone like she was.
Their nation.
England.
America froze in England’s arms. His blue eyes wide and teary. “England.” His voice was pitifully small, more of a whimper. “No….no! No! No!”
England tried to hold onto him, trying to restrain him as he started to flail. “Alfred! Calm down!”
He screamed. It pierced the silence and filled the night sky.
Canada sat on his knees, watching desperately.
The sides didn’t even join. Musket fire took most of them. But she, that beautiful, strong woman; she leapt through the masses until she could reach him.
His green eyes were unlike any she had ever seen. His skin was pale, as if he were very ill. His hair was the color of wheat. He was the opposite of everything she was. He had a gun and sword, though he had only drawn the latter. She had her bow and axe.
She swung the axe and she could feel the reverberations when it hit this man’s sword. He yelled something at her in a language she didn’t know. It reminded her of Spain’s but then again, didn’t.
She grabbed her knife from her belt and swiped in with it. She managed to slash his face and then jumped back, swung her axe to gain momentum and went at him again.
Again he smirked, yelled something in a cocky voice but she pressed forward. She felt the deaths of all her warriors, she felt the budding pain of the epidemics that had come from these Europeans. Her people were dying.
‘What happens when I die?’
“Alfred!” England grabbed his face and jerked his chin up. “Talk to me, boy!”
America froze for a second, staring at England and moaned again. He started to struggle, trying to get away from him. “Who was she! Why do I know her!? Why do I have to watch her die, England! Why is she fighting you!?”
England froze too, everything clicking into place. Fighting Spain. Fighting himself.
Of course.
It was her.
That beautiful woman. Spain had run into her first and described her as noble and strong. She fought like a man, with grace and strength. “I felt it,” Spain had said, “she was a nation. She represents these people.”
“We want to explore here,” England said back.
“They don’t want us here.”
“Are you leaving?” England lifted an eyebrow.
Spain laughed. “Are you?”
“No.” He picked up his cup. “We just have to get rid of her. France has already gone much farther north. I wonder if there’s one there too.”
“The woman didn’t seem to know what we were—that we were nations, I mean.”
England had snorted. “Well, she knows now. She certainly picked me out.” He had reached up, touching his forehead, where the scar was already fading.
England stared, letting America tear away from him. How does he know about her? “How can you see her, Alfred?”
“I don’t know! It started as a dream but it won’t stop! It’s like I’m remembering! But I don’t know her!” America staggered up and ran to Canada. “Matt! Matt! Do you know!?”
Canada jerked. “What?”
“When France came! Was there a fight!?”
Canada shook his head. “I—I don’t know!”
“Matt--! Who was here before us! Why do people say the Indians were here first but we look nothing like them! Who are we, Matt!?”
Canada looked disturbed. “What if—I mean, I’ve never dreamt of any nation…I don’t know!”
They had her now. She struggled all the way with them, never giving in. She never submitted. She never gave up. She fought with them to the bitter end. She was sick, desperately sick. Vomit bloody and body wasting away but her spirit…
She swung her axe but this time, England easily disarmed her. Her knife flashed out and she stabbed him in the gut.
He grit his teeth, dropped his sword, raised his flintlock and fired into her face.
America grabbed onto his hair, pulling at it, screaming and yelling. Tears poured down his cheeks.
England was just standing there, looking wispy in his nightshirt and bare feet, watching his ward scream. Why is he seeing her? Why does he have to see how I killed her? How we all killed her. It had been a joint effort, after all. Sweden and Holland and Spain and himself, all up and down the coast, with France farther north in the province of Canada.
Canada was grabbing his brother. “Al! Al!”
America clung to him and buried his face into his shoulder. “The Europeans brought guns and disease…they killed her. She was…” and his voice went desperately quiet again, “…she was….me. I mean…I….I replaced her.” And his breathing hitched and he voice starting to rise in mounting hysteria. “I replaced her! She died and I appeared! That’s why I don’t look like them! That’s why I don’t remember being born! That’s why there was never anyone until I met—that’s—that’s! Is that what happens when we die?! We’re replaced by a new idea!? What happens when we die!” He jerked back, gripping hard into Canada, shaking him.
Canada’s face scrunched up in pain. He grabbed onto America, trying to stop him. “Al! Al, let go! Alfred!”
England abruptly slammed back into himself, hearing Canada’s pleas and he perked up, hurrying across the grass to them.
“Why do some of us get mothers and others of us don’t?! Does it matter if we’re here at all? Matthew! What—!”
And then England was jerking him up, grabbing America into his arms and cradling him. The boy yelled and cried and clung to England, wrapping his arms around his neck tightly, sobbing into his shoulder. England knelt next to Canada. Ah, where’s Francis when I actually need him for something. He opened his arm and Canada hesitantly stepped into it.
England carried both boys back into the house, taking them upstairs to his room. He sat up against the headboard, letting them both cling to him. America cried himself to sleep, exhausted and shaking.
Canada was shivering and eventually followed suit.
England was awake long after and slipped into uneasy dreams about his old Celtic tribes just before dawn.
The next day, he didn’t move. When he awoke, Canada and America were wrapped around each other but still burrowing into England’s chest. He didn’t move to wake them. The realization that you may have replaced another is a difficult concept for some nations. England’s mother, Gaul, had died when he and his older brother Scotland and older sister, Ireland were very small. He had, at times, wondered if they had actually replaced her instead. But you got over it. You had too. Other things came up. America would eventually put his people over remnants of the Indians that remained. The world would not allow him to dwell on the one who represented this place previously.
And that was the sad truth.
But, the first time it hit a nation could be hard. He had not run into someone as it was happening—so he had never heard of visions and nightmares, watching the demise of your predecessor. He wondered if Canada would go through the same. He would have to keep a close eye on him.
He lay in bed with them for hours and didn’t move until he heard a strange sound. His arms tightened unconsciously around his sleeping charges and he heard the shift of boots and a low curse.
Or at least, the inflection sounded like a curse. The language wasn’t English. It sounded more muddled, in England’s opinion.
“Matthew? Alfred?”
Ah, that lilt was France’s voice, faintly drifting up the staircase. So England didn’t bother to get up. France would either come up here or leave. No doubt the overturned furniture made it look as though the place had been ransacked. He heard boots on the stairs and sat himself up against the headboard, gently shifting the small children.
France peeked in the door and the first thing he saw was England, sitting ramrod straight with a finger over his mouth to indicate he should be silent. He looked at the sleeping boys and walked in, a small smile on his face as his eyes ran over England in his nightshirt. “Nightshirt party?”
England shook his head and reached over, combing his fingers through America’s hair. He whispered, “Alfred had a dream…some kind of vision…about his predecessor.”
France blinked and sat down on the edge of the bed. “The Indian woman?”
England nodded. “He woke up shrieking in the middle of the night and ran outside. He couldn’t seem to get her out of his head. Went into hysterics and scratched up his face. He knew I had killed her.”
France looked more solemn. “I see…did Matthew…?”
England looked at the other boy. “Not yet. I’d keep a close eye on him, were I you. It disturbed Alfred a lot…it’ll like do the same to Matthew.”
“Makes sense. They grew up with someone to help them. We didn’t.” France reached over England, gently touching Canada’s face. “Off how sudden it was for him to dream about her though, isn’t it?”
“Do you know of it ever happening previously?”
France shrugged. “Not that I know of but that doesn’t mean it didn’t. I don’t know what happened to Germania and any history predating Ancient Rome is sort of foggy for me. The person to ask about that would be…maybe Spain? He had the Aztecs and the Mayans and all those others before he got there.” He shook his head. “I guess that wouldn’t really work. Spain still has his own nation in Europe. I guess one of Spain’s colonies then?”
England snorted. “Somehow, I doubt I could just stroll up and ask.”
“Well, then, America will eventually accept it. As will Matthew. The world is a violent place. Especially for us nations.”
England snorted again. “Oh, shut it. It just disturbed him badly. He saw her fight for them and he started to wonder about what would happen when we die.”
“I’m not saying I don’t feel bad for him. I do.” France shrugged, still speaking just above a whisper.
England glowered and tried to change the subject. “What are you doing here anyway?”
“Heard you were visiting so I thought I’d drop by and see Matthew. Instead I find you waiting for me, in bed with the children in your night clothes. It’s a good look for you. Much more domestic than your uniform. You’re as pretty as a painting.”
“Shut up,” England snapped, glaring at the knowing smirk France was giving him.
America stirred. He arms tensed around Canada and he blinked his eyes open. Canada shifted with America’s grip and started to awaken as well.
England looked down, touching their blond heads. “Alfred? Matthew?”
America sat up, rubbing fists in his eyes. He looked pale and drawn. Canada sat up and looked over, biting his lip. “Salut, Francis.”
France smiled. “Bonjour, Matthew. Comment vous sentez-vous?” Hello, Matthew. How do you feel?
His eyes went down, sidelong at America and then back up to France. “Je ne sais pas.” I do not know.
France’s eyebrows lifted and then he spoke in English, for America’s benefit, mostly, as England had not yet taught him French. “You don’t know how you feel?”
Canada looked at America.
France did too and he reached out, gently tucking America’s chin. “You don’t look happy at all, Alfred. I will have to change that. Come, come, since when are you the type to mope about.”
“Not moping,” America said, eyes narrowing at the sheets, shoulders rising.
“Francis,” England barely managed to reign in a snarl. “Stop it.”
But he swept up Canada and reached out, curling his arm around America and took them out of the room. “We have chores to do and games to play! Not a moment to lose, my boys!”
England blinked and let him. He washed his face and dressed and by the time he came downstairs, he could smell eggs, sizzling meat and toast. France was at the woodstove with a heavy pan, cooking.
“Where are they?” England looked around, as if expecting them to be underfoot.
“I sent them to milk cows and go get some flour so that I can make bread.”
England raised an eyebrow. “You’re joking.”
“No.” His face was utterly serious when he added, “I wouldn’t want them to die—so I’m going to cook for them.”
England made a small, enraged sound. “You bastard.”
France laughed. “Now that’s what I like to hear.”
“What?”
“Oh, come now? Don’t think you can hide it from me. You’re depressed too. You always are when something happens to one of them. But if you dwell on it, they will too. It’s hard for them but they will have to learn terrible things about the world. You can’t protect them forever.”
England looked away, somehow stung by that remark. “I’m not looking to protect them.”
France chuckled, flipping the bread so the other sides would toast. “I never said it was bad. You might be able to teach them to be loving nations. That way they won’t go to war all the time.”
“War is inevitable.”
“But always regrettable.”
“You regret your wars?” England smirked.
France shot him a grin. “Only the ones that don’t end in me getting you against the wall.”
England opened his mouth to respond but then door was opening and the boys were coming back, a pail of milk between them. He shot France a look that said, We’ll continue this later. And he went to them. “Go and get dressed. I’ll take it from here.” He took the pail of milk and watched the boys climb the stairs.
Once they had gone, he looked at France and scowled. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “Thank you,” he said, stiffly and then whirled around to put the pail of warm milk on the table and get down some cheesecloth to strain it.
France did him the great favor of not mocking him. “Are you going to make cheese?”
“Not unless you brought a calf to kill,” grumbled England. “I need rennet.”
“Details,” France said, waving a hand. “At least skim off the cream so we can have butter.”
“What am I, your wife?”
France caught England’s eye and he grinned.
England scowled and threw the sopping wet cheesecloth at him. The white mess struck him dead on in the face and France cried out and fell. “What did you do that for!?”
England laughed at him. “Well deserved!”
“Shut up, Matt! What would you—OW!”
“You’re always yelling and crying all over England!”
“What are you—jealous?! France showed up just for you! What’s it matter!?”
England looked up towards the stairs. France tore the cheesecloth off and got up. “Well,” he said, “Alfred is in a high bad mood, isn’t he?”
“J-j-just because I can’t remember doesn’t mean I didn’t have one too!”
“Yeah, well, it doesn’t matter!”
“You don’t matter! Just—“
“I matter more than you!”
“Just because England likes you better doesn’t mean you matter more! I should have left you outside to cry!”
England closed his eyes. This argument again.
“I wouldn’t cry! You’re just adopted!”
“France is better!”
France grabbed a dry cloth to wipe his face. “Oh, well, that’s Matthew for you. Showing his roots.”
“Shut up,” England snapped. “They have this argument sometimes. Usually when one of them isn’t feeling well. It’s usually Alfred that starts it.”
“France is not better!” America’s voice rose in a shrill yell.
“Oh!” yelled Canada, “So is he just as good a man as France?!”
“Yes!”
“No better?!”
England blinked. Had he let them read Shakespeare? He couldn’t recall. It had made him think of William rather suddenly. If you do, sir, I am for you: I serve as good a man as you.
“Yes, better!”
There were some heavy thumps and bangs and cries and then running.
“This is getting out of hand.” France started for the banister.
“SHUT UP!” And America was lifting Canada, shoving him onto the banister edge on the second floor.
“Alfred, put him down!” France yelled.
England dashed towards them.
Canada grabbed America by the hair and punched him. They both rolled off into space. France leapt up the stairs and seemed to scoop them from the air. He overbalanced and toppled. England was right behind him and managed to break his fall and a tangle of arms and legs and bellowed curses fell together on the floor.
England was on the bottom of the pile. The boys broke free of France but both of them were crying. France rolled off of England. “Sorry, old man.”
“You’re older than me,” England reminded him but accepted France’s help in sitting up. They looked at the boys.
Canada was weeping. “I don’t—don’t—don’t remember who was here before,” and he hardly noticed he had lapsed into French. France translated for him for America, quietly. “Just the stories. France came and taught me many things. And I love him as you love England.” He looked up at America. “And then France and England fought and England took me away from him.” He sniffed. “You get to cry and weep for the woman who once represented this place. Who might have been your mother. England will always look out for you, even if you hate him. I have no such luxury!” He shuddered. “France is my big brother—my papa. Whoever was in my place before me—maybe he was my papa then, but it doesn’t matter. I will be alone and forgotten! You are England’s favorite! And I am his adopted second son because France lost his war in Europe! Why do things in Europe decide our fates! We’re not Europe!”
He sunk over his knees and sobbed.
America had stopped cold, watching him. He swallowed hard and said, in a whisper, “M-Matt…”
England saw America’s inability to express himself in that moment. France was frowning. He is truly England’s boy. He looked at Canada. And he is mine.
America held up his hands, his mouth opening and closing like a little fish. He looked down. “I’m sorry, Matt. I’m…I’m sorry.” He crept closer and closed his arms around Canada.
The smaller boy flinched and then gave in, wrapping his arms around America.
England had gone still, staring at Canada. But Matthew, he wanted to say, that’s what happens in war. We divide land. We—it’s not—it’s simply what occurs. France lost. And so he lost his land here. If, in war, we lost and gained nothing, there would be no point…
But he couldn’t bring himself to twist the knife in right now. Maybe when Canada was older, he would understand.
France was looking stony-faced. “I see you’ve been taking care of him.”
England looked over and met a surprisingly dark, steely look. England’s shoulders lifted. He said, quietly, “Alfred is my first priority. You know that.”
The glare got colder. “I shall have to come and see him more often. Since you can’t be bothered.”
“You gave him up for your sugar islands—!“
“Shut up.” France got up and went to the boys. “Come now. Calm down, both of you. Come on.”
Canada staggered to his feet with America’s help and then threw himself into France’s arms.
England suddenly felt as if he were outside, looking in. France so clearly loved Canada and America so clearly cared for his brother, even if he wasn’t very good at showing it…
Canada meant, quite clearly: Don’t you dare cry for those you can’t remember when I can’t have the ones I know.
England stood and turned away. Guilt was not a feeling he enjoyed or indulged in. Not this kind. Certainly, he was self-derisive and repressed and aggressive but…he had built a wall between France and Canada for no other reason than that he could. And no matter how many times he justified it—France had lost the war and chosen the Caribbean Island sugar colonies, after all—he would now always see Canada’s tears. Resigned tears, that he would always be forgotten and alone.
England knew what that was like and had built himself an empire to shut it out. He had once been young and weak…Canada would...grow out of it, certainly. He had to…or he would die. Or waste away. Or be forgotten and alone.
He stood as well but turned away, heading towards the door. He picked up another of America’s pails and went out to milk his cow. He might then have enough cream to make butter.
He rolled up his sleeves and sat down, gently slapping the animal’s flank. For a long time, he just sat there, looking at the pail without really seeing it. He put his fingers into his hair.
He didn’t hear anyone approach. He jumped when a hand touched his shoulder. “Alfred…”
“France took Matt upstairs.” America didn’t meet his eyes. He half-hugged him. “I’m sorry,” he said into England’s shoulder, “that I was so weak.”
“It’s good to know your past and remember what you’ve lost.”
“I feel the ache, here.” He reached up, gently touching over England’s heart. “But I can’t be what she was to this place. I’m something different. I’m meant for something different.”
“You are,” England affirmed. He didn’t look at the boy. He stared at the empty pail.
“Will Europe always decide what happens to us? To me and Matt?”
England sighed. “Probably.”
America frowned. “I still like you, England.” He sniffed. “I know Matt does too. He was just upset…he…when we fight…sometimes…”
“It comes down to England or France.” England smiled, bitterly. “Just like us. Like fathers, like sons.” He looked at him, finally. “Though, you are good to apologize to your brother. You need each other. You need to support and help each other.”
America nodded, solemn. “Can I hug you…sir?”
England sighed and smiled. “Don’t call me ‘Sir’ right now, Alfred. I may fall apart.”
America didn’t understand but England was hugging him, so it didn’t matter.
Upstairs, Canada calmed down. France held him.
The food France had started burned to a crisp on the stove. He made more though. He invited Canada to help him. England and America entered, hand in hand, not long after. America was reluctant to let go but at England’s nod, he did and went to help France. England put aside the empty pail and sat at the table to clean his flintlock.
He went at it, almost obsessively. Narrowing his field of vision to only his tools and the table, he shut out the sounds of the other three as their conversation started softly and then slowly became more natural.
Peace returned. Canada padded over, gently touching his shoulder and didn’t meet his eyes. He murmured that they were ready and they needed the table space.
England reached quickly, putting a hand on Canada’s shoulder and the other on the side of his face. “Matthew…”
Canada hugged him, accepting his silent apology and offering one of his own.
At the woodstove, America looked up at France. France grinned and mussed his hair, making America laugh and dodge at him playfully.
“No, no, boy! I am not one for harsh play. That is Arthur.”
America snorted. “How did you ever win anything? You’re such a woman!”
France blinked. “Where on earth did you come up with that? Have you ever actually met a woman, boy?”
America’s face blanked. “Wha—well. I. Uh.”
England and Canada looked up. The elder suppressed a smile. The younger laughed and said, “Noooo! Brother’s Puritans are just crazy!”
“Hey--!”
“Oh, my boy, we need to fix that.”
“No,” England cut in. “There will be time for that when he is older. He is too young.”
“What? Wait—no, no I’m not. I want to learn!”
“Oh, Arthur, you’re so repressed. Don’t cage the boy up so. Alfred has to learn these things. His women—especially the ones out west—are strong and resilient and independent.” He was starting to leer.
“If he is going to learn about women, it will be from me. And he will learn about proper ladies. Not. Not. Not your kind of women. I forbid it.”
“And what, praytell, are my kind of women?”
“They’re…they’re,” England was starting to get flustered. Canada and America exchanged looks and started laughing. England stiffened. “Now, you boys! Don’t laugh! It’s serious, you know! It’s important to know how to behave towards a lady!”
“But, in Europe, only rich women are proper ladies. Lower class women work though, usually as hard as men, and for less money.”
England and France looked at Canada. France shrugged. “He’s right, you know.”
“Well, beside the point,” said England. “Francis, you are familiar with any woman that will wink at you. I don’t want Alfred—or Matthew—to pick up those kinds of habits. All sorts of terrible diseases come out of it.”
“Like what?” America asked, looking interested.
France grinned and leaned down to his ear. “The kind that makes your—“and here he whispered, and then, “—fall off.”
America’s mouth fell open. “Wh-what?!”
“Stop trying to scare him.”
“You should tell him some of your pirate stories.”
“No.” England said that with a tone of great finality. “Absolutely not. And don’t you dare tell him. Now,” he went on, briskly. “Supper, yes?”
America and Canada sat down, exchanging whispers.
England rolled his eyes and glared at France.
France was trying not to laugh as he brought the food over.
When evening fell, England and France sent the boys to bed. They went together, both going to sleep in America’s room. America said his Protestant rhyming prayer and Canada murmured the Hail Mary.
As they lay side by side, America noticed that his nightshirt seemed oddly short. He muttered, “Hey, Matt?”
“What is it?”
“Do you suppose women are scary?”
“…probably.”
America grinned in the dark. “It sounds like fun.”
“Go to sleep, Al.”
England and France sat downstairs by the woodstove. England sipped tea and France drank wine.
“I don’t really want to feel like I’m married to you or something,” England scowled.
France snickered. “Acceptance comes with time.”
“Oh, shut up.”
“Matthew keeps us connected.”
England kept his gaze on the woodstove for a long time and finally said, “Among other things.”
Notes:
1. The Native Americans--besides the obvious wars with Europeans--were killed off in vast numbers by diseases that the Europeans brought over.
2. France was given the option, after the Seven Years War to either get New France back or to get his sugar colonies of Guadeloupe and Martinique back. He chose the sugar colonies, writing off poor Canada as being too expensive. ;_; But he never really forgot Canada and Canada certainly didn't forget him.
3. The Protestant rhyming prayer: Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray you Lord, my soul to keep; if I should die before I wake, I pray you Lord, my soul to take.
The Hail Mary bedtime prayer: Hail Mary, full of grace
The Lord is with thee
Blessed art thou among women
And blessed is the Fruit of your womb, Jesus
Holy Mary, Mother of God
Pray for us sinners
Now and at the hour of our death
Amen
4. Rennet.
5. Puritans. Basically, the religious fanatics from England who border on obsessive compulsive. Think the Salem Witch Trials or The Crucible.
6. If you do, sir, I am for you: I serve as good a man as you. From Shakespear's Romeo and Juliet, Act One (Capulets and Montagues about to get into it on the street.)
Posted @ here
Author/Artist:
historyblitzCharacter(s) or Pairing(s): America, Canada, Mommy!England and Papa!France
Rating: I suppose PG-13 for violence
Warnings: Angst, Native Americans, insensitive dismissals. Google!French and Google!Spanish.
I haven't decided if I want to post this one at
hetalia or not. I want to post it and then come back and see how satisfied I am with the result. This is still being tweaked. I haven't even decided on a title yetThe boys are at that awkward place where they are still young but America hasn't shot up in height yet. So they--especially America--drift between being needy children and the cusp of adulthood.
America gripped the sides of his head and started to scream.
She ran so beautifully, through a setting he found very familiar. She was nut-brown, beautiful black hair and in a dress of natural fibers. She was running.
And suddenly, he could feel her fear, her terror. How fast her heart was beating and her thought of, ‘What happens if I die?’
He moaned, crying now. He threw his blankets off, jumping out of bed.
There were fires and smoke. He and this woman could hear the blasts of muskets and screaming. A pitched battle?
“My people die of their sickness and drink and their….weapons….”
He was trying to get away but these thoughts….images….were invading him. He didn’t know what it was, who it was…how….
America ran through the house, tripping and stumbling over handmade furniture and a pail, wiping out in the kitchen and knocking the table over.
Something stirred on the floor above, but America didn’t hear it. He kicked the table away, threw the chairs from him and ran outside, winding around the house, going to the back yard.
Upstairs, Canada jumped awake to the sounds of terrified screaming. He and England were visiting America for the fall and so were sleeping on the second floor of America’s house. He hopped out of bed and ran into the hall where he saw his brother crash down the stairs and flip over the table.
“What…?” Canada whirled around and headed to the farthest room, throwing open the door. “England! England!”
She stumbled into a camp and for a moment, could only stand and watch. This was war as she had never seen it. The terror and anger of her people, their gods, their earth…the wars individual tribes had unleashed didn’t even compare. This was a massacre.
And there was one of them. One of those that had come on the ships. He’d stood so proudly at the bow as they sailed up the coastline. He had felt different then the other men. His name, as she had heard, was Spain.
Her hand went to her shoulder, removing a bow, notching an arrow and let fly.
It took him by surprise; America could feel Spain’s surprise as the arrow slammed into his arm. But his eyes were whirling and he grinned, sliced a throat, and then ran for her.
“Usted es su nación, no?” (You are a nation, no?)
Her features shifted, noble but she could not understand all of what he said. It didn’t matter. She grabbed the short axe from her hip and ran to meet him.
“Stop! STOP IT!” America collapsed in the back yard on his knees. He grabbed at the grass, pulling it up, clearing the leaves again. He reached up, tearing his fingernails down his face. “I DON’T WANT TO SEE!”
England ran through the house, Canada at his heels, as he leapt down the stairs. He skirted the disrupted furniture and heard the screaming before he even got outside. How had he not heard him? It must be all the wars. He was used to screaming now.
That thought disturbed him a little but he paid it no mind for the moment, following the screams into the back yard.
America was on the ground, holding his head and sobbing. He was framed in a circle of moonlight and golden leaves.
“Alfred! Alfred!” He ran to him, barefoot, nightshirt whipping around his legs.
Spain had stopped before she reached him, pulled a pistol and shot her.
America knew she had never felt a gunshot before. She started to collapse.
But then there was a flurry of activity. Surges forward of people. A muscled, nut-brown man was pulling her up onto a horse and riding away.
England knelt by his charge, grabbing his shoulders. “Alfred! What’s wrong?! Alfred!”
America wailed and instantly latched onto him. “Who is that! Who is she?!”
England’s mind went instantly to perhaps a demon or a fairy or a ghost and he looked around, but none were there. “What are you talking about?”
“The woman! Spain tried to kill her! I know her! Her people are dying!”
England went still.
She was back by the coast and this time, she was waiting. Her warriors were brave and strong, some of them had even managed to get the strange weapons of these people. Some were on horseback; others were standing behind her.
Across from them were demons in red coats. And their leader and what she now understand to be someone like she was.
Their nation.
England.
America froze in England’s arms. His blue eyes wide and teary. “England.” His voice was pitifully small, more of a whimper. “No….no! No! No!”
England tried to hold onto him, trying to restrain him as he started to flail. “Alfred! Calm down!”
He screamed. It pierced the silence and filled the night sky.
Canada sat on his knees, watching desperately.
The sides didn’t even join. Musket fire took most of them. But she, that beautiful, strong woman; she leapt through the masses until she could reach him.
His green eyes were unlike any she had ever seen. His skin was pale, as if he were very ill. His hair was the color of wheat. He was the opposite of everything she was. He had a gun and sword, though he had only drawn the latter. She had her bow and axe.
She swung the axe and she could feel the reverberations when it hit this man’s sword. He yelled something at her in a language she didn’t know. It reminded her of Spain’s but then again, didn’t.
She grabbed her knife from her belt and swiped in with it. She managed to slash his face and then jumped back, swung her axe to gain momentum and went at him again.
Again he smirked, yelled something in a cocky voice but she pressed forward. She felt the deaths of all her warriors, she felt the budding pain of the epidemics that had come from these Europeans. Her people were dying.
‘What happens when I die?’
“Alfred!” England grabbed his face and jerked his chin up. “Talk to me, boy!”
America froze for a second, staring at England and moaned again. He started to struggle, trying to get away from him. “Who was she! Why do I know her!? Why do I have to watch her die, England! Why is she fighting you!?”
England froze too, everything clicking into place. Fighting Spain. Fighting himself.
Of course.
It was her.
That beautiful woman. Spain had run into her first and described her as noble and strong. She fought like a man, with grace and strength. “I felt it,” Spain had said, “she was a nation. She represents these people.”
“We want to explore here,” England said back.
“They don’t want us here.”
“Are you leaving?” England lifted an eyebrow.
Spain laughed. “Are you?”
“No.” He picked up his cup. “We just have to get rid of her. France has already gone much farther north. I wonder if there’s one there too.”
“The woman didn’t seem to know what we were—that we were nations, I mean.”
England had snorted. “Well, she knows now. She certainly picked me out.” He had reached up, touching his forehead, where the scar was already fading.
England stared, letting America tear away from him. How does he know about her? “How can you see her, Alfred?”
“I don’t know! It started as a dream but it won’t stop! It’s like I’m remembering! But I don’t know her!” America staggered up and ran to Canada. “Matt! Matt! Do you know!?”
Canada jerked. “What?”
“When France came! Was there a fight!?”
Canada shook his head. “I—I don’t know!”
“Matt--! Who was here before us! Why do people say the Indians were here first but we look nothing like them! Who are we, Matt!?”
Canada looked disturbed. “What if—I mean, I’ve never dreamt of any nation…I don’t know!”
They had her now. She struggled all the way with them, never giving in. She never submitted. She never gave up. She fought with them to the bitter end. She was sick, desperately sick. Vomit bloody and body wasting away but her spirit…
She swung her axe but this time, England easily disarmed her. Her knife flashed out and she stabbed him in the gut.
He grit his teeth, dropped his sword, raised his flintlock and fired into her face.
America grabbed onto his hair, pulling at it, screaming and yelling. Tears poured down his cheeks.
England was just standing there, looking wispy in his nightshirt and bare feet, watching his ward scream. Why is he seeing her? Why does he have to see how I killed her? How we all killed her. It had been a joint effort, after all. Sweden and Holland and Spain and himself, all up and down the coast, with France farther north in the province of Canada.
Canada was grabbing his brother. “Al! Al!”
America clung to him and buried his face into his shoulder. “The Europeans brought guns and disease…they killed her. She was…” and his voice went desperately quiet again, “…she was….me. I mean…I….I replaced her.” And his breathing hitched and he voice starting to rise in mounting hysteria. “I replaced her! She died and I appeared! That’s why I don’t look like them! That’s why I don’t remember being born! That’s why there was never anyone until I met—that’s—that’s! Is that what happens when we die?! We’re replaced by a new idea!? What happens when we die!” He jerked back, gripping hard into Canada, shaking him.
Canada’s face scrunched up in pain. He grabbed onto America, trying to stop him. “Al! Al, let go! Alfred!”
England abruptly slammed back into himself, hearing Canada’s pleas and he perked up, hurrying across the grass to them.
“Why do some of us get mothers and others of us don’t?! Does it matter if we’re here at all? Matthew! What—!”
And then England was jerking him up, grabbing America into his arms and cradling him. The boy yelled and cried and clung to England, wrapping his arms around his neck tightly, sobbing into his shoulder. England knelt next to Canada. Ah, where’s Francis when I actually need him for something. He opened his arm and Canada hesitantly stepped into it.
England carried both boys back into the house, taking them upstairs to his room. He sat up against the headboard, letting them both cling to him. America cried himself to sleep, exhausted and shaking.
Canada was shivering and eventually followed suit.
England was awake long after and slipped into uneasy dreams about his old Celtic tribes just before dawn.
The next day, he didn’t move. When he awoke, Canada and America were wrapped around each other but still burrowing into England’s chest. He didn’t move to wake them. The realization that you may have replaced another is a difficult concept for some nations. England’s mother, Gaul, had died when he and his older brother Scotland and older sister, Ireland were very small. He had, at times, wondered if they had actually replaced her instead. But you got over it. You had too. Other things came up. America would eventually put his people over remnants of the Indians that remained. The world would not allow him to dwell on the one who represented this place previously.
And that was the sad truth.
But, the first time it hit a nation could be hard. He had not run into someone as it was happening—so he had never heard of visions and nightmares, watching the demise of your predecessor. He wondered if Canada would go through the same. He would have to keep a close eye on him.
He lay in bed with them for hours and didn’t move until he heard a strange sound. His arms tightened unconsciously around his sleeping charges and he heard the shift of boots and a low curse.
Or at least, the inflection sounded like a curse. The language wasn’t English. It sounded more muddled, in England’s opinion.
“Matthew? Alfred?”
Ah, that lilt was France’s voice, faintly drifting up the staircase. So England didn’t bother to get up. France would either come up here or leave. No doubt the overturned furniture made it look as though the place had been ransacked. He heard boots on the stairs and sat himself up against the headboard, gently shifting the small children.
France peeked in the door and the first thing he saw was England, sitting ramrod straight with a finger over his mouth to indicate he should be silent. He looked at the sleeping boys and walked in, a small smile on his face as his eyes ran over England in his nightshirt. “Nightshirt party?”
England shook his head and reached over, combing his fingers through America’s hair. He whispered, “Alfred had a dream…some kind of vision…about his predecessor.”
France blinked and sat down on the edge of the bed. “The Indian woman?”
England nodded. “He woke up shrieking in the middle of the night and ran outside. He couldn’t seem to get her out of his head. Went into hysterics and scratched up his face. He knew I had killed her.”
France looked more solemn. “I see…did Matthew…?”
England looked at the other boy. “Not yet. I’d keep a close eye on him, were I you. It disturbed Alfred a lot…it’ll like do the same to Matthew.”
“Makes sense. They grew up with someone to help them. We didn’t.” France reached over England, gently touching Canada’s face. “Off how sudden it was for him to dream about her though, isn’t it?”
“Do you know of it ever happening previously?”
France shrugged. “Not that I know of but that doesn’t mean it didn’t. I don’t know what happened to Germania and any history predating Ancient Rome is sort of foggy for me. The person to ask about that would be…maybe Spain? He had the Aztecs and the Mayans and all those others before he got there.” He shook his head. “I guess that wouldn’t really work. Spain still has his own nation in Europe. I guess one of Spain’s colonies then?”
England snorted. “Somehow, I doubt I could just stroll up and ask.”
“Well, then, America will eventually accept it. As will Matthew. The world is a violent place. Especially for us nations.”
England snorted again. “Oh, shut it. It just disturbed him badly. He saw her fight for them and he started to wonder about what would happen when we die.”
“I’m not saying I don’t feel bad for him. I do.” France shrugged, still speaking just above a whisper.
England glowered and tried to change the subject. “What are you doing here anyway?”
“Heard you were visiting so I thought I’d drop by and see Matthew. Instead I find you waiting for me, in bed with the children in your night clothes. It’s a good look for you. Much more domestic than your uniform. You’re as pretty as a painting.”
“Shut up,” England snapped, glaring at the knowing smirk France was giving him.
America stirred. He arms tensed around Canada and he blinked his eyes open. Canada shifted with America’s grip and started to awaken as well.
England looked down, touching their blond heads. “Alfred? Matthew?”
America sat up, rubbing fists in his eyes. He looked pale and drawn. Canada sat up and looked over, biting his lip. “Salut, Francis.”
France smiled. “Bonjour, Matthew. Comment vous sentez-vous?” Hello, Matthew. How do you feel?
His eyes went down, sidelong at America and then back up to France. “Je ne sais pas.” I do not know.
France’s eyebrows lifted and then he spoke in English, for America’s benefit, mostly, as England had not yet taught him French. “You don’t know how you feel?”
Canada looked at America.
France did too and he reached out, gently tucking America’s chin. “You don’t look happy at all, Alfred. I will have to change that. Come, come, since when are you the type to mope about.”
“Not moping,” America said, eyes narrowing at the sheets, shoulders rising.
“Francis,” England barely managed to reign in a snarl. “Stop it.”
But he swept up Canada and reached out, curling his arm around America and took them out of the room. “We have chores to do and games to play! Not a moment to lose, my boys!”
England blinked and let him. He washed his face and dressed and by the time he came downstairs, he could smell eggs, sizzling meat and toast. France was at the woodstove with a heavy pan, cooking.
“Where are they?” England looked around, as if expecting them to be underfoot.
“I sent them to milk cows and go get some flour so that I can make bread.”
England raised an eyebrow. “You’re joking.”
“No.” His face was utterly serious when he added, “I wouldn’t want them to die—so I’m going to cook for them.”
England made a small, enraged sound. “You bastard.”
France laughed. “Now that’s what I like to hear.”
“What?”
“Oh, come now? Don’t think you can hide it from me. You’re depressed too. You always are when something happens to one of them. But if you dwell on it, they will too. It’s hard for them but they will have to learn terrible things about the world. You can’t protect them forever.”
England looked away, somehow stung by that remark. “I’m not looking to protect them.”
France chuckled, flipping the bread so the other sides would toast. “I never said it was bad. You might be able to teach them to be loving nations. That way they won’t go to war all the time.”
“War is inevitable.”
“But always regrettable.”
“You regret your wars?” England smirked.
France shot him a grin. “Only the ones that don’t end in me getting you against the wall.”
England opened his mouth to respond but then door was opening and the boys were coming back, a pail of milk between them. He shot France a look that said, We’ll continue this later. And he went to them. “Go and get dressed. I’ll take it from here.” He took the pail of milk and watched the boys climb the stairs.
Once they had gone, he looked at France and scowled. He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “Thank you,” he said, stiffly and then whirled around to put the pail of warm milk on the table and get down some cheesecloth to strain it.
France did him the great favor of not mocking him. “Are you going to make cheese?”
“Not unless you brought a calf to kill,” grumbled England. “I need rennet.”
“Details,” France said, waving a hand. “At least skim off the cream so we can have butter.”
“What am I, your wife?”
France caught England’s eye and he grinned.
England scowled and threw the sopping wet cheesecloth at him. The white mess struck him dead on in the face and France cried out and fell. “What did you do that for!?”
England laughed at him. “Well deserved!”
“Shut up, Matt! What would you—OW!”
“You’re always yelling and crying all over England!”
“What are you—jealous?! France showed up just for you! What’s it matter!?”
England looked up towards the stairs. France tore the cheesecloth off and got up. “Well,” he said, “Alfred is in a high bad mood, isn’t he?”
“J-j-just because I can’t remember doesn’t mean I didn’t have one too!”
“Yeah, well, it doesn’t matter!”
“You don’t matter! Just—“
“I matter more than you!”
“Just because England likes you better doesn’t mean you matter more! I should have left you outside to cry!”
England closed his eyes. This argument again.
“I wouldn’t cry! You’re just adopted!”
“France is better!”
France grabbed a dry cloth to wipe his face. “Oh, well, that’s Matthew for you. Showing his roots.”
“Shut up,” England snapped. “They have this argument sometimes. Usually when one of them isn’t feeling well. It’s usually Alfred that starts it.”
“France is not better!” America’s voice rose in a shrill yell.
“Oh!” yelled Canada, “So is he just as good a man as France?!”
“Yes!”
“No better?!”
England blinked. Had he let them read Shakespeare? He couldn’t recall. It had made him think of William rather suddenly. If you do, sir, I am for you: I serve as good a man as you.
“Yes, better!”
There were some heavy thumps and bangs and cries and then running.
“This is getting out of hand.” France started for the banister.
“SHUT UP!” And America was lifting Canada, shoving him onto the banister edge on the second floor.
“Alfred, put him down!” France yelled.
England dashed towards them.
Canada grabbed America by the hair and punched him. They both rolled off into space. France leapt up the stairs and seemed to scoop them from the air. He overbalanced and toppled. England was right behind him and managed to break his fall and a tangle of arms and legs and bellowed curses fell together on the floor.
England was on the bottom of the pile. The boys broke free of France but both of them were crying. France rolled off of England. “Sorry, old man.”
“You’re older than me,” England reminded him but accepted France’s help in sitting up. They looked at the boys.
Canada was weeping. “I don’t—don’t—don’t remember who was here before,” and he hardly noticed he had lapsed into French. France translated for him for America, quietly. “Just the stories. France came and taught me many things. And I love him as you love England.” He looked up at America. “And then France and England fought and England took me away from him.” He sniffed. “You get to cry and weep for the woman who once represented this place. Who might have been your mother. England will always look out for you, even if you hate him. I have no such luxury!” He shuddered. “France is my big brother—my papa. Whoever was in my place before me—maybe he was my papa then, but it doesn’t matter. I will be alone and forgotten! You are England’s favorite! And I am his adopted second son because France lost his war in Europe! Why do things in Europe decide our fates! We’re not Europe!”
He sunk over his knees and sobbed.
America had stopped cold, watching him. He swallowed hard and said, in a whisper, “M-Matt…”
England saw America’s inability to express himself in that moment. France was frowning. He is truly England’s boy. He looked at Canada. And he is mine.
America held up his hands, his mouth opening and closing like a little fish. He looked down. “I’m sorry, Matt. I’m…I’m sorry.” He crept closer and closed his arms around Canada.
The smaller boy flinched and then gave in, wrapping his arms around America.
England had gone still, staring at Canada. But Matthew, he wanted to say, that’s what happens in war. We divide land. We—it’s not—it’s simply what occurs. France lost. And so he lost his land here. If, in war, we lost and gained nothing, there would be no point…
But he couldn’t bring himself to twist the knife in right now. Maybe when Canada was older, he would understand.
France was looking stony-faced. “I see you’ve been taking care of him.”
England looked over and met a surprisingly dark, steely look. England’s shoulders lifted. He said, quietly, “Alfred is my first priority. You know that.”
The glare got colder. “I shall have to come and see him more often. Since you can’t be bothered.”
“You gave him up for your sugar islands—!“
“Shut up.” France got up and went to the boys. “Come now. Calm down, both of you. Come on.”
Canada staggered to his feet with America’s help and then threw himself into France’s arms.
England suddenly felt as if he were outside, looking in. France so clearly loved Canada and America so clearly cared for his brother, even if he wasn’t very good at showing it…
Canada meant, quite clearly: Don’t you dare cry for those you can’t remember when I can’t have the ones I know.
England stood and turned away. Guilt was not a feeling he enjoyed or indulged in. Not this kind. Certainly, he was self-derisive and repressed and aggressive but…he had built a wall between France and Canada for no other reason than that he could. And no matter how many times he justified it—France had lost the war and chosen the Caribbean Island sugar colonies, after all—he would now always see Canada’s tears. Resigned tears, that he would always be forgotten and alone.
England knew what that was like and had built himself an empire to shut it out. He had once been young and weak…Canada would...grow out of it, certainly. He had to…or he would die. Or waste away. Or be forgotten and alone.
He stood as well but turned away, heading towards the door. He picked up another of America’s pails and went out to milk his cow. He might then have enough cream to make butter.
He rolled up his sleeves and sat down, gently slapping the animal’s flank. For a long time, he just sat there, looking at the pail without really seeing it. He put his fingers into his hair.
He didn’t hear anyone approach. He jumped when a hand touched his shoulder. “Alfred…”
“France took Matt upstairs.” America didn’t meet his eyes. He half-hugged him. “I’m sorry,” he said into England’s shoulder, “that I was so weak.”
“It’s good to know your past and remember what you’ve lost.”
“I feel the ache, here.” He reached up, gently touching over England’s heart. “But I can’t be what she was to this place. I’m something different. I’m meant for something different.”
“You are,” England affirmed. He didn’t look at the boy. He stared at the empty pail.
“Will Europe always decide what happens to us? To me and Matt?”
England sighed. “Probably.”
America frowned. “I still like you, England.” He sniffed. “I know Matt does too. He was just upset…he…when we fight…sometimes…”
“It comes down to England or France.” England smiled, bitterly. “Just like us. Like fathers, like sons.” He looked at him, finally. “Though, you are good to apologize to your brother. You need each other. You need to support and help each other.”
America nodded, solemn. “Can I hug you…sir?”
England sighed and smiled. “Don’t call me ‘Sir’ right now, Alfred. I may fall apart.”
America didn’t understand but England was hugging him, so it didn’t matter.
Upstairs, Canada calmed down. France held him.
The food France had started burned to a crisp on the stove. He made more though. He invited Canada to help him. England and America entered, hand in hand, not long after. America was reluctant to let go but at England’s nod, he did and went to help France. England put aside the empty pail and sat at the table to clean his flintlock.
He went at it, almost obsessively. Narrowing his field of vision to only his tools and the table, he shut out the sounds of the other three as their conversation started softly and then slowly became more natural.
Peace returned. Canada padded over, gently touching his shoulder and didn’t meet his eyes. He murmured that they were ready and they needed the table space.
England reached quickly, putting a hand on Canada’s shoulder and the other on the side of his face. “Matthew…”
Canada hugged him, accepting his silent apology and offering one of his own.
At the woodstove, America looked up at France. France grinned and mussed his hair, making America laugh and dodge at him playfully.
“No, no, boy! I am not one for harsh play. That is Arthur.”
America snorted. “How did you ever win anything? You’re such a woman!”
France blinked. “Where on earth did you come up with that? Have you ever actually met a woman, boy?”
America’s face blanked. “Wha—well. I. Uh.”
England and Canada looked up. The elder suppressed a smile. The younger laughed and said, “Noooo! Brother’s Puritans are just crazy!”
“Hey--!”
“Oh, my boy, we need to fix that.”
“No,” England cut in. “There will be time for that when he is older. He is too young.”
“What? Wait—no, no I’m not. I want to learn!”
“Oh, Arthur, you’re so repressed. Don’t cage the boy up so. Alfred has to learn these things. His women—especially the ones out west—are strong and resilient and independent.” He was starting to leer.
“If he is going to learn about women, it will be from me. And he will learn about proper ladies. Not. Not. Not your kind of women. I forbid it.”
“And what, praytell, are my kind of women?”
“They’re…they’re,” England was starting to get flustered. Canada and America exchanged looks and started laughing. England stiffened. “Now, you boys! Don’t laugh! It’s serious, you know! It’s important to know how to behave towards a lady!”
“But, in Europe, only rich women are proper ladies. Lower class women work though, usually as hard as men, and for less money.”
England and France looked at Canada. France shrugged. “He’s right, you know.”
“Well, beside the point,” said England. “Francis, you are familiar with any woman that will wink at you. I don’t want Alfred—or Matthew—to pick up those kinds of habits. All sorts of terrible diseases come out of it.”
“Like what?” America asked, looking interested.
France grinned and leaned down to his ear. “The kind that makes your—“and here he whispered, and then, “—fall off.”
America’s mouth fell open. “Wh-what?!”
“Stop trying to scare him.”
“You should tell him some of your pirate stories.”
“No.” England said that with a tone of great finality. “Absolutely not. And don’t you dare tell him. Now,” he went on, briskly. “Supper, yes?”
America and Canada sat down, exchanging whispers.
England rolled his eyes and glared at France.
France was trying not to laugh as he brought the food over.
When evening fell, England and France sent the boys to bed. They went together, both going to sleep in America’s room. America said his Protestant rhyming prayer and Canada murmured the Hail Mary.
As they lay side by side, America noticed that his nightshirt seemed oddly short. He muttered, “Hey, Matt?”
“What is it?”
“Do you suppose women are scary?”
“…probably.”
America grinned in the dark. “It sounds like fun.”
“Go to sleep, Al.”
England and France sat downstairs by the woodstove. England sipped tea and France drank wine.
“I don’t really want to feel like I’m married to you or something,” England scowled.
France snickered. “Acceptance comes with time.”
“Oh, shut up.”
“Matthew keeps us connected.”
England kept his gaze on the woodstove for a long time and finally said, “Among other things.”
Notes:
1. The Native Americans--besides the obvious wars with Europeans--were killed off in vast numbers by diseases that the Europeans brought over.
2. France was given the option, after the Seven Years War to either get New France back or to get his sugar colonies of Guadeloupe and Martinique back. He chose the sugar colonies, writing off poor Canada as being too expensive. ;_; But he never really forgot Canada and Canada certainly didn't forget him.
3. The Protestant rhyming prayer: Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray you Lord, my soul to keep; if I should die before I wake, I pray you Lord, my soul to take.
The Hail Mary bedtime prayer: Hail Mary, full of grace
The Lord is with thee
Blessed art thou among women
And blessed is the Fruit of your womb, Jesus
Holy Mary, Mother of God
Pray for us sinners
Now and at the hour of our death
Amen
4. Rennet.
5. Puritans. Basically, the religious fanatics from England who border on obsessive compulsive. Think the Salem Witch Trials or The Crucible.
6. If you do, sir, I am for you: I serve as good a man as you. From Shakespear's Romeo and Juliet, Act One (Capulets and Montagues about to get into it on the street.)
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Date: 2009-05-15 12:33 am (UTC)♥
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Date: 2009-05-15 12:58 am (UTC)Although, I'm not Canadian, so I don't know the depth of their history. I have been itching to include more about Canada. Because I think he's a pretty sad little guy and he has every right to be. Always the second son, no one remembers him, France gave him up for sugar. Poor Canada. *pets*
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Date: 2009-05-15 01:06 am (UTC)I'd love more on Canada. I think he's pretty badass, though quite overlooked, in his own way.
(America moves out because France is an unrepentant pederast. XD And then grows up to want to tap his MOM O_o)no subject
Date: 2009-05-15 01:12 am (UTC)That's the ultimate in Oepidus Complex.
Except hotter.Haha, I try very hard to think of these nations as a Pantheon. They were always banging their relatives. It makes me feel a little better. Like, less of a freak. XDno subject
Date: 2009-05-15 01:19 am (UTC)I keep wondering when America realized he wanted be more than a son/brother to England. England for me seems like it took him a while to see America in a romantic, sexual light. :D
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Date: 2009-05-15 01:30 am (UTC)I would guess it would have taken a long, long time. I mean, America and England were trading partners after the War of 1812 but relations between them were really, really rocky. From what I have heard, England and America saw the most improvement during the World Wars. Especially World War Two because Churchill and FDR were BFF.
I did find an old New York Times article from 1866 that talked about basically, how awesome it would be if the US and England were allies and why it's a good idea. And the English have made it kinda hard because of the Revolution but now we need to suck it up and be friends. Cause that'd be cool.
So, I suppose--I would guess near the end of the 19th century and start of the 20th onward through the World Wars to today.
I'm so sorry that I ramble so much.
But yes. My earliest guess--when writing more realistically and not just for guilty pleasure--would be World War II.
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Date: 2009-05-15 01:34 am (UTC)Haha, when one of the guys asked why he'd assisted the British he said, famously, that, "Blood was thicker than water"
Aw.
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Date: 2009-05-15 01:47 am (UTC)That's what I love with this pairing. You'd think they'd never recover from the quarrels they've had, but lo and behold, things got better. Hell, During WWII, America's boss did all he can to help UK despite the public polls.
Although America's bosses are kinda aren't treating UK that well nowadays (DVD as a gift. WTF). :/ Though I recall that while countries might promise aid to America, its pretty much England and Canada that follow through, particularly with regards with military aid.
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Date: 2009-05-15 02:01 am (UTC)We're used to being hated by everyone anyway. So really. Meh. They'll get over it. Canada and England are the only countries that, even when they hate us, they still stick around. (Even if Canada only does it because it's either us or Russia.) So I love them a little for it.
Because, despite popular belief, Americans are not all fat, arrogant dickheads. And we're not the cause of all the problems in the world. Though we do make an easy scapegoat for everyone else. Mostly by then feeling responsible. Haha.
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Date: 2009-05-15 02:19 am (UTC)I honestly don't know why the world seem to hate the US so much. :/ I mean, really. The leadership may have fucked up (specifically Bush. Just. Bush), but they're not always at fault. But I guess that's part of the price the US pays for being a superpower.
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Date: 2009-05-15 02:35 am (UTC)People hate it when we get involved in fights and people bitch when we don't get into fights. So, really, we can't win either way. Canadians resent us, Mexicans want to cross the border but hate us, Western Europe, as a whole--turns their collective nose at us. Russians we both admire and are wary of.
I dunno--ever since I became politically aware, it's always been drilled in that the rest of the world hates us. And then 9/11 happened and then people liked us for about a month. And then Bush went and ruined it.
Yeah--we're such a young country. I try and remember that not all Europeans hate us...sometimes it just seems that way. And it's depressing.
But, yeah--I guess that likely is the price we pay for being a leading superpower.
Personally, I want to study abroad in Europe. And I like Canadians. But, call it a habit from the Bush years, I still hesitate online before telling others where I'm from. Because I just end up cringing and waiting for the remarks to start. Though that's better now--thanks to Obama.